#Disturbed and Disgraceful | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

admiringlove · 2 days ago

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a tempest gilded in ruin - part two.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

↬ summary: gojo satoru was a storm—reckless, untouchable, and wholly unwilling to be bound by duty. you, the viscount’s daughter, were everything he was not—poised, dutiful, the perfect noble. an arranged marriage should have been nothing more than a cold alliance, but nothing with gojo was ever simple. by day, you wage a quiet war of sharp words and tense silences. by night, you are drawn into a far more dangerous game. one of courtly intrigue, betrayal, and a conspiracy that could shatter all you know. for a while, you both pretend it’s only politics, only necessity. but gojo has never been one for rules, and when the line between duty and desire blurs, you’ll find that some battles aren’t meant to be won. they’re meant to be surrendered to.

↬ genre: jjk x regency era au; bridgerton au; arranged marriage au; drama; romance; angst and then fluff; slowburn basically; happy ending i promise but it takes angst to get there.

↬ warnings: nsfw; alcohol; mentions of pregnancy; mentions of fencing; corruption kink lowkey; mirror sex; carriage sex; p in v; oral (fem receiving); fingering; angsty !!!! etc

↬ word count: 25.5k.

↬ note: part two to my brain child. @gojover ily forever and always :3

↬ navigation: part one, jjk masterlist.

Present, Highgrove House.

It has been three days.

Three long, cloistered days since the masquerade at the Marquess Ieiri’s estate��the night when the chandeliers glimmered like stars and the music was so lovely it almost made you forget the weight of your own name. Since the ball ended in silence, in whispers, in scandal. Since the paper came.

You sit at your writing desk, spine straight, hands still, the air around you thick with the scent of lavender oil your mother insisted be applied to calm your nerves. As if perfume could unwrite disgrace. The window is open, but the curtains are drawn, and a breeze stirs the edges of the paper resting in front of you like a ghost just beginning to wake.

You haven’t touched it since that morning. Haven’t dared to. You’ve just been staring. Staring at the crisp, expensive print of the Quill, like it's something foreign, alien, capable of betraying you simply by existing. You remember how it was delivered. Silver tray, linen gloves, a footman with eyes politely turned down, even though you knew he'd already read it. Everyone had.

Your mother hasn’t spoken to you in full sentences since. Her disapproval is quiet now, but no less punishing. It lives in her eyes. It lives in the hallway, because you are not to go out of your room. It lives in the drawing room, where she receives no guests. Where she smiles thinly through closed windows when carriages pass by.

Shoko and Utahime came yesterday. Loyal, warm, loud-mouthed girls who still believed this could be mended. They brought flowers and lemon cake, but your mother turned them away after tea, with all the calm and cruelty of a hostess shooing away the stench of something rotten. “She is resting,” she said. “She’s not to be disturbed.”

But you were listening from the stairs. You wanted to be disturbed.

You are a pariah now. A woman no longer whispered about in curiosity, but in caution. The type of girl mothers point out at parties so their daughters know what not to do. And it’s not even because of what you did—it’s because of how it looked. Because you left the ballroom. Because he followed. Because no one else was there to confirm anything, and so everyone assumes everything.

The Duke of Six Eyes. And you. On a balcony. Alone.

You lower your gaze to the article again. It lies open on your desk like a patient on the operating table. You know every sentence. Every phrase. You know the rhythm and the scorn, the barely-concealed venom beneath the lace of polite language. The words had come easily. Too easily.

Let us hope wedding bells come before the ruin does.

That line alone had traveled faster than any carriage. Mothers had gasped. Fathers had frowned. Daughters had clutched their fans, eyes alight with hungry joy. Because it wasn’t about you, not really. Not to them. It was about what you represented: the unraveling of someone prettier, smarter, better. You, the girl who had once worn the season like a crown. And now here you were, being eaten alive by your own myth.

You press your palms to your thighs. Try to breathe. Try to pretend you hadn’t written it. That someone else had.

But that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it? Because you did. And no one knows.

You try to console yourself with the notion that, perhaps, this is the better outcome. That in the grand scheme of things—reputation tarnished, invitations rescinded, your mother pacing the drawing room like a woman betrayed by fate—at least no one suspects you’re the Phantom. No one could imagine that the girl locked inside her home, disgraced and discarded, had ever penned those biting words, that she had whispered scandal into the ears of the ton with the sharpness of a dagger dressed in velvet.

This is the lesser evil, you tell yourself. Over and over.

And yet, it still pricks. The silence. Gojo’s silence. His absence. Three days have passed, and not a single letter. Not a flower, not a raven, not a knock on the door. You don’t even know what you would say if he did come. Whether you’d scream at him or fall to pieces in his arms. Whether you’d admit that you kissed him and then wrote about it in the third person, hoping to save yourself by damning the memory.

Your mother watches you like she’s watching the slow ruin of a once-favored gown, threads pulled loose by foolish fingers. She doesn't shout. She doesn't need to. Her silence is a punishment sharper than words.

And the only one who tries—truly tries—is Yuji. He comes in with arms full of pastries from the corner bakery and jokes that don’t land, and makes exaggerated attempts to dance with the footman until you almost laugh. Almost. But even he doesn't know what to do with your grief. You see it in his eyes. In the way he holds your hand a second longer than needed, as if to say he wished he knew how to fix this.

But he doesn’t. No one does. Because they don’t know what you've done. They don’t know who you really are.

That evening, the silver glints dull beneath the candlelight as you reach for your water glass. But the dining room is oppressively quiet. It has been like this for the past few days—each meal a silent, calculated exercise in civility. The clink of forks against porcelain. The hesitant lifting of soup spoons. The sharp, faint scratch of your father’s knife slicing through roast.

And then your mother clears her throat.

It is not a gentle clearing, not a casual sound to free her voice—it is sharp, intentional, a prompt. A summoning. She looks at your father, a subtle incline of her head, a tightness in her jaw. He sets his cutlery down with just a little too much force, and clears his own throat in response. Yuji pauses with his bread halfway to his mouth. You look between them, your stomach a knot. You know something is coming.

“We are hosting a fête at Hyde Park,” your father says finally. His voice is careful, practiced. “This coming weekend.”

You blink, looking at him. He does not meet your eyes—his gaze already returned to his plate, as though what he has said is trivial, administrative.

You glance at your mother. “What about the Duke?” you ask slowly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“The Duke and your father had a verbal agreement,” she replies with clipped precision, each word knotted with cold disdain. “After this ridiculous scandal, we must salvage what we can.”

Your mouth parts, your brows knit. “That’s not fair,” you say, voice shaking slightly now. “You and I both know it. The ton won’t believe anything unless we make it feel true. There must be appearances, affection, connection. Not just obligations. If we make it look romantic—”

Your mother slams her glass onto the table. Not hard enough to break, but hard enough to make you jump.

“But it isn’t romantic, is it?” she spits. “It isn’t real. I raised you better than this. Better than to slip away with a man in the dark, to a balcony, with no chaperone. God knows what the two of you did there.”

“We spoke,” you hiss. “That’s all. He... he listened to me. Which is more than I can say for either of you.”

The silence after is electric. Yuji shifts slightly in his seat, uncomfortable. Your father says nothing. Your mother stares at you like she doesn’t recognize you. Her voice, when she speaks again, is laced with something curdled and sharp.

“How dare you speak to your mother like that?” she says, rising to her feet. Her hands are trembling against the tablecloth. “You go to your chambers this instant.”

You stand, slowly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. You place your fork and knife down on the plate, too carefully, almost shaking. The china shudders beneath the weight. You turn, leaving the room without another word, your heart pounding in your throat.

You take the stairs two at a time, not because you're in a hurry, but because you can’t trust yourself to walk with dignity. Your fists clench at your sides. Your eyes blur. You refuse to let the tears fall here—not where they can see. The door slams behind you harder than intended, echoing like a slap across a cheek. You glance back just once—Yuji’s eyes meet yours from down the hallway. Not your parents’.

Never your parents’.

And then the room is quiet. Too quiet. The only sound is your breath, shallow and uneven, and the faint echo of your shame.

You’ve been lying still for hours now. The curtains are half drawn, and the sky beyond your chamber window is starless—an inky, unbroken dark. You don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, you keep your gaze fixed on the linden tree outside, where the swing sways gently in the night wind. You think of everything and nothing. You think of the column you finished earlier: a benign, delicately worded piece about the upcoming fête, a light-hearted nod to a young gentleman’s garden proposal. You wrote it slowly, methodically, because it was easier to write about someone else’s happiness than to wonder why your own had been so quiet these past days.

Because he hadn’t written. He hadn’t come. Gojo Satoru, who made entire rooms feel too bright with his presence, had gone completely silent.

You try not to dwell on it. Because if you do, you will spiral. You will remember the way his breath caught when he said your name. The way his hands trembled just slightly when they touched your waist. The way he said goodbye without saying goodbye at all.

So you don’t think. You simply lie there.

Until the sound comes.

A sharp, sudden thunk against the glass. Not loud, but just wrong enough to set your whole body on edge. You sit up too quickly, a jolt of alarm running down your spine. And then it comes again, more urgent this time. You push the blankets aside and cross the room barefoot, your dressing gown whispering across the floor behind you.

You ease the window open, the old hinges creaking like something wounded. And there, in the yard, under the silhouette of the linden tree, you see him.

Satoru. The Duke. His white hair glints faintly in the moonlight, and he is standing just where the tree splits, beside the swing your father had once ordered strung up when you were six. You remember tugging at his sleeve and saying you wanted to fly. Now, all you feel is the dizzying weight of having fallen.

He looks up, and when he lifts his hand, something in your chest unknots.

You lean out, voice hoarse from disuse. “What are you doing here?”

“Did you not get my letters?” he calls, brows drawn together, voice tight with something frantic and raw. You freeze. “What letters?”

His jaw clenches, and then he exhales a breath of near disbelief. “Dear God, how cruel is the Viscountess?”

A pause. A beat. And then, "Can you come down?"

You don’t answer. You nod, once, and pull the window closed.

You move on instinct, quietly opening your chamber door and making your way down the corridor. The house is still. The air is heavy. You step softly, your bare feet silent on the stairs, your heart anything but. You don't bother with shoes. You don't bother with a shawl. The only thing that matters is getting outside. Getting to him.

When you emerge from the side door into the courtyard, the world feels unnaturally quiet. You pass the swing, still moving slightly, as though it had been disturbed only moments ago. He turns the second he sees you, and his entire posture softens. The tension in his shoulders vanishes. He looks like he’s been holding his breath since the night of the masquerade.

And then, his voice. Gentle, almost boyish in its tenderness. “Are you alright?”

You stop a foot away from him. His eyes flicker over your face, searching for something. An answer, a wound, a sign. But the wound is deeper than that. So is the answer.

“Do you want me to lie or tell you the truth?” you ask quietly, the words barely breaking the hush of night. You don’t wait for an answer as you walk toward the swing. It creaks faintly as you settle onto it, the ropes groaning against the branch overhead. You don’t look back to see if he follows. You assume he won’t. You expect him to stay standing, half in moonlight, half in shadow, because that’s where he belongs—half-truths, half-promises, always somewhere in between.

But then you feel the shift. A weight beside you. The warmth of him, close but not quite touching.

“I’d never want you to lie to me, darling,” he says softly. That word again. Darling. As though nothing between you has unraveled. As though you are still exactly what you were before the Phantom—you—wrote that damned line. Before the ton decided you were a ruined woman.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead. Past the swing. Past the tree. Past the soft swell of earth where the grass folds in on itself. You do not trust yourself to meet his eyes. You do not trust yourself to remember how to breathe if you do. But you glance anyway.

He’s already looking at you, as if he never stopped. His eyes are patient. Not pleading. Not angry. Just quietly, achingly, there. You exhale, unsteady. “I was terrified,” you whisper. The admission is small, but it tastes enormous.

He doesn’t flinch. “Understandably so,” he says, voice gentle, like something carried in cupped hands. “I sent you four letters the first day.” A pause. “When you didn’t reply, I sent five more the next. And three after that. I thought... perhaps your mother confiscated them in case the Phantom could find out.”

“Twelve letters?” you ask, your voice catching on a smile that wants to live but can’t quite find room in your chest. “In three days?”

He shrugs, the motion elegant and deliberately careless. “Call me smitten.”

“Are you?”

That stops him. Or maybe it unmoors him. You’re not sure which. He turns his body slightly toward you, not all the way, but enough that the side of his leg brushes yours, barely, like an afterthought. His lashes dip with the breeze, and for a moment, it’s just breath between you. Breath and silence and everything you haven’t said.

“Aren’t I?” he says finally, low, certain.

You swallow. The words hang in the air like condensation, like something half-solid. You look away again, the weight of it too much. “How did you get into the courtyard?” you ask, if only to say something.

He hums, brushing his shoulder against yours, an answer without force. “It’s not hard to bribe a footman,” he says, almost smiling. “Especially when you’re a Duke.”

There’s a beat. Then you speak again, without looking at him. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I did,” he says. “Because if you asked me again—‘Are you?’—I would still say it. Again and again. Aren’t I?”

And this time, when you meet his eyes, you don’t look away.

You purse your lips, fingers knotting loosely in the folds of your dressing gown. The words leave your mouth more bitter than you mean them to. “My parents are throwing a fête at Hyde Park this weekend. We have five more days of suffering until the ton shifts its feeble attention from my ruined reputation to my mother’s tireless heroism. Apparently, she's saving me from becoming a harlot.”

The air stills between you. The kind of silence that thickens before it breaks.

Satoru smiles faintly, more rue than warmth, and then exhales, slow and shallow. “And what am I to do at this fête to make them believe I’m hopelessly taken with you?” His voice is gentle, but there's a tension running under it. The kind that suggests he’s speaking past the question, asking something much deeper.

You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “You're hopelessly taken with me?”

He flinches, barely, as if it wounds him. Feigns indignation a second later. “Darling,” he says, softly and steadily now, “a man wouldn’t write you twelve letters in three days, send flowers chosen for meanings he researched himself, or sneak into your courtyard under a watchful moon—during a scandal, no less—if he didn’t…”

He falters. Just long enough for the truth to slip past his guard. His voice softens again. “If he didn’t love you.”

You go still. The words hang there. Fragile and too large for the space they occupy. You blink once, slowly, trying to breathe through the tightness blooming in your chest. He doesn’t look away. His gaze holds steady, clear and unyielding.

“You...” You breathe, not quite able to finish the sentence. “You love me.”

There’s a half-second where something flickers in him, as if he hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud. He blinks, his lashes wet from the wind. And then he laughs. A dry, breathless thing. “I didn’t intend to say it like that. Quite anticlimactic, isn’t it?” His lips twitch into something resembling a smile, but it’s laced with nerves. “I imagine this is not what you pictured when you asked me for a proper courtship.”

You don’t speak. Not at first. You sit there, staring at him—at this man who is all contradictions, who carries titles and expectations and yet stumbles through love like a boy. And something inside you shifts, just slightly, just enough.

You reach out. Not with words, but with your hand, gentle against his sleeve. His eyes meet yours again, and this time, they’re wide with something vulnerable, something almost childlike.

“I didn’t want perfect,” you whisper. “Just honest.”

He watches you for a long moment before he speaks, his voice hushed with something brittle, like he’s afraid it will shatter the stillness between you. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for following you into the balcony that night.”

It’s said gently, but there’s an edge to it. Guilt tangled with longing, remorse tinged with hope. You turn to look at him, fully now, and for a beat, you don’t respond. You’re watching his profile, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch as though unsure of what to do with themselves. As though he wants to reach for you, but won’t unless you allow it.

And then, finally, you smile. It blooms slowly. Tentative at first, then warm, then utterly full. “It’s no matter,” you whisper, your voice thick in your throat. “I wouldn’t have known what it felt like… to kiss the man I love if you hadn’t followed me onto that balcony.”

There’s a silence so sharp it almost hurts. It draws itself tight between you. His head turns, slowly. His eyes widen. Not dramatically, but just enough for you to see the shift. The full weight of your words lands on him like a sudden gust of wind, catching him off balance. And you see it clearly: the disbelief, the hope, the fear that he has misheard. That he’s allowed himself to believe too much.

He stares at you, his breath visibly trembling as it escapes him. “I hope you know,” he says finally, voice hoarse, like it’s caught in his throat, “I stopped breathing for a moment when you said that.”

You laugh, softly, but it’s not mocking. It’s trembling at the edges. “I hope you know,” you say, drawing your knees up to your chest, hands curled at your ankles, “I couldn’t breathe either. Not when you said it first.”

And then, the tension dissolves. Not all at once. Not like a string snapping, but slowly, like a pressure valve being loosened. Like the breath you’ve both been holding for far too long is finally allowed to exhale.

He leans forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours, the tips of his fingers brushing against your knee. There’s no rush to kiss, no sudden swell of music. Just the knowledge that something sacred has passed between you. It's irrevocable. It's something neither of you dares name again too quickly, as if saying it once was enough, and more than enough.

The next afternoon, Gunter's Tea Shop in Berkeley Square, London.

“The Phantom released the article about the Viscount's fête this morning,” Utahime says, her voice low and tightly clipped. “At least that wretched wench didn’t say anything outrageous about you this time.”

You press your lips together and dip your spoon delicately into the small glass dish of rose ice cream, letting the cool pink mound dissolve slowly against your tongue. You nod, pretending to mull over her words when in truth, you are thinking only of the ink that stained your fingers when you wrote those vile words about yourself—how it refused to come off in the morning, how your name looked so sharp and elegant in print.

Two tables away, your mother laughs too brightly with Shoko’s and Utahime’s mothers, a hand fluttering to her chest like a pale moth. They sit beneath the sage green awning, teacups in hand, surrounded by other women in shades of cream and lemon, and the occasional gentleman in fitted coats who glances over with a kind of casual, habitual curiosity. You are used to it—the way they look at you. Not with desire, not anymore, but with expectation. As if waiting for a performance to begin again.

“I still can’t believe she praised you so thoroughly at the start of the season and then... that. Out of nowhere,” Shoko says, swirling her tea idly as she watches you with eyes that miss nothing. “At this point, I almost want to know who she is. Just so I can send her horse dung. Or spill milk through her letterbox.”

You nearly choke on the ice cream. The spoon clangs gently against the glass, and both girls look up, though neither seems overly concerned. You recover fast enough to avoid suspicion. The laugh you offer is thin. “I don’t think I’d want to know anything about her. The less I know, the better.”

“How utterly boring,” Utahime murmurs, plucking a raspberry from her plate and inspecting it before placing it in her mouth. “I’d send her a dozen letters lined with the purest vitriol. Maybe lace them with perfume and powdered rage. She also mentioned that bit about me slipping in the ballroom and Nanami catching me.” Her gaze flicks to you, narrowed. “That was hardly newsworthy.”

Shoko sets down her teacup with a small, decisive clink. “Any word from the Duke?”

You straighten slightly. “Yes,” you say, voice light but careful. “He appeared in the courtyard last night. Bribed the footman. He’s sent twelve letters in the last three days.”

“Twelve?” Utahime repeats, eyebrows raised.

You nod once, ice cream melting untouched now. “My mother apparently intercepted them.”

Shoko’s smile is slight but sharp. “Your mother is slowly becoming just as cruel as the Phantom.”

You swallow hard, as if you do not understand what she does not mean. The dark little crease folded into her words like a pressed flower between pages. But you do understand. And worse: it makes sense. In that terrifying, private way that truths only you know often do.

You lean forward, elbows lightly touching the edge of the linen-covered table. Your voice drops into something more fragile, more deliberate, and both girls respond the way they always do—Shoko arching a brow with amusement barely disguised as detachment, Utahime still too earnest to pretend she isn’t hanging on your every breath.

“There is… one more thing.”

Their shoulders tilt inward. You close your eyes, just for a moment. It is not for dramatic effect—it is, rather, the only way you can steel yourself. Your breath catches in your throat like a ribbon being drawn tight.

“He said he loves me.”

The words are small, almost shy. But they land like an aria. Utahime gasps. Not shrill, not childish—but loud enough that three heads turn in unison. Your mother, resplendent in lavender silk, squints suspiciously in your direction. Shoko’s mother says something behind a teacup, and your mother forces a laugh. But the tightening at the corners of her mouth betrays her.

You shoot Utahime a withering look. Shoko, without glancing away from you, reaches beneath the table and delivers a sharp, practiced pinch.

Utahime’s mouth snaps shut. You exhale, a whisper escaping with the next revelation. “I said it back.”

For a moment, they both stare at you. Neither scoffing, neither doubting. Just quiet, giddy awe. As if they know the gravity of such a thing. As if they understand how rare it is to say it and mean it, to hear it and believe it.

Shoko leans back, amused. “You’ve grown into such a bold woman,” she says, mock-reverent, and lifts her teacup in a tiny, invisible toast. “'Hime, if you so much as squeak again, I will kick you hard enough to knock your stocking garters out of place.”

“I’m trying,” Utahime mutters through clenched teeth, reaching for her cake with something close to desperation. She stabs her fork into the raspberry cream and takes a resolute bite.

You laugh then—quiet, contained—but it feels real.

After half an hour, your mother begins her retreat, masked in the practiced grace of social obligation. She is making excuses artfully, to remove you from the crowd, from the warmth of laughter and companionship, from the subtle but undeniable attention you’ve begun to draw again. She murmurs something about needing to visit Hatchard’s—to collect your father’s volumes on parliamentary history, and, pointedly, to procure something poetic for you, as if that might remind you to behave like a girl worth writing sonnets about.

You smile at Shoko and Utahime. Not joyfully, not even convincingly, but enough to satisfy the performance of it, then bow your head politely to their mothers, whose eyes, you feel, have never quite left your figure.

Then you are in the carriage, and your mother’s voice, once syrupy and social, sharpens like a knife. “What were you doing in there?” she hisses, the words so bitter they practically blister. “Laughing? Gossiping? While I’m out here sewing together the scraps of your reputation?”

“We just talked,” you murmur, gaze fixed on the passing blur of shops and parasols outside. The glass is warm where the sun catches it. You imagine being anywhere but here. Your mother sighs, long and theatrical. And begins a tirade you’ve heard so many times the syllables barely register. Something about your fall from grace. Something about dignity and self-control. Something about how you were once the season’s prized possession, and now you are something dulled, tarnished, unworthy of the settings once offered to you.

But you are not listening. You are thinking of last night. Of the Duke. Of the wild, impossible thing he said with his hands still trembling and his breath uneven—I love you. And worse: how you said it back.

At Hatchard’s, she strides ahead, elegant and exacting, giving orders at the counter about your father’s precious editions. “Wait here,” she commands, not glancing back. You nod dutifully, already drifting away.

The shop is dimly lit toward the back, dust moats caught in the slant of early afternoon light. You move without thinking, fingers trailing across the worn spines—books of sermons, scandal, feminism, philosophy.

And then, a glint of silver. A figure that is lean, familiar, almost out of place among the cracked leather bindings. You freeze. And in that suspended breath between recognition and response, the quiet, heavy weight of anticipation settles into your bones.

“I had a footman stationed at the ice cream parlour while passing it en route to the palace this morning,” he says absently, eyes trailing the gilded spine of a Byron edition. “Saw you and the Viscountess by the window. Thought it wise to orchestrate a timely appearance. For her benefit, of course.”

You stifle a laugh, glance to your left and right to ensure no familiar eyes linger, and step closer. The air between you tightens—not scandalous, not improper, but something soft and secretive all the same. Your shoulders brush as the two of you face the towering mahogany shelves like confidants in quiet rebellion.

“One might say you’re an impertinent fellow of ill repute,” you murmur, turning your attention toward the philosophy section. Your fingers find a new bound Mary Wollstonecraft book—A Vindication of the Rights of Woman—and you lift it with care, your gaze lowered to its burgundy cover.

Behind you, he chuckles. “You’re alright?” he asks, voice gentler now. You nod, but it’s a brittle thing. “If you consider bearing witness to my mother’s theatrical lament on my fall from grace, how I was once a diamond of the season, and now I’m Icarus mid-plummet, then yes. Perfectly alright.”

“She’s rather fond of dramatics, isn’t she?” he says, turning to look at you fully now. His eyes flit to the book in your hands. “I never took you for a radical.”

“Everyone should be a radical, Your Grace,” you reply quietly, lifting your chin. “And if reading this makes me one, then I’m already behind on my studies.”

He smiles at that, something glinting in his expression. Half pride, half awe. “I see now why your mother despises when you act of your own volition.”

“And yet,” you say softly, “I’m still standing.”

A beat. And then: “I have a copy of all her writings. Wollstonecraft’s. If you’d like, I can send them over. Via footman, of course.”

You blink, startled by the offer. By how casually he makes it, as though sharing sacred texts were a simple thing. Your heart hitches. “You do?”

He nods, as if it costs him nothing to hand you entire revolutions.

And just when you are about to say yes, just when the softest edges of something warm begin to settle in your chest, you hear her voice.

“Your Grace.”

You turn, too fast. Eyes wide. Breath caught. Your mother appears from between the shelves like smoke rising from scorched silk—elegant, composed, but furious in the way only a woman with power over your life can be. Her eyes cut to Gojo with a diplomat’s charm, all surface and calculation. But when they land on you, the temperature drops. It is the kind of stare that sears beneath the skin.

“Viscountess.” Gojo inclines his head with just the right measure of politeness and ease. “I was merely informing your daughter that I’d be sending along a few books she seemed fond of. We appear to share taste in authors.”

You swallow hard. Too hard. The muscles in your throat tighten against the tension stretching in your chest. You feel yourself retreating inward while their voices float past you, muffled, distorted. Something about politics. Something about propriety. The sound of your own heartbeat begins to blur their words. You are still trying to breathe when Gojo’s shoulder brushes yours so gently it might have been imagined.

“I had something to ask of you, my lady,” he says then, and though he looks at you for a breath of a second, it is your mother he addresses. His voice is calm, almost careless. He is playing a long game, you realise.

“Yes, anything,” your mother replies, sweet as overripe fruit, while her fingers curl tighter around the parasol in her hand, as if she might strike you with it if no one were watching. Her smile holds.

Satoru’s gaze drifts back to her with diplomatic patience. “I wondered if we might take supper at my estate before the fête. I’ve been hoping to speak with the Viscount—your husband—but my schedule at the palace has kept me from paying a proper visit.”

There’s a pause. A tiny, ruptured silence in which you realise just how much this means. How calculated the ask is. How public, how binding.

Your mother blinks. Visibly thrown. She gathers herself in the space of two breaths. “I would need to ask, Your Grace. The fête requires all our attention at present.”

“Of course,” Gojo replies smoothly, tucking a hand into his coat pocket. “But do consider it. It would mean a great deal.”

You see the moment her mind shifts. When she begins to weigh the proposal for its implications, its potential, its danger. And then: “Very well. I shall speak to my husband.”

“Splendid,” he says, and offers that smile. That smile—the one that turns the tide of every ballroom he enters and has the heart of every woman in the ton.

Your mother turns to you then. Something clipped and polite leaves her mouth. Something about how it is late, how you must go. She takes your arm with the practiced grip of control masked as care. You nod, too stunned to protest, feet following without meaning to.

And just as the threshold nears, just as the scent of old paper and pipe tobacco begins to give way to carriage smoke and rain-slick cobblestone, you look back.

Satoru is still there, framed in the hush of mahogany shelves. He lifts the Wollstonecraft from your hands like a keepsake, not a book. Then, with maddening calm, he winks. And you leave, as your heart pounds like thunder beneath silk.

THE VEILED QUILL Volume II, Issue XII Walks and Whispers Between Pages

My dearest gentle readers,

Though the Season presses forward with its usual rhythm of dances, dinners, and decorum, this particular week has proved most diverting. And not for reasons your chaperones would approve.

Let us begin with a scene that could have been lifted from a sentimental novel: on Monday afternoon, none other than Mr. Nanami Kento—staid, solemn, and as serious as any eligible bachelor can be—was observed calling on Miss Iori Utahime at her family residence. Yes, calling. One might argue it was a simple gesture of civility, but we are not in the habit of reporting mere civility, are we? Are we to expect a courtship announcement soon? Or is this simply a case of a baron’s daughter charming a man of fewer words?

And on Tuesday, if you were fortunate enough to stroll through Hyde Park before the hour grew too warm, you might have spotted Mr. Geto Suguru—that ever-pensive gentleman with the air of a tortured poet—walking beside Lady Ieiri Shoko, daughter of the Marquess. The two were seen in hushed conversation, walking chaperoned by the lake. While neither party is a stranger to intellectual pursuits (and, one imagines, complex inner lives), this particular pairing has not gone unnoticed. Are we witnessing the quiet beginning of a romance?

But nothing—not even the potential entanglements of society’s sharpest minds—has caused quite so much ink to flow as the return of the Viscount’s daughter.

Yes, dear readers. She has reappeared.

After days spent in discreet withdrawal following that unspeakable scandal, the former darling of the ton was seen in the public eye once more, making her entrance not in ballrooms or drawing rooms, but at Gunter’s Tea Shop—a choice cunningly poetic. Seated beside the aforementioned Miss Utahime and Miss Shoko, the trio appeared shockingly at ease, laughing over rose-flavored confections and whispering secrets so thrilling that even this Phantom burns to know them. (What did they say between bites of raspberry cake? Were those secrets sweet, or devastatingly bitter?)

And yet, dear reader, this is not where the tale ends.

No sooner had the daughter of the Viscount re-emerged than she was whisked away by her mother—who, in a fit of theatrical duty, dragged her to Hatchard’s in Piccadilly under the guise of purchasing political readings for her husband and poetry for her daughter. But what poetry, I ask, could possibly compare to what transpired there?

For as fate would have it, His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, was already present there. Sources say his carriage arrived no sooner than fifteen minutes before the Viscountess took her daughter there.

That’s right. The Duke—elusive, dazzling, dangerous—was seen among the shelves just before the Viscountess arrived with her wayward charge. The two—our scandal-touched lady and His Grace—were together once again. And when she emerged? The very same lady who once held all of society's hearts in the palm of her glove? Dazed. Distant. As if touched by lightning or haunted by something only she, and perhaps the Duke, could name.

What occurred in those hushed book-lined corridors? What was said? What was felt? Did the Duke offer her consolation? Or temptation? Whatever the answer, one thing is certain: the Season just became far more interesting.

With ink-stained fingers and a heart attuned to secrets, Phantom.

You wear a cloak that night—midnight blue, hood drawn, hem grazing the stone like a hush. In your gloved hands rests the latest issue of The Veiled Quill, its contents still warm from ink. You'd just written it. The house is silent. Ladies of the ton are meant to be dreaming by now, tucked beneath canopies of silk and embroidered virtue. But you are wide awake, each step down the stairs as soundless as sin.

The courtyard is damp with moonlight. You move quickly, past the clipped boxwoods and sleeping roses, to the waiting carriage hidden behind the garden wall. No lanterns. No insignia. Just an old, nondescript cab driven by a footman who knows not to ask questions. You pay him enough for it, anyway.

London slips by in a blur of cobblestone and gaslight. Southwark lies across the Thames—far enough from Mayfair, far enough from the Crown's watchful eye. Far enough from genteel society that no one would even think that this is where your secrets lie. Its streets stink of sweat, smoke, and secrets. This is where your printing press lives. Nestled between a tavern and a forge, behind a crooked sign that never bears your name.

You hand over the last issue, neatly folded. The printer, a wiry man who smells of tobacco, presses a pouch of your earnings into your palm without a word. He knows better. You count the coins by feel, because ever since the scandal, your earnings had almost quadrupled.

By the time you return, dawn is still a rumor. You step out two streets down from your house, pulling your cloak tighter. Your hair is unpinned. Your cheeks bare. In your plain cotton dress, you look nothing like the daughter of a Viscount. And that is the point.

Men pass you in the misty dark—some weaving home from gaming halls, others from beds not theirs. They do not see you. Not really. At best, you are a maid. At worst, a curiosity. But never a danger. Never the storm behind the scandal sheets.

There is a narrow cobblestone street you turn onto, slick with the memory of rain and lined with oil-lanterns that flicker like half-breathed secrets. The hem of your cloak catches against your ankle as you walk, quickly, quietly, alone in the way only women can be when they are trying not to be noticed. You barely register the figure behind you until you feel the tap against your shoulder.

You flinch. And then you freeze. Because it is him. Lord Nigel Berbrooke. His eyes are glassy, his breath thick with drink. “Thought it was you,” he slurs, teeth yellowed under the dim gaslight.

You feel your spine go taut. Nigel Berbrooke is a man of deeply unpleasant reputation. Older than most eligible bachelors, and yet more infantile in his sense of entitlement. You remember the way he cornered women into dancing at Utahime’s ball, how he refused to take no for an answer. How he had asked you more than once that night. You had declined each time. You hadn't spoken of it. Not to your mother. Not to Utahime. You had wanted to preserve the memory of your first dance with Satoru, not tarnish it with Berbrooke's presence.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, m’lord,” you say, quick to adjust your voice into something meek. Small. Working-class. Your gaze darts, calculating. Escape routes, light, witnesses. The street is quiet. A carriage rattles past on the far side.

Berbrooke steps closer. You step back.

But his hand is fast. He grabs your arm—tight, unrelenting—and your body goes still. “The daughter of the Viscount,” he sneers, too loudly. “Out for a moonlit stroll, is it? Gone to meet your Duke?”

Your stomach lurches. You tug at your arm, but he doesn’t let go. He reeks of brandy and sweat, and something older, something rotted. Panic scratches its way up your throat. His grip tightens, and he begins to speak again. Vulgar things about balconies and what might have transpired there. Your vision blurs. Your breathing shortens.

You don’t think. You simply react. Your knee finds the soft of his stomach and drives upward. He wheezes, collapses forward with a grunt. You stumble back, barely registering the sharp stop of a carriage just ahead.

Two figures leap down. Moving fast. Familiar.

Satoru reaches you first. His hands are cupping your face before you realize it’s him. His touch is careful but firm, thumbs warm against your cheekbones. “I knew it was you,” he breathes, eyes wide with something that looks frighteningly close to fear. “What in God’s name are you doing out so late at night?”

You blink, still breathless, the panic clawing at your lungs as you try to make up a lie. “I went out for a walk,” you say, voice tight, fragile. “It felt... it felt suffocating at home.”

“You know better than to leave your courtyard,” he says, his voice softer now, but still edged with tension. “You could’ve sat on the swing. Cleared your head that way.”

Suguru steps past you, his eyes hardening as they fall on Berbrooke’s groaning form. “Are you hurt?” he asks, gentle.

You shake your head. “He just... grabbed me. Said things about me and—”

You look to Satoru. His jaw clenches. Suguru doesn’t ask for more.

“What were the two of you doing out?” you ask, trying to collect yourself, to change the subject.

“Club,” Satoru replies, almost too quickly. He glances at Suguru. “I’ll walk her home. Suguru, deal with this poor excuse of a man, will you? Wait for me in the carriage. I won't take long.”

Suguru nods, and gives you a look—one part reassurance, one part apology—as he moves to drag the lord out of sight.

Satoru slips his arm around yours, his pace slow, deliberate, every movement saturated with concern. “I keep finding new things about you,” he murmurs.

You glance at him. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all.” A smile flickers across his lips, crooked and soft. “I’m even more smitten.”

“You are,” you say, voice quieter now, the fear beginning to settle into a tremble. “Such a tease.”

“A tease you said you love, nonetheless,” he replies. Then, more seriously: “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Just shaken,” you murmur. “I thought the cotton dress would be enough. I thought he wouldn’t recognize me.”

Gojo’s eyes trail down the length of your cloak. “It’s the silk,” he says gently. “No maid would wear a silk cloak, my dear. Though you do play the part well. No one would have noticed, except Nigel Berbrooke. He's a lecherous man.”

You exhale. “Oh.”

His grip tightens on your arm. Warm, anchoring. You're nearing the back gate of your home. The iron is cool beneath your gloved fingertips as the courtyard stretches before you, bathed in the faint light of a gas lamp swaying gently in the night wind. You pause, cloak curling around your ankles, the weight of the evening pressing into your bones.

"I suppose this is it," you murmur, voice feathering out into the quiet.

Satoru stops beside you, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders drawn with restraint. You want to say something. Ask him what happened in Hatchard’s earlier. You want to bury your face in his chest and confess how your hands still tremble. But instead, you wait. Hoping. Maybe he’ll say something first. Maybe he'll linger.

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he says, and there’s something raw in the way his voice cuts through the hush.

“Like what?” you ask, blinking up at him.

His jaw clenches slightly. “Hurt.”

You force a smile, small and crooked. “I’ll be alright. I just... I can’t believe I hit him.”

At that, he laughs. A startled, quiet laugh that still feels like it shakes the stars loose overhead. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to muffle the sound, but his shoulders still tremble with it. You can’t help it—you laugh too, albeit breathlessly.

And then, silence. But not the cold kind. The kind that stretches softly between two people who’ve begun to understand each other. Satoru looks at you, eyes gentled. “You’re much, much more than just the Viscount’s daughter,” he says. “I hope you know that.”

You can’t speak. Not immediately. The words settle in your chest like warmth from a hearth after a long frost. So instead, you step forward. One breath, then another. And then your arms are around him—soft cotton sleeves brushing velvet lapels—your head pressed to his chest, where his heart is beating far too fast for someone so composed.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He holds you close. “Whatever for?”

“For being there,” you murmur. “For being here.”

Two days later, Highgrove House.

It is late in the evening when Gojo Satoru arrives.

Tomorrow is Saturday, and the garden fête is scheduled for Sunday afternoon. The house is still, lamps dimmed to a golden hush, and you are in the drawing room, seated beside the fire with Yuji at your side. One of the books His Grace had promised—the very same Mary Wollstonecraft, finely bound—had arrived just yesterday, and you'd been reading it aloud to your brother before a rustle in the doorway makes you both look up.

“His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, has arrived, miss,” the maid announces.

Yuji perks up instantly. “D’you think he’s brought his brother?”

“It’s do you, and he has,” you correct gently, closing the book and setting it on the low table between you. “And I don’t know. I hope so. You’d like him, I think. His name’s Megumi. He’s your age.”

“You told me,” Yuji says, already tugging at his coat to neaten it, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve. You smile at his eagerness.

“You look very handsome,” you assure him. “If I were a twelve-year-old boy, I’d absolutely want to be your friend.”

“That’s great consolation,” he says dryly, “coming from someone who’s good at fencing, horse riding and pall-mall.”

“Exactly,” you reply, rising and smoothing the folds of your skirt. From the hallway, you hear voices. Your father’s clipped, courteous tone, and the unmistakable lilt of Gojo’s. You take Yuji’s hand and step into the corridor.

Satoru stands tall in the foyer, the picture of composed elegance, all wintry hair and effortless charm. He is speaking to your parents with the easy grace of someone who has nothing to hide and everything under control. Beside him stands a boy, black-haired and blue-eyed, quieter in stature and presence, his gaze lowered to the polished floor. So unlike the Duke. And yet, unmistakably kin.

You glance down at Yuji, giving his hand a small encouraging squeeze. “Go on,” you whisper. “Introduce yourself. Maybe the two of you will be great friends.”

Yuji nods, swallowing his nerves before releasing your hand and stepping forward. You follow, casting a soft, searching smile in Satoru’s direction. He bows his head ever so slightly in return—calm, unreadable, collected. As if nothing has shifted. As if everything has unfolded precisely according to his own private design. As if the chaos of the past weeks has been nothing more than a prelude he anticipated all along.

And you, despite everything, trust him enough to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he’s right.

When the six of you settle into dinner and have only just finished the first course—an almond soup delicately spiced, accompanied by poached fish and its garnishes—you notice it. A shift. Subtle at first. The change in Satoru's tone when he turns to your father. It is not unkind, but it is unmistakably deliberate. His posture straightens, a certain stiffness entering his shoulders, and his voice loses its usual lightness.

You glance over just as you're breaking your bread roll, and catch it. The flicker in his eyes, the way he glances down at his lap, as if preparing for war rather than dinner. The maids move soundlessly between chairs, clearing plates with practiced ease. The air tightens.

"I must admit," Satoru says, tone formal but softened by a trace of humility, "I’ve come here this evening with something of an ulterior motive."

You still. Your mother lifts her wineglass to her lips, eyes narrowing faintly. Your father sets down his knife and fork, attention now fully focused. Across the table, Yuji and Megumi have taken to whispering, clearly fast friends already, blissfully unaware of the shift in atmosphere.

"Ulterior motive?" your father repeats, arching a brow. His voice is calm, but it rings like a bell in the stillness. "And what might that be?"

Gojo doesn't hesitate. "We'd spoken, briefly, of marriage. Informally, yes, but earnestly. I'm here tonight to make my intentions plain."

The servants begin to lay out the second course—roast venison, its juices glistening, followed by pigeon pie, soufflés, and a new round of gleaming cutlery. Yet no one reaches for a fork.

Satoru presses on as though the entire table has not gone silent. As though the air is not pulled taut between expectation and propriety.

"I believe," he says, carefully, clearly, proudly, "it is time we put an end to the whispers. The scandal, as it were. I've come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage."

You pause. The air in the dining room stills, despite the low clink of cutlery and the rustle of napkins. Your eyes move slowly. First to your father, then to your mother, and finally to the two boys at the other end of the table, who’ve gone entirely silent. Yuji’s eyes are round with awe, flicking between you and Satoru as if he’s accidentally wandered into a play. Megumi, more composed, simply watches his brother with a dark, unreadable gaze, then glances once at you.

Your father says nothing at first. He seems to weigh the moment in his head, brow furrowed—not out of anger, but as if turning something over in his mind. Something unsaid. Something unresolved. And then, finally, he speaks. “I don’t see why not,” he says, quiet but firm.

It should feel like relief, but it doesn’t. Gojo grins then, quick and boyish—triumphant in the way of someone who’s just executed a clever move on a chessboard—and turns to you as though to confirm the checkmate. You try to mirror it, to offer back the expression he wants, but all you can manage is a soft, uncertain smile. A twitch at the corner of your mouth. The tiniest scrunch of your nose. Confusion creeps up your spine.

Then Gojo continues, this time to your father. “My father knew the Archbishop of Canterbury personally,” he says, voice smooth, even, practiced. “We can arrange for the license swiftly. I could speak to him, if expedience is preferred, of course.”

“Lovely,” your mother says at once, almost too quickly. Her voice lilts upward, hopefully. And there it is: the shift in tone. As if she’s just remembered that marrying a Duke’s heir erases scandal, clears reputations, sets everything straight.

You say nothing. Because what is there to say? Gojo speaks again. “We shall have the license in a matter of days,” he announces, his tone tipping slightly toward command. “Preparations for the wedding can be made, I assume?”

He speaks with such certainty now, such composure, that you feel, absurdly, as though he’s rehearsed it. As if this evening were a script and he knows every beat, every line. You wonder if he’s always this calm when negotiating outcomes that affect other people’s lives. That affect your life.

It unnerves you. Not the proposal. Not the dinner. But the ease. The precision. The sheer confidence of it. You can’t decide whether to admire him or recoil.

You listen quietly as the dinner continues—soufflés arriving, plates cleared, wine glasses half-drunk. You play the part of the composed daughter, the future duchess, but your mind is elsewhere. Picking apart the pieces of him that you thought you knew. Wondering what else lies beneath that smile, that grace, that armor of polished charm.

And later, much later, once the servants have cleared the table and the doors to the parlor have been shut—you find yourself outside. The evening air is cool, soft, still edged with the scent of crushed lavender and stone warmed by day. The garden is dappled with dusk. You and Gojo stand near the courtyard, half in shadow, watching the boys—Yuji and Megumi—laughing as they take turns pushing one another on the swing.

