#as one is a maid and one is a gentleman

[review-anon]

Kirunta 👀?

//Well this IS a romance arc after all.

//And people seemed to like what was going on with Gonta and Kirumi in KCA so why not?

//At least for this arc.

[thebunnednun]

Whispers of the Heart Dracule Mihawk x Fm! Reader (Part 1)

I could eat this fucking man up with a golden spoon.

Art by @xuchuan25 I hope you don't mind I really love your artwork!

ITS FINALLY GETTING POSTED

You've been Dracule Mihawk's personal maid and housekeeper for what feels like an eternity. Let's cut to the chase – you're a badass, sweetheart. Sexy, cool, and confident, with a reputation that precedes you. Been friends with the stoic man for eons by now.

Everyone knows you or knows of you, and it's not just because you keep Mihawk's castle running like a well-oiled machine.

So what happens when you develop feelings for your old friend and boss?

What does he do when he comes home to find you in his room without your panties?

__________________Chapter 1: Veiled Emotions___________________

You've been Dracule Mihawk's personal maid and housekeeper for what feels like an eternity. Let's cut to the chase – you're a formidable force, with a demeanor that's as captivating as it is commanding.

Sexy, cool, and confident, your reputation precedes you wherever you go. It's not just because you keep Mihawk's castle running like a well-oiled machine; it's because you're a legend in your own right.

You and Mihawk share a history that stretches back to the tumultuous days of your youth, when you roamed the seas as a pirate queen. Despite the allure of power and prestige, you turned down an invitation to be a warlord, realizing that it wasn't the path for you. Sure, you could bring anyone to their knees with ease, but you craved something more than mere conquest.

Don’t get it twisted, you could still fight with one arm tied behind your back and you kept a blade on you at all times. But you wanted to live your life and until you figured out what to do, you were on hiatus. You wanted adventure, companionship, and a sense of purpose beyond just being a good pirate. So, you took a pause from piracy, sending your crew back home with ample spoils and staying in touch through letters that serve as a testament to your leadership.

(Who can blame them? Good bosses are hard to come by!~)

As for you, you couldn’t bear the idea of sailing alone aimlessly through the grandline. What would be the point if there was no one there to share it? It would kill your love of adventure and you’d capsize your own ship before that ever happened.

You also saw the way the world was slowly going to shit and just needed a break. Over time, as a favor to your old friend, you began to take over the castle duties while he was out, handling everything from the cleaning to the paperwork with effortless grace.

You’ve been at it for about three years now.

Mihawk was a very particular man and at the same time he wasn’t. Old eagle eyes likes his wine just so and his jackets to be put away according to color. But he won’t play the worlds game on anyone else's terms but his own. That, you both have in common.

As for the warlord incident, your notoriety stemmed from an encounter with the infamous battle ax Morgan. His bruised ego led to a reckless attempt to have you arrested after you turned down his advances and refused to entertain his delusions of an exclusive relationship. Morgan couldn't handle rejection, especially from a woman as striking as you. However, you swiftly dealt with the situation, turning the tables on him in a manner that became the stuff of legends among pirates and marines alike.

In retaliation for his embarrassment, Morgan unleashed a storm of accusations, plastering your face on wanted posters across every marine outpost. Your captivating appearance, with your (H/c) locks and (E/c) eyes, only served to amplify the fervor surrounding your bounty. Despite the chaos that ensued, you stood your ground, refusing to let Morgan's vendetta dictate your fate.

It was during this tumultuous time that Mihawk extended a lifeline, offering you a sanctuary within the walls of his castle.

Having just laid off your crew, this job offered you somewhere to stay and he could provide some sort of protection while you figured things out. All in all, it was a very sweet deal.

But beneath the surface of this professional arrangement, there are tensions simmering tensions of the sexy variety. You've noticed Mihawk's lingering stares when he believes you're not watching, and felt the subtle brush of his touch as you pass each other in the grand halls of his castle.

And yet, despite the undeniable chemistry between you, neither of you has dared to act on your feelings. After all, you're the maid, and he's the master of the castle. But as the days go by and the tension between you reaches its boiling point, you find yourself wondering how much do you and your boss really care for each other?

Whether it's a late-night encounter in the dimly lit corridors of the castle or a trip to the market in the bustling streets of the nearby town, each moment serves as a reminder of the unspoken bond that exists between you. The man could live in silence if he wanted to.

But you would miss that lovely deep voice.

On a crisp morning, as Mihawk made his way through the halls of his castle, he couldn't help but notice you weren't bustling about, but your vibrant laughter was echoing through the corridors. oon, he found himself standing in the doorway of the kitchen, where you were engrossed in the task of sorting through a stack of mail, undoubtedly from your former crew members.

With a pen poised in one hand, you worked with practiced efficiency, your every movement is a testament to your grace. Across from you, a forgotten cup of coffee awaited, a silent companion to your morning routine and some left over pie from last nights dinner.

"[Name], do try to be more discreet with your antics," Mihawk remarked, amusement lacing his tone as he observed your playful demeanor. You turned to face him, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes as you met his gaze.

"Oh, but where's the fun in that, 'Master' Mihawk?" you retorted, a playful smirk gracing your lips. Today, you were adorned in a cute black top paired with low-rise flared acid wash jeans, the lace crosses on the back pockets adding a touch of sexy to your ensemble.

Your ears sparkled with golden hoops and diamond studs, a testament to your bold sense of style. Around your neck, a delicate chain held a gold and slider cross, a thoughtful gift from Mihawk himself. Your fingers were adorned with an array of rings, each one a testament to your unique personality and taste.

With a touch of sparkly nude eyeshadow and deep pink lip gloss, you exuded an air of effortless beauty. Even your nails, with their French tip design and hints of pink and sage green, spoke to your attention to detail and love for all things glamorous.

Look, you’re an ex-pirate but still a pirate. You like gold, okay!

Mihawk couldn't suppress a subtle eye-roll at your retort, his stoic demeanor momentarily softened by your infectious energy. Despite the playful banter, there lingered a mutual respect in your exchange, a testament to the genuine friendship that had developed between you.

Of course, he certainly didn't allow his thoughts to wander to the sensation of your lips against his skin, despite the tempting notion.

His eyes totally didn’t flick over your lips and wonder what it would have felt like to have your sticky kisses decorate his body.

Instead, he held his typical emotionless expression and took a seat across from you. Looking at the counter he noticed you only had coffee and leftover pie for breakfast.

“Not very hungry, my dear?”

You waved your hand dismissively, eyes glued to the letter before you. “I felt kind’ve sick last night. But don't worry, Perona had a proper breakfast.” You and his young ward had become instant friends when you first arrived. She was happy to have some real company and you even gave her a key to your chambers for emergencies and late night cookies.

Mihawk acknowledged your words with a subtle nod before returning his attention to the newspaper in his hands. It was a habitual gesture that never failed to amuse you, considering his apparent disinterest in the affairs of others. Yet, despite his indifference, he maintained the routine with unwavering consistency.

As his intense gaze bore into your face, you deliberately focused on the task at hand, busying yourself with another letter and the remnants of your pie. Ordinarily, the weight of his stare might have unsettled someone, but you recognized that beneath the facade of the "greatest swordsman in the world" lay a man with his own quirks and idiosyncrasies, much like anyone else.

Spooning another bite of your pie, your cheeks offered a very pleasant rosy glow in the early morning light. When you arrived at Kuraigana Castle, you told Mihawk to ditch the darkness. Straight up refused to live in the depressing atmosphere and threatened to throw out his old dusty ass curtains if he didn’t get his shit together. Mihawk had initially resisted the changes but told you to do as you pleased when you threatened to give him and Shanks matching arms.

(That would be some Naruto and Sasuke shit right there.)

However, he was all the more glad to see your features in the light. You weren’t unbearable to his feelings either. You respected that he needed some shade and allowed the dining room to have a night blend of night. The whole of the castle was like that now with some areas being bright and cheerful and others more dark and deserted. Even Perona gravitated towards the lighter rooms to find you cleaning or simply wanting your attention.

In the quiet moments between your duties, you find yourself reflecting on the depth of your connection with Mihawk. You remember the countless times he's shown you kindness, the way he's trusted you with the inner workings of his castle, and the rare glimpses of vulnerability he's allowed you to see. And as you ponder these memories, you can't help but wonder if there's more to your relationship than meets the eye.

The man truly does value his space. Even when you would bump into old friends like a certain clown he insisted you did not swap addresses for the sake of, "That Blue haired freak," not popping up unannounced. Or how he'd always been close by when you were teenagers and running rampant with a red haired young man. The times where he would escort you to social events only to slip away with you before the party was over. It was him offering you a place to stay after becoming a wanted woman for crimes you did not commit.

Moments where you found yourself bathed in the golden warmth of his eyes.

But just as you begin to contemplate the possibilities, your mind intervenes once again. Flashing you back to a few months ago. It was a frigid winter evening when you found yourself ensconced in the castle's library, surrounded by the flickering glow of candlelight and the comforting scent of weathered tomes. The air hummed with an unspoken tension, each movement you made sending ripples of awareness through the stillness.

Winter was always harsh on you, coming from an island that never really subscribed to the notion of cold weather. You were more built for tropical weather and humid conditions. Where on one side of your island it could be raining and the other could be sunny and dry. You'd never even seen snow before until you set out as a young pirate.

The old castle was too large to light fires in all the rooms, so it made more sense to keep them limited to the common areas like the kitchens, drawing room, your bed chambers, and (of course) the library.

You were laying in the warlords lap, actually. A thick book in his hand and a left over crossword puzzle in yours. Every now and then, he would softly stroke your spine as if you were a freighted cat. You'd taken to curling up like this out of habit and because of your dislike of cold weather.

Mihawk loves personal space but you'd taken to perching on him for years. If you asked to rest your head on his shoulder, he would respond with a soft hum of agreement, though he pretended not to notice as you snuggled closer, seeking the warmth of his embrace.

