lonelystarsstuff

[lonelystarsstuff]

Imagine getting fucked by a ghost or an invisible force in front of a mirror. There’s nothing you can do but feel and see your gaping pussy. The best part is that you never know when they’re going to fuck you again since you can’t see them <3

[lonelystarsstuff]

It's okay, we're same now

[lonelystarsstuff]

His heart beats for you 🫀❗

[lonelystarsstuff]

Imagine being Sylus' non-mc fiance. Hidden Child au.

Imagine meeting Sylus was never in your book. It was something that far from those stories written in a fairytale book. And while it wasn’t the worse. It was not something that you would go out and tell people about. After all, you met Sylus in one of the worst moment of your life.

Imagine you met Sylus in the middle of your job. Working on a night club, being one of the escort and happened to catch his eyes. And after a night together. As you stirr up in your slumber. You wake up with Sylus already dressed up, a stick of unlit cigarette in between his fingers. "I need a lover." Is all he said and stare at you.

Imagine you're still half asleep, completely naked with only the blanket covering your body, half aware of the fact that you are in fact late for your morning class and that you're fucked- quite literally, quite in life. But in those moment, that very moment. As you state at those red iris of his. There was one thing you're very sure of. "Sure." You utter. "I'll be your lover."

"Sylus." "Huh?" "My name is Sylus." "Oh- Mine's-" "(Your name)" He knew. "Well yes-" "Here" He toss you a black card. What the hell? "I'll pick you up in two nights." He bottom up his coat. "Don't forget to quit your job- if you even call that a job. Make sure to do that today." Before you could even speak and reply to him. He was already out the door and you were left with nothing but a piece of black card right on the bedside. "What the fuck?" Maybe you’re still dreaming.

Imagine it was in fact, not a dream. Because at exactly two night later. A knock came on your door and true to his words. Sylus was in fact have picked you up. And at the very least, that was to say the start of your relationship with Sylus. Sylus the leader of Onychinus. Sylus who happened to be the most influential, dominant figure in the N109 Zone, your city. He was also rumoured that he hasn't been seen for a while. But here is that very same man. You don't know if you were extremely lucky or just unlucky as hell. Nonetheless you already knew thag your life has taken a turn of 180.

Imagine being the lover of the Onychinus leader was not something that ever come into your mind. But damn, you no longer struggle to pay your college bills, you no longer live in a crappy apartment let alone have to worry for your meals. Being Sylus lover has it perks. You living your life to the fullest was the proof of that. But it also has its drawbacks.

Imagine while Sylus did ask you to be his lover. You knew it was pure business. You knew that because while he took you out on galas, auction, exhibition and high people gatherings. Sylus never took you out on dates. Sure the two of you would go shopping, that was just you enjoying, he never bothered to pick one or anything, he just pays when drop you off to your now high end penthouse. Sure the two of you eat together. But that was just the two of you minding your own business and finishing the meal right in front of you.

Imagine you understand that. That when he asked for a lover, he didn't actually meant it as lover. He meant it in more like a business terms. You get to be his lover and the privilege that comes at its title. But you should never cross the line behind it. Sure, the two of you occasionally sleep around. But guessing your first meeting, that was something that comes naturally.

but Imagine as years went by, as the two of you spend more time around him. You could not help but to fall for him. You knew it was wrong. While you don't even know why you felt like it was wrong. Probably because you knew he doesn't feel the same way and probably would never. It was probably also due to the fact that you're crossing the line he drew without saying all those years ago.

Imagine being Sylus lover- his now fiance has its perks, that was something you have known all those years ago. But it also has its drawbacks. The constant menacing stares, the occasional kidnappings, the blackmail, the death threats, the poisoning. You got used to it. This is your life now. You remember the first time he actually killed someone in front of you, you cannot sleep for days and now. You won't even bat an eye.

Imagine you knew it was wrong. Falling and staying. You knew it woukd ruin you one way or another. But you were already deep down in love with him. All you have to do was not to make it obvious. Show that you aren't in love with him. Show that it was nothing but business when you knew very well it wasn't. It was the only way you could stay by his side and you're going to keep it that way.

Imagine it was the little thing that made you hope. Hope that he would fall for you too. Those late nights of waiting for him in the couch of his office only to wake up in his bed, bedside empty but still warm. Those nights were you couldn’t stop shaking, remember the lifeless face of the man right in front of you only to feel his presence behind you, as if to say that you are in fact not alone. That he was there. Those times where he manage to save you from your kidnappers and kept you in his arms even for a short moment, telling you that it'll be okay. That you're safe.

Imagine in a world where he was labelled as ruthless, dangerous, heartless, criminal. He was your safe place. Your sacred heaven. In the midst of this shitty world, he was your saviour. He was your light that pulled you away from everlasting darkness.

"Hey Sylus." He did not look up from the reports he was reading but he did humm in reply. "Who's MC?" You meant it as a harmless question. But you saw the way he stiffen for a moment. The way his hand twitch. "Who?" "The artist of that painting." You pointed out the painting on his office wall. The one that has been in here as far as you are aware.

Imagine it was a painting of a flower field, a man resting his head on the girl's lap. You've been trying to figure out the artist because of how wonderful it was. It was only recently that one of the twins accidentally knocked it off the wall that it almost fall of the ground. Luckily you were there to catch it in time, also catch a glimpse of the artist behind the frame. Sylus does once say that his office was off limit, no touching of anything, specially on the wall. While the restrictions in the office has been long lifted. You did not forget the latter.

Imagine the way he sigh. "You touch it?" "No- well yes..." "What did I tell you-" "It was an accident! I didn’t mean to but-" You pause, already about to tell the full story but you also membered the twin begging you not to tell Sylus about the incident. That was his favourite piece after all, is what they said. In the end you couldn't help but to bit your lip. Fuck. If only you don't love those boys. "I see." "Look Sylus- I'm really sorry-" "Get out." You stiffen. "Don't come into my office for a while." When he was looking at you like that. How could you not listen. In the end, you found yourself out of his office, heart dropping.

Imagine a week after that, you found yourself back into his officer bracing for the worst. At the same time you could not help but to notice a very large detail that have changed inside the room. "Where’s the painting?" You didn’t mean to say it outloud but it came out anyway. "I have it removed." "What? Why?" After making all that little guss he's gonna have that removed? "It doesn't fit the style of the room, don't you think?" Your jaw almost dropped. "We-well yes..." His office has dark interior, one that makes you wonder what kind of high level villain did you just walked into.

"Shall we go look for it's replacement?" "I'm sorry- what?" "Replacement. For the painting. Let's look for one." He was replacing the painting... Not firing you. Wait, is firing even the right term for that? "Also Luke and Kieran said there's a new restaurant nearby-" "Sylus are you asking me out?" There was a moment of silence. "Aren't you my fiance?" He raise a brow as if it was so natural. "There’s no need to state the obvious." This time, your jaw dropped.

Imagine Sylus had been acting strangely right now. He was taking you out dates, inviting you out to eat, spending more time with you. "Maybe he's in love with you." Leanne, your friend replied over the phone. "Don't joke around!" "Hey I'm not joking. You had he's been spending more time with you, accompanying you, taking you out on dates, going out for a walk for you. Dude you once told me that guy hates the sun light. He's stepping in the sun for you, honey. If that ain't love, then I don't know." That shut you up.

"I don't know!" You groan. "It's just unbelievable. This has been going on for months." "I don't know bro. Shouldn’t you be happy he's like that? You've been pinning for that man for years." "I just felt weird. After all before everything that happened, he almost got mad at me for a painting. A painting, Leanne, a painting." "A painting?" "Yeah, made a mistake touching it and almost blew up on me. You should have seen his face. He's actually pretty scary when he's mad."

Imagine letting out a deep sigh. "I don't know anymore. I know I should be happy. But something doesn't sit right with me." You pause for a moment. "It felt like the calm before a storm." "You're thinking too much." There was a silence after that. "Yeah, I know." You sigh, frustrated. "Well just you know. No matter what happens, I got your back." You chuckle. "Even if he ended up killing me?" It was a joke, really. "Well he could try." "He-" "He could try and we'll see how it goes for him." Just before you could reply, there was a knock on the door. Sylus. "Shit I forgot were going for a ride tonight. Bye!"

Imagine this went on for another months. And your actually getting tired of it. The mixed signals, the dates, the stares the unsaid words. The way you stood at the edge of the line while he seemed to cross it only to step back and cross it again. So you slam your hands into the table and glare at him in the middle of your dinner. "Sylus." He looked at you unbothered as ever, but you could see the way he looked at you. Over the years, it changed. It changed into something you never even dared to hope.

"What are we?" You asked, tired of all this. "We are what we are. Darling." "I swear so I'm gonna kill you-!" As soon as you said that, he stood up. Marched over you and before you could even react, pulled a gun out of nowhere and place in your hand before guiding it to where the heart- his heart it. "Go ahead darling. It's yours." He smiled at you. His sweet, genuine smile. "It's all yours, love." And you believe him.

Imagine in between sheets, in between heat, as your body tangled across each other. You held into him close and he held you back with the same desperation. Pulling away from the kiss, he looked at you. Red eyes shining upon meeting yours. "I love you." You felt your heart skipped a beat. "I love you." He repeated pressing his forehead upon yours. And closing your eyes. "I love you too." You finally said the words that you wanted to say alongside the words that you've been wanting to hear.

Imagine waking up the day after alone. Like everything that happened the night before was all a lie and a fragment of your imagination. But it was real. You knew it was real. So where the fuck is he?

Imagine coming out of the room only to find everyone chaotic. Not in the way to say that the base way overrun. But in a way that something, something was going on and no one would tell you. No matter who you asked, no one would tell you. Not even Sylus who returned later that night to accompany you in sleep. It was nothing, he says. But you doubt that. You doubt that specially when you catch a sniff of someone else perfume lingering him.

Imagine it was a week of acting like nothing happened. Sylus would spend most of his time with you, sweet as ever as if true to his words that night. But you also notice the times where he seemed to vanished. Not even the twins know where he was in which you doubt. They always know where he was. And Mephisto have been missing for a week now.

Imagine you didn't mean to eavesdrop. You were just walking along the hallway of the base. Trying to find Sylus when you happened to hear it. "So the real mistress it back?" "Shhh! Hey! Lower your voice. Someone might hear you!" "But it's true! The real mistress is back. Didn't the boss bring her back personally?" Mistress? Who? "But if the real mistress is back, what is the boss planning to do with the replacement?" "Are you crazy?! Who are you calling replacement-!" "But it's true. (Your name) has always been Miss MC's replacement. He brought them not too long after the real mistress dead, no?"

"Have you seen them? The boss was just using them for their own gain." "But they're doing very well now a days. And I doubt the boss have seen them as a replacement in the first place." "Are you and idiot?" There was a moment of silence after that. "When was the first report of the real mistress whereabouts started coming?" "... eight months ago." "When did the boss started treating them nicely?" ".... Eight months ago." "He was just being kind to them. He only have a soft spot when it comes to the real mistress." There was a pause. "And now she's back. I heard the boss never left her side whenever she was awake. The boss even brought the real mistress back in her old room when they got her back. You know, one at the end of the west wing..."

Imagine you find your self running, heart beating wildly inside your chest. But you run. You run until you find yourself within the west wing on the base. You run and follow the voices. Voices which leads your right in front of a barely opened door. And you saw it. In that small little gap between doors. Sylus and her, MC. It felt familiar, familiar in a way that it brings back memories of a painting. In a field full of flowers with the sun illuminating both of their features. It was them all along.

Imagine you watch him feed her as she lean against the head board. "I can't keep doing this." He said. Can't keep doing what? You heart was still beating wildly in your chest. "I know." There was a pause as you saw her take his hand. "Everything would be better is they were dead instead. That way you won't have to hide me. That way we don't have to keep hiding." You saw the way she lean in and he did too. "I know kitten, I know. I'll take care of it soon, just be patient. Okay?" You felt the world crumble beneath you.

Imagine you don't know how you manage to make it out. You were pretty sure someone was follwing you. But you manage to make it out, alive. Away from the place you once called home now filled with nothing but lies, heartbreak and the worst of all, betrayal.

Imagine you don't know what went wrong. One second you were safe, riding a damn taxi away from that place and then the next thing you know was a gunshot everywhere and then the car was flipped upside-down. Your ears were ringing. Your head was aching, your vision blurred as you could feel someone dragging you out the car.

Imagine, despite everything. Despite the heartbreak. The betrayal. The pain. You still called out his name. Begging, hoping for Sylus to come. And deep down, you knew he would never come. He might even be the one to arrange this. Still, you let yourself hope. One last time.

Imagine years have gone by.

Imagine Sylus wasn't supposed to be in there. He wasn't even supposed to be in his stupid fucking gala. But he did anyway, wearing a stupid fucking suit that seemed to suffocate him. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe he was just having a bad day. Everyday was a bad day every since that day. Years have passed by and it doesn't get any better. If anything, it got worst and worse each fucking year. He barely sleeps, barely eats. He doesn't even know who he make it this far. Far without-

Imagine on his way out the building, deep in his thoughts. He bumped into something, or rather someone. And it cried. Looking down, he saw a little boy, hood over his head, little hands seemed to be covering his forehead. Turns out the boy have bumped into his knee. And the thing is, he shouldn't have cared. He normally would have turn around and walk away, not caring a damn thing. But then something pulled him.

Imagine something was pulling him to check on his little guy, still sniffling, holding on into his forehead. So he could have ignored the boy, really. But he didn't. He doesn't know what came over him. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was his age and years of work catching up to him. But he kneels right in front of the little guy and as soon as he did. He meet those teary red iris and he froze. Just then he heard a footsteps from afar, familiar.

"Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry is he bothering you? I'm really sorry, I just looked away for a moment and he's gone." There you are. All frantic and running at his direction. And as soon as you did, you kneel beside the boy, pull out the hood revealing the boy's hair color looking exactly like yours. "Baby. Do you know how worried you made me? I've been looking for you..."

Imagine Sylus let it unfold right in front of him. A child looking exactly like him except with your hair. You calling him your nephew. He let it unfold right in front of him, slow and painfully as you look at him, stare at him as a stranger. "Sorry about that. I hope he did not give you a hard time...?" ... "Sylus." "Sylus." You replied. Doesn't ring a bell. "Then if you'll excuse us." You said and turn to look at your nephew. "Are in soooo much trouble young man..."

Imagine Sylus just watch. Watch in horror as he was quick to recognize that child was his. That child was yours. Ours.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025° :D

: went crezy at the end. Sorry.

[lonelystarsstuff]

CLOSE & OPEN WHY THEY ARE SO CUTE!!!!!!!! OMG!!!!!! I can't stop drawing them....

[lonelystarsstuff]

[lonelystarsstuff]

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.” 

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly. 

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him. 

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid. 

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet. 

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?” 

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name. 

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles. 

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left. 

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

[lonelystarsstuff]

Being the popular boy in your school, many girls even boys admire you. Impressed by your strength and capability in sports. Nearly everyday, you went to your locker with love cards pilling up. You'd often flex this to your friends.

But it still never impressed the boy from your physics class.

You'd often see him roll his eyes the moment he saw you, your abs? He isn't even looking at them, his eyes were just glued to his book. People in your school often try to pick a fight with him which leads to you beating those kids. You often find yourself gazing at his face, every detail of his expression. Your friends even teased you for liking a nerd like him. But who cared?

Who cares when you're in his house, he was supposed to study you for a pop quiz. But you two ended up on his desk, his hands gripping over his wooden table with books stacking to piles, his tight rim sucking to the tip of your cock while he moaned like a whore, trying to focus.

"Fuck M/N—" He turned his head, his eyes watery from you pounding his rim. "Stay focus—fuck—we have a quiz tomorrow—"

You shut him down with a firm slap on his cheeks, your hand printing over his ass. "We can study later," You said, your hands then clawed over his buttocks before slamming your whole cock to his inner walls hitting his prostate. You looked at his expression—cheeks flushed, eyes watery, and his mouth shaping like an "o".

You wished you could record everything, especially after you told him to get to his knees, his mouth taking your cock, while your cum drip from his asshole. You saw him sucking you with hearted eyes, gagging by your length.

"Good boy..." You muttered while patting his head. After he sucked you dry, you thought you'd continue your study. He turned around, showing his empty ass to you. "Mgh, I can't feel empty..." He whined, making your cock go hard again.

How's the quiz gonna do? Who knows.

—

Thank you very much to the Anon who requested this. I hope you and others enjoyed this.

[lonelystarsstuff]

messy eater

[lonelystarsstuff]

Traitors Among Us

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x Fem!Reader Task Force 141 x Fem!Reader (Platonic)

PART 2

Part Three: The Guilty Plea

Part Four: The Verdict Due

Summary: You're a rat, a traitor. At least that's what Task Force 141 believes due to the evidence and claims scattered against you. It doesn't matter what you say, everyone's against you, ready to end you for it...until the truth comes out.

Warning(s): Torture, Heavy Angst, etc.

---

Drip.

Drip..

Drip...

Your shoulders seize up involuntarily as freezing droplets continue to hit your skin, eyes squeezed shut to try to ignore the sound that had been going on for who knows how long.

Another drop of water hits your spine from the faucet placed above you, it's cold as it runs down your bare skin. It feels like ice. Hitting the same spot over and over and over...

Drip...

Not even able to take a deep breath, you release a strained cry, it can hardly leave you, not that you hadn't cried enough already. You could feel the dried blood, tears and snot still on your face and a testament to your torment. You haven't been able to get the metallic taste of your blood of of your mouth since you got in here.

You breathe slowly, trying to relieve the pain in your chest. Body positioned downwards, chest pressed down to your knees, a leather buckle holds you down and over a metal stool. Wrists torn open by old shackles and stretched upwards to connect to the steel pipe in the middle of the room.

The stress position had been Johnny's idea, putting you in it to begin with. The bastard...

Kyle had been in and out to collaborate with Price on the interrogation, he didn't have the heart to do you any harm like his Captain. But, that didn't stop him from stomaching your screams as he turned the handle up, piercing cold crashing down atop you, it beats down on your back, by the time it's done your shaking, and your skin a bruising purple hue. It goes on like that for hours, even as you beg. He reads you the files again.

Price would then take the baton from the corner of the room, the side of your face already swollen from the last strike, you were seeing red out of your left eye and soon you wouldn't be able to see out of it if the swelling continued.

"Please..." you shivered, miserably.

"Over in a jiff, love, but i need somethin' from you, you know that." Was his reply, he tapped the baton against the metal below you, the reverb makes you jump each time, leaving you to stare at it as you watched his boots walk around you.

"Cap'n, It's not...It's not--me..." you tried, breathless. "I'd never.."