They’re just children. Careless. Weightless. You, on the other hand, feel the full heft of everything that just transpired pressing like a hand to your spine.

“How is it,” you ask, voice low, “that you can so confidently, so easily, dictate what you want from others and receive it without resistance?”

Satoru’s brows knit, but not out of annoyance. It’s curiosity. He turns toward you, his eyes pale and searching in the twilight. The golden light of the garden lanterns flickers softly over the lines of his face. “What do you mean?” he says gently.

You glance up at him, then away, toward the swing where Yuji’s laughter is fading. The boys are slowing now—less shrill joy, more tired amusement. “It just felt like… you and my parents were speaking in a room I wasn’t in,” you murmur. “Like I was sitting beside you all and somehow still not quite present.”

He exhales. It’s soft, careful, as if he knows he’s treading somewhere delicate now. “Trust me, darling,” he says, “I was waiting for you to speak. For you to stop me, if you wanted to.”

You shake your head slowly. “It’s all right. I suppose I should’ve expected this. Mother will take the fête as an opportunity to make an announcement about the wedding.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks, quiet but not unkind. “To be married? To me? Does it not make you happy?”

“I am happy,” you say, lifting your eyes to meet his. “Delighted, even.” But your voice betrays you—too soft, too even, too polite. You glance back toward the children. “It’s just… I never thought it would happen this way. Not through scandal.”

He hums faintly, a note of regret in his tone. “If it’s any consolation,” he begins, “I’m sorry for following you into the balcon—”

“No,” you interrupt gently. “I don’t regret it.”

He grins, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve made that quite clear.”

The moment stretches, quiet and not entirely uncomfortable. Then he steps back a little, brushing down the front of his coat. “I should leave. The sun’s gone, and I’ve got appearances to keep with the Archbishop in the morning.” He glances sideways at you. “I wrote him this morning. About our… situation.”

You blink. “So you knew my parents would jump at the offer for the expedited license.”

“I did,” he confesses, a note of guilt tucked behind the smile. It’s not smug, not quite. Just certain. Just planned. You nod, slowly. The smile you offer isn’t warm. It’s the kind of smile one gives upon solving the last riddle in a long line of riddles. “That’s what I thought. I keep finding out more about you than I bargained for,” you murmur. “It’s terrifying, in a way.”

“I had the same feeling,” he says, lips curling, “when I saw you knee Nigel Berbrooke right in the corner of Grosvenor Square.”

You almost laugh. He calls to Megumi then, and the moment fades—replaced by the sound of feet on gravel, of the boys returning with flushed cheeks and wide grins.

“Can I visit my sister often once you’re married?” Yuji pipes up as the four of you enter the house. The light indoors feels warmer than before, too bright. Too staged.

Satoru laughs, ruffling Yuji’s hair. “You can visit Megumi and I, too. Whenever you like.”

Yuji beams, then turns to Gojo as though just remembering. “Did you know she plays chess? And that she's great at pall mall? Oh, did you know she can fence?”

Gojo lets out a laugh now. Loud, full-bodied. “Trust me,” he says, “she can do far more than just fence.”

And later, when the Duke and his brother have gone—when the house has quieted and the laughter of dinner has faded into memory—you find yourself in the parlor again. Yuji chatters beside you, dreaming aloud of the escapades he’ll have as the Duchess’s brother. You nod, smile where you should, tease him gently. You walk him to his bed, tuck him in, promise him summer rides and borrowed hounds and library keys. You press a kiss to his forehead and bid him goodnight.

Then you retreat to your room. You set pen to paper, intending to finish the article you began yesterday. You write a single line about the fête, then stare at it for too long. Eventually, you set the pen down. It’s late. The fire’s burned low.

You lie in bed, hands clasped over your stomach, and think of your parents’ expressions at dinner. Not startled. Not overwhelmed. Just... prepared. Just ready. As if they’d known all along. As if Gojo had handed them the lines to read.

It sits heavy in your chest.

You are delighted. You are engaged. You are on the cusp of a future some women would kill for. And still, you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, behind it all, a conversation occurred that did not include you. And it unsettles you.

Late afternoon of Sunday, Hyde Park.

It is astounding, what your mother can do when she sets her mind to something. This is not merely a fête champêtre. It is a declaration. A staking of territory. A performance, curated down to the last spun sugar petal and silk-draped pavilion. And it has Hyde Park—no, the entire season—in its palm.

Your family arrives half an hour before the invitations permit. It is early enough to watch the event take shape, late enough that the magic has already begun to settle. Enough for your mother's watchful eye to make sure everything is up to the mark. You step from the carriage, feet sinking just slightly into the trimmed grass, and it takes you a long moment before you can do anything other than simply stand. Breathe. Take it in.

The Parade Grounds have been transformed into a dreamscape. Tents and pavilions bloom across the green like ivory flowers, their silken walls rippling in the breeze. Musicians tune their violins on a raised dais in the centre, the light catching on the brass fittings of their flutes. Fortune-tellers settle into their tents with velvet-draped tables and cards worn to softness. Puppeteers test the wires of their painted marionettes, hands moving with the delicacy of surgeons. Pavilions with refreshments like champagne, ice-cream, sugared strawberries, and pies and cakes are blended into the lot of the rest like a beautiful painting.

Lanterns, hundreds of them, are strung from poles and trees, not yet lit, but already trembling with anticipation. By dusk, they will burn like stars. It is beautiful. Not the fragile, private sort of beauty one tucks away—but a theatrical kind, curated to be admired. To be envied.

You walk slowly across the grounds, your gown catching slightly at the knees. It’s a soft pastel blue muslin, airy enough for a day on the lawn, but intricate where it counts—lace tracing the collar and hem, tiny pearl buttons running down your spine. Your mother insisted on this shade. Said it would make you stand out just enough: an echo of the sky, a suggestion of innocence, but unmistakably tailored for attention.

Lawn games are cordoned off by rope garlands—pall mall, lawn archery, and some whimsical game involving hoops and ribbons you don’t even recognize. Musicians drift between the setups like well-dressed ghosts, their instruments resting against their chests like lovers. There is movement everywhere—an elegant chaos. You think, briefly, that it all feels too perfect.

And then you remember the reason behind it. Your engagement will be announced today. To the Duke.

The thought rushes through you like wind. A thrill. A knot. You clasp your hands at your waist, feeling the fine tremble of anticipation settle under your skin. This will be the most talked-about event of the season. Perhaps the next, too. Of that, you are certain. And it is your name they will whisper behind fans. Your mother’s triumph. Your family’s rise.

Your story—beginning, here. In full view.

You hardly have time to name the miracle of it before the crowd begins to pour in. An endless stream of silk, laughter, and social ambition. Lords, barons, and the finely powdered elite of London arrive in carriages and on foot, their presence declaring the event the apex of the season. It is, you realize, too perfect to be anything but deliberate. Everyone has come.

The gentlemen drift toward the card pavilions like moths to candlelight, already leaning over hands of whist and hazard, murmuring their wagers beneath the pluck of lute strings. The ladies—lace-gloved and flushed—gather at the fortune-tellers’ tents, giggling as their futures are read in cryptic symbols and feathered cards. Children are spellbound before puppet stages and in pall mall, their laughter lifting into the air with the scent of sugared pastries and lemonade. The entire world has converged here, in Hyde Park, under your family’s name. All of London, is here.

“I cannot believe your mother did this in a week,” Shoko says beside you, one brow raised in something between disbelief and admiration. The three of you stand tucked beneath the awning of a lemonade stand near the musicians’ dais, where a lively tune hums beneath the swell of conversation. The lemon in your cup tastes like a dream—sweet and tart and fleeting.

“I can’t either,” you murmur, still wide-eyed, still unsure how to take it all in. “I almost wish I weren’t the host, just so I could wander and enjoy it properly. But I know she’ll come to collect me any moment now, drag me off to meet half the peerage.”

“How tragic,” Utahime says with a faux pout, raising her glass. You narrow your eyes at her, amused. You open your mouth, close it again. Then, a breath. The words come out quiet. “I have to tell you something. Before it's announced.”

Shoko stills. Utahime’s brow furrows slightly. You glance between them. There’s something in Shoko’s expression already, something knowing, even wicked. She sets her cup down delicately on a side table and folds her arms with too much casualness.

“I am engaged,” you say. “To the Duke.”

Silence. A moment suspended in air, stretched thin. Utahime blinks once, twice. Her mouth falls open slightly. Shoko only smiles.

“Congratulations,” she says at last. “You’re going to be the wealthiest duchess in London.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. “That’s not the point. I just—” You hesitate. “I don’t know. It might be the scandal, but I’ve had this pit in my stomach all evening. Something feels off.”

“Well,” Utahime says quietly, unusually tempered, “He did the decent thing. A scandal always weighs heavier on the woman, anyway.”

You nod slowly, lips pressed together. The moment passes, melts into something easier, something lighter. Conversation shifts, laughter returns. But not for long.

Your mother appears, glowing, and whisks you away. You catch only the briefest glances of the crowd, of your friends, of the festivities still in full swing. You’re passed from one conversation to another, introduced to a daisy chain of barons, counts, viscountesses—faces whose names blur at the edges. You're charming and gracious, just as you've been taught. But it drains you. Every compliment is a cut; every polite chuckle a rehearsed deflection.

It’s only after what feels like an hour and a half of curated smiling that you spot a glimmer of silver. Across the lawn, near the champagne pavilion, stands Satoru. He is unmistakable, even among the cluster of tall men and expensive coats. His hair catches the last remnants of sun like snow under candlelight. He’s surrounded by familiar faces—Suguru, Nanami, and others you recognize at once—but it’s him you focus on. Him, who hasn’t looked your way once.

You stay by your parents, trying not to show the fatigue that pools in your feet, in your jaw, in your chest. You imagine Yuji somewhere far off, shrieking with laughter as Megumi scowls at a lawn game or scampers after a puppet. It comforts you.

And then you quietly step away. Slipping between groups, down toward the edge of the fête where the pie and pastry tent waits. It’s quieter here, easier. The smell of spiced apples and butter fills the air, and you breathe in as if you haven’t tasted air in an hour.

“Look at you,” a voice drawls behind you. “Unchaperoned. Again.”

You smile, turning to him. “And look at you, following me while I’m unchaperoned. Again.”

Satoru steps toward you with that grin—the boyish, maddeningly pleased-with-himself one—and wraps his arms around you without hesitation. You let him. The tent is empty but for an older woman arranging pastries with tender focus, unconcerned with royalty or reputation.

“You look beautiful in blue,” he murmurs, his voice low near your ear.

“I wore it for that very reason,” you reply, unable to stop the smile blooming across your face.

Gojo glances around, his expression shifting. Still playful, but with a note of caution. His gaze sweeps the tent: the older woman arranging lemon and cherry tarts has her back turned, wholly immersed in her task, and the rest of the fête stretches just far enough to grant them a rare sliver of privacy.

Then, without fanfare, he leans in and brushes his lips against yours.

It’s not a dramatic kiss, not the kind poets string sonnets from, but it unravels you in its simplicity. Quick, secret, a punctuation mark rather than a full sentence. Still, you feel it. All the way down. It is the kind of kiss that feels like a promise kept. He pulls back just as easily as he leaned in, his expression unreadable for a moment. And then that grin returns, tugging at the corners of his mouth, softening him.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,” he says.

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. He takes your silence for what it is—something between stunned affection and aching anticipation—and presses one last glance to your hand before he slips back into the crowd.

Time moves oddly after that. It doesn’t speed up, exactly, but it begins to blur. You find your way back to the center of the parade grounds, the sky now fully dark above Hyde Park, where lanterns float like tiny stars strung between trees. The air is cooler, but the excitement thrumming in the crowd keeps it from chilling. You spot Shoko and Utahime near the ring toss stall and slip back into their orbit as naturally as if you’d never left.

You laugh, truly laugh, as Utahime flings her final ring and narrowly misses the wooden peg she’s aiming for. “You’re absolutely hopeless,” you tease, watching Shoko collect a small paper prize for herself—a folded fan painted with florals.

“I’ll have you know,” Utahime mutters, “I let Shoko win. She looked like she needed the morale.”

You're about to reply when something cuts through the air. The music stops. It dies not with a jarring crash but with a soft, deliberate diminuendo, as if the musicians were told to lay their instruments down slowly, one by one. Like a curtain falling at the end of an act.

You freeze.

All around you, people are turning. Faces lift. Heads angle toward the central dais where the string quartet had been playing only moments before. The effect is like a tide: all at once, the sea of conversation ebbs, leaving only a hush thick with expectation.

Your mother steps up onto the dais, flanked by your father. Their expressions are composed, practiced—faces made for portraiture and politics. Your father’s voice is the first to rise. You feel it before you hear it, the anticipation threading into your spine, a quiet and inevitable dread.

It’s time. The announcement is about to be made. And somehow, impossibly, you're not ready.

You search the crowd for him—your eyes scanning beyond the flushed cheeks and swirling silks, past the clamor of card tables and puppet shows, beyond the lords in powdered coats and the ladies in florals—as if you could summon steadiness in the shape of a man. And then, there he is.

Gojo stands at the edge of the dais, tall and immaculately composed in deep navy. The silver of his hair glints beneath the lanterns strung like stars between trees. His gaze is already on you. Of course it is. He nods once, slow and certain. And something inside you stills.

"It's happening," you whisper.

“Go,” Shoko murmurs, voice lower than the hush that’s fallen over the crowd. “Make the most of it. Go. Rid yourself of this ridiculous scandal and present yourself as the Duchess-to-be.”

You hesitate. You feel the weight of your name before it is ever spoken, the pressure of your title before it has been officially given. Then Utahime presses a warm hand to the small of your back for a gentle, grounding push.

You inhale, and then step forward.

Your feet move before your thoughts do, weaving through a sea of murmuring guests, muslin and satin brushing against your skirts as you pass. You are walking toward a future already being written by someone else’s hand. Toward a dais that gleams beneath lanternlight, toward a father whose face betrays nothing and a mother whose tears have been perfectly timed.

Gojo is waiting for you at the bottom step. He offers his arm. His fingers brush your glove as you take it. And then, together, you ascend. The dais is high enough that it feels like a reckoning. The musicians have fallen silent. The air is charged now—still, brittle, like glass waiting to break.

Your father clears his throat and raises his glass, his posture the kind that comes from years of hosting, of ruling from parlors and private dinners. “My lords, ladies, and honoured guests,” he begins, and his voice is practiced, warm, unshaken, “this spring has brought with it more than sunlight and blossoms. It has brought my household a most… unexpected delight.”

A ripple of polite laughter spreads, though it is laced with curiosity.

Your gaze flits across the lawn to the hundreds of faces, eyes fixed on you. You cannot see your brother or Megumi among them, but you imagine them somewhere near the puppet tents, unaware of the consequences of this moment. The nausea threatens you again, rising from somewhere deep and quiet, but Gojo is beside you, unmoved, hands clasped behind his back like he’s been born for this. When you look at him, he is already looking at you. And when he blinks reassuringly, it is like a balm.

“It is with great pride,” your father continues, “and no small measure of astonishment, that I announce the engagement of my daughter…”

He gestures to you. There is an audible swell of breath from the crowd.

“…to His Grace, Gojo Satoru, the Duke of Six Eyes.”

The lawn erupts. Gasps, applause, chatter—voices tangling with one another in a crescendo of disbelief and fascination. Your name flies from mouths like confetti. The match is a triumph. The scandal has been rewritten into something desirable. You are not ruined. You are beloved. You are desired. You are his.

Your mother dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, already performing the part of a sentimental parent, though you’ve never known her to cry unless there was an audience to receive it. Your father raises his glass higher, nodding with a smile that only barely touches his eyes. The musicians begin again, a stately waltz, and suddenly the fête transforms. This is no longer a party. It is a coronation.

And you? You are the Duchess-to-be.

THE VEILED QUILL Volume II, Issue XIII From Folly to Fête

My dearest gentle readers,

The Season wears on, and with each passing week, it becomes more evident that propriety is but a delicate veil—and some among us would do well to remember how sheer that veil truly is.

Let us begin, regretfully, with an incident that one wishes could be brushed away like errant crumbs from a silk tablecloth. On Wednesday evening, Lord Nigel Berbrooke—yes, that Berbrooke, of the unfortunate hairline and even more unfortunate manners—was seen in a most unbecoming state at the upper corner of Grosvenor Square. After an evening of drink at one of those gentleman’s clubs where very little gentleness is ever in practice, he was observed harassing a maid, poor thing, who was merely trying to see to her business without being cornered by a stumbling peer. One needn’t be a woman of high society to know: a title cannot soften a man's character, and all the coin in Mayfair cannot erase behaviour as coarse as gravel. A note to all mothers: do not let your daughters wed a man whose respectability is stitched only to his coat.

But enough of men whose presence is as welcome as last season’s hemline. Let us speak, instead, of something divine.

The fête champêtre held this past weekend by the Viscount and Viscountess at the Parade Grounds in Hyde Park was nothing short of legendary. There are events, and then there are moments—and this, dear reader, was a moment. A vision in silk tents and silkier rumours, with the sound of waltzes drifting between lanterns hung like moonlight on string. There was champagne that sparkled like diamonds, wines that warmed like affection, and refreshments more decadent than any secret whispered beneath a fan.

And if one may abandon objectivity for but a moment—this author must confess a particular fondness for the ring toss tucked beside the dais. A charming, utterly diverting little affair. And let us not forget the pastries at the far edge of the lawn. (This author certainly returned for seconds. Possibly thirds. Do not ask.)

Alas, there was no time for the fortune-tellers, whose tent brimmed with silks and mystery. A true shame. This Phantom had quite hoped to learn whether scandal or sentiment lies ahead. But let us speak of something more fateful than fortune.

For while the fête itself would have been enough to keep the ton buzzing for months, the Viscountess had one last waltz up her sleeve. Just as the final gold thread of sunlight gave way to evening’s velvet, a hush fell upon the crowd. The Viscount raised a glass. The musicians quieted. And in that breathless hush, it was announced: the engagement of His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, to none other than the daughter of the house.

Yes. That daughter. The same young lady who has danced, withdrawn, and returned to society in a swirl of rumours and restraint. Now, she is to be Duchess.

What a triumphant turn of events. What a coup. What a game.

For who among us suspected the Viscountess would answer scandal not with silence, but with spectacle? With beauty, with orchestration, with the most dazzling alliance of the season? And yet here we are, watching the curtain fall on speculation, and rise on certainty.

This author, who has watched the highs and lows of their courtship with an ink-stained heart and cautious hope, is glad—genuinely glad—to see the pair united at last. They stood atop the dais like two characters pulled from a sonnet, their expressions unreadable but their bond unmistakable.

Let the poets scribble, the gossips gasp, and the Season spin onward. This couple, it seems, has already found their story.

With admiration (and perhaps a little envy), Phantom.

The next three weeks unfold like a fever dream, equal parts lace and tyranny. Your mother, possessed by a singular vision, insists on a wedding ceremony “proper enough to make even royalty envious.” You recall her words precisely—how she said them with her mouth full of sugared plums and her eyes alight like a general waging war. “No only daughter of mine shall be married off intimately. We will be making it grand.”

And grand it becomes. Fittings upon fittings. Layers of silk and tulle, endless consultations with the modiste, who eyes your figure like a sculptor assessing marble. There is no time to think, let alone write. The quills remain mostly untouched, save for four rushed columns and some letters to Satoru you managed in a haze of candlelight and exhaustion. The rest of your hours are spent with your mother, overseeing seating arrangements, breakfast menus, guest lists, flower orders, and learning that hosting a ball as a future duchess is not a matter of preference, it is proof. Of stature. Of ability. Of survival.

You choose the fabric yourself, of course. Something ethereal. A blue so pale it becomes a rumour of white in the light. The modiste called it moonmilk. Said it would arrive the night before, perfectly pressed, wrapped in muslin, a ribbon pinned to its bodice like a secret.

The ceremony is to be held at St. George’s, Hanover Square. The breakfast will be at the Six Eyes Estate, arranged by Satoru himself. He wrote to you last three days ago. His letter is thoughtful, brief. “I do not expect a reply. I imagine you are being devoured by gowns and spectacle. I am being devoured by longing.”

And so the night before the wedding comes. You wear your softest ivory silk dress robes, the kind only meant for nights where sleep seems like a betrayal of time. In your hand is the cravat pin he gave you, small and gold, now dulled by touch and memory. You sit by the window. The box containing your wedding gown lies nearby, gaping open like a soft-mouthed promise. You reach in, touch the lace—like spun sugar, like breath. You look outside, to the swing in the courtyard. To your desk. Then you stand, move to the cabinet beneath, and pull it open.

There lie the quiet spoils of your secret: pouches of coins, neatly tied, the sum of months spent in disguise. The Phantom. Every ounce of ink-stained effort has led to this. And now, all of it must come with you. You do not know how. But it will. Your life—your dresses, your books, your horse, your fencing kit—is about to be moved piece by piece to a house that is not yet home.

You do not sleep. You cannot. Instead, you watch the sky tilt gently from night to dawn, the blue bleeding into gold. Your maid, Agatha, rushes in with the first light, surprised to find you already upright, silhouetted at the window like some lonely patron saint of anxiety. She mutters something about tea and biscuits. That your mother insists everything begin early. That the water is already being drawn for your bath—lavender, rose petals, and sandalwood steeping into warmth. That your hair must be washed and bound with care. In case the Phantom is watching, she says with a wink. In case she is to write about the Duchess-to-be.

And for a moment, you wonder if she knows. And if she does, whether she approves. You sip your tea in silence. And the city readies itself for the wedding of the season.

Hours later, seated before the mirror, you look like a bride but feel like a stranger to the word. Silks the color of moonlight—barely blue, more the shade of milk steeped in twilight—pool around you. Your hair is pinned with sapphires and a certain pin, your wrists with diamonds. It is all too fine, too formal, too far from the girl who once wrote under candlelight and tasted freedom in ink.

Your mother has finally allowed Utahime and Shoko to your side, though not without dramatic protest. They burst through the upstairs corridor like wind through opened windows, all breathless smiles and wide eyes. For a brief second, it makes you laugh. But the moment is fleeting, swept away by the inevitability of the hour.

Then the carriage. Your father sits across from you, his hands gloved, his posture formal. But his voice, when he speaks, is not.

“I hope you know,” he says, “this was my only way of ensuring you married well in your first season. You could have done it on your own, but I had my reasons.”

You look at him. And, for the first time in a while, you understand. “It’s alright,” you say quietly. “I like him. I truly do. I think... it ended up being for the best.”

He blinks at you, once, twice, and clears his throat. His gloved hands fold tighter. “It is time.”

When the church doors open, the world sharpens. You see nothing but him.

Not the rows of nobility, not the whispers fluttering through silk fans, not the parish priest waiting by the altar. Only him, at the far end of the aisle. In full military dress, medals gleaming at his chest, and two hairpins tucked boldly near his lapel—the ones he stole from you that he never gave back. You smile without thinking. And when he sees his cravat pin in your hair, he smiles too, just slightly. His lips curving up at the left corner, like a secret passed only between the two of you.

You walk the aisle like one moving through water. Slow, dreamlike, distant. The priest speaks: “Dearly beloved...”

And after that, you hear nothing. Only the sound of your heartbeat, and the shape of his name in your mind. Vows are said, rings exchanged—gold, warm when he slips it onto your finger. In the vestry, you sign your name alongside his. Beside you, your father and Suguru sign too, witnesses to the quietest revolution of your life.

You are wife. You are Duchess. And though your hand trembles slightly, your signature is steady.

The wedding breakfast is a pageant of civility and careful joy. You are gracious, poised, every inch the duchess society expects you to be. But behind your smile, there is a secret truth: you are still learning what this all means.

Later, finally, the carriage. Your husband beside you. Your new home ahead. And the rest of your life—undecided, unspoken, unwritten—waiting just beyond the window.

You do nothing of consequence during the day. You tour the estate on Satoru’s arm, your hand clasped in his when no one is looking. You kiss him—softly, quietly—beside doorframes and between corridors, in corners the help dare not turn. The library is your weakness, and he knows it. He shows you the shelves first—where he keeps his favorites, bound in blue cloth and smelling faintly of cedar—and then, a little alcove, tucked behind a narrow ladder. There lie your favorites, arranged as if he has known your mind long before he ever held your hand. You kiss him there, too. Longer, this time.

Dinner is simple, for once. Roast duck, rosemary bread, and spiced wine. You think you are content—until the letter arrives. Stamped with a seal you don’t recognize, handed over with hushed voices. “From the Palace,” he says, rising quickly. You blink, watching his silhouette disappear past the parlor door. He does not return for nearly an hour.

In his absence, you busy yourself. You learn the rhythms of the house. The butler, standoffish at first, warms when you mention fencing. The Duke, he admits, was once obsessed—used to practice at dawn in the old hall before lessons. You store that detail like treasure. The housekeeper is more reluctant, her replies tidy and measured. But when you ask about Satoru’s mother, her face softens. “She preferred the country,” she says. “He lived here with his father, mostly. Genius child, but too quiet for it.”

And then, unasked, unprovoked: “The previous Duchess passed of fever. His Grace was barely four.”

Your chest tightens. You imagine him, alone in this grand place of carved marble and echoing stairwells. Then you remember Megumi.

“But... Megumi is twelve,” you say slowly, at the threshold of your chambers. “That’s well after her passing.”

The housekeeper hesitates, then lowers her voice to a breath. “The late Duke’s by-blow. But hush, your Grace, he is the Duke’s brother in all but blood. He raised him. That is what matters.”

You nod, and say nothing more. The matter is closed. You retreat into the quiet hush of your bedchamber, where Agatha is already laying out your robe. The one familiar face you insisted accompany you to your new life. She buttons you in, her fingers deft and gentle. You glance out the window just in time to see the Duke’s carriage pulling into the courtyard.

When he walks in, he looks like something unravelling—gloves off, cufflinks half-undone. You nearly startle.

“Is something the matter?” you ask. He stills, then shrugs it off too casually. “No. Just a few papers. Palace bureaucracy. Nothing worth troubling you over.”

You walk toward him, slow and careful, undoing the other cuff for him. “I’ve never seen you anxious,” you murmur. “Not truly. You’ve always been so… composed. Charming. So utterly sure of yourself.”

He laughs quietly, remembering. “You saw me flustered the day you kicked Nigel Berbrooke into the street like a rogue from the Peninsula.”

You smirk, helping him out of his coat. “I was too preoccupied to notice, your Grace.”

He winces, theatrically. “Don’t call me that. Not now. Not here. I am just Satoru to you. No titles. No masks.”

Then he sighs, dragging the cravat from his throat and tossing it onto a table. He steps closer, the air between you thinning. “We're married now, and yet the most affection I’ve received are a few stolen kisses.”

“I...” you begin, but falter. There’s something about the way he says it. As if he’s genuinely uncertain. “That’s all I know how to do.”

His brow arches, amused and something softer. “That’s all you know how to do?” he echoes, voice lilting. He sinks into the armchair by the fire, pulling off his boots, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. You swallow as he rises again. He crosses the floor with quiet, unhurried steps. His hand comes to your face—not possessive, not urgent. Just reverent. His fingers trace your temple, brushing a loose curl behind your ear.

“The Viscountess surely is cruel,” he says lowly, “keeping you in the dark for so long.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, but the question dissolves. The warmth of his palm has scattered your thoughts. And then, with the gentlest tug at your robe, the satin slips to the floor. Only your gown remains. It feels like the beginning of something you’ve been circling for years.

He steps closer, slow as dusk. His breath brushes your forehead before his lips press to yours. They're warm, sure, almost trembling with restraint. You kiss back instinctively, but it feels as though you are chasing something he’s already running from. Still, he lets you catch him. Or perhaps he slows down just enough to be caught.

His mouth grazes the edge of your jaw, then your ear, then lower. A scattering of kisses down your throat, each one igniting something unfamiliar. You're not sure whether it's embarrassment or anticipation. He draws you backwards until your knees meet the edge of the bed, and when you stumble slightly, more from dizziness than misstep. He catches you, hands strong at your waist. You’re not hurt, but your heart races all the same.

"Tell me you've touched yourself, at least," he murmurs, voice husky. "That one doesn’t take anyone’s guidance."

You blink up at him, the question foreign, almost impolite. "Touched myself?"

Your brow furrows. Not in modesty, but confusion, honest and childlike. He exhales, not in disappointment, but awe. It’s tender, the way he kisses your forehead. As if to apologise for the question. As if to promise you'll never be left behind again.

"You haven’t?" he asks. You shake your head.

"I don't understand," you whisper.

He doesn’t mock you. He doesn’t smirk or tease. Instead, he helps you lie back, careful as ever, as if you’re made of glass. You feel something between anticipation and fright—like standing on the edge of something beautiful and vast, not knowing how deep the fall will be.

He trails kisses lower now. Along your collarbone, the hollow beneath your throat, and then to the swell just above your chest. Every press of his lips sends sparks under your skin, so much so that the first sound you let out—soft, breathy, involuntary—startles even him.

"It feels good?" he asks, and you nod quickly, eyes wide, glassy.

"I... I don’t know how, but yes."

"Shhh," he soothes, brushing his lips against yours, reverently slow. Then, his hand trails lower. Over your stomach. Down further. And when he finally reaches between your thighs, when his fingers just barely brush where you're most sensitive, your breath hitches. His touch is featherlight, and he speaks while his fingers ghost over your bare folds.

"This," he says, gaze locked with yours, voice low, "is what I meant."

And when your thighs part instinctively, as if your body has answered for you, he smiles. Half gentle, half rogue. As though you’ve just let him into a sacred place.

His finger slides upward, tracing a delicate path along your slit, and the soft sounds that escape you make your eyes widen in startled delight. The slickness of it all catches in your throat, and you search his gaze for something. He finds it easily, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes. His finger finds a sensitive bud, and the sudden touch makes you jump, thighs instinctively closing, but he holds them open with a firm weight that makes your heart twist.

His arm rests against your upper thigh, the hem of your dress riding far too high to be considered proper. You have never been like this before. Never felt such a wild, unfamiliar fire. And yet, it is as if this is exactly where you are meant to be. The pad of his finger moves with increasing urgency against your bud, setting every nerve alight. Your blood rushes fiercely to your cheeks and pools between your legs, your back arching of its own accord, desperate to draw nearer to him. Your breath hitches, and you gasp his name over and over. Like a hymn, or a whispered prayer.

He chuckles softly, knowingly. “This is how you learn to pleasure yourself,” he murmurs. “You touch where it feels good, especially between your legs. I imagine your breasts are sensitive, too, if you’ve never explored them like this. And you keep touching, keep seeking, until you come. Until you reach a crescendo—a pinnacle that frees your mind of doubt and untangles every knot in your body.”

You grasp his shoulders, gasps spilling from your lips as you reach the peak, just as he had described it.

“I know, darling. I know,” he murmurs teasingly, and with those words, every knot in your core unravels, every doubt in your mind dissolves, every weight in your body lifts. You feel as if you are floating, weightless and free. You don’t notice when his hand slips away until your eyes flutter open, coming down from your high, and find him standing at the edge of the bed, watching you with a look that promises delicious sin.

“Come closer,” he commands softly. You obey without hesitation, dropping to your knees at the bed’s edge. His hands cup your face with a tenderness that makes you feel fragile and cherished all at once. His fingers nimbly undo the hooks of your dress, the speed making your eyes widen in surprise. Then, with care, he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to it before sliding your arm through the sleeve. The other follows, and the dress slips from your frame as if it had never belonged there.

You swallow hard as his gaze roams over you—lingering on the swell of your breasts. He says nothing at first, only caresses your cheek. His eyes dark and intense, sending heat pooling deep within you, the same place he touched moments ago. Your lips part, and his expression shifts, expectant, waiting for your voice.

“I want you,” you confess, breath trembling. “I don’t know what it means to want you, but I do. All of you.”

A shaky breath escapes him. “You don’t know what you’re asking, but you still want it?”

You nod, and he chuckles softly before taking your hand and guiding it to his breeches. “Undo them for me.”

You blink, surprised. “You mean take them off?”

He grins playfully, and you comply. As you do, you notice the bulge pressing against the fabric—unmistakably urgent, almost uncomfortable. You touch it hesitantly, unsure what to expect, and he winces.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Keep going,” he urges, voice low and breathy. “I like it. Keep going.”

You peel away the last barrier of clothing, and he springs free—long, thick, veined. It’s more than you imagined, but you follow his lead, your hands exploring as he instructs. You stroke, you caress, obeying every whispered command, until his sounds mirror your own—moans, gasps, low grunts—until he shakes his head and pulls your hand away.

“L-lay back.”

In seconds, he is upon you, parting your thighs, pressing kisses to your lips and wherever he can reach. His hands find your breasts, and you return his hunger with equal fervor, cradling his face in your hands.

“More,” you plead, arching your back as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts. “I want more.”

He pauses, positioning himself above you, his gaze softening. “Are you sure? We can stop now, if you’d like—”

“I am sure,” you whisper. “I want you—”

Without hesitation, he enters you, and it feels unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your heart swells, your body overwhelms, and the gasps that escape feel as natural as breathing—terrifying and right all at once. He pulls back, then thrusts forward again, sending stars across your vision as your back arches involuntarily. He moves steadily, up and down, again and again, each motion a delicious torment. You cling to him, whispering his name between moans. His grunts grow louder, pace quickening, skin slapping against yours in a rhythm that sets your senses ablaze.

The crescendo builds again, the undoing you crave. Eyes closed, he cups your face, pressing his forehead to yours as his pace accelerates. Your faces nearly touch, lips parted but not meeting. He stares deep into your eyes, breath ragged, before murmuring, “F-for me, it happens the same way.”

“The pinnacle,” you gasp.

He nods, voice rough. “Unlike you, however,” he grunts, “When I come, I ejaculate.”

“And what does that entail?” you ask breathlessly, as he pulls back slightly to look at you. Your blush deepens under his gaze as it drifts over your breasts and flushed cheeks while he continues his steady rhythm. He laughs softly—not mockingly, but warmly.

“It’s how a woman becomes pregnant. If I do it inside you.”

“O-oh,” you whisper, swallowing hard. He slows just a fraction, panting. “I’m close.”

“So am I,” you admit, feeling yourself unravel further, the knots in your stomach loosening, fraying at the edges. His pace slows, but the intensity only deepens. The sound of skin meeting skin grows louder, more urgent. You feel it—an overwhelming need to hold him, to keep him inside you forever.

And then it happens again. But this time, it feels warmer, fuller, more profound than when it was just his hand. You feel him twitch inside you, the two of you releasing in tandem. He moans your name, forehead pressed to yours, as if you are the very prayer he utters.

When he pulls away slightly, the two of you share a soft, breathless laugh.

In the weeks that follow, you move through the world as if through gauze—dutiful, poised, every smile measured. Your mother basks in the social currency of your title, gathering compliments like pearls on a string. You accompany her, watch the other mamas whisper and envy and flatter, all of them under the illusion that she orchestrated your fate with the Duke. You say nothing. You nod when appropriate. What use is truth to people so fluent in fiction?

You write, of course. The Phantom still breathes beneath your skin. Your newest column, delicate and saccharine, reads: This author has it on good authority that the Duchess looked divine on her wedding day. And that His Grace, upon seeing her, smiled so sweetly it might’ve given the ton a collective toothache.

The estate is yours now, or at least it behaves as if it is. The staff take to you with the kind of slow, sturdy fondness earned rather than assumed. You ask the butler for history, the housekeeper for stories. You learn the creaks of the halls, the way the morning light falls over the courtyard. You walk with purpose, like a woman trying to believe the ground beneath her belongs to her feet.

You try, once or twice, to speak to Megumi. He is polite, reserved, rarely reactive. It’s not coldness. It’s watchfulness, a kind of quiet calculation. And so, you wait. You plan the ball with your mother and the staff, ask about musicians, arrange the refreshments with an exactness that makes the housekeeper blink in approval.

It’s a Friday afternoon when you drift to the library, exhausted but restless. And there he is.

Megumi sits curled sideways on a sofa, a book open in one hand, long legs stretched comfortably along the cushions. He doesn’t notice you at first. You say nothing as you wander to the shelves and pull down a weighty volume—The Monk, by Lewis. You move toward the window, settle into the light like it’s a familiar friend.

You don’t miss the way his eyes flick to the cover.

“I didn’t know you liked Lewis,” he murmurs. His voice is dry but curious.

You raise a brow. “For that, you’d have to speak to me.”

He closes his book slowly. “What else do you read?”

“Wollstonecraft,” you say, glancing at him. “Radcliffe. And yes, I like Austen.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’ve heard all women do.”

“She writes brilliantly,” you reply. “If you've read her, you'd know. And it's not just women. She's better than half the men paraded through the canon.”

He grins then, truly grins. “You have taste.”

You let the smallest smile slip. “I have more than just taste, Megumi. Want to put that to the test?”

The sound of soft laughter at the door makes you turn.

Gojo leans against the frame, arms folded, an unreadable expression just beneath the familiar amusement on his lips. “I would advise against challenging my wife, Megumi. You’re not nearly clever enough to win.”

Megumi smirks. “She was just about to lose.”

Gojo steps into the room. He doesn’t touch you, but he stands close enough to be felt. “Don’t be so sure,” he says, eyes still on you. “She tends to surprise. And you, brother, are twelve.”

You feel his gaze linger a moment longer than necessary before he turns away, joking lightly with Megumi about the arrangement of the shelves and how the boy seems to have claimed a whole corner as his own. But even when he’s across the room, you still feel the weight of him.

That night, in your shared bedchamber, the laughter has long since faded.

You sit at your vanity, unpinning your hair slowly, the soft scrape of the comb the only sound in the room. Gojo enters quietly, not with the dramatic flourish he often employs, but with something more subdued. Thoughtful.

“You like Megumi,” he says after a beat, tone mild.

You glance at him in the mirror. “I do. He’s clever. Kind, even if he tries to hide it.”

Gojo’s eyes narrow slightly, though he doesn’t move. “He talked more with you than he did with me in the last few weeks.”

“Perhaps you should read Lewis,” you offer, tone light but not unkind.

He chuckles faintly, walking behind you. His hands rest on your shoulders, firm and warm. “Perhaps I should.”

For a moment, nothing is said. The air is thick with something you don’t yet name. His thumbs press into the muscle of your neck, a tender pressure. You close your eyes. You let him touch you.

You catch his reflection in the gilded mirror, and your breath catches sharply as your eyes meet his—Satoru. The name tastes like a secret on your tongue as you say it.

"Hm?" he murmurs, bending with a languid grace to press a kiss just where your shoulder curves into your neck. The sensation is exquisite, a sudden, exquisite ache blooming within you. Your eyes flutter half-shut, heavy with desire, and you turn to brush your lips against the sharp line of his jaw. He sheds his coat with careless urgency, the fabric falling away as if impatient to be discarded.

Before you can gather your thoughts, he has you pinned against the wall, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the heat radiating between you. His hands move with a fevered haste, peeling away your dress as if it were a mere barrier to the communion he craves. Your thighs part beneath his touch, trembling, and a soft moan escapes you as he sinks to his knees.

You watch, breath caught, as he lifts your dress with one hand, his gaze rising to meet yours. An unspoken claim, as if you are the axis upon which his world turns.

“Satoru?” Your voice is fragile, a whisper on the edge of surrender. But before you can brace yourself, his tongue finds you; hungry, desperate, as if he has wandered a desert for months and you are the oasis. It laps your cunt and circles your clit with a devotion that steals your breath and weakens your knees.

You arch, clutching the edge of the vanity to anchor yourself, one hand gripping the polished wood, the other tangling in the thick strands of his hair.

“Satoru,” you gasp, voice trembling, “Please... don’t stop. It feels too good. Too much.”

He smirks against you, the vibration of his satisfaction pressing into your skin. You feel the swell of his pride, the fierce possessiveness that makes him hold you by the hips as he remains kneeling before you, as though you are the very thing he has long been denied.

“I’m going to come,” you breathe out, voice trembling with a mixture of awe and surrender. “I didn’t know it could feel so... oh.”

You dissolve into him as his tongue slips deep into your cunt. He giggles low against your skin, the sound vibrating in you, and it nearly breaks you to remain upright. His voice, husky and intimate, murmurs into the depths of you, “You can’t just—”

“Can’t I?” he replies, pulling back with a slow, deliberate grace. Your dress, reluctant as if mourning its loss, slips down to its rightful place when he releases the hem, and you whimper softly. His smile is wicked, a devil’s promise as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. You hate the taste of yourself on his tongue. At how sweet it is, and it only stokes the fire, leaving you craving more.

You gaze at him, eyes glazed with a heady intoxication, and he brushes the stray drool from the corner of your mouth with a tender finger. “As much as I would adore keeping you awake until dawn,” he says, voice teasingly low, “I cannot exhaust you entirely in the first month. I fear you might grow weary of me.”

“I could never,” you whisper, breath still ragged, your chest rising and falling beyond the confines of your neckline. His eyes soften, just for a moment, before he pulls you close by the waist. You look up at him, heart pounding, as he says, “Here.”

He moves toward the vanity, a few deliberate steps, and pushes the stool aside. He guides you to stand before the mirror. You blink, catching your reflection—eyes meeting his through the glass once more. But now, you look undone. Less a lady of society, more a woman laid bare by desire. It is slightly unbecoming, wildly improper, yet you revel in it. You like seeing yourself this way, transformed by him. He sees it too, because his voice drops to a whisper, “You are something else. But you're mine. All mine.”

“You as well,” you retort, a mischievous spark lighting your gaze. “You are all mine, too.”

He chuckles, dark and amused. “Jealous, are you?”

You shake your head firmly. “No. Merely staking my claim, as befits a Duchess.”

His hands settle on your back, commandingly warm, fingers splayed across the expanse of your bare skin as he slowly undoes your dress. It falls away with surprising ease this time. He inhales sharply, a shaky breath betraying his restraint, before his hands roam to your nipples needily. The playfulness has vanished; now, he needs you with a raw intensity that leaves you breathless.

He sheds his breeches with haste and bends you forward. You gulp, shuddering as he enters you like this. You watch yourself in the mirror—your breasts bouncing with every thrust, his pupils dilating in rapture, his body making sounds that are equal parts grunt, moan, and whimper, all for you. It inflates your pride, a delicious arrogance, as if you hold dominion over him.

You yelp, breath catching as he pulls you back upright, continuing his relentless pursuit while standing. Your eyes widen in surprise, but hunger simmers beneath the shock. You pivot halfway, lips crashing against his with a feral hunger. His hands spread wide across your chest, gripping you with a fierce possessiveness that borders on pain—sharp, intoxicating, like the burn of port sliding down your throat, searing yet exquisite after a moment. Your half-lidded gaze and ragged moans confess everything; you are on the precipice of coming, and so is he.

“I can feel it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire. “Almost there, aren't you? You’re quite transparent, darling.”

“Shut up,” you grunt, a whimper escaping as his hand pinches your nipple with sudden, merciless insistence. Eyes closed, you surrender to the symphony of sensation—his hands on your breasts, his length buried deep within your cunt, his breath hot against your neck, his voice a low caress, his chest pressed firmly to your back. The more you dwell on it, the closer you spiral toward the edge.

He grunts into your ear, lips trailing kisses along the sensitive skin, and then it happens. The world narrows to the exquisite clenching of your body against him—against the veins of his cock, the tip pressing mercilessly against your cervix. Your core tightens, gripping him with a fierce, repeated rhythm as your entire frame trembles. And then, you feel him releasing inside you with a shuddering surrender.