Even at social gatherings, you had no qualms about stretching out your legs across his lap, feeling his big, strong hands gently resting on them for all to see. And if luck was on your side, he might even share a dance with you, his presence grounding you and filling you with a sense of contentment amidst the chaos of the party.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, Mihawk breaks the silence, his voice a low, husky murmur cutting through the quiet. "You know," he begins, his words carrying a weight of sincerity, "I've always admired your compassion and resilience."

His unexpected admission catches you off guard, your breath hitching momentarily as you process his words. Gathering your composure, you respond in kind, your voice a mere whisper against the backdrop of the library's hushed ambiance. "And I've always admired your grace and composure, Master Mihawk."

For an instant, the air between you crackles with an electric energy, the unspoken truths hanging palpably in the space between you. As if drawn by an invisible force, you sit a little taller, the weight of the moment pressing down upon you. Then, without warning, Mihawk reaches out, his hand enveloping yours in a gentle grasp.

A rush of warmth floods through your veins at his touch, a silent reassurance amidst the quietude of the library. His thumb traces soothing circles on the back of your hand, a gesture both comforting and intimate, before he releases you, returning to his book as if nothing had transpired.

You 'playfully' bit his large thigh over that.

Moments like that with Mihawk were rare but not uncommon somehow. You were always respected by him for your personal strength and reliance. Mihawk respected dedication and honor. You had a multitude of qualities he secretly liked, not that you were fully aware, anyway.

His voice intruded on this memory to snap you back to the present.

"Perhaps it's time we ceased this dance, [Name]," he murmurs, his gaze smoldering with a flicker of desire. "Perhaps it's time we embraced what has lingered between us all this while."

Your heart quickens its pace within your chest as you lock eyes with him, a whirlwind of thoughts cascading through your mind. In that pivotal moment, teetering on the edge of something unknown and exhilarating, you recognize the undeniable bond that binds you to Mihawk—a connection that defies the constraints of social hierarchy and ignites with an intensity that cannot be suppressed.

Or so you envisioned, until he swiftly swipes the last piece of your pie and runs from the kitchens, prompting you to vault over the counter in a spirited attempt to stab his trachea with your fork as he began running down the hallway.

“I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON IT, ASS-EYES!”

Making to the stairs, Mihawk closed his eyes and let out a soft hum before delving into his (your) pie, savoring each bite with a sense of contentment. Your presence offered a refreshing reprieve from the weighty responsibilities that burdened him, your playful banter injecting a lighthearted energy into the morning. You trying to stab him was thought of affectionately, as well.~

What a delightful breakfast it was within the walls of Castle Kuraigana!

Later, as Mihawk retreated to his chambers, a persistent curiosity lingered within him, tugging at the corners of his mind. What was it about you that captivated him so, he wondered? And why did your essence linger in his thoughts long after you had disappeared from his sight?

Lost in contemplation, Mihawk was roused from his reverie by a soft murmur that drifted through the open window, drawing his gaze downwards. There, he spied you and Perona engaged in conversation, your voices carrying on the breeze.

"...and I heard that he's quite taken with someone," Perona remarked mischievously, casting a glance towards the castle. The pair strolled through the tall grass grounds hand in hand, a scene that elicited a faint smile from Mihawk. He could tell from your firm steps that you had decided to go barefoot. Your quirks never failed to amuse him.

In the spring and summer, you had a steadfast refusal to wear anything other than cute heeled sandals or durable tennis shoes. This wasn't just a matter of practicality; it was a reflection of your upbringing on an island where both children and adults embraced the freedom of going barefoot during the hot months. The fact that Mihawk effortlessly recalled these details about you spoke volumes about the depth of his observations, even if he didn't consciously realize it.

Unconsciously, he found himself craning his neck so you may take up his vision.

As Perona guided you through the tall grass, she paused at a patch of wild daisies, prompting a soft chuckle to escape your lips. Your gaze drifted into the distance as you replied, "Well, I suppose we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

Mihawk felt a sudden skip in his typically cold heart at your words, a glimmer of hope stirring within him. Could it be that you harbored feelings for him as well? The mere thought sent a rush of warmth through his veins, fueling his resolve to uncover the truth behind your feelings.

With a newfound determination, Mihawk silently vowed to delve deeper into the enigma of your emotions, eager to unravel the mysteries of your heart.

______________________________________________________________

Part 2: Posted Here Part 3: Posted Here

Part 4: Right here baby!~

Part 5 now posted.

The coffee and leftover pie part are a nod to Laufys ,"Let you break my heart again," give it a listen as it goes well with the story.

This is also posted on the a03 account by the same name. A new update post will also be out tomorrow regarding updates and new stories.

Please check out my other works and leave likes and comments, they really help. Drop a follow as well if you please.

Seen you soon my loves!!~ <<33

[homunculus-argument]

A gothic horror story where a gentleman from a good family gets haunted by something monstrous, which follows him around and keeps killing people around him at utter random, in cruel and horrifying ways. Specifically within circumstances where the protagonist has no alibi, and everything indicates that he committed the murders.

But the real horror is not that he would find himself accused of the murders, but that the people around him naturally assume that he did do it, but genuinely do not care, because the victims are never people that the society around him considers "important". The scullery maid of his household is found brutalised beyond recognition in a room where even the ceiling has been splattered with blood, and a constable of the local police brushes it off as a case of household discipline gone wrong, being horrifyingly casual with the assumption that the protagonist severely beat a girl in his service to death, and will dismiss it as an accident. The street urchin that the protagonist was seen talking with - wanting to help this poor little orphan - is found decapitated, severed head in the protagonist's fireplace. This, too, is calmly swept under the rug.

After every horrifying murder, the protagonist tries to seek help, to present the crime to authorities in hopes of getting some semblance of help, or at least clearing his own name of this, but every time it's brushed off. "These things do happen", he is reassured, like it's perfectly normal that a mansion of that size has a secret garden of unmarked graves in one shady corner.

The real horror is the ever-encompassing implication that this is perfectly normal.

[newnamesamecharlotte]

"Tell him we have a beetle problem," Wafa called after me. "If you are to have reptile gentlemen callers, they might as well make themselves useful."

The Maid and the Crocodile by Jordan Ifueko

[lovetei]

Most of the time, MC views their friends and lovers as normal civilians, just people trying to get by. But, of course, there are times where they can't help but remember that they're the elites of the elites.

Lucifer's red eyes are glowing through the shadow casted by the dark alley where a low-level demon thought it would be nice to stand in his path, "Huh?" He mumbled to himself then scoffed "Huh." they sounded the same to you, but the way he looked down at the demon, it surely is different treatment from how he is to you.

It's insane how much Mammon treats other people. Sure, you've come with him to play in the casino before, but this is your first time entering a... Private room. And surely, this is your first time seeing someone, Mammon, go crazy while playing Russian roulette. His beautiful laugh boomed inside the room as his opponent is about to pull the trigger, the suicide shot. "Haaah, shit! This is the type of shit I live for!" He laughed as he nuzzled on your neck while waiting for his opponents brain to scatter on the wall.

You thought Leviathan is just an extreme case of introvertness, but obviously—it's not just that. "Yeah, yeah..." He mumbled, bored, as countless nobles came to greet the head of the navy. But there was this one interesting occurance, a noble that held his hand. Sure his composure was commendable but as soon as the noble turned its back, his hand covered his mouth and you saw a glimpse of him stick his tongue out as if vomiting. Your eyes widened. Soon, maids started hurrying to his side, changing his gloves and spraying his hands with alcohol. "Opportunistic pigs... I hate greed demons." You heard him whisper, obviously not intending for you to hear.

Satan was the type to stay calm and often as a gentleman, maybe to you only. During one meeting between some nobles though, he looked particularly mad. "You sure have a lot to say." He suddenly gave off a threatening smile as he fix his position on the seat, then all of a sudden—splat. That disgusting sound rang on your ears as the head of the noble was blown away and then you saw a familiar tail coming from under the table that pierced the nobles head strong enough for it to blow away.

[midatwrtr]

A New Beginning

NMIXX Sullyoon x Male Reader

Genre: Fluff, Angst & Smut | Word count: 14k | Tags: Maid, Headpats, Virgin, Blowjob, Missionary, Creampie

Synopsis: You receive a former slave as a gift. What follows is a journey of healing with your new maid.

Warning: Mentions of past bodily harm and psychological distress.

Credits

I. The arrival

It was common knowledge that a 19th-century man in possession of a successful company and a rich heritage was to own a maid. His being didn’t belong in a kitchen; his time wasn’t to be wasted doing laundry. Yet you had little regard for such traditions. Your kin speculated—stinginess, secrets, perhaps a scandal—but the truth was far simpler: you didn’t need a reason. Self-reliance suited you. 

For two years, you’d lived alone in your estate nestled deep in the woods, not only tending to yourself but also hosting guests without assistance. To the surprise of many, the master poured the tea.

It was near dusk, late winter when a carriage crunched its way down the moss-softened path to your door. The horses snorted, breath misting in the cooling air. No grand stone steps. No footman. Only pine wind and silence.

You had just returned from the forest, mushrooms in your hand, sleeves rolled, your white shirt tucked sloppily into worn pants. Had you known visitors were arriving, perhaps you'd have worn one of the jackets your father gifted you long ago.

A knock. You opened the door. There stood a man in a heavy frock coat, posture straight, eyes familiar.

“John,” you exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve never forgotten, my Lord,” the gentleman said. “The help you gave me in the past… I remember you once said you weren’t in the possession of a servant.”

You nodded. “I still am not.”

“Good,” he replied with a faint smile. “Because I have one here with me. And I would like you to accept her as a gift.”

“You want to gift me… a slave?”

“Precisely.” From his pocket, he pulled a golden pin, the symbol of his new title. “I have been appointed royal couturier to the Duke’s daughter. And I owe it all to you—your introductions, your patronage, your faith in a man who once sold thread in the dirtiest corner of the city.”

“You flatter me,” you said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “But it was your talent that took you to the palace.”