The steel baton came down on your shoulder, first. There was an immediate response from your constricted muscles, limbs that had all tensed up at once despite their numbness. Pulling at the shackles that kept you in place, the hit shocks you, nearly silencing you completely, it hurts, then it burns. Mouth open in a silent scream, you squeeze your eyes shut in an effort to block out the pain that crawled through your shoulder. "It's not me!"

You've been suffering from hypothermia for a few days since then. Your shoulder crushed right out of place or just plain broken, you weren't sure. It's not like you could feel much of your arms in this position.

It hurt. Not just the painful strain that this position was currently putting on your muscles, but everything else...

Of course, you've handled torture alike this before. Captured and tortured by enemies, ransomed for pay and fought tooth and nail to live, then found your way from that hell...only for the men who you'd kill for, to do the same thing to you with no remorse.

In the quiet of the empty room, you sobbed in agony. Squeezing your fists, but you couldn't even feel them, as far as you knew your fingers could only twitch in response to your demand.

You weren't sure what you were doing here.

Well, you knew. There was a mole, all evidence pointing to you, whatever it was had completely stunted their mission earlier in the week, left them hiding in a safe house for days until they were picked up by evac. Apparently, you'd leaked mission details to some hostiles over seas, you weren't sure which ones, they were hoping you could tell them. You had absolutely nothing, lost.

Of course, they didn't believe you. Although you expected to have at least a sliver of trust, someone to speak up against these claims and believe you...

It must've been too much to ask.

It came out of nowhere, at first you had been in bed with Simon, your fucking Fiancé, then that meeting with Price, then just...they'd cornered you in that room. Knocked you out without even an explanation, woke you up strapped down, confused, stripped of your uniform and feral as you demanded answers. Nobody listened to you.

That first night you thought you were gonna die. The second night you thought you had. The third night you were just convinced this was your hell.

You were soaked to the bone, and unable to stop shivering. The only sound you could hear was your own chattering teeth in this never-ending void of darkness.

It was so fucking dark in here, your eyes darting around to every corner, hoping for even a measly crack of light that your eyes could adjust to. Every sound, scratch, scrape or click made you jump, you couldn't see shit in here, so just about everything made you hyper aware. You couldn't help your anxiety as the sound of the faucet, the constant drops against your spine, the jingle of your shackles and the whimpers that echoed against the walls as you struggled to comfortably breathe. Maybe it was the thought of a mouse crawling up the stool and along your skin, or someone in here just staring at you in the corner, or the door finally opening for Price to start slicing into you demanding answers you didn't have.

You were on the cusp of losing your mind. If you hadn't already.

But it's been a few hours since then...

Maybe even a few days...

It could even have been a week.

You weren't too sure.

Simon had been the last one in here. He'd pulled the strap loose around your neck, hauling you up to an upright position by your jaw, eliciting a whimper from your lips. Able to breathe a bit easier, your lungs finally decompressing and you gulp down air greedily, "Simon..." this had been the first time you'd seen him since. He wears his balaclava, he is Ghost, not your Simon Riley.

As your bloodshot, swollen eyes raise to look into his cold ones, so unfeeling. You hadn't even realized you were so hopeful for his trust in you until then, looking at you like you were absolutely nothing to him, the same look he always had before pulling the trigger. "Simon, please, stop this..." your words slurred by your shivering, exhausted. "You know me...please."

Your tears slide over the leather of his gloved hands, while he holds tight to your face and cuts your pleads short with a painful squeeze. "Shut up," he says. His eyes are blank, but his voice is low and seething. "Shut the fuck up!" Simon harshly grits out to you, jostling you harshly. You squeeze your eyes shut, weeping miserably, throat closing up to your agony.

He had to know that you would've never done this to him. He should've known that. Given you the benefit of the doubt at least. You'd have never done this to him...

"I'm sorr-" you try, he squeezes harder to silence you swiftly, and snatches a tiny bowl off the tray he'd brought in. Raising your jaw a bit higher, he pours down a chunky broth into your mouth, letting it all just fall down to your throat. It's disgusting. He doesn't ease up for even a second as you toss and turn your head to breathe.

"Don't say a fucking word," he seethes, his hand enveloping your neck and keeping your head raised upward. "As if I should believe you..."

He then takes the next cup to do the same, your eyes bloodshot wide and you jerk away from him as you choke, unable to stomach anything, but he doesn't let you. This time you inhale accidentally, blocking your airway, eyes watering as you writhe for oxygen, your shackles clang violently as you attempt to retaliate, the first fight you've put up in days. His grip doesn't let up, even as you struggle and start to vomit up whatever he decided to shove down your throat.

When he finally lets go, you curve over and heave up whatever's left in your mouth, hyperventilating as you empty your guts on the floor. Hacking up whatever you can, it hurts, your throat burning from the sobs that leave you in between coughs. "If you love me, if you--ever had--" you spat at him. You'd given him everything, every part of yourself, nearly given him your life in the battlefield, and yet...it wasn't enough. "You would fucking believe me!" your voice cracks with the effort it takes to scream at him, to curse him to hell.

"My trust? That's what you want," Hollow eyes stare back at you, his attention flickering around to the uncomfortable shift of your shoulders in those cuffs. Your swollen left eye that had been hit so hard, the white of it had filled with blood. The black and blue littering your sides and your spine, the loss of color in your skin from the stress position and the cold that had you uncontrollably shivering. "You've had it before. You must've sold that to them too."

Your head drops to the stool again, releasing a heavy breath. "It wasn't worth much, if it was so easy to lose..."

Usually it's not very easy to set Simon off, you've known him always to be quite mellow, besides the barely concealed rage he had settled in his chest since you've known him. But, today, you were an exception.

Fisting a hand in your hair, Simon yanks at it, pulling you upwards for your to face him. His other hand coming up to wrap around your throat before your tortured scream can even manifest. In that moment, it feels as if he'd snapped your spine in half, having not used the muscles to stretch that area in over a week. Your shackled wrists shifting in the cruel position.

His eyes are wild and rageful, the balaclava that covers him twists just the same, his grip very telling to his violence as he squeezes down any chance at air or even a sentence. "Easy to lose..." he repeats, spitting in your face as he strangles you. "Easy t'lose your life! If you don't tell me the fucking truth," he pulls out the knife you'd seen him slit so many throats with before, you hear the familiar sound of it first then its cold steel pressing into the side of your ribs. "I'm gonna carve out your heart, and I'll take it real slow, let you feel every little thing I do to you in here," he shakes you harshly as a startled cry escapes you, your tears are burning hot against your cheeks. "You don't get to cry. Or whine. Or beg!"

"Stop--" you try to squirm away from him, to get as far away as possible, from this place, from this moment.

"Just tell me the truth," Simon's face twisted in agony, for just a second, his thumb drags along your jaw, meaningfully. "You'd be doing us both a favor..."

As his vast hand finally loosed around your neck just enough to hold you up, awaiting the bitter truth. Simon's knife catches on the protrusion of your ribs, nicking the skin, drawing blood on purpose. You stare up at the ceiling, the flickering old lights, the dripping faucet that's tormented your already fragile state for weeks now. "The truth..." you spoke, hoarsely. "You've all shown me...it doesn't matter to you. If it ever... Believe what you want--" you close your eyes, you're exhausted. Sleep had evaded you for days. "You and your truth and this team, you can all go to hell."

And finally he lets you go, letting your fall forwards, unable to find the relief of a cold floor but back to the strenuous position you'd been placed in. "AH!" nearly popping your shoulders out of place, or maybe they had, you bite down on your tongue, shaking in silence.

If you could see Simon's face, you could've relished in the uncertainty flickering in his eyes, the sudden doubt that led his knife back in its holder and his nails to bite into the flesh of his palms. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing leaves him, instead he stands there.

You can't say a thing to him now, everything that's happened was just a little reminder that whatever you said, whatever you did, it didn't matter. Their minds had already been made. You really would die here.

Simon stands there a little longer, he doesn't say anything, you're not sure if he stays there to watch your suffering a little longer or to wait to say another heart-wrenching thing. Maybe he's just there to wait for you to die. But, he just watches as you wretch and cry in a ball atop that stool.

He leaves not long after, he didn't bother to strap you down this time. He left the old light on, but it must've been older than you thought.

The single bulb fizzled out completely hours ago. Not unless one of them decided to cut the silence and turn on the light to start another 'questioning', so suddenly being able to see more than darkness wasn't anything to be excited about.

They'd leave you in the dark until then, to await the next moment any of them would grace you with their presence.

To be honest, you'd imagined you'd be stronger than this. But, there was nothing to hold onto, so what did strength matter?

It was too late anyway.

They'd broken you days ago.

---

The truth had come out, two days later.

"Oh god..."

"Oh my fucking God," Simon rushed down the corridor, Price tailing right behind him. "Oh my God!" his normal monotone voice now a mess of fear and panic, breathing harsher, on the cusp of hyperventilating with every stride as he ran faster than he ever had in his life.

Finally getting to the interrogation wing of the department, he bangs his fist on the plexiglass of those silently monitoring the rooms, "Open the fucking door!" he's buzzed in before he can pull on the handle another time.

Rushing down the hall to the now green lit room, lights flickering to life with every step closer down the hall of empty rooms. He nearly rips the door off its hinges as he bursts inside, the lights of the your tiny prison don't come to life as they should. Light spilling into the cell, to hit your limp figure first.

He doesn't deserve to say your name. "(Y/n)," Simon rushes over, to his knees instantly. A puddle of vomit, water and spoiled broth soaks through his uniform.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he sobs out his mistakes, unhooking your chains and cutting through your buckles as fast as he could. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" he catches his fiancé as you collapse, turning over and off the stool, your legs having lost all sense of feeling. You fall into his arms, catching you carefully. "Price!" he cries out, desperately.

"They're on the way!" Your captain assures, he sees the medical team rushing down the hallway, a stretcher, a box of medical supplies. Christ.

You're freezing to the touch, your skin a hue of blue, not to mention the bruises, the cuts and the swollen areas throughout your face and spine. You suddenly inhale, sharply, coughing terribly. You're sick, breathing shakily, "Simon...?" you breathe, confused. You can't see. Your eyes swollen shut from your torture at their hands.

"It's me, it's me," Simon assured, although he knew it probably brought you no comfort. He snatches the blanket offered up by Price, your captain a mess of himself, holding himself together at the doorway, nails biting into the steel.

As Simon wraps you in the first glimpse of warmth you've had in days, you ease up a bit, fingers twitching upwards to pull the threads closer around yourself. "It wasn't..." you shiver, Simon listens intently as he rises with you in his arms, running off to meet the medical team halfway. "It wasn't me..." you gasp out. "It wasn't..."

Simon can't say a thing as he hears your tormented voice stutter in fear of him, lips pressed tight together, heart sinking and as the nurses take your body, he collapses to his knees.

Part 2

and if you'd like to support a fanfic hoe in need...would you Buy me a Coffee?

[lonelystarsstuff]

✶The shine of the Crown

Yandere! Elf Prince x Unlucky survivor F!reader — MDNI! TW: Fantasy setting, elf!yandere, power imbalance, royalty and servant, explicit torture, murder, one sided affection, non con, cunnilingus, fingering, P in V, breeding kink, forced creampie (multiple)

Everything is perfect. 

He planned absolutely everything for you, you’re the only one missing now. 

Prince Aodh takes a look around his large quarters in the Palace. He measures his chances. He truly does. He knows meeting his one and only is something that only happens to the most lucky, so many people live and die without ever meeting their true other half. So, for Him to have had the chance to meet you, He considers himself extremely lucky! 

And soon, He intends to honor you like you deserve to be. 

Prince Aodh ordered a lot of new pillows everywhere to create nests for you to lie down and relax. 

He will lay you down in all of them and take you tenderly all night long. 

He added a lot of new surfaces in his quarters. If you're freaky enough, He will gladly take you on them too. Anything to amuse you. 

He is quite excited and a bit nervous, actually. This is his first rut with a partner. Nobody in his kingdom ever caught his eye, not even his betrothed, so he took his brother’s remedy to suppress his rut all his life to keep them at bay. He got through life watching couples flourishing and getting at it passionately when the rut came. To him, it was always more of an annoyance and disturbance in his work. Try to keep an army focused when their instincts are screaming at them to take their partners to bed! A real challenge. Thanks to the Forest God, the Crown passed an edict forcing each general and minister to take suppressants, now calm and peace came back in the ranks, and he could speak to level-headed adults and not toddlers in armor consistently on the verge of implosion. Honestly, this aspect of the Elven species is such a burden! What a shame to be reduced to a rabid animal when you are civilized like them! For those reasons, he always hated that part of himself, what a relief he felt when his twin brother offered him that burgundy remedy to calm down his ardors when He developed his first pulsions. The sensation of freshness and renewed control he felt when he gulped down that mixture for the first time… Truly a blessing! 

If there is something He absolutely despises, it’s the loss of control. 

Prince Aodh knew of the pleasure of the flesh, but he never met someone worth enduring the rut with! Not even his betrothed.  

But then,  

He met you. 

Perfect you. 

Adorable you. 

How could He have predicted you? So far away from your people and civilization, in an empire of elves, how could He have predicted meeting his perfect match? The first time he saw you, lost and wounded in the black forest, He knew. He knew God created you for him and him only. You were dirty and bleeding, disheveled and starving, on the verge of death in your torn clothes. 

A frail, lost human woman... 

Did he find you beautiful?  

No idea.  

You just immediately caught his eyes, like a firefly is tempted by light He was drawn to you by a force beyond his understanding. He stopped his horse, completely ditching his twin brother, who kept hunting ahead of him, and got down to greet you, fearing you were just a mirage of his imagination. 

You lost consciousness right in front of him. The Prince just had the time to catch you before you hit the ground. He lifted your limp body up and carried you on his noble steed right back to the Secret Palace, a place so sacred no uninvited human could ever come across it.  

He ordered his physicians to immediately take you in charge and look over you every hour of the day and night, no matter if they were exhausted! The idea of seeing you die was unthinkable to him! 

You were only a meager human, so why was he acting so erratic at the idea of your death? Others, and he wondered. 

He only had to watch over you at night, listen to your feeble breath, and feel your fragile hands squeeze his large hand in a survival reflex for him to know. 

His 

You were his. 

And he were yours. 

You were mates, destined by the Gods. 

Your pheromones make his head spin so deliciously, He only has to dive his nose in the crook of your neck to get high off your scent, delectable vertigos seizing him like he was flying high in the sky. 

He felt like He was struck by lightning when He first heard your chuckle at one of his dry-humored responses to a fool of an apothecary in charge of healing you, and that was the sweetest sound He ever heard in his life! 

Sweeter even than the songs of the She-elves sung under the moonlight for the celebration of the Light. And you are so intelligent… He has the greatest pleasure discussing with you about everything! 

He already fantasized about inviting you into his Tactical room to strategize together. Or just have you sit cutely on his large lap while he orders his generals... 

The Crown would never allow it... For now 

He would find a way to make it bend the knee. 

Prince Aodh also has to deal with his betrothed asking why he is worrying about a meager human life. They were supposed to wed soon, and he was spending more time with you than preparing himself for her. He had to suppress a growl.  

He never had any interest in her as a future partner or even just a friend. Why would he? It is a purely political marriage; he just has to ensure she gets pregnant, and his job will be done. He has no intention to waste more energy than necessary with her. 

She never understood him, she won’t start now. He can give her a baby to keep her occupied, and run back to your embrace and love you as it pleases him. 

But before dealing with his unsufferable fiance, he had more pressing problems 

Right after leaving the infirmary, you started to make heart eyes at one of his lieutenants! 

And apparently He was not the only elf with scandalous taste around here because his lieutenant was flirting back... 

That fool had no education or class, why were you making doe eyes at him in the first place?  

How? 

Why? 

He could not tolerate it, He felt love for the very first time. He was not going to let you fly away from him that easily, especially for a mere elf such as him! 

So He started to take action. He kept his Lieutenant constantly away from the Secret Palace, giving him dangerous missions after dangerous missions, hoping he would get killed. 

But the cockroach always came back! 

When it was clear you were healed, the Crown asked you to return to your human lands and never come back. The Prince proposed to keep you here and teach you the Elven ways and language to send you back as a messenger and a diplomat between the two races! 

Humans and Elves’ diplomatic ties were now so tenuous now the two former allies were growing more and more hostile towards each other century by century until the former glory days of the Alliance would be no more than forgotten legends in the minds of men, and War broke out.  

Sending an envoy to your people could change the course of History. 

And he could keep you at his side. 

The Crown abided by his whims after long and numerous arguments between them. 

You were not exactly comfortable here, but living among the Elves is a privilege and an honor! And despite the little sparkle of fear in your eyes, He could see you were excited by the adventure. He gave you teachers and a servant to ease your everyday life and ‘hired’ you as his aide, keeping you close to him every day. 

Like a dream... 

And a away from that damn Lieutenant! 

He kept giving you conflicting agendas to make it hard for you to see each other. He made sure to humiliate his rival as much as possible with a stern expression and impossible questions when you three met, hoping your opinion about his rival would get tarnished, slowly but surely, for you to lose interest and distance yourself from him. 

During that time, He worked to place himself in your life as a friend, a comforting presence, and a shoulder to put your head on. He let you see parts of him he never revealed to anybody, not even His brother. You spent so many sleepless nights chatting together in his office around a glass of wine, he truly felt your relationship growing more intimate and purposeful. You had full access to his office for you to take care of his baby phoenix together, you who learned to love it so much! He kept showering you with privileges and special moments with him. 

Privileges he never even gave to his fiancée. 

He chuckles, thinking back about them! He thought he was in love with them back then, but clearly he did not know anything about love. 

He loves you now, and this is the purest thing he has ever felt through the long centuries of his life. 

And he thinks... NO, he is SURE you feel the same toward him! 

How would it be any different? He is an elven Prince after all! You should feel honored that He even laid his eyes on you once! 

And he wants so much more than just to lay his eyes on you! 

Everything was slowly falling into place, as the Prince wished. 

Or so he thought. 

One night, leaving his office, he wanted to stroll in the rose garden and pick a flower for you to discover on your pillow when you woke up. You lock your bedroom like any sane woman would, but you are not as sane as you imagine if you think a lock can keep him away from you! 

He saw you two 

Embrassing each other 

Kissing each other 

Exchanging sweet words discreetly 

That wretched peasant...! 

You were clearly under a curse or a spell! Why else would you still have an interest in that poor fool either way? Elf magic is powerful, and human minds are weak; it would not take much for you to fall into a trap. 

He felt his blood boil and his soul cry for you 

His beloved 

His darling 

Stuck between the claws of a wicked elf! 