You remain locked in that trembling embrace, panting, eyes drawn to the mirror where your reflection entwines with his. He holds you with a desperate tenderness, arms wrapped tight around your waist as his face buries itself in your hair. His breath is ragged against your neck, and your gaze softens.

For all his strength—Gojo Satoru, the man who devours you with such ferocity—there is fragility here. Though he has just claimed you utterly, there is something vulnerable in the way he closes his eyes and clings to you, as if you are the very air he needs to breathe.

And then it strikes you. The Gojo you know is a different creature entirely. Confident. Jovial. A master of wit and flirtation, as if life itself depended on his charm. Ever adorned with that infuriating smirk, so composed that every lady of the ton still whispers his name as London’s most coveted bachelor.

But tonight, you realize it with a shock. You do not know this man at all.

There is nothing particularly remarkable about the ball you host—not in the way society defines remarkable. It is exquisite, of course. Lit like a painting, gilded in every corner, with flowers perfuming the air and crystal glinting off every surface. But you’re tired of it. Tired of society and its pageantry, tired of the performance. Your mother goes on about appearances and honeymoons and duty. You nod, you smile, you dance. You watch Satoru disappear into his study with Suguru for ten minutes and return as if nothing happened. But you know better now. You can read him.

Later that night, while he checks in on Megumi, you sit in bed and think of all the things you have learned about him, and all the things you still haven’t. When he returns, you pretend to be asleep until he presses a kiss to your temple, tenderly quiet. You open your eyes and reach for him.

"You seemed upset when you came back," you murmur. He raises a brow. Waits.

"You left to speak with Suguru. In your office. Is everything alright?"

He blinks. “I didn’t expect you to notice. It’s nothing.”

"You’re the one who said you keep finding new things about me,” you whisper. “Why is it I feel I hardly know you at all?”

He exhales slowly. “It's nothing. A document won’t clear through. I’m looking for a way around it.”

"Can I help?" you ask. He shakes his head. “Not really.”

You card your fingers through his hair. “I’ve been exploring,” you say. He hums, eyes half-closed, waiting for you to continue.

"There are paintings in the drawing room. Your mother’s.”

“She was good,” he says, turning toward you fully now. “She painted. Played pianoforte. Taught me how to ride. To speak. To think. Refused to let a blasted governor near me. Said she wanted to know what I was becoming.”

“You must miss her.”

“Every fucking day,” he says simply. “As much as I hated my father, I loved her.”

You still. “You hated him?”

He stiffens. A beat of silence. Then, “Forget it. Tell me when Yuji’s coming next. I’d like to see him.”

That night, you don’t sleep. You rise before dawn and write, ink staining your hands as you sign your name as the Phantom once more. By sunrise, you’re dressed, prepared, and smiling again.

The months pass like breath. Days folding into one another with dizzying, golden repetition. You and Satoru move like clockwork: breakfast, duty, desire. He touches you constantly behind closed doors, between conversations, in the dark, and often in daylight. You let him. You welcome it. Sometimes it’s gentle, sometimes it’s rough, but always it’s worshipful. You start to wonder if it is his way of apologizing—for what, you don’t yet know.

You begin to bond with Megumi. He softens around you, especially when you bring books or speak of poets he’s only just begun to admire. Yuji visits often, and his presence feels like a memory of something easier. You tend to your duchess duties—entertaining the wives of foreign dignitaries, inspecting the kitchens, reading reports. You make appearances in town. You host teas. You smile.

But something hollows. Slowly, stealthily, as if dug by a spoon from the inside. There is a pit in your stomach that no wine or laughter can fill. Something unnamed. It stirs when you hear Suguru’s voice through the study door. When Satoru smiles just a little too easily. When silence settles between you after the pleasure is gone, and nothing is said at all.

You do not name the feeling, but it grows. Like a storm swelling in the distance. Like an ache you will eventually have to reckon with.

A few weeks later, with Satoru gone to the palace for some diplomatic affair, the house feels quieter than usual—emptier, though not lonelier. You’re curled on the parlor settee, half-lost in the novel he brought you, some token gesture to distract you from the silence blooming between you. Megumi is with his governor. There is no company to keep but the book in your lap and the ache that has been growing in your chest since before you could name it.

You're just about to turn the page when the butler enters and announces, “Lord Geto Suguru has arrived, Your Grace.” You blink, surprised. A smile curls faintly across your lips.

��Send him in,” you murmur, rising slightly.

He steps in moments later, breathless and urgent as though the world has ended, but his expression softens when he sees you. “Hi,” he says, almost sheepishly.

You smile wider, if only to push away the unrest in your chest. “Hi. Come to see my husband and not me, I presume?”

“Something like that,” he offers, bowing a little as he crosses the room to sit. “I don’t mind spending time with my old friend, though.”

“The old friend you haven’t written to since her wedding,” you tease, though your voice is light, practiced. “Seems you preferred me as a debutante.”

“Don’t say that,” he replies quickly, with genuine affection. “You know I never could. You’re like a sister to me.” A beat. “How have you been?”

You hesitate. The silence stretches, hangs. You could say everything. You could say nothing.

“I’m the same as I’ve always been,” you say instead, quiet. He narrows his eyes, then tilts his head, not fooled. “You’re angry with him.”

“No,” you say, too quickly. “Not at all.”

“You are,” he insists, gently. “Is this still about the contract?”

You pause. “Contract?”

“Yes, the one he and your father signed. The one to keep your father’s seat and to secure Satoru’s inheritance.” He says it like it’s common knowledge. “Though there’s a complication now—he’s been chasing down the notary ever since—wait.”

He stops. His eyes narrow again, before widening. “You didn’t know?”

You blink. “Keep my father’s seat at court...?” you echo, your voice louder than you mean it to be.

He sits upright, suddenly aware. “Satoru said he’d told you. Before the wedding—”

“Suguru,” you interrupt, your voice low but steel-threaded. “Explain. All of it.”

He looks at you then, and something in his face breaks. The guilt, the shame. He’s folding into it. And now you understand, how fools are made not by ignorance, but by trust.

“Satoru’s father was cruel,” he says slowly. “Raised him like a prisoner after his mother died. Tuberculosis, they said, though Satoru just called it wasting. His father never let him live, never let him feel. And in his will, he wrote that Satoru could only inherit at twenty-five if…”

“If?” Your voice is a whisper.

“If he marries. And sires an heir.”

There is a ringing in your ears. A coldness at the base of your neck. You feel the edges of your world tilting. “And my father?” you manage.

“Your father’s mistakes almost cost him the magistrate,” Suguru says, still not meeting your gaze. “Satoru saw it unravel. And so he... he made a deal.”

You exhale, slow and long. “He married me,” you say, voice flat. “Gave my father protection. Took a wife for an inheritance.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“I think you should leave,” you say quietly, rising from the lounge. “It was lovely having you, my lord.”

You do not watch him go. You sit back down only after you hear the door shut. You do not cry. Not yet. There is still too much to unravel before the grief can even begin. When Satoru returns that evening, the house is quiet. You’ve already retreated to your bedchambers, the light dimmed, the curtains drawn. You lie still beneath the covers, feigning the deep quiet of sleep. The housekeeper had passed along the lie without question—lightheadedness, perhaps exhaustion. A long day. Soup had been left on your nightstand. You hadn’t touched it.

He enters quietly. You feel the shift in the mattress, the creak of polished floorboards. Then the weight of his hand, gentle against your forehead, as though measuring something deeper than fever. His lips press to your crown with that practiced tenderness you once believed was instinct rather than performance. His hands rub soothing circles along your sides, warm through the thin linen. He murmurs something—your name, maybe. A prayer. A hush meant only for the sick and beloved.

You should soften. But instead you lie still, breathing steady. Pretending. And beneath the layers of blanket and silence, guilt blooms. You shouldn’t feel guilty. You remind yourself that.

Shouldn’t you be the one owed remorse?

Shouldn’t he have felt it when he let you fall in love with him under false pretenses? When he danced with you at that first ball—so attentive, so sweet—and didn’t think to mention the contract your father signed behind your back? When he smiled at your skirt in Utahime’s garden, saying he didn’t know how to speak to you, when in fact he knew precisely how to weave the web?

And wasn’t it too convenient, too perfect, that he followed you onto that balcony? That he kissed you? The thought clenches something hard inside your chest. You feel it rise like bile. You think: he knew. He must have known exactly what would happen, how quickly duty would follow affection. How clean the trap would spring shut.

You close your eyes tighter, swallowing thickly. His hand lingers on your waist, and all you can think is how expertly he has always known how to hold you.

The next few weeks are agony in silk and lace. Your mother insists on appearances. Says the London season has had its fill of your marital bliss, and it is now time to retreat—just the two of you—to Limitless Hall, the sprawling country estate that belongs to the title you now carry like a weight across your chest. A honeymoon, she calls it. A reward. A blessing. You nod and say yes, and wear the dresses she picks, and sign the letters addressed to "Her Grace," and you avoid your husband as best you can.

But even that is its own kind of torment.

Because pretending is a game you’ve grown good at, but never with him. It is hell to dodge his gaze. Hell to say you're tired when you're not. And it is hell—true, visceral hell—to lie beneath him and pretend it doesn’t make you feel everything when his mouth finds your breast, when his hips snap forward, when his voice rasps out your name like it’s the only prayer he's ever known. To bite your lip and not cry out when his breath fans your throat, when he worships your body like it belongs to him and you alone. When he says, hoarse and raw, “There is nothing I love more than being inside of you.”

It isn't the inheritance that hurts. Or the condition tied to it. You understand selfishness. Ambition. You understand needing to survive. What you cannot forgive—what burns through your chest like frostbitten fire—is that he didn’t tell you.

Because you loved him. Foolishly, fully. You still do. And that is the tragedy of it all. That love makes a fool of both of you. Because deep down, you understand: had you never written that column, you’d never have married so soon. Had you said nothing, done nothing, waited… maybe he would have told you. Maybe you’d have found out the truth slowly, from him, without contracts or obligations or shame.

Maybe, in another life, there would have been no trap. No balcony. No bargain sealed in ink and silence. So you pretend. You keep pretending.

You don’t flinch when he tells you he loves you. You smile when he calls you brilliant for suggesting Megumi stay with Yuji for when the two of you will retreat to the countryside. You laugh when he says he can’t wait to spend forever with you. And you don’t let your voice shake when he presses a kiss to your fingers, or when he draws you in close and murmurs that Limitless Hall will be perfect. That the two of you deserve this. That you’re his everything.

You don’t tell him that that—more than the lie, more than the contract—is what hurts most of all.

A week passes in silence and silk. A week of aching contradictions, of your body wrapped in his sheets, your limbs entangled with his, your mind aching with truths that he, at last, begins to share.

He tells you things he’s never told anyone. Of how he was raised at Limitless Hall while his father lingered in London, always out of reach. Of his mother’s slow unraveling, her health waning while his father watched—unmoved, preoccupied with bloodlines and legacy. Of Megumi’s mother, a woman his father ruined, cast aside, left to die bearing his child. Of the argument that fractured what little remained between them, of the promise Satoru made as his father lay dying: that Megumi would be his ward, his brother, his heir.

He apologizes quietly, without drama. Says he never meant to hurt you. That Megumi will remain first in line, and that he cannot change that. You only nod, and smile gently, placing a hand to his cheek. “I would have done the same,” you tell him, and you mean it. He calls you an angel and falls asleep beside you, breathing softly into your collarbone.

The next day, he returns home lighter, glowing. “It’s all done,” he says. “Everything here in London. We can begin the preparations.”

So, you do. You go home first—your old one. You speak with your mother and with Yuji, make arrangements for Megumi’s stay. Your mother acquiesces easily now. She rarely denies you anything since your rise in rank.

“But will it be alright, truly, if I stay here?” Megumi asks, just as you're about to leave. You kneel slightly, pressing your palm to his cheek with practiced ease. “You’ll be just as happy as I was, growing up with Yuji. I’ll write to you three times a week, and next time, perhaps the two of you can come with us.”

He shifts, frowning. “No, I meant—”

“You meant, is it alright to stay where only my brother knows you?” you finish, voice gentle. “Trust me. I’ll make sure of it. And if you have any trouble with my mother, well, I’ll handle her for you.”

You wink. He smiles. And just like that, you’re back at the estate, the soft click of carriage wheels forgotten by the time your footsteps echo along the polished floors. You’re in the corridor of the Duchess’s antechambers, gathering books, letters, and a few quills from your personal writing desk. A familiar silence blankets the space, until it’s broken.

You push open the door.

He’s standing there, framed by lamplight, a pouch of silver coins in one hand and something far worse in the other. A page. Thin, cream-inked, and damning. The look on his face is neither fury nor shock—it is betrayal in its purest form, so deep it roots itself in the set of his jaw, the stunned slack of his lips. “It’s you?” His voice is strained. “The Phantom is... my wife?”

Your eyes flick to the page in his hand, your stomach dropping, lungs collapsing into themselves.

“Satoru—”

“No.” His voice cracks, shakes, recoils. “No. I truly believed it could be anyone but you. I thought...” he laughs, brokenly, “I thought the way you looked that night. So betrayed. So wounded. Out by the swing, you were ruined, I thought. And it turns out, all of it—all of it was a lie? Was I a lie?”

Something hollows inside you. Slowly. Carefully. Then fills with heat. You freeze, just for a moment. The wind has gone from your body. But when you speak, it’s not with shame. It’s with a soft, terrifying calm. “And what of your deception, Your Grace?” Your voice is dangerously low. “Duke of Six Eyes. Gojo Satoru?”

He laughs, bitter now, clutching the piece of parchment in his hand tightly. “What lies?” he snaps. “I have done nothing but love you. Everything you asked, I did. You asked me to court you. I courted you. You asked me to write, I wrote. You wanted flowers. God, I sent you the damn flowers—”

“What I wanted was truth,” you cut in, your voice suddenly cold, slicing. “And what I received was a man who needed his inheritance. Who bargained for his bride like she was currency. Who shared a bed with her solely so he could sire an heir to secure his standing. ”

He stares. Breathing hard now. The coin pouch slips from his hand and crashes to the floor, the silver scattering like bones at your feet. As if there is nothing left to fight for.

“You made sure my father didn’t lose his judgeship. You made sure I was paraded around with you, easy to catch, easier still to wed. You calculated every word, the kiss, every flower.”

“I loved you,” he says again, and this time it sounds like a plea.

“No,” you stand your ground. “You needed me. And you never told me why.”

There is a ringing silence in the room, interrupted only by the scattered coins still rolling gently to stillness across the wooden floor. He’s staring at you, mouth parted, chest rising and falling as if words might yet come. But none do.

You wait. One second. Two. Five.

He does not move. He does not say anything. And somehow that is the thing that shatters you more than anything said between you tonight.

You turn. You do not speak. Your slippers are near-silent on the carpet, but the rustle of your skirts sounds deafening in the stillness. You walk out of the Duchess’s study as if walking out of a fever dream, your limbs trembling with the weight of all you’ve just learned—of all you’ve lost. There’s a hollowness blooming in your chest, tight and terrible, threatening to undo you right there in the hallway. He does not come after you.

You do not look back. Because if you do, and he is still standing there, you might fall to your knees. He does not come after you, he does not come after you, he does not come after you.

You do not ring for help. You do not tell anyone where you're going. You simply walk. Out the hall. Through the grand front doors of the Six Eyes estate. The butler calls after you faintly, confused, but you wave him off.

The night air bites at your skin. You don't care. Your hands shake as you call for the carriage and give your family’s address in a voice that barely sounds like your own.

And the worst part is that he does not chase you. He does not come after you. Not even once. And that is what makes it excruciatingly painful.

That night, when you walk into Highgrove House, your mother shrieks.

The way she gasps at your state—your half-undone hair, your expression, your silence—is almost theatrical. She rushes to you with a flurry of questions. Why you aren't packed, why you're not on your way to the countryside, why you look like you've been to hell and back.

You don’t answer. Not a word. In the parlor, Megumi and Yuji go still when they spot you. Yuji rises halfway from his seat, brows creased. Megumi looks at you like he's trying to figure out what happened, like he's trying to read something in your face. But there’s nothing. Not grief, not rage. Only absence. You walk right past them. Straight to the study. You close the door behind you. Lock it. You wait for the clink of the lock to register with the footsteps behind you and then silence. Just you and him.

Your father.

He sits at the desk, pen frozen above a page. You don’t look at him yet. Not immediately. You inhale. Once. Twice. Then you turn.

“When were you going to tell me?” Your voice is low. Controlled. Thick.

He blinks slowly. “I thought… I thought he would have told you. Before the wedding. That you knew.”

“You thought I knew?”

There’s no tremble in your voice now, just steel. “You didn’t think to ask me yourself? You didn’t think that your daughter deserved to know she was being sold off like property so you could keep your judgeship? What am I, a broodmare?”

“That is not the only reason—”

You laugh. Bitterly. “Oh no. Certainly not. You also thought he’d make a good match. Because, what? Because of his name? His estate? You thought I’d be content to be wanted for everything but who I am?”

“You said you were fine with it. In the carriage,” he says, desperate now. “You said you were—”

“I said I’d marry him,” you cut in, sharply. “Because I had no choice. Because I thought there was a chance it was love. Or something like it. I didn’t know there was a contract. A transaction.”

Your father exhales, heavy and old. “It was a good match. You’ve gone up in rank. You’re a Duchess. You have power. For a woman of your wit, your education, that’s no small thing.”

“But not because I chose it. That’s what matters,” you say, voice quieter now. More dangerous. “You should have told me. All of you should have.”

He pauses. Then, almost brokenly: “I’m sorry.”

You stare at him.

“I thought you were better than this. A better man. A good man,” you say. “But in the end, you’re just like the rest of them.”

You turn on your heel. The door clicks open. Your mother stands just beyond, hand hovering in the air as if she’d just been about to knock. She says nothing as you pass her. Yuji and Megumi rise, both watching you in a stunned kind of silence. You don’t look at them. Don’t give them anything.

You climb the stairs. You open the door to your old bedroom and shut it behind you. And this time, you don’t just close it—you slam it. Letting it echo. Letting it speak for you.

A week passes. Then another. You write a column about a ball you didn’t attend, inventing details about the color of the lady’s gown and the exact note the violinist missed. The gossip is cheap: some debutante without dowry, trying to entrap a second son before the season ends. It’s exactly what people want to read.

You remain at Highgrove House. The world believes you’ve gone to the countryside for your honeymoon. Only your family, and Shoko and Utahime, know the truth. No letters come from Gojo. Not one. He doesn’t appear at your doorstep, doesn’t write, doesn’t send a single flower or verse or scrap of himself.

“You must go back,” your mother insists one morning, as you come down for breakfast, hair pinned and face bare. You pick up your teacup, sip slowly, and then glance over at her. “Mother,” you say, voice thin but not without edge. “As the Duchess, I command you to stop urging me to return. And I would ask that you use my title, not my name. It is improper.”

She blinks. Her mouth opens, but then closes again. She says nothing more.

The days pass in muffled repetition. You read until your eyes ache, write until your wrist cramps, and in between you sulk in corners like a ghost that hasn’t made peace with the world. At night, after dinner, you sneak off to the courtyard with Megumi and Yuji to fence. You move fast and silent and precise, so that if anyone sees, it will be nothing more than a blur. You read aloud to them after. Tuck Megumi in. Pretend it doesn’t hurt to see your old life stretched out before you, still whole, without you in it.

It rains tonight. Heavy and thick, slapping against the windows like it’s angry too. You sit in the parlor long after the candles have burned low, watching the swing sway in the stormwind. You’ve thought of cutting it off more than once. But Yuji still uses it. That’s the only thing that stops you.

A throat clears behind you. You don’t turn. “Are you here to tell me to go back to the estate too?” you murmur.

“No,” your father says, and the familiar sound of pouring liquid follows. “That’s your mother’s job.”

He walks over with two glasses. Hands you one. Sits beside you. You eye the drink suspiciously, then take a sip. It burns too fast, too loud, too bitter. You cough, a little.

“That is as ghastly as my relationship with the Duke,” you mutter. Your father laughs. It’s soft, worn. When the sound fades, he speaks again, gently. “I should have told you from the beginning. But it isn’t easy to tell your daughter that her father’s about to lose his place in the world. That everything you built could vanish overnight. I still have the land, yes. But I am not just a lord. You know that.”

You keep your eyes on the window. “It’s alright,” you mumble.

“No. It isn’t,” he replies. “And you haven’t forgiven me.”

You say nothing. He continues. “But that’s alright, too. In time, perhaps you will. Or not. I’ll make my peace with either. I came to say one thing.”

You turn your head toward him, slowly.

“One day, when you’re older, when your hands tremble and your pride begins to rot inside your chest, you’ll make a decision that hurts someone you love. You’ll think you’re doing the right thing. Or the only thing. You’ll try to justify it, and you won’t be able to. And your child—your brilliant, furious child—will hate you for it.” He pauses, eyes on the fire now. “And in that moment, you’ll understand. That love is not made up of right choices, or even honest ones. It’s made up of people who come back. People who are willing to stand in the wreckage and ask to be forgiven.”

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

“If the Duke returns,” he says softly, “then don’t rob him of the chance to be that kind of person.”

He stands then, says he must rise early for the magistrate. Wishes you good night, tells you not to sit here too long, his voice worn and resigned. The door clicks shut behind him.

Still, you do not move. You remain there, in the armchair, staring through the misty glass at the swing swaying gently in the rain. Your body feels like it doesn’t belong to you anymore; your limbs weightless, your chest heavy. And then you stand. Quietly. Without thinking. You step out of your shoes, let the silk hem of your dress fall limp around your ankles, and walk barefoot to the door.

Your lady maid gasps behind you—“Your Grace!”—but the sound fades behind the groan of the door as it opens.

Rain meets you like an old grief. Cold, piercing, and relentless. It bites into your skin, soaks you in seconds, strips you of the pretense you’ve been wearing like armor.

You make your way to the swing. Sit down with a soft, defeated sigh. Water pools into the folds of your dress, clinging to your body like sorrow. You bow your head. Close your eyes. The rain is merciless, but it is real. Honest in a way nothing else has been for weeks.

Time passes. You don’t know how long. But then, the rain above you quiets. Only above you. The sky is still crying. But you are not. You open your eyes. An umbrella. And behind it, him. Satoru.

Soaked through, hair flattened to his forehead, water running down the sharp lines of his cheekbones. He’s holding the umbrella above your head like a vow, letting himself drown.

“Why are you here?” you ask, softly. Flatly.

“To take you back home. So we can go to Limitless Hall,” he says. As though it’s already decided. As though your heart will fall into step behind his voice like it always has.

“We aren’t,” you whisper. “I feel colder with the umbrella. Put it away.”

He pauses, watching you. And then, without argument, he folds it shut. The rain returns. Full. Immediate. Honest.

“Why are you really here?” you ask again, your voice nearly lost to the wind.

He swallows, once. “I couldn’t stand it,” he says. “The house without you. The silence. I know what I did. I know what I didn’t say. But I—” he falters, as if there are no words that will suffice, “—I couldn’t breathe without you.”

You turn away. “And what if I say no? What if I can’t forgive you?”

He nods, once. “Then I will wait. Until you can.”

A pause. And then, quietly, he says, “I didn’t come here to take you. I came here to ask.”

“Really?” you say, sharp and bitter, your voice cracking against the rain. “Because so far it just seems like you want me to play the perfect Duchess. Have me in your bed, give you heirs, secure your fortune.”

He flinches, visibly, as if you’ve struck him. Still, he moves closer. Rain slicks through his hair as he lowers himself beside you on the swing, the wood creaking beneath both your weight and the unbearable silence that stretches between.

Then, quietly, “You forget that you lied too.”

“I lied to protect myself,” you murmur, a tremor slipping into your voice. “I am the Phantom, yes, but I never lied about loving you. I never once lied about that.”

He turns, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Are you saying I didn’t? Love you?”

You look at him, truly look. At the water dripping from the tips of his lashes, at the shiver in his breath, at the hollow behind his ribs that you know, without being told, mirrors your own.

“Is that truly what you believe?” he asks, breathless now. “That I haven’t been in agony? That I haven’t been waking each morning and hating myself for not telling you sooner? You do not know the torment of every day that I live without you.”

Your throat tightens. The wind cuts through your soaked gown, and yet the ache inside is worse.

“Do you think I wasn’t in pain?” you say, staring ahead, blinking through the downpour. “Do you think I enjoyed being here, pretending? Every second without you is a second I spend pretending I know how to breathe. You are in every thought I have. Every breath. You are the reason I am sitting here, in this storm, not knowing what is to become of us. Of our marriage.”

He swallows. The sound of it feels louder than the rain.

“Then why won’t you come back?” he asks, voice low. “Why won’t you come home to me?”

Your gaze drops to your lap. Your fingers curl, trembling.

“Because you lied,” you whisper. “You stood in front of me, kissed me, promised me the world. And not once did you tell me that our marriage was a transaction. That I was a means to an end.”

Silence again. Then: “Say the word,” he breathes, “and I will give it all up. The title, the estate, my name. All of it. I will sign everything over to Megumi and we will go to Limitless Hall and be nothing more than husband and wife. No titles. No heirs. No obligation. Only us.”

You look at him. His voice shakes, but his eyes hold nothing but stillness. Steady. Certain. Blue like summer light through cathedral glass.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says. “And I am sorry. But I did not lie when I said I loved you. I do. I love you in every way a man can. I love you when I’m beside you. I love you when you’re not there. I love you when I hate myself.”

You inhale, a slow, stunned breath, as the thing inside you—whatever grief that curled around your spine like ivy—finally, finally cracks. Rain bespeckled gems upon his skin bring his beauty into every clearer definition, and you see it. You feel it.

“Satoru,” you murmur, voice too soft to hear. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have written what I did about us. I-I didn’t know what else to do.”

He shakes his head, already leaning in.

“I don’t care that you wrote it,” he whispers. “You could write a thousand more. I’d read every one of them, if it meant you were still mine.”

And then, slowly, reverently, he leans in and kisses you—rain-drenched and desperate, a kiss full of apologies and promises, a kiss that is not a fix but a beginning. You fall into it. Because there is nothing else left to do.

“Satoru—”

“N-no,” he interrupts, shaking his head with a desperate urgency, pulling you into a fierce kiss within the confines of the carriage. His hands tangle in your hair and slip beneath the damp fabric of your dress. “I need you. I miss you.”

Earlier, he had insisted on returning home at once, and you had found yourself unable to refuse. Now, you kiss him back with equal fervor as his fingers tug your sodden dress downward, exposing skin kissed by rain and longing. His lips trail fevered pecks along your collarbone, growing more reckless as he reaches the upper swell of your breasts. His hands grasp them boldly, and you gasp.

“What are you doing? The driver will hear us—”

“Let him,” he growls, voice thick with need. “I pay him well enough. I’ll give him more for his silence.”

“S-Satoru?” you breathe, eyes wide and shimmering. He whispers the words between heated kisses, as if uttering them might ease some ache deep within. “I love you. I burn for you. I am yours, forever and always. It is torture to be apart from you.”

He pulls you closer, settling you onto his lap with a soft yelp. Your hands cup his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the wet strands of hair clinging to his skin. His grip tightens on your hips as he kisses you hard, maddeningly, and you respond by trailing your fingers along his face. His hands slide down your sleeves, damp from the rain, and drag them lower until your breasts spill freely from the dress’s confines. A low moan escapes you as your lips find his jaw, his neck—devouring him piece by piece.

He undoes his breeches with swift urgency, then returns to your lips with a slow, tender kiss before withdrawing to bare himself fully. His hands lift your dress higher, already gathered at your thighs.

“Satoru,” you whisper, breathless, as he enters you. The sensation is full and warm, encompassing and right, as if every moment before this was merely a prelude. His hands cradle your face, compelling your gaze to meet his. His eyes are like ocean shores, sea foam dancing with every breath; warm sunlit currents with a depth that pull you under as he thrusts upward, kissing you senseless.

It is maddening. It steals your breath away. It feels so utterly right that you wonder if you have ever truly belonged anywhere else—here, in this carriage, scandalous and exposed, rain tapping a steady rhythm against the windows, while he claims you in every way possible.

You marvel at how blue can burn with such fierce heat until your gaze locks with his eyes. He is breathtaking, a living tempest of beauty and desire, and you cannot help but roll your hips with abandon as he thrusts into you with a desperation that threatens to shatter your restraint. Your moans spill freely, careless of the driver’s ears or any prying eyes. You gasp softly as his lips find the tender swell of your tits once more, then drift lower. You arch back willingly, offering him better access, and his mouth envelops your nipples, warm and insistent, as you ride him with fevered urgency. It feels like heaven incarnate.

He watches you with eyes glazed and wild, as if your naked form is the most bewildering sight he has ever beheld. You are soft beneath his touch, your breasts flushed and warm as his kisses trace the valley between them. There is a vulnerability in his gaze—a raw, unguarded longing that you cannot resist.

“I love you,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his as you move with fervor. “I love you so much.”

“I see that,” he murmurs, laughter soft and low, pinching your nipples with one hand while gripping your hips with the other. “I’m going to come, you know. You’ve kept yourself away for far too long. I can’t help it.”

“You can’t help it?” you tease, feeling the twitch of him deep inside you. The warmth floods every nerve, every thought, electrifying your senses. The ache of weeks apart has made this moment so tangible, so desperate. You murmur his name into his ear, nipping playfully, and he groans, pulling you closer. Your breasts press against his soaked coat, and his grip tightens in your hair. “Make me come. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

You gasp, breathless, as one of his hands slides lower, fingers seeking, until the pad of his thumb circles your clit. It is messy—pathetically messy and raw with need, but you live for it. You obey, bouncing wildly on him, rocking the carriage with your fervor as he spills his seed inside you. You watch him tremble, but you do not relent. You keep moving, keep riding, until your body spasms uncontrollably, your stomach fluttering with butterflies, your skin aflame, and your mind dissolving into a blissful haze.

The carriage rocks to a halt, the wheels hissing against wet gravel, but no one knocks. No one calls out. The drivers must have heard everything—how could they not?—but they say nothing.

You laugh, breathlessly aching, still straddling him in the cramped dark of the carriage. His hands are warm against your back, buttoning your gown again with a clumsy reverence, as if dressing you were an act of worship. The bodice sticks to your skin where his mouth had once been. His hair is mussed. His heartbeat still hammers beneath your palm like a war drum. It is steady, unrelenting, and devoted.

He touches your face with both hands now. Thumb at your cheekbone, fingers cradling the curve of your jaw as though you might dissolve between one blink and the next.

“What did you even do these last few weeks?” you ask, quietly, as your fingers draw idle patterns on his chest. It’s not teasing, not really. It’s the question of a woman who wants to know if he missed her with the same intensity that she missed him.

“I sulked,” he says, voice hoarsely low. His lips brush yours between syllables, like the words ache to leave him. “I reread every article you ever published. And I kept reading the newer ones you wrote and released while you were gone. I sat on the settee in the library where you used to read to Megumi. I tied a swing to the linden tree in the garden, so when you came back, it might feel a little like home. I cried. I sulked. I was unbearably miserable.”

You smile, forehead pressing gently to his. His breath is sweet with the sharpness of wine and desperation. He breathes you in like you’re something holy.

“I yearned for your presence,” he continues. “And now... now I have you on top of me, glowing. The world has found its axis again. Everything is where it should be.”

You scoff, but it’s soft, full of affection. “'The world has found its axis again'?”

He nods, brushing your damp hair back behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. “It has. Now that you're here.”

“Does that mean,” you murmur, lips ghosting across his cheek, “you’ll finally take me to Limitless Hall?”

“I’ll take you anywhere you want,” he says, without hesitation. “Anywhere you ask. Even if the world burns behind us, I will follow you. I’ll build you a home on its ashes.”

His fingers find your chin and tilt your face to meet his, eyes wild and clear. “I’m never letting you go anywhere again.”

“Never? Is that a promise, Your Grace?” you whisper. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just breathes the words into your mouth as he kisses you again—slow, reverent, trembling: “It’s not a promise. It’s a vow.”

THE VEILED QUILL Volume III, Issue I A Blooming of Secrets and Springtime Hearts

My dearest gentle readers,

Another Season begins. How swiftly the world turns. The countryside, with its dewy mornings and rose-laced winds, has offered this author a most peaceful respite. But even amidst the loveliest of meadows and the most fragrant of orchards, one finds that serenity can only satisfy for so long. For what is tranquility without a touch of scandal to season it? This author returns to Mayfair with ink at the ready and ears tuned sharply to the whispers behind every fan.

Why, none other than the Duchess of Six Eyes herself.

Yes, it is Her Grace who offers the first invitation, and society has been all aflutter since. After all, a woman who once moved through ballrooms as an enigma now stands at their helm. If she’s inherited even a hint of her mother’s celebrated flair for fête and flourish, this author wagers the night will be one to remember.

Of course, a new season brings with it new whispers. One can hardly ignore the epistolary bond blooming between Mr. Nanami Kento of Hastings and a certain marquess’s daughter. Just friendship, you ask? Perhaps. But a friendship that has weathered a year of travel, distance, and longing glances exchanged across ballrooms is hardly a trivial thing.

And speaking of matches: Nigel Berbrooke, last season’s most unlikely groom, is now a married man. His bride? A young lady of the ton whose courtship years were long and fruitless—until now. While this union may lack the sparkle of romance, it serves as a reminder that sometimes, settling is simply surviving.

But not all tales are so quiet.

Lady Shoko, Lady Utahime, and the Duchess herself were seen promenading in Hyde Park just this week, their laughter mingling with the scent of roses and rain. The trio, once heralded as the most promising of their debutante year, now stand together in something even more precious: enduring friendship. A lesson, perhaps, that womanhood is not forged in marriage but in who we choose to walk beside.

And now, dear reader, for the loveliest whisper of all. The Duchess of Six Eyes is with child.

There is no scandal in this news. No sharp turn or twist. Only something quietly radiant. A love that once began in shadows has softened, bloomed. Her Grace is said to be in excellent health, and the Duke—who has, at last, exchanged restless wanderings for a settled life at her side—is said to be utterly besotted.

For a couple who began as a tempest gilded in ruin, they have become the season’s finest portrait of devotion—steady, luminous, and achingly sincere. Their story is no longer one of survival, but of sanctuary. Of two hearts choosing, again and again, to remain entwined.

How rare it is to witness love unfold not in spectacle, but in steadiness. In letters tucked into breakfast trays, in gardens newly planted, in gentle hands resting on rounded bellies. In futures not demanded, but chosen.

Let us commence this season, then, with a bit of hope. For happy endings. For new beginnings. And for love, in all its quiet, remarkable forms.

With quill in hand and heart ever listening, Phantom.

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k3n-dyll · 9 months ago

Text

♱Sinful Deeds

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ; 18+, wlw, fem!reader, lots of religious themes, internalized homophobia, religious guilt, sex in a church, cheating, blasphemy, reader's husband is an ass, dom!Abby, sub!reader, inexperienced!reader (with women), oral(r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), spit, corruption (?)

𝐖𝐂 - 3k

𝐊𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ☆ Read the content warnings, if it's not your thing just scroll ♡ . Also can't lie, I rushed the end a little I'm sorry I need to clear my drafts.

Priest!Abby who worked hard all her life to get where she is. Under her father's encouragement, she's made a good name for herself within a small community in this town. Despite setbacks, of course. To be ordained a priest, and to be a young woman is to be criticized - she'd known that from the beginning. Many people consider her a fraud. Consider her a disgrace amongst the church. Initially, her ordination damn near started a riot in front of the very chapel she preaches in.

That, she figured, would be the worst of it. The defamatory statements and the nasty rumors spread about her character and her morals; many families that had originally attended the church back when her father ran it either reluctantly accepted her or left the congregation entirely.

She had her days, of course. Where the rude comments and the disrespect nearly got to her. Nearly caused her to drop any semblance of professionalism within her body and let herself get angry. But with her trust in God and her strength of faith - all of the bitterly uttered words about her, the vitriol thrown her way - it slid right off of her like water off of a ducks feathered back.

If you were to ever ask her, she'd say that her real problems began with you. The day you had walked into the chapel in the midst of her sermon which was - ironically enough - pertaining to marriage, and sat down with your husband in the very back pew so as not to disturb anyone with your tardiness. It's almost shameful how vividly she remembers the dress you'd worn that day; a pretty, pale yellow number that stopped just above your ankles. The color combined so beautifully with your skin and brought out your eyes even from her place up front, the pleats of the modest dress flowing around your legs with each quiet step you'd taken. She'd been so tempted to take her speech elsewhere to get a better look at you. Tempted to stray from her stance behind the pulpit just to stare at you up close.

Temptation. The issue you had brought with your presence alone. Abby couldn't blame you, of course, she'd been dealing with these urges since she was a teenager and well...she's not perfect by any means. She's had her fair share of one-night stands and flings - a much looser version of herself that she normally keeps well hidden from the members of her church.

She'd been damn near giddy when she finally got the chance to speak to you once the service was over, only to find herself disappointed again at the way your husband seemed to interject himself into any conversation she attempted to start with you.

"Hello..." She said, a small smile plastered on her lips. Despite the way she had trained herself to speak to every person in the church with a similar, if not the same amount of intrigue and attention, her eyes never once left you as she spoke. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting either of you before?" You nodded, offering a polite smile back to her, but before you could even open your mouth to say something, your husband had piped up, introducing himself first, and then you as his wife.

Over time, Abby began to notice that it's a quite common behavior for your husband - the man often using your learned timidity as an opportunity to speak over you at every turn. And he often gets his way.

She'd seen it before. In the church, it's a tale as old as time; a man on a power trip marries a young woman who's likely been taught how to be a good and 'proper' wife from the moment she was born - quiet, submissive, a pretty doll that he can have on his arm but never actually have to listen to.

Priest!Abby who, after giving her sermons, preaching to others about self-control, and willing themselves against sin - finds herself with her hand stuffed down her boxers late at night in her bed, thick fingers curled deep into her pussy, a small, pink bullet pulsating in the other against her clit, touching herself to the thought of you. You're so sweet, and quiet, and delicate... and breakable. The image of you beneath her naked, writhing and panting underneath her touch is so clear in her mind, the blonde practically whimpering as she cums at the thought of your pretty body being so overwhelmed with pleasure that you shake and twitch at the lightest brush of her fingers.

She figured she'd never have you. As much as she craved it, as much as she wanted to trail her hands along your bare curves, Abby knew well in her mind that you would stay loyal and dedicated to the man you married. Still, the day you come to her alone with the intent to confess, excitement wells up in in her at the potential opportunity.

Saturday afternoons for Abby were generally the same, spending her time sitting on the other side of the partition in the small confession booth and listening to the perceived wrongdoings of those in her congregation. Most of the time she doesn't remember. She doesn't even put in the effort to recognize the voices of those she advises, as figuring out who committed what sin and who didn't isn't really what she's here for, but the moment she hears your voice - that soft, melodic tone of yours that she's fantasized about for weeks on end - she can't seem to help herself.

You aren't used to this kind of thing - it's never gotten this bad to the point where you feel you need to confess...but you can only run from your own mind so much. The silence is deafening as you settle yourself into the booth, and it only serves to make you more nervous. You can hear the subtle sound of Abby's breathing, the rhythmic thumping of your own heart pumping. Shakily, you sign the cross over your body, nipping at the very tip of your thumbnail before you speak.

"Forgive me...for I have sinned" you murmur. "This...this is my first confession."

You speak a lot more than you had originally intended, spilling your guts to the woman on the other side of the screen, the somewhat private setting making it easier for you to let go of everything you'd been suppressing. Abby's almost shocked to hear about your struggles with your urges. Your desires to be with someone that isn't your husband. With someone that isn't even a man in the first place. Years of training herself is the only thing that stops her from showing her irritation at the way you deem these things deeply immoral as well as, selfishly, her elation at the idea that she may have a chance.

Abby is silent for a moment after you finish speaking, letting herself sit with her thoughts, trying and failing not to allow her own greedy desires consume her mind though unbeknownst to her, her quiet only causes the pit of dread in your stomach to swell. It's when she clears her throat that you tense up even more, preparing yourself to be scolded, or worse, kicked out. You've seen it happen before - people shunned and shamed for so much as thinking of the same sex in that way.

"You aren't in any trouble child, calm down." She says finally and you realize you've been tapping your nails rhythmically against the wooden wall. Though she can't see you, you nod and stop, transferring the little assault to your thigh.

Abby knows full well that she should just wrap this up. She should give you something to do - tell you to say a prayer, to beg Christ for mercy on your soul in hopes that these 'immoral' thoughts stop weighing on you, but Abby of all people knows that it doesn't work that way. Not with this.

Before Abby can stop herself, she's already asked you up to her office, shocked by the lack of resistance to her request. Closing the door behind her, she stands, eyeing your frame as you take a seat in front of her desk. She can practically see the anxiety seeping through your pores - the constant tapping at your leg, the shifting in your spot. Without much thought, she walks over and places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently to calm you down.

"This isn't something I typically do." She starts. "I honestly probably shouldn't be doing this right now at all, but I do think we need to talk. No judgment, no barriers, okay?"

You nod but your body is still rigid, the warmth of her large palm on your shoulder is almost enough to send tingles through your body, guilt swarming in your gut at the unconscious reaction.

"I could just send you on your way. I could tell you to repent and beg and plead with God to make you better but..." Abby sighs, removing her hand from your shoulder to stand at her desk, leaning up against it to face you as she tries to think of ways to word what she wants to say. "...I don't want to lie to you."

"Lie to me?" You ask, dumbfounded, to which Abby just chuckles quietly. She knows what the Bible says is law to you, and to hear a priest refute that in any way is likely confusing.

"What I'm saying is: this isn't something that can be prayed away. No matter how badly you may want it to be, it simply isn't."

You shake your head at her words, finding it ridiculous. Or at least you want to, but deep down you know she's right. You've tried praying more than enough times to know that it will end in nothing changing. Still, you're stubborn.

"But my husband. I-I love him"

"Do you?"

"I-" The lie dies in the back of your throat. The fact that you can't bring yourself to answer confidently, or at all for that matter is all the confirmation Abby needs. A beat of silence passes before Abby says anything else, giving you time to sit in your lack of certainty before moving on.

"That's not to say I don't have a...solution in mind" As she speaks, she inches close until she's standing directly in front of you, forcing you to crane your neck to look up at her towering frame above your seated one. Your senses suddenly feel foggy, the scent of pine and musk filling your nose, your eyes unable to focus anywhere but on the stretched fabric outlining her biceps and torso. You could swear she wears a uniform that size just to show off. You blink a few times in a failed attempt to snap yourself out of it.

"I thought you said there was no way to fix it"

Abby's eyes darken, a soft chuckle escaping her at your words. "No. It can't be 'fixed', honey. Desires like that don't just go away... but they can be satiated. Temporarily at least." Gently, she catches your chin between her thumb and forefinger to keep you looking at her.

"I'm...I'm married, it wouldn't be right. I can't do that to him.." You start in half-hearted protest, the implication of her words clear. Your eyes shift to the side, though you make no move to pull away.

"He isn't a factor right now. My focus is you" The pad of her thumb lightly grazes against your lower lip. "Look, I won't push you. If that's not something you want to do, I understand, but really, how long do you think you can keep pretending, hm ? How long until you break?"

Your eyes flutter as she leans closer, the sensation of her warm breath on your skin sending shivers through your spine.

"I've been so...good at pretending..." Your voice is little more than a whisper, melting into her touch despite the alarms going off in your mind. You push it back. "I don't think I can do it anymore..."

"Oh, baby I know..."