He inclined his head in gratitude, then stepped down and opened the carriage. A girl emerged. Barefoot. Wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Her eyes are wide and hollow. Her feet met moss rather than gravel, and her thin shoulders shivered in the cold.

“Please accept this slave, my Lord,” the man said. “I made sure to buy the most beautiful one in the county.”

“She is beautiful,” you acknowledged, “but where are her clothes?”

“She had a shirt and trousers when I bought her. I saw no reason to waste fine fabric on a slave.”

“You’re a dressmaker,” you said, your voice flat. “You should know better.”

He didn’t answer. The girl stared at the ground, her shackled ankles trembling. Her skin was marked with scars—especially her back—but her face had been kept untouched, carefully preserved like fine porcelain.

You sighed and opened the door wider. “Your gift is appreciated,” you said quietly. “I will take care of her.”

“The girl is yours now,” he said, bowing reverently. “Do as you please. My gratitude is eternal.”

The girl turned to you and bowed low. “Good evening, master. Thank you for taking me in. I promise I will be good to you.”

Realising you were still holding the mushrooms, you quickly set them aside and offered your hand. She looked at it, puzzled.

You smiled gently. “It’s a handshake.”

Hesitantly, she reached out and touched your hand, her fingers trembling uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, master. Owners don’t usually greet us with such… respect.”

“That’s the bare minimum,” you said. “Come inside.”

She stepped in lightly, nearly silent. The warmth of the house—faint smoke, pressed leaves—hit her like a foreign scent. You closed the door behind her. There was little needed for a bolt and key. No one lived in these woods anyways.

She clutched a small satchel—too small for any valuable possession. Her clothes were thin and frayed. Her eyes flicked nervously across the room. No canes. No bells. No inked ledgers of punishment.

“You may speak freely here,” you said, like offering her a blanket.

“No need, master. I won’t be in any trouble. You won’t even see me.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

She bowed her head. “I’ll do everything you want, whenever you want.”

You reached for a robe hanging near the door. As your hand passed near her head, she flinched—visibly, sharply. Years of training had taught her to stay still, but reflexes didn’t lie.

“Sorry. Did I touch you?”

“No, master. My fault. I’m sorry.”

You held the robe out. “Take this. You look cold.”

“Thank you very much, master. You’re… very kind.”

You inhaled deeply. “I’m not used to having… uhm… someone to look after me. I have no footman. No housekeeper. No cook. There’s little to do,” you said as you scratched your head. “Sorry about that.”

“I’ll make myself useful,” she said. There’s no reason to keep a maid if she’s not deemed useful. She had to find an occupation, or who knows where she might end up.

“I’m sure you will,” you replied gently. “But not tonight. You’ve traveled far.”

You led her down the hallway—not to the scullery, nor a cot in the corner of the kitchen—but to a guest room. A real bed. A folded quilt. A window without shutters.

She stood at the threshold, silent, unsure.

“This will be your room,” you announced. “It is a guest room but I never have guests over so it is a bit dusty. I apologize for that. However, the bed is quite comfy, I hope that makes up for it.” 

You paused for a moment and gestured for her to come in.

“Are you sure, master? A whole room for me?”

“Where else should you stay?” you asked. That statement alone sounded ridiculous to you. Of course, she needed a room. “Thank you very much. I’m forever grateful,” she said, bowing down in gratitude. 

You tried to imagine her previous owner. The aristocrats you have met at the “parties” always seemed to be polite, but they were never kind. Judging by her responses, she must have had a ruthless man. Maybe he let her sleep in a barn, maybe in the basement, or whatever space she found.

“You can rest,” you replied. “No work tonight.”

She nodded. She seemed surprised but grateful. You gave her a nod as well. “Make yourself comfortable,” you told her. 

Then, as you turned to climb the stairs, her voice halted you.

“Please don’t send me back,” she begged. Her voice was frail and trembled. 

You turned to meet her eyes—worn, weary, yet pleading—and your heart was torn to pieces. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said. You pondered on what could have comforted her but chose to leave it. Nothing could have given her security, only time.

When she was finally left alone, Sullyoon took the deepest breath of her life. She was almost afraid to let the air fill her lungs with the freedom you were letting her have. She wanted to believe you. She wanted to believe you were the gift that the sky had given her in exchange for her pains. For the first time in weeks, she let her satchel slip from her shoulder. It hit the floor with a soft thud. She sat down on the edge of the bed. 

And for once, she could breathe.

When she heard your footsteps leave the floor, she let herself go down on the bed. It was as if all the clouds in the sky had gathered under her back in a warm embrace. She hasn’t felt such softness since she was held in her mother’s arms. It was like a miracle. It must have been a dream. She had to wake up or she’d cry in the morning, again.

Her mother used to tell her that miracles always happened to good people. But she wasn’t a good person, was she? She always got things wrong, and her masters always beat her up for it. Surely, she was a bad person; otherwise, they’d never beat her, right?

While you left the girl in her room, you made your way back into the garden. You wanted to take a look at the sky before doing anything else. However, you were greeted at the sight of the gentleman again.

“You’re still here, John?” you asked.

“My lord, sorry, I’m packing up in preparation,” he said. “I’ll leave immediately.”

“No, no, that is not what I meant,” you corrected yourself. “Do you want to come in? I have some food and drinks inside. You have traveled a lot after all.”

“I wish I could, my lord but I’m in quite a hurry,” he said. “I stopped by your mansion because it was on the path but I have to go to the next kingdom as soon as possible.”

“In that case,” you said. “Wait a moment, please.”

You ran inside and took out the pie and cookies you had prepared the other day, and a bottle of beer and wrapped them in a cloth. You went back outside and gave it to John. He looked surprised at first but then smiled widely.

“Please accept this, it will accompany you on your journey.”

“Oh, my lord, you’re too kind, like you have always been. Thank you.” John accepted your gift with jittery hands and quickly stuffed it in his leather bag.

“That said,” you started, brushing your hands. “Do you have like a… dress? For a servant?”

“For the slave?” he said.

“Well, yeah, the girl.”

“I do have some simple shirts here… I think she might fit in them,” he said taking something out from his carriage. “There’s always somebody who might want to buy them so I always carry them with me… here it is.” He took out a gown, a corset, and some shoes.

“Well that should be fine, I guess.”

“Oh, I have a cap as well.”

“That’s perfect,” you said and got your purse. “I think this should do.”

“Oh, no, please, my lord,” he exclaimed. “I will not let you pay. This is a gift. You have done enough for me, so many investments, it would be an insult to make you pay. Please take it.”

“Very well. They have a good trip, John.”

“Thank you very much, till the next time.” 

John departed. You only had a few memories about the gentleman and had to shake your memories to jot back up the other ones. Nothing seemed to have changed. He was still the same joyful, quirky man that you had met years ago. Still working hard, relentlessly.

You ran back up. The girl heard your heels clacking on the hardwood. She immediately stood up, put her satchel in a more presentable position, and awaited you in front of her room. A maid wasn’t allowed to laze around. 

Reaching her room, you were puzzled by her strange behavior. She was upright against the wall, staring blankly at the wall.

“Hey, so I got you some new clothes,” you said and gave them to her. 

Her eyes moved down to the white cloth in your hands. She nodded and looked at you, waiting for an order. Then she looked at them again, realizing they actually were for her.

Her eyes widened, shimmering with disbelief as she stared at the neatly folded clothes in your hands. For a moment, she didn’t move; she just stood there, frozen, as if the world had briefly stopped turning. Her lips parted slightly, trembling with words she couldn’t quite form. Then, almost shyly, her hands reached out, hesitant, as though she feared the kindness might vanish if she touched it. A soft gasp escaped her, and her voice, barely more than a whisper, carried both awe and quiet gratitude:

“F-For me? I… I’ve never…”

Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and a gentle, almost disbelieving smile slowly bloomed. “Thank you very much, master.” 

When she finally took them, she held them against her chest—not protectively, but tenderly, like they were something precious.

“Anyways, I have a bath down the hall. You can go there and wash up.” 

Her disbelief continued but you quickly left before she could question the words that had entered her ears.

The girl took everything in her hands and went in the direction you pointed. She was overwhelmed by your kindness, which she had never received, for most of her life.

Steam fogged the mirror and curled up from the copper tub in slow, visible breaths. A folded cloth lay beside it—clean, soft, white—and a bar of soap that smelled faintly of lavender. There was no bark in the water, no sting of lye, no frozen bite. Only quiet warmth.

She didn’t move at first. Her hands trembled in her lap, curled inward like they might claw back the memory of cold stone floors and cracked nails.

In the last house, water was punishment. Poured cold in the early dark, scrubbed in silence until her skin burned and bled, always watched. There had been no privacy. No soap unless she stole it. She learned not to feel.

“Take your time,” you said, your voice so mild it made her flinch. You kept a stove in the bathroom as well, since you didn’t want to go back and forth to the kitchen. Luckily for both of her, it was that time of the day when you washed up, so there was already boiling water on the stove. You mixed it with lukewarm water in the basin so she wouldn’t burn.

You didn’t stay, you left her alone to herself after showing her everything she needed in the bathroom and closed the door behind you.

She rose slowly. Her fingers hovered over the basin. Then she touched it.

Warm.

Real.

A sound left her—half gasp, half laugh, the kind no one taught her to make. She pulled her hands back as if she’d done something wrong. Waited. No door opened. No voice shouted. The warmth clung to her fingers.

She dipped them again, then her wrists, then leaned forward and buried her face in her wet palms. And there, in the small wooden room, alone for the first time in what felt like years, she cried—not from pain, but from the terrifying unfamiliarity of comfort.

When she finally undressed and stepped into the bath, she did it slowly, reverently. As though the water might vanish if she moved too quickly. She washed herself in silence, not knowing where to begin or how she were a person who deserved this.

But when she emerged, her skin flushed pink and her hair smelling of herbs, she stood a little straighter. Just a little.