He had to save you! 

He had to intervene drastically. 

It was quite simple: a hunting trip, a quick shot at the back of the head, dumping the body in the nearest river, and returning home, abandoning the corpse to the unchained elements. 

Oh, you were devastated, in tears for days. Days he offered his shoulder for you to cry on, hugging you tightly to appease your pain and relieve you. He cradled you for days, slowly reclaiming his place in your heart. 

He knows the kind of cold and imposing aura He gives off as the Heir of the Crown, so He took care to be as tender and soft as possible, giving you glimpses of his loving, intimate side. 

But you were in terrible shape, your mood and body seemed to decay day after day... He kept coming to you every day, in the hope of seeing you smile his way, running to him to hug him tight and declare him your endless love now that the curse was lifted. 

But you never did, and each day you seemed closer and closer to dying of malnourishment. 

Was the curse still in place? 

He was walking to his brother to ask him for advice on how to lift a strong curse, as magic was more his brother’s passion than his. He had just the time to see you both enter your bedroom and lock yourself up 

He was frozen in place 

... 

His brother 

His twin 

The closest being in his life until you... 

He was going behind his back...?! 

He was abusing his face, similar to his, to gain access to your bed!? 

The surprise dissolved in his veins to make place for the bitter taste of betrayal and the heat of the flames of ire and hate. 

Prince Aodh watched you both exit your bedroom, hidden behind a marble statue, as his brother caressed your cheek tenderly while you nodded, wiping a tear off your cheek with a tight smile. 

He clawed the column, leaving fissures in the stone in his rage. 

That same night, He entered his oh so dear brother’s room in silence, pinning a charm of silence and secrecy to the door for nobody to hear them. He remained standing, watching his brother sleep peacefully in the large bed. 

Fooling around with humans is not exactly forbidden, but his brother always notoriously looked at the practice with disdain and some disgust. 

And what’s the first thing this traitor did once Prince Aodh brought his human mate home...?! 

He could not help the serpentine hiss escaping his lips as He grabbed his brother’s throat, feeling the blood and the air flowing in and out. 

For a minute, He fantasized about squeezing this white throat until He strangled this traitor! 

But instead, He took out a bottle from his pocket and slowly opened the lid. He dramatically lifted the bottle over his brother’s face and poured down everything. 

Immediately, the acid started devouring his brother’s flesh with a disgusting sizzling sound. 

His brother immediately awoke, screaming in pain as Prince Aodh admired the flesh swelling up with bubbles and reddening with all the blood seeping out of the gushing pores. 

It was... Fascinating to witness this face, the same as his, getting disfigured under his eyes, how the flesh swells like a fruit too ripe and bursts open, wounding his brother beyond repair. 

His brother fell to the ground, screaming at the top of his lungs, trying to tear his painful skin off for a modicum of relief, digging his nails into the gushing, bleeding flesh. He was wriggling on the ground pathetically when He pressed his foot down his ribcage to immobilize his brother, observing his result like he would a painting. 

The once handsome face is now a grotesque mask of swollen flesh falling off with fumes and visible bones. 

Maybe it will even kill his brother... He was losing strength by the second, and soon would lose consciousness, and maybe dive into the dark waves of death for good. 

Before he fainted, He lowered himself to press his lips to what he supposed to be an ear before and whispered. 

“You will never approach her again... Never.Again...” 

His brother was discovered unmoving the next morning by a now traumatized Help and transported to the infirmary promptly. To this day, he has not woken up. Prince Aodh forbade you to enter the chamber under the pretense that he was afflicted by an illness that would be fatal for a human. 

So you obeyed. 

Like a cute little darling. 

He was in heaven! 

Finally! 

He had you for himself!  

No other pesky rival was standing between you two! 

It was finally time to formally profess your love for each other and mate together for life. Of course, humans are a mateless species, but that is nothing a little bit of magic cannot fix! 

It will feel like a chain at first for you, but you will not mind since you will be bound to him. 

He cannot wait! 

Which brings us to today. 

He never forced himself on you, but that doesn’t mean He can’t initiate actions, so He will seduce you out of your mind and take you to bed this week, and He will taste the pleasure of the rut for the first time in his life. He will indulge so much! Keeping you in bed for a full month, breeding you over and over, authorizing you to leave the nests only for the most basic of human necessities, and grabbing you back in the sheets immediately. 

He will get you addicted to him, to his cock. Absolutely ruining any other male for you. He will make sure you become pregnant, locking you with him forever. You are not a cruel woman to deny your child a father, no matter how horrible He might be. 

But He doesn’t have to be horrible to you… 

If you stay with him, He will be the most gentle, tender lover you’ve ever met, satisfying you beyond measure. 

If you ever look at another person, however… You will taste his wrath and learn your mistake in pain. But He does it for you both, He knows what’s truly good for you! 

Him 

Solely him. 

What better for a human’s happiness than a willing, devoted elven prince anyway? 

You need no one else in your life. Not even your former family. You will forget them rapidly when He will be plaguing your mind 24/7. Just as you do to him. 

He absent-mindedly caresses a pillow of one of the nests. Younger him never knew why Elves’ bedrooms were so large and had so many pillows in them.  

For the nests obviously. 

It is quite common for couples to prefer a nest of pillows, furs, and plushies to their bed. And for the first time in his life, He understands why. 

Oh, He cannot wait…  

Embracing you in those soft, fluffy nests and taking you languorously until you cry out of love and exhaustion, while He keeps thrusting deep into you. Your cute face in tears and forced into the furs while you squirt violently around his cock. 

He caresses his lips with a deviant smile, oh He’s going to enjoy it so much… Having you completely cock drunk, a babbling mess while He towers over you in full control. Oh, that is going to be so sweet… 

And you will become pregnant! Let’s not forget that delicious fact. 

He cannot wait to see you round with his child, maybe his twins or triplets. He will give you so many children! Elves have very large families, He is no exception; his instincts scream at him to procreate as much as possible with you. 

He wants to meet his children now, having them running around you both all day long… He will be the most dotting father ever and love them all day long, spoiling them rotten, maybe even to your dismay 

He chuckles at himself. He is already fantasizing about your future children without even having tasted your lips yet! 

Silly him! 

But he cannot help it, you are his little birdie he desperately wants to cage.  

Sometimes he even doubts you love him with how little attention you give him or how uninterested you appear in his conversation, some days. 

But you do love him. 

He knows you do. 

And you better do. 

He has nothing against using chains and gags, but He would like you to be happy at his side, not just a captive! But once pregnant, you will do the only respectable thing to do and accept to bond with him. 

It will be your only way to remain alive after the offense of seducing the Crown’s Heir. 

Then you will be with him forever. 

Living happily together, surrounded by your numerous heirs. 

He also prepared for that; he modified his diet, intensified his training routine, and started to take remedies the royal apothecary promised him would boost his fertility every day. One day, you came into his office, and you asked him what those berries were that he was swallowing with such a large smile. He lied to you, pretending it was only his favorite treat. It was too soon to reveal he was already planning your future pregnancies so early in your secret love affair, and you would have been scared, and He doesn’t want to scare you, only to back you into a corner. 

You are two different species after all, He cannot let those things go to the hazard. 

One week ago, when He felt the first symptoms of the rut, He gulped down twice the dosage, just to be sure… 

Prince Aodh used to hate those symptoms, those heat waves and sore muscles, but today He welcomes them with so much pleasure. He also felt growing territorial and possessive. He always tolerated you having friends among his people, He is not a complete monster, but those last few days? They realized how terrifying He could be with a single glance in their direction. They didn’t even have to speak with you; only standing in your vicinity was enough to send him into a boiling rage! Especially the males! He would appear from out of nowhere, his aura murderous and shooting them with his red gaze and dump them with even more chores and duties, especially on the other side of the Palace, far away from you, his darling. 

One had the nerve to hug you, and He ordered his servants to wash and scrub your body for a full hour despite your complaints to get rid of his disgusting scent. He couldn’t help it, it was making him gag to smell another male on you.  

You didn’t see that friend from then on… 

The sun rises, signaling to him it is time to head to the Grand room where He organized a session with all his advisors to treat the State’s latest affairs. You’ll be here, obviously, as his devoted, cute little aide. He will gorge himself on your scent and presence, boosting him for the rest of the day.  

No, for the whole month! 

He walks peacefully towards the board room, back straight and head high, when He starts to feel a heat wave approaching. Oh well, he will take a bath later. 

He turns a corner and smiles. 

You are here, notebook in hand, as the cutest little human aide you are. You never wait for him, too visible, and he likes his privacy, so you took the habit of getting ahead of him for him to meet you midway. 

Clever you, you know he cannot reveal your love affair to the Crown yet, so you take action without him even asking! 

Such an intelligent mate. You can hold entire conversations just looking into each other’s eyes. You are truly made for one another. 

He doesn’t slow down as he reaches you, his heart sprinting as your hands graze for a split second. 

“Good morning, Your Highness .” You greet. 

“Good morning, (Y/n).” 

“You seem tense. Are you all right?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. 

Oh, sweet, adorable you, you know him so well… And you always take care of him, noticing in one glance that something changed in him, not that He tried to hide it from you. You can see those parts of him, you are allowed. 

And those heatwaves are not really comfortable… 

“Am I?” Prince Aodh asks with a lopsided grin, “Quite the contrary, I feel full of energy.” 

“Really? Good.” You nodded. “We will need it for today.” 

You think about the politics and warfare, He thinks about the bed. 

“I am sure it will be a productive day.” He slowly nods, approvingly. 

Your scent comes to brush his nose, and He deeply inhales, inviting it deep into his lungs. It sets his nerves on fire, electrifying him to his core. He feels his horns tingling deliciously. 

That feels so good… 

You reach the Tactical room where everyone else is waiting and take your place. He opens the Map of the Empire, and the session can start. 

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

Everything was going so well. 

Prince Aodh was fully focused, mind set on his strategies, listening to his subordinates when it struck him like lightning. All his muscles suddenly violently contracted, chasing all the air out of his lungs. His usually so well-organized mind completely froze like stunted. It was so violent that He almost lost his balance and collapsed. But He held on, standing firm on his feet. 

And now there is only one thing he cares about. 

You. 

“Everyone… Out.” He says so coldly, a shudder spreads through the audience. 

“Your Highness? Did we do-” One starts to speak to understand this sudden shift of behavior. 

“Out!” He shouts, slamming his fist on the table. 

Everyone scurries outside, it’s the very first time they ever heard him raise his voice in a meeting, and they don’t intend to hear more! 

“(Y/n), you stay.” He orders harshly. 

He feels his cock gorging itself with blood, getting warmer and constricted in his tight pants. 

So this is how it truly feels… The sudden craving, hunger for flesh, that urge commanding all his senses and priorities. A desire so powerful that his only thought is to breed you immediately, right here and there, like an animal. 

You remain still, worried. You look at him, hugging your notebook against your breast, well hidden under that stupid tunic. He wants to tear it all apart, destroying it completely to discover your sweet naked body at last 

His hard gaze is on those incompetents who still haven’t evacuated the room. He turns towards the young helpers who are absolutely terrified, pressing themself at the door to leave as quickly as possible.   

If they don’t go away He will take you in front of them without any shame!  

They must have felt his black gaze on them because they suddenly managed to pass through the door and disappear away from him.  

The doors are shut. 

And He now turns towards you. 

You are now completely alone with a pissed-off Elven Prince. 

You are terrified beyond measure. He never raised his voice. Ever. He looks at you with a dark glare, like He could eat you up in one bite. 

You gulp. 

He skirts the large table, dark eyes fixed on you, frowning terribly. You press your notebook closer against you in a soothing manner. Did you do something? Said something? Angered him in some way? 

“Your Highness? Is something wrong?” You ask with tremors in your voice. 

You hope talking to him would snap him out of it, but He keeps walking towards you like a carnivore having cornered its prey. 

“Sir…” You call again. 

In complete silence, He seizes your notebook out of your grasp and just tears it in half like it’s nothing before tossing it aside. You gasp, shocked. 

“Sir! If I did-” 

You have no time to finish your sentence, his large hand comes to grasp your throat and pushes you against the wall, where He captures your lips in a demanding kiss. 

What the fuck is going on?! 

What’s wrong with the Prince?! 

Since day one, he looked at you in a weird fashion, and you consistently felt his breath on the back of your neck! Sometimes you were even sure to feel a presence in your room at night! You remained friendly and nice and polite, fearing he might explode all of a sudden. 

And right now, he is exploding. You are so shocked and terrified that you do not know how to react to his aggression, and you feel yourself frozen in fear. 

He presses his large body against yours, more petite in comparison. He squeezes your throat to force you to open your lips to let his tongue enter your mouth. He groans in the kiss like a pissed-off dragon as his tongue meets and hugs yours. 

You feel his erection against your pelvis, He brushes your groins together, leaving no doubt in your mind about what’s going to happen next. You moan pitifully, feeling yourself going limp. 

He suddenly grabs the back of your neck and pushes you unceremoniously against the wooden table, bending you over as your breath is cut. You have no time to register what He just did, He is behind you, towering over your figure and gripping the fabric of your pants, and violently tearing them off. 

“Sir?!” You beg, at loss for words.  

The Prince pulls on your sweet undergarments 

He cheekily hoped you would not be wearing any like a naughty girl, but opening you like a present is also nice.  

You try to rise up, but are immediately pushed back down with his hand on the back of your neck. 

“Do. Not. Move.” He orders with a chilling tone, inviting zero resistance. 

So you remain bent over, immobile, feeling the cold air hitting your exposed pussy. You gulp, throat dry, devoured by anxiety. 

You suddenly feel his wet tongue parting your folds. You grip the wood for dear life as He starts eating you out voraciously, like a starved animal.  

“Oh my gods, Sir…!” You gasp, out of your mind. 

He locates your clit and starts teasing it with sweet laps, circling it, gliding across it. He moans loudly to excite you further and you start feeling something wet leaking out of your pussy to roll on your thighs. He takes your clit in his mouth and sucks on it avidly, like a lollipop, making it roll between his lips and titillating it with the tip of his warm tongue. 

He just acts on instincts right now and they are telling him to devour your sweet pussy first. 

You press your hand to your mouth and immediately feel him bite the tender flesh of your thigh. 

“I forbid you to remain silent.” 

And to prove his point he takes a big, sloppy lap with the flat of his tongue from your clit to your perineum. You can’t help but moan in response, your legs starting to tremble under his care. 

“You are getting so wet. Good.” He praises you, but the tone is dark and… dangerous. 

He parts your pussylips with two fingers and probs your entrance with his tongue, drinking your slick loudly. 

“Ah! Yo-Your Majesty…” You choke on your words. 

“What is it, my darling? No male ever honored you this way? Such a shame.” He tuts. 

He grabs your butt with his two hands and penetrates you with his long, warm tongue. You can feel it waves inside you, grazing your sweet spot so deliciously, he circles it and glides across it with the tip of his tongue. 

Gosh, he wants to take you right now, but you could never take his size without any preparation. And he has always been curious about your pussy’s taste, and despite his urges it seemed like a good choice to him. His instincts are always right. 

He is always right. 

And your sweet gasps go straight to his cock, he is getting so painfully hard just hearing and tasting you. This is so addictive. He suddenly understands all those couples he used to look at with disdain. 

This is nothing like just sex, this is much more addicting and thrilling! 

This is just so… Right! 

He is not eating you out gently, but like a starved animal who just found a juicy piece of meat. He growls and purrs, satisfied by your tremors and quivers under his touch. This is how you should be with him all the time, a good girl for him to play all day long, a little bit fearful and dripping wet. 

He expertly opens his trousers to free his erection and starts pumping it in rhythm with your sweet mewls. You are like a little bird who sang the sweetest melodies for him.  

He has no idea if you ever squirted in your life but this is now his mission, you are not leaving his embrace until you squirted for him, no matter how many tries it takes, how many hours he will have to fuck you, you’re going to do it.  

For him.  

For his pleasure. 

He slurps down your essence loudly, satisfied with your taste. This is quite savory, you’re about to become his new favorite treat!  

“How does it feel?” He teases between sips, “Do you like it?” 

You, on your end, just cannot respond. The only sounds passing your lips right now are desperate moans as he eats you out conscientiously. Your brain is frozen in a fight-or-flight response.  

“My little bird does not wish to sing to me?” He growls. 

And he slaps your pussy. You shake with a groan of pain and pleasure, to your utmost distress. 

“Ah! It… I’ve never done that…” You confess, panting, praying he will take pity on you 

He smiles as he devours you 

Good. 

Your pussy will only know his lips and no one else. Only he will make you feel this good. 

“Vocalize your pleasure louder. I want the whole Palace to know who’s making you feel this good.” 

He laughs at himself internally. He who took care of hiding your love affair from anyone else is ready to throw everything through the window if it means everyone knows you belong to him and him only right now! 

The rut is truly something else. 

“Ah S-Sir...!” You call for him when he resumes tonguefucking you. 

But he can’t help it, you just taste so good. He will eat you out every morning from now on. Who cares if someone hears you through the wall of his bed chamber? 

Not him, not anymore. 

You’ll be mated anyway, so it is only normal that he fulfills his duty and takes care of his charming darling every day! 

You gasp as a wave of pleasure crashes upon you suddenly, so much you feel your pussy spurting something in his face with great force. Was that... An orgasm? 

You gulp, your first orgasm... At the hand of that creepy prince, white like a ghost and dead white eyes... You tried to remain on his good side by humoring him with conversations, but you did not foresee the trap you stepped into... 

He darkly chuckles, having reached his goal. You delivered splendidly! He licks his lips clean of your essence, feeling it beading from his chin. That was even better than he anticipated, the little jump his heart did when you squirted in his mouth as if he were a young child being offered a sweet! 

You try to catch your breath, still bent over the console, shaken by that orgasm and your fear, feeling your throat dry like the desert. 

You froze, hearing the sound of a belt behind you. 

“Oh sweet thing, this is only the beginning...”  He rasps, already thinking about this month of rut ahead of you two... 

So delicious. 

You feel his erection pressed against your spasming pussy, coating his shaft with your release. He feels… Large. Really large. Not that you are really surprised given his size, of course his penis would be as large as him. What you cannot determine, however, is his length. 

You bite your lips in anticipation and dread. 

You feel his tip probing your entrance, before feeling him pushing it inside. 

Oh dear Gods! He is so massive! Your inner muscles work to welcome his size inside of you, but you feel him splitting you in two. 

Your mouth opens in a perfect O, trying to accommodate his size, that’s a real challenge!  

“Your little pussy struggles to take me, and I am not halfway through.” He sadistically notes. 

He’s not halfway through?! 

