#the gloom between stars

[highladyofyourmom]

Found this book in Walmart today, definitely added to my tbr

Book: The Gloom Between Stars Author: Piper CJ

[reallivegeekgirl]

Piper CJ always has the best dedication pages.

[silkiemae]

The Gloom Between Stars by Piper CJ

Welp, I finished this dumpster fire of a book and just…Piper, why? This book is as poorly written and edited as the self-published version of TNAIM. I know this was technically an ARC, but Piper advertised it as a free ebook. She was handing out bound copies at book signings, so this is the finished work that she plans on publishing. The sheer amount of misspelt words, anachronisms, grammatical errors, etc., was ridiculous. This book reads like the editors just gave up on actually doing their job because they knew Piper wasn’t going to listen to a word they said. And where in the hell were the sensitivity readers? 

This book was an absolute MESS, just as overwritten, pretentious and melodramatic as usual. Not only that, but some of the wording is so ridiculous. ‘His equilibrium was bobbing?’ The same handholding was present in the last two installments. Piper clearly thinks very little of her readers, considering the fact that she has to spell things out for them and is unable to leave any room for interpretation. I feel like I’m being talked to like an idiot through all 600 pages of this. Cherry picking from other religions, yet still trying to make it seem like there’s only one religion(the All-Mother), yet there are mentions of Yggdrasil(Norse myth), Seraphim(Christianity), and Bodhi(Buddhism). To be completely honest, I think Piper CJ is one of those authors that if anyone were to tell me they loved her and their books, I would immediately not trust them. These books are racist, ableist, plagiarized, misogynistic, and have absolutely horrid depictions of sex work. She doesn’t think suicide is enough to give a trigger warning but consensual breathplay that was not actually consensual is. And then she goes ahead to make jokes about the “consensual breathplay” like what she wrote wasn’t incredibly harmful. There’s also the fact that those who claim to love Piper and her books are incredibly cult-like with the way they blow smoke up her ass and reject any critiques against her. If you cannot handle criticism, you should not be an author. Sorry, Piper, but it’s true.

I truly wish that Bloom had some integrity and would not allow this fast publishing thing Piper is trying to do. All she is doing is barfing out a first draft and calling it done. She is not doing any of the work that is needed when writing a book, and this crap is what we’re left with. These books are not good at all, but if Piper had actually spent time on them, if she had listened to <I>any</i> feedback, then these books could’ve been good. There is potential in her prose, and she does a good job with sensory detailing, but she goes over the top every time and then, of course, there’s the problematic content that she refuses to acknowledge. This book spends far too much time explaining to us the thought process of everyone’s plans and telling us their feelings rather than showing them to us. It makes for an incredibly dull read. Just an example of how the majority of sentences are phrased in this book. “She thrust out a leg to sweep the stance of the corpse before picking up and continuing her run.” Do you really want to try and tell me that an editor read that sentence and said it was fine the way it was? Really? Anyway, on to the review. 

So, we start where TSAIS left off; yet again, there is little to no recapping. Nox & Co. are chasing after Amaris, who has been kidnapped by Nox’s father, King Ceres. Ceres believes that Amaris was born to be his tool to start a war with Queen Moirai since she’s the one who cast the illusion spell over his people and is the reason he lost his wife and child. The writing with this is incredibly convoluted because, in book one, we’re told that Ceres believed he had a son, then in book two, we’re told that Daphne(Nox’s mother and Ceres’ lover) had switched out her daughter for a son with her <I>husband’s</I> complexion. The husband is <I>not</I> King Ceres, so why did the Raascot fae ever suspect that Daphne’s alleged ‘son’ was Ceres’? She spread the rumor that the boy was her nameless husband’s in an attempt to hide the truth from him, but he found out anyway and killed the boy and beat Daphne to death.  So, somehow, this nameless husband has vanished after murdering both the princess and her son, and yet nobody seems to be aware of this? We never learn what happened to this guy, and Queen Moirai has literally been acting as if there is a Crown Prince, but it’s an illusion. So who is the Crown Prince that she’s conjuring? Is it the nameless husband? Is it the child who’s really dead? This is why Piper needed a developmental editor because none of this makes sense. 

As Nox and her companions follow after Ceres and Amaris, Nox is fuming, hating everyone, and blaming them all for what happened to Amaris. To help, Malik leads her into the woods and goes down on her.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  This is the first chapter. As this is happening, Nox thinks longingly of the days she was a sex slave and used to suck men's souls out through their dicks. Nox admits to preferring women, but Malik is the exception—and again, as I stated in my last review, this was so poorly done. Nox has been depicted as someone who is repulsed by the touch of men and has been desperate to escape them so that she can be with Amaris, yet Malik does the bare minimum, and she is all for him. It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t do anything to earn her trust; he just was there. There are no meaningful conversations between them to give us the inclination that they might have feelings for each other. It’s just horniness and sensory details. After this, they try and figure out the fastest way to reach the army—why this didn’t happen in the first chapter instead of Nox getting head, I don’t know. But anyway, Yazlyn and Nox bicker, preparing us for their inevitable enemies-to-lovers arc. Honestly, a lot of this reads like Piper didn’t know wtf to write, so she jumped ahead and never came back to fix any of it. Honestly, that’s what the whole book reads like. 

Eventually, they catch up to the army, and they’re attacked by mud demons, but nobody ever does <I>anything</I> useful to defeat them. Gadriel fucks off to go try, and reason with Ceres, who refuses to listen to reason—which, I get, but the way it’s written is just <I>so</I> absurd.  They’re fist-fighting and sword-fighting while Ceres’ people are being massacred around them. The others realize that the demons are blind and have super hearing and start <I>shouting</I> to one another that they should be quiet(LMFAO, idiots) and are like, “Sound is our enemy!”. Can anyone think of who might be incredibly useful in this type of fight? I can. Fucking Amaris. Who has a sonic boom power. Gadriel never once considers finding her and having her use her abilities to help defeat these monsters. Not a single person ever considers using sound to their advantage, and these are supposed to be people who are trained in tactics and monster hunting. Yet none of them can come up with a plan to fight the demons. Like, wtf? I think Piper wrote herself into a corner with the whole ‘demons can’t be killed’ thing because we get scenes like this, with people fapping around, looking like absolute morons. There are five pages of Nox freaking out as she tries to cross a river because she’s a demon who can’t cross running water. 

At some point, Malik finds a fae who can apparently control the demons. Again, the magic in this series has absolutely no rhyme or reason. The fae have no designated powers; the only thing we know is that the Raascot fae have powers associated with nightlife. And so far, that has been shadow magic, sucking souls out through sex, night vision, can get your neck broken and not die, can warm your body, can fly, etc. (what do any of those have to do with the other?) Why is Yazlyn so much weaker than her fae comrades? She does the same sort of exercise, does she not? Obviously, she has a different build than them, but there’s no reason why Yazlyn can’t be buff af too. Anyway, Malik stops the fae who was controlling the demons, Amaris got burned and is in a ditch somewhere, Nox finds Gadriel with her dad and is like, oh hello, father, and then he finally realizes that Gadriel was right all along, and instead of, idk, trying to make amends, or maybe help his kingdom he just is like ‘omg I fucked everything up here, take my kingdom!’ And kills himself. This was the clumsiest handling of suicide I have ever read. Not only does Piper give us a tw for ‘consensual breathplay’ (again, it was not actually consensual), but she <I>doesn’t</I> give a tw for suicide. Now, while I don’t believe that every book requires tw, I do understand why they’re there and considering Piper set a standard for including them in book 2, they should be included throughout the entire series. But again, doing the actual work is too hard for Piper, apparently. 

So, Nox’s father kills himself for shock value and as a lazy way to thrust her onto the throne. They call his death a sacrifice, making it into something noble and historic when it’s not that at all. The way suicide is handled in this is just beyond insensitive, and once again, WHERE ARE THE SENSITIVITY READERS, PIPER? 

After this little battle, we return to the Raascot castle. For the next three hundred pages, <I>nothing happens.</I> They hang out in the castle, they train, they talk, and they have poorly written sex. Nothing of substance happens whatsoever. I’ll tell you what does happen. Nox and Amaris reunite for the third time, and instead of being separated by physical circumstances, they have a really stupid fight. Nox, obviously, is traumatized after witnessing her father’s suicide, but Amaris, once again, is thinking all about her horniness and starts trying to make a move on Nox. Nox is like, uh no, wtf stop and Amaris, as usual, can’t handle rejection. They haven’t had a single conversation about what happened during their separation, they have only ever made out during their reunions, and now that they actually have the time and safety to have this discussion, Amaris is more interested in losing her virginity. Nox drops the bomb on Amaris that she is really the manifestation of prayer, and Amaris’ reaction is, WOW, HOW CRUEL ARE YOU TO SAY SUCH THINGS, NOX? Now knowing that Amaris was created solely for Nox, Nox is questioning if their feelings are real. And here is how Amaris chooses to respond. 

<i>”You feel confused? You, who has been such a constant in my entire life, even when I’ve had crushes on boys or liked men and spent years questioning what this relationship meant to me, only to finally accept that you are my exception. I love you, Nox. You’re the only woman I’ll ever want. Meanwhile, if the kingdom’s rumors are to be believed, you’ve been off fucking anyone and everything………..You’ve spent your whole life knowing the goddess made your heart for women, haven’t you? That wasn’t me, Nox. Do you know how confusing it’s been for me? I grew up liking boys! I like men. I do. I like fighting with them, I like training with them, I like wrestling and flirting and spending time with them. I’ve tried and failed on more than one occasion to create something with a man. And here you’ve been, destroying my feelings and twisting my head for years. You’ve had years to experience the world, you’ve let goddess knows who into your bed—but you were it for me. I thought that made this special, Nox. Finally, after all this time, I want the same thing you’ve always wanted. But the instant it was my choice in return, you turn me away. Do you know how fucked up that is?… We’ve had our whole lives to adjust! We’ve had two decades of time! Meanwhile, I still can’t get rid of my goddess damned maidenhood while you—”</I>

SO basically, Amaris is a fucking hypocrite. She called Nox a whore, and Amaris wants to lose her maidenhead REAL BAD. “You’ve had years to experience the world” She was locked up in a brothel as a sex slave, Amaris, while you fucked off with the reevers and learned to fight. Are you really that mad that your brothers-in-arms didn’t want to fuck you? Also, confirmation that Nox is a lesbian with an exception for only one man. And Amaris is straight, with an exception for only one woman. That’s not bisexuality, Piper. “You were it for me” You…. literally tried to fuck Gadriel. And Ash. You lying sack of shit. The way Amaris is mad for being rejected and not at all concerned about Nox, who just watched her father die in front of her, learned she was heir to both kingdoms and is now a queen to a kingdom she has no business or knowledge of how to run. Nox deserves far better than Amaris, and I hope this series ends with her(Amaris') death. Because that’s the only way I’ll be satisfied. 

After this fight, they decide they can’t be together until Amaris breaks the curse, and they can find out if their love is real. In the meantime, Nox assaults Yazlyn by shoving her forearm against her throat and <I>then</I> asks if she wants to fuck. The sex scenes are described uncomfortably, where the line of consent is incredibly fuzzy. But this is not the first time Piper has had issues with consent in her books, so I shouldn’t be surprised. Also, the written sex is <I>gross</I> It’s written as if the author has never actually been intimate with a woman because I can promise you it is not a bunch of  “puddles and wetness and soaked sheets”. You’re not just squirting the whole time. I don’t think Piper has any concept of how to actually write spice because all these are a bunch of flowery metaphors. And then, of course, Amaris and Gadriel are still doing their choking/finger bang sessions because her power is tied to her sense of arousal. WTF? There’s also that last scene with Malik and Nox that will haunt me til the end of my days. ‘The complementary cream that frosted his muscles.” Are you fucking KIDDING?

The fae that Malik caught turns out to be an extremist who thinks the world needs to be purified of all fae creatures with human blood. She doesn’t mind humans as long as they don’t dally with the fae. She calls Ash a mongrel and calls Nox ‘it’. Kinda like how the author calls Nox ‘it’ in her first book title. “The Night and <I>its</I> Moon.” Now, this nazi fae is from Sulgrave, which has been depicted as East Asia…(wow, Piper) (also, how is Gadriel South Asian if his parents are from Sulgrave?) They literally end up treating this racist like a little pet. They give her a special room, give her books when she’s good, call her lovely and adorable and then give her some ‘exposure therapy’ by forcing her to hang out with Ash, who is both half-fae and white. And then….they fall in love. And it makes no sense at all as to why. All we know about Tanith is that she’s a racist zealot, and then she’s depicted as this little flower who needs to be rescued by Ash all the time. There’s a scene where Ash’s dad, Elil, goes apeshit and tries to kidnap the nazi because she’s an ‘enemy of the continent’, and Ash literally calls the statement deranged. Bro…he’s right.  Honestly, the fact that I’m siding with the person meant to be depicted as raving is wild to me. Because he is right that Tanith is a danger to them all, and they’re being absolute morons by treating her the way they do. If it were to come back and bite them in the ass, Elil would be completely justified in being like, ‘told ya so’. Like, Ash legit tells his dad the nazi’s life is worth more than his dad’s. By the end of this, they behave as if Tanith has overcome her racism by being with Ash, but there is no evidence of that anywhere in the text. Nox even expresses that she hopes that Ash can ‘turn her’ with his lovemaking skills. Like, oh, you can just stop being racist if you fuck the person you’re prejudiced against! Do you think she’s changed because she asked Ash to stay with her after he rescued her from his dad? That could literally be tactical. She simply learns to tolerate them and hide her prejudice. Both Nox & Ash even say that they doesn’t think Tanith has shown any distance for her radical beliefs, but it’s okay because now she’s their friend—she’s not evil, Ash loves her, he would die for her, but she’s still a zealot.… Nox takes Tanith shopping to buy her a fancy new cloak, and they let her play ‘paintball arrows’ with the rest of their group; Ash falls in love with her in .2 seconds after she says ‘I’m sorry’ for nothing in particular and then crawls into bed with him. He buys her basically a promise ring of her favorite gemstone. Wtf? There were like four POV chapters from Ash with Tanith, and nowhere was there any room for romantic development or even character development from Tanith. Nowhere was there any de-radicalization of her racism. It reads more like the author is telling us we should be sympathetic to racists because they don’t know any better, and we should just be kind to them and befriend them, and eventually, they will learn to tolerate the people they are prejudiced against. But, uh, no. That’s not at all what anyone should be doing. We are <I>told</I> that Ash hated Tanith and then grew to like, then love her but it is never shown on the page at all. Just suddenly, they’re in love and Tanith is still racist. 

Three hundred pages of dithering around until some action finally happens. Amaris, Malik, Yazlyn and Gadriel are sent out to kill Queen Moirai. Three hundred pages of reading about Amaris and Nox screwing other people and not having a single conversation discussing what the other has been through, but they make up anyway right before Amaris leaves to kill the Queen. I’m not entirely sure how anyone is meant to see an actual romantic relationship between these women when there is absolutely none present. The first book was a lot of longing on Nox’s part but none on Amaris’. The second book was more of the same, but Nox found a new beau who would eat her out, so she stopped thinking so much about Amaris. Now in book three, they barely think about one another. This is not the star-crossed bisexual romance I was promised. Anyway, they’re sent to Farleigh to ensure that the convenient manufactured items they were given will block the curse, only to find out that Agnes, the Gray Matron is a racist. She calls Gadriel and Yazlyn demons and seems more disgusted by their wings than anything. This is funny, imo because not only was Nox described as having bronze skin(but then later told she looks like her mother, who was white), so why wasn’t she treated with the same disrespect? She is clearly not a white person from Farehold, I’m pretty sure that Agnes was there when Nox was named, so she’s well aware that her name was Nox so she wouldn’t forget the night. So why the fuck is she suddenly racist towards the Raascot fae? Why did she suddenly seem to forget why Nox was named Nox and who Nox actually was? Because there’s no way she didn’t know. It doesn’t make any logical sense that she wouldn’t. Also, Amaris can call Gadriel ‘demon' and get away with it, but when Agnes does it, it’s racist…. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  Come on, Piper. 