When she was done, she went out to the hallway with her old clothes in her hands and simply stood there. She didn’t know what to do. No order, no task to complete, no other maid to tend to. Hearing your rustling in the other room, she figured she might have to ask you.

She stood in the doorway like a shadow that hadn’t decided whether to enter.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting amber light across the wooden floor. The stew simmered on the table, thick with root vegetables and herbs—its scent rich and foreign. You had set two bowls and two spoons. Her hands twisted into her skirts.

She stood in front of you, bathed in the soft light from the hallway, the simple white clothes draping gently over her frame. They weren't extravagant, just clean, fresh, and unmistakably hers now. The white gave her a new innocence, instead of the torn grey drapes that she was wearing when you first met her.

Her eyes met yours, uncertain but open, searching for a sign—approval, maybe.

“It looks really good on you,” you said with a warm smile. Her cheeks blushed.

“Thank you really much.”

“It seems to be a bit big though. Well, it wasn’t really tailored for you.”

“No, it’s perfectly fine, master.”

“Come here, I’ll be ready in a second,” you said, turning back to the pot to taste the stew you had just finished cooking. She didn’t move. Perhaps she didn’t realize you were talking about dinner—her dinner. She was used to stale bread, scraps, and whatever was left behind. 

So she stood there silently, unsure, confused. She didn’t ask—afraid that it could have irritated you.

The firelight flickered low in the modest kitchen, casting long shadows that danced across the dark wooden walls. She stood near the worn wooden table, hands folded tightly before her, eyes fixed on the scuffed floorboards. You watched her quietly from the doorway.

Finally, you spoke, low and gentle, careful not to startle. “May I ask your name?”

There was a question in her eyes, unspoken but impossible to miss. “Why?”

You stepped forward, slowly, making no move to close the distance too quickly. “If you prefer, I don’t have to call you anything at all. But I would like to. It makes things easier… for me.” 

The smallest tremor shook her frame. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Sullyoon.”

You nodded once, “Sullyoon. I’m glad to know it.”

For the first time since she arrived, she lifted her gaze to meet yours. “You can sit,” you said gently, motioning to the chair in front of you.

She didn’t move.

“It's for you,” you added, pointing at the plate on the table. “It’ll go cold.”

She stepped forward like someone crossing into sacred ground. Her fingers grazed the back of the chair before she dared to pull it out. The legs scraped faintly on the floor, and she winced at the sound.

You served her a ladleful first, then yourself.

Steam coiled up from the bowl—thick, fragrant, unfamiliar. She stared into it like it might be a trick or a test. Then she looked at you, and there was something close to pleading in her voice when she whispered: “I don’t… I don’t know what it is.”

“Just stew,” you said, not looking at her too hard. “Carrots, turnip, a bit of venison. Nothing special.”

She wrapped her fingers around the bowl, just to feel the heat. Her eyes went glassy. Her hands didn’t shake—but only because she was holding herself so tightly together, she had no spare strength left to tremble.

You took a bite, casually, so she’d know it was safe. Only then did she lift the spoon. Clumsily. The first mouthful nearly made her choke. Not because it was too hot, or too strange—but because she had never tasted anything like it. You stared at her, looking at her weird gestures.

She chewed slowly and swallowed slower. Her shoulders stiffened like she expected to be struck by the sound. Then, after the second bite, her eyes welled. She set the spoon down. Not roughly. Reverently.

“I don’t deserve this,” she said in a voice that cracked. Her shoulders shrank.

You didn’t reach for her; she might have flinched like before. Didn’t correct her. You only replied, soft and without ceremony: “You deserve it. You deserve to be fed, everyone does.”

Silence stretched for a long moment, broken only by the quiet clink of  your spoon against the bowl. Then, slowly, she picked up her spoon again. Her mouth moved—almost imperceptibly—into a shape that might one day become a smile.

You continued to eat quietly. She didn’t say anything nor lift her eyes.

II. First days

The first time you saw her washing linen at the stone basin, the sun had not yet reached your windows. You had woken out of habit—there was something about the air just before sunrise that always pulled you from sleep. Outside, the forest was slowly earning the name of the morning. Mist curled along the ground, brushing against the cottage walls, and the trees murmured with the soft voices of waking birds.

She was already working. Of course she was.

She looked small and rigid. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, half hidden beneath a plain brown dress that hung too loosely on her frame. She stood at the basin carved into the back wall of the house, scrubbing shirts in icy water with quick, almost angry strokes. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, her forearms red from the cold.

You didn’t intend to sneak up on her—but you moved quietly by habit. Insects don’t care for boots or sudden motion. You stopped under the old oak in the garden, arms full of pressed ferns wrapped in muslin. You were supposed to bring them inside, but something about the steady rhythm of the fabric against the stone held you in place.

She didn’t react to your presence. Either she hadn’t heard you—or, more likely, she had and chose not to respond. Servants were taught not to acknowledge presence unless spoken to.

You cleared your throat.

Her hands froze, suddenly and sharply. The linen twisted in her grip. Her shoulders tensed as if bracing for instruction—or something worse. Then she turned. Her eyes were wide and unsure.

“Good morning, master,” she said softly and dipped her head in a small bow.

“Good morning, Sullyoon,” you said. “Uh… you may use warm water. If it helps.”

Her voice was quiet, rough from disuse. “Thank you.”

That simple word made something tighten in your chest.

A few silent seconds passed. She resumed scrubbing—not with less effort, but with less violence.

You turned toward the moss patch beneath the elm, kneeling to unwrap your bundle. The maidenhair fern curled like a sleeping creature, damp with morning air. You dipped your pen into ink and began to sketch it in your notebook, trying not to glance too often at her hands.

You both continued your work, side by side in silence. You found yourself curious about her. You hoped she didn’t mind you sitting nearby. You hoped she didn’t think you were strange for that. But she showed no reaction—not a single flicker of thought. You weren’t exactly worried… but it wasn’t a good sign either.

It felt like trying to speak to a wall.

You went on with your day in complete silence. Sullyoon minded her own business. Somehow, she always found something to do. 

In the afternoon, you went back to your studio to complete your notes. The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, casting long, dappled shadows across the polished wooden floor. The study was quiet, save for the soft scrape of cloth on wood. 

Being the clumsy person you were, you spilled a whole bottle of ink on the floor. 

You were on your knees, sleeves rolled up, rubbing at a stubborn stain on the floorboards. The room was sparse, but orderly bookshelves lined with well-thumbed volumes, a sturdy desk cluttered with notes and dried flowers, a simple bed neatly made in the corner.

This was the sort of space your uncle would have loved.

You probably got your character from him. Like you, he didn’t care much for aristocratic life. The rigid etiquette, the hollow smiles at those strange gatherings where everyone pretended to adore one another. The constant presence of servants, hovering like shadows, waiting to tie your shoes or pour your drink—as if you were some fragile, incompetent child. He always said it dulled the instincts. That it made people soft.

Your father had called him a wild cat, but he secretly admired him. He’d vanish into the woods for days and return carrying the carcass of some animal he’d tracked, or a satchel of strange roots and herbs no one could name. “You should do things for yourself,” he once told you, handing you a knife that felt far too large for your hands. 

“Because when the people you depend on are gone, what will you do then?”

He taught you how to hunt a rabbit, which, thinking about it, wasn’t the best thing to teach a seven-year-old. But more than that, he taught you responsibility—real responsibility. That if you broke something, you fixed it. No excuses. No waiting around for someone else to clean up after you.

Which was why you were here now, scrubbing the floor like a fool because you’d been careless enough not to tighten the cap of your flask. The ink had spilled and bled across the boards in a dark, blotchy mess. You could still smell it: metallic, bitter. And with every pass of the cloth, you muttered something under your breath that your uncle would’ve approved of but your mother definitely wouldn’t.

Your knees ached. Your fingers were cramping. But you didn’t stop. This was yours to fix.

Sullyoon paused at the doorway, watching quietly. Her eyes followed the steady movement of your hands, the way you bent low to the floor with focused care. No one wearing a shirt like that had ever knelt like this before, and no one had ever rolled up the sleeves of such a fine shirt.

He’s cleaning. Without asking me.He thinks I’m useless. That I can’t even do the smallest thing right.

Her heart pounded. She could not bear to be seen as idle, or worse, a disappointment. Before you noticed, she stepped inside, clutching a worn cloth she’d found folded in a drawer. “Let me,” she said, voice trembling. “I should be doing this.”

You glanced up, “Huh?”

She dropped to her knees beside you, hands shaking as she took the cloth. She scrubbed at the floor, willing herself to do it faster, better—anything to erase the doubt, the shame that sat heavily on her like a stone.

You watched her for a moment longer, then spoke softly: “You… you don’t have to, I was doing it.”

She bit her lip, refusing to meet your eyes. “I must. It is my duty.”

“Thank you Sullyoon, I appreciate it, but I made this stain, I have to clean it myself,” you said but she didn’t budge and kept her hands glued to the floor. You touched her shoulder to get her to stand up but it was useless. She was convinced. Only then did you notice how skinny she was; you could feel her bones.

You got up and sighed. “Thank you again, Sullyoon. I’ll leave you to it.”

Sullyoon was broken. You understood it from the very first moment you saw her, but you didn’t completely grasp its severity until you started living with her. You felt bad for her and you hated being the reason why she was so restless. 

You were cooking again this evening when it happened again. 

You told her that you’d be the one making the dinner while Sullyoon would be putting away the washed cups. She handled the dishes like they were relics. She cleaned them, dried them, and polished them, giving them the attention that you never did.

Then came the sound.  Small—barely more than a clink—but sharp enough to cut through the soft rhythm of your stirring.

You turned just in time to see the cup slip from her hand and fall. It struck the stone floor with a crisp, brittle crack, then burst—blue and white shards scattering across the tiles like startled birds.

Before you could even speak, she dropped to her knees.

“I—I’m sorry, sir—I’ll pay for it, I swear—I’ll fix it, just please—” Her voice was thin and panicked, words tumbling too fast. She was already reaching for the pieces, heedless of the sharp edges, her breath shallow and wild. She cut herself. Blood bloomed along her thumb, but she didn’t react, she was in complete panic.