It's only a split second between the words leaving her mouth and her lips pressing against yours, her strong palms cupping your cheeks. Though her hands are rough to the touch her hold on you is gentle. Reverent, even. Her fingers ghosting along your skin as if you're a precious jewel she's afraid to shatter. It's slow, yet overwhelming - her kisses tracing a path from your lips to your neck, from neck to collarbone. You feel her begin to massage your thighs, kneading them over the fabric of your dress before getting impatient and slipping them just underneath it.

You should be disgusted with yourself. Disgusted with her. With this. But the ungodly, hungry way at which she kisses and nips at your flesh only brings on an excitement within you that feels almost wild. Like something that had been leashed and caged within you was finally let free. You should pray. But instead of clasping together your hands begin to weave into Abby's hair, gripping and tugging at it to keep her close. The priestess whines at the sensation and you swear her knees buckle. That or her will is hanging by an invisible thread because she sinks to her knees in front of you.

"Let me taste you.." She breathes out, her gaze shifting from your face to your thighs, her hands still rubbing at them, slowly inching the skirt of your dress up further.

You think to hesitate but your body may as well be on autopilot, the mere thought of having her head between them enough to slowly pry your legs open without much coaxing. It'd be embarrassing if Abby didn't seem just as desperate as you.

Her hand slips between your thighs the second they're apart, a thick finger trailing along your slit just over your panties, the wet spot that's formed there amusing to her.

"See what I do to you?" She asks, a small, cocky smirk playing at her lips. "He could never get you like this, we both know it"

All you can do is give a pathetic nod and an even more pitiful whine as Abby teases you, her face inching closer until she's nosing your clothed clit, vivid blues unblinking as she takes in your reaction.

"Please, Abby..." You plea needily, voice cracking despite your attempts to sound stable.

She's merciful to you, wasting no time or words in pushing your panties to the side, parting her lips to allow her mouth to water freely, the coolness of her saliva sliding along your slit sending a jolt of electricity through your senses. Her fingers are first, the blonde collecting the slick mixture of spit and arousal to coat the two of the digits and carefully pushing them inside before she flicks her tongue teasingly against your clit.

Maybe you should feel guilt for this - unashamedly allowing a member of the clergy of all people, to defile you in such a way in a holy place. Throwing your head back, clasping your hands against the armrests of your seat, moaning and whining obnoxiously under the corruption of her tongue. Maybe you would feel guilty. If only it didn't feel so fucking good.

A loving deity would not deprive you of this feeling, at least that's how you justify it in your head as you cry out for more, eyes screwed shut as previously suppressed vulgarities spill past your lips.

"Abby, fuck, just like that - please!" Your cries are loud, tone little less than whorish in nature. "F-feels so fucking good, oh God"

Abby chuckles against you at that, but she doesn't speak. While the irony of you calling out for God amuses her somewhat, she can't tease. She can barely bring herself to pull away from you, her mouth and chin covered, glistening with your wetness, fingers ruthlessly sloshing in and out of your fluttering walls. You're like a drug to her in this moment. Something to be desired. Worshipped.

She finds her free hand stuffed down her slacks, her own core throbbing with need as she admires the pornographic image of your body writhing before her. The low vibrations that come from Abby's muffled moans only send you that much closer to the edge. Only that much closer to the release your body has practically been begging for and yet could never receive at the hands of your husband.

When your thighs clamp against her head, her jaw worn and slightly pained, she doesn't let up even a little bit, lapping at you with her tongue as if watching you unravel was critical to her existence. It just might be with how intently she stares up at you, not letting a drop of your cum escape her mouth as you finally let go, fingers still slipping in and out of you in languid motions. Abby's completely disregarded her own need in place of your own, her hand stilled in her boxers, something she only realizes when you begin to calm down.

"You didn't-" You start to question her, pushing golden strands away from her freckled face with your hand when you notice.

"It's okay, baby" She interrupts, her words coming as a pleased murmur. "This wasn't about me"

You shake your head a little, but before you can protest she's pulled you toward her, her pink puffed lips catching your own in a messy kiss, strings of saliva and cum breaking between your mouths with each breath taken. You let it happen for a while. It's oddly...comfortable. A sense of warmth calming your body in a way it hasn't in a long time before this.

As if on cue, a loud, grating tune breaks the illusion. The sound of a phone ringing. Your phone.

The 4 missed calls from your husband stare reality back into you both and utter dread sends that all too familiar chill through your bones once again.

Donations 4 Palestine - TLOU2 Masterlist

Taglist ; @half-of-a-gay, @porcelainmystery , @tohoko, @rkivedpages, @misfits-army-van,

@andersonfilms,

#lesbian #wlw #tlou2 #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson tlou2 #abby the last of us #abby smut #☆kennie's works #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x female reader #abby x reader #abby anderson x fem!reader

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dollyswishingwell · 14 days ago

Text

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Princess P.7

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, for this person who recommended this thank you, made it almost headcanony, not that much mamas girl in this, lowkey a dad and daughter bonding fic

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ It’s a daddy daughter dance

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“I’m not going,” Rafayel declared from the bathtub, arms draped dramatically over the porcelain like a drowned Victorian widow. “It smells like glue sticks and abandonment trauma in that place.”

You didn’t look up from your mascara wand. “She asked for you. Specifically.”

Rafayel blinked at the ceiling. Then muttered, “…Fine.”

—

Three hours later, he was standing in the preschool auditorium wearing a sheer lavender button-up, pearl cuffs, and glitter in his waves, glitter, while his daughter twirled around in a custom-made seafoam tutu with a cape that trailed behind her like a royal decree.

The gymnasium reeked of juice boxes and low self-esteem. He hated it here.

“I feel ill,” he whispered, crouching beside her.

She was gnawing on a sugar cookie and beaming at you across the room. “Mama’s pretty,” she said dreamily.

Rafayel made a noise like a kicked crab.

—

Then the music started.

He rose, hand out. “Shall we, my pufferfish?”

She stared up at him.

Then, horror of horrors,

She ran to you.

“I wanna dance with MAMA!” she wailed, cheeks puffed. “Not Daddy! Mamaaaa!”

The crowd turned.

Rafayel’s arm dropped.

You gave him a pitying smile. “She’s just shy—”

“No,” he said, dead-eyed, backing into the shadows like a disgraced villain. “I get it. I’m not the favorite. I’m just the guy who makes couture capes and fries shrimp.”

He sulked in the bleachers the rest of the night, swiping glitter off his sleeves like betrayal.

—

Later that night, you woke to find him curled around both of you in bed. The toddler drooled on his bare chest, tiara still skewed on her head. He stared at her like a ghost.

“She said you’re her favorite.”

You kissed his temple. “She also called a pigeon her ‘real dad’ last week.”

A pause.

He muttered, “…I’ll take second place.”

But he tucked her in tighter anyway.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Zayne adjusted his tie in the car mirror, dead silent. His dress shirt was crisp, coat tailored, glasses polished within an inch of their life.

“She said we had to ‘match,’” you reminded, fixing his boutonnière, a tiny satin heart your daughter taped to his lapel. It was crooked. It would stay crooked. He didn’t flinch.

“I’m aware,” he said flatly. “She also said I’m not allowed to wear black because it’s ‘boring and sad.’”

You kissed his cheek. “You’re a vision in beige.”

He didn’t smile.

But his ears were pink.

At the dance, he held her little hand like it was a surgical instrument. Gentle, precise.

She stomped her feet with wild abandon, glitter shoes flashing, curls bouncing. Zayne followed her lead stiffly, like someone trying to dance without disturbing a sleeping cat.

Other parents whispered.

Your daughter stared up at him mid-spin.

“You dance like a robot.”

He blinked.

She tugged his sleeve. “But you’re my robot.”

His face didn’t change.

But you swore you saw his mouth twitch.

After the slow song, she abandoned him entirely. Ran to you.

“Mommy,” she said between giggles. “Daddy tried to twirl. It was terrible.”

Zayne sat on a tiny plastic chair off to the side, arms folded, expression blank. The tape-heart on his lapel had fallen off.

You brought him a juice box. He took it without looking.

“She called me terrible.”

“She also said you’re her robot.”

Zayne’s glasses slid down his nose slightly. “I suppose I’ll take that over being replaced.”

Pause.

He glanced at the dance floor.

Then at you.

“…Do you want to dance?”

You smiled. “Absolutely.”

He didn’t flinch when your daughter climbed between you, tiny arms curled around his leg.

Zayne just held you both, coat sweeping the floor.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Xavier arrived in a full white suit.

Why?

Because she said he looked “like a sleepy prince.”

His silver hair was braided with little flower clips. Not by you. By your daughter. He had no say. He simply blinked once and said, “Okay.”

He carried her in one arm and a paper bag of lemon cookies in the other. They both wore glittery stickers on their cheeks. Also not his idea.

They lasted eight minutes into the dance.

Eight.

You were helping at the photo booth when your daughter came trotting up alone, curls bouncing, tutu fluffed.

She pointed one tiny hand behind her. “Papa’s sleeping again.”

You looked. Yep.

Xavier had found a beanbag chair in the corner of the auditorium, folded himself into it like a dead swan, and passed out, arms crossed, mouth slightly open, dreamless.

There were children climbing around him. He didn’t stir.

Your daughter pouted at him for the next half-hour.

She didn’t want to dance without her Papa.

So naturally, she dragged him by the hand onto the dance floor when he finally woke up.

He blinked, disoriented.

“You’re late,” she scolded.

Xavier bowed with a serious nod. “Forgive me. I was… unconscious.”

They slow-danced like two ghosts, her standing on his feet, his hands holding her up gently.

She leaned in and whispered, “You’re not allowed to sleep at my wedding.”

He froze.

“…I’ll set an alarm.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

“Do I look like a man who attends dances held in public school gyms?” Sylus asked, arms spread dramatically, already in a custom-tailored black-on-crimson suit.

You deadpanned. “You bought the school yesterday, Sylus. You own the gym.”

He smirked. “Precisely. That’s why I shouldn’t be seen in it.”

—

But the moment his little girl appeared at the top of the stairs in her feathery black tutu and matching crow pin, Sylus fell silent.

She looked exactly like him, silver curls, red eyes, smug little tilt to her chin.

He knelt and offered her his hand like she was royalty. “Shall we show these mortals what grace truly looks like?”

She nodded. “But I wanna do spinny moves.”

“…Fine.”

—

The second he stepped onto the glitter-covered gym floor, a dozen moms swooned. A dad visibly panicked.

Sylus ignored all of it, twirling her with theatrical flair while muttering to his earpiece, “Make sure no one posts footage. I will destroy the internet.”

She tugged his sleeve mid-dip. “Daddy. You’re scary.”

He blinked down at her. “Good.”

“Noooo,” she giggled. “You have to smile! Like this!”

She showed him, wide teeth, big cheeks, crinkle eyes.

He looked… unwell.

“…Horrifying,” he muttered. But he did it. Just for her.

—

By the third song, she spotted a little boy in suspenders dancing alone.

She marched up. “You dance with me now.”

The boy looked terrified. Sylus appeared behind him like a shadow. “She asked nicely.”

The child nodded frantically.

Sylus returned to your side, arms crossed, eye glowing faintly. “If he steps on her toes, I’ll ruin his lineage.”

You sipped your punch. “Normal dads just threaten curfews.”

He raised a brow. “She deserves a throne, not curfews.”

—

Later that night, she fell asleep in his arms in the back of the car.

Sylus stared down at her small, sparkly form. Quiet for once.

“…I’d tear down empires for her,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You leaned against him. “She just wants a plushie throne.”

He smirked. “Done.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

He arrived in full Farspace Fleet formal uniform.

Yes, the one with aiguillettes, gloves, boots, and tactical perfection.

Why? Because his daughter had looked up at him with those big purple eyes and said,

“Dress like a prince pilot general man.”

And so he did.

—

The gymnasium was decorated with streamers and tissue paper stars. Caleb entered like it was an off-world battleground, scanning exits, calculating fire code violations, and quietly making a note to replace the ceiling tiles with reinforced anti-quake material.

You leaned against the snack table and whispered, “Are you going to debrief the DJ too?”

He glanced at you.

“He’s already been briefed. Twice.”

—

His daughter, in a starry blue gown and tiara, stood on his polished boots with her arms up.

“Daddy,” she said very seriously, “tonight is our night but mommy has to dance with us too.”

He didn’t blink. “Understood, Commander.”

You sigh from across the room. “not even one day of peace for mommy”

She stuck her tongue out at you.

Caleb leaned in and whispered, “Operation: never exclude mommy.”

—

They twirled.

Caleb, dancing with perfect, stoic elegance, gently lifted her and spun her like she was a moon orbiting his gravity core.

The other parents were stunned.

Someone muttered, “Is that guy in the military or—?”

You didn’t correct them.

You did take a video.

—

Later, she napped on his shoulder while he stood guard by the door.

A teacher approached and asked if he wanted a picture printed for the school’s bulletin board.

He said flatly, “Only if it goes in the tactical archive as well.”

You snorted. “The what?”

He looked at you over her tiara. “The black vault. Where I store everything precious.”

You melted.

She snored softly.

Caleb didn’t move an inch.

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shadowkoo · 8 months ago

Text

disgraceful dreams

→ Summary: After two years of lustful pining and disgraceful dreams about someone far out of your reach, you decide the only way to move past your hopeless crush on Onyx Academy's star student is by taking part in the Lupercalia festival for the very first time.

↠ wooyoung x f.reader (feat. yeosang) | 16.4k words | 18+ ↠ genre: witch/warlock au, smut, virgin!reader, inspired by s2e3 of caos, slowburn

→ Full Fic Warnings: little bit of social class discrimination, cult-ish behavior (mentions of blood, Y/N uses a knife to cut her hand for binding/ritual purposes), being ‘hunted’ like prey, explicit sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, pet names, praise kink, biting, nipple play, breast play, begging, fingering, mutual masturbation, oral (female and male receiving), exhibitionism, voyeurism, partial agoraphilia & semi-public sex, dirty talk, heavy teasing, spanking, multiple orgasms, grinding, deep dicking, size kink (wooyoung is HUNGGG), magical sex, fucking up against a tree, slight age gap (y/n is 20 and wooyoung is 25), slight corruption, choking, possessive!wooyoung, woo is ravenous for you (you’re welcome)

→ Networks: tagged below

@ksmutsociety @k-vanity @pirateeznet @cromernet

@illusionnet @othersideoutlawsnetwork @cultofdionysusnet

→ Moodboard: view here!

→ Author Note: edited by the lovely aeris @beomcoups whom i appreciate so SO much for tackling this beast of a fic ILY! And also to ally @lovetaroandtaemin for reading this over for me!!! this doesn’t follow the exact lupercalia process, i’ve twisted it to work for my fic and based it around halloween instead of valenbarf day lol, if you'd prefer to read on ao3, it's been crossposted here!! all likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated <3

⋆˙⟡ m.list ⟡⋆⟡ ao3 ⟡⋆⟡ wips ⟡⋆⟡ updates ⟡⋆⟡ shadow realm ⟡˙⋆

‘This can’t be real.’

Jung Wooyoung casts a dark look upon you while taking in your ethereal, naked form before him. The flames of the common room’s fireplace dance in his eyes, reflecting his sinister and most impure thoughts. Thoughts of you, what he wants to do to you. With you.

‘I must be dreaming.’

He circles around you, hovering over your backside and letting his hands fall to your bare hips. His touch leaves a trail of goosebumps across your skin.

“Mmm, can I touch you?” Wooyoung whispers as he leans in to kiss the dip between your shoulder and neck.

You nod, giving him permission to do whatever he pleases, and lean back against his broad chest.

His hands move from your side, one moving upward to cup your breast, the other heading down between your legs, gently tracing your silky skin until his fingers find their way home and sink into your sweet center.

The sensation awakens you from your sinful slumber, and you sigh, realizing it was only a dream—another delicious and depriving dream that left you wanting someone who would never consider you.

Groaning, you force yourself to roll out of bed and step toward your closet. Black Mass isn’t for another hour, but arriving early might help erase these recurring dreams from your memory.

Your footsteps echo in the empty hall as you exit the residential wing, making your way outside. It’s a beautiful gloomy day, the air is crisp and the sun is hidden by thick clouds that look as if they could open up at any moment and soak the woods with another harsh day of rain - something you wouldn’t mind.

The fog creeps through the forest, following your steps and trailing behind while you wait for your familiar to catch up. Besides your raven’s distant cry, it’s quiet. The hum of the earth’s magic is even more reserved than usual. It’s peacefully eerie.

“Ghoul Morning, Blair,” you say, extending your wrist out for her. She caws from above and slowly descends from the clouds, eagerly accepting your arm as the safe place to perch while you walk along the path to the Unholy Church.

Though she looks like a raven while masked, Blair wreaks havoc in her goblin form on anyone, and anything, that dares to disturb you. She’s one of the strongest familiars a witch could be cursed with, and you’ve been thankful for her services ever since you started training.

It’s your second year attending The Onyx Academy of Dark Casting, a magical finishing school that only the finest witches and warlocks between the ages of nineteen and twenty-five are given the unholiest privilege to attend.

Of these students, the Dark Stars of each class lead with their high values and spectacular spell casting. More often than not, they graduate with the highest dishonor and ascend to become High Priests and Priestesses of covens across the world.

Jung Wooyoung is a beloved Dark Star and stellar student, and it’s rumored that he’ll become the youngest Anti-Pope inducted into the Church of Night after his completion here at the academy.

Even with your unique gift, it’s not in the cards for a person of your status to ever equal his. Which you very well know and understand, despite the dark fantasies that haunt you most nights and your schoolgirl crush that hasn’t gone away since the very first day you met him.

Blair lets out a sharp caw, her wings cutting through the air as she ascends, perching gracefully on the steeple just as you arrive at the church. Her dark silhouette stands stark against the sky, watching over you like a silent sentinel.

The towering doors creak open as you approach them, welcoming you inside the dim space. You walk between the rows of pews, watching the candles that mark the aisle light up as you pass.

Once closer to the altar, you lift a hand and wave it across the front of the sanctuary. The room becomes brighter as the remaining unlit candles grow flames from your magic.

You have a way with the elements; you’re able to manipulate and control them as you wish without specific spells, conjuring them when you please. Your energy is unmatched compared to the other gifted students.

Yet, instead of improving your social status, being gifted has made you even more of an outcast. The professors are wary of your potential and what you could be capable of; the students keep their distance too, either jealous or frightened of your power.

Needless to say, you’re not Miss Popular, but that doesn’t bother you as much as it could. Only the luckiest of witches and warlocks are disgraced with gifts from the Dark Lord, and having chosen you out of everyone means something. And knowing the Dark Lord chose you is enough.

You settle into your usual pew, the familiar creak of the wooden bench under you blending into the background as your mind begins to churn. Thoughts swirl of today’s impending announcement during Father Blackmoor’s sermon cross your mind.

The excitement for Lupercalia is beginning to build. This ancient festival, celebrated by all magic wielders the week leading up to Halloween, is dedicated to the Goddess Peralia, who blesses covens with enhanced health, virility, and fertility in exchange for an indelicate offering. Participants must engage in a series of ritualistic events celebrating lust and sexuality, transforming the festival into a vibrant expression of desire and intimacy. Only then will she offer her unholiest blessing.

You sit there, not in prayer, but in a quiet storm of contemplation, unsure if you will sign up for the festival this year. Another downfall to being viewed as an outsider is that you have yet to experience, well, anything. Sure, you might have kissed a couple of warlocks in your intermediate years, you even had a boyfriend in prep school whom you were convinced you could have loved eventually, but your virtue has yet to be given away.

It’s common for witches and warlocks to lose their virginity during Lupercalia; typically when they are in prep school. In fact, it’s encouraged. Yet, by age twenty, you still haven't mustered the courage to join in the festivities.

This year might be different…

The sudden crash of books jolts you from your thoughts. You turn to see Yeosang, a fellow student, crouched beside a toppled stack of The Book of Blood, its pages splayed open.

“My apologies; I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says, a hint of embarrassment in his voice as he scrambles to gather the scattered volumes. His cheeks flush slightly, and you can't help but smile softly.

He’s a sixth-year student, just like Wooyoung. Yet, where Wooyoung’s presence demands your attention with an almost suffocating charisma, Yeosang embodies a more reserved demeanor. He tends to stick to his tight-knit group of friends and immerses himself in his studies, radiating a quiet intensity that draws you in without overwhelming you.

You feel a wave of annoyance wash over you as soon you realize that even in the presence of another man, your thoughts keep drifting back to Wooyoung. It frustrates you to no end, pushing you to a spontaneous decision: this year will finally be the year you break free from this obsession. By participating in Lupercalia, you’re determined to finally move on from him once and for all.

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, “The Dark Lord has already provided me with the clarity I came here for.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, carefully restacking the last book. He glances to his left, likely considering the seat he usually occupies, before turning back to you. “Would you mind if I joined you?” he asks, a hopeful note in his voice as he gestures toward the space beside you.

“Not at all, please do,” you smile.

He settles beside you with an effortless grace, and the air around you immediately fills with the warm, intoxicating blend of amber and musk from his cologne. The scent is rich, almost magnetic, pulling your attention in ways you hadn’t anticipated. You fidget with your hands, trying to focus on anything but how good he smells, as your mind races to keep pace with your quickening heartbeat.

Maybe... you could partner with Yeosang for the festival. The thought lingers as you steal a glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s undeniably handsome—sharp features that give him a striking, confident look, but it’s his kindness that really stands out. There’s a warmth in the way he carries himself, a subtle softness behind those strong eyes that makes him more than just attractive. You wonder what it would be like to lose your virginity to someone like him, someone who seems both strong and thoughtful in all the right ways.

"Are you sure you are okay? You seem a little tense," he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern as his eyes search your face. You hesitate to answer, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks, and though you're trying to keep your composure, your breath has grown a little quicker, more shallow.

Thankfully, he’s kind enough not to mention it, but you catch the flicker of awareness in his gaze. His words are gentle, but there's an underlying curiosity there—like he's not just asking out of politeness but because he genuinely cares. You try to steady yourself, aware of the closeness between you, and suddenly the air feels heavier as if the moment itself is holding its breath, waiting for your next move.

"I didn’t mean to pry if it’s personal," he quickly adds, his voice softening as he notices your hesitation. His words have a touch of urgency, and he backtracks, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. His shifts slightly, giving you space while still holding onto the moment, unsure whether to push further or retreat.

"Can I tell you a secret?" The words escape your lips before you even realize what you’ve said. For a moment, you freeze, caught off guard by your sudden vulnerability. His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but there’s no turning back now.

Yeosang nods and softly says, “Of course.”

“I’ve…never participated in Lupercalia,” you admit guardedly.

“Oh, um. That’s, uh…” He’s visibly taken aback when he hears your confession, stumbling over his words. “Wow, I… I wasn’t expecting that.”

He shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, uh, that’s really something. I just, uh… I guess I never saw you as someone who hadn’t, you know, participated.” He draws out the last word, his tone heavy with the unspoken meaning.

You nod, trying to meet his eyes. “I know, it’s just… I never felt called to join in on the festivities in previous years. But lately, that feeling has… changed.”

“Oh. Right, yeah, I get it. So you’ll be signing up for the events this year?” He asks with a calm, collected voice, though he’s concerned that the quickened rhythm of his heartbeat betrays his calm facade.

Hearing your confession piques his interest. He’s always found you hauntingly beautiful and has enjoyed the casual conversations you’ve shared between classes and such, but today feels different.

He knew you didn’t actively participate last year, though he figured you were still doing something-someone-in private. Now that your secret is out, there's something undeniably more intriguing about you—an unexpected allure that wasn’t there before.

“Yeah, I’m thinking about it.”

“I think you should,” he blurts out, then quickly adds, “What I mean is, the festival’s about self-expression and the intimacy you share along the way. If you’re looking for a wild introduction to Lupercalia, there will be plenty of opportunists who share that venereal vision. But if you want something more comforting…choose someone who makes you feel safe and respected for your first time.” Yeosang trails off, his gaze lingering a little too long, the implication unmistakable. He clears his throat, trying not to give himself and his intentions away.

“Thank you, Yeosang,” you say while resting a hand above his knee, genuinely appreciating his insight.

Before the conversation can continue, the sound of footsteps echoes through the Church as fellow students file in, taking their seats. Black Mass is about to begin.

Wooyoung hadn’t intended to listen in on your conversation. He was too busy waiting for the other Dark Stars to arrive at the closed-off sanctuary to finish preparing for Black Mass. As usual, they didn’t show up early despite his suggestions. That’s a lie; he knew his words were less like suggestions and more like demands.

He was well aware they’d be late today, especially since most of the fifth and sixth years had spent the night at an intimate pre-Lupercalia party that stretched into dawn.

The only reason he peeked through the shadows was due to a loud crash, which he soon realized came from Yeosang, who appeared entranced by someone sitting near the front of the Church. That’s when he noticed it was you.

He’ll admit to having observed you over the past year—not out of personal interest, but because he’s intrigued by your unique gift and curious as to why the Dark Lord chose you of all people. Yes, you’re undeniably attractive as most witches are, but your ability to manipulate pure power without relying on spellwork is, to him, the most compelling quality you possess. If you had the right social standing, you would likely ascend to the role of High Priestess in a very fortunate coven.

From his hidden vantage point, he watches as his friend settles down beside you; that’s when the conversation begins.

“I’ve…never participated in Lupercalia,” he hears you share your secret. Now that is quite a confession.

Wooyoung’s lips curl into a smirk as he observes your flushed face from a distance, the rosy hue contrasting with the cold room that surrounds you. There’s a spark of mischief in his eyes as he takes in the way you shift nervously, completely unaware of his gaze.

Knowing that you haven’t been touched stirs a mix of amusement and curiosity within him. He wonders what thoughts are racing through your mind, feeling a strange sensation rush through him when you place your hand on his classmate’s thigh.

He saw no reason to hold back from participating. The moment he came of age, he dove in—and he’s done so every year since, always finding ways to revel in the experience to the fullest. As he reflects on past encounters, a pleased smile crosses his face as he silently counts the number of popped cherries he’s collected over the last several seasons, each a vivid memory weaved into his mind.

‘What’s one more…’

As more students trickle in and take their seats, the soft murmur of conversation fills the air. Wooyoung senses the moment is right and slips out of the shadows just as Father Blackmoor begins to walk down the aisle, weaving between the pews filled with eager faces. The flickering candlelight dances on the stone walls, casting a warm glow that contrasts with the coolness of the sanctuary.

He moves to stand on the left of Father Blackmoor, joining the other Dark Stars who are trying to stifle their yawns. The collective fatigue from the previous night’s festivities hangs in the air, but a shared excitement simmers beneath the surface. He exchanges brief glances with his fellow Stars, a silent acknowledgment of their late-night revelry and the anticipation of what today’s ceremony will bring.

“Fiends and Friends, today marks the beginning of our annual Lupercalia Festival,” Father Blackmoor announces, his voice resonating through the crammed Church. “As you all know, Lupercalia is upon us. I can feel the excitement buzzing in the air. The Festival of Wolves is a cherished tradition within our coven, and we take immense pride in honoring Goddess Peralia through a series of exhilarating rituals, all in hopes of receiving her unholiest blessings. With that in mind, let’s review the week’s events for those of you who are new to our practices.”

Father Blackmoor pauses to take an envelope from Wooyoung. “Tomorrow marks the start of the Assessment Period, which will be held in the Grand Hall. Witches who sign up today will be quizzed by prospective partners in hopes of finding their ideal match.”

“Courting begins on Tuesday. Those interested in a specific witch will reserve time slots to spend more time together. By the end of the night, the warlocks must submit the names of the witches they wish to be paired with. This will be followed by the Matching Ceremony on Wednesday, where the pairs will be revealed to the entire coven. On Thursday, we’ll have the Moon Ritual, during which the paired couples will venture into the darkwood to complete the rite. More specific details will be shared on the day, but they are expected to spend the night together beneath the moon in unholy abstinence.”

Some students snicker, knowing very well they won’t be abstaining from anything that night.

Father Blackmoor waits for the room to settle down before continuing, “Friday ushers in the Insatiable Hunt at dusk, where wolf-masked warlocks will chase after their red-cloaked witches through the woods, culminating in divine pleasure once they’ve been caught. We’ll conclude the week of festivities on Saturday with the Final Feast, where we will express our gratitude to Goddess Peralia for her many blessings this season.”

Wooyoung steps forward once more, this time carrying an ancient, leather-bound tome. The worn edges and faded lettering hint at its age and significance.

It’s the Book of Blood; which contains hundreds of Witches and Warlock's printed names, signed with their crimson ink, as a binding commitment to their word. It’s like a contract between yourself, the entire coven, and the Dark Lord himself.

With a practiced hand, he carefully cracks it open, his eyes sweeping across the room. “Witches that dare to participate, please step forward, say your intent, and sign your name in the Book of Blood.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you push yourself to your feet, joining the line of participants ahead of you. A mix of excitement and nerves swirl in your stomach, each step bringing you closer to the moment you've been both dreading and anticipating.

The weight of curious eyes fall on you as you move, but none more intense than Yeosang's. His gaze feels like a spotlight, cutting through the crowd around him.

With each passing second, your pulse quickens as the line inches forward at a deathly slow pace. Every breath feels shallow, as if the air is too thick for your lungs to handle. Despite the knot of nerves tightening in your belly, your feet move on their own, as if guided by some force beyond your control.

Before you even realize it, you’re standing before Wooyoung. His eyes pierce down onto you while he hands you a knife, “Do you hereby pledge your full participation and commitment to the forthcoming Lupercalia festival and all associated events?”

Taking a deep breath, you respond, “Yes, I pledge myself.”

You take the knife from him, feeling the cold steel as you press the sharp blade into your palm. With a swift motion, you slice a clean, precise line across your skin. Ruby-red blood wells up, pooling in your cupped hand. Without hesitation, Father Blackmoor raises his hand, his dark magic swirling in the air as he draws the blood from your palm. It twists and shapes into the form of a pen, glowing faintly with a sinister aura, ready to be used.

You reach up and grasp the hovering pen, its energy vibrating through your hand. As you sign your name in the book, a surge of adrenaline floods your veins, electrifying every nerve. The moment the ink dries, you feel an undeniable shift. Something deep within you has been awakened.

Wooyoung smirks, knowing the sensation very well. “There’s no backing out now,” he says to you, his gaze locking onto yours, sharp and unrelenting.

“So,” Jongho, a second-year student like yourself, pauses to clear his throat after pulling on his tie, “That was awful.”

You chuckle, relieved to see you're not the only one with frayed nerves. “Yeah, good luck with the rest of them.”

He smiles back before shuffling along to the next person.

It’s Assessment Day, and every witch who signed their name is being rigorously questioned by the participating warlocks. Friends who had gone through this in previous years warned you about what to expect, and they were right. It’s definitely a forced mingling period on steroids.

It’s only been an hour, and you’re already exhausted of the routine of answering questions filled with probing and uncomfortable inquiries that delve into personal preferences. Over and over again, you're forced to confront touchy subjects, as if each question is designed to peel away the layers of your desires, as if you know.

The process feels more like an interrogation than a mere assessment, testing not just your patience, but your lack of knowledge on the subject at hand—sex.

The situation would be far less awkward if you didn't have to sit directly across from someone to verbally review the list. After each question, it’s mandatory to respond in one of the following ways: Agree - you give consent to the matter being discussed with the current party; Acknowledge - it is a potential option, and you give partial consent or Decline - no consent is given.

You pick at your fingernails while you wait for the next warlock.

“Penny dreadful for your thoughts?” You glance up to see Yeosang sliding into the seat across from you, with a broad smile spread across his handsome face.

“Oh, hi!” you say, doing your best to not sound startled. “Just wondering when all of this will be over, you know?” you continue, waving your arms around.

“Yeah, this part of the process isn’t the most comfortable. But I understand why it’s necessary,” he comments while leaning forward on the table. “Have the others been respectful?”

“Oh, yes. Yeah, everyone has been nice. I’m learning how many students I’ve never spoken to before,” you reply lightheartedly.

"Shall we begin?" Yeosang asks with a playful glint in his eyes, nodding toward the paper resting between you on the table, waiting for your cue to dive in.

Just as he reaches to pick up the list of desires to discuss, his movement is halted by the sudden arrival of Wooyoung, whose presence instantly commands attention.

He strides up to your table with his usual confidence, a grin tugging at his lips. The conversation shifts before it even begins, as Wooyoung’s energy pulls both your attention toward him without saying a word.

Yeosang lowers the paper, his eyes flicking between you and Wooyoung, sensing the inevitable distraction.

“Father Blackmoor has requested your presence in the Anti-Sacristy,” Wooyoung announces, handing him a miniature scroll with a secret message.

Yeosang frowns while reading it over, “Please excuse me.”

"Of course, I hope everything's alright," you murmur, though your words go unheard as he's already on his feet, moving swiftly toward the door.

Watching Yeosang rush out, you suddenly realize Wooyoung is still standing there. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and he tilts his head, studying you with a curious intensity.

"Seems like you require a partner," he says with a smirk, sliding effortlessly into Yeosang’s chair without missing a beat.

You’re too stunned to respond and shift uncomfortably in your seat, completely unsure of what to do in this situation. He’s not offering to go through the questionnaire, is he?

Somehow, you forgot that you would, at some point, have to converse with Wooyoung today. It entirely slipped your mind up until this moment. And now he’s here without giving you time to prepare. You start to breathe a little heavier, and a slight sense of panic sets in.

“Why are you acting like that?” He says with a raised eyebrow, noticing your bouncing leg (a nervous habit of yours that annoyingly shows up at the worst possible moments.)

“I’m not sure what you mean?” Well, yes, you do but you won’t admit that. But your hyperventilating and antsy body might tell a different story.

“Yeah, right,” he rolls his eyes.

Your eyes lock on Wooyoung’s as he casually picks up the page. Without waiting for your reaction, he glances at the list and reads off the first item, his voice smooth and confident.

"How does each party feel about blood play; drawing blood by use of knives or other sharp weaponry, smearing blood, using blood as a lubricant, and/or tasting blood?" he reads off, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he waits for your response.

"I acknowledge," you reply with hesitation in your voice, uncertain whether you’re truly opposed to it, yet not entirely sure if you fully consent either. “And you?”

Wooyoung tilts his head again, “Do you really need to ask?”

"You and I both know there are specific rules to follow here," you say, leaning back in your seat with your arms crossed, eyes fixed on him with a mixture of challenge and caution. And, if you’re being completely honest, there’s a hint of annoyance now too. The nervousness from earlier has vanished entirely.

“Fair enough,” "he replies with a nonchalant sigh, “I agree.”

It’s your turn to read off the next item. “Does each participating student consent to bringing in other parties to join and/or watch your sexual relations? And additionally, joining others.” You look up toward Wooyoung, already expecting him to agree to those terms.

“Decline,” he states firmly, his voice dropping an octave as he adds, “I don’t share.”

You try to mask your shock, but the expression slips through.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he huffs.

“Sorry,” you mumble, “I also decline.”

He nods curtly, and you swear you hear him mutter "good" under his breath.

You breeze through the next set of questions surprisingly fast, both providing the appropriate answers as you work your way down the page.

At first, Wooyoung seemed a bit disinterested, but something caused his attitude to shift. Now, he’s more engaged, genuinely listening to your reasonings whenever you offer it.

“Last question, how many sexual partners have each participating party had?”

As he finishes speaking, you narrow your eyes at him, “That question isn’t on the list.” You’ve practically memorized them all by now. “You’re making that up.”

“So? Answer anyway,” he dares.

You glare at him, silently debating whether or not you should tell the truth. “Screw it,” you exhale, “None.”

Instead of the shock or teasing you expect, he simply blinks at you, as if he already knew what your answer would be.

But how…

When you wake the next morning, butterflies are already fluttering in your stomach. At this point, it’s hard to judge who will end up courting you, though you have a pretty good idea that Yeosang is interested. When he returned after visiting Father Blackmoor, you two had quite a connection while going through the assessment list.

You’ll find out for sure when you make it to the Dining Hall the courting schedule will be pinned on the announcement board for everyone to view.

You decide to grab a pastry and wait for the crowd around the schedule to thin out before checking how many dates you will have today. To keep things relatively fair, each witch is only allowed to have up to five courting suitors. A flicker of nerves sets in—what if no one reserved one of your time slots?

For the love of Lucifer, please let me have at least one warlock courting me.

You shove the last bite into your mouth and make your way to the board, eager to find out. Peeking around the remaining heads blocking your view, you spot that two of your time slots have already been reserved. Just as you’re trying to make out the names, someone taps you on the shoulder.

“Ghoul morning, Y/N,” Yeosang says with a smile, handing you a card. Your heartbeat picks up, recognizing the formality; courting warlocks are required to provide the witches with a card that essentially confirms their date.

“Hi, Yeosang!” You beam. Praise Satan.

He looks relieved when you accept his card. “I was hoping to see you this morning. Meet me at the Weeping Willow at three o’clock this afternoon. I have a special activity planned for us.”

You’re about to respond when you can feel his presence. Turning to look over your shoulder, you see Wooyoung standing closely behind. He towers over you, staring down Yeosang.

“Do you need something?” you ask, bringing his attention back to you while silently begging that he’s not here to send Yeosang away again, like yesterday.

“Yes,” he extends a hand, offering you a card. You stare at it in disbelief. He’s not here to steal Yeosang; he’s stealing you.

Wooyoung is your other suitor.

“I believe you’re meant to spend the morning with me.” Wooyoung’s eyes drift from yours and back to Yeosang’s, who tenses beside you. They seem to have a silent exchange of words.

“I see,” Yeosang says curtly, “Enjoy your time together.”

Before you have a chance to say anything Yeosang already disappears. Damn it.

“Come on, follow me,” Wooyoung demands while grabbing your wrist. He leads you down the dim, shadowy hallways of the school before picking up the pace as you leave the safety of the school, heading into the woods.

The thick trees close in around you, and the air feels heavier with each step. Fog swirls at your feet but mysteriously clears a path ahead of him like it knows exactly where he's going. You follow, feeling the cool, damp air cling to your skin. The deeper you go, the more unfamiliar the landscape becomes—you don’t recognize this part of the woods at all, and a strange sense of unease settles over you.

“Bloody heaven, where are you taking me?” you huff, doing your best to keep up with his long strides.

“You’ll see,” he grumbles, helping you up when you trip over an exposed tree root. “Can you stop tripping every five seconds? You’re slowing us down, and we’re on a time crunch.”

You glare at the back of his head as he speeds up. What a dick.

It’s not long before you arrive at the destination; it’s a stone table in the middle of the woods. You look around suspiciously. “Is this a ritual site? Are you planning on killing me for some weird sacrificial thing now that you know I’m a virgin, or…?”

Wooyoung bursts out laughing, “The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, actually. This is a portal.”

“A portal? To where?” you ask, peering at the stone. It doesn’t look like any portal you’ve ever seen.

“Want to find out?” he offers a hand for you to take, and you grab it warily.

He places his other hand on the stone, and its magic instantly pulls you through the atmosphere, sending you spiraling toward an unknown destination.

When you land, your feet hit the damp cobblestone street with a soft thud. The air smells of rain and baked goods, and you take in the bustling scene around you—witches and warlocks are flowing in and out of quaint little shops that line both sides of the road, their chatter filling the air. The street is alive with energy, and everything looks both foreign and strangely charming.

Before you can fully absorb it all, Wooyoung tugs you along, his grip firm as your head swivels, trying to figure out exactly where you’ve been transported to. The unfamiliar cityscape seems like a dream, its details slipping through your grasp as you hurry to keep up.

Suddenly, you collide with his back, not realizing he has stopped. "Ouch," you mutter, rubbing your nose in surprise. You’re about to say more when something above catches your eye—the sign swinging in the breeze.

"Trahana’s Tomb!" you squeal, excitement bubbling up. For ages, you've wanted to visit this place, but something always got in the way. Now, here it is, right in front of you, and the thrill of finally arriving sends a rush through you.

Trahana is a renowned sorceress and writer known for her vast collection of grimoires, enchanted artifacts, and other rare occult items—many of which are now on display and for sale at her legendary store. You've been itching to get your hands on her coveted Book of Arcane Beasts, a tome filled with forbidden knowledge of magical creatures, their histories, and untold powers.

Wooyoung holds the door open for you, and without a second thought, you dash inside. Your eyes widen as you take in the towering shelves crammed with both ancient and new books. Every corner of the shop is overflowing with enchanted curiosities.

At the back of the shop, a narrow, spiraling staircase catches your eye. It likely leads to an upper level filled with even more treasures waiting to be explored. The thought of what might be hidden beyond tempts you, adding to the growing sense of wonder.

"Oh, my sweet, evil boy! How are you?"

You turn to see a tall, elegant woman pinching Wooyoung’s cheeks with an affectionate grin.

He swats her hands away, groaning, "Aunt Hana, you know I hate when you do that. I’m not five anymore."

She laughs, unbothered by his protest. "Oh, you'll always be the stubborn young warlock playing with the Acheron Configuration upstairs even when told it was off limits," she teases, her eyes twinkling with the memory. “Goddess knows how many hours you spent trying to crack that spell.”

She shifts her gaze to you, giving you a quick once-over before raising an eyebrow. "Don’t be rude, Wooyoung. Introduce me to your friend."

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, "Forgive me. This is Y/N, another student at Onyx Academy. Y/N, meet Trahana, the curator of this fine establishment and, unfortunately, my insufferable aunt."

Trahana smirks, ignoring his jab. "Charmed, I’m sure," she says, her eyes glinting with curiosity as she sizes you up.

"I need to get back to work, but it was a pleasure meeting you, darling," Trahana says with a warm smile, her voice dripping with a mix of elegance and mystery. She gives you one last appraising look before turning away, her long robes sweeping the floor as she glides effortlessly toward the front of the store. The air feels lighter without her presence, yet the sense of power she carries lingers, leaving you a little awestruck.

You gape at him once she’s out of earshot. "She’s your aunt?"

Wooyoung sighs, nodding with exaggerated patience. "Yes, I’m painfully aware."

"That’s so cool. So you spent a lot of time here growing up?" you ask, curious to learn more about him.

"Yeah," Wooyoung replies, glancing around the shop with a hint of nostalgia. "My parents traveled a lot for business when I was younger, so this place became like a second home. Now, I come back whenever I need a break from school. Plus, it’s a great place to study; there's something peaceful about the chaos here compared to the eerie silence of Onyx Academy’s library."

"That makes sense," you say, nodding as your fingers trail across the spines of the old books lining the tight aisle. The dust, the energy, and the soft hum of magic in the air make the shop feel alive, the perfect contrast to the academy’s cold, quiet halls. "I can see why you'd find this place comforting."

Wooyoung smiles, clearly more relaxed here than you've ever seen him. "It’s got a strange kind of charm, doesn’t it?" he says, his voice softer now as the two of you meander through the maze of shelves, discovering little pieces of history with every step.

He allows you to explore the shelves, letting you dive into the books that capture your interest. As you lean down to examine the aged pages, he watches as a loose strand of hair slips across your face, and you absently tuck it behind your ear.

"Can I show you something?" he asks, gently drawing you away from the book that’s captivated your attention.

You glance up at him, and to your surprise, he almost seems nervous. It’s a rare sight for someone who usually exudes such confidence. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, making you curious about what he wants to show you.

Nodding, you allow him to lead you toward another bookshelf two aisles away from where you were just standing. His gaze flicks across the titles, searching for something specific.

"Ah, here it is," he finally says, lifting his arm to reveal a book with a deep blue spine. You hear a soft click as he pulls it out slightly, followed by a faint unlocking sound. With a practiced motion, he shifts down to another shelf and pulls out a book with a green spine. To your astonishment, the entire bookcase creaks ominously before revealing a secret door.