Amaris has mastered her persuasion ability off-page, apparently, because now she’s persuading everyone without issue. To get into the castle, they decide to have Malik drive, and Amaris sits in the back with Gadriel and Yazlyn and then rips off Star Wars by pulling a ‘these are not the droids you’re looking for’ moment. On the carriage ride, Gadriel tells Amaris she’s the most amazing person to exist. ‘You are the most beautiful creature on this earth. You are the most talented assassin I’ve ever met. You are brave, you’re intelligent, you are quick on your feet, and you are incredibly capable.” I can provide text evidence to refute every one of those points. Amaris is an idiot and a coward. She literally goes into the castle with no plan at all. And spends the entire chapter explaining what everyone else is going to do. Like, ma’am, please stop.

Gadriel also says no other man is allowed to touch her, but apparently, it’s fine if Nox does it. Honestly, I fucking hate men like that.

The last sixty pages were the most exciting part of this book. Moiroi has invited all the nobles to her castle to lure Raascot’s sneaky task force to Aubade so that she can send all her forces to Gwydir. While Amaris & co. are trying to infiltrate Aubade, Nox & co. are being attacked by Farehold soldiers led by The Hand & The Hammer. The Hand is none other than Millicent, the brothel owner with the slithery reptile death hand, so she’s named after her disability…nice. The Hammer is some random buff dude with a spiked mace. Nox faces off against Millicent who tells her she killed Emily with no prompt whatsoever—honestly, I forgot about Emily because so did Nox. Nox throws Chandra and even though she’s sucked at it this whole time, she manages to hit her target and cut off Millicent’s death hand and then that’s done. Ash lets Tanith out of her binds(because even though she’s still a racist zealot, she’s not evil apparently, and Ash would die for her), and she incinerates a bunch of soldiers and Ash’s dad(even though Ash’s eyes were closed during this scene he somehow sees everything that happened, huh.) 

Meanwhile, Amaris has been spending time trying not to repeat her past mistakes by whispering to every guard in Aubade to stand down if any fighting happens, but this ends up backfiring beautifully when an army of ghouls shows up to kill everyone. I thought this part of the book was very clever, but once again, it’s overwritten, and the reader’s hand is held throughout the entire thing. While Amaris chases after Moiroi, she’s unable to harm her because she has a ward protecting her. Instead of having Amaris figure out herself that the ward is her crown, Yazlyn literally shouts the answer to her while Moiroi stands there listening and gaping like, ’oh no! They’ve discovered my plan!’ Amaris then stands there for another few minutes debating on how to remove the crown from her head when she could literally throw a dagger and knock it off. But apparently, the All-Mother gave her the gift of shock wave specifically to knock the crown off her head. What? There are several more pages of Amaris agonizing over how to knock off the crown/summon her shock wave without being horny, and then Moiroi calls Amaris a witch, but isn’t she also a witch?

Oh my god, so we finally get the answer about the illusion of the Crown Prince. Moiroi has been creating an illusion of the boy she thought was her grandson this whole time to keep the people together. Idk that seems a bit ridiculous, imo. Did she not care about her daughter disappearing/dying? What happened to the husband who killed them both because Moiroi allegedly knows about him? That’s what I want to know. We also learn that Daphne was pregnant before Moiroi cursed Raascot, so how long after the curse was she married off? How far along in the pregnancy was she when Moiroi cast the curse? And how was it that Moiroi wasn’t present when Daphne gave birth? When royalty gives birth, it’s typically a whole affair with midwives and the lot, so how did no one but Agnes and the Temple Priestess know that she had a daughter? And also, considering Moiroi believed the grandson to be the nameless husband’s son, it also refutes the whole plot point in book one, where the Raascot fae were searching for King Ceres’ son.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  This is why you needed a developmental editor, Piper. Also, can I say that the dialogue in these books is absolutely atrocious? Nobody talks like this. At all. 

Why is everyone in this book gagging? Is it because they’re as disgusted by Piper’s writing as I am? This book should be the last one with Amaris lingering on the precipice of death, and then she should stay dead. The End. 

[torisaysyeet]

hello yes hi hello I have found one of my favorite high fantasy Sapphic novels to date :)

If you tend to avoid synopsis for potential spoilers, heads up! I'm going to type it directly from the back of the book here.

quick break

quick break

"Farleigh is just an orphanage. At least, that's what the church would have the people believe, but beautiful orphans Nox and fae-touched Amaris know better. They are commodities for sale, available for purchase by the highest bidder. So when the madame of a notorious brothel in a far-off city offers a king's ransom to purchase Amaris, Nox ends up taking her place, while Amaris is drawn away to the mountains, home of mysterious assassins.

Even as they take up new lives and identities, Nox and Amaris never forget one thing; they will stop at nothing to reunite. But the threat of war looms overhead, and the two are inevitably swept into a conflict between human and fae, magic and mundane. With strange new alliances, untested powers, and a bond that neither time nor distance could possibly break, the fate of the realms lies in the hands of two orphans--and the love they hold for each other."

I bought it at Walmart of all places, so I'd recommend checking out your local store's book section if you're interested.

[skelliewrites]

Bouncing between two wips like a ping pong ball

[delta-m]

“Maybe that was the thing about knowledge. What if the truth to learning was that the more you studied, the more lands you more people you met, faiths you uncovered and things you read, as more and more rocks on this earth overturned to reveal their secrets, the more you realized how profoundly little you actually knew.”

-Piper CJ

[pseudowho]

18+, pwp, Authoritative!Higuruma

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Ever since he could remember, Hiromi needed to fiddle, with his hands or his mouth. Since taking up, and then quitting, an unsavoury smoking habit (the perfect solution for a man who liked something between his lips, and something to excuse himself from unwanted social gatherings for), he had, instead, a pile of chewed pens, and overclicked pens, and ties with frayed ends.

In the evenings, and the dark blanketing night, however, his fidget toy was you. The living room was dark, and warm, the dull orange glow of a vintage Edison bulb in the corner, the only illumination. With your back to Hiromi's chest, and your knees draped apart over his spidery legs, what he did to you beneath the blanket was a mystery to anyone but the two of you.

Hushed, heavy breaths, and weak little moans broke through the gloom. Any time you squirmed too much, Hiromi selfishly restrained you, trapping you back against him. One of your fingers was trapped within his mouth, being licked, licked, licked, by the hot flick of the tip of his tongue.

Hiromi watched the documentary intently, his face cast in stark shadow. His fingers moved constantly, his thumb and forefinger pinched softly around your clit, rolling and flicking over the little nub with gentle insistence. Pleasure pooled hot and deep between your legs, climbing up your thighs and belly. He barely seemed to hear your cries, simply resting his chin on your head, and yanking you back to him whenever you squirmed yourself out of his grip.

Hiromi had lost another case, that afternoon. One that wounded him, deeply. After arriving home with taut shoulders, and exhausted, angry eyes, you had had to rescue him from the shower, where clearly, he was trying to drown himself. He hadn't spoken a word to you. But, he had been intermittently clicking his fingers, rolling a stress ball in his hand...and you shivered, knowing where that stress would be directed.

"Does that feel good?" Hiromi whispered, deep voice husky against the side of your throat, his eyes still fixed on the television. His tone was lazy, emotionally blank after the extreme stress of the day. As if, somehow, your pleasure was secondary to his need to relax. It was so unlike him...except, for when the cracks appeared, and he became selfish, convicted, authoritative in a way that sent shivers down your spine. He never looked at you with such cold disregard, as he did when he was emotionally spent from fighting the unwinnable fight.

"...f-fuck...Hiro...need to cum, don-don't leave me like-like this, haaaaahhh...please..."

His response to your whimpers was visceral, though; his cock twitched, fat and thick in his pyjamas, against the small of your back. It annoyed him. He was too stressed to cum. His orgasm would be dry, and painful, and would force him to fuck you again, in a way he didn't have the energy to, just to rid himself of that creamy poison.

"Need something inside you too, I suppose." Hiromi mused, pissed off. "Shit...don't wanna move. Just need...need to relax." His other hand slid under your top, locating your hypersensitive nipple and rolling, flicking, twisting, just as he did to your poor, aching clit. You cried out, colours fizzing in your vision as your back arched, and Hiromi slammed you back against him with a grunt of irritation. He sighed, heavy and resigned. You were letting him use you. He supposed he ought to return the favour, and did so only begrudgingly.

"Get my cock out for me. There's a good girl." You felt Hiromi's breath hitch as your trembling little hand grabbed the silky length of him, his cock heavy, throbbing in your palm. Hiromi shifted you on his lap, your pussy slick and wet with arousal as Hiromi continued to overwork you. You saw stars to feel his cockhead nuzzle at your entrance. Hiromi still watched the television, his eyes dark and seething, so tired of catering to the needs of others.

"Get it in," Hiromi mumbled, his lips and tongue working at your earlobe, "and fuck yourself on me as much as you need to. I don't care. Just don't make me work, please."

You did as you were told, sliding yourself down onto Hiromi's cock, deliciously filled and stretched, belly deep. So close already with how he pinched around your clit, selfishly holding you down so his anxious fingers could continue working, just a few frantic bucks downwards had you reeling. You came with a guttural moan, twitching and convulsing around him, your pussy milking at him, hungry for his seed.

Hiromi felt a sharp, aggressive peak approach, and hissed, teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back. "--shit-- SHIT-- too much, fuck-- not gonna-- gonna be no cum-- arghhh ffffuck--"

Hiromi's balls clenched tight, his cock leaping and bounding...but nothing came, just a dry orgasm with no milky spend and no release. Hiromi was blinded by dreadful pleasure, fucking upwards hard into you, desperately trying to make his balls release something, anything.

Riled now, with an overbearing need to cum, Hiromi threw his head back onto the sofa with a growl, while you panted, plugged and spent, impaled on his cock. Hiromi pulled out, turning you round to face him. His hand stroked his cock, lubricated by your juices, with slick little plap plap plaps. Still hyperstressed, needy and commanding, he tangled one strong, gentle hand in your hair. The fire in his eyes broached no argument.

"On your knees," Hiromi ordered, trying to masturbate himself to orgasm, but failing, "and let me fuck your mouth."

[lovelytsunoda]

unsub! // logan sargeant

summary: this modern thriller star is a big softie for her boyfriend…if you squint really hard sometimes

pairing: logan sargeant x criminal minds! actress! reader

fc liana liberato

yn.yln

liked by logansargeant, jennaortega, kiernanshipka and 2,490 others

yn.yln big things are coming, watch this space! criminalmindsevolution

see all comments

logansargeant hey sexy lady

-> yn.yln 😘

jennaortega she is the moment

user this is my gay awakening

user is it just me or does she seem totally wrong for an f1 wag? she’s all gloom and darkness and hard edges and logan is a ball of sunshine

-> user logan is happy so who are we to judge? I personally love their grumpy sunshine dynamic. I think he evens her out

criminalmindsevolution 👀👀

-> user please tell me my scream queen is going to be playing a hot new female unsub

user just one chance. that’s all I’m asking.

albon_pets she scares horsey

-> yn.yln I’ll bring extra nandos next time I’m around, that should change horseys mind!

-> alex_albon we all know you’re the biggest softy around drop the act

-> yn.yln i admit nothing. I have my image to think about

criminalmindsevolution and yn.yln

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criminalmindsevolution we are delighted to welcome yn yln as jade waters to the bau verse. she has stunned viewers with her roles in ‘scream’, ‘based on a true story’ and ‘totally killer’. meet jade on screen for the first time this friday, we think you’ll like her

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user I KNEW SHED BE A SEXY UNSUB!! whatever my wife did she’s not guilty your honor

yn.yln knife to meet you 🫣

logansargeant so proud of you my love!

user she is mother.

user is anyone else alarmed that she seems to only play unalivers and general psychopaths? sensing an alarming pattern

-> user are u dumb she literally played a slasher victim in totally killer

f1wagsource

f1wagsource Actress YN YLN spotted taking a break from filming Criminal Minds Evolution as she enters the Vegas paddock this weekend with boyfriend Logan Sargeant

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user are we sure this is the same woman who killed seven people in a Scream film? the same woman who said her favourite director was Wes Craven and her favourite film Cillian Murphys Red Eye?

user this is like a whole other side to her!!

user she’s so expressive! I was watching her through the afternoon as she decided to watch the practice sessions from the stands and she did the most adorable little cheer in her seat whenever logan’s car came past 🥺

user she’s actually the sweetest person I’ve ever met! I ran into her and logan at a franchised bar in reno and she was so chill- she even offered to take a picture of me and logan, not even realizing that I actually wanted a picture with her!

logansargeant just posted to his story!

[caption 1: help I think she’s house hunting out if our budget again caption 2: never get between yn and her nachos….love you baby]

y.n.yln just posted!

liked by logansargeant, pagetpagetgram, oscarpiastri and 2,583 others

yn.yln to my partner in crime, my script partner, the one who always encourages me to chase my dreams, even when I think they’re bigger than my body. without you, I never would have had the courage to send my audition tape to the producers of criminal minds. heck, I probably wouldn’t have even thought to audition for scream. we’ve been through so much together, and it feels like only yesterday I nervously asked you out in a crowded bar, palms so sweaty that I dropped my sprite and you had to help me clean the glass off the floor. I still don’t know why you agreed to go out with me, if I’m being honest.

happy three years my love 🩷

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kirstenvangness AWEEE MY BABIES ARE ALL GROWN UP

logansargeant has it really been three years already? what can I saw except I love you know like I love you then, but tenfold. you inspire me and support me and I am so lucky to call you my girlfriend.

-> yn.yln don’t make me cry!! people can’t think I’m a softie!

-> logansargeant lmao it’s too late for that one babe

kiernanshipka THREE YEARS ALREADY! that boy better put a ring on it soon

user my royal couple

user this was a sudden burst of emotions I wasn’t expecting

-> oscarpiastri get used to it, logan makes her go all soft and gooey inside

joemantegna happy anniversary kiddo!

jensonbutton petition to have her at every race? she’s so much fun to be around and she makes the garage a better place to be

-> liakblock ur only saying that because she was the only one who would do oasis karaoke with you

-> yn.yln I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of a karaoke machine in jensons office

[endless-ineffabilities]

there's hope for us yet - (1/2)

Anakin Skywalker x f!reader

After being overpowered by Baylan Skoll, Ahsoka and the reader find themselves in the World Between Worlds, each confronted with a version of Anakin. The reader meets the Anakin she fell in love with. Or, still loves.

masterlist ▪︎ part two

"Hello, stardust."

Two words. Two simple but poignant words to send you out of orbit. Wherever you are.

You had opened your eyes to an endless picture of the galaxy, stars and planets as far as you can see. Planes of light acting like pathways, one of which you found yourself lying down on.

Then you stood, head light.

And then you hear him.

Anakin.

You swear there is nothing else like it, the sound of his voice which used to be your very anchor.

"Impossible." You whisper, before finally turning around.

There he stands, as real as the last day you saw him. Donning his dark Jedi attire, blonde curls atop his perfect face.

"What did I tell you?" He tsked at you, shaking his head fondly. "Nothing's impossible."

"I'm dead, aren't I?" You take a step closer, as he walks towards you. This must be heaven, you want to add, but that seemed too hopeful. Desperate.

Heaven, after all, would always be with him. Anakin, who was lost after the duel on Mustafar.

"Do you really think that, stardust?" He reaches you, tucking a stray strand behind your ear. "Look around."

So you do. But truth be told, you don't want to look at anything else apart from him.

"Another... realm," you try to figure it out. "You've mentioned this, haven't you? Obi-Wan talked of a realm that encompasses all realms. All of time and space."

Anakin hums in approval, his thumb grazing your cheekbone. "If in here I still have you... then here is all there ever should be."

You feel tears pricking at your eyes, trying hard to fight them off. He swoops in at your rescue, bridging the gap between you two with a searing kiss.

It feels real, you think. And it must be, because how else can it make your entire being ablaze. His lips are softer than your memory serves, the sweet taste of him ingrained like a branding. Ani, Anakin. Your Anakin.

His tongue snakes past your teeth, begging for more. His hand tilts your head back to gain leverage.

"My stardust," he whispers against your skin, when he pulls away to drag his lips on your cheek. When he repeats it, his words take on a different tone. "My stardust. Mine." He nearly growls at the end, the sound of it low and grating in your ear.

The Force shifts. Where you felt uncertainty and hope, now you feel something darker. Something's not right here.

"Where is Ahsoka?"

"That's nothing you should concern yourself with." Anakin steps to your side, one hand toying with your hair. When he is behind you, you feel his breathing on the back of your neck, just imploring you to give in. "What matters is us, stardust."

"This isn't real." You shake your head. "At least, this is not my time, my current path. I have to go back. We have to find Ezra."

"This is real." His arm wraps around your shoulders, pressing your back to his chest. "You wound me, stardust. Do you not want me? Just like this?"