You set the spoon down and stepped forward. “Sullyoon, no…”

The moment your voice reached her, she flinched—hard. As if struck. As if she expected to be. And when you reached out instinctively, just to help, she recoiled with wide, frightened eyes. She stared at your palm as if a blade was being lowered on her neck.

Your hand froze in the air.

And then, slowly, you did something else. You stepped in and wrapped your arms around her—not tightly, not forcefully. Just enough. You couldn’t do anything else. She had to know. She was safe.

She stiffened at first. You were absolutely still and didn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” you murmured into her hair. “It’s just a cup. It’s all right.”

For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Then—slowly—her fingers, still streaked with blood and trembling, curled slightly into the fabric of your shirt.

You held her in silence. Not to fix everything. Just to let her know nothing else would fall apart today. Not here. Not now. You pulled back only when she did, just enough to meet her eyes.

“There’s a bandage in the drawer,” you said softly, nodding toward the cabinet. “But you can use my handkerchief if you’d rather.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. She was fidgeting with her fingers, and tears were pooling on her eyelids. “It must have cost a lot.”

“No, it didn’t,” you said. “It’s just a cup, it’s not important. It happens. We make mistakes.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I stained your shirt with my blood.”

“It’s okay, you can clean it later” 

She didn’t answer. But her gaze lingered. Not direct. Just enough. And in it, you saw something fragile and flickering, like the wick of a candle just catching flame. She didn’t trust you yet. But for the first time, she didn’t fear you.

III. Connections

The sun filtered lazily through the tall windows, draping long lines of gold across the floorboards. Dust swirled like pollen in the beams of light, and the soft scritch of a broom was the only sound in the room.

She swept slowly, carefully around the cluttered corners of the study—shelves burdened with books, small rocks labeled in neat handwriting, glass jars filled with dried herbs and oddities. The air smelled faintly of ink, old wood, and lavender crushed long ago between pages.

You were sitting on the floor by the fireplace, head bowed over something in your lap. She might have ignored you—she usually did when you were immersed in your own silence—but the way you held the little bundle in your hands caught her eye. 

She paused, tilting her head. She took a long breath and spoke to you: “…Are those flowers, sir?”

You looked up, blinking as if returning from a long dream. A faint smile curved your mouth. “They were. Now they’re bookmarks.”

“Bookmarks?” she questioned.

You lifted a small cloth-wrapped book from your lap and turned it toward her. “Pressed specimens,” you said. “Wild orchids, mostly. Some foxglove, a few I haven’t named yet. I gather them when they bloom and dry them between pages.” You flipped the book open carefully, revealing delicate silhouettes flattened and faded, their once-vivid petals like ghosts of color.

She stepped forward, broom forgotten. “You keep them in books? On purpose?”

“Absolutely. Some men press their legacy into ledgers; I press mine into my herbariums.” You glanced up at Sullyoon. “So that they can learn about themselves.”

Her laugh was soft, surprised, imperceptible. A hum at most.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, fingers hovering near the open page but not touching. “I didn’t know they’d keep their shape like that.”

“Sit here beside me, Sullyoon,” you said. Immediately she obeyed, folding her skirt neatly between her legs and sitting on the floor. She looked at the book open in your hands.

“Some fall apart,” you admitted. “Some stain the paper too much. But the patient ones stay.” Your tone was casual, but something about the way you said it made her calm down.

She met your eyes and didn’t look away this time.

“I think you’d like the marsh violets,” you added. “They grow in shadows and low water, but bloom all the same.”

She listened and gave you a small nod. “I might.”

A pause settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Her apron was damp at the hem, and her hair had fallen slightly out of its pins. She didn’t fix it.

You pointed to one of the flowers in the book. “That one there? I found it half-crushed beneath a deer’s print. Saved what I could. I thought it was ruined, but look how the stem curved when it dried.”

She studied the page, then said softly, “Still lovely.”

“A bit like some people I know,” you said, then cleared your throat as if embarrassed by your own sincerity. “Not naming names, of course.”

She laughed again—this time, a little louder. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that in front of a man.

“Have you ever pressed one yourself?” you asked.

She shook her head. “I’ve only pulled weeds”

“Then let’s change that,” you said and stood up. “Let’s go to the woods. You’ll choose your own flowers.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Come.”

Sullyoon hesitated before putting the broom down and shuffled behind you. 

The woods were quiet in the late afternoon, touched by that soft, golden hour when the light slants through the trees and everything seems to pause. The birds had grown quieter, and only the occasional breeze rustled through the canopy overhead, brushing against your cheeks like a whisper.

You walked a little ahead, basket in one hand and the herbarium in the other. Sullyoon followed behind—quiet, as always, but no longer shrinking. Her footsteps were light on the moss, almost inaudible, but they didn’t hesitate the way they used to.

“This way,” you said, nudging a low branch aside for her to pass. “There are plenty of flowers you can pick.”

She blinked up at you, uncertain.

“Just pick a couple,” you added. “If you see anything you like. We’ll bring them back and press them in parchment between books. They’ll last forever that way.”

She hesitated, then nodded softly. You watched her eyes wander to the forest floor—ferns uncurling at the base of trees, clusters of pale bellflowers, wild violets tangled in the roots.

You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. You just wandered with her, pointing out little things along the way. A dew-wet spiderweb stretched between two brambles. A patch of moss that smelled like rain. A quiet clearing where blue stars bloomed low to the earth.

She knelt suddenly.

Her fingers hovered over a cluster of soft, peach-pink wood sorrel growing in the shade of a fallen log. She didn’t pick them—just studied them for a long moment, as if unsure she had the right to touch something so delicate.

“You can take a few,” you said gently. “They won’t mind.”

She glanced at you, then carefully snipped one with the shears you handed her. Then another. And another. Her hands were slow and deliberate, treating each stem like a secret. With time, you began to pick flowers with your bare hands, but Sullyoon didn’t act this way. She was deliberate and gentle.

By the time the light began to fade, your basket was half-full with the things she chose. Nothing bright or showy—just soft, quiet flowers. The kind people usually overlook.

You didn’t say anything, but you noticed.

Back in the mansion, you laid them on the table and took them one by one between the books that you reserved for her. “Put it here.”

She hesitated. “Won’t I ruin it?”

“If it happens, let it happen,” you reassured her. “But your hands are way more gentle than mine so don’t worry about it.”

You guided her through the steps—folding the parchment, arranging the bloom, pressing it between two pages. “What if it comes out all crumpled?” she asked.

You smiled. “Then we call it art and pretend it was meant to be.”

She smiled quietly and stared at the flowers. She felt a subtle connection with them. The phrase lingered in her ears as if the words were about her.

You did it again the next day. Sullyoon asked you with such a gentle voice that you dropped everything you were doing and ran outside.

The day was warm enough that the breeze smelled of sap and soil, soft and green like something just woken. She followed you, her boots crunching gently over pine needles. You told her there was a place you wanted to show her—a clearing, tucked behind the ridge, where the trees gave way to open sky and the ground was covered in wildflowers.

She didn’t know what to expect. You continued to describe it with excitement and wonder but she didn’t relieve you. Not until the trees suddenly parted and they stepped into a world that looked as though it had spilled from a painting.

A carpet of color stretched out before them—blues, golds, whites, and purples swaying in the light like a quiet celebration. Butterflies darted low, undisturbed. Somewhere, a lark sang into the sky.

She stopped dead. Her mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. You stepped into the clearing. The flowers brushed against her skirts, and she turned slowly, her fingers grazing the tops as though afraid they might vanish.

“How did you find this?” she asked.

“I got lost once,” you said. “Found something better than the path back.”

She looked at you. You were standing with your arms crossed, head tilted to the sky, the sunlight catching in your hair. It was like the sun was hugging its long-lost son, and you were telling him about all the things it missed about the night sky. Sullyoon was enchanted. 

Then you stepped forward—overconfident on the uneven ground—and your boot caught on a root hidden under the grass.

You pitched forward with a startled grunt, arms flailing. There was no dramatic recovery. Just a loud, undignified thud as you hit the earth.

For half a second, she froze—her old instincts flaring. Then, unexpectedly, a sound escaped her—a single, breathless laugh. Then another. And then she was laughing, truly laughing, the sound bubbling out of her like water from a long-clogged spring.

You rolled over onto your back and looked up at her.

She quickly covered her mouth, mortified. “I’m—I’m so sorry—sir—”

But you were already grinning, one hand behind his head as if reclining on purpose. “Don’t you dare apologize for that,” you said gently.

She blinked.

“That laugh,” you said, “was worth every bruised rib.”

A blush crept up her neck.

You sat up slowly, brushing pollen from his sleeves. “I hadn’t heard it before. Thought maybe you still haven’t learned to laugh”

“I didn’t know I did either,” she said softly, surprised by her own honesty.

The two of you sat there in the grass, surrounded by the hush and hum of flowers. You plucked a stem of clover and rolled it between your fingers. “I know you weren’t allowed to laugh,” you said after a while. “But I hope you’ll do it more. Even if it’s at my expense.”

She looked down at her hands, then back at you. “I might,” she said. And then she smiled.

IV. Nightmares

The house is completely silent, and so is the outside, if not for the calm breeze of the night. All animals are asleep, and you have told your maid to go to sleep first while you finish your work.

Sullyoon lies curled on the narrow bed, her thin frame trembling beneath a threadbare blanket. The chill in the air does nothing to quiet the storm raging inside her mind. The pupils under her eyelids spin and flutter, her limbs are tensed, and sweat pours down her forehead.

She remembers the cold floor of the basement, the smell of the moldy walls, and the sound of dripping water. The cane is raised high, a looming shadow falling over her small body. Orders, insults, screams—they all come back. The pain sears her skin, but worse is the silence. The suffocating, unbearable silence. She has not been allowed to cry, or to speak, or to exist in any way that is truly her own.