No way! How are you…? How could you…? 

“Stop struggling.” He orders, “I feel you clenching all around my cock, if you do not want me ramming into you immediately it is best you relax.” 

“I’m... I just...!” You choke, digging your nails in the wood of the table, hanging on for dear life. 

How are you supposed to survive this...? 

He keeps pushing inside, filling you more and more, reaching depths you didn’t even know you had.  

“Relax, Darling. Breath.” He talks you through it with a softer tone, like he is pitying you. “We are almost there.” 

You feel his ridges brushing your inner walls, you feel his cocks having some sort of scales made of somewhat hard flesh but they caress your soft flesh so deliciously…  You gasp, breathless, when you feel his tip brushing your cervix deep inside you. 

You feel his hips brushing your butt, he is fully in.  

And that’s a feat! 

“You squeeze me so much, my darling.” He says in a gasp, “You were tailor made for my cock.” 

“I-I feel so stuffed!” You manage to let out while you try to breathe through your nose. 

Having his complete length inside you just chased all the air out of your lungs and your little pussy stretched to its maximum. If you were on your back and not your stomach, you would see a bulge, that’s for sure. 

“Well, thank you, my darling.” He licks his lips, “And this is all for you. Only for you. Now relax.” 

And without leaving you any time to adjust to his size, He starts thrusting inside you. Deep, hard thrusts punching the air out of our lungs each time. You feel his hips hitting your pussy harshly like a bull, assaulting your poor body. 

“Oh Maker! Sir, slow down! Please!” You choke on your own words. 

He rocks you so hard you almost bite your tongue at each back-and-forth movement. He fucks you roughly, without regard for your comfort on that sturdy table. You feel your poor pussy trying to take him ramming his whole length into you. Your release helps him slip inside easily, but doesn’t help his massive size problem. 

It also doesn’t help how uncomfortable and... soiled you started to feel. 

“I will not slow down.” He announces, deaf to your cries, “You can take it, I know it. You can take anything I give.” 

He grips your arms and holds them firmly with one hand on your back while the other holds your hip, preventing you from falling forward.  

Prince Aodh fucks you as voraciously as He ate you out, gluttonously and harshly. He keeps his merciless pace as you try desperately to keep some dignity as you feel him fucking your brain out. You feel your pleasure growing, not softly and nicely, but like a furious wave growing like a tsunami under his brutal rhythm. So much that a bit of drool starts dripping out of your mouth. 

His tip hits your cervix relentlessly and his ridges scratch the inside of your pussy savagely, scratching every sweet spot at once and making you see hyperspace behind your eyelids. 

“Fuck!” You shout. 

“What foul language, my darling. Should I also fuck your mouth to teach you manners?” 

His hand holding your hip sneaks under your stomach to reach your nervous clit, pulsating with your heartbeat. He starts rolling it between his fingers while he rams into you like an animal. He pounds into you like it is his last day alive, and you can’t do anything but take it, like a toy for him to play with. You can do so little, you are barely more than a fuckdoll for him. 

He is torn on his end. 

On one hand, this is so pleasurable, so fantastic, it sends him into such spirals of pleasure and heightens all his senses in such fashion! He gorges himself on your scent, of your pathetic moans of the wet sounds of your little pussy…It drives him so crazy, he wonders if he could ever slip out of you. 

He would surely die if he ever did that. 

And on the other end, he hoped to take you nicely and languorously for hours on end for days, helping you reach new heights of pleasure and taking care of you romantically, not take you like a monster. Him who used to treat you so tenderly in each and every fashion like the fragile porcelain doll you are… 

But this rut… 

This is something so strong, so unstoppable and unfightable. 

It took him by complete surprise, robbing him of his control. 

But for once in his life He decides that is not so bad… 

He gasps as he feels your small pussy clenching around his large girth. You strangle him so, so well, just the right size for him to enter and squeeze him deliciously. You truly are made for him and his cock. 

And absolutely no one else! 

He hopes you would be able to forgive him for fucking you in such a way! You deserve to be worshiped and idolized like a goddess all night long, and he had the firm attention to pamper and venerate you like his personal Goddess... He will make it up to you! He will spend the next hours adoring you for you to pardon him for his transgression! 

You feel your pussy clenching more and more under the growing waves spreading in your veins, setting fire to each nerve ending until you scream His name out loud. 

It was completely unprompted; it escaped you while you tried to gasp for air, but your orgasm crashed on you so suddenly it took you by surprise. The tsunami reached the shore and devastated everything in its wake.  

“Keep screaming, My Darling. I want everyone to know who is fucking you this good.” 

You convulsing around him pushes him beyond pleasure, and He comes inside you without your consent after three more deep thrusts. He buries himself deep, spurting his seed in your most secret place. He feels your entire body tensing, then slumping, like all your strength escaped your organism with a “oof.” 

He gently caresses the cheeks of your butt with his large warm hands as he catches his breath, still deep inside. He slips his disheveled strands of long hair back on his head and opens his leather straps to get rid of his plate armor and his now-sweaty tunic. 

This is a really nice physical exercise! Far more enjoyable than his dry and boring warrior training. It could become his new routine! He always has been more than serious with his training, but he would look up to this new exercise each day, and he would partake with so much enthusiasm! 

You surely would not object! He would give you so much pleasure each and every day… 

He slips out of you and makes you roll on your back. You are still catching your breath while he has already recovered. Humans are no match for Elves’ stamina after all. He growls as he sees his semen oozing out of you.  

You are already wasting it! 

He collects it with his fingers and pushes it back inside, penetrating your sex with his slender digits. He sees you shaking with this simple touch, you are still so sensitive after all… He cleans you with his fingers, fingering it back inside your greedy womb that tries to retain him inside. He grins lightly. Your body doesn’t seem satisfied with two orgasms and seems to already call for him and his talents again.  

You, on the other hand, seem exhausted. 

He enters you again, localizing your G-spot easily, and starts brushing it eagerly. You mewl tiredly in response but your body’s answer is undeniably positive, your pussy stretches enthusiastically, dripping wet, and your legs spasm each time he scratches your spot with the pad of his fingers.  

“Sir…” You try to call, your hand lazily raising to grab his arm and stop him. 

But you have no energy left, and let your hand fall back to your side. He keeps fingering you, enjoying the ungodly wet noises of your pussy, stuffed with his white cum. 

One won’t be enough.  You need to do it again. Over and over again, until your cute tummy is completely bloated with his semen.  

Then, and only then, he will consider that he did a sufficient job. 

He pushes a third finger inside, and you whimper, like sweet music. Prince Aodh scissors you thoroughly, admiring your entrance gaping around his fingers. He can’t believe such a little pussy could take him so well, He actually thought you would not and break under him. But you did. And quite well, considering it. 

You gave him so much pleasure already, choking his shaft so lusciously, hugging his form so perfectly He felt like he could mold your insides for his specific shape, ensuring that any potential rival is terribly disappointing to you. 

But there will be no potential rival. In any shape or form. 

“Your... Higness…” You pitifully call again, your chest rising up and down as you breathe. 

“Is there a problem, my Darling? Are you in pain?” He investigates, just to be sure. 

He is not a monster after all. 

“No… No but-” You throw your head back with pleasure as He accelerates his ministrations. “Ah!” 

You’re in no pain, that’s all He wanted to know. 

“Let it happen, my darling. There is no use fighting it, let me take care of everything.” He charms you with his enthralling, deep, melodious voice. 

He circles and crosses your G-spot, rubbing it roughly while adding pressure with a hand on your Venus mound, earning sobs and moans from your part. He adds pressure on your clit with his thumb, gliding across it and flicking it, feeling you dripping off his hand as He hooks you from inside. He accelerates his care, stretching your pussy well as you tremble under his hand, knuckles deep, curling and spreading them, making his fingers twirl to caress any inner surfaces of your pussy. He then resumes fingering you mercilessly until you cry your eyes out, big tears rolling down as your pussy spasms around his soaked digits. 

You come again, shuddering dramatically. While you try to catch your breath again, He lowers himself to the level of your pussy to make sure all of his potent semen was inside, where it should be. He traces your pussylips with his fingers, utterly fascinated by that jewel of nature. 

He kisses your slit with reverence and raises back on his feet. 

He looms over you and pulls your tunic over your chemise. He takes out his blade and cuts it open, revealing your breast to his eyes. He feels his own eyes rounding up as He discovers them in plain sight, your nipples standing up to attention as the cold bites them. 

Your boobs are just to his taste, just how he likes them. 

He grabs them in his large hand and kneads them well, rolling your nipples between his fingers. He leans forward and takes one in his mouth, sucking on it. 

Soon, when he does that again, He will taste your milk. He will drink from your tits when they get heavy with milk. He cannot wait… 

He kisses it and takes the other one in his mouth, licking across the soft skin, peppering it with soft kisses as you sob, cheeks soaked, your hand coming to caress his hair. 

He stands back straight, slicking his long hair back, letting sweat roll on his gorgeous body, his skin glistening with sweat. His white eyes shine hungrily in the low light of the room, fixated on your form under him. 

He pumps his cock one or two times, hardening already again and pushes it back inside, your essence acting up as lube. He watches fascinated how his penis disappears inside your body, a creamy O at his base.  

The bulge is consequent, and He can’t help a dark snicker. You are going to be gorgeous, all round with his child… 

He resumes his hard thrusting, gripping your hips harshly, digging his nails into your soft flesh to keep you in place. He watches your boobs bobbing up and down, hypnotized. You whimper, tears rolling down your cheeks, as all of this is way too much for you. You’re oversensitive, and He keeps the pleasure rolling longer and farther, teasing your nerves until you break down completely. 

But He wants more. 

He broke down your sentiments, but He wants to break down your mind, utterly destroying it. He wants you dumb and cockdrunk, stuffed with his seed like the good girl he knows you are. So He keeps burying his girth deep in you, brushing your G-spot with the edges of his ridges  

He needs to give you more loads or you’ll never get pregnant!  

What if the remedies He took were not enough? He worries in the back of his mind. What if nothing was enough and you’ll never get pregnant? What if your two species are ultimately incompatible? 

Prince Aodh pushes these thoughts back. 

Of course, He’s going to get you pregnant. He is The Prince, a warrior, an Elf. Nothing is impossible to him. 

He would not allow any other results. 

He rocks his hips into yours, reveling in the pleasure you are giving him. He undulates his body with delight, meeting your dripping sex, the sounds of flesh hitting flesh echoing in the large room. He chases both of your releases while you fully tremble underneath him, He seizes your thighs with his large hands and spreads them wide open, throwing your legs on his shoulders, allowing him to deepen his thrusts. 

Oh that is just so good… 

He hoped his first time with you would have been romantic and sweet. He still has a heart full of love and devotion after all, He thought that after a date at a gallery, He would have treated you to a nice dinner before carrying you to bed and honoring you all night long. But instead, He is ramming into you like a beast, in the middle of his boardroom on his ship for all his crew to hear, trying to break you into a million pieces under him. 

You truly never know what life has in store for you! 

In all honesty, He didn’t know it would go so well. He feared entering you for the first time would have him come undone right here and there, and it almost happened! He had to collect all his will to not explode inside just by entering you. His honor would have never recovered if He had come before satisfying his darling first! 

What kind of elf would he be then? One that only chases his own pleasure like a self-centered jerk? He likes to think of himself as above that. 

Granted, you are in this situation because he couldn’t help but chase his own release, but that is completely beside the point! 

He circles his hips to vary the sensations, and you bite your lips to blood in response. 

“What did I say about silencing yourself?” He scolds you, growling. 

He seizes your jaw, pressing your cheeks like a fish, and leans forward dangerously, shooting you with his feverish gaze. You look so silly like that. 

“This is the last time I warn you, understood?” He demands with a dark tone. 

You can only nod with your silly expression, eyes round with surprise and submission. That looks good on you. He leans further to lick your cheek as He rocks his hips, realizing you soiled it with your drool, smeared all over your jaw. Did you lose all control? He wonders, snickering. 

He captures your lips for a messy kiss, tongue dancing, and drool exchanging. You whine, having your air robbed out of you, and He accentuates his thrusts to have you reach higher notes. The Prince lies fully on you, taking you in his arms to hug you tight, his thrusts are still mean and hard, hurting your pelvis with his raw strength.  

“Focus on kissing me, sweet thing.” He orders, between little kisses all over your jaw. 

He feels you drooling on yourself as your lips meet again, and that amuses him tremendously. He moans in the kisses, burying himself to the hilt as your pussy swallows him whole as it should. 

His heart is singing. Is it what true bliss feels like? Being one with your other half… 

He licks your lips as you roll your eyes inside your skull, too lost in the pleasure and utter fear he gives you. He keeps bullying his length into you, embracing you with his long arms. He sneaks his hand under your tunic on your back and buries his nose in the crook of your neck to inhale your musk. His heart flutters, pumping his blood at 100 miles per hour. It has been so long since he felt excitement like that, such pure joy, having you close like that, sharing such an intimate and vulnerable moment with you. He brushes the tip of his nose on your neck, purring deeply while you keep whimpering in his ears, arms circled around his large form and legs circled around his waist, keeping him deep buried in your puffy pussy. 

You long stopped trying to formulate sentences, your brain is too fried for you to speak proper Elvish, instead just letting broken mewls escape you. But that is as good for him, that is a testimony of the overwhelming pleasure he is giving you, and He revels in it with pride. 

Your inner walls are all gorged with blood, fluffy and soft for his cock, your pussy is clenching painfully around him and your clit is pulsating furiously, begging for attention. You snake one hand between your two bodies to caress it, and maybe ease your painful muscles, prompting him to look down at what you are doing. 

“Sorry, my darling. You invaded all of my mind, and I lost track of things.”He apologizes. 

One of his large hands follows yours and starts to tease your bundle of nerves instead of your more petite hand. 

What kind of idiot is He? How dare He lose himself so much to stop paying attention to your needs? He chastises himself. 

Prince Aodh thoroughly rolls and presses your clit between his fingers as He undulates his hips with the energy of a beast. He resumes kissing you, feeling so light, like all his pressure and problems just vanished in your presence. He hugs your tongue with his, dancing with it, robbing you of your breath. 

You feel the waves of pleasure spreading through your veins and your pussy, making it convulsing ferociously and you come for the fourth time, screaming the Prince’s name. 

Once again, your orgasm pushes his and He comes deep inside your womb for a second time.  

This time you notice. 

“You came inside?” You ask breathlessly, visibly worried,  

“Oh my.” He responds with a lopsided grin, caressing the bulge made by his shaft with his warm hand, “Then we will have no other choice but to take care of a little one.” 

Abortion is out of the question. For you? With his child? Out of the question. He will not even entertain the idea. 

“Wha-What? … But Your Higness!?” You blabber, your voice completely broken between your tears. 

“I will take my responsibilities with you and the kid, do not worry about anything.” He puts his forehead against yours, shiny white eyes buried in yours. “I will not disappear and leave you alone. Everything will be alright. We will be together.” He embraces you tightly. “You need not worry.” 

He cradles you gently, hearing your shallow, rapid breaths. He sighs, satisfied. 

Well, not completely. Two is still not enough. He starts a back and forth movement again, but this time slow, gentle, loving, languorous… 

"A... Again?” You sob incredulously, at the end of your own rope 

 He brushes his nose with yours. 

“I told you earlier I was full of energy today… I know you are tired, my darling, but you do not need to cry like that. Let me do the work. Easy, easy... ” 

He holds your cheeks in his hands, forehead against forehead, purring gently and deeply. 

This. 

This is true bliss. True happiness. You and him, locked together forever. Legacies tied in reputation and now blood. 

“What will I do if I get pregnant?” Your tears keep rolling down your cheeks as your shoulders shake, “Your fiance will hunt me down, the Crown, your Parents will hang me for the offence, I... I am going to die!.” You start panicking 

Aodh growls at such a childish display, making you freeze. Why won’t you drop the subject? Or better yet, why don’t you see it as the absolutely marvelous good news for your couple as he does? 

Now that you’ve mated together, no need to hide the affair, no need to refer to each other as simple ‘friends’ as you did until now! You will be able to live your love under the sun! 

“You will not lose anything. I will keep you at my side, whatever might happen. No one will even touch a single strand of your hair on that splendid head of yours.. Like I said…” He looks into your eyes with the most serious expression you have ever seen on his face and… Some underlying hunger and jealousy, “... Do not worry about anything.” 

[lonelystarsstuff]

bride of the abyss

Pairing: Yandere Siren x Reader Description: Years after you saved him, Zeiryn returns to drag you beneath the waves—where his love waits, fierce and inescapable. Warning/s: Yandere | Noncon/Dubcon Themes | Kidnapping | Possessive Behavior | Captivity | Obsession | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Violence | Body Morphing/Transformation Note/s: Commissioned on ko-fi! Thabk you for trusting me with your commission! Idk if you've received the email. I hope you enjoy this one! Tags will be added later!

Commissions are still open!

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The first time you met him, the sun was so high it burned your shoulders through your shirt. Your sandals had long been discarded, the soles of your feet pressed against coarse, grainy sand, warmed by the afternoon heat. Vacation meant freedom, and for you—a curious child with scraped knees and untamed hair—that meant wandering far beyond the adults’ lazy eyes and picnic baskets.

You weren’t supposed to be near the cliffs. The locals had told stories, murmured warnings of tides that dragged unsuspecting feet into the undertow. But you were eight, and warnings slid off your ears like water. You’d chased a crab across slick rocks, nearly slipping once—okay, twice—before rounding a jagged stone formation and stopping short.

A glint of silver caught your eye. At first, you thought it was trash—a bit of foil or an abandoned soda can. Then it moved. Just slightly. Enough to catch the sun and reflect a brilliance so blinding it made your eyes water. You stepped closer, heart thudding, and gasped.

He was tangled in a net.

You didn’t know what he was—some strange fish, perhaps? But then he turned his face to you, and your world cracked open.

He had eyes like the sea after a storm—grey, but not dull. There was depth there. Sorrow. His skin, though damp and streaked with grit, shimmered faintly under the sun. Hair, long and tangled with bits of kelp and shell, framed a face that was almost too lovely for this world. And below the waist…

A tail. Silver-scaled, powerful, twitching weakly with every shallow breath he took.

You froze.

He didn’t speak. He just stared. His lips slightly parted. You noticed the way he held himself, cautious and ready to defend. His hand—webbed and claw-tipped—twitched when you shifted your weight.

“I won’t hurt you,” you said, holding out your hands to show you had nothing. No rocks. No spear. Just your palms, scraped and pink from climbing.

He blinked slowly, suspicious still.

“Are you stuck?” you asked.