"I can feel you," you step away from him, immediately deflated at the lack of contact, as wrong as it may be. "and you're not really my Anakin, are you?"

He chuckles, low in his chest. There is nothing friendly about the gesture. "I am who I have always been meant to become. This is me. This is the man you love."

"No." You circle each other, akin to predator and prey, and you're not sure which one you are. "The man I love ..." you raise your voice, resolve weakening, "... is dead."

A moment hangs between you, filled with silence, but electrifying all the same. He holds you in his steel blue gaze, and for just a second, you can believe that he is truly yours. His mouth curls up in that familiar smirk, his eyebrows raise toward the center.

Please, he seems to say, this is me. I love you now, as I always have.

But the moment passes, and a gloom casts over his expression.

"Fine," he sneers. "Have it your way, stardust."

And the world falls all around you.

Everything is burning.

The Clone Wars rage at all sides, smoke filling the air and impairing your line of sight.

Anakin was by your side one second, the next he was lost to you in the midst of all the fighting.

You think you can hear him calling your name, but it seems so far away. Your main focus is on the open wound by your ribs, sustained from a blaster shot, staining blood through your white tunic.

You groan due to it all, but the familiarity of the pain somehow dulls the sensation.

I've been here before.

Anakin calls your name, much nearer now, and soon enough he is right in front of you. Face contorted in a mixture of rage and relief.

"Stardust!" He yells. "I told you to stick with me. Why do you never listen?"

"It's not my fault! I was..." Pain shoots through you, bringing you to your knees, and you press your hand against your side. "I was sidetracked by all the..."

"You're hurt. Kriff's sake, stardust. How can you do this me?"

"To you? I'm the one injured here."

He babbles on, inspecting your wound with precise movements. "I don't know what I would do without you. You can't get hurt, do you hear me? I would not be able to fight in these wars. You have to be alright."

His sincerity tugs at your heart, and you reach for his face. He takes a deep breath, pressing his nose against your palm.

"I'll be alright, Ani," you try to calm him down. "Nothing a little bacta spray can't fix."

"Right," he reaches inside his pocket, revealing the spray case. The immediate relief you feel as the solution comes in contact with your wound makes you sigh deeply. "This should tide you over until we get you to a medic."

"Snips alright?" You look around, trying to catch a glimpse of his young Padawan.

"She's alright," he confirms, helping you up with one arm firmly around you. "Worry about yourself for now, okay?"

"Are you alright?" You completely ignore his sentiment, giving him a once over. Well, what are you thinking? Of course he's alright. Anakin can face a thousand belligerents on his own and come out unscathed.

He pauses, a smile encroaching upon his face.

"Oh, stardust." He sighs, moving in front of you, and holding your face with both hands.

An explosion erupts from behind him, billowing fires. The atmosphere is red, an intense haze of destruction looming over the scene. There is screaming from all sides. Cries of attack and defense.

But Anakin only has eyes for you.

"I'll always be okay, as long as I have you by my side."

You remember this moment. You remember how you clammed up, and merely nodded in response. The gloom of battle like an assault to your senses.

Say something. But you can't, because you didn't.

Anakin presses a kiss to your forehead, and your eyes close.

And then he is gone.

I will always be with you, Ani.

But it is too late.

Always.

This is just a two-parter, and the next part will be sad/angsty, so brace yourselves. He is Darth Vader, after all.

update: part two is posted!

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part i)

a/n: I suppose this series will be a short one, 4 parts maybe? I just love Claere so much - she's my little unhinged weirdo :')

It was a rather secluded and quiet affair, the marriage between Claere Velaryon and Cregan Stark. There were no great halls crammed with noble witnesses, no bright banners flying high to announce the union of two ancient houses—only the low rustles of the breeze through the pines and the crackle of a distant hearth as the vows were uttered.

The ceremony took place beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods. The holy weirwood tree loomed with its gnarled white bark, etched with time, and ruby leaves swished in the cold Northern breeze. Claere, a priceless dream draped in rare emeralds, silver silks, and white furs akin to seafoam—a nod to her Velaryon heritage—eclipsed against the stark landscape of Winterfell. She made up for the glitz and grandeur that this lifeless gathering lacked.

Cregan Stark, silent and relentless, took her freezing hand with the kind of sworn resilience that marked Northern might—his bold grey eyes sceptical of the bride before him. Though the match had been arranged by the Sea Snake, the union between them was regarded as special—one for the histories. Theirs was not a marriage forged in the fires of splendour but in the subtle rendition of what they each represented: a union between sea and snow, Velaryon and Stark.

No songs were sung, and no cheers erupted, but in that stillness, something more meaningful lingered.

Cregan was first informed of Rhaenyra's second child and only daughter as if she were a fleeting nymph from a fairytale, a cold mystery whispered from beyond the Wall. "She is adrift in dreams," his maester had told him. Claere Velaryon possessed all of her mother’s fabled graces—from her haunting violet eyes and white-gold hair to the sharp, aquiline features that marked her as pure Valyrian. Her skin, fair and translucent as glass, only furthered the ghostly aura that surrounded her.

If summer snow had ever reincarnated in his time, it would have been Claere Velaryon. The rumours spoke of a 'beautiful freak', chiselled like an ice sculpture, who sang like the sweetest lark, whose fingers danced effortlessly over the harp, filling halls with melodies as delicate as her presence. She was drawn more to solitude and the quiet company of the stars than to her brothers, most of her nights spent soaring high above the world on her silvery dragon, Luna—hatched in her cradle and enormous beyond her years.

The whispers had reached him long before he’d ever seen her. She doesn't eat food, prefers the taste of human flesh and blood, they had said, each rumour darker than the last. She once tried to stab her uncle in the heart. She dabbles in blood magic with that wretched dragon of hers. Some claimed her visions could only divine the worst of futures, and that she would cut herself to the bone just to understand pain. It was said everything she touched withered into the gloom.

Cregan swallowed against the rising dread. He had been pragmatic in agreeing to this union, believing the support of the ancient Targaryens would strengthen the North. Yet now, as he stood face to face with the girl cloaked in a bizarre silence, he wondered if he had invited his own destruction. The North had weathered many storms, but this... this felt different. He had faced wildlings, dire winters, wars, and beasts, but Claere Velaryon might be his greatest unknown yet.

Perhaps this alliance, this bond forged for power, would be his ultimate undoing. The Sea Snake must’ve played him for a fool, tying him to a sorceress masked as a Valyrian princess.

As if her touch had stung him, Cregan recoiled and returned his hands to his sides, a flicker of unease settling beneath his skin. The girl’s violet eyes stayed distant at his reaction, focused on some invisible realm beyond the godswood, oblivious to the accusations that swirled around her name like storm clouds. Never meeting anyone’s gaze, she stood perfectly still, frigid as the legends surrounding her, the direwolf sigil on his chest holding her attention.

When the quiet ceremony was over and it was time for goodbyes, the weight of the moment settled heavily on them all. Soft whispers filled the air as hands were clasped, and final glances exchanged. The warmth of shared vows had already begun to fade whilst the mother and daughter, her three brothers and their grandsire traded farewells. Cregan wavered close by, observing his new wife's interactions.

No one cried except the youngest brother, Joffrey, who had refused to let go of the princess. Everyone around her, her own kin, had kept their distance in approaching her.

"Who'll sing to me now, Claerie? The moon song?" Her little brother wept, shedding his tears into her fair silk gown.

Claere’s eyes moved from her tear-streaked brother to the rest of her family. Her voice was glacial, her expression more bored than curious.

"Why does he cry?"

A brief pause passed between the lot of them.

"Because he... we will miss you, sister. We might not see each other for a long time." It was young Lucerys who eventually answered her, his tone painfully understanding. He must be the forbearing one among them.

"Then do not miss me," Claere said to them simply. "It is not my wish to cause you pain till then."

Her certainty unsettled them, a silent dismissal that left her words hovering unanswered. She seemed unaware, perhaps unconcerned, that her family could not comprehend her detachment.

"I love you, Claerie." He buried his face deeper into her gown, as if afraid she might vanish from his arms. Claere remained still as if brooking her brother's overflowing love.

There it was—a twitch in Claere’s blank eyes, a flicker of something almost human. She glanced down at Joffrey, and with visible reluctance, patted his head. The gesture was mechanical, lacking the warmth he sought. A moment later, Jace stepped forward, his hands firm as he pulled Joffrey away, his actions laced with an unspoken fear that any more time in her presence might invite something unwanted.

"Will you stay with me?" Claere asked them, though her voice, usually collected, wobbled just enough to betray the edge of apprehension.

"Not for long, my girl," Rhaenyra said to her, her smile strained, hiding some secret discomfort. "Your home is here now. You will grow to love this place and your husband. I am sure."

"A cage of stone and ice," she murmured, her gaze distant, as if already relinquished to the cold halls of her future.

Rhaenyra's smile faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly. She was unduly firm. "You speak too soon, Claere. You are a Velaryon and a Targaryen—power runs in your blood. You will learn your duty in time."

"And you'll have Luna on your side," Luke appeased her in vain. An unspeaking, fire-breathing beast for a companion. His tender heart did not hold a candle to his blind faith.

But Claere said nothing more, her expression as stony as ever. The distance between her and the life she was meant to embrace felt as vast as the sky beyond.

Cregan watched the exchange in silence, the chill in his chest deepening with each word. His worst fears were confirmed. Claere was a stranger, even to those who should have known her best. They spoke to her as if she were something fragile, something... unnatural.

A freak.

And now, she was his.

X

No one was more reluctant than Cregan to spend his first night with his new bride.

As far as obligations went, he had managed to ban the sickening tradition of a "bedding ceremony" from the occasion, much to the disappointment of some. The thought of parading the princess through a crowd of leering men felt like an abomination, yet even without that outlandish formality, he still felt the burden of duties and expectations ploughing down on him like an axe.

His familiar chambers felt chillier today, the fire crackling weakly in the hearth as Claere stood near the window, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. She was silent, as she had been throughout the feast, her face betraying little emotion. She refused to eat, revel in wine, or even speak. She had managed a quiet nod after well-wishes, sometimes pressing her lips tight to pass for a smile.

He recalled, with an involuntary tremble, the black rumours that had plagued him during the dinner. The mention of how his wife’s tastebuds were supposedly tempted not by the fine meats and ales of the North, but by the flesh of those who dared to covet a single glance from the Velaryon beauty. Fattened soldiers who sought her favour and found only their doom.

It was absurd, indeed. And yet, as he glanced at Claere, so still and detached by the firelight, Cregan couldn't shake the disturbing thought. What sort of woman had he brought into his home?

The distance between them felt more than just physical—it was as though she existed in another world entirely, one he had no access to. He didn't know what troubled him more: her silence, or the eerie calmness with which she met her fate.

As Cregan set down his ancestral sword and shrugged off his heavy fur cloaks, Claere moved to him with quiet resignation. Her fingers began to undo the delicate laces of her nightgown, her motions disconnected as if compelled by some unspoken assignment. The fabric slipped, gathering at her shoulders, poised to fall, when Cregan's voice broke the tense stillness.

"There is no need for that," he said sharply, cutting through the air between them, the words coming out quicker than he intended.

He stepped forward, his rough fingers gently, yet firmly, adjusting the cloth back over her bare skin. Every inch of paleness he touched was smoother than the silk she adorned, warmer than the ice-cold fingers he had held in the godswood.

Claere blinked, startled, her violet eyes searching his face for the first time that night. The vigour of that shade disarmed him for a moment before he looked away. Yes, she was his wife, but more than that, she was a mystery. And he was a man who distrusted what he could not comprehend.

"Rest. That is all for now," he added, softer now, the command awkward in his throat.

Claere scrutinized him still, her sharp gaze unrelenting as if she could unearth the truth behind his stoic mask. When she spoke, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Is there another you hold dear, my lord?"

He sighed, sinking into a cushioned seat by the hearth. "No," he replied, his tone careful, meeting her eyes with conscious composure. "And you?"

A strange smirk flickered across her face, the barest twitch of her lips. "Everything I hold dear gave me away like a pawn on a board."

Her words struck him like a blow, twisting his gut with an uncomfortable pang of pity. He allowed for her loneliness as if somehow, he was responsible for it. Yet, a strange foreboding hung in the air and kept his response locked in his throat.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the flames, fists clenching against the armrests as the fire danced and crackled, its warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of guilt growing in his chest.

"I understand you favour peace and quiet," he began carefully, his words lingering in the space between them. "But would you consider sitting with me tonight?"

Claere, staring at the shadows cast by the firelight, turned her gaze to him. Her eerie eyes, unnervingly calm, gave no indication of her thoughts. For a moment, he regretted speaking.

The pause stretched, and Cregan felt the silence chew at his nerves.

"Why?" she asked finally, her voice as undisturbed as it was empty, as though the idea of companionship was foreign.

He hesitated, searching for words. "I thought it might ease... the strangeness of the night." His eyes flickered to hers. "For both of us."

Claere’s lips barely moved as she gave a soft hum of acknowledgement. The stillness in her made him wonder if she felt anything at all, and a deeper anxiety stirred in him.

Without answering, she crossed the room, her movements as fluid and graceful as a phantom. She sat across from him, her gaze never leaving the flickering flames. Even now, such a short distance felt insurmountable.

"Ask away, my lord," she said quietly, reading into him deftly. "I do owe you many answers."

Cregan’s gaze faltered as Claere contested, and for a moment, the heat of the fire did nothing to chase away the chill crawling up his spine. Something was unnerving about the way she stared at him, something impenetrable, as if her pale eyes held some ancient secret he wasn’t meant to uncover.

"Do you hear them?" His voice was low, almost lost to the sound of the crackling wood. "The whispers about you."

Claere’s expression remained unchanged, her face as still as a porcelain mask. "What do they say?"

"They say that I was a fool to take a girl like you," he said, keeping his emotions hidden. "A girl who walks in dreams, who doesn’t belong to this world. They fear you."

Her gaze did not move an inch, unaffected by his claims. "People fear what they do not understand."

Every rumour, every whispered story of her strange tendencies crept back into his mind, grinding at his resolve. The tales of oddity, rituals, and things best left unspoken—they clung to the air between them.

"Are you afraid of me, my lord?" Her question cut through the silence like a blade.

Cregan swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart lurching in his chest. He wanted to say no, to deny the concern that gripped him, but something in her gaze made him feel exposed, powerless in a way he had not been before. He forced himself to meet her eyes, but the intensity there—the dark, unfeeling stare—made him feel as though he were sinking into a frozen lake.

His jaw clenched for a moment, as though wrestling with the words he ought to say to her. He leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter, but no less intense.

"I will not be made to live in dread of my wife," he countered firmly. "Though, beyond question, those words waver my trust for you. Upon your integrity. Time will tell."

For the first time, a glimmer of something passed over her face—a brief crack in the mask. Hurt? Confusion? Whatever it was, it was fleeting. Claere tilted her head slightly, studying him from head to toe like one might a curious specimen. He shifted back into his chair, unease unfurling in his stomach.

"You should be afraid of me," she said softly. It wasn’t a threat, but a statement, as if she were merely acknowledging a truth he had yet to accept.

Cregan did not sleep a wink that night. His ancient sword, Ice, lingered closer to him than expected, leaning on his bedside. He laid utterly still as Claere slumbered gingerly, uncaring of the shadows that danced around her, like a tarrying chill that would not leave him alone.

As the sun crested over the horizon, spilling its golden light into their chamber, there was one thing he made certain: Cregan understood that his fear was not of Claere herself, but of what she represented—an unknown force that defied everything Winterfell was. Truth and unity.

X

As the days wore on, Cregan Stark found himself perpetually on edge, his mind halved between the secret suspicions that crept through Winterfell and the cold reality of his new wife. Claere moved through the castle like a careless sprite, floating just beyond reach, drifting from room to room, always apart from the people around her. She left a wake of uncertainty in her path, tales trailing behind her like a fog.

Scarcely did she remain grounded; more often than not, she soared into the skies with Luna, her dragon, a creature so tremendous that many in Winterfell whispered it had outgrown the older beasts of war—Vhagar's equal in size and perhaps ferocity. The sight of it, gleaming silver scales slicing through the frozen air, sent shivers through the keep. Claere’s infrequent appearances at suppers left the hall feeling incomplete, her absence punctuated by muttered resentments from the courtiers and smallfolk alike. The duties of a lady to Winterfell—tending to the hearth and home, overseeing the castle’s workings—were not simply ignored but utterly abandoned.