"This whole day just keeps getting stranger by the minute. Is this another portal?" you ask, a mix of skepticism and humor in your voice.

Wooyoung grins playfully. "As entertaining as that would be, no. It’s not a portal. It’s my secret place."

You turn to look at him. "See, now that’s kind of worse. Now I really don’t want to go in." The idea of stepping into his hidden sanctuary feels more daunting than the prospect of another magical journey.

He gives you a look.

“Okay, fine. In I go,” you say, taking a step closer before reaching for the cold handle. As you turn it and push the door open, you peer into the darkness beyond, straining to gauge what lies within. And, if you have to be completely honest, wondering why it needs to be hidden away.

Wooyoung steps inside after you, snapping his fingers to conjure his magic. A bright orb of light flickers to life, glowing softly at first. As he guides it upward, it gradually brightens and rises to the center of the room, illuminating the hidden space with a warm, inviting glow. The walls are revealed and adorned with eclectic decorations and mysterious photographs, creating an enchanting and haunting atmosphere.

"What is this place?" you ask, your curiosity piqued as you step closer to a nearby table and spot a stack of photographs. You pick up the first few, admiring the artistic shots of a plant you recognize from your walks through the Darkwood—it's a Moonset Fern, captured in full bloom. You remember learning about it in Herbology 101 last year; it’s renowned for its ability to protect against ill-will spells.

Intrigued, you skim through the rest of the stack. Each photo showcases different plants, all with potent herbal properties, their images so carefully composed they almost seem to pulse with hidden power.

“So,” Wooyoung says nervously, “What do you think?”

“Of the photographs? I think they’re beautiful. You took these?” He nods. “I didn’t know you had an interest in photography. Or Herbology, for that matter.”

"It’s a secret interest. Obviously," Wooyoung says, gesturing around the room to emphasize his point. "Unfortunately, Father Blackmoor thinks it’s a complete waste of time. To him, this is the work of a lesser warlock." The distaste is evident in his voice, like the words themselves leave a bitter taste in his mouth. "He’d rather I focus on proving my potential to become the youngest Anti-Pope."

"Do you believe him?" you ask, watching his reaction closely.

"Am I even allowed to believe any different?" he replies, his tone a mix of resignation and defiance. He picks up a different stack of photos and flips through them, each holding a distant memory of a time he felt genuine joy.

"Part of me wishes I wasn’t destined for this life—that I had the power to shape my own future," Wooyoung admits, his voice heavy with conflicted emotion. "But then the other half of me hates myself for even thinking like that, especially after everything my family has sacrificed to get me here." His gaze drops, the weight of expectation clearly pressing down on him, caught between desire and duty.

“No one in the history of The Church of Night has ever turned down a position of power once they've received the proper training and hold the necessary status,” he continues, his tone growing darker. "I can’t even imagine the consequences of rejecting something like that." The mere thought seems to weigh on him, defying centuries of tradition would unravel everything—not just for him, but for everyone tied to his legacy.

“That’s a frustrating position to be forced into. Though, I hate to admit I’m jealous.”

His head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours, confusion and a flicker of anger etched across his face.

"I’ve spent my whole life not knowing what my future will look like," you begin, your voice tight with emotion. “I have all this power, yet no one can explain why I have it or what I’m supposed to do with it. I don’t have even the slightest clue where I’ll end up in life, so yeah, from that standpoint, I am a bit jealous of your situation," you admit, a hint of envy creeping into your voice.

As you speak, the anger in his expression gradually fades, replaced by a quiet understanding. His features soften, and you can see him truly considering your words, letting them sink in.

"At least you have a clear path laid out for you, even if it’s not exactly what you want. I’m still stumbling around, trying to figure out what my purpose even is. But even then..." your tone softens slightly, "If I were you, I wouldn’t let my sense of duty smother the passion I feel for another study—even if it’s an uncommon path for someone in my position.”

You begin again, your voice steady with conviction, "The Dark Lord wouldn’t have put this path in front of you if there wasn’t something here worth discovering. I’d bet there’s a connection between each path, and maybe, just maybe, you’re meant to do something with both. Something no one else has thought of yet.”

Wooyoung hadn’t thought of that.

“That’s just my two cents,” you sigh, setting the photos down and walking over to the next table with hundreds more to look through.

One photo in the middle of the pile catches your eye, standing out in a way the others don’t. You can’t quite place the plant; it’s unfamiliar, yet stirs a sense of deep nostalgia. It’s a rich olive green, with spiny stems and sharply pointed leaves giving it a menacing look. But what truly captivates you is the ethereal purple aura surrounding it, shimmering faintly, like the plant itself is alive with ancient magic. Something about it feels important, though you can’t recall ever seeing it before.

"It’s a Ghost Violaceae," Wooyoung murmurs softly, leaning in close over your shoulder. His breath is warm against your ear as he speaks, his voice slightly raspy. "It’s commonly used in the art of seduction." His words hang in the air, as mysterious as the plant itself, and the subtle intensity in his tone makes the air between you suddenly feel different.

Wooyoung would do unspeakable things to know the thoughts swirling in your mind right now. He’s desperate to unravel what it is that made you blush so fiercely, what’s causing your heart to race and your breath to quicken.

You turn slightly, looking up at him with your lips parted. Wooyoung tilts his head, his eyes sparkling as he tries to decipher the emotions playing across your face. There's a flicker of curiosity in your gaze, his focus sharpening as he leans in just a fraction closer…

The sudden ringing of a timer blares through the silence, startling you both. Your head snaps toward the sound and you see a stopwatch floating in midair, its rhythmic ticking a clear reminder that your time is almost up. It’s time to return to Onyx Academy to prepare for your next session with Yeosang.

Beside you, Wooyoung tenses, the atmosphere immediately changing. The warmth in his eyes vanishes as quickly as it has surfaced, replaced by the cold, guarded demeanor he typically fronts. His walls shoot back up, and just like that, the brief vulnerability between you disappears.

Blair eyes you curiously, her black feathers ruffled while she senses the secret you’re holding back. She’s perched on a low branch, watching as you wait beneath the cascading limbs of the Weeping Willow. You’ve arrived early, not finding any solace in the silence of your room after returning to campus. Yeosang should be here any minute, but the unease from earlier lingers.

Wooyoung had barely spoken after the stopwatch appeared, his mood darkening as he grudgingly led you back to the portal. He rushed you through without a word, his steps heavy with frustration, and stormed off toward the church once back on school grounds without so much as a goodbye.

You’ve been trying to clear your mind, focusing your energy on the upcoming session with Yeosang, but the tension from Wooyoung still simmers under the surface. You take a deep breath, determined to push it aside and give Yeosang your full attention. He deserves it.

Blair lets out a sharp caw before taking off into the sky, disappearing into the distance as soon as she senses his presence. She knows to give you your privacy, leaving you alone just as he approaches.

“Oh, you’re here already,” Yeosang says, a bit surprised to see you already by the willows. He steps forward, his happy expression growing as he extends a bouquet of dried wine-colored roses, elegantly tied with a black ribbon.

“These are for you.”

Your breath catches at the sight of them. "These are gorgeous. Thank you—wow," you say, smiling while gently taking the bouquet from his hands. The gesture feels intimate, the deep red petals catching the light as you admire them, warmth blooming in your chest at the unexpected kindness.

“You’re welcome. Do you want to apparate them to your room?” Yeosang suggests.

“That’s a good idea, actually,” you reply, lifting the bouquet in front of you. With a soft hum, you recite the incantation, watching as the flowers shimmer and disappear, transporting them to your bedside table in an instant.

“There,” you smile, “Now they’ll be waiting for me when I get back.”

“We have a short walk to our destination. If you’ll follow me?” Yeosang guides you up a path behind the willow grove, the incline leading to a breathtaking view of the Darkwood below. The forest stretches endlessly, its shadowy canopy glittering with ancient magic.

"Do you mind waiting here?" he asks, rubbing the back of his neck, a hint of nerves flickering across his face. "I thought I'd have a little more time to set things up."

You smile softly. "I don’t mind at all."

Relieved, he excuses himself, disappearing back down the trail to retrieve whatever surprise he has planned. The minutes pass in peaceful quiet, the cool air brushing against your skin. You close your eyes, enjoying the moment, until a faint rustling behind you interrupts the calm energy. You glance over your shoulder, seeing nothing, and shrug it off—probably just the wind.

But then, movement at the edge of the tree line catches your eye, a shadowy figure slipping between the trees.

You step cautiously toward the movement, your heart beating a little faster with each quiet footstep. The air seems to thicken as you approach, a soft rustling continuing just beyond the nearest tree. You steady yourself, taking a slow breath before rounding the massive trunk.

Face to face with the culprit, you freeze—a pair of wide, curious eyes staring back at you. It's a small, ethereal creature, almost like a fox but with wisps of glowing mist trailing from its fur. Its translucent body shimmers faintly under the dappled light filtering through the trees.

You exhale in relief, it’s just another familiar. The creature’s gentle gaze is more inquisitive than threatening; and she tilts her head, trying to decide whether to flee or come closer, her silver eyes studying you with an almost childlike curiosity. The creature soon takes off, before you have a chance to ask who they belong to.

As you turn around, a startled cry escapes your lips—Wooyoung is standing just inches from you, his presence completely unexpected.

"What are you doing here?" you snap, your hand instinctively flying to your chest, trying to calm your racing heart.

"I'm not really here. Just astral projecting. And who’s to say I wasn’t here first?"

You cross your arms, glaring at him, clearly unimpressed.

"Okay, fine. Maybe I wasn’t here first," he concedes with a shrug, his smirk faltering under your withering stare.

"Yeosang is going to be back any second," you warn, narrowing your eyes. "Are you here to spy on us?"

"Pfff... no..." he says, though the lack of conviction in his voice makes you roll your eyes.

"Lame," you mutter, watching his poorly veiled attempt at denial fall apart. He shifts awkwardly under your gaze, clearly caught.

“I don’t like that you’re alone with him.”

“Why?”

“I told you already. I. Don’t. Share.”

“You can’t be serious,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Is this just some kind of game? Are you playing with me because you don’t want Yeosang to have me? What is it, Wooyoung? You haven’t given me a second thought until two days ago.”

“It’s not like that—" Wooyoung starts, but the sound of rustling interrupts him, cutting his sentence short. Both of you turn, startled, as Yeosang emerges from the trees. His eyes sweep the clearing, looking for you since you aren’t standing where he left you. When he spots you, he smiles and approaches, carrying a woven basket in one arm and a blanket in the other.

You glance back toward Wooyoung, but he’s already vanished. Typical, slipping away before finishing what he started. Maybe he’s glad for the escape before you can grill him any further.

“Looking for something?”

‘More like someone,’ you think to yourself. “Oh sorry, I thought I saw a familiar, but it ran off,” you explain, brushing off the awkward moment. “So, what’s all this?” You gesture to the basket, quickly shifting the conversation before Yeosang has a chance to ask anything.

He grins, glancing down at his hands, a bit shy. "I hope you like picnics. I thought we could enjoy some treats and maybe get to know each other better."

“That sounds lovely,” you reply warmly.

Yeosang carefully picks a spot, spreading the blanket and the two of you sit side by side, the breathtaking view of the Darkwood stretching out below. There’s something serene about the quiet between you, the moment brimming with peaceful anticipation.

He sets the basket in front of you, lifting the lid to reveal an array of colorful sweets, the soft glow of the late afternoon sun reflecting off the glass jars inside. You notice delicate pastries, chocolates, and sugared fruits arranged neatly.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I brought a little of everything,” Yeosang says, his voice low but sincere.

Your heart warms at the gesture. "You’ve really outdone yourself,” you praise, picking up one of the pastries for yourself and offering another to him.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to bring up the scroll from yesterday. "I didn’t want to pry, but you left in such a rush yesterday. Was everything alright?" you ask before taking a bite.

Yeosang chuckles softly, as if amused by the memory. "Funny you should ask. Turns out, when I arrived at Father Blackmoor’s office, he had no idea what I was talking about. No urgent scroll was sent for me. But he thought it was good timing and wanted to discuss my plans for after I complete my time at the academy."

Your curiosity piques further. "And those plans are...?" you press, hoping he’ll open up.

Yeosang hesitates briefly, but then, with a slight smile, he reveals, "I’d like to teach, maybe. My father was a teacher, and he always said I had the same qualities. Plus, I love kids. I think teaching them the basics of magic—the very foundation of what they'll need for the rest of their lives—would be important work."

A soft breeze ruffles the edges of the blanket, and you can’t help but smile at his answer. "That sounds perfect for you. I can already picture you as a great mentor."

The rest of your evening with Yeosang flies by in a blur of conversation and quiet moments spent enjoying the view. Before you know it, he's walking you back to the dormitories. He hesitates as you both stop outside the door to the girls' dorms, clearly lingering on something unsaid.

"I just want you to know," he starts, shifting nervously, "that regardless of what happens tomorrow at the Matching Ceremony, I had a lovely time tonight. I'll see you tomorrow then."

Before you can respond, he leans down and presses a soft kiss on your cheek. "Goodnight, Y/N."

You barely manage to mumble a “goodnight” back, still caught in the trance from the warmth of his lips against your skin. As you make your way up to your room, your heart feels light, and you can’t help but smile even wider when you notice the flowers he gave you earlier—now arranged beautifully in a vase on your nightstand.

But something else catches your eye—a small, glimmering box sitting on your bed, illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight. You walk over to it and find a note attached in handwriting you immediately recognize.

Not a game to me – W

Your breath hitches as you find the book you had been eyeing earlier—the one Wooyoung had distracted you from in Trahana’s shop—alongside the newest edition of The Book of Arcane Beasts. Tucked neatly between the pages are a few of the photographs from his secret room; the ones you had admired without realizing he noticed.

Your heart races as you hold the items in your hands, the meaning of his gesture sinking in. It’s not just a game. Whatever this is with Wooyoung, it’s something real. And now, you're more conflicted than ever.

Yeosang steps closer to the flames that surge in the iron vessel before him, casting flickering shadows across his face while he waits. If you look closely, shapes begin to form within the flames, dancing and twisting as though something is being forged in the heat. A sudden flare of sparks erupts from the fire—it's ready.

With a steady hand, he pulls an envelope from the fire. The edges of the paper are still smoldering while he opens it with precision, watching as the magic ink slowly manifests on the paper, revealing a name.

You notice a brief, almost imperceptible frown cross his face, but it vanishes just as quickly. “Polly Petrify,” he announces smoothly, his voice steady, betraying nothing as he steps back into place.

Father Blackmoor gives a solemn nod, signaling his approval of the pairing.

The Church is packed for the Matching Ceremony, and a mix of excitement and nervous energy ripples through the crowd. The warlocks stand in front of the filled pews, their postures rigid and unreadable, while the witches occupy the first two rows of seats, eyes flickering with anticipation.

You sit among them, your heart sinking as Yeosang’s name is paired with another witch. The knot in your chest tightens, but before you have time to register how you truly feel, Wooyoung steps forward.

It’s his turn.

Time stretches unbearably as his fingers hover over the glowing envelope that emerges from the flames. He grasps it carefully, tearing it open before pulling out the slip of paper, the suspense in the room thickening with every second.

At least a dozen witches sit in eager anticipation, each one hopeful, their eyes flicking toward the altar, silently praying that their name will be the one called.

You watch his face intently, almost holding your breath.

The moment he reads the name, a subtle smile curls at the corner of his lips, making him look effortlessly gorgeous. His inky black hair falls in perfect disarray, and the deep blue sweater he’s wearing brings out a distinctive glimmer in his eyes—it’s definitely his color.

As he steps back in line to let the next warlock take their turn, you realize that you completely missed whose name he just called. You’ve been too busy gawking to notice. Leaning toward the witch beside you, you whisper, “Whose name did he say?”

She shoots you a scowl and snaps, “Yours.”

Your heart skips a beat, and your gaze whips back up front. Wooyoung catches your eye and quickly winks, the gesture playful yet it’s enough to send a wave of heat rushing through you. Your pulse races and every nerve in your body is suddenly aware of his presence. The world around you fades for a second, the reality of the situation sinking in—he chose you.

It feels like all the oxygen has been sucked from the room. Your chest tightens, and it’s taking every ounce of control not to claw at your neck in search of air. You can’t tell if your racing heart is a sign of excitement, fear, or a mixture of both.

The pairing results swirl through your mind as you try to process how you feel about Wooyoung having been paired with you. You know that the warlocks have some say in their pairing preference, but the decision is ultimately up to Father Blackmoor and The Dark Lord.

But there’s no time to dwell on it now—you have a performance to focus on. As the rest of the ceremony wraps up, the witches, including yourself, are expected to sing I Put A Spell On You.

You walk up to the front of the church with the other witches, your heart still hammering in your chest. You can feel Wooyoung’s gaze searing into you from across the room, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You know that if you do, you’ll stumble over the lyrics or worse, completely forget your part.

With every note of the song, you force yourself to remain composed. Your voice blends with the others, the melody haunting, filling the ancient church with an enchanting resonance. The weight of his stare lingers, but you resist the pull until the very end. Only when the final note fades and you’re walking back to your seat do you glance his way. His eyes are still on you, but there’s something different about his expression now—intense, unreadable.

Father Blackmoor steps forward as the ceremony winds down, his voice ringing through the dimly lit room. “Remember, paired witches and warlocks are strictly forbidden from seeing each other until tomorrow evening when you’ll all meet in the Darkwood for the Moon Ritual. Ghoul evening to you all.”

The church stirs with hushed whispers and rustling bodies as everyone begins to disperse. But you remain in place for a moment, your mind tangled in the events that have unfolded. Tomorrow promises even more mystery, and the thought of it sends another shiver down your spine.

You follow the large group down the path toward the heart of the academy’s campus, their excited chatter buzzing in the crisp evening air. But as they veer toward the dining hall, you quietly part ways, taking steps in the opposite direction toward a different building.

The heavy wooden doors creak as you push them open, and the familiar scent of ancient tomes and aged parchment envelops you.

The sanctum, the private library for advanced students like yourself, is nearly deserted tonight, making it the perfect place to find peace in the aftermath of the ceremony. The usual hum of magic is calming and the near-silence offers a much-needed space to clear your mind.

You make your way to the Demonology section, where the dim light and towering shelves create a cocoon of solitude. Finding an empty seat, you settle in, snapping your fingers to summon your books. In an instant, they materialize on the table before you, pages full of dark knowledge waiting to be absorbed.

Despite it being Lupercalia season, the academic grind doesn’t stop. Your upcoming exams loom over you like a dark cloud, and no amount of supernatural matchmaking will change that.

You run your fingers over the spines of your books, mentally preparing yourself to dive into study mode. The familiar words of your Demonology texts are grounding, a reminder of the discipline and focus you need to maintain.

The sanctum is quiet tonight, only the soft sound of pages turning and the occasional whispered incantation breaking the silence. You try to focus on the words in front of you, but your mind keeps drifting back to Wooyoung—his voice, his gaze, the gift he left in your room. You shake your head, pushing the thoughts aside. There will be time for all that later. For now, you need to concentrate.

Time passes and after finishing a few chapters, you glance at your watch, eyes widening in surprise. Three hours have flown by. Blair is going to be furious that you’re late to feed her. Scribbling down a final note, you snap your fingers, sending your books back to your room before heading out of the sanctum.

As you step outside, you collide with someone. "Oh, I’m so sorry!" you stammer, glancing up to apologize, only to be met with familiar eyes twinkling beneath tousled black hair.

Wooyoung.

“You’re forgiven,” he says smoothly.

"We’re not supposed to see each other," you remind him, taking a cautious step back.

He tilts his head, smirking too, just like he always does. "I know, but you skipped dinner, and there’s something I’ve been dying to do since yesterday."

"What? Stalk me some more?" you quip, feeling a rare surge of confidence.

His smirk spreads into a full smile, and to your delight, he chuckles—a sound you’ve secretly grown to love. Your heart pounds faster.

"You wish," he shoots back, his eyes gleaming as he steps closer. The intensity in his gaze feels almost magnetic, as if he's looking right through you, straight into your soul. His nostrils flare with a sharp exhale, and you can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper as he takes yet another step closer.

He doesn't answer. Instead, with one smooth motion, he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you toward him. His touch is firm, but there’s a softness to the way his fingers splay across your back. You feel your pulse quicken, your breath hitching in your throat.

“This is breaking the rules,” you whisper, trying to find an ounce of self-control to step out of his embrace.

His proximity overwhelms your senses—the warmth of his body, the way his breath tickles your skin, and the undeniable connection crackling between you two. He tilts his head slightly, the smirk on his lips fading into something more serious, more dangerous.

“I don’t break the rules, I just bend them,” he rasps, his voice low and teasing, right before he closes the space between you. The moment his lips brush against yours, you freeze, caught off guard by the softness, the tenderness as he coaxes you into responding. His mouth moves gently, skillfully, as if testing the waters, daring you to give in.

A frenzy stirs inside you, an electric current surging through your veins. Your hands instinctively move to frame his face, your fingers sliding along the sharp lines of his jaw before tangling in his soft, messy hair. The kiss deepens, the intensity building with every second as you press yourself closer to him, losing yourself in the heat of the moment.

You can’t get enough; the taste of him, the way his breath mingles with yours, and the undeniable pull that has your body responding before your mind can catch up. His other hand slides under your shirt and up your spine, anchoring you to him as if he never wants to let go.

Wooyoung mumbles an incantation against your lips before tickling the corners with his tongue. You’re too distracted to recall what he said, especially when you feel it.

Heat begins to radiate from his fingers, searing into your skin. It flows through your body until it hits your sweet spot, pooling dangerously between your legs.

You gasp against his mouth, and he uses the opportunity to dip his tongue inside, swallowing your moans as you let them slip out. Pressing your legs together, you try to find any sort of friction, aching for something to relieve the growing pressure.

A sinful sound vibrates from his chest when you bite down on his lower lip ever so gently. You have to admit, the thought of kissing him has crossed your mind more times than you can count. But now, standing here with the taste of him on your lips, you realize the reality is so much better than anything your imagination could have conjured.

He’s more intoxicating than any dream could ever be. Every touch sends a thrill through you that no fantasy could ever match. The way he knows exactly what you like leaves you yearning for more in a way that feels almost addictive.

Blair caws, cutting through the shadows of the night and announcing her arrival with impeccable timing. You both jolt, breaking apart as if the spell between you has been abruptly shattered.

“Ghoul evening, Blair,” Wooyoung mutters, his voice still thick with the lingering tension. He glances at the raven-like figure perched nearby, an amused glint flickering in his eyes. “It’s a good thing you arrived when you did,” he adds, his tone teasing. He looks down at you, pleased with how dissolved your shirt looks, how pouty your wet lips are from your nefarious activities.

He takes a step back, quickly smoothing down his hair and adjusting his clothes, his fingers lingering at his collar as he regains his usual composure. You, on the other hand, are still catching your breath, feeling the flush in your cheeks and the electric hum of the moment that lingers in the space between you.

Give me a little privacy to say goodbye, and I’ll give you extra treats for your late dinner, you say telepathically to Blair. She tilts her head, considering the offer, before finally cawing in agreement and taking off into the night, clearly satisfied with the deal.

“I want you to try something tonight,” Wooyoung murmurs, his voice low and full of mischief. His eyes glint with something dark and thrilling, sending a shiver down your spine. “When you’re alone in bed and everyone else is asleep…”

Your heart races while he speaks.

“I want you to pretend that your hands are my own, and I want you to touch yourself where you felt my magic earlier.”

“E-excuse me?” you stammer, your heart racing as you try to find the right words.

He grins, leaning in just enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him. “Trust me, you’ll like it,” he teases, his voice like velvet. “I need you to warm yourself up for me, so you’re ready to learn more tomorrow night. Will you do that for me?”

You nod, a shiver running across your skin as his words linger in the air.

“Now, get out of here and go feed Blair before you wake up tomorrow missing your eyes,” he adds with a playful smirk.

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress a smile. “Fine, see you later.”

“Yes, you will,” he says with a wink, watching as you turn to leave, his gaze heavy on you the entire way.

His words linger in your mind for the rest of the night.

It's now the witching hour, and your roommates are fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the potion you slipped into their bedtime tea. They never noticed the subtle, earthy undertones masking the spell’s effects, leaving them in a deep slumber for the next several hours.

It had to be done, the last thing you need is for one of them to wake and catch you in the act, especially while you're carrying out Wooyoung’s special request.

Under the safety of your blankets, you move quietly, as if any sudden movement could betray your secret. One hand begins to massage your breasts through your thin tank top, the other sliding down toward your pink panties.

Taking a deep breath, you open your legs, allowing your fingers to slip beneath the dampening fabric. After spreading your juices around, you rub your clit before slowly dipping your first finger into your slick entrance. The sensation is unfamiliar—neither bad nor uncomfortable, just something you're not used to. The pain of the stretch lingers, leaving a strange warmth that you can't quite place.

You close your eyes and pretend that Wooyoung is there with you. Swiftly, you begin to curl your fingers, simultaneously bucking into your hand. You picture him hovering over you, but the image clouds over, shifting into a different scene that becomes sharper.

Wooyoung is also in bed, with his hand wrapped around his exposed, thick cock, lazily pumping it. There’s something unsettlingly vivid about this image, as if it’s not just a product of your imagination. It feels real—too real. Gasping, you realize that he’s in your head, projecting himself, revealing his presence in a way that makes your heart race.

Then, as if he can sense that you've finally caught on to his wicked scheme, a dark smile tugs at the corner of his lips, the kind that makes your body’s temperature spike. “Are you touching yourself, like I asked you to?”

You suck in a sharp breath and nod instinctively, even though you know he can’t physically see you. But somehow, you sense that he knows.

“I bet you are,” he hums, closing his eyes while running his thumb over his pink head. He tosses his head back as he strokes himself, “I bet that tight little virgin cunt of yours needs some good stretching before she’s ready for me.”

Feeling the heat rising to the tips of your ears, they’re red from the weight of his words, like they’re wrapping themselves around you, pulling you deeper into his influence. The knot in your lower belly grows as you match your little finger thrusts to the speed of his hand pumps.

“Add another finger, honey, I know you can,” Wooyoung groans, his hand moving a little faster. “Look at how my cock aches to be sunk inside your sweet folds.”

You do as he commands. You’re panting at this point; completely zeroed in on his throbbing length while you climb towards bliss. The silent room fills with a sinful pattern of squelches from each thrust into your lush heat, and a divine sensation washes over you.

“Goddess, I’m about to make a mess,” he whines, a sound that you’ll never be able to forget. He stills, letting out another beautiful noise while his seed shoots out across his abs, some even on his dark silk sheets.

“That’s just a preview,” he grins devilishly, “Sleep well, Y/N.”

"Many blessings," Father Blackmoor's voice rings out, reverberating through the towering trees of the Darkwood. "Tonight, we honor the Moon and her radiant beauty. Paired couples, please step forward to collect your basket."

You step forward cautiously, aware of Wooyoung’s presence close behind you. As your fingers brush the edge of the woven basket, Wooyoung’s arm reaches past you, his hand closing around it first. His body hovers briefly against yours, a faint smile curving his lips. Sucking in a sharp breath, you pull your hand back as your mind flashes back to last night, Wooyoung’s cock is still fresh in your mind.

"Each basket contains a ceremonial knife," Father Blackmoor continues, his tone solemn. "You will begin the rite by smearing your blood upon your partner's forehead. Then, you must drink the purification potion—the milky-colored vial—and consume the figs, symbolizing your unity. Under the moonlight, you will lie side by side until dawn, as a testament to your bond and in preparation for tomorrow’s Hunt."

His final words hang in the cool night air as the forest seems to hush in reverence for what’s to come. You glance up at Wooyoung, and his eyes are already on you, dark and unreadable, only reflecting the moonlight.

As the other couples start to spread out across the forest, Wooyoung’s hand finds yours, tugging you deeper into the woods. His steps are quiet, purposeful, as the towering trees close in around you both. Your attention snaps forward when you catch a glimpse of movement—there, not far ahead, the same fox-like creature you spotted by the willows. The realization dawns on you: it’s Wooyoung’s familiar.

The creature moves gracefully, leading the way through the underbrush, its magical fur shimmering under the pale moonlight. Wooyoung follows without hesitation, his gaze fixed on his familiar. You trail behind, curiosity building, as the creature guides you to a secluded clearing hidden deep in the Darkwood.

“Thank you, Vixen,” Wooyoung murmurs once you’ve arrived. The fox-like familiar halts briefly, then glimmers before fading into the air, leaving behind a trail of glowing embers that slowly dissipate into the night.

Your eyes scan the clearing, and you notice the scene in front of you—a circle of softly flickering candles arranged around a blanket spread across the forest floor. The air hums with quiet magic, thick with mystery and anticipation. Wooyoung turns to you, his eyes glinting in the candlelight, a mischievous yet unreadable expression crossing his face.

Wooyoung extends his hand to you, his touch firm yet gentle as he helps you step onto the soft blanket. With a single snap of his fingers, your clothes transform—yours into a sheer white nightgown, his into simple black pants, with his chest left bare, the candlelight casting shadows over his defined muscles.

“Ready to begin?” he asks, voice low, eyes holding a flicker of something dangerous yet enticing.

You nod, your breath catching for a moment. Reaching into the basket set down beside him, your fingers curl around the cool metal of the ceremonial blade. Together, your voices join in a low, rhythmic chant, weaving through the night air. The ritual words hang heavy between you as you press the blade to your finger, feeling the sharp sting as blood wells up. Stepping closer, you bring your hand to his forehead, smearing an upside-down cross on his tanned skin, the blood vivid against his complexion.

Without a word, you hand the blade to Wooyoung, your fingers brushing his in the exchange. He mimics your actions, the cool sting of the knife barely registering as he pricks his finger, marking your forehead with the same crimson anti-cross. The flames around you leap higher, responding to the magic building in your chant.

The moonlight glistens against his skin, bathing him in an ethereal glow as he lifts the purification potion from the basket. He drinks deeply, eyes never leaving yours, and then hands the vial to you. You take it from him, your pulse quickening as you lift it to your lips, the magic binding you both growing stronger with each word, each action.

His eyes darken; trailing over your nearly naked body. They land on your peaked nipples, and he lets out a deep exhale while his eyes are glued in place.

“Um, figs,” Wooyoung clears his throat, momentarily dazed, shaking his head as if to regain focus. He grabs one from the basket, handing you the other. You sink your teeth into the fruit’s tender skin, its bright red flesh spilling a sweet, rich juice onto your lips. A single drop escapes and trails down your chin, and you catch Wooyoung watching, his gaze lingering longer than usual. But he doesn’t say a word. Not yet.

You quickly wipe away the juice, trying to ignore the flush creeping up your neck. “So… what now?” you ask, your voice more uncertain than you intended. You’ve both completed the ritual, but the tension between you is undeniable. Neither of you has acknowledged last night’s activities, though you’re certain it’ll come up eventually. It has to.

He shifts slightly, his eyes scanning your face, and for a moment, it seems like he’s about to bring it up. His lips twitch into a half-smile, “I’ve got an idea or two.”

You’re not sure how it happened—one moment you’re standing, the next you’re lying beneath him. Wooyoung hovers above you, his arms on either side of your head, eyes gleaming with that familiar intensity. His body is close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, and your pulse quickens as his breath brushes against your skin.

Without notice, his lips crash down onto yours. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, moaning when your hands twist in his hair.

He presses his hips down into yours, letting you feel how worked up he’s already become.

“We're technically not supposed to do anything tonight,” Wooyoung says, his voice low and teasing once he pulls back. A mischievous glint sparkles in his eyes as he adds, “But a rule’s never stopped me before.”

You pull his head back down to yours, kissing him languishingly as he rolls his hips into yours again.

“Do you want to keep going?” he asks, this time pressing his length right up against your covered heat.

Wooyoung’s lips curl into a devilish smile when you whine incoherently about wanting more.

“Answer me, honey. Do you want more?” He asks with a growl, but the intensity in his gaze makes it clear—he already knows the answer.

“Yes,” you beg, “More. Please!”

He grabs handfuls of the fabric at your sides, bunching it up around your waist before he descends below.

Your dewy center is covered in a heavy coating of your arousal. Spellbound by the sight, he instinctively brings his fingers to your heat, gathering some of your transparent essence and smearing it around your folds.

“Fucking hell, you’re so fucking wet for me,” Wooyoung mutters.

Incapable of waiting any longer, he dives in tongue first, licking a beautiful line from your slit’s opening up to your needy nub of nerves. Another growl resounds from his chest as he devours your sex, his cock involuntarily twitching when he sinks two fingers back to your opening. Wooyoung strokes his saturated fingers through your slit before sinking them inside your soft flesh, feeling your inner walls clench around them.

He pulls them out and admires how your hole instinctively sucks his digits back in where they belong.

“Such a tight little cunt. It’ll be ruined by tomorrow night,” Wooyoung groans; despite his words, there’s nothing but appraisal in his voice. He looks up at your body, meeting your eyes. His flash with a dark dominance, lust with a dash of something else flicker in them.

His devilish words only excite you further, and more of your sticky arousal coats his hand. Each curl of his fingers brings you closer and closer to writhing pleasure.

His head dips back down, his tongue swirling around your clit before he sucks it between his teeth. Gasping, you buck your hips upward, needing more. So much more.

“I can’t wait to turn you into a nasty little whore. Would you like that?” he asks in between little licks.

“Y-yes” you mewl. “Wanna. Be your w-whore.”

He’s got you dancing along the edge of a very dangerous cliff, and you want nothing more than to jump off, face first, and dive into the waves of ecstasy that await.

He can tell that you’re close; your walls are beginning to tighten around him. Flattening his tongue against your sensitive nub, he applies the right amount of pressure you need to come all over his face.

When he sits up, his mouth is dribbling with your release; it’s a pretty sight to see.

“Not bad for a virgin,” he teases.

Your blissful smile turns coy, “Is it my turn to taste you? You’ll have to teach this virgin just how you like it.”

A deep, low growl vibrates in his chest and the corners of his jaw flex as he stands up, his silhouette outlined from the moonlight.

“On your knees then, slut.”

You twist your body until you’re sitting on your knees, your used cunt dripping onto the blanket below.

“Goddess, I’m so fucking hard for you,” Wooyoung grunts while pulling his pants down.

Freed from his pants, his cock springs out before bouncing momentarily, then stands erect in its full glory. You reflexively clench at the sight of him. It’s just as you remember it from last night.

Tightening his palm around his shaft, Wooyoung begins stroking himself before lining his tip up to your lips.

“Take just the head into your mouth,” he murmurs. “Just while you warm up to the feeling.”

You immediately wrap your mouth around him and a wave of precum leaks directly onto your tongue. Circling his thick tip, you get comfortable with the weight of him on your tongue, learning his taste.

“Such a good slut,” Wooyoung croons, causing your core to tremble from his praises.

One hand moves to hold your chin, angling your head to look up at him, “When you’re ready for more, take a deep breath and take in more of me.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you suckle on his head, letting more and more of him into your wet cave. You run your tongue along the underside of his shaft, the tickling sensation causing him to jerk inside you.

Wooyoung tugs on your hair, softly at first, and then his fist wraps around the handful in his grasp. His impressive length fills your mouth, his immense girth cracking your jaw open with each gentle thrust.

Words of encouragement spill from his lips, giving you the confidence to suck in the final inch of his member.

Involuntarily, you gag around his cock when his thick head hits the back of your throat. Tears sting the corner of your eyes, falling soon after.

Without warning, his length surges into your throat and Wooyoung lets out a stream of colorful expletives as his release hits him. His hips jerk once more, and he tosses his head back underneath the moonlight.

You shudder, feeling his thick cum stick to the walls of your throat.

“Goddess,” he hums, “Sorry about that.” Wooyoung slips out of your mouth, admiring as you use the back of your hand, you wipe your soddened mouth.

“It’s okay. Now I know what to expect.”

Wooyoung pulls you into his embrace, and you both settle into the quiet rhythm of the night, staring up at the stars as they shimmer in the sky. His warmth surrounds you, grounding you amidst the cool breeze.

He shifts slightly, turning on the blanket to meet your gaze. “I need to warn you about tomorrow,” he begins, his voice lower, more serious. “The potion we warlocks take before the ceremony… it makes our animalistic instincts take over. It’s going to be rough. That’s why I’ve been preparing you, so to speak.”

A knot twists in your stomach at his words. You hadn’t realized the full extent of what tomorrow held, but now it makes sense. That’s why they call it the Hunt, you think, You’re basically their prey. The pieces finally click into place. His honesty, though jarring, makes you feel strangely grateful that he’s letting you in on something you weren’t aware of.

“I trust you,” you whisper softly. “You haven’t hurt me so far, so I’m not worried about tomorrow.”

Wooyoung’s chest rises as he takes a deep breath, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. He silently prays to Goddess Peralia that he won’t bring you any harm during the Hunt. The uncertainty flickers in his eyes for just a moment before he pulls you closer, wrapping you in his warmth.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice gentle as you settle against his chest. His heart beats steadily beneath your ear, and soon your breaths fall in sync, the sound of the wind rustling through the Darkwood easing you both into a peaceful silence.

As the stars twinkle above, the night’s calm surrounds you like a protective cocoon, lulling you into sleep. You drift into a deep, restful slumber, cocooned in his arms, feeling the peace before the inevitable storm of tomorrow.

“The Insatiable Hunt begins,” one of the warlocks grins darkly before tossing back the elixir, the liquid shimmering as it slides down his throat. Wooyoung raises his glass in silent agreement, his eyes flashing with excitement before he gulps it down, feeling the fiery potion race through his veins. The others follow suit, the room buzzing as they prepare for the night ahead.

They pull on their wolf masks, transforming from men into primal hunters, instincts sharpening with every heartbeat. The thrill of the chase hangs thick in the air as they line up, muscles tensed, waiting for the doors to open.

Wooyoung’s body hums with the effects of the potion, a burning heat spreading through his skin. His senses sharpen—your scent lingers, intoxicating and irresistible. His pupils dilate as your essence floods his nostrils, every fiber of his being urging him forward. The others grin beneath their masks, but his focus is single-minded: you.

The doors creak open with a loud thud, unleashing them into the night. With a guttural growl, Wooyoung sprints into the woods, his feet pounding the earth as he follows your trail, the scent drawing him deeper into the Darkwood. His heart races, blood pumping with one singular purpose: to find you. To claim his prize.

Wooyoung moves like a shadow, effortlessly twisting and turning through the woods, his heightened senses guiding him closer to your trail. Each subtle shift in the air tells him you're near. He slows as he approaches a dense thicket, his instincts screaming at him to be cautious. He can feel you hiding, watching, waiting.

His cock strains when he catches a whiff of your scent, his hardened member straining against the tightness of his pants as it begs to bury itself deep inside of you.

His eyes narrow, hyper-focused on the faintest rustle of leaves. You dart from the bushes, sprinting through the underbrush, your breath quickening as you distance yourself from him. He follows silently, his steps deliberately soundless as he stalks you.

You duck behind a tree, pressing your back against its trunk, heart pounding in your chest. Straining to listen, you hear... nothing. No footsteps, no rustling—nothing. A chill creeps up your spine. Slowly, you peek around the tree, scanning the shadows. There’s no sign of him.

Relief barely has time to settle in before you turn back and scream.

He’s right there, inches away.

"Gotcha," Wooyoung growls, his voice low and menacing, his breath hot against your skin. With a wicked grin, he grabs your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze as he slams your back against the rough bark of the tree. The impact sends a jolt through your body, your heart racing even faster now. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who’s in control.

His eyes glint through the wolf mask with a dangerous mix of hunger and satisfaction, the thrill of the Hunt evident in every line of his expression.

Wooyoung's grip tightens, his breath hot against your ear as he growls, “I can’t wait to split you in half with my cock.”

Before you can react, he spins you around, pressing your chest against the rough bark of the tree. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as his hands slide down your sides, firm and unyielding.

He blames his newfound animalistic behavior for how fast he rips away your crimson cloak and the layers beneath it, leaving the shredded fabric scattered across the mossy forest floor.

In one swift movement, Wooyoung uses a knee to spread your legs and sinks into your inviting opening without warning. Tears sting your eyes from the sudden intrusion, but the pain quickly turns into mind-shattering pleasure.

“Taking it so well, aren’t you, slut?” he purrs, voice low and dripping with praise. The raw, commanding edge in his tone sends shivers through you, your insides tightening around him in response.

You hum an incoherent response, unable to form words when his cockhead is pressed against the swell of your cervix.

After ripping his mask off, Wooyoung’s fingers press into your hips. He holds you steady as he moves, each thrust punctuated by dark whispers of just how perfectly he fits inside you.

Wooyoung’s grin brushes against your neck as he drags his tongue up the curve of your skin, leaving a lingering lick before pressing a kiss just below your ear. His hips pull back slowly, his length retreating from your slick folds until only the tip remains, teasing you.

Then, with a low growl, he thrusts forward, filling you entirely in one fluid motion, claiming every inch as he sinks deep inside.

The sudden motion causes you to moan uncontrollably, his girth continuing to stretch out your soft walls. Your soaked cunt splitting open around Wooyoung’s enormous girth only causes him to swell more, if that’s even possible.

“M-more, please!” you whimper.

Wooyoung clenches his jaw, feeling your wetness ooze out where your bodies meet with each quick thrust.

One of his hands squeezes your side, the other falls to your round ass, and his claw-like nails scratch across your skin before he pulls his hand back to spank you. Your vision blurs from the impact, and you push your hips out, asking for more.

“Again,” you whine, your head digging further into the tree’s bark.

You bite down on your lower lip, anticipation building as you brace yourself. A sharp crack echoes through the air as his hand comes down against you, harder this time and sending another sting that radiates through your skin.

A moan slips past your lips, the sharpness transforming into pleasure that courses through your body. His fingers trace the spot he’s just marked, his low chuckle rumbling against your ear.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice rich with approval, each word sending shivers through you. “Turn around. I want to look at you," he demands next, his voice gritting through his teeth.

You obey, slowly turning to face him, your heart racing under his intense gaze. His eyes roam over you, filled with a mix of hunger and admiration that makes you feel both vulnerable and exhilarated.

Wooyoung cups your chin, tilting your face up toward him. His thumb brushes over your swollen lips as he drinks you in. "Look at you," he whispers, almost to himself, his thumb slipping inside your mouth. Instinctively, you wrap your lips around it, meeting his gaze as you lightly suck, earning a dark smile from him.

"You're perfect," he murmurs, his free hand tracing down your body, grazing every curve and leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "And you're all mine tonight." His words trail off as his length pounds into you again.

He watches as your lips part, head tilting back in pure bliss, and takes his chance. His mouth crashes onto yours, tongue slipping between your lips with a raw desire, claiming every inch he can reach. The kiss is deep and possessive, leaving you breathless as his hand tangles in your hair, keeping you close.

His tongue strokes against yours, tasting every gasp and moan you release, as if he’s memorizing the way you feel beneath him. You melt into his kiss, losing yourself in the heat, the way he consumes you with each movement.

When he pulls back, Wooyoung drags his lips against the shell of your ear to whisper, “Is this what you want? Your little virgin cunt destroyed?”

“Yes,” you moan, voice low and thick with desire. Then, locking eyes with him, you let a wicked smirk curve your lips, meeting his heated gaze with a look as dangerous as his own. "Ruin me," you breathe, each word dripping with a challenge that sends a spark down his spine.

A growl escapes his lips, and his grip on you tightens. He pushes you against the rough bark, lifting your leg to wrap around his waist as his eyes darken with pure, animalistic hunger. “You want to be ruined?” he whispers, his voice a low rasp against your ear as he pulls your hips even closer. “Careful what you ask for.”