No reply. But he didn’t back away when you stepped closer. You knelt beside him, the scent of salt and something sharper—like rotting seaweed baking in the sun—invading your nose. It made your stomach twist. But you pushed it aside and began working at the net.

The knots were tight. You pulled and untangled, ignoring the barnacles slicing your fingertips. Time passed, but neither of you spoke. It wasn’t silence. The waves talked, the seagulls screamed above, and your own breath came hard with effort. Still, it felt sacred—like speaking would shatter something delicate between you.

Eventually, the net slackened.

He let out a sharp sound—surprise? Relief?—and pushed himself forward, dragging the last threads free with a flick of his tail. Then, to your astonishment, he touched your arm. A light brush of damp fingers on your skin. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes—raw and electric—said everything.

And then, he was gone. A splash, a spray of saltwater, and silver glimmering beneath the waves.

You never told anyone.

You convinced yourself it was a dream, a fantasy born from too much sun. But you visited that rock again. And again. Just in case.

Years passed. You grew up. He did not fade.

• • — ✦ — • •

Beneath the waves, he remembered everything.

Zeiryn had been young when you saved him, and even then, his mind was unlike the others. While his kin drowned sailors and split hulls for fun, Zeiryn watched the world above with a secret hunger. He had never known mercy—not until you. He thought you were an illusion at first. A sun-struck phantom, kindness shaped like a child.

But you were real. You touched him without fear. You saved him.

And he had never forgotten.

Seasons passed above and below. He grew stronger, his voice deeper, the gift of his lineage blooming in his throat. His tail thickened with muscle, the silver of his scales deepening to something more molten, almost iridescent. His hair, once wild and matted, was now woven with the treasures of the deep—rings of coral, braids of pearl, beads carved from whalebone. He was no longer a drifting child of the tide. He was a leader now.

Yet every dusk, he swam to the same stretch of shore, peering through kelp and coral, waiting for the only face that had ever haunted him.

And then—finally—he saw you.

You stood there, older, but still you. Your eyes held the same wonder, the same distant sadness. He watched from the rocks, heart hammering, the sea rising with every thrum of anticipation. You were holding a bottle. The scent reached him even through the water. Alcohol. Sour and sharp.

You stumbled closer to the edge, barefoot like before. He didn’t understand your tears at first. But when they hit the water, he tasted them.

Bitterness.

He had never tasted sorrow before.

He moved without thinking, cutting through the water with a predator’s grace. When you stepped into the sea—lost, maybe hoping it would take you—he was already there. His arms wrapped around you just before your knees buckled. He caught you. Held you. And for the first time in years, he felt whole again.

He turned to the shore. His eyes, once filled with awe, hardened. There were people there. A town. A world that had allowed you to suffer.

He would never forgive it.

The water closed over your head.

And he took you home.

• • — ✦ — • •

The cold hits you first. It pierces your skin like needles, forcing your eyes open.

Then the pressure—thick and heavy—presses against your chest. You try to gasp and choke instead. The world is liquid. Blurry shapes. Movement. Panic claws through you. You thrash—

Then you notice the shimmer.

Your legs—no. Not legs.

You scream, but no sound comes out. Just bubbles.

The tail is yours. You move, and it moves with you—powerful, golden, alien.

Your lungs don’t ache. You aren’t drowning.

You’re breathing. Underwater.

A presence approaches. You backpedal—awkward, instinctual.

Then he’s there.

The siren.

Older. Towering. Regal in a way that defies language. His eyes widen as you meet his gaze. He reaches for you like a lover, a prayer on his lips without sound.

You float, stunned, your heart racing in your chest.

"You're awake! Welcome home!" he says—somehow, impossibly, the words sliding into your mind like a current. His voice doesn’t echo in your ears. It resonates in your bones. Inside you.

Your lips tremble. “What... what did you do to me?”

He cocks his head, almost confused by the question. “I saved you.”

You glance around. Coral walls. Bioluminescent plants. Faint shadows darting beyond what your eyes can track.

“I didn’t ask to be saved.”

His face falters, just briefly. But then the soft smile returns. “You did, once. When I was dying. You touched me. You gave me your warmth. Your kindness.” He swims closer. “You were the only one who ever did.”

“That was years ago.” You try to back away, but your body is sluggish in this new form. “I was a kid.”

“You remembered me.” His voice is gentle now, like a lullaby. “You returned.”

You shake your head, panicked. “No. I—I was just walking. I didn’t know—”

His hand reaches forward, cupping your cheek. His touch is warm now. Familiar. Like seawater kissed by the sun. “You were hurting. They made you cry. But you don’t have to cry anymore.”

“I want to go back,” you whisper.

“There’s nothing there for you.”

He’s not angry. Not yet. Just... patient. Like he’s waiting for you to understand something you’ve missed.

“You belong here,” he murmurs. “With me.”

You remember the way he looked at you back then—curious and soft. But this is different. There’s devotion in his eyes. A fire born not of gentle affection, but of obsession that has steeped too long.

“You changed me,” you say, voice shaking. You look down at the tail. “How?”

“There’s a pearl,” he says, pointing to your side. You notice now—embedded near your hip is a small, glowing orb, barely visible beneath your skin.

“I couldn’t risk losing you again.”

You turn, frantic now. “No, no, this isn’t right. I can’t—this isn’t real.”

“You are real.” His voice is sharper now. “I dreamed of you so long I thought you were only in my mind. But you’re here. Flesh and spirit. And you’ll never have to suffer again.”

You shake your head. “I’m not your wife.”

Silence.

Then he leans close, his breath warm against your ear even underwater.

“Yet.”

• • — ✦ — • •

Back on the surface, a woman named Marina squints at the shore where she last saw you. She’s a local—grew up with the sea in her lungs and warnings stitched into her grandmother’s lullabies. When she saw you walk into the ocean, something in her gut twisted. She waited hours. You didn’t return.

Now, she’s standing with a fisherman and an old priest, their gazes following the waterline.

“No body,” the man mutters. “Currents here don’t drag far. Should’ve washed up if she drowned.”

“She didn’t drown,” Marina says softly. “She was taken.”

The priest mutters something in an old tongue. The fisherman scoffs.

“By what? Sea spirits? Merfolk?”

“No.” Marina’s eyes don’t leave the water. “A siren.”

“Those don’t exist.”

“They do,” she says. “And if it’s the one I think… she won’t come back.”

And deep beneath the waves, Zeiryn brushes a strand of hair from your face as you lie curled in coral-silk bedding. You’ve cried yourself into a stupor. But your skin is warmer now. The transformation is complete. Soon, you’ll forget what it was like to walk. To speak above the waves. To live without him.

He hums you a song—a melody he’s written over the years, just for you. It wraps around your heart like a net.

You stir in your sleep.

He smiles.

Tomorrow, you’ll love him back.

You have to.

After all… you’re home.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans@ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

[lonelystarsstuff]

I decided to make this ghost incredibly desperate. He yearns and he’s so pathetic.

Yandere Short Stories:

The Love From the Dark

Yandere Victorian Ghost x Fem Reader x Author Fiancé

TW: toxic relationship, character death, descriptive MURDER, body horror and decay, suicide (mention), horror elements, Yandere themes, unhealthy relationship dynamics, PATHETIC MAN, delusional behavior, and themes that should not be romanticized in real life

The sun’s rays momentarily blinded (your name) as the moving van turned the curve up the hill towards their destination. The wind from the open window tousled her hair with its invisible fingers. A smile now painted on her face from its soothing ministrations.

This was a fresh start… one her fiancé, Clayton, insisted they take together. The Victorian home would give him the perfect inspiration to defeat his writer’s block and finish his horror book… all because the house was rumored to be haunted.

“It’s rumored to be crawling with paranormal activity. Not to mention it was a steal! It has the perfect environment for me to write a horror book. Are you not supportive of me?” Clayton’s words replayed in her mind like a tape on an endless loop.

The couple hardly spoke to one another anymore, Clayton was so consumed in his writing that he almost didn’t exist in reality anymore save for driving, sleeping, or eating.

(Your name) constantly walked on eggshells around him in order not to tip the delicate scale of their relationship towards separation. She’s been with him for so many years that she couldn’t imagine a life without him. Even though he was no longer a man she recognized.

Ten minutes later and their van finally made it to their new home… and it was the creepiest looking house she’s ever seen. Some of the grey paint was peeling on the sides and all the surrounding trees were still barren despite the season being spring. Not to mention the large murder of crows that snuggled their little black bodies on the roof.

“…this place looks like a haunted house out of a paranormal film. I’m not sure if this is a good idea-“ but she was instantly met with a scoff.

“I don’t want to hear it. This is for our future and for my book.” Clayton rolled his eyes at her concerns. “It’s only for a few months, then we can move somewhere else. It’s not like ghosts are actually real. It’s just the perfect ambience for a horror book, plus the study has a view of a cemetery on the plot.”

(Your name) glanced at the house once more, its eerie presence caused a shiver rolled down her spine.

Yet there was a familiar feeling that crept into her mind. Why did it feel like she’s been here before?

.

.

.

The moment the couple entered, they were shocked to the core. The interior was in perfect shape. It was almost as if they entered a Time Machine back to the early 19th century.

Yet what caught (your name)’s eye was the giant portrait of a woman who looked identical to her in the grand living room right above the fireplace.

She walked forward and gently placed her hand on the fireplace, her fingers traced the smooth stone in wonder. Not a spec of dust lifted onto her finger tips.

That portrait wasn’t just similar to her appearance, it was eerily her exact appearance. It was an uncanny coincidence. One that made her stomach do summersaults to the point of queasiness.

“Clayton… I don’t think we should be here.” She expressed worry once more, but he loudly clicked his tongue in disagreement.

“Tsk. It’s probably just a coincidence. You’re looking too much into it.” He then brushed past her to head up the stairs. He was determined to claim that study. He had seen its grandiose design on the realtor site prior to purchase. It even overlooked the entire manor. Whoever built this home must have been loaded.

(Your name) frowned. She just couldn’t understand why her fiancé had changed so much. He was now married to work rather than about to marry her. She was so lonely within her own relationship and that made her even more depressed.

She studied the grand room one last time a frown on her face when she noticed a different portrait that had its face torn apart. Someone must have had a fit of anger when they did that from his damaged it was.

(Your name) shook her head clear and decided to explore. Maybe this house wouldn’t be so bad…

Yet if she glanced in the corner of the room, she’d notice the eyes of the destroyed portrait in the corner had moved.

“(Your name)?” A raspy, masculine voice heaved. His voice scratchy and low like he hadn’t spoken in ages.

Black liquid oozes from the eyes of the portrait like tears. His wife came home… she was finally home.

.

.

.

(Your name) felt sick to her stomach when she saw every single room had a portrait of her likeness in it. There was no way it was a coincidence now. This was intentional.

She felt an overwhelming feeling bubble in her stomach. It was a kind of feeling that pray felt when it sensed a predator. She needed to leave. She needed to get out of here right this second.

Knock. Knock.

(Your name) knocked on the door of Clayton’s study. Her hands trembled a leaf in a strong wind. She was so scared… she needed comfort and reassurance more than anything right now.

“Clay? Clay I’m scared.” She stated outside the door.

Her fiancé didn’t answer. Her shaky hands quickly, went to hold her arms in order to soothe herself. The anxiety began to painfully, squeeze her chest.

“Clay? I’m serious. This house… something isn’t right here. There’s so many portraits. Can we please leave? Please-“

The door opened so fast, a gust of wind blew her hair back a bit. Clayton’s cognac eyes were filled with annoyance as he glanced down at her.

“Seriously? I’m writing right now, the writer’s block is finally gone. Can’t you do this attention seeking behavior some other time?” Clayton’s words were spat at her like the venom of a snake.

“Clay, I’m not lying. Please. I’m scared-“

“I don’t have time for this. I have a book to write. Why don’t you go to bed and I’ll join you after a bit, hm? It’s just a few months here so you’re going to have to deal with it.” Clayton waved her away with a flick of his left hand. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. And I doubt someone would make so many portraits that look like you.”

Before she could get in another word, the door slammed shut on her face. A frown now etched on her soft features.

She just wanted a hug and to be told it’d be okay… she hadn’t meant to annoy him.

She turned on her heel to walk away so Clayton didn’t hear her sniffle. She hated when she cried in front of people… especially when she knew he wouldn’t comfort her.

The lights flickered on the walls as she walked past. The entity lurked in the hall by the study.

“Don’t cry… don’t cry…” his raspy voice was as soft as a breeze. “Don’t leave me.”

.

.

.

(Your name) picked a room on the west wing of the house to have to herself. She was still upset about that argument with Clayton. He still had locked himself into his study like a petulant child despite the clock on the hand that hit ten o’clock at night.

She had found a portrait of a woman that looked like her in every room and expressed she was terrified yet Clayton brushed her concerns off like the typical horror movie protagonist. He insisted the paranormal didn’t exist and this was all merely a coincidence. That his priorities lied in the completion of his horror book.

Did she really mean so little to him? That writing meant more to him than his own fiancée? Haven’t she didn’t wanna think about it too long because it would only made her more upset.

She crawled into the soft queen sized bed, the curtains to her canopy kept her shaken form concealed to anyone who may past by… not that there was anyone else here but Clayton. And he was locked away in the study in the east wing.

(Your name) felt herself waver before the first few tears finally began to fall. She just couldn’t understand why Clayton had become so selfish. Was she not lovable anymore? Had she done something to make him uninterested? She just wanted to be loved again like she used to be.

An hour went by before she cried enough tears to nearly drown herself in a river of dreamless sleep.

Yet before everything went dark, she felt something icy cold cradle her face I a reverent manner. Had Clayton come to check on her? She knew he still cared deep down. That he wouldn’t let her go to bed lonely as he had in the last few months.

At least that was what her sleep addled mind allowed her to believe. It was a poor attempt of self comfort on her part, but she was too groggy to find falsity in that thought.

She let sleep take her as its prisoner once she assured herself of the who owned those cold hands. A foolish move on her part.

But those hands did not belong to her beloved Clayton… no. It was the shadowy hands of something far more sinister.

“It is you…you’ve finally come back to me.” That raspy voice echoed through the room. “I won’t mess up this time. I’ll be a good husband. I’ll take care of you…”

If only she had went with her gut feeling… Clayton’s hands were never cold.

.

.

.

(Your name) woke up to her body being wrapped comfortably in blankets and a glass of water on the bedside table. Two tabs of acetaminophen were even placed next to the crystal glass cup. A soft smile lit up her features.

Had Clayton laid with her for a bit like he used to? Oh she had missed those times so dearly. Maybe there was hope for them. He hadn’t been thoughtful in ages…

She happily accepted the glass of water and pain pills before she began to get around. She should make breakfast for them to show her appreciation.

.

.

.

Meanwhile, Clayton had fallen asleep in the study. His brown eyes slowly opened to wake up to the giant portrait of a woman that looked like (your name).

Hadn’t he covered that blasted picture up with a blanket?

He rose up to cover it once more but he noticed a paper placed on the desk written in furious red calligraphy. A writing style one would see in the 19th century rather than modern time.

Do not cover up my wife.

Wife? Who on earth wrote that?

Clayton glanced at the portrait once more, the smallest hint of unease hit him before it was gone.

This home was only for a few months. At least until his rough draft was finished. There couldn’t possibly be such a thing as ghosts, right?

He heard a knock at the door and saw his fiancée’s smiling face.

“Can we have breakfast together? It’s been a while since we’ve enjoyed a simple meal.” (Your name) smiled at Clayton who sighed.

“Maybe once I’m done with this page.” Clayton replied coolly. His amber eyes flicked back over to the writings that were scribbled on various sheets. “I’m very busy with the book.”

“…I understand.” (Your name) tried to mask her discontent with a reassuring smile, but if Clayton were to actually pay attention, he’d notice how strained the smile was. “I hope to see you soon.”

Their relationship had finally approached its finality and Clayton wasn’t even aware that the straw was about to break the camel’s back.

.

.

.

(Your name) waited a few hours in the morning for Clayton to eat with her. The warm food eventually went cold as she was met with disappointment once more.

A hiccup fell from her lips before she could stop it. A sob soon followed. There truly was no hope for this love to bloom again. The flowers of love were dead at last.

Yet in her frustration, she was unaware of the entity observed her from the shadows. A giddy gleam in his beady black eyes.

His wife… she needed him. And he wouldn’t let her down this time.

“Don’t worry, my love… I’ll make sure you love home and never want to leave me. You’ll never cry again.”

.

.

.

Clayton heard a clicking noise out in the hall. A sigh fell from his lips in annoyance. Did (your name) not understand he was busy? Wait… he promised to have breakfast with her.

Clayton turned his head toward the grandfather clock and cursed. It was nearly eight at night! Had he truly lost himself in his own little world for that long? He couldn’t imagine how upset his fiancée was…

He went to the door to open it but the handle wouldn’t budge.

Click. Click. Click. Was it locked from the outside?

“(Your name)? I’m sorry I didn’t come down for breakfast but you don’t have to lock the door.” Clayton rubbed the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t normal for her. She would never be this petty.

Click. Click. Click.

“(Your name) I’m serious. Open this door!” Clayton began to toggle the door hand even harder but it wouldn’t budge. It was almost as if the doorknob had been welded rather than locked. “(Your name)?! (Your name)-“

“She can’t hear you.” Clayton whipped his head around when he heard a raspy voice in the room with him. The hair stood up on the back of his neck when he realized he was the only person in the room.

“Who’s there?” Clayton hissed, his cognac eyes wildly searched the room. “Show yourself.”

Clayton jumped when the flames in the fireplace jumped to life. The flames nearly licked the carpet before it. What in the world?

“I don’t think someone like you could possibly comprehend what I am… so why don’t you take a seat for me, Clay.”

Before Clayton could spit out a retort, the floorboards suddenly came to life and slid him forward toward the armchair by the fireplace like a slide on a playground. What? This had to be a dream…

“You’re not a very good man.” The ghost told him. “You remind me of myself when I was alive. I was also so selfish and stubborn.”

Clayton wasn’t able to utter a word before an invisible force slammed him down to sit in the vintage recliner. The soft, mustard yellow fabric did little to calm him as the flames danced more violently in the fireplace. Ghosts weren’t real… he’s never believed in them before.

“I asked you to politely take a seat, but you seem to be the kind that has to learn the hard way.”

Clayton watched a shadowy, masculine form in the corner of the room as the figure made his way over to stand before the fireplace. His shadowy hand grasped the fire poker and stirred the wood.

“I was once a work oriented man. A wealthy merchant back then. I thought this beautiful house was all it would take to keep my lovely wife happy…” the entity continued to stir at the fire in thought. “She was so lovely, you know. So loving and kind. I took her for granted.”