And yet, Cregan could not bring himself to care. As long as Claere caused no disturbance, as long as she kept to the law, she was no hindrance to him.

As it went, Cregan had not slept in her bed since their wedding night. In fact, they had barely spoken. Claere had quietly suggested moving to a nearby chamber, giving him "his breathing space," as she put it, and he hadn’t objected. He offered up the one with arched ceilings, for when she dabbled in her music, and nearest to the enclosure where her dragon was housed.

Her peculiarities deepened with every passing day. In the dead of night, her harp’s haunting refrain would echo through the passageways, its melody weird and hypnotic. At other times, he would hear her soft footsteps racing through the corridor, out into the courtyard, lost in her dreams until dawn. Most of his courtiers noticed her out on the ramparts after nightfall, laying across the roof—how she got there was a mystery—and staring at the sky for hours on end, speaking to herself. But most unsettling of all were the obscure songs she would hum—songs that danced on the edge of his consciousness, unnervingly poignant, yet cruel in the sweet voice they reached. As if she were singing of things far beyond this world.

Blood and shadow, ice and flame, Sing the tune without a name In the frost, their voices hum Of dead unseen, of eyes aglow Of footsteps deep beneath the snow Ice will crack, and winds will wail, Have you seen the end unfold, the secret that never sleeps?

Claere's songs instilled an image of the most unspeakable cold he knew, distant woods beyond the Wall, where horrors awaited, ready to engulf the unwary. Sometimes, the songs became too much, stirring a dread in him so deep he would storm down the hall, ready to confront her. But each time he did, within her room, like a figure of utmost naïveté, she went by weathering her own storm.

This time, she had ensconced herself by the hearthside, rent of her sleeves, weaving dried winter roses across a vine.

"Did I wake you?" she had asked up at him.

His words faltered. Rather a hollow noise whooshed out his lips, his resentment fleeing at the sight of her. How could someone so callow invoke such unease?

"The hour grows late, princess," he would reply stiffly, the reprimand hollow even to his own ears. "It would be wiser to find some sleep before the morn."

"I adore the night," she had said to him. "Without it, you cannot see the stars. There are no shadows, too."

Cregan had expected to hate her. He had expected to find her burdensome, a hardship forced upon him by duty. But he did not. Indeed, he endured her and accommodated her. As unfamiliar as Claere was, there was something fragile beneath the mantle of her mystery. He found himself unable to despise her, though neither could he truly be fond of her. A part of him, born of compassion, wanted to protect her from the world that had turned its back on her. Perhaps, buried beneath her oddities, she yearned for some semblance of a connection she had never known.

It was one of the handmaidens who had come to him, trembling with unease, to speak of her lady’s growing detachment.

"She barely eats, my lord," the young girl had said. "I fear she grows weaker by the day, surviving on little more than water and grain."

"Have you asked the princess what she would prefer? Surely, our larders are rife enough to sustain her... distinct palate," one of the lords from Cregan's council interjected before he could react.

Cregan shot him a sharp, warning glare. He had long since grown weary of the whispers—the looks exchanged behind his back, the way people averted their eyes when his wife entered a room. The court treated her as if she were a curse, a spectre they wished to avoid. It only stoked his resolve to defend her, to ensure she was not devoured by their disdain. Claere was different, but she was not an object to be mocked.

The maid shifted uneasily. "I have spared no effort in this. Though, there is another issue, my lord."

The Stark lord sighed. "Aye, go on."

"Her ladies have dwindled to nought. I am only charged to tend to her meals, if not no one."

Cregan's heart sank at the thought. He wanted to believe that Claere was merely adjusting to her new life, that in time she would settle. But with each passing day, it became harder to ignore the isolation tightening its grip around her.

"And what, pray tell, has come over them to spurn their service to the Lady of Winterfell?" His voice was low but the threat in it was unmistakable.

The handmaiden lowered her head, unwilling to speak the truth aloud, yet the answer was clear enough. Fear. The court, the smallfolk, her own attendants—everyone was frightened of Claere.

When his eyes bore into her, she hesitated whilst wringing her hands. "We see strange things where the dragon sleeps. My lady's songs... people say they hear them echoing in the courtyard when there is no one."

"These slights must cease at once," he hissed, his voice barely above a murmur, but the weight behind it made the girl flinch. "Claere is a princess of the realm, moreover your lady. Any who fail in their duty will answer to me. Am I clear?"

She nodded hurriedly. "Yes, my lord," she stammered, bowing before retreating from the hall.

And when the next issue reached him, it was, once again, centred on the most pressing concern: Claere's dragon.

"We are unable to feed the beast, my lord," a nervous steward reported, his voice trembling as he stood before Cregan. "The men refuse to go near it. Even the bravest among them say they hear odd noises from its holding."

Cregan's brow furrowed deeply. "Are they afraid of a dragon doing what dragons do—eat?"

"It's not just that, my lord," the steward began, his voice shaky. "We simply do not have the numbers to sustain it. We've lost livestock faster than we can replenish, and there is not enough game in the woods this season. Our people will be left with nothing if it continues like this."

Cregan stood from his chair, pacing toward the hearth as the steward’s words sank in. Feeding Claere's dragon was becoming a task fraught with superstition and suspicion—neither of which he could afford in Winterfell. And now that dragon was a looming menace not just for its size, but even for its insatiable appetite. If they couldn't meet its needs, there was no telling what havoc it might wreak.

"I will take her out to hunt on the morrow," a hushed voice spoke up from across the room.

Cregan turned sharply to see Claere standing in the entrance, her pale little figure silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. No one had even heard her approach.

A rush of murmurs, of "my lady" and "your grace", went across the sparse crowd in the hall.

For the first time, he noticed how discomfited she seemed with the attention on her. She had courteous bows for the little council of lords before she stood before Cregan, silvery hair left dishevelled and her thin lavender silks trailing by her feet. The toll of her attendant's dearth was evident, how she had to cope alone these past days.

“You heard all that?” he muttered to her, trying to mask the unease.

Claere nodded, unruffled. Then she mellowly addressed the rest of the council who was seated and the anxious steward.

"Luna will no longer be a burden to you," she assured. "Thereafter, I will fly her beyond the Wall. There must be plenty of wild herds there that would satisfy her. And it will keep her from Winterfell's rife supply for a time."

While the disparaged lord hung his head, Cregan's breaths began to constrict. The idea of Claere—of anyone—venturing beyond the Wall unsettled him, but the alternative was just as threatening. It was dangerous to let someone so young, so inexperienced roam in the ancient, Northern wilderness. The risks were too great, even for a dragonrider. His argument would be proved right by the last Targaryen who visited the wall, Claere's own great-great-grandmother, the Good Queen Alysanne and her dragon, Silverwing.

His gaze never left Claere as the lords around them voiced their concern, exclaiming how unwise it was for her to embark beyond Castle Black in such perilous times. Yet, she stood before them as cold and unbothered as ever, her violet eyes betraying no hint of fear or doubt.

"You plan to hunt beyond the Wall alone, as winter draws nigh?" Cregan asked, laced with tension. "You would risk that?"

One of his bannermen, old and discerning to the dangers of the North, came forth with an incredulous look. "A Southerner such as you would have no idea of the true perils beyond Whitetree, my lady. Five hundred years have passed since the last great threat, and still, we are not entirely certain what lurks in the darkness. If it isn't the cold that claims you, it might be wildlings or worse—barbed, spindly creatures, drawn from the blackest legends."

Claere tilted her head slightly as if the lord’s words were of little consequence to her. As if she knew something about the Land of Always Winter that he did not.

"Do not fret, ser," Claere replied, gentle yet astute. "Luna is fearsome when she needs to be. She is not just any dragon—she is the last living relic of Old Valyria, a mere egg when Aenar the Exile first claimed Dragonstone. She will protect me."

Her words should have been reassuring, but they left Cregan with a hollow pit in his stomach. It wasn’t her confidence in the dragon that troubled him—it was her complete lack of concern for the threats she would face. He had seen fear in men’s eyes before, but Claere’s violet gaze was barren, as though no amount of danger or uncertainty could touch her.

"You speak of Luna’s strength as if it is enough," Cregan finally said, his voice low. "But what of your own?"

"You needn’t concern yourself with my safety," she replied, her tone as impassive as her expression.

He studied her closely, weighing his options and her obvious solutions, searching her enchanting face for some flicker of apprehension. There was nothing. It irked him to no extent. Did nothing shake her? Did nothing put her off?

"I am the Warden of the North," he bit out. "Your safety is under my jurisdiction."

She shrugged one side of her shoulder. "Then it appears we have reached an impasse, my lord."

Her words were calm and detached, as though she were discussing the weather. Cregan's patience wore thin, his protective instincts clashing with her indifference.

He strode to her side, towering over her, his imposing figure blocking them from the view of the council. Claere leaned away, her eyes dipping down, her face contorting in disquiet at his proximity. Yet he pressed on, tucking a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze back to him.

"Don't," he tried to protest.

"Look at me," he urged, his grip tightening as frustration bled into his words. "I cannot risk you for something as feckless as a hungry pet. Do you understand me, Claere?"

Her gaze flicked up to meet his. For a brief moment, it was as if she were on the verge of revealing some hidden truth, some implicit fear or vulnerability.

"You do not risk me. 'Tis I who take the risk," she said, her voice painfully even.

Cregan's jaw clenched, his exasperation palpable as he released her chin, stepping back but still glaring at her. He could protect Winterfell, the North, and his people—but her? He was not so convinced anymore.

"Fine. Do as you wish," he surrendered. "Ride past the Wall."

She offered him nothing more than a parting curtsey as if she had already said too much. With that, Claere turned to leave the room but his words stopped her dead in her tracks.

"However, I will ride with you."

For a moment, she remained still, her back to him. Slowly, she turned her head, glancing at him over her shoulder. And finally—there it was.

A flicker of astonishment in her violet eyes. A break in the mask of indifference she so carefully maintained. Her lips parted, but no words came. Something deeper, more vulnerable, flickered in her violet gaze, a shadow of doubt or unease, quickly concealed again behind her calm facade.

"Why?" she asked, her foremost intuition to always suspect goodwill.

"It's not a request," Cregan replied, his tone brooking no arguments. "If you are to face danger, you will not do it alone."

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Without another word, she turned once more and left the room, the heavy doors closing behind her with a quiet thud.

Cregan stood still, watching the place where she had just been, and where no one could see him, broke out into a triumphant smirk. This was it then, a game at which two could play. If she was a tempest, then he would be the steadfast mountain, immovable against the storm.

X

thank you for reading! idk how a taglist works but I'd love to hear your thoughts <3

[hamsternella]

hi!!! I have a request if you want too ofc!!! I’ve always thought of a reader who used to be in a relationship with ford before him being sucked up in the portal..and finding out that he was back?? It would be heavy angst with supreme fluff I think, I love how you write Ford in your other posts 👀

I'm sorry for my delay; I had a couple of problems BUT HERE IT IS. I hope you like it.

He's back

cw: stanford pines x reader, angst, fluff

It was déjà vu. Flashing lights, burned out outlets and the bustle of the masses. Communal fear; the terror of shadows devouring the streets as the gloom spread down every avenue—it had been a danger to set foot outside, but you risked it. One hand clinging to the edge of your robe, and the other holding a flashlight that barely worked without flickering; but with its mark referring to its recent departure from the factory, it was now the only thing that could keep your head attached to the last ounce of sanity.

You had not traveled back in time. You were still in the same Gravity Falls. Cars were ascending into the sky, darkness was taking over the town, and the stars were shining brighter than ever. Your own body had begun to rise; the lantern ended up somewhere unknown as you had to clutch both hands to the nearest lamppost, avoiding biting your tongue as you returned to the ground with the sting of cement against the skin of your legs.

You missed the exact moment when you had begun to cry—it was of no great importance. You tried to stand up, you tried to take deep breaths, and you tried to search for God between prayers; but nothing seemed to quell the urge to gouge your eyes out with your fingers. You were in denial about discovering what lay beyond the darkness when the light bathed Gravity Falls. You felt sick.

Your heart felt like it was about to burst in your chest; the nerves swirled in your stomach like an uncomfortable tingle. The world was spinning, and you didn't know if it was your head or if the event would repeat itself. Three times. Three times it would be. Now it was only two.

Two times.

How many more years?

Could it be?

?̸҇̿͑͆̇͗̐̏̎͗̚̚ɯ̵҇͂͑͐̽͐̊̀̈́ı̷̷̣̒͂̍́̌͊̌̓̈͐́͋̃͌̇̆͋͊̋̈́̎̚͡͠ɥ҈̄́̀̌̄͆̌̏́͐̍̅̆͞ ǝ̴̉͂͆̾͌͗͂̇̄͋͠q̵̍͋̈̀̉́̆̍̽̿̓̄̆͊̚̚͞ ʇ̵̐̅̓͐͗͂̐͒̌̐̽̆̕ı̷̴̣̉͊̃͆̉̐̇̽͛̎͐̓̃̽̏̓̋̋͗̔̾̀͌̕͞ p҈̌̿̃̅̐͐͂̚͞ן̵̛͊̓̋͊̓̀͒̈́̈n҈҇̾̔̄̈̋͗̽̚ơ̵͐̄̂̽̊̑́͂̚̚Ɔ̸̿̒͐̆̉̈́̈̄̍̋̕

Getting to the Mystery Shack was less complicated than you had imagined. The wooden signs —now scattered in the mud; hanging from the trees, among their branches— were helpful in reaching the shack. You barely reacted when a government special forces car (what were they supposed to be doing in Gravity Falls?) honked its horn, forcing you to jump to the side of the road. After it followed a whole line of armored vehicles. You didn't know what to think—there was nothing to do about it.

There was nothing you could do. Why were you there?

It had been difficult for you to return home to put on your shoes. Now they were ruined: muddy and the laces were wet with dirty water. You knew your socks were soaked through, and possibly your robe was the only thing halfway presentable. And for what? Who were you thinking of surprising? Stanley Pines, perhaps? The man you hadn't seen for a little over thirty years; or maybe his workers, who were the only people able to orbit around him. You had never gone to see him after ʇ̵̛̅̀̓ǘ̴̋́͛̃͝ǝ҉҇̏̂̉p҉̔̋͞ı҉̛̓̋̑̚ɔ̸̛̍̏̚ɔ̵̽̃͑́͠ɐ҉̓̍̚͠ ǝ҈͑̽̆͝ɥ̸̇̿͗͗͝ʇ҉҇̐̎̅ that day.

You lost the order of your thoughts —too confused on their own— as soon as the dome of trees was behind you. The sun rising behind the cabin blinded you for an instant, and too tired, perhaps even surrendered to the possibility of turning around and going back the way you came, you still tried to shield your eyes from the light. It was an instant. You let out a sigh caught in your chest, gathered your breath, and through silent tears you thought you heard a distant whisper.

Then it was a murmur.

Then it was a scream.

Then there were several. And they were all your name.

The tears, once small pearls hanging from your eyes, were now a torrent of bitterness and confusion twisting your gesture. They seemed to be born from a fresh wound in your heart; and it deepened as your arm fell limp to the side of your body, leaving you at the mercy of a blurred figure beyond what your imagination could trace. It was like a black blob, too big to be ɹ̴̊̑̃̅͝ǝ҉̈̊͛͡ɥ̵̛̐̿̊d̴͋́̕ı҈̿̍́͝Ɔ̶͑̆͒̌͞—but too small to be a black hole. Still, the way it approached and dominated your field of vision, eating away at the stability of your heart and the rhythm of your breathing, made it feel like one. Maybe this was the end of you. Maybe he was back.

You tried to swallow the rest of your tears, preparing both —weak— fists in front of you. Ready to fight. You mustered up the courage you needed, closing your eyes with the thought that if you avoided looking at him, possibly your death would be quicker. Maybe there would be mercy. Maybe the cut in your stomach wouldn't hurt, and when your organs fell out of your body you wouldn't have to see red bathing your feet. Nor were you going to see the world fade away; and you hoped much less was yellow covering your vision. Metallic taste, smell of meat and viscosity of guts and viscera. All the senses in an expression of his love for human carnage.

And the pain was going to be the least of it.

The impact came with the sound of hurried footsteps, and the scratchy texture of fabric that made you frown. The warmth of an embrace enveloped your body, and the fussy sensation of a breath on your neck made you bristle from head to toe. You opened your eyes a little at a time; gray and white invading your vision. Gray hair. There was a lot of gray hair. There was also the smell of gunpowder, dirt, dust and dampness—perhaps another musk you didn't recognize. And yet you cried again.