His thrusts come harder, relentless, each one leaving you trembling and gasping as he takes you to the edge, only to pull you back before you can fall. His hand slides up your throat, a possessive touch that’s somehow both gentle and commanding as his thumb grazes your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You’re mine," he growls, eyes blazing, his body pressed against yours with no space left between you. He savors every inch of you, watching your face intently as he ravages you with a merciless rhythm, his fingers digging into your waist. “And I’m not stopping until you’re completely undone.”

Your moans grow louder, filling the night air and mingling with the rhythmic slap of your bodies moving in unison. The sounds echo through the Darkwood, a primal symphony that seems to resonate with the forest around you, intensifying with each frenzied thrust.

Wooyoung feels your walls clench tightly around him, a signal that you’re close to unraveling. “Cum around my cock, honey,” he rasps, his voice laced with possessiveness. “I know you’re close.”

He quickens his pace, pounding into you with a newfound urgency, while his fingers find their way to that sensitive spot between your legs. The moment his thumb and forefinger pinch your aching nub, pleasure spirals through you like wildfire.

You scream his name, your body seizing up as waves of ecstasy crash over you, each pulse flooding your veins with tingling heat.

He watches you intently, captivated as your face twists in bliss, feeling you squeeze around him, almost pulling him over the edge.

A low growl escapes his lips, and with two final, frenzied thrusts, he buries himself as deeply as he can, his abs contracting as he spills himself inside you. His teeth graze your bare shoulder, biting down as he rides out his release, filling you with a heat that leaves you both breathless.

“Oh, praise Satan,” he gasps, letting out a shaky laugh as he presses his forehead against yours. The two of you catch your breath together, heartbeats slowing, tangled in the afterglow.

You collapse entirely into his arms, utterly spent and trembling, every muscle deliciously exhausted as you sink into the darkness of sleep that lingers at the edge of your consciousness. A grin tugs at your lips, satisfaction mingling with exhaustion as you surrender to it, the night’s events replaying like a forbidden lullaby.

Nothing in your dreams could ever compare to the raw, disgraceful, dangerously addictive reality you’ve just experienced. Wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, you let go, falling into a slumber filled with echoes of his touch.

The room is loud with the sound of laughter, clinking goblets, and whispered gossip. Candles cast a warm glow over the grand hall as platters of food float between the seated bodies; you're barely listening though, too hyper-aware of Wooyoung sitting beside you.

You steal a glance at him from across the table. He’s watching you, his gaze steady and unwavering. A secret smirk plays at the corner of his lips, one that makes your cheeks burn under the soft glow of the chandeliers. It’s almost unbearable, this tension simmering between you, each stolen look as dangerous as a spark near dry wood.

His fingertips graze yours under the table, sending a rush through you each time. You both know the game you’re playing—pushing boundaries, daring each other, waiting for one of you to make the next move.

Finally, he leans in, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “Let’s get out of here.”

"We can’t just leave," you mumble, finally meeting his burning gaze. There's a warning in your eyes, but he ignores it, his grin only growing.

You bite your lip, glancing around at the oblivious faces around you. "It’s the middle of the feast," you continue, though your resolve is already faltering. "People will notice."

"Let them," he says, the mischief in his tone unmistakable.

He stands and takes your hand, his grip both gentle and possessive as he leads you out, weaving through the tables with a confidence that dares anyone to question him.

Whispers and side glances follow, and you try to ignore the burning stares—hungry warlocks with dark eyes, envious witches with guarded whispers.

Everything has changed.

Wooyoung’s presence grounds you, his thumb brushing reassuring circles against your skin. And when he glances back at you, tilting his head in that familiar way with a smirk tugging at his lips, you realize that somehow—despite all the chaos of this past week—some things aren’t so different after all.

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yojeongin · 10 months ago

Text

I remember everything | j.jh

→burnt-out writer!jaehyun x host f!reader

genre: smut, angst, fluff, summer fling, found home, strangers to lovers to strangers again, missed connection, 80's au

synopsis: jaehyun didn’t think meeting you in that quaint lonesome countryside town would come in between him and writing something hopeful and lively in contrast to all of his gloomy work. in fact it was a blessing to have someone help him navigate the foreign country. yet life always has something up its sleeve no matter how soul crushing.

warning(s): ADULTS ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! mentions/implementations of poor mental health, abusive higher ups, mentions of bad parenting, unprotected sex.

wc: 28.5k+ || soundtrack || ao3

disclaimer: this is purely fictional; in no way am I condoning this behavior, trying to offend anyone, nor is it meant to place such image on the idol, these are ONLY characters. read at your own discretion.

an: summer is gone and I tried posting this for the past 2 months so here is an ode to the place that inspired it all.

The contents of the box had been sitting unwrapped for what felt like an eternity after recalling last week’s events. The miscellaneous items your family sent were a recurring sight but it was rare that Ollie sent you anything besides his letters.

What disturbed you most is his choice of item. Those bold scripted yellow letters mock you. You weren’t upset with him, you could never be upset with him. You know it’s not his doing, that he was put up to it. What upsets you is the resurfacing thoughts you had hid away in the vault of your memory years ago when you remained naive and to your disgrace revived with one detail.

Courage was the last thing in you. It surged through, more so forcibly, perhaps even masochistically. That seems correct because the second you open to the first page, images you believed you would never see, fly out, reminding you of a life that you can only describe as a daydream.

Every single image had something written in the back of it. You attempt to refrain from reading each note. With no avail, the loops of his handwriting draw you in as much as his piercing gaze and the smile you still dream about – those dimples you can’t forget no matter how much you now look at them on someone else.

There’s a folded letter slotted before the dedication page. It smells like him and you can’t help being transported to the summer you met him. The pleasantly strong cologne you could smell even in the masses of stench when cleaning the pen. Or through the window you two sneaked kisses at night.

You don’t want to cry, you truly try not to, yet the waterworks flow when you finally focus on the dedication page of this damned book.

‘To the life I needed all along… I remember everything.’

Jaehyun remembers with fondness the tranquility of what he considers home. The warmth that filled his chest with every waking moment he spent in that beautiful quaint village. And now looking and thinking back at it, that fondness muddles with the pain in his heart. That’s not what he wants nor needs, that’s not what he came here for.

Jaehyun could get behind it, it was nice. He immediately got used to the cool breeze which felt more like a chilly autumn rather than the grueling summer. He could definitely get used to the smell of wood burning from stoves and chimneys that indicated locals began their day. Similar enough to the rough housing from goats and sheep’s bleats to roosters for them to shut up, that the sun was enough of a wake up call.

Fairly loud, not nearly as much as the city. It was one thing to admire the beauty outside of his temporary residence. Bougainvillea vines, flamboyant and bright, purloining his attention to let him know they were the star of the show, overshadowing any other house around.

Jaehyun needed something and all he knew was that he had to escape the constraints of his overpopulated and 24/7 bustling city that has cursed him to hell multiple times for not giving it a heartfelt ovation. How could he when he’s been shown nothing but hatred from it since he stepped foot in that hell hole?

Things should be different here, he knows that – he’s been shown.

His taxi driver spoke idly about his day. Describing the breakfast his wife had made before he left. His daughter had visited to drop off their grandson while she went to work at the local market but in the process the kid had fallen down the steep steps claiming all he wanted as comfort was to spend time with his ‘Tito’. So there he was making rocket sounds and hammering the glove compartment with the pale sun-eaten toy car that caused his fall. In the process, turning back to Jaehyun asking if he liked dishes he had never heard of before that the kid didn’t like himself.

Jaehyun remembers it well.

How can such a beautiful place bring him agony?

He wanted to stray away from those pessimistic feelings that had shackled him for years, tainting every single one of his pieces. When his publisher and manager told him it would be best to go somewhere he’d know nothing about his world, to have time to think about a new story, he was the first one to say goodbye, muttering under his breath that he wished he’d never see them again. Jaehyun was elated to know he was given a golden ticket out.

The past few launches and expectations had been hectic. Drowning him with stress and though many would think being a successful writer at such a young age was all fun and games, they'd think otherwise when your team is hollering in your ear daily to come up with new content and critics claiming you’ve yet again failed to provide anything meaningful besides pretentiousness.

Jaehyun is tired of that dark monotonous and consuming cycle they’re forcing him to be in. So he’s hopeful and excited to see what this beautiful rural village can bring him. Hopeful that it’ll break those shackles of misery that cling to him until his ankles bruise and bleed. Hopeful to find meaning to this life that he’s been searching for.

Struck with awe throughout his entire trajectory down the cobble and dirt-filled path from midtown to the house, the animal noises he had managed to drown became louder upon pushing open the metal door, growing wary. When he finally crossed the threshold he was met with the image of someone tussling with a ram, enough to get tackled and Jaehyun can only explain that feeling as freight.

That was the first time he met you.

From far away and with his feet grounded in fear, the fear you didn’t have regardless of all those rammings. That must’ve hurt, Jaehyun thinks so. How could it not? The beast came in charging three times, each making the impact seem worse. Twisted horns able to bruise the skin of your thighs.

Every step closer increases his shock. Muffled groans and curses from you mixed with laughter from your grandfather that stood and watched. Neither of you blame him, being the victim of that damn thing at 80 had caused irreparable damage to his hip. There’s nothing he could have done. At best he mangles the rope beside the stake, swinging it in hopes of getting it off you.

Jaehyun felt inutile. He had no experience with animals nor with any labor besides what his father would drag him into. It’s not his fault he became a writing prodigy. His brute strength was useless if he was too scared to jump into the pen to help you.

It was more shocking when a scrawny boy in a simple white tee, dusty jeans, heavy work boots just as muddy had pushed through him. Yelling something he couldn’t understand but later found it meant “Get the fuck out the way!” He didn’t mean to be malicious but he was scared himself. Jumping over the pen’s fence and pulling the damned ram off of you, he slaps its rear as a form of discipline. It amazes Jaehyun how effortless he made it look.

Finally free and things having calmed down, Jaehyun saw the elderly man seize his laughter. Genuine tears slip from his eyes. He was scared, truly scared it could have been your end. Having experienced it himself, he couldn’t help both sympathize and feel guilty. You and the kid reassured him it was fine. It wasn’t a first but your grandpa wouldn’t hear it, sighing as he continued to sob.

Jaehyun later found that he was insanely sensible. Laughing things off to calm himself to eventually break down.

In attempts to ease his pain, you had sent the young boy to fetch your grandpa a coke and some bread.

Nowadays, Jaehyun consumes those items whenever he grows scared

Making your way with a limp that your grandfather mimicked due to his own attack and age, Jaehyun finally approaches you both, voice slightly quivering.

“Are you alright?!” Jaehyun quips, your head turns to him un-amusedly. Cautious but relaxed for whoever’s sake. “Yeah… it’s not the first time.” You try to smile at the stranger who is obviously not from the village inside the premise of your grandparent’s home. It only dawned upon you who he was when you noticed the pristine suitcases in his hands. Holding the handles like a lost victorian count in search of a new start in the bustling dirty city – despite the contrast.

“You’re the new tenant, right?” You ask, limp finally gone after something cracked. Jaehyun winces, amused with the nonchalant tone in your voice; he nods fervently. “Yeah, um, I can pay for a few months up front if you don’t mind.” Neither of you had noticed that both had stopped walking, your grandpa already in the house, leaving you to speak with the young and attractive man before you.

“Months?”

Jaehyun nods. “If you don’t mind or have another tenant.” He feels sheepish; confident in your eyes. “Don’t worry, it’s been open for months.”

It’s amazing to him how you’re acting like you didn’t almost need a ride to the nearest hospital. Seeing the limp gone and crouching down to pick up a bucket full of dry corn kernels like nothing. He could have believed everything he saw didn’t really happen.

It’s recurring if he thinks back to it, how everything felt so fleeting and surreal. He despises and feels it mocking him daily.

Following you around like a lost puppy while you sprinkled the ground with those kernels, he took note of the expression on your face. You’re still in pain, it’s written all over the movements you make. He rules you’re ignoring it to not seem ill before him or specifically to reassure your grandfather.

Jaehyun has a strong image in your eyes. It would crumble with just about anything and you felt comfortable figuring that out. Just like it has done now, with chickens rushing and flooding the area to gobble down their meal. Jaehyun was startled and scared they’d peck him in the process.

You try not to laugh despite the giggles leaving in spurts. Nearing the kitchen door, you stop in your tracks to look at him. “Don't worry about the pay, it won't be necessary.” It troubles him and this time he won’t hold his thoughts. Well, he wasn’t going to but as soon as his lips parted, the sprint door opened, showing a much shorter and pudgier older woman. He reckons that’s your grandmother so he smiles and greets her accordingly.

She accepts it, returning the favor before going back to business in handing you the bowl full of pepper seeds and stems to feed the chickens. That left him and your grandmother alone, inviting him to the kitchen.

He studied the kitchen upon crossing the threshold, admiring the huge chimney in the right corner, soot covered it along the boiling metal bucket of water. There was a chair in front of it, one of those school chairs that cling onto your hair until it’s off your scalp.

A metal cabinet in between the entrance door and the hallway. It’s dusty, showcasing fine china that was never used. He found the cracks above the very tall ceilings the most enchanting, all leading to portraits above the hallway’s threshold. Trajectory and lineage demonstrated through the years. Most recently: one of you with your diploma.

Beautiful. Utterly beautiful, he thought.

“Come, I’ll show you around.”

The tour was simple, the hallway that connected the main room and kitchen was a room in itself. Privacy wasn’t really an option within these walls but it didn’t matter, he wasn’t the one sleeping in the main house.

All he had to know about this house was that it was an old canteen that your grandmother’s father bought for her as a wedding gift. The hallway had a bed your grandfather slept on, a couch he sat to watch the TV propped on top of a dresser in the main room –where he’d join him often– and a door that led to the guest’s area.

Despite the open concept, she didn’t show him the room where you and her slept in. He caught a glimpse of a door to the only restroom in there –restroom with a window he would spend his nights at often–, a vanity you both filled with expired products, and two beds on opposite sides. He figures the one with a pristine Garfield plush was yours.

Jaehyun felt the clarity of finding home within these few minutes. It was summer and the house was freezing without a clunky AC unit, he was in heaven if you asked him. It felt cozy and he liked that it wasn’t stuffy like his apartment back home, it felt like love. Cold, unspoken care and love.

The tour ended by the time both reached the guest area. The door was open after you swept but things never lasted clean here, the entrance full of dust again. Your grandmother looked tired and apologetic that she couldn’t continue, reassuring him his room was fine, warranting her to yell your name and rushing to her side.

She asks you to show him, motioning for him to follow you with your head. It felt like a full circle when you both hopped down the step from the house to the courtyard. He looked at the threshold he entered through, the door was closed now, decorated with flowers made out of dust, crafted by Ollie when he had free time. Your grandfather sat on a chair near the pen with the young man, eating his bread and smoking a cigarette that he pretends to hide.

Following you, Jaehyun took notice of the mountain of rocks and flowers near his room. A monument to a holy being he had only seen a few times. It was beautiful, vibrant flowers in comparison to the rocks. Some cactus and critters roam on small trinkets and a river flows up and down each rock.

Jaehyun finds himself behind a wall of jacarandas which cover the entrance to his room. The door unlocks with a screech, Jaehyun, hopeful it was just as inviting as the home only to be shortly disappointed when it felt warm inside and the walls maintained a darker hue. It was newly made, it lacks love.

Sensing his hesitance, your voice aims to distract him. “It’s not much, the bed is new if you must know. My uncle should bring in the TV but in the meantime you have free reign to the boombox or the kitchen’s.” Apologetic smile decorating your face. “You can open the window if it gets hot, Ollie is fixing up the fan. Feel free to go into the house, we don’t mind.” You hope that will help his decision, you’d hate to see him leave.

He wants to thank you with the words stuck in his throat, something you noticed well enough that intensified the feeling that clogged your own. “Um, yeah… New bed, the lamp and main light work, window opens, and you have your own personal bathroom. Unfortunately, the boiler is still very old fashioned so you will have to warm it or boil some water in the chimney to shower.” You hope that repeating yourself will convince him, restraining yourself from begging.

It has its flaws but he has decided not to care. “I’ll take it. It’s still $130 for the month, right?” He smiles boyishly, putting down his suitcases. It gives you a sense of tenderness and relief. You want to sigh and smile, giggle with appreciation. “Don’t worry about that, the room is yours.” You hand him the key, that’s the best you can manage.

His lip slightly juts out and eyebrows furrow with your words. “What do you mean by that? Please, I insist.” He turns to you, taking a step closer, forcing you to bite the inside of your lower lip. “I can double it if you prefer.” He pleads, head tilting to the side with wide eyes. It’s not intentional, he’s unaware of the effects he has on people. He’s scared you’re tricking him to not keep the room, to give it to someone else. Almost like you aren’t finding his presence enjoyable. If only he knew how much you would love for him to stay.

“It’s not that, trust me.” You walk towards the door, avoidingly. “It’s nice to not be alone. To have someone else around.” Your eyes don’t meet his, he understands. Letting it go, he thanks you in a whisper. “By any chance can I use your phone?” He asks in attempts to change the atmosphere.

Apologies fill your eyes like previous conversations. “It’s off until Monday.” It’s Wednesday.

“There’s a little store a block or two from here, not far at all. You can leave from either side, it’s flamboyantly yellow so you won’t miss it.” His excursion to find this place alone will say otherwise. “The name is painted on with neon green, ‘Gaby’s’ it’s called.” You laugh, looking at the expression on his face. He thanks you and follows behind the exit of the room, parting ways.

Despite the rundown homes and slight deterioration here and there, Jaehyun liked the tranquility and uncertainty in pertinence to the weather. One second he is granted with the warmth of vitamin D, the other he is threatened with the smell of wet dogs. This town had it all, yet none of it interfered with the breeze that calmed him as his hair waltzed around, singing in his ear that he was in the right hands, finally at ease.

You were right about not missing the store. He can laugh now – he did when taking the final corner, being met with what he felt was covered in buckets of highlighter ink. It was almost comical how opposite the owner was from her lively store and home.

“Good morning.” He mutters, “What are your rates for long distance calls?” She looks at him, pulling out a booklet from the phone company, arms working like it’s a chore.

“How far?” “Overseas.”

She looks at him through lashes, sighing, flipping another page.

“$3.56 per minute.”

Jaehyun’s eyes bulge out, nodding frighteningly. The process goes accordingly: she hands him the phone, writes down his name and the location before looking at him to dial on that old dinky home phone. The wires are sticky from tape residue with some edges popping out. It was her mother’s from 1957 but she loves it more than her third born.

He rotates the wheel, hanging up one or three times until he finally gets it. When the other line finally picks up, she starts a timer. “It’ll be quick.” He mentions. “Take your time.” She smiles.

“Hello? Hellooo~.” The voice on the other line calls out, ready to hang up, a pair of blondes far more important than this are waiting for him. “Hyunjoo?” Jaehyun asks, hand clasping the bottom of the phone. “Yeah? Who is this?” His words sound slurred, not enough to call him drunk.

“It’s Jaehyun.”

An eruption of laughter and greetings is heard in the background, smiling at how welcoming it felt, although strange. “Jaehyunie! How are you finding it there? Fun?… You know when Jude showed me the pictures I thought you were crazy for choosing that… place! Do you think you can hold out long?!” He laughs diminishingly, Jaehyun’s smile falters, his heart aching as it usually does when it comes to Hyunjoo.

He clears his throat, standing straight. “It’s great, I really like it so far and I’ve only seen the house.” He musters a laugh. “Listen, long-distance calls are expensive so I think we should only communicate through letters, okay? I just wanted to call to let you know I was fine.” He’s ready to end the conversation here. It didn’t start how he wanted it and a reminder of his actuality is not what he wants.

“No… no, now wait a minute!” It wasn’t Hyunjoo on the line anymore but Jude, his manager who was far more sober than his publisher. Some tussling and grunting here and there on the other line, Jaehyun sighs looking at how quickly he was pushing three minutes already.

Eventually Jude got through, scolding the drunkard. “Now what do you mean you won’t call? Don’t be dumb, I need to hear from you!” He bites onto his cigarette, scolding Jaehyun like a small kid, like the child he pretends is his. “It’s too much, Jude. Plus, the house doesn’t have a phone right now so you can’t reach me.” His foot bounces, scoffing like a petulant child proclaiming independence from their family.

Jude went on a tirade about how it wasn’t good for Jaehyun to go cold on them but the younger one wasn’t hearing it. The entire premise of this trip was to forget about them all so why won’t they let him? “Okay too much time, too much money, bye!” Jaehyun cuts the conversation short, giggling as the yelling got louder. Seizing when the timer hits six minutes and thirty-seven seconds.

“$24.92.” A wide smile decorates the owner’s rotund face, sticking her hand out. Nothing left but to sigh and hand her the money.

Jaehyun takes this opportunity to explore the village, mesmerized by the intricacies of carved ornate decorations onto walls and doors. In awe with the obvious distinctions between newly built homes and colonial ones he found far more attractive. Architecture was not his only interest, not when the mocking tango of scent swirls drag him to the plaza. Taunting him with delectable treats and meals at every corner and hall.

If he wanted to fall further in love, then the market currently taking place should do. Colorful carps and music from corner to corner, swaying him through the fabric made halls. Jingles of welcomings and hollering flood the ears of every passerby. Whether he wanted fresh produce, flavored shaved ice, fruit cocktails, clothes, or even toys, Jaehyun could find it all. It reminded him of the swap meet he encountered with his friends once when living in Connecticut years ago. This was surely far more inviting and lively.

Through his trail around the halls, Jaehyun came to a halt upon seeing you standing before your grandfather on the bench your grandmother’s family had donated. Worry filled your face but the older man’s laughter was far more deafening and comforting. An internal warmth forces your head to turn, spotting him immediately for your eyes to meet.

“Need help?” Jaehyun offers embarrassedly, you deny. Your grandfather is receptive despite your light scolding. “It’s fine, really.” You try but both men insist. “Do you know how to repair cars?” Your grandfather asks, Jaehyun shakes his head apologetically, all which prompts your grandpa to huff and shake his own head.

“The car broke down.” He’s met with another of your apologetic smiles, as if he’s the one being wronged and not you and your grandfather. “I’m just going to finish off the shopping, mind giving him an eye?” You ask Jaehyun, the first favor to be exact and he couldn't be more elated to not feel useless.

It’s shut down by the older of the three, complaining and almost throwing a tantrum over how he didn’t need a babysitter. It wasn’t completely wrong, the entire village knew him so watchful eyes were all around, it’s not like you couldn’t trust him to be on his own. “No, no. Matter of fact, help her with the bags. Go on, look at how heavy they are.” He scolds Jaehyun, throwing away any unfamiliarity out the window. That’s one thing about him, he’s too trusting.

Like a child in between parents having an argument, Jaehyun didn’t know who to listen to. Fortunately you give up and sigh, motioning with your head for him to follow you. He took a handful of bags from your hand, some left in the care of your grandfather that was well situated on the bench.

He gave you both his blessing, shooing you off to embark in an awkwardly silent walk with nothing but the blaring music vendors played to fill that emptiness. He had so much he wanted to ask, to say, to know what you could teach him about the village or if you knew how he could travel to neighboring ones. He was giddish and that’s all that took for you to turn to him with a smile.

“Quite a bad host, aren’t I? I didn’t even introduce myself.” You giggle, stopping at a stand. “It’s okay, I didn’t either, I’m sorry. I’m Jaehyun.”

“Y/n,” You give him a quick glance, taking a bag from a vendor. “What are you doing here, anyways? No one comes here for pleasure.” Jaehyun could tell more words hung on the tip of your tongue, ones you swallow down. He didn’t know how to answer. If someone else asked him, he’d mention how he wanted some inspiration, to see what he could bring into fruition but with you his sincere words threatened to spill.

How could he mutter: “I think I hate my life and those in it, so my manager and publisher shipped me off somewhere I’d be far from that world. I think they just wanted to get rid of me but it’s what I wanted all along…”

“Oh?”

Shit. Just like that.

“I-I… I didn’t mean to say that.” He scolds himself. This had never happened before, what the hell was that?! Your laughter doesn’t help and he’s scared you’re laughing at his problems. He doesn’t want to believe someone like you could be this cruel.

“It’s okay.”

That’s not reassuring. “It’s okay. I hated where I was a year ago too, so I was also shipped here.” That’s comforting– somewhat.

Your shoulders shimmy as you pay for the produce, walking towards another stand. “Granted, my aunt got sick. She was my grandparents' caretaker but it was getting worse and I took the role.” From the depths of your pocket, you pull out some pumpkin seeds, handing him a few for him to crack, not counting with the coating of salt to scald his tongue.

“She comes back here and there to check in and help but eventually she has to go back for constant checkups. I hadn’t found a job right out of college so this was my next best option and I like it – far more so, I think.” A sincere smile adorns your face; this was comforting.

Things went far more smoothly after that introduction. He told you about his books and what he wanted to do here. He told you about how miserable he felt and how abusive the city seemed to be towards him. You told him that you missed your city but the reality of facing adulthood in the area was weighing down on you. He figured this was your reality escape and although grim on your end, he felt ecstatic for himself. He felt like he finally found exactly what he needed.

The conversation went well with a few laughs here and there until reaching full circle with cups of shaved ice in a bag to take home and yours in hand. Bliss was momentarily gone when you reached the bench and didn’t spot your grandfather. Regardless, it didn’t take long for a seller to let you know his nephew gave him a ride.

These instances made Jaehyun appreciate your gentleness for your grandparents. Although aware of how you try to hide your emotions from him, the guard falls when it comes to them. It’s admirable.

Noise didn’t break the bubble of silence you remained in until entering the kitchen where your grandfather was sitting at a table already, your grandmother making his coffee while Ollie tired and sweaty relaxed by the door, munching on a candybar he bought when getting the fright remedy. A token of appreciation from your grandfather for the cigarette.

“We didn’t see you, I almost had a heart attack.” You mock reprimand, a smile setting on your face seeing the older man safe and sound. No matter how hard you try to act angry, seeing him eat the rest of his bread while waiting for lunch calms you down. “I’m the old one here, save the ailments for another sixty years.” he cackles, Jaehyun beginning to find comfort in your grandfather’s ability to find humor in anything.

“I think our guest might want out already.” He teases, sneaking a piece from Ollie’s candy. The boy doesn’t protest, doing the same with the shaved ice you brought. Jaehyun felt his ears warm up, nervously denying it with no avail as your grandpa kept insisting with that same laugh. Dying when your grandma scolds him to leave Jaehyun alone.

Jaehyun giggles quietly, shaking his head. “Please believe me. I think it’s beautiful so far.” Your grandma hums, the one to speak is Ollie. “There’s nothing here. What’s beautiful about it?” He shrugs with a scowl. “He hasn’t seen the other towns, give it time, Ol.” You intervene, forcing him to taste test the rice.

“Well, what if you and Ollie, whenever he can, show…”

“Jaehyun.” You help your grandmother, playfully glaring at the young boy for feedback on the dish. The elderly give each other a quick glance while Ollie makes a mocking thumbs down when he knows the smile on his face says otherwise.

She nods, scooping a spoonful of lard into the pan. “Why don’t you and Ollie show Jaehyun around after your duties. I doubt he wants to stay all hours here.” Jaehyun doesn’t know how to feel. He’s embarrassed, he’s also bashful and feels imposing. “It’s okay, I can manage. I don’t want to overstep.” He nervously chuckles, ears brightening.

“Okay.” You shut him up. He turns to you, silence deafening yet comforting, even when you finally lift your head to look at him, nodding. “It’s okay, just let us know what you want to see.” You’re much calmer than he is, it causes his body to tense despite being thankful with how inviting you are. How inviting you all are, he thinks he can see himself here for longer.

“Thank you.” He meets your eyes with a smile, thankful and glad. It’s reciprocated, knocking down the nonchalant act.

The first outings don’t go past the premises of the village. With planting being the main priority, neither you or Ollie have time to take him anywhere. The younger spent his days working the tractor, taking your grandfather up and down as his mentor despite his own father being there.

Jaehyun tried to help once but was booted by both men and their laughter. He won’t fault them, he almost ruined a row of freshly planted beans and if he was to learn anything throughout this trip, he’d learn that any grain and imperfection was important enough to ruin the entire harvest. Instead he was left to pavement clearing, making sure no rocks or debris got in the way of vehicles.

The following week he had been left to his vices at home. You had apologetically told him they found assistance and he should enjoy his trip at home. Although there was nothing left to do, not for him at least. Your grandmother wouldn’t let him lift a finger in the kitchen and she didn’t like his cleaning style, leaving it to you if she was busy.

Ollie had fixed the fan by now. The new motor made the room freeze, mimicking the room temperature of the home. Cold enough that Jaehyun preferred to leave the window open despite the crawlers that woke him at night. Now he contemplates whether he should turn the fan on or sleep with cotton filled eardrums.

Jaehyun lays in bed, bored and antsy for something to do. The sound of your arguing with animals overpower the boombox next to his head, melodies he didn’t understand.

The fountain pen on his hand never felt far heavier, a sign that he had nothing new to produce. No, the only thing his hand mustered to write was the noises you made. Whatever pertains to you.

“Tutt-tutt.” “Cluth-cluth… No, Constance! Don’t peck me!” “Behhh, behhh! Here, what a cry baby.”

Jaehyun found joy through you and your acts of love.

“Meow, meow, meow! I can do that too! I already fed you, Fina! Gluttony is a sin, you know.”

Days went on like this, it’s repetitious but he doesn’t complain. Past times he’d think what he’s doing now was all he wanted but a mind never rests and his body is antsy for new experiences. He no longer wants to lie and feel the breeze rush through the window to coddle him, forcing the sheer white curtains to dance around for his attention.

Jaehyun tucks away his journal, buttoning up his shirt and slipping on the work boots he bought with only four days here. Full of glee and excitement he bought them to help your grandfather. He reckoned if he was going to get down and dirty then he should be dressed accordingly.

With pep to his step, Jaehyun makes a beeline towards the pen. What used to be barking of unfamiliarity turned to a simple bark for attention, received with wagging tails. He made sure to pat their heads until reaching the fence, looking at you conversing with Camila, the donkey.

“Aha and what else did he do?... No! You should’ve kicked him straight in the leg, Cami. He can’t talk to you like that!.” You nod and hum at her playfully, received with brays and nods. Jaehyun doesn’t know what you’re talking about but he’s glad that you’re having fun.

New hay had been brought in the morning, far more greener and fresh which left the old hay to be moved around for maintenance. In the process of such, strays found themselves near the dogs, enough to crunch under his step. Like a deer caught in headlights, Jaehyun stops, ears reddening by the whip of your head and Camila’s blaring bray.

“Hi…” He mutters timidly, cause of your smile. “Hi.” You reciprocate with the softest welcoming. He takes the initiative to approach you, standing a few feet behind. Neither say anything, amused with Camila’s treacherous ways in leaving you to gain his attention. Head bumping onto his hand to mimic the pats he left on the dogs.

Pleased she throws a kick, sending old hay flying towards the lambs and goats that reproach her action. You share a giggle, forcing you two to give each other a quick glance. “I think she likes you.” You mention, “I like her too.” He replies, petting her ears, as red as his. “Well don’t feed her ego, now. It’s already through the roof.” You teasingly scoff, another airy laugh leaves him.

“Don’t be harsh, I think she needs it. I mean, I don’t know what you two were talking about just now but it seems like she needed her confidence there.” He smiles at you, taking her face into both hands. Your groan makes him wink at Camila, thankful that he’s found something to converse with you. “Her and Ollie–” Camila brays, removing Jaehyun’s touch from her. “They have such an intense hate-love relationship that his name throws her off, so I’m giving her advice on how to deal with it. Right, Mila?” Understandingly, she nods, seeking your attention again.

“Granted it’s all made up, she’s a little jealous but with you here I think Ollie should take the role.” She brays again, aiming to bite your hand. You get away just in time, sticking your tongue out at her. Jaehyun receives the image with laughter, his chest filled with joy.

He shakes his head, petting hers to calm her down. “No, I don’t want to be responsible for their failure.” You nod, picking up a metal rake. “Mind if I help you? It’s getting boring there…” He’s ashamed to admit it. You sympathize with him, after all when you used to visit you often fell in his shoes.

“Alright, a heads up, this will be messy work.” He nods obediently, eyes shimmering with their natural gloss and the sun’s reflection.

Darn him and his cuteness!

Blinking the thought away you hand him a broom and the rake. “Here, hold these while I tie up this maniac.” Your eyes squint meeting those of the ram that tackled you when he arrived. His own mimicking yours, it was on and he knew it.

With rope in your hand, test swings approaching the pen’s door, the beast starts to test the waters. Three…two…one! What ensues is a battle between both, Jaehyun trying his best to help. He envisioned that this rivalry is what Ollie and Camila had, he’d witness it a few days prior. The only exception that you and Whitey hated each other to the core. He never knew why.

After a few falls and tugs here and there, you two managed to get him in the isolation pen. Scoffing and laughing as he settles on newly clean hay. While he relaxes, you both huff and hold onto the fence, wiping away any remnants of sweat. “Ready to work?” You question, Jaehyun felt like this was enough. Unfortunately it’s only the beginning.

With free and safe reign to go inside the pen, you lay out the map of where to go and be careful. The wall to the neighbors cooped the chickens. It was the time they laid eggs so cleaning it would be held off until a few days later. On the opposite side to the street, roosters had their own coups.

“All you have to do is separate the poop from the hay, that’s what the rake is for.” Jaehyun figured you felt apologetic for the task as the look you gave him when presenting the room manifested itself onto your face. If you only knew that he’d never say no to you.

He mutters an ‘alright’ with his brilliant smile, reassuringly. “While you do that,” you watch him struggle, “I’ll clean this one.” Your voice slowed, concentrated on how to maneuver. You referred to the pen around a large cactus. He didn’t give it much thought when you went in, he also felt it wouldn’t be that hard, the livestock discard balls for goodness sake.

He had the confidence that died along the way he swept and raked. For small balls they were pungent and he wasn’t handling it well, the uncovered smell of piss added to it. You try not to laugh when he gagged or turned around so you wouldn’t see him cover his face but it was becoming hard.

Endearing is the word you’re thinking of, even when he perceives it as mockery that his face falls into a pout when he hears your laughter. “Please don’t laugh at me.” He practically begs, head lifting for a waft of fresh air before pushing old disgusting hay into a trash bag.

“I’m sorry,” A laugh escapes. “It’s good I’m the one here, I wouldn’t doubt Ollie tormenting you if it was him here.” Jaehyun agrees, the difference being that he wouldn’t care for Ollie's ridicule, he’d play along and try his best to improve. He cares for your opinion which is far different.

“He did enough during harvest.” “I heard.”

Silence befalls as you continue, the sun seems to have hidden behind clouds for the time being.

“I’m sorry you’re not having a good time.” You broke the peace, his ears perking at the condolence lacing your voice. “I know you wanted an escape and I’m sorry I haven’t been of much help.” He couldn’t believe his ears. Why are you blaming yourself for something that should only matter to him? He has free will and range to get up and take the next taxi or bus to neighboring towns. You shouldn’t blame yourself for his decisions.

Escapism might not have come to him in the way intended but everyday has become a new experience for him. “Don’t… I promise that even picking up droppings is something new for me.” He rebuttals your claim, mirroring the same apologetic look you give him. “Y/n… I’ve been coddled all my life, this entire experience has been a new step for me and I feel like Bambi, positively.” He smiles, widely enough that it’s the first time you notice his deep dimples.

You sigh, unsure if it’s from relief, pash, or in between.

“Yeah, okay… I was in your shoes too when I began to stay as a caretaker. I’ve done all of this when I would visit but it was not as intense as it is now. I don’t mind, I’m here to help. I have to.” It sounds melancholic and he’s not sure how to interpret it.

Avoiding it you look around to see he’s done a good job. You’re actually very well impressed, the words that were meant to leave your mouth surely were appreciative but they’re shoved back down your throat when you attempt to stand up. It’s almost like his presence dumbifies you. Like you forget the world around you, manifesting itself in your careless and clueless actions like resting your open hand on a cactus while trying to stand up just to bring him comforting words.

Instead he’s met with your yelp as you prick your hand, head, and shoulder in the process of standing and tumbling down. Whitey’s karma has served you, he bleats mockingly when you keep on hurting yourself within the premise of his home.

Instinctively Jaehyun rushes to you, concerned and scared of what this could illicit. He isn’t safe of Whitey’s wrath, not when he helped you and has decreed the young brunette is of your interest. Rushing to your aid, Jaehyun doesn’t count on one of the sheep to leave her droppings on the path he’s taking. Fresh and new, it wasn’t difficult for Jaehyun to find himself slipping straight into the cactus that has served your own aches.

They say laughter is the best medicine. Both you and Jaehyun attempt it when your eyes meet but the throbbing is far more intense that you synchronize in wailing. Loud and tuneless, enough to drag out your grandmother from the kitchen and force laughter out of Ollie and your grandfather who were arriving from their daily duties.

Camila doesn’t stay too behind in her own laughter. You fear all the livestock was against you two or perhaps rooting for you in the most vicious way. It’s rotten to know this is the start of your shared misery and ache.

The accident had forced your grandparents to make it up to you both the following day. Early in the morning your grandfather drove you all to a neighboring town. Ollie groggily dragged himself out of his home despite his father’s complaints that he was being a burden. You reassured him he was always welcomed, your grandfather scolded his dad. Yelling at him to stop trying to force ideas in the boy’s head.

Jaehyun had taken in the scenery on his taxi drive although he’s convinced something is different this time. Aside from your grandfather teasing everyone when driving along the edge of the mountains, Ollie clinging to you ready to cry as if he didn’t surpass all of you in height.

It takes roughly an hour and a half to arrive at the destination and almost another to find parking they eventually found was free and available behind a cathedral. Everyone laughs at each other for missing it when minutes prior your grandfather was ready to turn the car around, hangry and annoyed at how this damn town was overcrowded with no parking spots.

For once he felt like an actual tourist, visiting the restaurant you all loved and gorging himself with the most delicious meal he’s ever tasted in his life – besides his mother’s cooking, of course! For reassurance, she will witness how happy he looked while eating through the picture you managed to snap of him.

After the meal, your grandparents attempted to walk for digestion but age made them give up as soon as you all reached the town’s plaza. It wasn’t a rare occurrence, you saw no problem with it, they’re together. All they asked was to bring them those donuts they loved dearly and a soda to share. Ollie took it in his hands to beat you to it. Now there you and Jaehyun stood looking at the elderly couple sat before you.

At the time it didn’t feel like a scheme but looking back at it, Jaehyun is sure you figured it out as well.

Despite the accident, you both went back to the timidness that sheltered you both. Stolen glances and polite smiles when caught, stopping here and there to take pictures of the architecture and culture. He wouldn’t tell you, but a good portion were candids of you. You look so pretty that he could not avoid capturing the only remnants of you he could keep.

Both try small talk, history pointers whenever reaching old buildings – most consisted of luring him away from hustlers. You’d laugh after every successful attempt and reward yourself with street snacks that he’d find too salty or too sweet, still delicious enough to risk getting scolded by his physician if it meant enjoying the wonders of life.

The day might have ended with shy conversations and laughs but both could testify that comfort is what surrounded you most. On his end he felt safe and secure, comfortable enough to laugh at anything you said because in whatever way he looked at it, your presence forced glee onto him. Warmth and comfort is what you would best describe it as and that’s what you have learnt care feels like.

Your grandmother began going easy on you after the accident and outing. You felt like a teenager visiting your grandparents again with how little she left for you to do and how she forced you to go out more often. Encouraging you to enjoy your summer as well while showing Jaehyun around.

Jaehyun is sure this was her way to make both of you appreciate the limited shared time. He’s thankful enough for it but bitter towards himself for losing some weeks at the start.

You began showing him around other towns. On times you went grocery shopping and he’d beat you to paying for it (his form of appreciation), he’d throw in a peach or two. His favorite, you figured.

At the neighboring market, he’d buy fridge magnets, five for the price of a large one. All which represented his favorite snacks he’s consumed during these days. You still remember teasing him for buying a mini replica magnet of a beer bottle. Later at home while rocking on a chair he showed you a layout of how he’d arrange them on his fridge. In the meantime, you helped him decorate the door to his room, enjoying the air the fan blew at both.

When it rained, Ollie forced both to dance under the cold drops. Enjoy life as you should, he justified. At night, he’d dragged you both to the night market. Showing Jaehyun his favorite drinks and laugh when you scold him for drinking like an old man with kidney issues. He would joke about you and Jaehyun being his parents and would even grab your hands to skip in between both when it was so easy for him to drag you down. Damn him and his tall genes.

He’d drag the joke far enough to reach home where your grandparents never missed the opportunity to throw in a “Take your brat with you.” whenever Ollie was available and you were to show Jaehyun around. Neither of you minded, Ollie was silent enough to let you two bask in each other’s presence and playful enough for you two to feel at ease and content.

In another universe, this would reign true and not a fragment of a life you’re all creating that was never to bloom.

After three months the festivities had reached your village and vendors from all around the country settled by the plaza. Intrigued at first and fascinated by what they sold, poor Jaehyun fell victim to one of the home goods sellers. Spending a large amount buying your grandmother some pots, pans, a set of dishes, and stools as a token of appreciation. He went overboard but was happy to help, blinded by the cheap prices. Jaehyun should’ve known something was off, he knows you would have talked him out of it but you had been arguing with another vendor that they took advantage of the painfully obvious foreigner in the meantime.

When arriving home and seeing he had been robbed, you got ready to argue and force them to give him his money back. He protested despite being defeated and sad he was swindled. He convinced you but not your grandparents and Ollie. The three had taken matters into their own hands while you two fetched salt blocks to replace in the pen. By the time you got back, Ollie’s hair was far more ruffled than usual and his face red while your grandfather laughed, taking a sip of his beer, clanking it with your grandmother’s. On the kitchen bar, Jaehyun’s money was laid out. Every single cent and interest returned to him, money he used to invite all to dinner and dessert with a gift of their choice.

Ollie wore his tonight. Gleefully trotting through the threshold of the gate, careful to not scuff the boots Jaehyun gladly bought while singing to gain attention. Jaehyun laid on bed, scribbling his thoughts on his days, one-liners here and there and far more of the noises you’ve made. In addition the lyrics to the song Ollie sang before your grandmother told him to stop before he ate a fly.

Fireworks had been going off all day and neighbor’s music loudened with their gates open. This wasn’t new but it seemed to be far more intense today out of all days. “Why aren’t you ready? You’re not going to the fair?” Ollie questions, out of breath and frantic to see your grandparents sitting on their chairs enjoying today’s weather with a cup of soda in one hand and pastries in the other.

Talks about a fair had not gone in deaf ears throughout the past three weeks but Jaehyun paid it no mind when he saw that no one else seemed concerned – besides Ollie. It seemed to be a big thing when he noticed more carps, games, and rides fully covering the plaza.

“Don’t think we will be going, Ol. Their knees hurt.” Your voice manifests itself, forcing Jaehyun to sit up and put away his journal. You had been doing some chores outside his room. Hanging laundry and watering the plants, the product of everything he’s written and attempted to draw today.

He follows outside, Ollie greets him, a mischievous smile on his lips forming an idea. “Why not? I’ll drive if you want! Do it for Jaehyun, he’s never going to experience this again.”

Ollie’s childish intuition strikes again, this time in the form of a gash against both of your chests.

You both knew it was true but reality is what Jaehyun wanted to escape and you had made sure to enable him. It just so happens that you have fallen victim to it as well.

No matter, he said he wanted to stay months so it should still be far along in the future. You think so… you implore.