Clayton could only listen in shock as the entity sighed. The ghost set down the fire poker to gently trace over the portrait of the woman who looked eerily similar to (your name).

Clayton felt a lump form in his throat. (Your name) had been so worried about those portraits and he had brushed her off. God he wished he had listened.

“My beautiful wife… it’s my fault she left me.” Bang! The entity suddenly slammed his fists into the wood above the fireplace. “She took her own life, all because I made her feel so lonely! But… but she returned to me.”

Clayton’s blood went cold as the temperature suddenly dropped in the study. What did the ghost mean by that? Was (your name) in danger?

“Listen, (your name) and I didn’t mean to disturb you. I think we will leave-“

Clayton didn’t have time to scream before the fabric of the recliner wrapped around his face and applied pressure. His fingers clawed at the wool fabric in vain.

“Leave? You’re not taking my (your name) away!” The entity hissed. Clayton soon felt more pressure held to his face and even around his throat. His hands clawed desperately at air. “This isn’t anything too personal, you’re just in the way of me reuniting with my beloved.”

Clayton felt his eyes roll back as he kept trying to fight the entity. He would never get the chance to apologize to (Your name). To tell her that he loved her. To hold her one more time and feel her kisses. He didn’t want to die. Not like this.

“Your body will do. Oh it’s been so long since I’ve had a body… I’ll take such good care of her this time. She’ll never be lonely again!”

Clayton felt his world go black, his heart finally stopped. The entity then released Clayton, the body flopped onto the floor with a thunk.

The entity stroked the purplish hue away from Clayton’s face. The entity soon hummed “here comes the bride” as he dug his shadowy hands into Clayton’s mouth to enter.

“My wife… my beautiful wife. We’re together again now.”

.

.

.

(Your name) stirred awake when she felt a hand touch her face. Her eyes slowly opened to see Clayton’s familiar silhouette.

“Clay?”

“Shh… go back to sleep, darling.” Her face scrunched up a bit in confusion. Darling? Clayton never used pet names. He always said they were childish.

But she didn’t argue when she felt a body beside hers in the bed. Clayton’s lean arms pulled her close as a nose buried itself into her neck to deeply inhale her scent.

“I missed you… I missed you so much.” He murmured into her skin before he pressed a few kisses to her neck. Yet they felt strangely cold.

“I missed you too.” She held his hand. A few tears slipped down her cheeks like a leaky faucet. “So much…”

“Shh… I’m here now.” Clayton whispered into her skin. “And I’ll never leave you alone again. I swear.”

She smiled as she let his honeyed words comfort her. It was so nice to finally be held again.

A shame this wasn’t Clayton. That he was the lonely entity that possessed this house that finally had its wish come true… a second chance.

.

.

.

(Your name) hummed as she made breakfast. The smell of bacon and fresh eggs filled the air.

For the first time in two months, Clayton came down to have breakfast with her. He sat eagerly at the table in the strangest of clothes. She didn’t know why he was wearing 18th-century clothes, but who is she to judge? She wasn’t a writer. Maybe he was in cosplay to get in the mood to write his story?

Clayton had even set the table with utmost manners he never displayed in his life. He must be really committed to this elegant character he presented himself as.

She served him his plate and paused at the weird, pungent smell he had. That was odd… Clayton never smelled like that before.

“Clay? You have a rather… peculiar scent.” (Your name) softly notified him. She knew how much Clayton hated when she was too blunt, so she always had to dance around her words in order not to hurt his feelings.

Clayton froze for a moment before he gave her a smile. “ I must be dirty from all that time I spent in the study. I’m so sorry, my darling.”

There was a pet name again. The darling…

“Clay? Are you sure you’re alright? You’ve never called me, darling before…”

Clayton’s fork and knife paused mid cut of the bacon. Another weird habit she never saw before.

“I haven’t? Do you not like it?” He asked, his brow furrowed with worry. “How about I call you my love instead?”

She shook her head and smiled. “You’ve just never used pet names before… I like them.”

Clayton then gave her a warm smile as he spoke once more. “Then I’ll call you all the pet names you’d like.”

Her heart fluttered. It had been so long since her fiancé paid attention to her and it felt so nice.

Clayton watched the way her cheeks flushed in pure joy. She looked so pretty when she was happy. He’d make sure to always keep her like that… but first he had to solve his problem with this body.

He would hate to rot so quickly on her. He would have to shove some posies in his pockets to mask the scent until he found a better solution.

.

.

.

A few days went by and she noticed Clayton bloated a bit. She didn’t trigger his gluten allergy with the toast, did she?

“Clay, do you need your EpiPen?” (Your name) asked Clayton who gave her a reassuring look.

“No, I’m fine. I just hadn’t ate with you in so long.” She smiled at his response.

“Are you sure? I’m a bit worried about you. You’re bloating…”

“I’m fine, truly.” Clayton reassured her. He wouldn’t let her see how anxious he truly was.

This body was decaying too fast… he wouldn’t be able to hold onto it. And he didn’t want to scare her with an animated corpse… he had to think of a different solution now.

.

.

.

Clayton hobbled to the basement before his body fell to the floor with a thunk. The entity cursed as he noticed the rot began in the stomach area. The temporary body was no longer viable anymore.

“You’re so useless even in death.” The entity rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He floated around the basement that held portraits of his human form from back in the day. A stern looking man with dark hair and a hooked nose was painted on each art piece… but the ghost’s favorite was the one where he was beside his wife.

“I have to find a way to keep you here.” He cried in anguish. “I can’t let you slip away again. I don’t want to be all alone…”

He lovingly traces the portrait’s face. He had waited here for over a hundred years for this second chance.

The ghost went over to the coffin in the basement before he opened it to reveal the skeleton inside. A Victorian death mask covered the skeleton’s face. This wasn’t ideal… but his old body wouldn’t smell like decay.

He could stuff the body and wear gloves… he knew his (your name) deserved more, but it’s all he could offer.

“This is for us… it’s all for us.” The ghost reassured himself as he lifted the mask for the first time in over a century.

The charade was up… and he’d have to burn Clayton’s body in the incinerator. He didn’t want Clayton to stink up the place.

.

.

.

There was not a doubt in (your name)’s mind when Clayton came to her that he wasn’t Clayton. She could no longer lie to herself.

Whoever this was, they were far too nice to her. Too chivalrous. Too gentle.

Where her fiancé once treated her with disdain, this man treated her as if she was more precious than gold.

She felt arms wrapped around her around her as the cold mask leaned on her shoulder.

“…what’s your real name?” She felt the man pause.

“W-what do you mean, my love?” He stuttered. His voice was raspy. It no longer even sounded like Clayton.

“You know what I mean.” She pulled away to turn around. Her hands gently cradled the masked face. “You’re far too sweet to me and your voice… it’s not Clayton’s.”

Hands shot up to hold her hands as a sob racked through the body of the man. She frowned in worry. This wasn’t a reaction she thought he’d have.

“I’m sorry… please don’t leave me!” Now this was a man who was desperate… it was refreshing to her.

“Shh… it’s okay. I’m not scared.” She lifted off the mask to show the face of a skeleton. A black liquid oozed from its eye sockets like a grotesque imitation of tears. The sight was something out of a horror movie, but she knew this entity didn’t want to harm her.

“I’m… I’m Frederick Anderson.” Frederick grasped her hands and pressed kisses to the back of them. Yet it felt odd since he only had his teeth exposed…

“Frederick?” She softly asked and Frederick nodded.

“I’m your husband! Well… the one last time.” He told her as he nuzzled her hands. He continued to try to kiss them. “You’re my wife… my beautiful (your name).”

She could not bring herself to be scared of him. Not when he seemed so desperate and lonely.

“Is that why you have so many portraits of me?”

“I painted them myself!” He exclaimed. “When you… died. I was so lost without you. Nothing mattered anymore. The townspeople all said I went mad, and I did. Life had no meaning if you weren’t in it!”

She listened as he began to ramble about their past life.

“I lost purpose. I had worked so hard to have this home made for us. To have the perfect place for us to start a family. I spent too long away from you.” He told her. “It’s all my fault. I should have never left you all alone… can you ever forgive me? I’ve already waited over a hundred years for you… I do not know if I can wait another century.”

“…I forgive you, Frank.” If it were possible, the skeleton became more animated.

“Frank… you haven’t called me Frank since 1853!! Oh happy day! It is so wonderful to hear it on your pretty lips again…”

She was suddenly pulled into a waltz, the skeleton hummed a cheery song from his time. Frederick was indeed romantic…

“You always wanted to dance together… I’ll dance with you all the time now!” Frederick told her while he pulled her body along in an elegant waltz. “I won’t let you down this time, I swear. We’re together again! Just my wife and I!”

They danced for several minutes until she felt the question from the back of her mind.

“…you killed Clay, didn’t you?”

“He made you cry, my love! And anyone who makes you cry doesn’t deserve to live!” Frederick exclaimed, his arms pulled her close. “I’ll scorch this world for you! Whatever you want, I’ll do it! I’ll commit atrocities in your name! Please never leave me again.”

(Your name) was frozen in his arms before she gently hugged him back. She couldn’t imagine being alone for so long… and she had without a doubt he wouldn’t let her leave anyways.

“I won’t leave you Frank. I’ll stay.” She rubbed his back as he sighed in contentment.

“Then I will be giving you my utmost attention. You are my beloved. My everything…”

[lonelystarsstuff]

Doggy gojo (in training)

[lonelystarsstuff]

LAVENDER'S BLUE

summary: You weren’t supposed to be seen. But one night, one dance, and one stolen look from a boy you didn’t know was a prince changes everything. Now the kingdom is looking for you—and you have to decide if you’re brave enough to be found.

pairing: prince charming! gojo saturo x cinderella! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, signs of abuse, reader has chronic back pain, rats.

word count: 9.0k --- spotify playlist

best viewed in dark mode

There’s a quiet to the attic that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the house.

It settles after midnight, when the girls are done with their games and their laughter has thinned to silence. When your stepfather’s footsteps stop echoing through the halls. When the fire burns low and the wine is gone, and there’s no one left to perform cruelty for.

It’s only then that the house exhales—and you can breathe.

You sit on the floorboards beside the bucket you haven’t emptied yet. The rag in your hands is damp, skin-roughening with soot. It’s not a real task, not something that anyone told you to do. You just needed something to keep your hands busy. Something that gives shape to the hours between darkness and dawn.

Your fingers are raw. Your knees ache. There’s ash on your sleeves and a splinter in your thumb, but you don’t mind. The attic is cold, yes, but it’s yours. Or at least—it's the one place no one else bothers to climb. That counts for something.

You glance toward the slanted window tucked beneath the roofline. The sky is silver. Cloudless. The moon stares back at you like it knows something you don’t.

You lower your eyes before it can say anything out loud.

⋆｡°✩

There are mice in the attic. They keep their distance.

You’ve never named them—not out loud—but they come and go often enough that you’ve started to recognise them. One of them is missing a patch of fur behind the ear. One always carries crumbs bigger than its body. One skitters in tight circles before settling, like it needs to outrun its own shadow.

You think they must be cold too. Winter came early this year, and the insulation in the upper floors is barely more than memory. The girls have fireplaces and velvet robes. You have a blanket that smells like dust and the long sleeves of your mother’s old shirt, which you’re not supposed to wear but do anyway, under your tunic. Hidden. Just for warmth.

Sometimes, the mice come closer when you hum under your breath. You pretend it’s a coincidence.

⋆｡°✩

The house used to be warm. You remember it that way—brief flashes of your mother’s hands kneading dough in the kitchen, her voice humming off-key while she watered the herb pots by the windows. Back then, the floors didn’t creak like they were grieving, and sunlight used to touch the corners of the room without shame.

Now, it’s Geto’s house. Not in name, maybe, but in power. His daughters move through the rooms like they were born from silk and contempt. They call you by your name when they need something scrubbed, but otherwise, you’re “him.” Or worse.

You used to try to win them over. You tried for a long time.

And then you stopped.

Now you keep your head down and your back straight. You work quickly, quietly. You sleep with your door locked. You speak only when spoken to, and not even always then.

There is safety in silence.

⋆｡°✩

The announcement comes over burnt toast and tea that tastes like bark.

You’re not meant to sit at the table, but Mimiko was too distracted by her own reflection this morning to complain, and Geto likes to pretend he doesn’t see you unless he’s scolding you. You’ve learned to drift along the edges of the room—quiet, invisible, but still useful.

“There’s to be a royal ball,” Geto says, flipping the parchment open with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Every eligible noble and commoner invited. Apparently, the prince is looking to marry.”

You don’t react. You butter the toast without looking up.

Nanako lets out a delighted gasp. “A royal ball! Father, we’ll go, won’t we? We’ll need gowns. Jewels. A carriage—”

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Geto replies, folding the parchment again. “There’ll be time.”

“He shouldn’t go,” Mimiko chimes in suddenly, her voice sickly sweet. “He’ll be there. Can you imagine?” She turns to you with a sharp smile. “You, in the presence of royalty? You’d embarrass the kingdom.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the moment to sting.

You don’t look at her. You nod, eyes fixed on your plate. You’ve become good at that—at swallowing down every little hurt before it blooms.

“That’s settled then,” Geto says, as if he were the one being mocked. “He stays home.”

You don’t ask who’ll clean the house before they leave. You already know.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you find yourself standing at the attic window again, forehead pressed to the glass.

It’s a habit you picked up as a child—watching the moonlight slip across the world while you imagined someone, anyone, looking back.

You used to tell yourself that one day, someone would. That someone would see you and know you. Not as a servant. Not as an afterthought. But as a person with a name, and a voice, and a heart that beats just as loudly as anyone else’s.

You don’t really believe that anymore.

But you watch the moon anyway.

Just in case.

The morning after the announcement, the house becomes unbearable.

There are fabric samples strewn across every chair. Shoeboxes lining the hallway. Perfumed letters arriving by raven—twice, even thrice a day. Mimiko and Nanako move through the rooms like glittering tornadoes, screeching over colour palettes and necklines, screaming at seamstresses who pretend not to flinch.

You scrub the floors while they argue about lace.

They barely notice you anymore. You’re just the shape that keeps the house polished. A pair of hands. A name they speak only when something’s spilt.

You try not to mind.

You’ve had practice.

⋆｡°✩

Geto brings in a mirror the size of a door and installs it in the dining room. “For fittings,” he says, waving off the servants as if he weren’t one once himself.

He stands behind his daughters as they twirl and pout, appraising them like fine art he expects someone else to purchase. He corrects posture. Adjusts wrists. Tells Mimiko she’s standing like a peasant. Tells Nanako she’s gaining weight.

You fold linens in the corner and try not to breathe too loudly.

He never looks at you. But you feel his disapproval anyway. It clings to your skin like ash.

⋆｡°✩

The day of the ball arrives like frost.

You wake before the sun, dress in silence, and sweep the staircases before anyone else opens their doors. There’s a rhythm to it now—scrub, rinse, repeat. The ache in your spine is familiar and comforting in its own small way. Pain, at least, is consistent.

By noon, the house smells like citrus oil and powdered sugar. The dresses are hung. The carriage is polished. Everything is perfect.

Except for you.

You stand by the front hall with the box of hairpins still in your hands as Geto makes his final inspection.

He nods once, satisfied. Then turns to you.

“You’ll stay here,” he says flatly. “Don’t open the windows. Don’t leave the house. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of sight.”

You nod. Of course.

The carriage pulls away.

And just like that—you’re alone again.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t cry.

You’re not a child anymore. You don’t believe in being rescued, and you don’t believe in magic. This world is a hard, cold thing, and there’s no use wishing it weren’t.

Still.

You wander through the empty rooms with the kind of quiet you imagine the dead must carry. Your hands drag across polished bannisters, past doorknobs and glass and velvet cushions that were never meant for you.

In the sitting room, a single slice of cake sits abandoned on a tray.

You don’t touch it.

Instead, you climb the stairs. Past the bedrooms. Past the locked study. All the way up to the top. To the attic. To the place you belong.

And when you close the door behind you, the weight settles over your shoulders like it always does—familiar and heavy.

But tonight, it feels just a little bit heavier.

Maybe because you let yourself imagine it.

Just for a moment.

⋆｡°✩

The sound comes just before nightfall.

A knocking—no, not quite. More like a sharp pop, a crack of air and wind and something older than both. It echoes, muffled, through the floorboards beneath your feet.

You freeze.

It happens again. Then silence.

You step cautiously toward the window, half expecting thunder, or maybe fireworks from the palace.

But the sky is clear. The world is still.

And the only thing staring back at you is the moon.

⋆｡°✩

The sound doesn’t come again.

You wait for it. Still, as the dust motes floated in the dying light. Ears strained. Eyes fixed on the floor, as if the silence might shift again, rupture again, give you some kind of sign.

But there’s nothing.

Just your own breath. Just the wind outside, curling soft fingers against the attic window. Just the ache in your knees, the sting in your wrists. The familiar weight of another evening with nowhere to go.

You stand there for a long time.

You think—maybe you imagined it.

Maybe that’s just what happens, when hope slips through the cracks of your ribs and you don’t catch it in time.

You move to sit down.

That’s when the second knock comes.

Not from below. Not from outside. But from within the attic.

From behind the wall.

You freeze.

Not a ghost. You don’t believe in those.

Not a thief. What kind of thief breaks into the attic?

There’s a creaking, low and almost…exhausted. Like the wood itself is trying to speak. Like something ancient is being disturbed, pulled awake by the wrong hands.

And then—

A sigh.

You swear you hear a sigh.

Soft. Dry. Slightly annoyed.

“Alright,” comes a voice. Flat. Unimpressed. “That’s enough dramatics. Move.”

You backpedal so fast you knock over the bucket.

The rag hits the floor with a slap. Water spills into the cracks between the boards. You don’t even look at it. You’re too busy staring at the corner of the attic that had definitely been empty before.

It isn’t empty now.

There’s a woman.

Or—at least you think she’s a woman. Her robes are a little too long and mismatched, and there’s a cigarette tucked between her fingers despite the fact that the chimney doesn’t reach this far. Her boots are muddy. Her expression is somewhere between world-weary and mildly inconvenienced.

She looks like she’s been late to every appointment she’s ever had and hasn’t felt guilty about a single one.

And she’s standing in your attic like she owns it.

You open your mouth to speak.

She beats you to it.

“Don’t scream,” she says, not unkindly. “You’ll scare the mice.”

You don’t scream.

You don’t move either.

Which is probably for the best, because she’s already walking toward you like this is normal. Like you’re the one intruding.