Suddenly, a strangled scream tears from her lips—raw, involuntary, and desperate. It shatters the stillness of the night like porcelain on stone.

You immediately stand up from your desk and listen carefully. It is definitely from inside your mansion. Robbers?

You move swiftly through the hallway, guided by the flicker of candlelight and the urgency in your steps. At her door, you knock once and open it.

“Are you awake?” you ask, trying to be as gentle as possible but still worried.

Inside, Sullyoon sits upright, heart pounding, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Shadows dance at the edges of her vision, and her fingers clutch at the blanket. She turns around, and when she sees you, relief washes over her. She takes deep breaths.

“I… I cannot sleep,” she whispers, barely audible.

The door opens slowly.

You step in, candle in hand, its warm glow softening the harsh edges of the room. “May I come in?”

She nods, unable to find her voice again.

You cross the room carefully and sit at the edge of the bed, leaving space between you. “Did you have a nightmare, Sullyoon? Was it… a past memory?”

“Yeah, it was,” she says apologetically. She has been working on herself these past weeks to not bother you again, yet here you are, awake, having to tend to her again. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It could have happened to anyone. Especially you, after what you had been through.”

“I tried to forget, like you told me, but I don’t know why, tonight…”

“It’s okay, we’ll just have to give you more happy memories to remember instead,” you say. You sit down beside her on the bed. You figure it could make her more comfortable. Sullyoon scoots herself closer to you and sheepishly looks at you.

“Thank you for being here,” she says. “You have always been so kind to me.”

“You’re safe here,” you say. “No one will hurt you.”

Her throat tightens, and for a moment, she can’t speak. “The nightmares…” she whispers finally, “They come when the house is quiet. I always try to keep myself busy because of that.”

You nod. “Would it help to talk about them?”

She doesn’t speak right away. Her eyes are distant, unfocused, as though looking past the walls of the cottage into a place far colder and darker. Her hands, which have been trembling on her lap, grip the edge of her nightgown.

You can see the hesitation in her shoulders and the stiffness in her posture. Her breath hitches. She is trying to push it down but can’t anymore.

Then she lets the words spill, halting and rough. Her voice comes in fragments, not full words at first but broken letters. The way her lips curl slightly in disgust at the memory, the way her eyes blink hard as everything flashes before her pupils—you understand.

“They beat me for looking wrong. Speaking wrong. For breathing wrong. I wasn’t allowed to cry or rest. I had to be what they wanted. A shadow. Not a person. And sometimes… it was worse.”

Your heart aches, but your expression doesn’t shift. Only your hand moves, slowly, until it rests lightly over hers. Sullyoon takes it and holds it tight. It gives her courage.

There has been pain. Not the kind that bruises the skin alone, but the kind that creeps into the deepest parts of a person—their dignity, their voice, their sense of worth. There has been punishment for things so small, so human, that to remember them now makes her seem ashamed of having once hoped to be treated kindly.

And there has been silence. Long silences. She has no one to talk to, not a pen to write it down, not a hand to hold. She is trained to stay silent and obey. She shrinks herself smaller and smaller until even her thoughts feel too loud.

“I have to confess, sir,” she starts again, after a long pause. “When I learned that they were going to send me to a new master, I was fearing for my life. If my previous master was this cruel, who knew what my next master would have been like?”

“John brought you here, didn’t he?” you ask.

“Yes. My old master died, and afterward, I was sold along with the other slaves. You call me your maid—which feels like a very noble title to me—but where I came from, we didn’t have such names. And yes, John bought me and brought me here.”

Sullyoon takes another pause and this time her grip lightens. “You surprised me, master. You gave me nicer food on my first night than I’ve ever received during my whole life. And you gave me a room, a bed to sleep in, clothes… I couldn’t believe what was happening.”

“Those were the bare minimums,” you say.

“That’s what you believe in because your heart was so pure,” she points out, “but for me, they were a miracle.” She leans closer to you. “I know I was tense the first few days, but I thought punishment was just waiting for me.”

Sullyoon now looks you directly in the eyes. “And when I broke that cup, I was terrified. Breaking something is the worst thing a slave can do and instead, you hugged… me. That was the first time in my life someone had ever hugged me and it happened when I broke something. I don’t even remember my parents hugging me…”

You smile and turn to face her directly, holding her shoulders with your hands. You hug her. Because she needs it now more than ever. She melts right into your arms, a quiet sob leaving her lips. You pat her head and try to make her feel as safe as possible. She does.

“It feels unreal every time,” she says.

“I will be here every time you need it,” you tell her. “Don’t even ask.”

In the days after the nightmare, something shifted between them. It wasn’t sudden, it was a feeling. Silence no longer felt strained. She no longer flinched when you entered a room. Her shoulders, once tense, began to soften in your presence. When you spoke, she met your eyes more often. Briefly at first, then loner.

You didn’t force her to do anything. You didn’t pry. Instead, you showed her day by day that you cared about her. You’d leave a thicker blanket by her door on colder days, a sprig of dried lavender tucked into her cupboard, books by her nightstand. 

When she dropped something, you’d help her pick it up without comment. At first, she still felt fear when it happened but slowly, she started to smile.

Sometimes, she would sit near you as you sketched plants or wrote notes. She said little, but her presence was steady, and one day, she fell asleep in the chair beside you. It wouldn’t have meant much if it was anyone else but for you, it was huge. You didn’t wake her, you just adjusted the blanket so her shoulders wouldn’t chill. When she stirred and her eyes met yours, she panicked. 

“Sorry! I’m so sorry! I fell asleep,” she would say and bow over and over.

You just chuckled and told her it wasn’t a big deal. It just showed that she felt comfortable around you and she needed that rest anyways.

It wasn’t long before her steps took her to your room on the quiet nights when the dreams came back. She would stand in the doorway with the pillow in her hands, making her small in the shadow of the door. She didn’t ask but she hoped you’d take her. You would always move aside and make room for her. She never spoke much on those nights but sometimes she would hold your hand until sleep returned to her. Other times, she would rest her head against your shoulder so that your breaths would guide her back to calm.

Then Sullyoon became more needy.

On a late morning, she stood in the doorway of the study, hands clasped in front of her apron. She had just finished tidying the herb jars, lined them up perfectly by species and potency, just as you liked them. She lingered there, hesitant, watchin you work. She was fidgeting around with the hem and only looked down.

When you noticed her, you smiled, “They look perfect, Sullyoon, thank you.”

Her fingers tightened slightly. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

You tilted your head. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head quickly. “No it’s just…” Then her voice dropped in a barely audible whisper. “May I… have a hug?”

You blinked once, then set the pen down without a word and crossed the room. Your arms opened without hesitation. She stepped into them with caution but she melted into your embrace as soon as she made contact. Her hands clutched the back of your shirted, face hidden in your shoulder. You swore you could hear her purr.

“You never asked before,” you murmured into her hair. “But I’m glad you did.”

From then, it became more usual. She still didn’t want to be too much of a bother so she only asked it when she did big tasks or after a lot of time. When she swept the entire house and cut the weeds of the garden, she would appear at your side a half-hidden smile and her hands between her ribbons. You would chuckle softly and open your arms.

When she learnt the names of every plant in your collection or finally managed to bake the spiced bread without burning it, she’d look up to you, eyes bright, and murmur, “Do I get a hug now?”

You always said yes.

And sometimes, after she completed a task with extra care, you’d rest a hand gently on her head, brushing her hair back and say, “Well done.” She never said much when you did it, but her eyes always fluttered shut for a moment, and her lips curled into the most contented smile. You always gave her headpats when she looked cute, which was most of the time you saw her.

Sullyoon had gone to the city a couple of times to buy you bread and other groceries before. But it was never for herself. So one time, you tagged alone with her. The town was right at the bottom of your hill so it was about a half an hour walk. The people were lovely, friendly and bright. Most of them were your friends and your name was common knowledge at this opint.

When you arrived, she hesitated at the edge of the main square. Every thursday, there was a big market where the streets became alive with voices, bells, and carts full of summer goods. Her eyes swept across the stalls and storefronts, it never looked this lively.

You offered your arm and she took it to anchor herself.

“I brought you here to buy you something,” you said as you passed the tailor’s window. “You’ve been working hard, and you deserve rewards. Whenever you want something, just ask me.”

Her gaze flicked up to you, startled. “But… I don’t need anything.”

“That’s not the same as not wanting anything.”

She looked away again, uncertain. You didn't press her, only guided her toward the dressmaker’s shop. Inside, it was quiet and warm, sunlight pooling on polished floorboards and bolts of fabric spilling like rivers from their shelves.

The seamstress welcomed you both and stepped aside as Sullyoon took cautious steps around the room.

“Hey, how are you doing?” the seamstress said to you. “Need me to reinforce your pants again? I told you that all that squatting would tear them.”

“Shhh shhh—don’t say that with her here,” you quickly shut her.

“Ohhhhh… sorry about that,” she laughed. “Who is she?”

“She’s my maid.” Sullyoon’s fingers hovered over a bolt of lavender linen, then pulled back before they touched it. 

“You can touch them, you know,” you said, smiling. “You’re allowed, right?”

“Yes, of course,” said the seamstress.

She blinked, hesitated, then finally ran her fingertips along the fabric. Something in her shoulders eased.

The seamstress brought down a few samples and quietly asked Sullyoon to pick a color she liked. After a long pause, she pointed to a pale blue cotton with a soft, woven texture. “That one,” she said quietly. “It reminds me of the sky outside your study window.”

You nodded, pleased. “That’s a fine choice.”

As the seamstress took her measurements, Sullyoon stood still and straight, clearly unsure how to react to being fussed over. But when she stepped out from behind the curtain in a simple try-on dress—light and neat, with a ribbon tied carefully at her waist—you saw her glance into the mirror and pause.

“I… I don’t look like me,” she said under her breath.

“You look like someone becoming herself,” you said.

Her cheeks flushed faintly.

“Yes, I think it’s beautiful. It’s perfect, what do you think?”