You clung to the body of a dead man; to the memory of a missing person. You wrapped your arms around the body of the man you had forgotten the color of his eyes or the sound of his voice. But there he was: crying like you, maybe worse, and with the clumsiness of a baby coming into the world—coming home. You dug your nails into his back, your gaze lost in the sun hanging in the firmament and the morning breeze freezing the wounds on your legs. Old, tired legs.

How the years go by.

You felt joy with those hands caressing your hair. You wanted to close your eyes again, but you feared losing the moment in another nostalgic and painful dream. You feared losing him. Losing—

"Ford," voice broken, tired. The voice of someone in fear, "I thought you were... I thought for a moment, Ford, that maybe... maybe you were..."

You thought you heard him mutter a 'no' so faint that it ended as a windblown sigh. Instead, Ford shook his head, beginning to push his body away from yours. You held on tightly, wrapping your arms around his neck. It was your turn to shake your head.

"Your eyes—I don't want to see them," you said. "I don't want to see your eyes, Ford."

"But I need to see yours," he replied softly. "I missed them... I missed you."

He was crying again.

"I missed you so much," he continued. "You don't know how much I have... This has been torture—without you, without your voice."

His voice was barely a plea that made your heart bristle.

"So let me see them; I need to know this is real."

"I don't want to find out you're not my Ford," you said. "What if you are him? What if you're playing with me?"

"He's not here," he shook his head. His hands began to stroke your back. "He can't hurt you, dear. Not here. Not with me here..."

"You left me," you interrupted him. "You left me, Ford. You went through the portal and left me. I've forgotten the color of your eyes—I can only remember the yellow; the long pupil, the smile... I don't know what I'm going to do if it's not you."

"But it's me. It's only me."

You let his hands pull your body away from his, and with the fear of one who searches in the gloom for a monster, you guided your eyes to his. You found a look full of tenderness and longing; a wrinkled face, tired and wet with tears. You couldn't control the impulse to bring one of your hands to his cheek, tracing the path of a fresh tear until it was lost beneath your palm; his face resting squarely against it, making him close his eyes with pleasure at the caress.

"It's only you," you whispered. You saw him nod, and then you released the sigh you had been holding in your chest. "It's finally you... I've been waiting for you all these years, Ford. Although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't waiting for something like... you know."

"I understand," he replied softly. "He's lied to me and terrorized me too; in places you couldn't possibly imagine, telling me horrendous things... Telling me that he had—he had killed you, God."

You smiled ruefully, holding his gaze when he opened his eyes.

"But then I saw you standing here," he continued, "and I thought maybe I might be delirious. I kept dreaming of you; of tracing you in drawings, in my head, everywhere... I didn't want to forget you. I didn't want you to turn to dust."

"I had forgotten your gaze," you replied. "I had forgotten your eyes—their color, their shape. All I could think of was the yellow glowing in the dark, and the pupils..." You swallowed your words, too overcome by the feeling of bitterness in your chest to continue. It took you a moment to catch your breath. "To see them again, after all these years, Ford... They are so beautiful. You are so, so... I don't know. I've just missed you so much. I think you get an idea of how much I do," you laughed through your tears, next to him.

Silence enveloped you both, barely interrupted by the murmur of wind and birds. The breeze swirled the earth and leaves, wrapping your feet with a shiver to your neck, where Ford's hands were now resting. You brought yours over his, drawing them to your lips for a kiss. You traced scars with caresses; you covered the roughness with the softness of your affection, and listened intently to his breathing quicken. You thought you could hear his heart beat out of control under your charm.

In an instant his hands cradled your cheeks; his fingers rested softly on your skin, brushing your earlobes, tickling you. You closed your eyes, drowning in the darkness, guided by the light pressure of a warmth foreign to your body. You rested your arms on his shoulders, barely catching his breath on your face as you sensed the awkwardness of shy lips seeking yours between kisses along your skin. On your forehead as a blessing, on your eyelids to drink away your anguish, on your nose to lighten your own nerves, and then on your lips; perhaps to savor the thousands of words you didn't know—those that might come to Ford's aid in understanding how much you needed him these thirty years, and how much you were going to keep longing for him now that you had felt his warmth again.

You let his body collide with yours, and barely interfered with the wildness of his own need for you. You didn't stop his arms when they wrapped around you awkwardly; nor did you utter a complaint when the kiss deepened with a pair of choked whimpers that died in your mouth. You let yourself be drowned by a show of affection too abrupt, too old—needed and almost forgotten. You savored Ford with the rage of an affair stuck in the past, and with the pent-up love of years of not having seen him. Of having believed him dead.

As the air thinned you parted. You still held him in your embrace, searching with your misty eyes for his. But there he was: flushed, visibly embarrassed, but there he was. Ford was still there. Still alive—back at home, with you.

"Don't look at me so intensely after such a disastrous kiss," he suddenly muttered.

"Do you feel embarrassed?" you asked under a chuckle. "And what do you call a disastrous kiss?"

"A kiss I practiced in my sleep and could never put into practice... until now."

This time you had to let out the laugh you'd been hiding. Ford covered his face, red as a tomato. He tried to explain himself but found it impossible; all his words choked, too garbled.

"It's like you're that boy who had barely made it to Gravity Falls," you tried to articulate. "Too many dreams. You've always been one to dream a lot."

"I could meet you in those dreams," he whispered. "You've always lived in my mind, along with them."

It was your turn to blush. Ford chuckled.

"What an old rascal you are when you want to be," you added.

"But it's true!"

You went along with his laughter, losing yourself in the way he looked at you. The sweet way he still loved you.

"Don't ever leave again," you said after a long while. "Don't ever leave me here again, Ford."

"I'd have to be dead to let you go, my dear."

"Or have your memory wiped," you added.

"Oh, that would be impossible. I have a special plate attached to prevent that kind of accident," he explained. "You know—other dimensions and that sort of thing."

"Sure, love," you laughed.

Ford brought one of his hands to his head, rapping gently with his knuckles to rattle the metal. You gasped.

"That's... Let's see," you throat cleared, "I deserve an explanation. Too many kisses but not enough answers, Ford."

"I know, I know," he smiled. "I promise to explain everything. But first a bath... and another hug."

"Another hug," you nodded, laughing softly. "You better never let go of me again."

"Never again."

[pin-k-ink]

stolen kisses // gojo satoru

tw ⇢ teacher-student relationship, implied age gap, pet names, dub-con, teasing, unprotected sex, implied masturbation, anal play, asphyxiation

wc ⇢ 6.7k

The shadows seemed to elongate and twist into ominous shapes as the lights winked out, plunging the expansive training room into absolute darkness. You froze mid-stance, cursed energy coalescing between your palms in a tremulous nimbus of lavender light. Though the blindfold perpetually obscured his vision, Gojo would no doubt have sensed your panicked spike of spiritual output in the gloom.

Sure enough, his unhurried baritone cut through the stillness mere moments later, tone dry with a lilt of sardonic amusement.

"Do I need to fetch a candle and nightlight for my star pupil? Or perhaps schedule in some remedial work on suppressing that hair-trigger reaction?"

You swallowed thickly, grimly aware he was zeroing in on your position with uncanny precision despite the enshrouding blackness. Too late to compose yourself and downplay the tangle of childish fears seizing your nerves with icy fingers.

"N-no need, Sensei," you managed in a credible enough facsimile of nonchalance despite the frantic leaps of your pulse. "Just a simple...amateur's mistake. I'll get control of my output in a moment."

The phantom disturbance in the ether that always preceded Gojo's unhurried movements grew perceptibly closer until you detected his unmistakable sandalwood scent surrounding you. Unable to suppress a full-body shiver, you braced for the chiding lecture or derisive mocking that was sure to come.

But his next words were spoken in a low, intimate timbre that seemed to bypass all preliminary defenses, curling straight through your marrow to shiver expectantly.

"Come now, little one...you're shaking like a leaf."

Your breath strangled in your throat as Gojo's reassuring bulk materialized directly behind you, steel-banded arms snaking around your waist to engulf you in his grounding warmth. He subtly rearranged you in his embrace until your spine nestled flush against the unyielding weight of his chest and the stifling press of darkness ceased to feel quite so inescapable.

Distantly, you registered the cadence of his heartbeat thumping at your back - strong, steady, and sure in contrast with your own frantically thunderous pulses. His palms settled over your quivering hands to absorb the excess burst of energy crackling between them, smothering the fitful bursts of amethyst into tranquil dimness.

"Shh...just like that. Breathe, little one," his infuriatingly composed timbre rasped against your nape in a warm, seductive purr. "Darkness is often more effectively navigated by feel than by feeble, faltering sight."

You hadn't the faintest chance to process his suggestive words before the deft slide of calloused fingertips tenderly cradling your jaw angled your face sideways. Gojo's lips branded yours in a slant of liquid heat that stole your very breath, scorching tongue sweeping insistently to claim the whimper stuttering from your core.

Any residual trepidation fled as your nerve-endings combusted in tingling aftershocks of frissons. Gojo's overwhelming presence engulfed your shattered senses - the unleashed musk of his skin, the controlled power vibrating through every coiled muscle pressed against your yielding form, the rasping cadence of his ragged breaths fanning across your parted lips between the achingly slow sweeps of his tongue.

With casual mastery, Gojo expertly robbed you of coherence until nothing persisted beyond the heady rushes of sensation spiraling through your skull. Just before your knees buckled entirely beneath his intoxicating onslaught, he tugged you around and deepened the stake of his possession on a rumbling purr. His mouth carved blazing paths down the sloped column of your bared throat between the leashed growls of pleasure vibrating through him.

"Do you feel that, babygirl?" He rasped against the overheated hollow where your pulse fluttered wildfire-quick beneath his lips. "Focus on me...allow me to guide you through this shadow with hands and mouth since your eyes are stolen for the moment."

Surrendering to the directive laced through his cadences, you threaded your fingers through his silken hair and tilted your head back in unabashed offering as Gojo continued his sensory immersion. All trepidation vanished like night-vapors incinerated before dawn's first onslaught.

When the power at last flickered back to life, you were scarcely cognizant of Gojo's sibilant murmurs easing you down to the mat - too lost in the cascading aftershocks of his thorough reorientation coursing through you in veins of lapping embers. Searing points of impact branded themselves into memory where his mouth seared your flesh in deepening shades, tracing references to finding your way in the dark long after light was restored.

"Are you sure you're okay watching this, sweetheart?" Concern laced Gojo's deep timbre — clearly misplaced since his opalescent eyes remained perpetually obscured beneath that signature black blindfold.

You determinedly avoided his too-perceptive regard as you jabbed the 'play' button in terse reply, curling yourself more securely into the plush knit blanket swaddling your form like emotional armor. The ominous opening theme swelled to discordant life, all deep percussive rumbles and screeching strings presaging the onslaught of cinematic terror to come.

Your nails carved indentations into the armrest with white-knuckled intensity as the first bombastic jump-scare sent your heart into freefall mere minutes into the length. Eyes wide and locked on the screen, you bit back the mortifying whimper building in your throat via sheer force of stubborn resolve not to reveal your deepest girlhood dread before your mentor.

Of course, Gojo tracked your spiking unease with preternatural accuracy despite your best efforts. You startled violently when his palm settled over the spasming tension in your nape - large, implacably warm, and grounding.

"Easy, little one...you're wound tighter than an overwound clockspring," he drawled in that molten burr from directly beside you, unwinding each terse syllable against the fragile whorls of your ear.

You risked a sidelong glance, wilting beneath the intensity of his haloed azure scrutiny cutting straight through you like a scalpel's whisper-slice. Not even a hint of amusement or condescension flickered behind that vivid jewel-toned gaze — only simmering heat you couldn't quite convince yourself was mere friendly concern.

With lazy indolence, Gojo draped one arm around your rigid shoulders and deftly encircled you, engulfing your shivering form against the scorching forge of his chest despite your sputtered protests. Not to be dissuaded, he simply tightened his embrace with quiet, proprietary firmness until every instinctive womanly curve was melded to his uncompromising masculine hardness.

"So tense, so fearful," he purred against the crown of your hair, every rumble of syllables seeming to resonate straight through to detonate lancing spears of charged awareness crackling through your belly despite your strenuous efforts at self-possession. "Perhaps I should distract you?"

With supreme confidence, he hooked two fingers into the stubborn jut of your jaw and turned your face up towards his with proprietary surety. His mouth slanted over yours in a punishing brand of possession before you could stifle the soft sound of protest dying on your lips at the first brush of his intoxicating musk and sandalwood.

Gojo's tongue stroked into the honeyed recesses of your mouth like some profane benediction, bestowing the exhilarating blasphemy of his merciless mastery. You writhed almost despite yourself, hands clawing purchase against the exquisite cage of his chest and shoulders as chaotic sensation spiraled through every tendon, every heated ribbon of viscous tension pooling in your core.

Between one anguished breath and the next, he had divested you of the confining blanket that symbolized your pitiful last barrier against the riptide of yearning threatening to drown you. Then, with a leonine roll of his powerful shoulders, Gojo settled you astride his wide lap in a single boneless movement—your gasp of shock swallowed by the relentless onslaught of his merciless mouth's rapacious brand.

A savage growl rumbled through him as his hands mapped inextinguishable paths over every quivering plane and dip of your hypersensitized flesh through the thin chemise. They lingered and scraped with delicious insistence over the stiffened peaks of your nipples, sparking white supernovas of incandescence behind your fluttering eyelids. His name spilled from your swollen lips in a breathless, broken litany—half plea and half supplication.

But still Gojo showed no signs of granting you meager mercy. His efforts only intensified, sculpted lips tugging and suction at the fragile whorled flesh of your throat until each scorching kiss blossomed vivid plum-violet in his wake. Your whimpering crescendoed to higher plateaus with every molten caress, every silken lap of his tongue that seemed to score your very essence alight with brand beyond Brand's reach.

You were scarcely aware of the climactic bloodshed and viscera ultimately unfolding onscreen as you spiraled blissfully ever deeper down into the velvet oblivion of his smoldering seduction. There was only the exquisite agony of him—the sinuous flex of cored muscle against your thighs, the branding rasp of his calluses raking your burning flesh, and the smoldering intensity of his eyes pinning you through the blindfold's obscuring veil whenever he tore his lips from your skin to drink you in with primal hunger... sire...it would consume you both, body and soul.

And you couldn't wait to burn.

The eastern courtyard stood bathed in dappled shadow and gilt warmth where the rising sun pierced through the canopy of ancient maple trees. You tilted your face into the gentle caress of the morning breeze, allowing your eyes to drift shut and simply exist in the tranquil embrace of nature's awakening for a stolen moment.

With the school's Main Hall and training grounds behind you, the only sounds were the distant twittering of songbirds and the whisper-shush of bodies moving through forms nearby. One of the junior students must have risen before the rest to get some solitary practice in while the air remained crisp and invigorating.

You breathed in deeply, allowing the pure green perfume of recent rain and fertile loam to permeate your bloodstream with its rejuvenating essence. Tensions eased from muscles harmoniously flowing through the preparatory sequences Gojo had drilled into your very bones over the years. In these hushed instants of ripe potential before true daybreak, all seemed r—

The distant clack of wood striking wood in two crisp impacts broke the tranquil morning quiet. You whirled towards the sound, finding Gojo lounging in the shadows of a secluded arbor, arms folded and hip cocked in a casually dominant line as he watched you.

"You're getting sloppy out here, babygirl," he drawled, tongue skating over his lower lip in an unconscious display that had heat blooming low in your belly. "Mind wandering again, hmm? You know that's a dangerous habit to let yourself slip into."

You swallowed thickly as Gojo's gaze raked over you in a slow, assessing perusal that seemed to scorch everywhere it lingered. There was no missing the wolfish edge to his smirk as he drank in your disheveled state.

"Then again, far be it from me to criticize where a pretty little thing's thoughts might wander when left unsupervised..." His deep timbre dipped into dark intimation.

With lazy, prowling strides, Gojo closed the distance between you until his solid weight loomed scant inches away. His unique sandalwood-and-citrus scent enveloped you in intoxicating headiness, igniting tingles of arousal despite your effort to remain composed. Almost helplessly, you tilted your face up towards his as his fingertips ghosted along the line of your jaw.

"Got you all flushed and fidgety, don't I?" He murmured, satisfaction lacing his words as he traced patterns of heated friction over your tingling skin. "You squirmin' just from me getting this close, pretty girl? Thinkin' indecent thoughts about where my hands might wander if I got the chance?"