“I was aiming for the cellar,” she mutters. “But nooo, the magic said ‘aim for the heart of the house,’ and look where that got me. Dust in my lungs and you looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You finally manage to find your voice. Sort of.

“Who—”

“Shoko,” she says, waving a hand as if that answers anything. “Let’s skip the dramatic introductions, yeah? I’m on a deadline.”

You stare.

She exhales through her nose, then gives you the same look someone might give a plant that’s taking too long to grow.

“You’re him,” she says, lighting the cigarette with a flick of her fingers. No flint. No match. Just…fire, like it was waiting for her.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never seen someone make a dramatic entrance before. I thought all you attic-dwelling waifs lived for theatrics.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know who you are.”

Shoko tilts her head.

“Well, no,” she says. “Not yet.”

⋆｡°✩

“You’ve got the look,” she says, nudging a cobweb out of the way with the back of her hand. “The quiet sort. Watches windows. Hums to keep from screaming.”

You’re still not speaking.

She sits down without asking. Cross-legged right on the attic floor like she wasn’t conjured into existence five seconds ago. Her cigarette smoke spirals toward the beams and settles around her like a crown of ash.

“I know what this is,” you finally say, voice quiet. “You’re a dream.”

Shoko snorts. “God, I wish.”

You don’t answer. The bucket of water seeps closer to your heel, a cold bloom against the wood. You stare at it. At her.

She doesn’t blink.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says, softer now. Not gentle, but closer. Like she’s trying. “I’m here to help.”

You shift your weight. Not quite toward her. Not quite away.

“Why?”

She flicks ash from the tip of her cigarette. It disappears before it hits the ground.

“Because you deserve it.”

You blink.

She goes on. “I’m not saying that in the philosophical, vague-fairy-tale sense. I mean it in the plain, unromantic, real-world way. You’ve done the work. You’ve survived. You’ve kept your heart from going sour even when it would’ve been easier to let it rot.”

You laugh. It’s small and brittle.

“I don’t think anyone would call me kind.”

“I didn’t say kind,” she says. “I said whole. You still have a piece of yourself that no one’s broken. That’s more than most.”

She says it so casually that it takes you a second to understand she meant it as a compliment.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You sit, slowly. She watches, but doesn’t comment.

The floor creaks beneath you. The attic is very still.

She speaks again. “Do you want to leave?”

It’s such a simple question.

Do you want to leave?

You stare at her. Your tongue feels thick.

“I can’t.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask if you could.”

You swallow.

“I want—” you start, then stop. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Sure you do,” she says, ashing the cigarette onto nothing. “You’ve just been taught not to say it.”

Your hands twist in your lap. She waits.

You say it like it hurts.

“I want to go. Just once. I want to be in a room where no one looks at me like I’m something to step over. I want to be wanted, just for a night. I want to know what it feels like to be seen.”

Shoko nods.

You stare at her. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” she says. “That’s a wish.”

⋆｡°✩

The air shifts.

It’s subtle—but you feel it. Like the attic exhales again, but this time with purpose. Something loosens in the walls, in the dark, in the shadows that have been your only company for years.

Shoko stands.

She snuffs out her cigarette on her palm. No mark. No burn.

When she speaks again, her voice is something older.

Not louder. Not deeper. But ancient. Measured. Like the moment you speak it aloud, it’ll echo.

“Then let’s give you your night.”

⋆｡°✩

She doesn’t wave a wand.

There’s no burst of glitter, no chorus, no sudden wind that tosses your hair back and makes your heart race. Nothing theatrical. Nothing pretty.

Instead, Shoko simply raises one hand—palm open—and exhales.

And the attic breathes with her.

The shadows bend first. Not away from the light, but toward it, curling like they’re waking up from a long sleep. The corners of the room soften, then blur, then ripple like heat above flame. Your breath catches in your throat.

There’s a sound, like thread pulling from cloth. And then—

Light. Dim at first. Then rising, warm and heavy like honey poured slow over your skin.

You don’t flinch.

You can’t.

It wraps around you. Not tight. Not painful. But thorough. Like it’s measuring. Weighing. Choosing.

Your shirt dissolves at the cuffs. Not burns—dissolves, the fabric unspooling into the air like mist. You lift your hands, startled, and they don’t feel like your hands anymore.

Shoko hums. “You’re lucky. Some people resist it. You—you’re letting it in.”

You blink at her, mouth dry. “Letting what in?”

She looks at you then, really looks, and says:

“Yourself.”

⋆｡°✩

The clothes build themselves, stitch by stitch.

It starts at your collarbones—warmth, pressure, then silk. Deep charcoal, almost black, but edged in silver so fine it could be moonlight. It fits perfectly, even before it finishes forming. Like it knew the shape of you before you did.

The sleeves wrap next—long, smooth, elegant. A flash of something translucent near the cuffs. Not ruffles, but something more fluid, like smoke in fabric form.

A jacket follows. Trimmed with silver thread, small accents that catch the dying light from the attic window. The kind of detail no mirror would ever see, but someone who was looking at you—really looking—might.

Your boots reform around your feet. Soft. Sleek. Practical enough to run in, but elegant enough to be remembered.

You don’t know how to breathe.

Shoko watches.

The final piece is a brooch—small, just over your heart. A pin in the shape of a crescent moon. Not garish. Not royal. Just… honest.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur, voice catching.

She doesn’t smile, but her voice is kind when she answers. “You don’t have to. Just wear it like you do.”

⋆｡°✩

The light fades.

The attic returns.

But you don’t.

You’re still you, but taller somehow. Straighter. Shoulders set. Like the weight hasn’t disappeared—but you’ve finally grown strong enough to carry it.

Your hands shake.

You press them against your chest. The fabric beneath your fingertips is real.

“I’m not supposed to be there,” you whisper.

Shoko flicks her cigarette back into her fingers and lights it with a snap.

“You’re supposed to be wherever you want to be,” she replies. “And tonight? You’re going.”

⋆｡°✩

You turn toward the attic stairs.

“Wait,” she says, and you freeze.

She tosses something into your hands.

Shoes.

Polished leather. Silver-buckled. Sleek, precise. The kind of shoes made for palace floors, not soot-stained attics. You run your thumbs over them. They’re real. Solid. One is slightly warmer than the other, like it’s holding onto something the world hasn’t seen yet.

“Enchanted?” you ask softly.

Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “One of them.”

You blink. “Just one?”

She shrugs. “You only need one to be remembered.”

⋆｡°✩

The carriage waits at the edge of the estate.

It wasn’t there before. You would’ve heard it. Seen it. But now it sits beneath the moonlight like it’s always belonged—quiet, waiting, wheels perfectly clean despite the muddy road.

You don’t ask questions.

Shoko didn’t explain where it came from, and you didn’t ask.

You step down from the attic, cross the now-silent halls in a suit that doesn’t touch the floor when you move. The house doesn’t know you anymore. The wallpaper doesn’t sneer. The stairs don’t groan in protest. Even the silence has changed—it watches you now, instead of swallowing you whole.

You don’t look back.

Not at the staircase. Not at Geto’s study. Not at the kitchen where you used to stand barefoot and bleeding. That life still lives here, but you’ve stepped out of its skin.

For one night.

The coachman doesn’t speak. He tips his hat. The door opens. You climb in.

And the wheels turn toward the palace.

It’s farther than you thought.

You’ve seen it only from a distance—sharp spires against the horizon, gold-glass windows catching the sun like a promise. But up close, it’s something else entirely. Too large. Too luminous. The kind of place that exists outside time.

You step out into torchlight and laughter.

Music filters through marble arches. Strings and woodwinds. A swell of something grand, something old. People in silks and satin flow up the staircase like water—gloved hands, high collars, laughter polished and practised.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And no one stops you.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom doors are wide open.

No guards. No fanfare. Just an invitation in the shape of light.

You cross the threshold on steady legs.

The floor is mirrored marble. Chandeliers drip crystal firelight. The ceiling stretches into a painted sky—cherubs and constellations you don’t recognise.

No one looks at you.

And somehow, that’s worse than the mocking would’ve been.

You drift along the edges at first. One step. Then another. A glass in your hand that you didn’t ask for. A compliment tossed over someone’s shoulder, not meant for you but close enough to sting.

And then—

He enters.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t see his face at first.

Just the way the room bends.

People part. Eyes turn. Laughter softens into interest. Not fear. Not awe. Just something deeper. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then he steps forward, and you understand.

White hair, sharp-cut and careless. A smile that looks carved into something ancient and shining. His coat is midnight blue, collar open just enough to be casual, cuffs rolled as if he’s already done dancing and plans to do it again.

There are jewels on half the people here. Gold on everyone else.

But he doesn’t need either.

He is the light in the room.

You don’t know his name.

You don’t even realise he’s looking at you until it’s too late to look away.

⋆｡°✩

You try to look away first.

That’s your mistake.

Because now he knows.

You’re not sure how you know he knows—but you do. It's in the tilt of his head. The slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. Like your gaze didn’t just find him, but called him.

And he’s answering.

He moves through the crowd like it was always meant to part for him. Not fast. Not eager. Just easy. Certain. As if he’s done this a hundred times before and always ends up here.

At you.

Your throat is dry. Your hand tightens around the glass you never drank from.

He stops in front of you.

Up close, he’s worse. Or better. You can’t decide.

His eyes are bright—too bright. The kind of blue people write songs about and then spend the rest of their lives trying to forget. His hair is a mess of silver and moonlight, and his smile is almost too much. Like he knows it is, and uses it anyway.

He glances down at your untouched drink.

Then back up at you.

“Not your thing?” he asks, voice low, amused. Not mocking. Not yet.

You manage a reply. “Wasn’t thirsty.”

“Lucky me,” he says. “Neither was I.”

He reaches out. Takes the glass from your hand. Places it on a passing tray without looking.

Then he holds his hand out to you.

Just like that.

As if you’ve already said yes.

As if you’ve always said yes.

“Dance with me.”

Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an expectation. A possibility.

You stare at his hand. At the long fingers. The pale wrist. The soft flash of a silver cufflink shaped like a star.

“I don’t know how,” you say quietly.

He leans in, just slightly. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I do.”

⋆｡°✩

The music isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

He walks you to the centre of the room like it’s normal. Like every person isn’t watching. Like the marble floor doesn’t ache under your feet, trying to whisper, this isn’t for you.

But he holds your hand like it is.

And when you move—when your feet remember how to follow, when your body remembers joy—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t lead you like you’re fragile. He lets you catch up. Lets you breathe.

And when you do—

You start to smile.

Not wide. Not bright. Just a little. Just enough.

But he sees it.

His smile answers yours.

And the world keeps spinning.

⋆｡°✩

The music fades into something slower.

Your chest is still rising too fast, but his hand is steady at your back. He hasn’t let go. Not once.

Every step, every turn, he watches you like there’s no one else in the room. Like this isn’t a palace. Like this isn’t a dance among royals. Like you’re not somewhere you shouldn’t be.

Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low, just under the violin swell.

You glance up. His smile is soft now. Tilted. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“I didn’t know it would be this easy,” you say.

He raises a brow. “Dancing?”

“Being seen.”

He doesn't laugh. Doesn't look away. Instead, he slows you to a stop, right there in the middle of the floor.

His hand slips from your waist to your wrist.

“Come with me,” he says.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you out through the back hall, past open doors and gilded arches, until the palace swallows its own noise. The music fades behind columns. The warmth of the crowd falls away.

You step into a quiet corridor, and then—

A garden.

Not the one guests passed through. This is smaller. Older. Half-forgotten. Wild vines along the stone. A cracked marble bench. The scent of lavender and something sweeter underneath—like sugar left in the sun.

It’s moonlit and hidden and yours.

You inhale, and it fills your lungs like a prayer.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

He lets go of your wrist but stays close. Too close. You feel his breath near your temple. He’s taller than you’d realised on the dance floor.

“Do you bring all your dance partners here?” you ask, not meaning to sound like anything—but it comes out softer than expected. Curious.

His smile quirks, lazy and real. “Only the ones I want to keep a little longer.”

Your heart kicks once. Stupid thing.

“I’m not exactly... worth remembering.”

He looks at you then, full and unguarded.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was just thinking the opposite.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Brief. Barely there.

But your breath stutters anyway.

You want to close the space between you.

He’s already leaning in.

His voice is barely a whisper now.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. You’d almost forgotten that you hadn’t given it.

“I—”

DING.

The first chime hits like a stone to the chest.

DONG.

You flinch.

He pulls back, startled.

DING.

“No,” you whisper.

The air shifts. Your jacket tightens. Something in the fabric shudders like it’s remembering itself.

You take a step back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait—” he starts, reaching for you.

DONG.

“I have to go,” you say, already turning.

“Wait! At least tell me who—”

DING.

You’re gone.

The night is breaking, and the magic is pulling you with it.

You run.

Not elegantly. Not the way you danced.

This is a stumble-sprint, half-flight down the corridor, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to get back to him. The marble floors blur. Gold columns, oil paintings, half-turned faces in distant rooms—none of it matters now. Only the ache in your chest and the way the air grows heavier with every step.

The magic is unravelling.

You feel it in your sleeves first. The seams loosen. The silver edging at your cuffs begins to smoke and vanish, the way dew fades from a blade of grass. You press your hands to your chest like you can hold it all together—but the fabric keeps melting under your fingers.

The music is gone. The laughter behind you is too far to matter. All that exists is the echo of your boots—no, just one boot now—against the floor.

You don't remember when it happened.

Just that you turned a corner too sharp. That your foot slipped. That something caught for a second and then gave way.

You look down.

Your right foot is bare.

The enchanted shoe is gone.

You double back.

It’s lying on the stairs.

You don’t go back for it.

You can't.

DING.

The ninth chime.

The gold embroidery at your hem vanishes mid-step. The jacket fades, thread by thread, until all you’re left with is the thin, patched tunic underneath—too short now. Yours, but not yours anymore. The magic never fully disguised your body. It just made the weight feel lighter.

You grab the stair railing as the garden doors disappear behind you.

The tenth chime echoes off the stone.

You’re almost at the exit.

You think you hear your name.

Not your real name. Not the one Geto calls you with disdain. But yours. The one only someone who sees you might say.

But it’s too late.

You hit the gravel outside barefoot, panting, lungs burning with cold air and regret.

The eleventh chime splits the sky.

You don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere behind you, he stands at the top of the staircase. His gloves are in his pocket. His coat is unbuttoned. He’s not looking at the crowd.

He’s looking at the stairs.

And the single shoe left waiting.

⋆｡°✩

The twelfth and final chime rings out.

Midnight has come.

And you're already disappearing into the dark.

You wake before the sun.

You always do, but today it feels different.

Not because your body hurts—though it does. Not because the air is cold—though it bites.

But because something inside you is too quiet.

Like your chest has been scrubbed hollow.

The attic doesn’t look any different.

The boards still creak when you shift your weight. The frost still kisses the corners of the glass. The mice still rustle softly in the wall like they don’t know anything has changed.

But it has.

You sit up slowly, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket that isn’t warm enough. Your knees are sore. Your palms sting. The magic’s gone, and it didn’t leave anything for you to hold except—

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There it is.

Nestled at the foot of your bed.

One shoe.

Not both.

Just the right one.

Silver-buckled. Unscuffed. A quiet gleam to the leather that doesn’t belong to this world.

The matching pair had vanished with the rest of the suit. But this one stayed.

Of course it did.

You don’t touch it.

Not yet.

You just stare.

Your chest tightens slowly, like the ache has to rebuild itself from the edges in.

You replay the night in pieces.

The ballroom. The music. The boy with the moonlight grin and the storm in his eyes. The garden. His hand on your back. His voice, soft and certain, asking for your name like he’d keep it safe.

You wonder if he’s looking for you.

You wonder if he’s still at the top of those stairs.

You wonder if he’ll know you now, in patched sleeves and soot-stained soles.

If he’d want to.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest, hard.

Just to feel something.

⋆｡°✩

Far from the attic, in a palace where the candles never burn low, a king lies dying.

Not with drama. Not with blood or fury or breathless speeches. Just… slowly.

Quietly.

Gojo sits beside him.

He’s not dressed for grief. Still in the same half-wrinkled clothes from the night before—collar askew, hair a mess, the ghost of the ballroom clinging to his shoulders.

He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t moved since the garden emptied and the last guest was sent away.

He hasn’t spoken.

Not until now.

“I met someone,” he says softly.

The king doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth twitches. Barely there.

“A noble?” he rasps, voice like dry paper.

Gojo almost laughs. “Not even close.”

The king hums. A tiny sound. “Thank god.”

That earns a real smile. Faint. Brief.

Gojo leans forward, fingers curled tight over the blanket. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t even ask. He ran. Lost a shoe.”

The king’s chest rises slowly. “Romantic.”

“Frustrating,” Gojo says. “He was real. Not… shiny. Not faked. I think he looked right through me and still stayed.”

The king doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then—

“Then go,” he says, hoarse but sure. “Go find the one who saw you.”

Gojo’s throat closes.

The king’s eyes stay shut.

“You’ve carried this crown too long,” he murmurs. “Go be loved, Satoru. Don’t let this place kill that part of you.”

There’s silence.

Then Gojo bows his head.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

The king dies two days later.

The mourning bells toll across the city. The gates are draped in black. The court dons solemn silks and speaks in hushed tones.

Gojo buries his father quietly.

No fanfare. No grand declarations. Just a hand pressed to the coffin and a whisper no one hears.

He returns to the throne room with quiet thunder.

No coronation. No applause. Just a man in mourning with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders and something softer clenched between his hands.

A single shoe.

Silver-buckled. Clean as memory. The only piece of the night that didn’t vanish.

The court hushes when he steps to the dais.

He speaks without ceremony.

“I’m not here to celebrate a title,” he says. “I’m here to honour a promise.”

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd.

Gojo lifts the shoe for all to see.

“This,” he says, voice steady, “was left behind by the person I danced with at the royal ball.”

Murmurs rise. Names, questions, whispers like wind.

Gojo’s next words cut straight through.

“I don’t know their name. Or where they came from. But I know how I felt.”

Silence now. Even the courtiers lean forward.

He breathes in. Then:

“Find them.”

The prince’s men arrive two days later.

They come in pairs—one to carry the shoe, one to carry the threat of a sword.

Some houses greet them with fanfare. Others slam the door. But in every room, they kneel before the hopeful, the desperate, the delusional, and ask them to try it on.

None of them fit.

None of them feel right.

⋆｡°✩

Toji doesn’t really want to be here.

He’s already threatened to eat the shoe twice. Nanami pretends not to hear him.

“You’re not putting it in your mouth,” Nanami says flatly as they stand in front of a bakery.

“I wasn’t gonna put it in,” Toji replies. “Just, you know. Scare the kid a little.”