Perceptive is a word to describe your grandparents. Despite their ache they figure it is not as big as the one brewing in the depths of your conscious and heart. As best as they can, they agree with the younglin and head inside to get ready.

Ollie is ecstatic, he’s always been a fan of these things but now that he was of age, he could enjoy it more with a drink or two. Not to mention things like these are grounds for finding partners and like any town boy who hasn’t found one, he’s looking forward to it. That’s what he tells you and Jaehyun at least but he knows he’ll spend his night looking after your grandparents, far more giddy about you two together.

He had been smart enough to put cinder blocks early in the morning in a parking spot front and center from the fair, forcing Jaehyun out of the car to move and put them behind the car once he parked so no one would block them. Perfect was his plan that once everyone got out of the car, his friends that occupied a bench scattered like roaches to give their seat to your grandparents. Both elders find it comical seeing right through Ollie.

Arriving just in time for the parade, all queen candidates drove around in their elaborately decorated transportation. Colors flying around similar to their presentation favors, many which ended up hitting both Jaehyun and Ollie in the head. The older of the two made sure to take pictures of it while Ollie complained, claiming he was glad he didn’t vote for whoever hit him. The new reigning queen didn’t appear until the end. It was far more of a social economic competition. Whoever paid more won therefore it wasn’t surprising when a queen from years prior won again.

“You should’ve signed up, you would’ve won, Y/n.” Ollie elbows you, received with an eye roll. “Right, Jaehyun?” That devious brat, always finding a way to make you miserable. You try not to turn to Jaehyun, yet his gaze is so intense that it forces you to do so slowly. His face, decorated with that usually wide smile that emphasized his dimples, eyes squinting in glee when yours finally meet his. Candidness and benevolence lacing his voice.

“Yes, you would have won, Y/n.”

That was enough footing for Ollie to shoo both of you away, promising to take care of your grandparents while you had fun. Your attempts at protest are futile, your grandparents helping Ollie in his mission. Buying the three something to eat in the process before parting ways, promising it’ll be fast.

It’s not fast, it’s a brisk walk that both you and Jaehyun enjoy. Struggling to not lose each other within the masses going opposite or in the same direction. He jokes about feeling like a meerkat in a sea of gazelles, you laugh but he’s sure you don’t find it funny. At least he’s glad you humor him.

You entertain him through food. Buying tornado potatoes, plain and simple. He mentions having eaten these when he lived in Connecticut. You ask him about the state and what it’s like, you’re not too thrilled nor believe him when he says it’s boring. As an attempt to remove the connection, you drizzle hot sauce on one half of the potatoes. Scared but willing to try it, Jaehyun lets you feed him the first broken off bit. It’s enjoyable at first, soon his face blends with the lights behind him. Red and bright as he begins to cough. Now he will only think of this when it comes to the snack.

You both laugh at it, as an apology you buy him a drink. A piña colada for him and a michelada for you, it should work enough to ease both of your bashfulness. He couldn’t eat anything from the drizzled side, leaving those for you whilst he munched on the dry. Giving you sips here and there from his drink to cool down the fire in your mouth. He teases you for choosing a spicy drink when you’re eating far more spice, receiving him with an eye roll and “You don’t know what life is about.”

Finishing that, he dragged you to a game. You’d like to think he found it far more odd because of the mini stripper animatronics in the center of all the glass bottles but he reassures you the life-size gremlin doll pissing on people was more alluring – and disturbing. It didn’t stop him from attempting to win a decrepit pale Winnie the Pooh bear.

He had spent a good amount of time trying for it, towards the end he required your help. You had been nagging him throughout the entire game to not spend more money on the game, that it was most likely rigged but when it was your turn and managed to burst all bottles, then it became a skill issue.

Jaehyun mopped about it, you figured the bear would bring him comfort. He held it for seconds to soon return it with a bright smile. You try rejecting it, he had been fighting hard for it so it was confusing why he didn’t want it. You thought it had to do with the principle of the winner takes it all; it wasn’t the case.

He confessed he had wanted to get it for you and only felt bummed that he wasn’t able to but that you should keep it irregardless as a token of his appreciation and care for you, to give your Garfield some company. The moment would’ve been sweet if the booth attendant didn’t make that stupid doll spritz it’s faux piss your way, forcing you to flee while cursing him out with laughs in between.

That was the beginning of your journey through halls and carps, stepping out here and there to get on children’s rides that warrant glares from parents. Jaehyun joked about dragging Ollie so he could ride the caterpillar rollercoaster with him and have you take pictures of a father with his kid. Jaehyun is now playing along with the fantasy Ollie has created. You don’t know whether to laugh or let the ache in your heart manifest.

You end at the ferris wheel only a few feet away. In the process of calming each other’s laughter, the noises of people and music filled the silence. Comforting as the day you met, walking through the market and buying produce for that day’s meal. It makes Jaehyun think about how far you two have gone. How one little incident with a cactus has led to having the time of your lives nearing the highest point of the ride.

You’ve felt the warmth and softness of his touch. Felt his care and appreciation through every little act yet you yearn and crave for more from him. Your body and soul know there is more both can offer, although frightened that you’ve misinterpreted his lingering gazes and gestures.

“When I was younger my mom had decided that we would spend every summer with my grandparents and aunt. I hadn’t been here since I was five for her grandpa’s funeral so it meant nothing the first few weeks. The first year, even.”

Jaehyun turns, intrigued. “Then when my mom would make the long distance calls and send letters, my grandpa would joke around how I didn’t want to visit them at all – that I hated it here, similar to how he does with you. I didn’t hate it, I think I just wasn’t familiar with the lifestyle in comparison to back home where I don’t have to worry about if there’s hot running water.”

His hand inches closer to you. “In attempts to prove him wrong, I spent my time here helping him with the animals, going grocery shopping with him and my cousins and it drew me closer to this. After the second summer, we spent Christmas here too and the weather killed me but they seemed so happy that I joined.”

Your laugh comforts him. He thinks about the times he’s attempted to help and failed your grandparents, it only dawns upon him that things take time and he shouldn’t dwell on them too much.

“Then in my last summer of college, I had taken an internship that promised a job right out of college– obviously it was a lie, I’m here.” You laugh bitterly. “I missed time with my family and my grandma ended up in the hospital. I felt so guilty the remainder of the year, even during winter break. I felt like it was my fault, that my absence was the small piece of the puzzle that could ruin it all.”

Jaehyun felt and heard the remorse in your voice, he felt the need to find a way to ease it with no avail, feeling as inutile as when the ram tackled you. It’s imprinted in his brain that no matter what, it will weigh on his shoulders that he’s not able to help no matter how much he tries.

“And I think the universe is funny and cruel enough that when the internship dropped me and said all vacancies were occupied, my aunt was the one to fall ill next. Forcing her back home with her own family. It was its way to make it up to me, as horrible as it sounds.”

You share a sigh, he takes your hand in his, reassuringly. You don't want comfort words, he knows that, he knows this is enough for you. “I think what I first felt when visiting is what you feel now with the exception that you actually have so much to do out there…” Jaehyun’s actions halt, lifting his head to look at your sorrow filled eyes.

He shakes his head, trying to convince himself and you. He clings to the delusion everyone helped create in hopes to be good hosts. He still has time, Jaehyun has time, he wants to believe it so please don’t shatter his joy so quickly, please!

“It’s okay, Jaehyun. You have to publish your book, we’ll always be here for you as they’ve been for me.” He’s not too sure how true that is. Life is never consistent nor forgiving, he’s learnt that in harsh ways. People’s care is conditional and based on time and familiarity, he’s been at the end of that stick.

Your hand takes purchase on his cheek, consoling him for what you have just said. You didn’t intend to cause this but you have to prepare yourself for what you’ve known all along. “I don’t think I want to go back and risk anything.” He mutters, eyes softening the longer he looks at you, the ride feels endless.

“You must… All there is for you here is inspiration.” They’re meant to comfort him but it feels more like you’re trying to convince yourself that you’ll be fine when he leaves. Jaehyun’s lips part ready to speak, words muted by the fireworks going off. Midnight has hit, it’s a brand new day and it’s received with pyrokinetic colors that aim to diffuse the pain he feels.

They illuminate your face, a smile forming in awe of how pretty they look. Not as pretty as you, Jaehyun is sure of that the longer he stares with the same smile on his face you adore. “I’ve found the life I needed all along.” His touch on your cheek brings you back to him, dumbfounded with what he meant. Inquiries answered upon feeling his lips softly land on yours.

Hands softly cradle your face, eyelashes tickling your cheek as you get a taste of him. It’s so soft and tender that you want to be here for the rest of the night, drowning the noises around you. If you’ve felt heaven before, it doesn’t compare to being with him like you are now.

The crowded path didn’t feel claustrophobic, like it was just you two in the sea of booths, fluorescent lights and fireworks. The music drowned, his grasp on you doing its best to keep you with him for whatever time is left for you two.

He hadn’t noticed at what point you both had gone back until Ollie stepped in between you two. “So? Did you like it?” The giddy young boy questions, a bottle of beer in his hand, compliments from his cousin – your grandparents with their own as well, watching. Jaehyun nods, glancing at you. “More than anything.” He smiles widely, hypnotizing dimples present.

Ollie giggles, a chant as he jumps near your grandparents telling them something that neither of you manage to hear, distracted by the shocking ice-cold bottle shoved into your hands. Your grandfather had been talking to your grandmother, both laughing about judgments thrown at people around them. Mean, yes, but it’s not often that they bond about things anymore.

The elder’s leg had been bouncing as they talked, cackling in the process of drowning whatever was left in the bottle. Jaehyun took notice of this, turning to the group playing up on stage a few feet away. People around were dancing, some seemed to enjoy themselves, others not too much – the only thing that mattered was the ambient and showing face.

Jaehyun approaches your grandpa, asking if he was having a good time. The older of the two nodded, responding by showing the new bottle Ollie handed him. You scold both of them to not drink too much but they shush you. “It’s a party, Y/n. Liven up.” Ollie laughs, alcohol having gotten into his stream, demonstrated on how clumsily he clinks his bottle with yours and everyone else's. “Come on, let’s dance instead.” Pulling you in for a quick little shuffle. He’s not a great dancer, he knows it. He also knows his joy brings joy to your grandparents and you’ll do anything for them to maintain it.

You entertain Ollie, dancing despite him having already stepped on you multiple times. Apologizing with whines and puppy eyes that make you laugh. You push him off after a while, helping your grandfather up so he could dance with you. He’s overjoyed, finally having the opportunity to do what he loves so much, a pity your grandmother is the opposite. She’s content enough with just watching.

Jaehyun smiles, laughing in glee at how the ambient fuels his emotions. His own body swaying ever so slightly, brain trying to formulate how to dance to music he’s never heard. He thinks he gets it, it doesn’t seem too hard but he could be proven wrong and become Ollie’s mirror.

Your grandmother, ever so insightful, watches with a glint of content with how well he has adapted to the culture. Although, far more interested in the way his eyes don’t leave you. His ears are red, brighter than the light illuminating the stage and the municipal office. Jaehyun may try to hide how he feels, you may try, but she’s older and wiser. She’ll always know when love is around.

“Go ask her for a dance.” She elbows him to catch his attention, Jaehyun had been holding your grandfather’s seat. The mention alone caused his ears to brighten, crimson migrating to his face. He tries not to smile, it so happens to be that his muscles are treacherous and they emphasize the lines of his smile, deepening those dimples you love.

Jaehyun shakes his head. Convince her that it’s okay, that he would rather watch, something she won’t allow. “Don’t coward away. When’s the next time you’ll get the chance?” Jaehyun ignores the heavy meaning of her words, he prefers to ignore the reality that slowly creeps in. Regardless, he nods, taking in the other point of view. He thanks her with a smile, standing up to walk towards you. Sacks of nervousness weighing him down, making his hands sweat.

“Mind if I take her from you?” Jaehyun clears his throat, head tilting, pleading. The older man cackles, pure and utter joy that Jaehyun has made a move. Frantically he nods, agreeing by pushing you towards the brunette who seems just as ecstatic as your grandfather. Given persimmon, Jaehyun takes your hand in his. Awkwardly figuring out how else he should position himself.

You watch amusedly, hiding your smile by pressing your lips together as if your cheeks and eyes were not a dead giveaway. “What makes you think I wanted to dance with you?” You tease, correcting where his hands and feet should go. The smile you try hard to hide slowly creeps in. Jaehyun doesn’t mind exposing his own, giggling when you begin to lead. “What’s this then?” He plays along, moving his feet and knees according to what he had examined. Raising your shoulders in a shrug, you don’t hold back your smile, a giggle following. “A lesson.”

The dance doesn’t go smoothly, you have to teach him between laughs, both yours and his with your family’s in the background but he manages. Even if you all think his dancing is horrible, as bad as Ollie’s, the younger one takes the opportunity to capture you two dancing with Jaehyun’s camera. If there’s something to remember, it is this night and the love that has finally come into fruition.

The flash blinds you, stopping you two from dancing and even though Ollie whines for you two to continue, you both claim your feet ache. It’s not a lie on your end but the coyness from your family seeing you with a potential partner is a bigger deal.

It’s past two in the morning, obvious in the way your grandparents hide their yawns from your view, hoping to not ruin your night further. “Want to go home?” You walk towards them, a hand on your hip and genuine concern on your face. They admit they are tired but don’t want to go home no matter how much you insist. Ollie offers to drive them home while you and Jaehyun stay back longer but you’ve been away from them this entire night that you cannot fathom the idea any longer.

Ollie and your grandparents can try to convince you with the same story about Jaehyun’s limited time but that wasn’t going to work now. No, you stick to your guns and manage to get them in the car. Ollie had drank far more than all of you so he wasn’t apt to drive, instead Jaehyun volunteered, something that had excited your grandfather the most.

After removing the cinder blocks and putting them back in the trunk, Ollie walks towards your window, bidding everyone goodnight. You nag him, worried that he was drinking too much. He receives you with an “Okay, mom!”, the same phrase he’s been throwing around ever since Jaehyun had reached a month’s stay. It managed to get a laugh out of your grandparents, even from you and Jaehyun but it didn’t change that you still lightly swat his hand. “I’m serious, Ollie. Don’t drink anymore, stay back a bit but not too late, Okay?”

The worry in your eyes makes him relent, nodding before kissing your cheek goodnight and shaking Jaehyun’s hand. The interaction forced a smile on his face, every single aspect of your tenderness making him melt more.

As the moon is his witness, Jaehyun has fallen in love with this village and you. Gracious the stars are that once you manage to get your grandparents in bed and meet Jaehyun in the kitchen, the two of you quietly make your way outside with nothing but moonlight to illuminate you.

“Want some coffee?” You ask, fingers familiarizing themselves with the texture of those yellow walls. “Do you not want to sleep?” He laughs, taking those same fingers to familiarize with the tenderness of his lips. The action makes your breath hitch.

“Perhaps…”

His eyes meet yours, inching closer to capture your lips in another tender kiss. His hands find purchase on your waist, your arms wrap around his shoulders. It’s sweet and soft, his tongue managing to slip in your mouth to waltz with your own. The soft muscle forces a delighted sigh, one that he swallows graciously.

When neither can hold it for much longer, you separate, smiling like two fools. “So no coffee, then?” You laugh, one he reciprocates with a nod. “Too bitter, not as sweet as you.” The flirtatious remark is received with a laugh.

“You’re so cheesy.” You claim. “It’s worth it if it makes you laugh – it’s what I like to hear everyday.”

Jaehyun’s expression is serious, the adoration in his eyes letting you know how he feels. He may not pin a word to it but you can see his yearning and longing. You try to be in the same cloud he is in, to ignore the dooming reality but you can’t. You appreciate his affection and you reciprocate it but you also don’t want to become delusional.

“Jaehyun…” Your head drops, avoiding his look. He thinks he’s done something wrong and it aches horribly. “Yeah?” He squeaks meekly, head moving in hopes to see your eyes, to understand how the atmosphere became so somber. “How serious are you about this? You know how things are an–”

“Don’t… Please don’t bring that up.” He begs, eyes shutting, no longer in need to understand what you meant. “You can’t act like you don’t have a life outside of here. You may stay all you want but eventually you will go back – there’s more to life than this for you.” Your head lifts, vulnerability not as heavy as his.

He tries to drown out your words, this night has gone too well for things to fall off already. He doesn’t want it to be bittersweet. Sure he can stay all he wants until it’s time to publish his book but he will come back so why are you being so cruel to him?

“Nothing compares to this, Y/n.” He holds your hands, hoping his warmth lets you know how much you’re hurting him but also how much he loves you. You shake your head, a small smile of unbelievability. “You’ve been here for three months, that’s still fine and dandy. It’s not like truly living here.”

His eyebrows furrow, refusing to listen. “But you still love it here. I don’t know what you’re trying to get at.” His voice quivers, frightened that this is your way of ripping his heart out.

You sigh, squeezing his hands. “I do, I love it but I also think that I’ve been looking at this place through the same glasses you’re looking through. What I’m getting at is that, in the long run you’ll get bored, everyone I know has and they’ve left… Who knows, maybe even Ollie will leave and it’ll leave me here because no matter how hard I try to make a life out there, it doesn’t love me back.”

Jaehyun was perplexed, eyes scanning your face. He knows you’re projecting, that you don’t want to get attached despite already having done so, he hopes you could see inside him to understand that he doesn’t ever want to leave. He doesn’t want to leave you.

His hands cradle your face, kissing your eyelids, cheeks, nose, and lips for reassurance. “I can always come back. After publishing whatever I have in hand, I will always come back. You are the life that I needed all along, Y/n.” His whisper is heavy and sincere, the glimmer in both your eyes, evidence to what both feel.

Words don’t describe what you two feel, no matter how heavy they hang on your tongues. No, it’s best that you share it in another tender kiss that the stars and moon witness. Both end the conversation, convinced that the love you two port is stronger than the universe’s will.

Quick glances and kisses are stolen for the following weeks, everyone knows what both feel but it’s more exciting if you pretend as if this love is forbidden despite the encouragement and approval of your family. Ollie teases you two about the brewing romance, pretending to act like he didn’t say anything regarding it when you correct him that nothing is happening. It’s like a game for all of you, one that you all indulge in for the sake of excitement.

You had all agreed upon visiting a thermal spring this morning, the drive was somewhat long and it was best to arrive before other people did. Ollie was the most excited about it, he had begged his family to let him go for days until they agreed. It just so happens to be that the universe doesn’t often like to see him happy; you don’t appreciate that.

Ollie had arrived with a glum look on his face, saddened eyes when he sat in his usual seat next to the chimney. Jaehyun approached him with a cup of hot chocolate and a pat to his head. Your grandma didn’t take long to question the reason behind his state but he only sighed.

“They moved the pension collection to today. The offices will be closed until next month for remodeling so you two have to go in before the line gets long.” His lip juts out, looking at everyone with puppy eyes.

You ruffle his hair, rubbing his back comfortingly. “We can go tomorrow, Ollie. Don’t worry…” You mimic his pout, his head rests on your hip, pressure tickling your hip bone. “No… Dad is taking me with him out of town for a few weeks to help with the ranch that hired him.” He doesn’t dare look at anyone. It’s not the first time he was taken to different places in the country but when they came back his dad usually kept Ollie locked in for a while until he became unbearable to keep in. It’s as if he relishes in your joint misery.

Jaehyun throws you a look, looking for ways to solve this crisis. He knows you don’t like the news, he hates them too. He’s grown so fond of Ollie that knowing he’s the first to go is causing a small turmoil in his chest. Sure, he may be back and Jaehyun will still be here but one never knows how things may turn out.

“What if you and Jaehyun go? I have to take my grandparents for their pension so you two enjoy.” Ollie wishes things were that easy but his childish intuition fears that time is coming short and if you don’t spend more time with Jaehyun, he’ll feel guilty for whatever ending comes.

Ollie shakes his head, standing up. “No, it’s fine. You and him go. I’m going to take my dad anyway so I can take them too.” He attempts to smile even if he can’t. It dawns upon you that missing the trip isn’t his concern but not seeing any of you for God knows how long is what’s killing him.

You try to deny, shake your head in protest. Jaehyun does so as well, it’s not that he doesn’t want time alone with you but knowing this is his last day with Ollie for a while is killing him. Your grandparents hadn’t said anything up until this point. They weren’t fond of swimming, they never did.

“Ollie is right, you two go.” Your grandmother spoke, standing to grab her purse. “I can’t leave you two, what if you need help?” You attempt and they protest, your grandfather jumping in by throwing in Jaehyun’s limited time. It seems they’re all far more in tune with reality than you two.

You don’t know how or when but they managed to convince you and Jaehyun to go. Both attempted to protest and cancel the trip all together but here you were, in your grandfather’s old and chipped red ford. The seats torn apart, a blanket hiding away its imperfections. The red leather of the dashboard hot under Jaehyun’s touch, its form of showing that you two being left alone was real.

That now you didn’t have to talk through a window in the bathroom to spend some alone time. You didn’t have to climb on the sink and hit your head on the roof just to see his face through the mangled chicken wire and be received by concrete flakes on your lips and eyelashes whenever you attempt to kiss through it. No, here you were able to hold hands and kiss without fear of being caught (even if it didn’t matter – everyone knew).

The roads were messy and bumpy, dirt flew all around which forced you to keep the windows rolled-up despite the sun’s rays being hotter than the actual weather. Worse off is that once he came out of the truck, a gust of cold breeze rained upon him. Showing him everything he had missed while struggling with heat and keeping dust out of your airways.

It was a reward but also mockery, to him at least because you remained unphased, rejoicing on how lonely it was. “Reckon everyone is getting their pension, too?” You ask, hands on your hips, ripping some overgrown grass by your feet to make sure no venomous critters are around.

Jaehyun shrugs, letting his focus remain on his surroundings. It was amazing for him to see how deserted and destroyed this place was. Overgrown yellowing grass that stray cattle eat, ruins of houses from colonial towns signaling the fleeing of whoever had inhabited them before; your grandfather had later explained that the location was a town destroyed in the process of gaining independence.

What was prettier to him was the body of water he was here for. Multiple trees around, so green and alive in comparison to the remaining vegetation. The water is so clear and warm that he could see the steam rise the closer he got.

“Like it?” You question, to his side with towels on your shoulders. Jaehyun’s head whips, a smile on his face upon reaching for your hand, “It’s beautiful.” His fingers interlace with yours, camera in hand positioning it an arms length away when he takes the initiative to lean down and kiss you, capturing it all on film.

You shove him playfully, rushing to a dry rock where you can leave your possessions. He chases after you, removing his shirt and unbuttoning his pants. Your instinct to look away is something he does not miss and it causes a blush to creep up on his face.

He takes in the temperature of the water with his feet. Jumping back when he realizes it’s hotter than what he’s experiencing right now. “It’s not that bad.” You call out, pulling down on the bottoms of your dress swimsuit. Your smile softly falters when he doesn’t respond, rather his attention is set on how pretty you look.

The trees sway, leaving empty slots for the sunrays to seep through, illuminating you. Seemingly purposely done, to put you on a pedestal for him to look at with nothing else but admiration. That blush he had earlier rose again, one he’ll pretend is due to the water’s temperature.

“What are you looking at?” You tease, smile back on. Jaehyun approaches you with a shrug, shirt unbuttoned halfway. His fingers thread over the fabric of the straps, such a pretty lace decorated with satin red ribbon forming a bow at the front. “You.” He smiles, warm fingers touching your arms in hopes to feel closer than he already is in all senses. You don’t respond but he’s aware that the look you give him is fond.

Your hands mimic his, finding their way to his shirt and helping him undo the last few buttons, pushing off the linen to free his flesh and let it be kissed by the breeze – something you can only wish for. Once off you toss it to the pile of clothes and towels, cocking your head for him to follow you into the water. It’s glistening and steaming, soothing once his feet acclimate.

Silent sounds escape both, little by little submerging yourselves – your hands not letting go in any instance. “My mom and aunt loved to come here. They’re hypochondriacs – at least my mom is– always claiming a trip here was healing, holistic. Forcing my grandparents to put their feet in at least so the warmth would take away any aches.” Jaehyun could see how your free hand rubbed at your knees, mimicking their action.

“Pretty sure they take from my grandma but my grandpa was more of a people pleaser so he’d tell them he felt much better just so they wouldn’t feel bad. I don’t really see how this can take away all your aches. I get that it can help temporarily but not permanently.” Your shrug and words may tell him so but Jaehyun can tell that your vigorous rubbing at your own joints was a form of subconsciously believing them.

“Maybe… It seems like a mutual interaction of comfort and understanding. Your mom and aunt try their best for their parents to feel better about their bodies wearing down and in turn they receive praise and appreciation from them.”

Your hand stops its action, looking up at him with a hum. “I guess so.” You mutter, letting go of him to float on your back. “The writer in you just had to make it so philosophical.” he can hear the smile on your lips, your feet playfully kicking some water onto him to which he laughs, responding by splashing you too. Calling a truce when he was winning this battle.

As a way to comfort, he pulls you in for a hug. Your back to his chest, head resting on his shoulder and holding onto a railing to not float away far deeper. If it was for Jaehyun, he’d love to stay like this until it was time to go. For once in this entire trip you two have been truly left alone. No more sneaking kisses and late night talks through the bathroom window. It was just you and him an hour away from civilization with only the cattle as witness to the love you two didn’t speak about but embraced.

There is nothing more Jaehyun wants than to have more time with you. He wonders if things would have been different if he had fallen for you much earlier or if you had. He’s not fully sure how much you love him, he knows you’re stuck on him leaving sometime in the future which is what hinders this from going forward but he truly wishes you could see that he has no intent on leaving soon or for too long.

What if he had helped you clean the pen earlier? That would have meant spending more time with you and more outings with your family, surely. On the other hand, what if he had been useful enough during planting? It’s evident he would have never gotten close to you beside cordiality in the mornings and afternoons for meals and trips to the market.

Jaehyun cannot think of a world where this trip would result in you two not becoming closer. He can’t fathom not getting to know and falling in love with you.

Sensing his pensiveness, you turn your head, looking up at him with a questioning look that he could only interpret as trying to read his mind. He’s noticed that quirk, the way your head tilts and your lips quiver in a way to mutter a “hm” without voicing it. He makes sure to receive it with a smile, leaning in to peck your lips that surely help you abandon your actions.

“It’s a bummer Ollie didn’t come.” He attempts to distract. “Would have been nice seeing him have some fun before leaving.” There’s more to what he had said. Jaehyun wanted to add ‘before I leave’ into his sentence, it’s hanging on his tongue despite how much his brain and heart attempt to keep him wrapped around his delusion of perpetual happiness.

“I think so too.” your body twists within his arms, facing him. “I was thinking of making his favorite meal for dinner once we get back. His dad always returns him skinnier and paler than how he leaves, I need him to keep his cheeks plump, don’t you think?” Your exclamation forces a chuckle out of him, nodding in response.

“Help me find a gift for him too, then?” “Don’t spoil him too much, he’ll be an even bigger pain than he already is.” “Oh come on, don’t be so mean to the kid. Let me, please…” Jesus, if anyone was to hear you two they’d think you’re talking about a child and not a nineteen year old. But that’s what Ollie is to you both. A child you saw as yours or your brother that Jaehyun would spoil while you scold him no matter how much you loved him. You’d reckon Ollie’s presence kept you sane even if he often teased you but his nature was enough to bring entertainment for you and joy for your grandparents. If Jaehyun looks back at it, Ollie reminds him of the young boy he met in that taxi on the way to that village.

Reluctantly (faking so) you agree, rolling your eyes before pushing him off to swim away from him. He doesn’t stay too behind, chasing you for what feels like forever. Overworking your body for hours in such a hot body of water had rendered exhausting for both to the point that you basically had to drag each other out of the water just to lay on the cool metal ramp, gasping for air acclimation to avoid fainting. Jaehyun was far more concerned with you when he didn’t hear you speaking nor felt you moving, calming when you stick your tongue out at him for his nosiness although all you wanted was to see him smile.

“You complain about Ollie but it seems like the real brat here is you!” He exclaims, gaining momentum to swing his legs onto both sides of you. “Cry about it.” You mutter, a smile on your face; his hair hangs off, fuzzy around his eyes and dripping onto your cheeks. “Or… maybe I should do something to correct it.” His hair tickles your face, sticking to your cheeks the more his lips linger on them, testing the waters.

He relents when your arms wrap around his shoulders, leaving him flush over your body with nothing left but your lips to connect. They’re cold and pillowy, soft against your own just like his hands when they find purchase on your waist, holding you near as if the spring water below you will drag you out of his grasp, the last thing he needs.

Jaehyun is gentle in the way he holds and kisses you. His hands knead your skin, warming against it the more they roam around to hold you closer. Your fingers thread through his hair, sending shivers down his spine that causes him to sigh into the kiss, enough for your tongue to slip through and deepen the kiss. The intensity rose, his hands felt much hotter against your skin the lower they went, scalding when one of them grips your upper thigh –avoiding the bruising from whitey’s assault– helping it raise to rest on his hip.

Tongues mingle amongst each other, the taste of the mango juice he drank earlier still coating it to which you enjoy against your own. The thin film of saliva on both of your lips helps them slot smoothly in a far more pleasant kiss. Jaehyun’s fingers knew how to tease you, tips tickling your inner thigh that forced small groans which begged him for more.

More, more, more – Jaehyun would have given you everything if it wasn’t for the faint sound of music blaring and tires pushing dirt through Cattle began mooing, warning you of company joining, spoiling whatever comfort you two had.

You scramble to grab the towels, Jaehyun helps you, drying you off with his own and taking the remaining items under his arm to help you towards the truck, staying guard while you change into dry clothes coming in when you knock against the window. He doesn’t bother changing, claiming the air will dry him well enough upon.

You cross paths with the incoming truck, nodding your heads in acknowledgment before embarking on another long ride. Small talk made here and there, he speaks about how much this road reminds him of Western America: dry vegetation and barely any trees insight but with lively mountains that shield anyone from the sun. You tell him that it seems interesting how he describes that part while detesting Connecticut but he laughs and shrugs.

It’s not long until you stop at a gas station, the truck nearly empty and he still had to change into some dry clothes. He met you inside, walking through the aisles in search of a snack for whatever was left of the ride.

Jaehyun doesn’t share your sentiment. He finds himself distracted by a corner of toys, a bright red truck similar to the one you’re transporting through catching his eye. It glimmers under the sun rays that make way through the window panels. Jaehyun thinks it would be a good gift for Ollie, a menial one for now.

Paying for the items and heading outside with you hand in hand, Jaehyun recalls seeing a photobooth by the bathrooms. He pulls you along with no response to your questions, motioning with his head for you to push through the red velvet curtain. The first image is neutral enough, smiling while looking directly at the mirror, the flash comes in and you two hold each other. By the last two flashes it resulted in engraving the image of you two kissing.

You laugh at him for sneaking in a kiss and having it on film, he shrugs you off knowing that it was an image he’d like to see at all times and he’s hopeful you do too. You still needed to wait for at least four minutes for the film strips to develop, leading Jaehyun to slot in more coins claiming he wanted Ollie to have something to remind the young boy of the two.

Jaehyun truly wanted to say that he hoped Ollie wouldn’t forget that the two loved him. He hoped a flimsy piece of paper was enough of comfort to Ollie as they will be to him.

Pulling out a pocketbook rushedly, Jaehyun manages to scribble his support and appreciation for the young boy. That’s an image of himself alone, handing it to you to scribble something quick before the flash goes off again. The last two flashes are paraded with you two making faces you often made towards him – sticking your tongue out or scrunching your nose, the latter his favorite one.

“Good luck in your journey, you’ve done so well these past months!” “Ollie! Remember to eat all your meals and no buddy-budding with any louse. You’re a good boy!” “Fighting our lovely, Ollie!” Compliments of Jaehyun. “We love you, Ollie. More than you think.” Now that comes from the bottom of both of your hearts.

Jaehyun bought a jacket for Ollie once back in the village while grocery shopping at the market for the voyage dinner. For the first time since he arrived you had trusted him to navigate the village on his own. The everyday route was engraved onto his brain, finding you shortly with the jacket in a wrapped box. You wanted to see it but he told you you’d have to wait until Ollie opens it, he didn’t want to re-wrap this himself.

Your grandparents and Ollie didn’t arrive until a few hours later when everything was set up already. Jaehyun arranged the table outside with a fine china that belonged to you, not the one in the cabinet. He had attempted to help you in the kitchen but backed off when he saw your eye twitch the second he mixed a pot on the stove. There he learnt that getting in your way while cooking wasn’t a good idea so he instead went to feed the pen animals and loiter around to write the letter he’d give the young boy with his gifts.

Ollie could have sworn this was a delayed birthday party. Jaehyun had arrived a week after Ollie turned nineteen, missing any form of celebration. Now he was complete, this had to be a form of celebration and not a voyage dinner, it just had to. Otherwise why would he be crying at the dinner table?

Ollie would like to think his tears represented the impending doom you were all to face one way or another with his absence. Both figuratively and and literally; comically and realistically.

The hands on his back and shoulders try their best to comfort him, whispers of how this was yet another trip meant to minimize the meaning of this but Ollie knew something was wrong, something none of you did just yet. He smiled widely, tears streaming down his face, laughing in order to control himself but your gentle wiping and hugs made him fall deeper into that feeling. His childish intuition as you all call it.

Jaehyun on the other hand decides to pull out his gifts in hopes it would help but it only made Ollie cry harder. The younger spews his thank you’s, hugging Jaehyun for comfort to which the older one takes, his own heart filling with such an aching pulsation. He ignores it, it doesn’t matter what he’s feeling, he wants Ollie to take a good look and remember him in a bright light.

Ollie wore the jacket all night and took it on his trip – along the letter–, never letting anyone touch it. He left the truck with you and your grandparents, he knew it’d be far more safe with you than with his brothers.

The dinner didn’t spoil after his crying fit. Your grandmother had playfully scolded him to get a grip while your grandfather helped him with a shot of liquor. It progressed onto serving them all dinner, Jaehyun helping you throughout all steps while your grandpa complained about the long lines for their pension and all the old people as if he wasn’t one of them. Your grandmother only backed him up a few times, rebutting his claims in others just for the sake of arguing which caused laughs to leave everyone.

It wasn’t anything new, Jaehyun had grown accustomed to their conversations. They may argue right now but other times the tone of their voices sounded harsh when all they were doing was conversing, as peaceful as they knew how. He wonders if this will ever be you two although he’s not sure he could raise his voice at you or vice versa.

Night had fallen faster than any of you would have wanted. Usually Ollie would leave whenever he pleased and no one would bat an eye but in the past hour his father had called nearly ten times and it was bothering your grandparents. You and Jaehyun too but not as much as the elders since they were the ones inside. Your grandmother had been yelling from her bed to tell Ollie his dick of a father was on the line again, in fact by the fifth call no one answered, they just knew.

So when the tenth call had rung, Ollie who had been helping you put away the left overs answered angrily telling his father to fuck off and that he’d be on the way soon, received with some scolding from him that he didn’t finish spewing from how fast Ollie hung up. It didn’t mean your scolding wasn’t on the way with how piercing your glare was.

Like a kicked sad puppy, Ollie goes to you in hopes his affection would soften the blow. “That’s not how I’ve raised you, Oliver! Your dad may be a deadbeat but you still shouldn’t talk to him like that – at least in our presence!” Your fingers nip his earlobe, a yelp leaving his bitten lips and a grunt to follow.

“You know my grandparents don’t like when you talk back so don’t do it again when they’re around, okay?” You say, a hand on your hip like a mother scolding her child. That’s essentially how you saw him and how he saw you.

“So I can talk back in front of you?” A cheeky smile received with a soft pinch to his ear. “No!” Your smile betrayed your words. He giggles at the reaction he got out of you, twisting out of your grasp to take you into a hug.

“I really wish you would just enjoy the present and the time you have with Jaehyun without dwelling on how long or how little he has left here. Enjoy the love he’s giving you and return yours, he needs it too, Y/n. For what is left...”

He sighs, holding you in a firmer grasp. Words don’t quite describe what you want to answer with but you knew he was right despite your initial hostility.

You kiss his cheek, nodding as a response. He mimics your actions before waving and heading over to your grandparents to bid his goodbyes before leaving through the middle room.

Jaehyun doesn’t know why he disappeared after dessert. Perhaps he didn’t want to face Ollie when he left and had to say goodbye, he wasn’t good with those. So here he was, on the roof next to the water tank, filling it up as an excuse to why he was so detached from everyone else. It didn’t matter though, Ollie had found him immediately that when Jaehyun heard the clanking of boots he gifted the boy against the rusted ladder, he felt dread.

He pretended to be people watching, seeing how a guy on the right side cleaned his car (it is meant to rain tomorrow or overnight). In the front, a woman bathes her dogs within the vicinity of her patio, the dog shaking and getting the water all over her. On the dirt filled path, children rode their bicycles, going around any ditches and potholes that would make them fall.

Ollie joins him, standing besides, focusing far more on how the sun was setting. He allows Jaehyun to speak first but frowns when he doesn’t; the faint sound of the phone ringing again makes him shut his eyes.

“Thank you for the gifts, you’ve done far more for me than my own dad.” He bitterly chuckles. Jaehyun turns to him, a small grin on his face that falls when the younger one speaks again.

“You’re avoiding me.” “No.”

His voice wavers, eyes trying to show Ollie he wasn’t. Ollie chuckles again, shaking his head.

“I get it, don’t worry. I don’t want to say bye either.” “I don’t want to say bye.”

Ollie nods, looking at the sights Jaehyun had looked upon. The car was clean despite the sprinkling, a child had missed a bump and fell, and the dog was laying back on dirt.

“Jaehyun, it does mean a lot to me what you’ve done these months. You kind of suck with labor and all but you’ve been of great help.” He laughs, hoping his teasing jab will ease the tension. Jaehyun rolls his eyes, hitting the back of his head softly with a silent laugh. “I’m serious though, you’ve been of great help to Y/n, it’s not easy dealing with the house work and being a caretaker. I think you’ve helped liven her up more. I’m glad you’re able to think about your present with her. I hope it doesn’t change, you make her happy and we like seeing her this way.” Ollie sighs looking at his watch, the sun has set.

“I hope you’re still here by the time I come back home–” He laughs, cutting himself off. “It’s not even my home.”

“I’ve never felt more at home than here, I understand.”

Ollie smiles at his claims, he nods with a final sigh. Before going down he gives Jaehyun a final hug and a tight squeeze. The older man mimics his actions to demonstrate his own affection.

Midway down the ladder, Ollie stops and Jaehyun tilts his head. “By the way, this came after you left earlier today.” He pulls out a wrinkled envelope from his back pocket. Immediately recognizing the ivory color and red wax seal, all Jaehyun knows is that he won’t read it any time soon.

“Bye, Jaehyun.” “Bye, Ollie.”

–

Things didn’t go back to normal after Ollie’s departure, no matter how hard everyone pretended that this hadn’t created a rupture into the atmosphere – a breach to the eco. It goes to say that Ollie helped things feel easy and fun, he was the joy you all needed and now he was gone. Things felt mundane again and to Jaehyun this wasn’t a foreign feeling but one he did not want to have here.

A week and a half without him already feels like an eternity. You and Jaehyun wonder if this is what parents feel when their children finally part ways.

On the brightside, his conversation with you helped you ease into what you felt for Jaehyun. Yes, you still sneaked kisses and affectionate touches here and there out of respect for your grandparents but it was so obvious what you two had that the elders didn’t tease you anymore for the glances and blush.

Mail day has arrived and Jaehyun once again has received a letter, one he thinks about throwing onto the pile of drafts he’s written and discarded. The letter Ollie handed him before he left tucked in between those.

He thanks the mailman, putting down the rake he used to pick up fallen leaves. Your grandfather had taught him to put them in a pile to later be burned. He contemplates throwing the letter in, watching the red wax seal spread as it melts. He can't, though, the bold red letters screaming “URGENT!” make themselves present to him.

Jaehyun sighs, shaking his head wondering what it was now as he opens the envelope. Simple greetings, some scolding and questioning, and a plane ticket. What? That was enough for Jaehyun to ignore his nonchalant attitude and let panic take over him. He took the effort to read over the letter closely without missing a detail.

Why the hell would he have a plane ticket?!

‘Dear Jaehyun,

No, scratch that. What the hell is wrong with you? We haven’t heard back from you since that call and you’re not answering the one letter we sent you. We figure and understand you’re having a great time but it does not mean you’re meant to forget your responsibilities back home. Remember how you’re supposed to send drafts? Right, you haven’t done that and given the changes made while you’ve been gone it’s best you get to it!

We miss you so don’t regard this letter as totally reproachful. Please be sure to be here and don’t miss your plane. We’ll make sure to send a fax before you make it to the airport. Till then, enjoy your time and give us a call as soon as you can.

Sincerely, Jude.’

Well this has severed his plans and mood. Was it not enough to have one departure?

30 AUG 87, 17:30 time of departure, one way only. Red bold letters mirroring the ones that caught his attention to read the components of the letter. If he had known it was for this, he would’ve thrown it in the pile of leaves and act clueless if he was to ever receive an emergency call.

His aggravation was noticeable to you the second he stepped inside the vicinity of the patio. His face sunken, something it wasn’t before leaving to clean outside. Not to mention it seemed like he was biting the inside of his cheeks, holding in his breath as a form of repression. You watch carefully, pretending to not have noticed him while cutting sugar canes near his room.

He sees you and he wants to ask something or at least find a way to begin this conversation. He should tell you, no? He should, he knows it but he’s scared and also a coward who waits for you to throw the first stone.

“Something happened?” Jaehyun stops by the step before the kitchen, facing you with a slight shake of head. “Um… does the phone run overseas calls?” It’s your turn to shake your head, firmly unlike him. “Alright, I’ll be back in a bit.”

He bolts out towards Gabby’s with the ticket inside his pocket, crumbled and wrinkled like the letter Ollie handed him. The older woman seemed to have understood the reason for his visit. The second she saw the familiar face, she pulled that phone she loved so much to the counter along with the catalog and timer, dialing the code before handing it to him. Jaehyun was thankful she didn’t drag it out, he needed answers immediately.

One ring, two rings, “Hello?” Good, rapid enough.

Jaehyun grips the phone, a tight hold that makes his subconscious scared that he’ll pop this heirloom. “I don’t want to go back!” Well, that’s a way to start a conversation.

Hyunjoo laughs, calling Jude over to let him know their golden boy finally contacted them after four months. Jude wasn’t as kind as Hyunjoo, he took the fatherly role seriously and began berating the younger of the three on why he had gone rogue.

“What if something had happened to you? Do you not care for what we feel, Jaehyun. If it wasn’t for this idiot I would’ve sent you letters and even gone to pick you up, so don’t ever pull this on us again! On me, again!” One can only imagine how red he was, up to his receding hairline.

Jaehyun would’ve laughed in the past but now the life he’s built here is soon to crumble and he doesn’t like it. “It doesn’t mean you guys can just force me back! I’ve built something here, I have something going on! I love it here and I don’t want to leave!” He whines, obvious hurt in his wavering voice.

“Yeah, well, whatever you have going on should be finished soon. You know, you only went there for inspiration and to blow some steam off, Yuno. Nothing else, my boy.” If Hyunjoo was there he would pat his cheek reassuringly, unaware of how much Jaehyun hated his little acts of condescension and belittling.

Jaehyun didn’t want to finish what he had here, he wanted to stay forever. He wanted to stay with you, your grandparents, and Ollie. He wanted to be here by the time Ollie came back to greet him with a big hug, a meal, and a trip to the hot spring he wasn’t able to enjoy before leaving. He wanted to build a life with you. Court you properly, date you, travel with you. Even marry you, he doesn’t care how early this is or how late, he wants you and everyone he’s learnt to love these months in his life. Of course his career had to get in between him and his happiness like always.