You couldn't bite back a tremulous whine escaping past your parted lips. Gojo's palm engulfed your throat in a scorching brand, the pad of his thumb rasping with delicious friction just beneath your chin.

"Fuck...always so reactive to me," he growled in warm approval. "Just can't help getting all worked up at the thought of me touching you, can you? Of me tasting every inch of this sweet skin until you're whimpering and begging for more..."

His mouth blazed a wet, open trail up the slender column of your neck until his lips hovered a hairsbreadth from the thundering pulse at your jawline. You shuddered violently beneath the sensual onslaught of his graveled words.

"Yeah...that's what's got you so worked up and distracted, isn't it, sweetheart? Those gorgeous eyes of yours staring off into nothing as you daydreamed about me putting my hands all over you, pinning you down, and taking what's mine..."

A strangled noise of pure desperation vibrated up your convulsing throat as Gojo's broad palms locked you flush against the smoldering brand of his powerful frame.

"So goddamn responsive," he rasped in dark satisfaction. "Not even hiding it anymore when you want me, are you, baby?"

With that sinful purr of blatant possession, Gojo slanted his mouth over yours in a searing, lushly velvet brand. You melted helplessly with a piteous keen as the slick glide of his tongue delved deep to plunder and stake his scorching claim with masterful dominion...

His large palm cradled the back of your skull, angling your jaw to grant him even deeper access as he ravaged your mouth with untamed masculine ardor. Whimpering unrestrained past the lush smothering seal of his lips, you clung to the bunched cords of his shoulders helplessly surrendering to the relentless onslaught.

Gojo growled in dark approval against the welter of frenzied vibrations spilling from your very core, calloused palms shaping scorching paths over your arched torso and clothed curves until every nerve seemed to shatter apart beneath his merciless possession. He demanded utter capitulation on a soul-deep level, every rake of blunted teeth and insistent lashing of his tongue staking his rapacious dominion upon your quivering form.

Just when you teetered on the verge of coming utterly undone in a blinding implosion of white supernovas detonating behind your fluttering lids, Gojo tore his mouth from yours. He pinned you in place with his forehead slanted against your own, both of you sharing the same scalding exhalations in harsh, ragged pantings of effort.

"Not yet," he rasped, the smoky words seared across your swollen, abused lips with latent promise. "You don't get to come apart until I've had my fill of watching you unravel first, little wildflower."

With that sinful murmur still sizzling against your flushed skin, Gojo extricated himself and prowled from the room - leaving you boneless and shuddering in that precipice of shattered, emptied yearning once more.

The days blurred together in a hazy daze ever since Gojo had you unraveling only to cruelly leave you high and aching that night. You could barely focus on anything beyond obsessively tracking his every move whenever he was around, craving the inescapable intensity of his presence like air.

Gojo, on the other hand, maintained that same maddening aloofness - all sharp instructions and casual dismissiveness as if nothing had changed. Except for those moments where his eyes would linger too long while drinking you in with a scorching weight. Or the slight rasp that'd tinge his deep rumble whenever he'd slip an innuendo laced with unspoken heat in your direction.

It all finally came to a head during one of your daily meditation sessions while Gojo monitored your energy flow and focus. You tried sinking deep into that centered state of mindfulness, but your entire being was hyperaware of Gojo's overwhelming presence looming behind you.

The subtle displacement of air was your only warning before Gojo materialized at your side like a shadow taking form. Then his large hand was cradling your jaw in an inescapably possessive grip, calloused fingertips branding searing paths along your tingling nerves.

"Get a little worked up today, sweetheart?" His words emerged in a low graveled rasp that seemed calibrated to vibrate straight through you. "Can't seem to settle that pretty mind of yours whenever I'm not watching, can you?"

You shuddered hard, failing to bite back the desperate little sounds spilling free as Gojo tugged your face up towards his. His eyes glittered from beneath heavy lids, wolfish smirk curving those full sinful lips in a way that instantly rekindled the blazing ache low in your belly.

"So easily distracted by me," he purred, breath fanning heated tendrils against your mouth. "Need to teach you a lesson in focusing that scattered attention, babygirl..."

The instant the words slipped out in that dark seductive timbre, Gojo sealed his lips over yours in a searing, possessive kiss. You whimpered helplessly into the molten depths as his hand anchored your skull in place, tongue thrusting deep to thoroughly plunder and stake his claim.

The whole world fell away into meaningless background noise compared to the furious bonfire consuming you from the inside out. You were helplessly, utterly adrift amidst that singular scorching vortex of Gojo's merciless onslaught and swiftly fraying under its relentless intensity...

Gojo's large palm cradled the back of your skull in an uncompromising grip, denying any chance of pulling back as his tongue lashed in rapacious strokes that seemed to sear straight through to your quivering depths. The rough rasp of his stubble branded tingling friction with every minute shift and tilt of his arrogant mouth's onslaught.

You melted bonelessly against him, lungs forgetting how to cycle air as the delirious roil of senses rapidly overwhelmed any coherent thought beyond desperate yearning to simply experience more, take more of him in. One of your hands shakily lifted to splay across the dense muscularity of his chest, fingertips catching on the angular vees and sinuous hard ridges tensing there—all primal power barely leashed.

Gojo growled in dark approval at your tactile entreaty, the reverberating rumble seeming to catalyze a fresh volley of tremors scattering through your riotous nervous system like wildfire through a drought-laden copse. His free hand wrapped around the curve of your hip, scorching brand pulling you flush against the all-encompassing weight of his hard body with implacable control.

"That's it, baby..." he rasped in a throaty purr that seemed to skate heated fingers down your spine. "I can feel you already unraveling apart for me, can't I? So goddamn needy and desperate for more after being made to wait."

Punctuating the predatory taunt, Gojo shifted his punishing grip on your jaw to delve his questing tongue deeper past your whimpering lips in a frenzied undulation of carnal dominance. You keen wavered higher as his huge palm skated down to cup the generous curve of your backside, fingertips digging possessive furrows.

"Fuck...you're shaking like a leaf and melting into me all at once. Bet you've been daydreaming about having me pressed up against you like this ever since that night I left you all wound up and dripping for me, haven't you, baby?" His sibilant words emerged slurred around the lush velvet seal of your joined mouths, slick muscle rolling obscenities against your own. "Tell me...let me hear what a deliciously desperate little thing you've been for my attention."

A choked, plaintive sound vibrated free of your ravaged core at his dark coaxing, shudders intensifying as your vision whited out in vertigo to spiral deeper into the hazy red vortex of hunger consuming you from within. Simply nodding frantic acknowledgment against the punishing tide of Gojo's merciless invasion seemed to spur him into increasing the searing ruthlessness of his ministrations.

He angled himself over you with effortless dominion, sculpted lips and flickering tongue staking scorching inroads past every feeble instinct of self-preservation still clinging in your scattered neural pathways. It felt as though Gojo intended to consume and unmake you down to the most elemental shards of existence one dissolved vestige at a time—reforging you into something unrestrained and rapturously sinted in his own profane image.

You had no choice but to surrender helplessly, fingers clawing into the bunched sinews of his back in mute entreaty as desperate keening spilled unchecked from your abused vocals. Every calculated lap and heated suction from Gojo's merciless brand felt calibrated to detonate star-bursts of white-hot ecstasy, dragging you closer to the hazy fever-pitch of dissolution you so desperately craved.

And yet, even as your entire being honed into that precipice of exquisite cataclysm, you sensed Gojo inexorably pulling back fractionally. His tongue gradually ceded the frenetic plunges probing your honeyed interior, instead transitioning into soul-searing laps and nips sampling the swollen want welling across your abraded lips.

A choked sound somewhere between plea and protest hitched in your convulsing throat as you instinctively curved against him, desperate to ground your quaking form against the immovable force of his dominion. But Gojo was already shifting backwards, powerful body moving with casual indolence and dark grace despite the blatant tenting outlined beneath the tailored fabric still clothing his lower half.

"Shh...not yet, sweet girl," he rasped in that smoke-and-gravel timbre already seared into the fabric of your very being. "I decide when and how and where you finally come apart on my whim, understand?"

Gojo punctuated the rhetorical purr by gripping your jaw once more in a punishing squeeze, forcing your glassy, dazed stare to meet the full, incendiary weight of his hooded azure gaze for one fraught suspended moment. You felt the vertigo of suspension intensify at the swirling eddies of lust and dark promise swirling in those brilliant depths before the delirious high pitched shrill of your thundering heartbeat devoured your senses once more.

Then, as abruptly as the conflagration had blazed to feverish life, Gojo smoothly extricated himself and slid out of the room on that same unhurried, prowling gait—leaving you reeling and wrung out on the precipice of madness once more.

Three days. Three torturously long days since Gojo had left you delirious and aching on the edge, desperately chasing release he refused to grant. The hours ground by at an agonizing crawl whenever his overpowering presence wasn't surrounding you, stoking those damned cravings he'd expertly seeded through your core.

You tried meditating, tried all the focusing techniques Gojo himself had taught you to find stillness. But it was hopeless. Every inhale just pulled his lingering sandalwood-and-citrus scent deeper into your lungs in phantom caresses that had you shivering. The flickering shadows seemed to warp into salacious pareidolia of Gojo's chiseled features and heated stare, igniting that throbbing ache between your thighs all over again.

That man had utterly consumed you from the inside out with this hot, gnawing hunger. The denial felt like its own profane torment, the liquid warmth rapidly pooling with maddening persistence each time you tried resisting those urges. Until finally, your willpower simply shredded apart.

One trembling hand drifted down your heated skin towards the apex of your need, fingers ghosting over your aching folds as your head fell back with a piteous whimper.

"Well...look who's being a messy little thing behind my back."

Gojo's deep rumble shattered the silence like a gunshot. You jolted upright with a strangled cry, thighs clenching instinctively as if that could somehow conceal your indecency. He emerged from the shadows all leonine power and dark grace, azure eyes piercing you in a scorching assessment.

"Can't even keep those gorgeous thighs closed thirty seconds without turning into a ruined, needy mess, huh babygirl?" His voice rasped with undisguised rapture. "That desperate for some friction to try soothing the fever I stoked inside you..."

You shuddered hard, that rich baritone seeming to curl around your nerves in a possessive brand as Gojo drank in your disheveled state with blatant hunger. His broad palms flexed absently, fingers kneading in unconscious mimicry of more lascivious acts that had your breath catching.

"All it takes is one taste of my attention and you instantly combust. So fucking responsive...can practically see how soaked you are just from me watching that desperate little display."

A whimpering sound slipped free at his overtly filthy words before you could bite it back. Gojo's lupine smile flashed in the dimness right before he was suddenly looming over you, powerful thighs caging you in as his large hands pinned your wrists to the mattress.

"Is this what you want, baby?" he purred against your thundering pulse, the rough glide of his mouth along your throat making you keen softly. "You need me to take the reins and show a little mercy on that greedy cunt since you can't control those depraved urges at all?"

You trembled apart into a viscous mewl as Gojo rolled his hips with dark finality, aligning your bodies in blatant intimacy from chest to thighs. His scorching bulk engulfed you in searing waves of masculine musk and intensity, every ragged exhalation seeming to scorch paths across your hypersensitized skin.

"Use that whimpering mouth and beg for it." Gojo's tone dipped into an demanding rasp that brooked no argument. "Let me hear how fucking badly you need me to take care of that pretty little pussy, babygirl..."

His tongue traced lascivious paths up the column of your throat and you dissolved into a desperate litany, hips arching shamelessly as you finally broke, "Please, Gojo...please, I need it so bad. Need you, need your touch, need your mercy, please—"

A harsh growl was his only response as Gojo seized your mouth in a searing, punishing kiss of pure possession.

His fingers knotted tightly in your hair, tugging a whimper from you that he swallowed with dark relish. That thick ridge of his arousal dragged in a slow, torturous grind against your throbbing heat as his other hand groped your flesh greedily.

"Mmmm...you know how hard it was for me to hold back these past few days? To walk away from you with all that desperation written on your face, to hear those little pleas spilling from your lips and not bend you over the nearest surface?" Gojo rumbled roughly against your parted lips, his grip tightening in your hair with an animalistic sound as he rolled his hips hard. "Fuck, it was like being trapped in my own personal hell. Watching you lose your goddamn mind in a puddle of lust and knowing I was the one who'd left you a desperate, needy mess..."

Your head spun at the pure, carnal filth spilling from his lips in a dark cadence that seemed to reverberate straight to your core. You arched with a needy whine, thighs quivering around his narrow hips, the delicious drag of his cock against your pussy making your thoughts fizzle out entirely.

Gojo chuckled at your unspoken entreaty, his lips trailing molten kisses down the slope of your neck as his broad palms skimmed lower. He groped the globes of your ass in a hard squeeze, kneading them with a guttural groan that reverberated through you. "Goddamn, look at that sweet ass. Perfect for grabbing onto while I split you open on my cock. Can't fucking wait to feel those tight little walls rippling around me, milking my cock for every drop of cum you deserve."

He nipped a trail across the valley of your heaving breasts, the scrape of his teeth against your sensitized skin sending shivers down your spine. Gojo's hot tongue circled your pebbled nipples, lapping and suckling with ravenous enthusiasm as he squeezed your ass in rhythmic pulses.

"So fucking sensitive...your whole body lights up whenever I touch you, baby. Like you were made to fit against me." He dragged his thumb along the damp crease of your aching folds and groaned darkly at the way you trembled. "Such a good girl, so eager to take everything I have to give you. Look how fucking wet and pliant your cunt is for me."

Gojo sank a finger into your molten core, pumping slow and shallow as he teased the tight ring of muscle further down with a knowing smirk. "You're so hungry, baby...that greedy little ass is practically begging for a little attention too, isn't it? Maybe I should spread these cheeks and get a better look."

You arched off the bed with a wanton moan, hips rocking instinctively at the dirty promises he was weaving. Gojo chuckled at your reaction, his blue eyes burning bright as he added a second finger, spreading you open. "Mmmm, look at you, all flushed and pretty. Gripping me so fucking tight...can't wait to feel this pretty pussy squeezing around my cock."

A low growl reverberated in his chest and he pulled his fingers free with an obscene, wet sound that had you flushing even hotter. Gojo sucked the digits clean with a groan, the sight of his tongue lapping up your juices sending a fresh wave of heat flooding through you. "You taste even better than I imagined, babygirl. And trust me, I've thought about it a lot...the way you'd sound, the way you'd look, the way you'd feel wrapped around me. All the filthy ways I wanted to wreck this gorgeous body."

He leaned down to steal another punishing kiss, licking the lingering traces of your arousal off your tongue with a filthy groan. You moaned weakly, the intoxicating mix of your desire and his unique, spicy-sweet flavor swirling on your tastebuds in an addictive combination. Gojo broke the kiss and straightened with a sharp inhale, his large palm settling possessively around the base of your throat.

"I know I said I was gonna take my time with you, baby. But I need to fuck this perfect pussy now. Need to feel your tight little cunt clenching around me while I'm balls deep, filling you up the way I've been fantasizing about for years." He rumbled low in his chest, his fingers flexing on your throat.

Your entire body seemed to sizzle under his ravenous, undivided attention, every nerve ending crackling to life under his commanding touch.

"Fuck me, Satoru."

It was a breathless plea that had him cursing. "Shit, that's even better than I imagined. My name on those pretty lips...fuck, say it again, baby. Let me hear you."

"Satoru, please..." You arched up with a wanton moan as Gojo ground his hardness against your core, hissing through clenched teeth.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that, babygirl," he growled, his free hand fumbling at his waistband to shove his pants down. "Gonna fuck you so good, you'll never want another man. This pussy belongs to me and no one else."

Gojo's fingers curled around your chin, holding your head still as he devoured your mouth in a possessive, consuming kiss. He slid a broad palm beneath your hips and lifted, angling your pelvis for a better angle as the leaking tip of his cock notched at your entrance. A strangled groan ripped from his chest and his fingers dug into the swell of your hip, blunt nails biting into the soft flesh.

"This sweet little cunt is going to feel even better than I thought, isn't it? Fuck, baby, you're so tight. You really are a good girl, aren't you? Kept yourself untouched just for me..."

His hips punched forward and a broken moan tore free, his thick girth stretching your aching core with delicious friction. Gojo groaned at the slick heat enveloping him, his hips rolling in shallow, grinding thrusts as he bottomed out.