“No.”

“They’ve got sugar tarts in there.”

“We’re here for the shoe.”

“I can multitask.”

Nanami sighs and knocks.

⋆｡°✩

Three houses later:

“This is a waste of time,” Toji mutters.

“It’s a royal command,” Nanami answers, like that means anything.

They’re standing in front of a weeping blacksmith.

“I swore I saw the mystery person,” the blacksmith says, tears in his beard. “They were in my dream. Had wings. Glowed.”

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.

Toji offers him a handkerchief. “We’ll send word if we find them, yeah?”

The blacksmith sobs louder.

Toji pats him on the shoulder.

“You tried, champ.”

⋆｡°✩

Back at the estate, the air has changed.

You don't notice at first. You're doing laundry. Small, quiet motions. Wrists in soap, eyes on the window.

But when you climb back up to the attic, the door is open.

That’s not right.

You never leave it open.

You step inside.

Geto is waiting.

He’s holding something in his hand.

It takes you a moment to register it. To understand what you’re looking at. To realise it’s yours.

The other shoe.

The one the magic didn’t claim.

Geto doesn’t look angry.

Worse.

He looks resigned.

“I knew,” he says, voice low. “The night you came home. I knew it was you.”

You don’t speak.

There’s something brittle in your chest. Like glass.

Geto turns the shoe over in his hand. “It was supposed to be Mimiko or Nanako. Anyone else. Someone who could give this family something back. But you—”

He shakes his head.

“I married your mother for love, you know.”

You flinch.

“I was a servant. Just like you. She didn’t care. She saw me. She chose me. And then she died. And I got stuck. In this house. With bills, and mouths, and nothing to show for it but my hands and my daughters.”

He looks at you then, sharp and quiet.

“You think I hate you,” he says. “I don’t.”

You want to speak. You don’t know how.

“I envy you,” he finishes.

Then he drops the shoe.

And before you can move—before you can breathe—he steps on it.

It doesn’t break.

Of course it doesn’t.

The magic’s long gone.

So he picks it up instead.

And throws it out the window.

You hear it hit the gravel outside.

And then—

Click.

The door locks behind you.

Geto’s footsteps fade down the stairs.

And you’re alone again.

Trapped. Silenced.

But not invisible anymore.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t move right away.

You hear Geto’s footsteps fade, one by one, until the house swallows them whole. Until the only sound left is the wind against the glass, and the beat of your pulse behind your eyes.

The lock clicks again in your mind. Sharp. Final.

And then—

Nothing.

Just quiet.

You sit.

Not gently. Not with grace.

You drop straight to the floor, legs folded awkwardly, palms flat on the cold wood. The air smells like old wood and soap. Like sorrow dried into the beams.

Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt. Not to hide. Just to feel something.

The window glows with late morning sun. Too bright to pretend it’s still night. Too soft to call this anything but cruel.

You swallow.

You whisper to no one, “It wasn’t supposed to matter.”

The words hang there.

And then—

A scritch.

Then another.

Soft and quick, like tiny feet against the baseboard.

You blink down.

Yuji, the one with the torn ear, darts into view. He stops near your feet. Sits up on his haunches like he’s checking on you.

You offer him your palm.

He noses it once. Then skitters away to the corner where Megumi and Nobara have already gathered.

There’s a scrap of ribbon there. Frayed. Half chewed.

And a single wooden spool.

You don’t know how they found it. Or why they’re bringing it to you.

But they do.

You exhale.

“I’m not making a new shoe,” you say quietly.

They freeze.

You soften. “...Thank you, though.”

Yuji does a little hop. You can almost hear him say you’re not done.

You lean back against the wall.

You look at the door.

The lock is still in place.

The window is still too small.

Your limbs are still tired.

But something in you is standing up.

You’ve never asked to be found before.

But now— Now you know what it felt like to be seen.

And you’re not letting that disappear without a fight.

Bang bang bang.

Not a gentle knock.

Not the kind nobles use.

The door shakes in its frame.

Mimiko shrieks from somewhere down the hall, “Father—!”

“Coming,” Geto calls, voice too smooth, too fast.

He brushes dust from his sleeves and opens the door with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Nanami doesn't smile back.

Toji doesn’t look like he’s ever smiled at all.

The taller one—Toji, in dark military trim and boots that leave real dirt on the clean floor—looks over Geto like he’s furniture. Nanami, perfectly pressed and sharply polite, holds a velvet-lined box in his hands.

Inside it, nestled like a relic, sits the shoe.

The room tightens.

“We’re here on royal command,” Nanami says, calm as a cut. “Every household within the capital must comply.”

Geto’s smile doesn’t falter. But his fingers twitch at his sides.

“Of course,” he says. “My daughters will be thrilled.”

⋆｡°✩

The twins are anything but.

They stumble into the drawing room in matching silks, half-dressed and sweating.

Mimiko tries to charm. Nanako tries to lie. Both try on the shoe.

The shoe does not fit either of them.

Not Mimiko, who tried to stuff her foot in sideways, biting her lip like pain might be mistaken for grace.

Not Nanako, who screamed at the guards and insisted it was her shoe—until Nanami calmly pointed out it would have to be her right shoe, and she’d shoved her left foot in.

Both of them are red-faced now. Geto looks pale.

Nanami closes the velvet box with finality.

“That’s all,” Geto says quickly, stepping between them and the door. “Thank you for your time, but as you can see—”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Nanami says, already half-turned. “We’ll be on our way—”

And then— CRASH.

Not subtle.

Not small.

Wood shatters. Something heavy hits the floor above. Then a thud. A clang. Another loud bang, like someone’s trying to tear a room apart.

All three men freeze.

Geto doesn’t blink.

“Old house,” he says lightly. “It groans.”

Nanami narrows his eyes.

Toji’s already turning.

“It came from upstairs,” he says.

“No need,” Geto says quickly. “We told you, it’s just—”

“Storage,” Toji finishes, stepping forward.

And then—

A fourth voice speaks, smooth as silk:

“Open it.”

The knights turn sharply.

So does Geto.

Because one of the guards—the one who had been silent this entire time, helmet shadowing his face, standing too still in the corner—steps forward.

And removes his helmet.

White hair falls loose.

Eyes like the end of a sky.

It’s him.

The prince.

No coat. No crown. Just a low voice and a gaze that could slit a throat with kindness.

“Check the room,” Gojo says.

Toji doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward the stairs.

And Geto?

Geto stops breathing.

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, upstairs—

You’ve already broken a chair.

The window’s too high, and the door won’t give, but fury moves faster than fear.

You threw the table against the wall. You shattered a glass jar. The room is in chaos.

Not because you thought someone would hear you.

But because if you’re going to be locked away again—this time, the walls will remember you were here.

And downstairs, they just did.

⋆｡°✩

The door gives way with a shudder and a kick.

Toji steps inside the attic like he’s seen a thousand rooms like this—and hates every one of them. He doesn’t speak at first. Just scans the broken chair, the shards of glass, the boy standing in the middle of it all like a storm passed through him and didn’t finish the job.

You square your shoulders, fists tight.

“I’m not going quietly,” you say.

Toji raises a brow.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Not until you try on the shoe.”

⋆｡°✩

You’re still stunned when you’re led down the stairs.

The house feels different now—seen, somehow. You don’t flinch when Geto glares. You don’t look at the twins when they hiss your name like it’s a curse.

Because all you see is him.

Gojo.

Not in a dream. Not behind a mask.

Just him.

And he’s looking at you like you invented music.

⋆｡°✩

“I didn’t know,” you say softly.

His smile curves at the edges. “Good.”

You blink. “What?”

“I wanted to be seen as me, not as—” He waves a hand. “Royal disaster. Golden boy. Walking headline.”

“You’re still ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he says, “but you danced with me anyway.”

⋆｡°✩

Nanami brings the shoe.

It still gleams like it remembers the night better than you do.

You kneel.

Your fingers tremble.

You fit your foot inside.

It slides in like it never belonged anywhere else.

A quiet settles over the room.

Nanami exhales, almost like relief.

Toji nods once.

The twins make some sound between a gasp and a wail.

And Gojo?

He takes two steps forward.

Then drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No ceremony.

Just him.

And you.

And the weight of everything you both carried here.

“I don’t know your name,” he says. “But I’d like to learn it every day.”

You swallow.

His hand is warm.

“Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, like something new is blooming in your chest—

You smile.

And take his hand.

The palace feels warmer now.

Not because of the sun. Or the gilded windows. Or the three-tiered cake that someone dropped during the reception and tried to blame on the reindeer.

But because of him.

Gojo stands beside you on the balcony, arm loose around your waist, his thumb brushing idle circles against your side like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You’re both still in partial wedding attire—him with his jacket tossed over a chair somewhere, you barefoot, crown lopsided, shirt collar unbuttoned and clinging just a little to your throat. You should probably be inside. The court is probably looking for you.

But the garden below is quiet.

And the air tastes like late summer and the end of something you never thought would happen.

⋆｡°✩

“What happened to them?” you ask, leaning into him just enough to be smug about it.

He hums. “Geto’s under investigation for falsifying noble status. Pretty sure he’s banned from the capital for life. Last I heard, he’s trying to sell spiritual healing potions out of a cart in the countryside.”

You snort. “And the twins?”

“Assigned to community service. Fifteen years of it.”

You blink. “What do they do?”

“Paint fences. Clean royal kennels. Muck out stables.”

You try to look sympathetic.

You fail.

⋆｡°✩

The sky is peach-gold now.

You lean back against the railing, one hand braced behind you, and Gojo’s eyes trace the line of your neck like he’s memorising it.

“What?” you ask, smirking a little.

“You’re too pretty for this world,” he says easily. “I might have to exile you just to stop fights.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not exiling me. You married me.”

He steps in closer.

“I did, didn’t I?”

His hand settles just under your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His smile turns softer.

Hungrier.

“Wanna kiss your husband?”

You grin. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

⋆｡°✩

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice like velvet warmed in sunlight.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers trail down the line of his collarbone, slow and curious, feeling the heat beneath his skin. You’re still a little dazed from it all—the ceremony, the kiss, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the kingdom.

Maybe the world.

Gojo watches you with a softness that doesn’t match the grin tugging at his lips.

“Still thinking about saying yes?” he teases, tilting his head.

You hum. “I’m thinking I want to kiss you again.”

“Be my guest.”

You lean in. He meets you halfway.

The kiss starts gentle—lazy, even. But there’s something under it now. Something hot and restless curling between your ribs. Your fingers move to his jaw, then to the back of his neck, dragging him just a little closer. He obliges with a pleased sound, deepening the kiss, mouth parting just enough to catch your breath between his lips.

He tastes like sugared wine and strawberries, and you swear you could drown in him.

By the time you break apart, you’re breathing harder than you expected. Your eyes meet, close enough to feel the words before you say them.

“I want you,” you whisper.

It comes out raw. Honest.

Gojo stills. Just for a moment.

Then—

“Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Rougher around the edges. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Then come here.”

⋆｡°✩

He lifts you before you realize he’s moving. Hands strong, steady, one at your back, the other beneath your thighs. You yelp softly, laugh against his throat, and he huffs out a breathless chuckle that turns into something deeper.

The doors to your chambers are already cracked open. He kicks them wider.

The room beyond is quiet. Candlelit. Fresh linens, tossed shoes, and half a glass of wine still left untouched on the bedside table. You don’t see any of it.

Just him.

He sets you down gently, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.

You sit on the edge of the bed as he leans in, hands braced on either side of your thighs, lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and warm.

You reach up. Thread your fingers into his hair.

“Kiss me like you did that night,” you say. “And don’t stop.”

He grins against your mouth. “Gladly.”

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

The world falls away the second his lips meet yours again.

There’s no crowd here. No music. No kingdom watching. Just the sound of his breath and yours, the rustle of fabric as fingers drag slowly down your back, and the warm press of his palms against your skin like he’s memorising every inch of you.

You pull him closer. He goes willingly.

The kiss deepens. His mouth is hot and sure, moving with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. His tongue brushes yours, and you gasp into him—your fingers clutching the back of his shirt, your legs parting slightly as he slots himself between them.

He presses you gently back onto the bed.

The sheets shift beneath you—soft, crisp, faintly perfumed—and his weight follows, settling against you with a slowness that feels like worship.

His hand cradles your face as he kisses you again, slower now. Lingering. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice hoarse at the edges, lips brushing your cheek.

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I want you.”

Gojo exhales like he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life.

“Okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

⋆｡°✩

He doesn’t rush.

He undresses you carefully, easing your clothes from your body piece by piece, always watching, always touching, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His hands trail down your arms, your ribs, your hips—every inch of your skin kissed, touched, praised.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, not like a compliment, but like a fact.

His own clothes fall away soon after, and when he kneels above you, bare in the candlelight, you forget how to breathe.

He’s strong. Slender. Scars across his stomach, down his hip—each one traced gently beneath your fingers. His eyes darken when you touch him, a low sound humming from his chest as you explore him with quiet wonder.

He kisses your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Each press of his mouth is tender, reverent. You shiver when his lips ghost lower—when he parts your legs with one slow sweep of his hand and settles between them like he was always meant to be there.

When his tongue touches you, your fingers curl in the sheets.

He’s slow. Gentle. Languid.

Learning you. Reading every twitch of your hips, every gasp, every whispered plea. He hums when you moan, the sound low and satisfied.

You arch when he wraps his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice rough and thick with want.

And he does.

With his mouth, his fingers, his voice—coaxing you open, unravelling you gently, turning heat into warmth into fire.

By the time you come undone, you’re panting, legs trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t pull away. Just presses slow kisses to your skin and climbs up to meet your mouth again, breath catching as he feels you cling to him.

You reach for him. Trace the line of his jaw.

“Take me,” you whisper.

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

He enters you slowly, carefully, stopping when you tense, kissing your throat until your body melts into his again. His hand finds yours against the pillow, lacing your fingers together as he presses deeper.

It’s intense. Full. Your breath stutters, and his does too.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He starts to move, and it’s overwhelming.

His weight on you, his breath on your neck, the way your bodies move together—every thrust angled with care, every sound he makes pressed against your ear like a secret. He moans when your hips rise to meet him. Groans when you say his name like you mean it.

He doesn’t look away. Watches you fall apart underneath him. Watches your lashes flutter, your mouth part, your breath hitch.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he says, voice wrecked.

You pull him down, kiss him hard, gasping against his lips as heat blooms low and deep in your core.

He speeds up—just enough.

The sound of skin on skin, the headboard creaking gently, the rhythm of his hips, your hands in his hair—it all builds into something slow and bright and utterly consuming.

You fall apart first, back arching, thighs clenching around his waist.

He follows with a gasp, pulling out just in time, his hand stroking you through it as he spills onto your stomach with a trembling groan.

⋆｡°✩

After, he’s quiet.

He wipes you down gently, kisses your chest, your temple, your knuckles.

Then he pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, his thumb stroking slow circles into your spine.

You’re half-asleep when he whispers, “I’m never letting you go.”

You smile.

“You better not.”

Later, as the sun dips below the rooftops, you’re sprawled together on the balcony, limbs tangled, cheeks flushed, breath finally slowing.

He presses his forehead to yours.

You close your eyes.

The world is quiet again.

Until—

Scurry scurry.

You open one eye.

Yuji. Then Megumi. Then Nobara.

The mice dash across the stone railing, tails twitching, feet fast, all three heading for the figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.

Shoko.

Still in her boots. Still in her long coat. Still impossibly cool.

She holds out one palm.

The mice leap into it without hesitation.

She glances at you and Gojo, sprawled out and glowing like kings in love.

“Cute,” she says.

You sit up. “You stayed?”

She lights a cigarette with a flick of her fingers.

“Nah,” she says. “I just came to collect my assistants.”

Gojo squints. “Assistants?”

“They picked you,” Shoko says, looking directly at you.

You blink.

She exhales a thin ribbon of smoke into the sky.

“My job’s done.”

And then— She vanishes.

Just like that.

⋆｡°✩

You sit there for a moment.

Gojo’s hand finds yours.

The stars come out.

And this time—

You don’t wish on any of them.

You already have everything you asked for.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev

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[lonelystarsstuff]

Horny thoughts

(Male x female)

Side quest 1 Side quest 2

Imagine you got isekai to a fantasy world, and the people's there have magic and power.

Imagine that you got a healing power, but the way your healing powers is odd, the person that you heal have to drink your saliva, sweat, tears, blood or any kind of liquid that came out of you, that includes your essence.

Imagine that your essence can regrow a human limbs back if they drinks it.

So when the people's in your village's brings a wounded hero.

They ask you for your help, because the hero have been saving their village for 6 years now, so they want to return his favor.

Of course you said yes, you thought the hero just have a minor injuries or not that bad conditions.

Oh you were wrong, Dead wrong.

The hero have both of his arms cut off, he got it when he trys to stop his mortal enemy. He said to the hero that he cannot weild his sword anymore and won't bother his destruction.

Surprisingly he is still alive, even after the blood loss.

You know your salivas won't work, so you tried with your sweat, tears and blood. It didn't work, so you think what else is liquid that the hero can drink.

Ah the only liquid that you didn't try is your essence. You didn't know will it work, you never try it but how do you tell him that he have to drink your essences.

The hero shockingly said yes, to drinking your essence.

So you mounted his face with your pussy and let his tongue drinks that liquids, making you moan a little but you stay professional.

Then you look at his disfigured arms, it grows back really fast then your other fluids.

When you about to get off his face, out of the blue. He grabs your thighs and brings that pussy to his mouth again.

He licking and sucking the the essences out. Even pushing his tongue inside, making you shaking and try to hit his hands to let you go. Because your job was done, yet he won't let go.

Then his right hand begins to touch you expertly, knowing just how to press, stroke, and rub to make you gasp and writhe with pleasure, holding you upright as he manipulates your body like a master puppeteers.

As you climax, your pussy spasming and gushing with juices, he open his mouth to catch every drops. He continues to stimulate you until you're squirting continuously, finally he let's you go.

You drop to the floor, legs shaking and wet. The hero looks down and grin.

The hero was amazement at his both arms regrow and his past injuries vanishes, replaced by taut, unblemished skin.

Then the hero put his clothes and armor back on and pat your hair and he said he will come back to you when he's hurt.

And finally he leave your tent, leaving you behind in the tent a mess.

You hope he won't come back.

oh he will come back to you, but he will bring you with him, whether you like it or not :)

This was supposed to be a really short post, but i made it longer for some reason.

I write this when feeling lil horny lol

Hope you enjoy my first post♡

The picture is from Pinterest [Misaki ! ¡]

Tags @nymphea0

[lonelystarsstuff]

that one trend