Jude sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Listen, Jaehyun… There’s nothing we can do, have you read the letter we sent you a few weeks back? That explains it all. Believe me when I say that if it was for me, you could stay there for as long as you want and go back whenever the book is published–”

“That’s the plan.” He interrupts, teeth gritting. Jude and Hyunjoo give each other a look, one that would make Jaehyun feel far more defensive if he could see it. “Jaehyun… things have changed within the publishing house. Go read the letter and we’ll see you Monday, yeah?”

Jude waited for an answer that Jaehyun never gave him. He hung up quite forcibly, receiving a glare from the store owner who muttered the amount. He didn’t stay for his change nor cared for her screams telling him to take it. Jaehyun was in an irritable mood that no one could take away from him today.

Things were definitely not fine. That’s as much as you and your grandpa could decree when Jaehyun crossed the patio straight into his room, closing the door behind him without uttering a word. The elder and you removed kernels in front of his window, under the tree for shade. You could hear him mumble incoherently, his eyebrows furrowing the further he read.

“What bug bit him?” Your grandpa whispers, cocking his head to the open window. You shrug, throwing away the cob into a bucket, fuel for the chimney. “Go ask then.” So persistent and straight to business. “What? No! I’ll wait until he tells me, pa…” But you did want to ask him what was wrong, more than anything. It’s just that your cowardice won’t allow you. The older man rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue in disappointment while feeding the chickens with fallen kernels.

Time and him can only tell what he’s feeling.

‘Dear Jaehyun,

For starters, we miss you dearly. At least I do but find it in your heart to believe Hyunjoo does so as well. We’ve respected your wishes on not contacting you, even through letters but it’s been over three months and you have yet to let us know how you are doing. Do you not care for mine and your family’s well being? I care for yours, I’ve been restless all these months wondering how you are doing. It’s far too irresponsible to not even contact your own family, Jaehyun.

Is the book in the works? How are the drafts? You know we needed drafts mailed throughout your stay, young man. How is the host treating you? I figure well enough if you haven’t contacted us yet. If not then I’ll see myself forced to call the national guard if I don’t hear from you soon!

Regardless, some updates on how things are going on our end. We’ve been able to fake some notices here and there to the publishing house about yours and the drafts whereabouts. If you must know, if you haven’t figured it out already – which is possible, being in such an isolated village… – Mark is in the process of publishing his next book. His last ones have been a great success and been able to knock some of yours from bestsellers therefore things are becoming harsh around here.

The publishing house wants you back immediately and wants your book ready. Hyunjoo has managed to give you more time before it’s edited and the final print is chosen but the new investors are pushing the house and they are desperate for a contender against Mark’s book. So please, cut your time short and don’t miss your plane! I’ll make sure to send the ticket soon when I’m able to obtain it.

Best regards, Jude.’

Jaehyun doesn’t know what to think. He now understands multiple jobs are on the line but so is his happiness. Even so if he goes and turns in whatever he has – which isn’t enough for even a first draft – what guarantees all of them that it will be published by the time Mark’s is? They can’t just publish some nonsensical thoughts he’s scribbled down for the sake of beating another child protege author.

Mark’s work is far different from Jaehyun’s, he’s youthful in the way he writes, his metaphors are far more enthusiastic and fun. He’s great within young audiences and those seeking to remove themselves from melancholia. He’s everything Jaehyun isn’t and in both their brains, they know they can’t compete for something neither are reaching for.

Matter of fact, that’s not his concern right now. His concern is on how to break the news to you and your family. He’s supposed to leave by the end of this week, what are you going to do in such a short notice? What is he going to do in such short notice? Things were finally starting to align, why must bad things always happen to him– you– both.

One thing is for sure, he has to tell you immediately. But first he’s going to go back to Gabby’s and buy whichever pack of beers and some chips, maybe even some bread in case you feel your blood pressure rise (he’ll eat it, most likely). Arriving there and getting the items, he’s grateful the older woman honored the change he had left, even gifted him a chocolate as she sensed that something was off. Jaehyun thanks her and contemplates on saying goodbye but it’s too soon. Instead he nods and waves on his way back.

He doesn’t have the courage to go past the threshold, opting to sit on the uncomfortable and textured concrete bench by the door of your’s and your grandmother’s bedroom. He hears the loud melodrama of her soap operas and the sewing machine she doesn’t leave alone. Another dress for you, he figures she’s making.

There’s the faint sound of music coming from your grandfather’s car, the one he and Ollie worked on often and that Jaehyun began helping with due to his absence. It pains Jaehyun to know that the elder will once again lose the aid he claims to not want but appreciates wholeheartedly.

His sigh elicits company, or perhaps the pop from the beer bottle had attracted it so here you were, standing by the metal threshold that separated you and him from inside to outside. Your head tilts, looking at him as if trying to read the grievances on his face.

“Misery likes company.”

Your voice makes his head snap, eyes glistening while drowning in the sweetness of your company. He smiles shortly, patting the empty spot to his right, the sun is setting fastly.

He takes your hand into his, kissing the palm and fingers before pulling you in for an embrace. All of this was scaring you the more and more he remained quiet and it only seems like your brain was already processing the inevitable.

“Got a letter from my manager…” “So?”

“My “rival” is putting out a book soon according to them and they want me to send in a draft already for the final print.” His fingers curl at the quotation marks, rolling his eyes at how stupid it all felt. “Ah… well, do you have anything to send then?” He shakes his head, apologies on your face. “We can stay this entire week so you can work on it, how does that sound? Pa doesn’t have to check on the crops any time soon and there isn’t really anywhere else we could go, not anywhere near.”

There’s so much pep in your voice that it hurts to think about how short the remaining days will feel. He has to tell you and he has to tell you now.

“I leave this Sunday, Y/n.” “Oh.”

Jaehyun didn’t mean to say it like this but how else was he meant to? He didn’t want to drag it out longer nor agitate you but he also didn’t want to hurt you and that’s all he can read on your face. Hurt.

Misery does love company.

Your body slumps against the adobe wall, harsh against your backbones. The hand he holds falls limp against his touch and all Jaehyun can do as comfort is kissing it before placing the open bottle in your hand, opening another for himself.

He hadn’t had the time to burn the pile of leaves and the sun was far more foreign by now. That shade of blue coloring his face, an obvious demonstration of his feelings from the past hour. Yet it’s you who takes the initiative to take out the box of matches from the apron you wear, forgetting that you were cooking dinner just to check up on him.

The flame catches fast, rising as you whisper your grievances into it, taking a sip of your drink. Jaehyun doesn’t say anything, he tries to take a hold of your hand but he hesitates, fearful that you won’t want it. Instead he throws both letters onto the fire, helping its consumption and anger. At least now you both have let something go.

The morning after, both elders made sure to not ask any favors out of him and let him to his own vices. They understood he’s meant to get his work done so they didn’t want to add stress onto him. But this continued onto the third and fourth day of the week and Jaehyun was aching more and more as his time fell short. He felt just as inutile as his first week, if not more than that week. He also felt his heart ache only having meals to spend with you all but even then he began feeling like the foreigner he was.

Conversations with him were as cordial as before but not as cheery. They asked about his book and what he had ready. They asked if his suitcase was prepared and if he was happy to go back home. Your grandpa did his best to joke around but would soon drop it when he felt his voice tremble. He’s always worn his heart in his sleeve and another one he saw as a son will now leave him again.

Your grandmother on the other hand was the most level headed. She made sure Jaehyun was kept on track with his work and even helped clean his room when he begged her not to tire herself. She’s faced much loss and pain, a stranger leaving wasn’t going to knock her down. If anything, she feels for how you will act once he’s gone.

By dinner time you and your grandfather had bolted out of the kitchen, feeding the animals any leftovers and giving them their own meal. That left him and your grandmother in the kitchen. She was in the process of taking some water from the bucket in the chimney, he did it instead. Pouring it into another container where your grandmother would then add cold water for balance.

She thanked him and told him he should go back to work but Jaehyun didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to be alone, he’s been so for the past three days and it’s corroding his soul. He wants to take away the happy memories, he wants his final days to be fun. He’s begging for you all to not do this to him. He needs contact and affection, he needs it.

“So… you have everything ready?” She tries to converse, passing the soapy sponge over the dirty plates. He nods, rinsing it. “Not excited, I’m guessing.” Jaehyun’s pout is enough of an answer. “Look at it on the brightside. You’ll be able to get it over with and the doors here are always open for you.”

He should know she means it, the problem is that he doesn’t know when he’ll be back. How long will it take for the book to be published? How long will promotions last? What if he’s forced to work on something else straight after? Jesus Christ, he’s not even back yet and he’s already stressing about his reality.

“Yeah?” “Yes.”

Jaehyun smiles at her.

“Will you take care of Y/n for me?” He asks again, putting away the dishes he’s rinsed. She laughs nodding, “She’s taking care of us, I think she’ll manage well.” Jaehyun laughs as well, feeling foolish. “I don’t think you should worry too much about her, Jaehyun. She’s strong and can handle this. As long as you two keep in contact, I believe it will be fine.” She pats his back, leaving a wet hand print that warms his muscles.

He contemplates on taking the advice. Your grandmother has said everything he already knows about you but perhaps he’s projecting his own feelings. He’ll need another source for advice and there’s no one better than your grandfather.

Jaehyun excuses himself, rinsing and drying the few dishes left before walking out to help your grandfather on the car. The older man sat pensive while looking around the vehicle, loud music coming out of it to drown any thoughts.

Hopping on the co-pilot seat, Jaehyun smiles at him, dusting away some stray picked up dust. “It’s looking better now.” He compliments, your grandpa nods, humming with a following hearty laugh. “You’re much better at this than me.” The older one shakes his head, continuing his laughter. “These things take time, you just need to practice more. When you come back I’ll help you with it.” Your grandpa is far more hopeful than the rest of you, that reassures him enough.

“You’ll let me in again?”

“Yes. You make my kids happy and you’ve been of great help even when you didn’t have to.” His laughter subsided, turning into a smile he was struggling to maintain. “It’s a shame you’re leaving so soon.” He hiccups, waterworks on the way. “We’ll miss you, kid. Especially Y/n…” The mention of your name was enough for him to begin his silent sobs, tears beginning to spill.

If there is one thing he can count on is your grandfather expressing what you and your grandmother aren’t able to. Jaehyun sniffles himself, comforting with some rubs to the older’s shoulder before hugging him. Now he knows how appreciated and loved he is and for that he is thankful.

Your grandpa attempts to stop crying, laughing in between to seem like everything was fine. That was always his way of trying to control himself. “You’ll come back, right?” Jaehyun nods, smiling at him while wiping away a stray tear. “As soon as possible. I want a life here.” Your grandfather smiles at him, looking straight to where his headlights shine.

“I’m not from here either. I was born and raised in a city an hour or two from here– you’ve been there, that’s where the airport is.” Jaehyun recalls his first day, the bustling and loud city with historical architecture. It was beautiful, surely, but it doesn’t compare to this village and its own beauty.

“I’ve worked my entire life since I can remember, seven to be specific. By eighteen I found myself here, I was young and my only experience came from the mines and cleaning cars but agriculture is a booming business here so somehow I found my way to a ranch that was hiring to work on machinery. I didn’t know how to work a car let alone a tractor but I was hungry and needed money to send back home. My dad died when I was only three and my mom was left alone with five kids. I had to help her. I lied my way through with the owner and I was young so he took me in.”

Everyone starts somewhere and soon falls in love with the place.

“I stayed at a shack they had built by plots, their own home wasn’t too far so I often went by to ask for a glass of water. That’s when I met Y/n’s grandmother. She’s always been this cold and serious. I would chug the water down and then beg her for more. She would roll her eyes and complain but would always come back with it filled to the brim, ice cold.” He laughs, tears finally gone.

“From then on I kept trying to talk with her even if she pretended to hate it. I’d ask her sisters and sometimes her brothers but it was tricky, I didn’t want them to beat my ass up for thinking about their sister! So, I would have enough with whatever conversations we would have when she brought the workers drinks and food or at dances. One time her own father told me to ask her to dance and since then I never left her alone. With his blessing, then none of her family would interfere and sooner than later I asked her to marry me so here we are, sixty years later and twelve kids.”

“Is this you giving me your blessing to be with Y/n?” Jaehyun half jokes but there’s so much sincerity in his voice that he can’t deny being hopeful. The older man nods and laughs, clasping his back. “As if you needed it… I often went back to my own family but still came back because I love this place and everything it has offered me. Similar to you… I hope your love for Y/n is as strong as mine was years ago. I would hate to see a different fate for you two.”

Jaehyun didn’t know how to respond to that, he truly wished to be back as soon as possible and he would fight tooth and nail to make it possible. Yes, it’s different from him and your grandfather due to the distance but he will make it work because he loves you, he loves you so much that he can’t seem to express it properly.

“Thank you…” “It’s just advice.”

The older man leaves him to his vices and thoughts. With another laugh and a nod bidding him goodnight, he turns the car off, leaving Jaehyun in the dark.

Jaehyun thinks about both conversations all night. He feels a sense of relief knowing he’s had a heart to heart with two of the most important people in your life. It’s good to know they approve of him and the love he has for you. He hopes you’re as understanding and hopeful as your grandparents.

Saturday came as a surprise to him. The roosters weren’t the ones to wake him up, it was your grandpa who excitedly told him to gather all his things. Jaehyun tried to question what was going on but the elder gave him no time. His hearty laugh was enough of an answer, taking the few suitcases he saw in the corner while pushing Jaehyun into the restroom to get ready. He’s not sure what’s going on but he won’t protest, it’s the first time this week that he feels included.

Within half an hour everyone was ready, Jaehyun noticed you too were surprised by the sudden change of plans. You weren’t your usual put-together self and kept yawning resulting in you sleeping throughout the entire car ride. He took this moment to take pictures of the road. Previously he had compared it to his time in West America, he now doesn’t think it’s too comparable. The vegetation is bright and green, most of it coming from incoming crops and lively trees.

Within an hour your grandfather stopped at a town, it was time for breakfast. Both raved about the food despite how spicy it was while you and your grandmother made fun of them. Jaehyun took this chance to take more pictures, candid ones of you and your family with the prettiest decoration in the background. Every memory counts.

Afterwards, you all take a moment to explore the quaint town for a bit, simply so Jaehyun can get some souvenirs. It reminded him of two past towns he’s visited during his time here. One where he had to fight for a seat to be able to eat. Meal which ended up being one of the most disgusting things he’s ever had. He won’t ever tell the rest of you that but you share his sentiment. The second one being where your grandpa struggled to find parking and almost left. He likes that one better.

It’s not to say this town isn’t beautiful, it is. It’s historical, colorful, and calm. Very calm and quiet, something that reminds him of the best village which is where he resided for the past few months. How he loves it there and he’ll hold it to his heart.

Getting his pictures and souvenirs, it was set to take another two hours on the road, only stopping when having to use the restroom which unfortunately due to age is something your grandparents needed often. In those moments Jaehyun would reminisce on the day you two took those photos and bought Ollie’s truck, the one he saw daily perched next to the fine china in the cabinet with a passport picture of him.

“Well here we are, the city I was born in.” Your grandfather’s voice made sure to take away the last bits of drowsiness from you. Your last visit was at fifteen and from the looks of it, nothing had changed. It’s amazing for Jaehyun to tell how different life was between the countryside and the city. The moment you all came to see the skyscrapers and bridges, it felt like a totally different part of the world. It was louder, much more polluted and littered, but for sure not horrendous. Your grandfather made sure to tell him the story of this city like he had done for every village and town visited.

For the majority of the day you all spent it looking around. At the entrance, your grandparents pushed you to ride on the cableway that dropped you off directly downtown. You tried to make them get in it with you both but they excused themselves with being too old and preferring to meet you there with the car. You all knew it was so you and Jaehyun could spend a couple of minutes alone.

“It’s pretty.” “Not as pretty as home.”

Jaehyun smiles at you, taking your hand into his. You return the gesture, squeezing his warm hand in yours.

“Is your city pretty? I’ve heard it is.”

“I’m not talking about where I’ll go back, Y/n. I’m talking about back home. With you, your grandparents, and Ollie.” He wraps an arm around your shoulder to pull you closer. Within you and the colorful buildings beneath, Jaehyun is sure to say the view during his time has always been beautiful.

“Do you truly want a life with me?” You shift, close yet with a distance. It was a simple answer, there’s no reason to lie. His smile, dimples, eyes, and even his reddened ears told you he did. Words are preferable though. “Yes.” leaves his rosy lips, kissing you to imprint the confirmation.

Only time will tell how true to his word he is.

You met your grandparents shortly, both bickering about where to reside when night befalls. The topic fell to deaf ears, prefering to explore more about the city. Murals that he wouldn’t forget, traffic as bad as where he resides with the exception that entertainment began the second redlights turn on. Street food that smells delicious and calls his name within every second.

It’s similar yet so distinct from what he has learned to love. It’s clear to him that no matter how familiar you are to one thing, there will always be more to learn about it.

It was near dinner time and within an hour or two from sundown. That forced your grandparents to argue again about the same thing from earlier. This time you two got to learn that your grandfather wanted to rest in his childhood home with his family while your grandmother wanted to avoid that at all costs. She’ll tolerate a visit but won’t give them the benefit of being their host, that’s her role. Not to mention she won’t forget all their wrongdoings towards her and her husband no matter how much the latter attempts to have a happy family.

Words thrown here and there, you all decree to eat out. Both you and your grandmother brought up the time his sister cooked unhygienically that he ended up having a stomach bug for the following three days. He laughs at this and leads you all to your favorite spot, somewhere Jaehyun yearns to taste again for years to come.

You all do end up visiting his family before the sun falls, a quick in and out situation. Jaehyun didn’t pay too much attention to the conversations, he was more entranced with the portraits on the walls and the cracks of chipped paint that told the story of this home.

“Why do you keep looking at the cracks?”

Your voice forces Jaehyun to turn to you, extending his hand to feel your warmth. “Do you think they’re due to poor care or the house growing old with its inhabitants? Your grandpa said he doesn’t recall the ones from this wall.” Your head tilts, looking at them as if you two were in a museum. Perhaps you should take him there tomorrow before his departure.

“Will you write that in your book?” He laughs, taking you into an embrace. “Okay smarty pants how do you word it normally, then?” You return the gesture. “I wouldn’t even think about it for starters, there’s so many back home. Why would I care about this one?”

“I’ve seen how much care you all give the home, there’s barely any cracks. The question is answered for that house.”

“Then… I guess you can find an answer for this one. We’ve been here for an hour or so and there’s plenty more people living here who haven’t greeted them at least.”

You both turn to your grandparents. Grandma sitting silently and aggravated in the corner with a cup of water that she hasn’t touched. Your grandfather enjoys his talk with his sisters despite their spouses talking over and for them. His nephews and nieces, nowhere seen but heard through these same cracks Jaehyun wonders so much about.

Yes, he has his answer. A house without love crumbles faster.

The sun had fallen sooner than expected and with that your grandmother finally found an excuse to leave. The other elders offered to let you all stay with no avail when even your grandfather told them it wasn’t necessary. He knew of a nearby hotel, clean, and hospitable that you could all stay at and his wishes were final.

Immediately as the doors were closed behind your backs, the ruckus of the other four families living there could be heard. It’s clear as day where their intentions laid and why not a single picture of you or your family was on their walls.

When questioning why he denied their offer knowing other times he’d agree immediately, he only muttered a simple: “They didn’t even greet you or Jaehyun. What kind of hosts will they be?” Jaehyun felt a part of the family.

Room distribution went as follows. Your grandfather and Jaehyun would share a room, each with their own bed. Same thing applied to you and your grandmother, a concept you knew too well. This was the first and final night in which you two wouldn’t share a kiss through the bathroom window. You miss it like you’ll miss him.

The following morning isn’t as kind to either of you. The previous day none of you were able to process the severity that it was his final day with all of you. Enamored with what the city offered and the warmth of feeling loved by everyone within the circle, no one felt the harsh reality that is now overcoming you all. There’s ten hours left of his stay.

Silence is the first thing that you all notice, no matter how hard you all try to erase it. Being aware that time is ticking weighs down on your shoulders. Walking through these streets feels slightly surreal. Like a Dali painting, walking through a sea of melting clocks. A torment is what he’d call it.

He manages to get a few more souvenirs, he’s not sure for who or if he’s trying his best to collect every single piece as a memory, he’ll lean towards the latter. Besides, he snags some final gifts for you, your family, and even Ollie, it’s the least he can do besides memories. He’ll be taking those and who knows when he’ll be able to show them to you all.

Within the fifth hour your grandparents rendered themselves tired and tried forcing you two to go on your own. Jaehyun didn’t want that, as much as he loves time with you, he also loves spending time with them. The two have taught him many things, brought many laughs and anecdotes he cherishes dearly.

To be maintained happy, he invites you all to a final dinner. It’s much earlier than usual but he would miss his flight if you’d have to wait till usual hours. Your grandparents attempt to protest, claiming they’re bad hosts if they let him pay but they’re fighting a losing battle and Jaehyun will make sure he can grant them everything before he goes back to reality.

It’s by far enjoyable and it helps him reminisce on all previous meals within those cold adobe walls he loved since day one. It’s dim in the restaurant, recalling the time it rained so hard the streets became rivers and light went out for the remainder of the day. You all ate under candle light while your grandparents told scary stories of the village.

Dinner was the only condition for you to leave your grandparents to rest. With all the heaviness in his heart, Jaehyun fulfilled their wishes. And while you thought it was best to leave them at the hotel, the two continued their stubborn streak and ended up sitting at a park to people-watch. Naturally, they needed live entertainment.

Three and a half hours left, so little time and so much left to do.

You essentially were a tourist just as him, both experiencing new attractions that you only saw in passing the one time you came by. It led to both jumping from museum to museum. National and independent, art and history, for food and tools. It didn’t matter but it filled the empty space and the forced silence helped neither of you spill what flooded your minds.

“I liked the tools museum better.” You retort, almost skipping down the steps to avoid the sun rays. It was much hotter than it ever had been back in town. “Really? I thought the history museum was really nice.” He covers his eyes, rushing to your side. “Nothing Pa hasn’t told you.” He nods, shrugging with a little shimmy to his shoulders.

He looks at his watch and sighs, there isn’t much time left. “Where to next?” His words form a pit in your stomach, forcing yourself to look at the numbers on it. You ignore it, dawning on you that you’ve never spoken in-depth about his job. What’s your thought process when coming up with your books?”

He hums, “For my first books, they were all inspired by cases I heard back home. Where I was born. They’re bleak but there’s still a sense of hope. On top of it I read a lot of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy growing up so I felt like a cynic comparing both their work, trying my best to create a middle ground that would represent me.” He cocks his head, it’s a bitter taste to him these days.

“Those two lead to my last two. I’m not fond of them, I won’t lie. They’re rushed and robotic, it’s noticeable in the tone but the publishing house wanted something fast and since they sold well, they didn’t care about how I felt, that’s why I’m here now. They wanted this book to be rushed and as miserable as those but I can’t handle writing anything of the sorts anymore. I would’ve ended up like Plath, Hemingway or Dazai if I wrote about how miserable life is once again.”

Jaehyun couldn’t understand if the look on your face was pity or empathy, he didn’t want to see it. “Don’t worry about this one. I’ve found meaning and great inspiration. I’ll dedicate it to you.”

You laugh against his lips, pulling away to kiss his cheek. “How will I know when it’ll come out?” He shrugs, kissing your hand. “I don’t either but I’ll make sure to deliver the copy straight to you.”

“What makes you think I’ll still be here by the time it’s published?”

Jaehyun was under the impression that you’d be here too. Your grandmother had reassured him they would always have their doors and arms open for him but he never thought that meant without you.

“I’ll find my way to you even if I have to go to the end of the world so I can read the token of my adoration for you.”

‘Of my love’ is what he wants to say, hanging on his tongue yet too scared to dive out. You seem to read his mind, kissing him instead to swallow what neither of you can say just yet.

There was still some time left but nothing else worth seeing. Perhaps it was best to gather all your belongings from the hotel, you had the keys to the car and it shouldn’t take you too long. By this point it would be best to waste time at the airport, as dreaded as it is.

Upon arrival time made itself present. The father clock in the lobby allows its ticking to echo through the tiles that you love. The ones in each room weren’t any better. Screaming far louder than the rest that when Jaehyun finished packing his and your grandfather’s bag to make way towards your room, all he could hear was the ringing in his ears. Dreadful and painful as the feeling in his heart.

He watched you look through the night stands, making sure your grandmother’s medication wasn’t left behind. He had done the same for your grandfather, his medicine case tucked inside his bag. There’s a forlorn look in his eyes, you don’t miss it when turning to smile at him, comfortingly. You want to ask about it but fear it will consume you as well if you dwell on it.

“Ready?”

Jaehyun shakes his head, joining you on the bed and taking you in a tight embrace. In every sense he wasn’t ready to part ways. You try to laugh it off, kissing his cheek and tightening your grip. Your hands caressing his back to bring some type of comfort but it does the opposite.

Jaehyun can now understand why your grandfather breaks down so easily. The weight of one’s emotions are soon to leave when you allow yourself to be free. That may also explain why he’s always so joyful, he’s free of all his grievances but for Jaehyun it will follow him for eternity if things are not fixed as soon as possible.

“This isn’t the last time, Jaehyun… Please don’t cry.” You cradle his face, wiping away his tears that shine like diamonds under the sun rays peeking in through the window. He hiccups, sniffling to control his sobs. “It doesn’t change how difficult it is to say goodbye.” He pouts, lips so rosy and puffed. You kiss them tenderly for comfort and warmth, it’s the least you could do. Words aren’t your forte and you don’t want him to see how gutted you truly are despite trying to hold a front all this time.

Jaehyun returns the actions of affection, holding you for dear life while kissing you like no tomorrow. Muffled words leave him, incoherent to you yet you swallow them. Like the blood of Christ, you don’t let a blood drop if it means your salvation.

“I-I” He attempts to sound what he wants to say, you don’t allow him. Shaking your head fervently, slipping your tongue in the cavity of his mouth to mute him further. You know what he wants to say but if he does, it will make things far more difficult than they already are.

Jaehyun submits to your cowardice and lets the ticking of the clocks guide him. His hands hold your body near him, pulling you onto his lap to feel you closer. He wants more and so do you, God knows when you’ll meet again.

Fingers threading through his hair, sliding down to his neck, kneading the warm skin you love so much. The actions lead to silent mewls to leave his lips for you to take. You’re so appreciative of the gift that you deepen the kiss, letting his hands roam under your blouse to feel you closer and closer. It’s your turn to gift him a sweet sound that he wishes he could trap into a music box for him to wind and listen to it on repeat daily.

Jaehyun decrees that your blouse is in the way. Too thick and cold, nothing like your skin as he feels now. His large hands take a firm grip of the textile, pulling it off. You’re exposed and he can read what your heart has hidden all this time. Jaehyun prefers to kiss it away, his pillowy lips delicately falling against your chest. Kissing it tenderly to create more of those pretty sounds that hypnotize him.

You hold him while he does, kissing the crown of his head. Granting him what he wants while your hips softly rock against his, friction forcing him to become rougher. A soft gasp leaves your lips when he softly nips the goosebump filled skin, nimble fingers undoing your brazier. One hand covering one while his teeth take your nipple in between them.

“Jaehyun…” It’s all he wanted to hear. His tongue is warm against your tit, kissing it like his life depends on it. Perhaps it does, neither of you are sure but prefer to act like so. You on the other hand work on unbuttoning his shirt, the cool linen doing no justice to the warmth of his skin that you crave. Little by little you both feel closer to each other.

He gently lays you down, between the warmth of your bodies and the sunrays witnessing your farewell ritual, the cold had nothing against you. You watch him, admiring every crevice of his body while pushing off your bottoms, leaving you bare for him to gawk at while unbuttoning his pants.

Your giddy smile teasing him to hurry, giggles reinforcing the sentiment. Taking his shaft in between his warm hands, Jaehyun begins to pump slowly. You attempt to replace his hands with your own which he denies. Your touch will send him overboard without even beginning.

Instead he crawls on the bed and over you, kissing you like he always does. With sweet adoration and love, one you take thankfully. You make sure to cradle his face, his upper body in contact with yours as his fingers thread closer in between your legs. The digits waltz around your inner thighs, reminiscing on the path you and him often took to the plaza and market for your daily shopping trips.

He smiles into the kiss, the memories of all he’s experienced with you consuming him. The position alone brings him to that day at the hot spring where you two began this but never got to go further. The wait was over and he had you here. Caged between his arms, flesh against flesh, warmth radiating and your pretty sounds that he couldn’t get enough of.

Slowly his fingers intrude the cavern between your legs, a gasp leaving your lips that helped him deepen the kiss. His tongue enters your mouth, finding yours immediately to participate in a waltz where the two could share the words that neither of you were strong enough to share. His fingers curl and pump languidly within you. The action is so foreign and long forgotten that you feel like putty beneath him.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, warm breath danced across his skin. Lips perfectly wrapping around the flesh of his red earlobe. He’s so sweet and easy to digest, you wish to swallow him so he never leaves you but you know that can’t be so you will make do with what these few minutes can bring to you.

It’s not far off that he takes his fingers out of you, sticking his tongue out to savor you. Just as sweet as you find him. He moans in delight, rubbing off the dripping essence on his throbbing cock that had earlier been rubbing up against your leg. Jaehyun looks directly at you while pumping himself once again. You no longer look playful but rather hungry and desperate. You needed him like one would need air. Like an addict needs their fix and you fear yours will be taken away from you once you’re both done. The ticking clocks are making it boldly aware.

His eyebrows turn up, eyes softening as if asking if you’re ready. You nod as a response, replacing his hand and continuing his strokes, dragging him downwards slowly in the process. He knew if you touched him he would be thrown overboard, he’s near it but he’ll try to last just for you. And for the sake to excuse being together for longer.

Jaehyun fixed his position above you, nudging your legs minimally to fit between them. He went in slowly, bit by bit. Avoiding any discomfort that he could bring you. You pay him with pleasured moans and kisses to shut yourself up, he graciously takes them.

“I–” he wants to say it, he wants to tell you how much he loves you. This feels like the perfect time. You shot him down again with that sweet smile of yours, shimming your hips to which he responds by beginning his thrusts. They’re gentle and steady, enough to make you feel something that you’re only able to describe through silent mewls. He holds you tightly, pulling one of your legs above his hip. Jaehyun tries everything to feel you closer, he wants to go deeper and deeper to no avail, his thrusts can only go so far and it makes him yearn for the possibility that he could have more of you but so little time and resources to figure it out.

Jaehyun can’t believe this is it. He’s thankful this is the memory of you he’ll take with him, he’ll cherish it with every fiber in him, treasuring it like one would the eucharist. All he could think about was how wonderful you felt and how perfect your body molds to his. If this isn’t a sign that you’re meant for each other then he doesn’t know what is.

He worships you in these moments and will continue to do so when he’s gone. He now understands the feeling devotees feel when finding their God and as sacrilegious as it is, Jaehyun’s mind won’t change. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you…

And most of all you feel his love within you. It manifests itself through tears streaming down your cheek, moans muddled with sobs that he can’t decipher to stop and comfort you or continue his thrusts. You answer for him, begging him to keep going, that you’re so close but he knows there’s more to those words besides lust.

He prods, kissing you, being the one to beg this time to let him know what was wrong but you smile and kiss him along. Leaving a trail of kisses along his jugular and shoulders, hands grasping to his flesh for dear life.

“My sweet girl.. Please tell me what’s wrong? Y/n, I lo–” “I love you, I love you, I love you! I love you, Jaehyun.”

Jaehyun’s thrusts speed with every repeated word, elated to hear you say what he has wanted to all this time. To hear you spew the words he finally had the courage to let out. For you to hear and engrave in your heart and brain the way he has done so with your own.

He smiles, kissing you with a final thrust. Pulling out to place the proof of his love on your cramping stomach, the pain leaving when you, yourself release. Without a care for the mess, he lays on you, craving your warmth and touch.

“I love you too. More than you’ll ever know or understand.” The whisper pollutes the room, kissing you to cement the sentiment. You sigh, kissing the crown of his head, cradling his body against yours. If it was up to you, you would not mind dying like this. With the city’s racket as background noise, your heart palpitating against his ear, and his breathing the anecdote to tranquilize you.

Time wasn’t forgiving, his departure time was coming sooner than ever. Reluctantly, both pull away for a quick shower. It felt surreal how slow time felt when enthralled within the love you both had for each other but when reality hit, it rushed you all through the motion. Picking up your grandparents from the park, driving in silence to the airport while dealing with some traffic and the static of the radio. All of this just to arrive at the airport with minutes to spare and for the universe to not understand the pain you all felt.

It’s surreal how cruel and love can be.

“I guess this is it, huh?” Jaehyun is the first to break the silence, holding back his sobs, the redness of his nose and ears give him away. Your grandfather laughs, nodding as he takes him into a hug in which both men break down in a fit of cries. Your grandmother gives you a look, she wants to say something snarky but her tough exterior proves futile when even she feels a weep stuck in her throat.

“You’ll contact us, right?” Your grandfather wipes his nose, sniffling while smiling warmly at the younger. Jaehyun nods, taking out his pocket book, scribbling his address for you all to send him letters. He doesn’t need yours, he has it saved by memory.

Your grandmother is second in hugging him, slipping in a bill for him to buy something back home. Both know it’s useless where he’ll go but he’ll cherish it as a memory from her just like the box of cigarettes your grandfather had gotten him. He doesn’t smoke but a token of love is a token of love.

The elder woman pats his cheek, smiling at him tenderly. She hopes this isn’t the last time she’ll see him but she more so than anything hopes he doesn’t disappoint you after this departure.

“Take care.”

It leaves you at last. No more to say, no more actions to show. You just hope he comes back to you as promised.

“I’ll miss you.” Your fingers fiddle with the paper in hand, his pretty handwriting hypnotizing you to believe this moment isn’t real.

“I love you.” That’s enough to call your attention. His palm cradles your face and he steals a quick tender kiss. Embarrassment of having done so in front of your grandparents floods you, you only hope they understand which they do.

“I love you too…”

You had all drowned the calling from the greeter at the door earlier on but things had to be done and reluctantly you both let go. Watching him enter that path had taken a piece of you and when he was out of view, your entire body felt like it would crumble.

You tried your darndest to not cry. To not show your grandparents how much his departure was hurting you. Futile is what they would call it, your sobs were becoming louder as your grandfather drove back home, hoping to get there before night caught up to you all.

Nothing good ever comes out of crying. You’ve known this for a while, for you and your grandmother crying only continues to further make you miserable. Not like the relief it brings your grandfather and Jaehyun, that’s something you think you’re both cursed on.

It wasn’t too far on the road that you kept missing him. Regretting not carrying the film strip with pictures of you both to look at him at every moment now. Your only token of his existence came from the piece of paper between your fingers. Flapping around with the harsh air coming in from your grandfather’s rapid driving.

You believe it smells like him, Jaehyun’s soft musk that you love with all your being. It’s even warm from his grasp, and his pretty handwriting taunts you, letting you know it was permanent on it unlike with you. The paper will remember Jaehyun’s actions against it, it has proof, not like you who will rot at the fact that his actions can be erased easily. What’s worse is that the paper continues to torture you, freeing itself from your fingers and flying out of the car at a rate that even if your grandfather stops you won’t catch up to it nor find it.

“No!”

Your words are useless and frightening to be heard from the elders who question what happened. You tell them between sobs, losing all composure. Hunching over yourself to cry against your knees. This was it, you knew it was too good to be true. Your only hope relies on the letter Jaehyun will send you.

Letters that will never arrive.

Questions. There’s plenty of those that have plagued Jaehyun’s mind since he left. He remembers leaving on great terms but as the months progressed his letters were left unanswered. If he had taken in the home phone number or Gabby’s he’d call for them years ago. Instead he found himself at the front door of the place he once called home with a panic rushing through his blood stream but hopeful nostalgia in his heart.

There was a doorbell outside of the patio door, it had been painted orange. Very fluorescent, it reminded him of Gabby’s store. He had passed by it on his way here, buying a few beers like the day he learnt he had to go back. She didn’t remember him and he made no effort to remind her. Some things are better left in the past.

He didn’t hear many animals inside and it worried him, scared of how much change had been done. It took a couple of minutes for the door to be answered. Received by the presence of a kid he didn’t know but seemed to be around three years old.

“Who?” He looks at Jaehyun quizzically, tilting his head like Ollie used to do. “Um… is Mr. and Mrs–” “Don’t open doors, how many times do I have to tell you that!”

Well there’s a voice he recognized. Jaehyun stood up straight, looking up from the kid to the owner of the voice. When both took in the image of the other, Ollie was the first to take Jaehyun into an embrace. So much giddiness and joy in his squeal that he felt like that nineteen year old again. Even his grasp is childish and brute, shaking Jaehyun around. Jaehyun laughs, squeezing Ollie in return.

“I didn’t think you’d ever come back! When did you get here?” The patio looked the same. Fewer sheep and goats in the pen, Camila was gone and replaced with a pig. The dogs were strangers to him and the cats seemed to have forgotten him just like the chickens.

Ollie led him to the kitchen, at least that remained the same and he felt comforted by that fact. The two took a seat not far from each other, firewood crackling in the chimney to bring them warmth. Jaehyun handed him a beer bottle, cheering for his return and Ollie’s growth.

“Why didn’t you think I’d return? I promised you all I would.” Jaehyun smiles, wiping away the alcohol residue from his lips. Ollie shrugs, doing the same. “You never kept in contact so after a few months of not getting your letters we lost hope. I was really mad at you for the longest time… I thought you had just abandoned us… Y/n.”

Jaehyun is aware of the spite in his tone but he can’t help but feel vindicated for something that isn’t true. His eyebrows furrow, leaning over the table for Ollie to feel his confusion. The younger one tilts his head like the boy from earlier.

“Ollie, I kept sending letters nearly every week for the past five years. I thought you all were the ones to leave me in the cold. What do you mean I didn’t keep in contact?” The roles seemed to have reversed. Ollie mimicked Jaehyun’s stance, elbows on the table while downing the remains of his drink.

“We never got a single letter. Pa was so disappointed he cried often about it. Ma didn’t but it was obvious in the way she took care of her plants. Your departure was enough but you really hurt them after that, they saw you as a son, you know.” Ollie shakes his head, swatting a fly away to avoid looking at Jaehyun.

“And Y/n… you really ruined her, Jaehyun. She would spend days in your room hoping to find an address or a phone number. At least to reproach your actions but instead she would cry herself to sleep in there. Her parents had to take her back home after a year, so she found a job and Ma and Pa were taken in by their daughter. She was doing better by then but still had to stay in the city just in case. They left me to take care of the house but it’s not the same.”

Ollie’s voice is no longer harsh, it’s hurt. Jaehyun can’t help but blame himself with how things unfolded but he was sure he wrote those letters. He kept copies of them to recall everything he once said to you and them and if he had known you never received them, he would’ve bought them.

“I-I…” He sighs, “I promise I sent the letters! I made sure to drop them off at the publishing house’s mailing room. I can’t believe this…” His hand comes to his forehead but Ollie shrugs, picking at some peanuts he had laying around. “Beats me then. Why didn’t you visit in that case? We waited long enough.”

Reality is that there will always be evil lurking around and seeing how this place brought you joy and peace, the publishing house did everything in their power to yank it away from him. Jaehyun isn’t a bubbling author full of life and hope. No, Jaehyun is a bleak cynical writer who dwells on the hatred he has for the house and manifests it through broody characters that find no meaning in life. If they had to bring that back, they would. He can have his one train wreck of a joyful book but newcomers have to go back to what they were.

Jaehyun’s head hangs low, all excuses feeling useless. “Manger and publisher didn’t let me. We spent two years editing the final draft and by the following, publishing was in the works but the investors tried everything to change it that we had to fight for another year or so. I wasn’t even allowed to visit my parents, they had to come to me. Isn’t that insane?”

Ollie nods, sympathy and pity muddling on his face. Cruelty at its finest.

“We only traveled for promotions at the end of last year once it was published and some months after this one but I ‘escaped’ if you will and here I am.” His smile twists to the side, dawning upon him that misery will accompany him everywhere he goes.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? It’s not your fault.” Jaehyun hands him another bottle. Ollie nods, “I know, but things could’ve been different if you didn’t work in hell.”

The two laugh, clinking their bottles again. All was lost but one thing and that was the hope of Ollie helping him connect with you and explain it all. He didn’t want you to have such a bad image of him when all he’s ever done is show you how much he loves you.

“What have you done with your life then?” “I got married and had a kid. The brat from out there.”

The kid had been playing with the hens outside the sprint door. Cats surrounded him and reminded Jaehyun of Ollie when he used to play with the animals while pretending to be doing labor work.

“Looks just like you.” The younger hums. “He’s just like me too.” The two laugh heartily, reminiscing on your grandfather’s laugh.

He hesitates for a moment but ultimately asks. “How’s Y/n doing?” There’s longing in his voice but the look in Ollie’s eyes tells him something isn’t right. The fact that he’s holding back a cough, a grave clue. The younger one wants to stall but knows that eventually he’ll find out if he keeps looking.

“Y/n is soon to get engaged…” Like a bucket of cold water, Jaehyun feels his arteries clog and his body run cold, turning stone hard. “She’s been seeing a guy from work for the past two years, they relocated him to somewhere in Maranello, and now they’re living there. He sent a letter asking me to be there for when he proposes… I got the letter yesterday actually.”

Ollie handed him the letter still inside the envelope. “He’s a nice guy but lacks some sense. He treats her well and provides for her but I’m not sure if it’ll thrive.”

The now father stands up with a bucket of corn kernels, calling his child to feed the chickens while they’re all huddled together. He gives Jaehyun one last look with a mischievous smile plastered on his face.

“You’re welcome to stay, in your old room or here.” Jaehyun thanks him. “Landline has long overseas calls now, do with that as you will.” A toothy reassuring grin, Ollie walks out of the home leaving Jaehyun to his vices.

He gives the boys one last look, gaze dropping to the letter and reading over it around four times. It lacks emotion, it’s formal and only demonstrates excitement when describing your work on the garden. The only thing that reminds you of this place now that you’re miles away. Behind it is a letter written by you.

‘Very well, I’ll send you a care package later, Ollie. I wanted to remind you that we have a new phone so I’ve written it down. Don’t forget to write it down in the contact book or you’ll have to find a way to call me this time!

I love you, Gremlin, take care!

Sincerely, Y/n.’

If the angels weren’t clear as day, then he was stupid if he didn’t take the opportunity.

Jumping out of his seat to the bar, Jaehyun stumbles to grab the phone, nothing like Gabby’s old dinky phone. He dials the foreign numbers, fingers tracing over your written name to feel the connection you did with the paper that lasted you a measly few hours.

“Hello?”

That sweet voice transported him five years to the past. Trembling within the walls of his brain and heart, waking up whatever joy he once felt before leaving this wonderful place. Even when your voice seemed aggravated from the silence on his end while garnering courage, he felt alive again.

“Hello?!”

He sighs, clutching to the phone for dear life, facing the outside allowing the sun rays to fall on him like the day he rested over your exposed body to feel your heart and soul envelop him in the love you once –and he hopes you still have– had for him.

“Y/n–” “...”

The hesitance hurts, old feelings swarming in like a desired plague. You won’t ever forget that voice.

“Jaehyun…” “I remember everything.”

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