"Fuck, look at you...stretched around my cock, so wet and eager. Your pretty little pussy is just sucking me in deeper, baby. Greedy thing...don't worry, I'll give you everything you need," he rasped against your lips, his eyes boring into yours as he withdrew, then plunged back in with a savage groan.

Gojo set a relentless pace, each punishing thrust driving deeper and harder as the filthy sounds of his skin slapping against yours filled the room. His teeth scraped across the sensitive flesh of your throat, his hands gripping you tighter as he pounded into you, each roll of his hips grinding the thick ridge of his cock against that sweet spot within you.

"Satoru...fuck, feels so good..." You cried out as he slammed home again, his pelvic bone pressing against your clit in the most delicious friction.

"Yeah, that's it. Say my name, let the whole damn building know who's fucking this sweet little cunt. So fucking beautiful, coming apart for me like this," Gojo growled, his blue eyes flashing as his fingers flexed on your throat.

He watched your body eagerly, taking in every reaction, his own pleasure spiraling higher with each shudder and whine that slipped free.

"You feel so fucking perfect, baby. Made to take my cock...fuck, so wet and tight. Gonna ruin you for any other man." His hips stuttered at the thought, a snarl ripping from his chest.

You arched up with a high pitched cry, thighs quivering around his waist as you came apart. "Satoru!"

He snarled a curse, his grip bruisingly tight on your hips as he fucked you through the tremors, his own release cresting. The muscles in his forearms stood out in sharp relief, his jaw tensing as he drove into you. "Shit, baby, I'm so close. Want you to cum for me one more time, can you do that? Wanna feel this greedy pussy squeezing me tight, milking my cock."

The dark cadence of his voice and the lewd way he spoke made you shiver. You were already hovering on the precipice again, so close to flying apart with the next well timed stroke of his length.

"Satoru..."

Your pleading moan shattered what little control he had left and Gojo groaned, his fingers curling around your throat as he pounded into you mercilessly. "Fuck, look at that. Such a perfect girl, coming on my cock like this. You feel that? Can you feel me filling you up?"

A low, feral sound reverberated in his chest as his hips snapped once, twice, before stuttering into a rough grind. Gojo's eyes squeezed shut and his mouth fell open on a raw groan as his cock throbbed within you, pumping pulse after pulse of scorching warmth.

"Fuck, that's so hot...feels so good," you moaned, hips rocking weakly against his as you shuddered.

"You're so fucking perfect, baby," Gojo rasped, his blue eyes dark as they bore into yours. "But we’re not done yet."

He smirked at the confused, almost dazed expression that flitted across your face, his fingertips skimming your hipbone in a slow caress. "Did you think I'd be satisfied after just one round? I haven't stopped fantasizing about the ways I'm going to fill up all your holes for years, babygirl. Don't tell me you think that'll be enough..."

A fresh wave of heat washed through you and you shivered at the dark promise in his words.

Gojo's eyes flashed and his grip tightened, pulling a needy gasp from you as he rocked his hips forward again, a smug grin curling his mouth.

"You're already soaked, baby... but I don’t want your pussy this time. I want that tight little ass."

He pulled free with a filthy squelch, his cum already beginning to drip down your inner thighs. A dark, possessive sound escaped him as he watched the obscene display, his gaze snapping back to your flushed face.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure it doesn't hurt too much," Gojo purred. His fingers dipped into the slick heat dripping down your legs, coating them generously as he circled the tight ring of muscle further down. You bit back a whimper, already starting to ache again at the promise of his touch, his dark words, the pure carnal desire in his gaze.

"Fuck, you're even tighter here. You've really saved yourself for me, haven't you? You really are the perfect little princess." His eyes burned bright as his fingers pushed past the first ring of resistance. "Don't worry, baby. I'll make sure this ass is ready to take my cock."

Your head fell back with a soft moan, the foreign sensation sending a frisson of heat through your overwrought nerves. It wasn't uncomfortable, but the intrusion was new. You squirmed as Gojo worked a second finger in alongside the first, scissoring the digits to stretch your ass.

"Relax, princess. It'll feel better in a second." Gojo murmured, his voice dipping into a soothing baritone. He curled his fingers, the pads brushing against a spot that had your whole body tensing.

"Right there, huh?" A knowing smirk crossed his face and he brushed his fingers across that same spot again, watching your expression carefully. You keened softly, a desperate whine escaping your parted lips as his thumb swiped against the slick folds further up.

"Good girl. Look at you, such a perfect mess. You're trembling, can barely keep yourself together." He pressed the leaking tip of his cock against the tight pucker, a low, satisfied growl rumbling from his chest. "Let me hear those noises while I fuck your tight little ass, baby. Don't hold back, I wanna hear how good it feels."

Gojo gripped your hips in his hands, his thumbs pressing into the hollows as he rolled his hips forward, inch by inch. The tight ring of muscle stretched around his length, the foreign fullness making your eyes squeeze shut.

"Shit, that's so fucking hot. Look at how well your ass takes my cock, babygirl," Gojo groaned, his fingers digging into your flesh as his pelvic bone ground against your slick folds.

He withdrew slowly, then plunged back in with a guttural growl. You whined his name, thighs clenching around his waist. The lewd, wet sound of his cock driving into you over and over was nearly drowned out by your needy cries.

"You're doing so well, baby. Taking my cock like a fucking champ," he rasped, his grip sliding lower to knead the supple flesh of your ass.

The filthy praise sent a fresh wave of heat washing through you, your core clenching in desperation. You moaned his name, arching against him as he rolled his hips in a languid, sinful grind.

"Does my little princess need a hand down here?" Gojo teased, his palm sliding up the curve of your thigh towards your heated core. You trembled and nodded, a whimper slipping free.

"Please, Satoru, please. I'm so close."

His lips curled in a satisfied smirk and he pulled free, the thick head of his cock catching on the tight ring of muscle. "Fuck, that's even better. You begging for me to get you off is the hottest thing I've ever heard. Gonna make you cum over and over until you're a mess of pure pleasure, baby."

His thumb slid between your slick folds, rubbing your clit as he pressed back into your ass. Gojo set a punishing pace, his hips driving in quick, brutal strokes. The thick ridge of his cock ground against the spot within you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

"So fucking tight, you're strangling my cock, babygirl," he hissed. "Feels so good. Gonna fill you up nice and deep, give you all the cum you need."

Your fingers tangled in the sheets, the familiar, coiling tension deep within your belly winding tighter and tighter. Your breathless moans grew louder, higher, a litany of his name on your lips.

"That's it, that's my good girl. Cum for me, let me feel this perfect little ass milk my cock," Gojo's voice was a dark, lust-fueled rumble that had your body quaking. His fingers dug into your flesh hard, pulling you closer.

"Satoru!"

A low, primal growl reverberated in his chest as his pace stuttered, his cock twitching inside you. Hot, scorching warmth flooded you, his cum seeping into every crevice as his hips snapped forward one last time.

Gojo groaned, his grip shifting as his fingertips traced lazy patterns across your lower abdomen. "Shit, can you feel that? Feel how fucking full you are?"

You moaned weakly, shivering as he rocked his hips again, a slow, shallow grind that had you gasping. "That's my girl. Fuck, you look so good like this, all spread out and ruined. Such a pretty little mess..."

He leaned forward to kiss you again, a softer, slower caress. His tongue slid against yours in a languid tease, the gentle roll of his hips keeping you right on the edge without tipping you over. Your head spun, the tender, loving gesture contrasting with the lewd squelch of his cum leaking from you.

"Can't believe you're all mine," Gojo breathed against your mouth, his blue eyes blazing. "Gonna spend the rest of the night reminding you just how well I can take care of you, baby."

[zorosdimples]

KEEP YOUR COOL ꒰ ajax tartaglia childe x reader ꒱

minors do not interact—i will block you. cw: mild violence and blood. suggestive content. cursing. reader is gn and called “sweetheart” once. wc: 616. notes: just a quick little something for my beloathed’s birthday!

The honed edge of the dagger is flush against the pulse point beneath his jaw.

Lightning cracks through your veins and sets your nerves ablaze, a storm brewing in your mind as you stare down the Harbinger you’ve pinned against the wall. One hand grips your weapon, the other splays across his throat in firm warning. He’s hot to the touch—almost burning—tiny clusters of stars and constellations floating across the milky expanse of his skin. 

Nonplussed, Tartaglia beams. His freckled cheeks are flushed and dimple boyishly. “To what do I owe this pleasure? It’s not often that I’m greeted so intimately.” 

You can almost feel the saccharine lilt of his voice vibrate through your starsilver blade; your fingertips prickle. His flippant tone stokes your temper, his words burrowing beneath your flesh—it’s all a game to him. Keep your cool, you think to yourself. You inhale deeply to steady your breath. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” you ask with more venom than intended. 

In spite of his compromised position, the Fatui agent grins, knife-sharp teeth gleaming—a beast on the hunt. His azure irises glow in the gloom, fathomless as the cloudless horizon. 

“I was in the neighborhood.” 

If looks could kill, he’d be nothing more than an oozing heap of meat on the floor. You apply more pressure to the dagger, the delicate skin of his neck stretching, blood swelling just below the surface. “Don’t play coy with me. How did you break into my home?” 

Breezy laughter peals in the air and rings in your ears, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your open palm. “That’s a steep accusation, sweetheart. Don’t work yourself up so much—this is an innocent misunderstanding.” 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you spit. “There’s nothing ‘innocent’ about a stranger lurking in my kitchen while I’m asleep.” 

His face contorts in mock-hurt. “Stranger? You wound me.”

“I’ll do worse than wound you if you keep being a smartass. Now tell me how you got in here and I’ll—”

Before you can finish, Tartaglia surges forward and grabs your wrists, forcing you to drop your blade in a clatter. He takes advantage of your shock to flip you around and shove you against the wall, restraining your hands above your head. A lithe leg slips between your thighs to hold you in place. You can’t so much as take a breath once his lips crash into yours. 

The kiss isn’t an embrace so much as it is a spar, a violent clash of fervor and frustration. It’s impossible to tell where one mouth begins and the other ends; you blur into one another, saliva and ichor mixed and mingled, pushed back and forth between teeth and tongue. Ugly and raw, you duel out of both pride and pleasure. You only part when both of your lips are swollen and bruised—an embarrassing badge that you’ll deal with later, after the thrill subsides.   

“How was that?” you murmur.

Instead of answering your question, he licks at the mess of fluids that smear your chin. “Mmmm.”

You roll your eyes. “I can’t believe this is what you wanted for your birthday, Ajax. You’re a sick freak.” 

Your lover cups your face, examining you too closely. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Well, you agreed to this, so: pot meet kettle,” he coos. “Archons was it sexy. You’re lucky I have excellent self-control—I nearly ended it mid-scene to fuck you.” 

“Shocking,” you scoff, gesturing to the tent in his pants.

“Are you going to help me take care of it?”

Pretending to think for a moment, you hum. “Convince me.” 

“Oh?” He leans in wearing a smirk that spells trouble. “Don’t mind if I do.” 

[zafetycar]

taking responsibilty - DR3

⭐︎ daniel ricciardo & reader ('you')

⭐︎ one in which a dispute made him look at you in a way you can’t handle

⭐︎ warnings: angst, fluff

⭐︎ word count: 1.5k

--- --- --- --- ---

“

at this point in the evening, you could barely remember who or what had started it. you couldn’t even tell how long it had been. but there you were, sitting in front of daniel across the room, and the laughter of your friends were no use in drowning out the questions hustling in your mind. 

you searched for his eyes. you needed to see them. to see him. you needed to see if he was feeling the way you do, you needed to find a haven of rest, an ounce of peace in those honey brown eyes. you had to know if he was mad, disappointed, sad, frustrated, morose, if he was still thinking about it, if he had already forgave it all, if his mind was flood with all sorts of thoughts about you, about him, about ‘us’. 

but daniel’s gaze was running away from you, stuck on his friend hosting the dinner. every couple of seconds, you could see his eyes swiftly glancing to his left, discreetly checking to see if yours were still locked on him. though he would never turn and face you, you felt the way his body was slightly tensed, as if he wanted to reach for you and bury himself in the sofa at the same time. you couldn’t figure out if this was a good thing or not. wether this meant he wanted to reach for you, to hold you and forget it all, or if he wanted to leave, to escape the tension that everyone could feel between the two of you and just run away. 

those thoughts muffled the chatter of your friends sitting next to you and blurred your vision with tears.  

after a few minutes, you accepted the fact that you would have to bottle it up and wait until you get back home. 

so you readjusted yourself on the couch, shifted your body towards the rest of the group. you listened to the ongoing conversation, something about two of your friends doing some idiocy at some party. you chuckled a couple of times, let soft smiles hide your sadness and tried to mute the thoughts in your head. 

but you always needed him to do that. 

‘one last look’, and then you would leave this for the rest of the night. 

you composed yourself, turned to your right and met his tired honey brown eyes. 

he was already looking at you. 

you hated these eyes.

you hated these eyes. this one gaze specifically. it’s not the eyes you hated, the warm brown colour had always hypnotised you, and you fell more and more in love with them each day. but this one specific gaze. you had seen it before, the look had appeared on his radiant face when he got into unforgivable arguments with friends. but he never laid these eyes on you, ever, even through the hard times you experienced together. 

sweet brown eyes lit by a feeling of betrayal, disappointment and gloom. 

it made your heart heavy when you stared back at him to realise that this look was obscuring his features because of you. 

tears dwelled up once again and troubled your vision. you looked away, you couldn’t bear the weight of this sight, and the shame engulfing your figure. air, you needed air. 

you stepped outside of the living room, the fresh air of the evening chilling compared to the warm atmosphere of the party inside. you leaned against the railing surrounding the balcony, head hung low, hands fidgeting with your bracelets. outside, in the cold silence of the evening, you rummaged through the thoughts in your head, looking for a way to fix this. 

you looked up to admire the view unveiling ahead of you. a provincial landscape plunged in the dark, the white beam of the moon and stars shining down on the fields and trees. the sight, the cold air and the silence surrounding you helped you ease your mind and body. 

calm enough to recall the argument, it appeared all clearer to you. the nerves. daniel had been away a lot, working hard and spending intense, long and exhausting days putting his energy into one goal only. and you had been by his side. always. long enough to know how cruel and harsh his world is. so you stood by him. you supported him as best as you could, physically and emotionally. it took an vast toll on him, and over time it affected you as well. perhaps not as much, but it still did.

he often tried to do the same for you. but in such times, when his mind was only focused on his one objective, the best he could do was to thank you, in any way he could. try, at least.

a couple minutes before leaving for the diner, when you both were getting ready, a thread of misunderstood comments and awry details led to a confusion between the two of you. as you reminisce about the tone rising, you realise you both could only blame it all on the nerves built up over the past few weeks. 

approaching footsteps brought you out of your mind. a glance over your shoulder, and you recognised the brown curls falling over his forehead. you looked back at the fields unfolding before you. you felt his stiffed body leaning on the balustrade, next to you. daniel’s familiar scent filled the air and the comforting odour made you want to lay on his shoulder. but, before you fixed this situation, you preferred to keep a small distance as to not give any mixed signals. you turn your head to the left, away from his eyes. you feared what you might see in them.

his left hand resting on top of his right one, you could see his pinky searching for yours, for the softness of your skin, for any form of contact with you. he needed you, he needed to touch you, to feel you, to let you know that it was okay, that he wasn’t mad. not anymore

he had cooled down during the past minutes, the ones you spent collecting yourself in the chill air of the night.

you were both ready to discuss it out. 

a soothing breeze blew his scent right to your face again. you couldn’t resist the mix of wine and cologne. as your eyelids fell gently closed, you inched closer towards him, until ultimately your arms met and your head tilted, closer to his shoulder. eventually, you gave in and rested your head completely on him. 

he put a soft, long and gentle kiss on your temple

you had missed that feeling.

“i’m sorry i snapped at you.”

his voice pierced the comfortable silence that had settled between you. he sounded tired, but the sincerity of his words came on top of it. his cheek rested on top of your head. neither of you moving, neither of you wanting to leave the other’s pacifying body. eyes wandering the landscape in front of you. lost in the stars.

“it’s okay.”, you spoke softly. because it was. deep down you knew it was. 

he had been on the edge for weeks.

but it doesn’t mean it didn’t vex you.

finally daniel took your hand in his and played with your fingers. caressing your soft skin. appeasing this urge he had been resisting from for hours. 