“I like it too,” Sullyoon said.

The seamstress folded the chosen fabric with care, wrapping it in brown paper and tying it neatly with twine. Sullyoon stood beside you, her hands clasped in front of her, gaze lowered but flickering with something close to awe.

She hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t even dared to suggest it. But when you saw the way her fingers lingered on that pale blue cloth, the way she tried not to seem too interested, you knew.

You stepped forward, drawing your coin pouch from your coat.

“I’ll take this one,” you said to the seamstress, nodding toward the fabric. “And the fitting for the dress we discussed. Please make it simple, but well-fitted. Something she can move in.”

Sullyoon’s head lifted slightly, eyes wide.

The seamstress gave you a nod, already scribbling notes. “It’ll be ready in three days. Sooner if I can help it.”

As the payment exchanged hands, Sullyoon shifted beside you. “Wait… you’re buying it?”

You turned to her, gentle. “Of course. I said you could choose something.”

“I didn’t think you meant it.”

“I did,” you said softly. “You deserve rewards. Whenever you want something, just ask me.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Just a breath—a fragile, disbelieving breath—as she stared at the wrapped parcel the seamstress handed to you.

You turned and offered it to her, holding it out with both hands like something delicate. “Here. It’s yours.”

She reached for it slowly, like it might vanish if she moved too fast. Her fingers brushed yours as she took it, and her hands trembled just faintly as she cradled the package to her chest.

“I’ve never… had something new,” she murmured. “Something just for me.”

You smiled. “Now you do.”

As you stepped outside into the street again, the wind lifted a strand of her hair. She looked back over her shoulder once at the shopfront, then ahead, holding the little bundle close like it might anchor her to the moment.

And maybe, in a way, it did.

V. It’s love

The rain had been falling gently for hours, painting silver lines down the windows and filling the house with the steady hush of water and wind. Evening had settled in, soft and dim, with only a few candles lit in the sitting room where you sat reading by the hearth.

Not a lot of work to do today, so Sullyoon had plenty of time for herself to think.

Sullyoon lingered in the hallway.

You noticed her there—partially hidden by the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the wall as if steadying herself. Her hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, damp at the ends from the short dash back from the woodshed earlier, where she’d gone to bring in more kindling. She was still in her blue dress, but something in her eyes made her look entirely different.

“Is something wrong?” you asked gently, setting the book aside.

She hesitated. Then stepped into the room, fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve.

“No,” she said softly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

You waited.

“I…” Her voice caught, and she tried again, quieter. “I wanted to ask if you could come to my room. There’s something I… I want to say.”

Your chest tightened at the trembling sincerity in her voice. She wasn’t afraid—not like before—but she was uncertain. Like someone offering a fragile thing into another’s hands, hoping it wouldn’t be broken.

“,Of course, whenever you need” you slowly stood up, careful not to startle her.

She turned, wordlessly, and led you through the narrow hallway. The candlelight flickered as you passed, shadows slipping across the floor. Her door was already open, and when she stepped inside, she paused near the bed and sat down. You did the same.

Her gaze was lowered. Her hands clasped in front of her skirt, knuckles pale.

“I’ve been thinking about something for a while,” she said. “But I didn’t know how to say it. Or if I should. But now I feel like… if I don’t say it, I’ll regret it.”

You took a small step closer, but said nothing.

“I’ve never had someone listen to me. Never had someone stay. And I don’t know how to be someone worth staying for…” Her voice faltered. “But when you’re kind to me, and when you trust me with little things, like the pressed flowers or your books or just—your company… it means more than I know how to say.”

You were close now. Not touching, just close.

“And I think,” she continued, barely louder than the rain, “that I’m starting to… love you. And it scares me. Because I don’t know what that’s supposed to look like.”

She finally lifted her eyes to yours.

“I just needed you to know.”

You took a slow breath, heart swelling with something warm and full. She stood there, vulnerable and brave all at once, the candlelight brushing soft gold across her cheekbones and the tremble of her lip.

You reached out gently, so she could see your hand coming, and touched her cheek with your knuckles—lightly, reverently. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes shimmered with something close to disbelief.

Then you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, your lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary, as if to seal something unspoken between you.

“I love you too, Sullyoon,” you said quietly.

It was not grand or dramatic. Just true.

Her breath hitched. Her hands, which had been clenched tightly against her skirt, slowly unfurled. Her shoulders loosened. A single tear slipped down her cheek—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming gentleness of the moment.

“You mean it?” she asked, almost like she was afraid to believe it.

“I do,” you said. “Not because you serve me. Not because you’ve been kind or quiet or patient. But because you’re you. And I’ve been falling for you without even realizing how deeply.”

“I’ve also- I’ve been thinking about the books in your library. I’ve read them and I wondered about what they called “love” and what two people do when they love each other.” Sullyoon gulps. Her insides are stirring and her head is starting to go haywire. But she holds your hand and speaks again. 

“Sullyoon…”

“I want to service you, Master. To show you my gratitude.”

“You don’t have to do that, Sullyoon. There are many ways you have to thank me. You should do it only with…”

“I know. But I want this too,” she confesses. “I remember that you said I should be rewarded as well. This is what I want, master, please.” Sullyoon’s breath is getting warmer. She gets closer to you, this time your shoulders touch, and you can feel the heat of her body.

“I want to be closer to you. A hug is no longer enough. If this feeling…”

“Love?”

“Yeah, love. If what I feel is truly love, I want you to take me, master.” Sullyoon swallows her last hesitation. “My body is scarred and damaged. So I understand if you don’t find me desirable. But I still wish to offer myself to you. This is all I have and I want you to have it.”

“Oh, Sullyoon, I do. And I feel honored that you have these feelings.” You say truthfully.

“Really?” She says. “Master… I will show you everything.”

She takes a deep breath and slowly takes off her clothes. First, her long socks, revealing her long, luscious legs, then her nightgown at once, finally revealing her white porcelain skin, shining under the moonlight. Her whole figure, slender and smooth, together with her small breasts, tempt you. Then you saw her scars. Most of them healed, but there were still marks, and some were deeply etched into her skin.

“H-here I am, all of me.”

Your hand gently brushes against them. You observe how her skin reacted and trembled. Sullyoon’s breath is irregular; she tries to hold it and is surprised by the chills that go down her spine.

“Sullyoon you are… beautiful.”

The girl gasped. “...what?! Me? Beautiful…?” She says, trembling. “You really think so? How could you?”

Your hand goes up to her cheek, brushing under her jaw, and you kiss her. Deeply. Because she wouldn’t have believed any other word that came out of your mouth, you just had to show her. Sullyoon accepts it wholeheartedly. She tries her best to kiss you back, moving her lips with yours, but it is her first time.

She doesn’t know what to do and just sits there, feeling your hands around her face and your lips lovingly kissing her like she never knew.

She looks straight into you, with love, desire, “Master… I feel like my heart is gonna jump out of my chest.”

Sullyoon smiles, and your heart flutters.

“Please, master, I want to do it. Sex, I mean. I want you to show me all of these feelings.” She begs you with the smallest of voices. A whisper. Seductive and pleading. “Please. Won’t you allow it?”

You couldn’t resist. How could you? “I will,” you simply say, trying to maintain your composure. She wants you badly but you only want her more. Now more than anything.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just lie down, here on the bed,” you say, and pat the pillow next to you. Sullyoon follows, making herself comfortable, resting her hands on her belly. She trembles from anticipation.

“Now what—mmh” she’s interrupted by your kiss again. Her hands go on your shoulders as she welcomes you, pulling you in.

A soft gasp escapes Sullyoon's lips as your mouth travels down her neck, her back arching slightly in response. Her breath quickens, her chest rising and falling with increased rhythm.

Your hands come on her chest, caressing and fondling her small breasts. Your fingertips gently pinch one nipple while you massage the flesh of the other. With stimulation coming from two places, Sullyoon has a hard time keeping up with you and starts to whimper helplessly. She breathes deeply between your kisses to accommodate this new feeling.

Your fingers trace lower, skimming across her stomach. Sullyoon's hands tighten into fists, then slowly release. She bites her lower lip, attempting to stifle any further audible reactions.

"Please..." she whispers, though whether it's a plea for more or restraint is unclear. Her body remains mostly still but it’s reacting to every stimulation.

“Arch your back for me,” you whisper into her ear. She complies.

Sullyoon's breathing becomes more labored as you tug her underwear down her legs. She’s desperate. Your hands are so close and she’s so naked in front of you but it’s exactly where she wants to be. She looks at you with eagerness, yearning for your next move.

Once her panties are removed, she’s half-sitting on the cushion before you with legs parted, exposed, and vulnerable. Her expression is still controlled, but the flush on her cheeks deepens, and a bead of sweat trickles down her temple.

She slowly opens her legs wider. “I’m yours now, please do what you want, master.”Her voice wavers slightly, betraying her heightened state of arousal.

Very gently, you start rubbing her swollen clit. Sullyoon's body jerks involuntarily at the first touch, a choked whimper escaping her lips. Her hands fly to her mouth, silencing any further sounds as she struggles to maintain her facade of composure. 

Then you insert your fingers inside her, finding her G-spot and slowly massaging it. You can feel the wetness pooling into your hands, aiding your movement. 

Her hips buck upwards, seeking more of your fingers' movement. The telltale signs of her escalating desire are written across her body - the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the sheen of sweat on her skin, the way her thighs tremble with need. "More… please," Sullyoon manages to say through gritted teeth, her words barely audible over her ragged breathing.

Sullyoon's eyelids flutter closed as she focuses on the sensations coursing through her body. She takes a shaky breath, then opens her eyes to meet yours with a steady gaze.

“Are you okay?” you ask before it gets too much. “Any pain?”

"No pain," she says, her voice a husky whisper. "Please continue…"

Sullyoon inhales sharply as your fingers slide deeper inside her, stretching her to accommodate the added length. Her back arches, nails digging into your hand as she adjusts to the newfound sensation. "Yes," she breathes, "that's it... more."