“i shouldn’t have. it was stupid, i don’t even remember what it was for honestly.”

you chuckled. “i don’t remember either.”

he laughed. hearing that sound brightened up your mood. it was going to be okay. 

turning your hand, you let your fingers slip between his and closed them, lightly squeezing his hand. 

“i know you’ve been busy, and preoccupied and frustrated with lots of things lately. i’m just trying to help you the best i can.”

“i know, i’m sorry.”, he whispered, head hung low. 

you squeezed his hand a second to seek his attention. his eyes met yours, and shined again. 

your turn to lift his spirits. 

“thank you for what you do. i really appreciate it, it really helps me.”

you smiled to him. “it’s okay.”. he returned a wide grin at you. 

he put his arm around your shoulders, his hand laying on your head to bring it to his lips, and placed another tender kiss on top of it. the warmth of the gesture thawed your heart, body and soul. it was full of love, respect and passion.  

it was so peaceful.

the chilling breeze made its way to you, a signal for you to go back inside. it made you shiver, and it made daniel laugh at you. 

“let’s get you back inside, angel.”

“i love you.”

“i love you.”

back inside the house where the heat turned your cheeks red, you made your way towards the living room. the discussion had raised up a tone, bursts of laughter and proclamations cutting through the air. holding on tightly to your hand behind his back, daniel led you towards the couch he was resting on minutes earlier, sat down and pulled you down with him. settling next to him, you rested your cheeks against his shoulder, and a second later felt the weight of his head upon yours. 

arms intertwined, your hands rested on each others thighs, and he was caressing your delicate skin with his free hand. 

”

ps: i loved doing this piece honestly, hope you like it as much as i do!

note: hi! thank you for reading this piece, i hope you enjoyed it ! feedback is very much welcomed :) see you around ★

[dreamswritten]

English is not a language I handle perfectly, I apologize in advance if there are any grammatical or spelling mistakes, you are free to correct me.

★. Learning that the water pillar had managed to fall in love and subsequently marry was a surprise to all who knew him, for he is known to have a stoic appearance when it comes to his emotions and his vague interaction with his fellow guild members. Even for him, he had never imagined being married at 21, and coming home after a long week of slaying demons to find a beautiful wife waiting for him with open arms and a wide smile on her lips was a strange feeling welling up in his chest. Always seeing the figure of the lovely woman waiting for him at the entrance makes his lips turn into a smile.

It all began on a cold winter night, about two years ago. The pristine blanket of snow is covered in a thick crimson river as Giyuu shakes his katana wiping away the remnants of blood from a low-ranking demon. A girl with long, slightly messy hair clings to the cold body of her family, her face covered in blood and tears clinging gently to the legs of the water pillar, not caring that her limbs are turning purple from the cold.

—Please… don't leave me…— she pleads, sinking her face between the man's legs.

The man, uncomfortable with the girl's proximity, tries to push her away from him, but to no avail. She clings tightly to his legs. He sighs to accommodate a little the floral print kimono and agrees to let her accompany him, seeing how she followed him like a puppy in search of its owner. Giyiuu planned to drop her off at the nearest town, but something in his heart prevented him from doing so.

Under the shimmering, cool blue sky, as if a painter had mixed the ideal tone with watercolor tablets, the sun rising high above bathing the purple-haired young woman with soft golden brushstrokes as she walked in the direction of the water pillar estate, expecting to be invaded by the emptiness and gloom of the place. What a surprise it was to be greeted by a beautiful woman with hair as dark as night and big eyes as bright as stars, dressed in a delicate light blue kimono with flower prints. Both look at each other with surprise and for a few brief minutes, the woman laughs to clear her voice.

—Excuse my boldness —, he laughs as he smoothes the folds of his clothes—you must be looking for Giyuu, right? —He asks as he lets her pass inside and closes the door behind her—. We don't usually have many visitors, only from the Kamado brothers.

She replies widening her smile and starting to lead the way.

Kocho sings between his teeth nodding to smile back, he stops to look at all the details that decorate the house, making the environment more homey. The woman stops to point in the direction of the man practicing movements with the wooden sword in the garden, accompanied by a spring breeze.

—Giyuu! —The woman approaches him while smiling—. You have a visitor —and waves her hand in a way to get his attention.

The sapphire-eyed young man stops to look in the direction of the two girls, his wife and beside him the insect pillar, who was smiling broadly at him. Tomioka sighs to shake his haori as he approaches them with his stoic face. Shinobu watches the black-haired girl blush heavily as the water pillar stopped beside her.

—Good morning, Tomioka-san. The presence of the pillars is requested for an impromptu meeting.

Without answering, he just shakes his head and turns in the direction the young girl left in a hurry. They both walk in the direction of the entrance, while Kocho prods his ribs for answers. Giyuu stops when he hears the woman's voice approaching with a confused expression as he looks at both of them with a sad smile.

—Are you leaving so quickly?

—It's a meeting.

The purple-haired woman is surprised to hear Giyuu's voice addressing the bright-eyed girl.

—Oh, what a pity —she wrinkles the folds of her kimono—. Please wait here.

She turns to run and quickly returns with a handful of cookies wrapped in a cloth napkin embroidered with flowers and turns to the slayer.

—Here are some homemade cookies, I hope you like them—. See you later —she says goodbye to Giyuu, waving her hand vigorously.

Shinobu holds the small gift in her hands and hums as she looks in Tomioka's direction.

—Tomioka-san, who is that girl?

Tomioka opens her mouth but closes it as she sees the wind pillar approaching them, she looks at the present that was still in Kocho's hands and then at him, misreading the situation. By the cries of the lavender-eyed boy and the indiscreet looks of some people passing by, the young man with a stoic face sighs to continue his way and stop in the garden of the Ubuyashiki family. Before the patron leaves, he smiles and looks in the direction of the sky.

—Giyuu, give my regards to your wife.

—Wife!

The pillar of love, falls down as she is pushed by Uzui's flexed arm product as she turns her body to look at the pillar of water, Tokito contemplates the sky to mutter a lazy, “Whose wife?”, while Himejima clasps her hands together to start muttering mantras for prosperous happiness; Kyojuro exalts himself to tap the boy on the back while Obanai and Sanemi look at him stabbing sharp daggers at his person. Shinobu laughs again.

—So that nice young lady, is she your wife? Tomioka-san

Rengoku turns to look at her, with an expression of confusion and curiosity, shakes his head in the direction of his companion and laughs animatedly.

—Do you know her, Shinobu?

Shinobu smoothes the folds of her haori and smiles, Tomioka straightens up and bows her head in Ubuyashiki's direction.

—On his behalf, with his permission —she replies. He stands up and begins to walk in the direction of his home.

Iguro together with Shinazugawa watch as he walks away and curse him to replicate how much they hate him. The other pillars scan him and form a circle around him longing for answers, the water-breath bearer cringes at receiving so much attention all of a sudden, however, they only managed to get silence from him.

—Congratulations on your wedding. I will pray every night for your happiness, Tomioka —. Gyomei clasps her hands together in prayer and lets out a few tears.

—When can we meet her? —Kanroji speaks, bringing her hands to her flushed cheeks—. I wish we can be friends and she must be very cute.

—Not inviting us to your wedding is not extravagant —. Uzui, who puts her hand to her forehead and smiles.

—Congratulations on your wedding Tomioka! You should have invited us, we are friends after all.

—The clouds are beautiful, —Muichiro contemplates the sky and moves his head trying to give shapes to the unique clouds.

Rengoku smiles at him, patting the haori, the black-haired young man still seems dismayed by the sudden attention of his companions and when they finally left him alone from asking him so many questions, he was able to return to his farm, being welcomed by the warm arms of his wife.

—Welcome home, did the meeting go well?

—Yes, that person sends his regards. -He smiles involuntarily and sinks his face into the hollow of her neck to put his arms around her and press her feminine body against his chest.

—Thank you very much, by the way I prepared salmon with radish, let's eat together, shall we?

Tomioka nods and leaves a kiss on his wife's cheek.

—I love you very much.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Brave [8 of ?]

Pairing: Orc!Steve x Reader

Summary: Steve struggles to lead the pack after their losses. 

Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore

A/N: whew, two updates so quickly? maybe i’m getting back to my old ways (hopefully). i really hope you all enjoy, and as always, reblogs and feedback of all kinds are appreciated and always welcome! thank you! mind the warnings ❤️

It is another four days ride before you see the sun again, briefly, the shimmering circle appearing for an instant between the black, roiling clouds. It is a pale shadow of its former self—much like the pack. You number so few now that even you are aware of the stark, bare place that has been left behind by the fallen. The thick cord of riders had once stretched back into the grass sea like a formidable chain, and now it is only frayed and fragile thread. 

In the distance, the storm rumbles as if in reminder of what lies behind. 

You can still pick out the outermost bands of it; dark spiraling arms set against an even darker sky, stretching back the way you had come for uncountable leagues until it fades into the horizon. The earth is still pitted with its fury. 

Steve rides at the front. He presses forward with a persistence that leaves even the pack struggling to keep his pace. He has spoken little since the pass, regarding all but the most important of tasks with grim disinterest. You have not stopped riding since the first night, since the fire, and you wonder if he intends to allow the pack even a moment’s respite. A single rider breaks away from the loose formation, and you recognize Carol’s choppy braid from the back as she steers her horse away and forward, falling in line with Steve. 

You do not quite know what possesses you to follow suit—you bear no rank, no true role in this pack—unless you count being the spoils of war, and you do not. But you follow suit, steering the horse with your knees until you’re close enough to catch snatches of their conversation over the wind. 

“We’re off course. You know that. We haven’t seen the stars in days, brother.” 

You watch the muscles in Steve’s back go rigid, and you imagine his hands tightening on the reins. This is the first time you have ever seen anyone come even mildly close to reproaching his decisions, and you can tell that Steve takes the incursion with as little kindness as he can manage. 

“Kez fin tor tuzor ugani.” You don’t understand the harshly uttered, guttural syllables, but you do understand the way his lips curl back from his tusks, and the sharp points gleam white in the midday-gloom. Carol doesn’t back down, nor does she shrink away, regarding him as calmly as ever. Steve scoffs at her. 

“We will find our way.” 

“But will we find it before water runs out? Or food?” She gestures behind her at the pack, dutifully marching along behind them. “They need time to rest. Time to grieve.” She seems to hesitate. “You need time to grieve.” At this, Steve whips around to face her, his teeth bared. 

“Tread carefully.”

“As should you.” Carol grimaces. Dry grass rustles and snaps beneath the hooves of your horse. You wince, staring down at the reins as you will the earth to open beneath you to save you the embarrassment of your eavesdropping. It does not, and your face warms as you shoulder the weight of their respective gazes. 

“How kind of you to bend your ear, Sweetmeat.” Steve says dryly, his lips pressed into a thin, unamused line. His icy eyes fall to Carol, who looks no happier than he. “I suppose you, too, have words for me?” Suddenly, you are aware of how exhausted he looks, the way it lines his features, pressing down on him with almost physical weight. Carol is right, you cannot help but think it. He does need time to grieve. You flounder, your mouth opening and closing as your face heats. 

“O-only that w-we—the pack, I mean. They’re tired, like Carol said—”

Steve looses an irritated growl, raking a hand through his sandy hair. 

“Let me speak plainly, little human. There is law, here.” His blue eyes are dark, angry. He looms over you, even on horseback, and your skin prickles. In the weeks since you had been taken, you’d almost forgotten what it was to fear him, to see the predator wearing man’s clothes, speaking man’s language—almost. 

“Should you choose to challenge my law again, Sweetmeat, you will know the price for doing so—and you will learn that it is dear.” He inhales deeply, licking his lips like he can taste the scent of your  in the air, before digging his heels in below the saddle, and turning the horse sharply away. 

“We ride until nightfall.” The command is so loud it carries out over the grass sea, vibrating in your bones like thunder. Steve narrows his eyes at Carol, and then you. “Then we wait for star-sign.” 

—

The persistent ache in your legs and back from the days and nights spent in the saddle are enough to make you wince as you swing down from it and plant your feet firmly into the dirt. Your face still stings with heat from Steve’s admonishment, and as the rest of the pack begins unsaddling and setting up camp, you avoid him as best you can, setting up your bedroll on the far side of the fire. As you’re laying it down, Carol clears her throat behind you. 

“I should thank you,” she says, sighing. “He mightn’t have stopped if I’d been the only one.” 

You grimace, your expression souring. “You heard what he said. He sounded like—” You pause, biting your tongue. 

“Bucky.” Carol finishes it for you, and you wonder if all orcs have such an innate sense of brazen impropriety or if you have been simply blessed to meet them all in this particular raiding party. “He… Steve was chosen. Dethak. To lead us, to lead this pack. He feels responsible.” 

You scoff. “He couldn’t have known! The storm, the, the…Zhat?”

“Zhut.” Carol reaches out to press her fingers around your mouth as you attempt to imitate her, unyielding even when you flinch. “Yes.” She nods when you have repeated it satisfactorily, but then her face falls as she is reminded of the pass. 

“And… yes.” Carol sighs. “He could not. But would you not feel responsible? Burying only the idea of your kin?” She pats your shoulder, and then tugs aside what remains of your sleeve to look at the wounds bandaged beneath. “Let’s get these cleaned, shall we?” 

—

It’s past dark by the time you shoo Carol away, gritting your teeth as you reassure her that you know how to change the dressings on your own. She’s worse than mother. You shrug back into your dress’ single remaining tattered sleeve, regarding it with only a moment’s worth of regret. It is the last thing that remains of your home. It’s fallen into ragged disrepair, now, The bodice shredded down to the under-layers, your legs visible between the surviving strips of cloth that now form your skirt. Once, you would have been terrified to feel the grass trail against the skin of your calves for fear of being stoned for your wanton sin—but no one remains in the village to cast stones at you now. 

You’re sitting down on your bedroll when you feel him, your skin prickling as Steve approaches you. You have never been quite so aware of anyone before, but Steve’s gaze always makes the hair at the back of your neck prick up. He clears his throat. 

“I would speak with you, Little One.” You clamor back up to your feet, your cheeks stinging. You prepare yourself for more harsh words, staring hard down at your tightly clasped hands. “I would… apologize. For my words.” You can tell he does not enjoy humility. “You spoke against me out of desire to protect the pack, and for that I cannot fault you.” You peek up at him from between your lashes. 

“I admit did not look forward to your punishment.” You reply, and he snorts. 

“Ah, we come to the truth of it. Stubborn, aren’t you?” Steve chuckles deeply. “With an attitude like yours, Sweetmeat, I expect you knew the village stockade quite well.” Your cheeks flush with heat, but it doesn’t stop your lips from pressing into an irritated line as you glare at him. 

“This is a rather poor apology,” you grumble, crossing your arms as you glare back toward the camp. A fire rages at the center, and the scent of cooking meat is carried over by the cool breeze. You turn back to him, and something akin to lightning zips up your spine as you find him staring at you. 

“Then I am sorry for that, too.” Commotion draws both your attention. 

“Look, sky!”

“I see sky!”

You look up. The air above still swirls with misty clouds, but it clears with each passing moment, starlight pricking through the black. In the village church they told you that those were Halith’s eyes—thousands and thousands of them, gleaming like diamonds in pitch. The eyes through which she looked down upon the world, through which she would cover it in her light. But you did not feel Halith’s presence in the church, and you do not feel it here in the grass sea. 

Your mother had told you they were something else—other places, other worlds. Other lives, and when you died, you got to go up into the sky and see them, one by one forever if you wanted. 

Your father called it heresy. 

“What are they to you?” You ask, and he hums. “The stars.” 

“The ones who came before.” It is the first time you’ve seen the sky clear in days, since before the pass. 

“Like heroes?” You ask, and Steve shakes his head. 

“Not quite. Those who have done right by the people, by the clan—they rest there.” He points. “That, there? It is the handle of an axe, is it not?” He asks, and you tilt your head, squinting.

“I suppose?”

“It is Molroch’s axe, the blade that split the sea so that the grass could grow.” It is as though the hard years melt from his face to reveal the boy beneath. “He led the people well.” There is a sour note you can taste in his praise.

“It’s not your fault. What happened in the pass—you must know that. It isn’t.” You do not realize you’re touching him until you are, your hand brushing the skin of his arm before you snap it back. 

For uncountable seconds, the only sound is the shifting of the grass around you. Steve turns back toward the camp, his large hand warm on your shoulder. 

“You should rest.”

“You should too.” He does not answer you, squaring his shoulders in a way that tells you that the conversation is finished, at least for now.

to be continued…

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