Sullyoon's hips grind against your palm, clit throbbing in time with the rhythm of your fingers pumping in and out of her. She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood in a desperate attempt to overcome the overwhelming pleasure coursing through her veins.

You take out your hand, now dripping with her juices. She looks at you with confusion and disappointment in her eyes. “Is there a problem?” she asks. No problem. Looking at how much liquid was spilling out of her made you incredibly hungry. You had to get a taste.

As you lower your head down between her legs, Sullyoon gets more worried by the sudden movement. “What are you doing, master?” she pants. “Don’t go there, it’s dirty—ah!”

Sullyoon's eyes fly open as your mouth makes contact with her sensitive flesh, her initial shock giving way to moans of pleasure. Her thighs tremble, muscles clenching around your tongue as you lap at her folds and delve into her core.

"Oh gods, Master!" she cries out, fingers digging into the sheets as you lavishly attend to her most intimate area. "That's... incredible!"

You slurp up her sweetest nectar, nibbling on her lips, sucking on her clit, pushing your tongue into the depth of her hole. Every single movement makes her go crazier. She tastes just as sweet as she looks, and her moans beg you to continue.

Its delightful.

She’s delightful 

Sullyoon's hips undulate against your face, meeting each lick and stroke with increasing urgency. The sensation of your tongue exploring her depths sends jolts of electricity coursing through her veins, reigniting the embers of her arousal.

"Yes, right there," Sullyoon gasps, needy. Her hands finally come onto your head and softly pull you into her. She’s helpless but there’s still that instinct behind her actions that tells her to know her place and not interfere with you. 

But as your mouth seals over her clit, Sullyoon's world descends into chaos. Your two fingers go back into her, stroking her spot, while your other hand pushes down onto her womb to get closer to your fingertips. The pressure on her stomach amplifies her pleasure and her moans turn to screams. She doesn’t know what to say, nor is she able to. You only suck harder and move faster.

“W-wa-wait!” you can barely hear. “Some—something is coming…!” Sullyoon says, almost scared about what her body might do. But you know. You have to make her cum.

A keening wail tears from her throat as the first wave of climax crashes over her, sending shockwaves rippling through every nerve ending.

Her body convulses violently, her back arching as her vision blurs behind a kaleidoscope of colors. Sullyoon's inner walls clench and ripple around your finger, gushing nectar that floods your mouth and dribbles down your chin. It’s thick, white and coats your tongue completely. You carefully lick it all up, scared that it might go to waste.

"P-please, Master!" she sobs, voice breaking as the onslaught of pleasure threatens to consume her entirely. "Don't stop, I can't... I can't..."

As if driven by a primal instinct, Sullyoon starts to grind against your face aggressively, riding out the tsunami of ecstasy. Her moans escalate into cries of pure abandon, echoing off the walls as she surrenders utterly to the sensation.

Finally, with a hoarse scream, Sullyoon's climax crests and breaks, leaving her shuddering and spent in the aftermath. As the tremors subside, she collapses back onto the bed, panting heavily, her chest heaving with each ragged breath.

She collapsed back onto the bed, limbs trembling and lungs heaving as if each breath had to be pulled from deep inside her chest. Sweat clung to her skin in a shining sheen, dripping from her brow, soaking the sheet under her, making her skin saltier. Her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, strands of damp hair plastered to her forehead.

Sprawled on her side, one arm draped limply over her stomach, she lay still for a moment, gulping at the air like it might steady the pounding in her head. Her heart thudded in her ears, louder than her breaths.

“M-master?” she started. “What was that? What was that feeling? I—something happened, I don’t know…”

You chuckled. “It was an orgasm. You came. That’s the final part of sex, usually. It feels good, right?”

“Y-yeah…”

“Was it the first time?”

A weak nod tells you everything you needed. For a while, she stayed where she was, letting the fire in her lungs dim to a flicker. Her breath slowed—still deep, but no longer desperate. The pounding in her chest began to settle, fading into a steady rhythm.

Slowly, she rose and sat on the bed. “Master, can we do it now? The real thing?” she asked you, even needier than before. If what you just did felt like heaven coming down on her, she couldn’t even imagine what was next.

You started to undress. Sullyoon looked at the bulge in your pants, unattended, that now was starting to hurt from how rock hard it got. You quickly took off your shirt, trousers, and underwear, showing your penis in front of her.

A quiet gasp escaped her lips. She stared at you with excitement. “So… this is your manhood, right?”

You nodded and you kneeled back into the bed. Sullyoon looked into your eyes and asked, “Can I touch it?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” you tell her.

Sullyoon reaches out tentatively, her fingers wrapping around your thick shaft. She strokes you with a gentle, exploratory touch, her touch tentative at first, then growing bolder as she becomes more confident.

"It's so warm and firm," she murmurs, her voice filled with wonder. "I had no idea it would feel this way."

Sullyoon's thumb rubs against the sensitive underside of your cockhead as she pumps her hand along your length. She leans in closer, inhaling deeply as if trying to absorb every scent and texture. She tries to stroke with you more speed, worried she might be doing a bad job but really you’re enchanted by the sight of her doing her best. She’s adorable and it’s turning you on more than you anticipated. 

Her fingertips make you shiver. Despite her hard work, her palms are still smooth and soft.

"I saw the girls doing stuff like this. I want to try it. May I put it in my mouth?" Sullyoon asks, her gaze locked with yours, desire and curiosity burning bright in her eyes. “Yes,” you whisper. It was your turn now to be completely turned on and yearning for her.

With a subtle nod, Sullyoon aligns your head with her lips, then takes you into her mouth, inch by inch. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks gently, her tongue swirling around the sensitive glans. Sullyoon's hands move to caress your thighs, urging you deeper as she begins to bob her head in a slow, rhythmic motion. Her eyelids flutter shut, lost in the sensations of exploring this new intimacy.

After a few moments, Sullyoon pulls back, releasing your cock with a wet pop. She gazes up at you, her lips glossy and swollen, eyes heavy-lidded with desire.

"Is this pleasing to you, Master?" Sullyoon asks, her voice husky from the act.

“Yes, you are doing well, Sullyoon,” you say and pat her head. Sullyoon's lips curve into a sly smile at your praise, her confidence growing with each word. She takes a deep breath, then plunges back onto your cock,determined to take you even deeper.

Sullyoon's throat constricts around the head of your shaft as she gulps you down, her nose brushing against your pubic bone. She relaxes her jaw, allowing you to slide further until the tip kisses the back of her throat.

The vibrations of her moan resonate around your length as she sucks harder, cheeks hollowing and lips stretched tautly. Sullyoon's tongue swirls and teases the sensitive underside, her fingers kneading your thighs for added leverage.

“Mmmh… your lips feel so good,” you let out a heavy groan.

She pulls back slightly, just enough to catch her breath, before diving back down, setting a more rhythmic pace. Sullyoon's fingers dig into your thighs as she suckles greedily, her throat working to take every inch. Sullyoon's head bobs, saliva streaming down her chin as she devours your cock like a starving woman. Her moans grow louder, more urgent, as if she was pleasuring herself.

Her eyes lock with yours, wild and unfocused, as she loses herself in the act. Her mind clouds with lust, every thought centered on bringing you to the brink of ecstasy. With each stroke of her tongue and suck of her lips, Sullyoon strives to prove herself worthy for you.

When you felt like you were getting too close, you pulled out of her mouth. She looked at you, almost disappointed. “That’s enough… i think we are ready” you say, but she can feel the shakiness of your voice.

Sullyoon gazes up at you, her eyes shining with triumph and arousal at your praise. She smiles, the curve of her lips dripping with saliva.

Your hands go around her head and you pull her into a kiss, which she accepts happily. You savor her lips, trying to recover yourself, and adorn her with praises and compliments. Your words alone cause her bodily pleasure and her wetness is pooling into the sheets. 

“I’ll put it inside you now,” you whisper at the end.

Sullyoon's eyes widen slightly at your declaration, a flutter of apprehension momentarily clouding her expression. However, she quickly recovers, nodding resolutely as she realizes your intentions. "I am prepared, Master," Sullyoon says, her voice calm and measured.

She lies down on the bed and shifts position, spreading her legs wider in silent invitation. Sullyoon lifts her hips slightly, helping guide your cock to her slick entrance. Her body tenses ever so slightly as the head of your shaft presses against her, the first barrier to your joining.

"Please…" Sullyoon urges. "Take me now."

Sullyoon's breath catches as the broad head of your cock nudges past her delicate folds, the intrusion is both thrilling and slightly uncomfortable. She bites her lip, tensing as you gradually work your way deeper, the stretch exquisite yet unfamiliar.

You’re knocked back into your senses as well. Her walls are extremely tight, squeezing your cock in its entire length. It’s thanks to her dripping wetness that you can enter her easily. You grit your teeth, you can already feel it coming.

As you continue your measured advance, Sullyoon begins to relax, her body adapting to the new sensation. Her walls clench around your length, welcoming you completely. Sullyoon's eyes lock with yours, you can see the love in her eyes, she’s happy. With a slow nod, she grants permission for you to take control, trusting in your guidance.

"I am ready," Sullyoon confirms, her voice husky with anticipation. "Please… do it."

As your lips meet hers, Sullyoon melts into the kiss, her body responding instinctively to the gentle rocking motion of your hips. She tastes your tongue, finding comfort in your taste while the new feeling between her legs starts to cloud her mind.

Sullyoon's hands come up to frame your face, fingers tangling in your hair as she deepens the kiss. She moans softly into your mouth, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine. Her thighs wrap around your waist, pulling you in tighter, urging you to continue the slow, sensual thrusts.

Breaking the kiss, Sullyoon gazes up at you with hooded eyes, her chest heaving with each breath. "More…" she whispers, her voice husky with need. "Please, Master…"

You were trying to hold back for her, but the tone in her voice was irresistible. You start to let go, speeding up the rhythm of your hips bucking into hers.

With renewed fervor, Sullyoon starts to meet your thrusts, rolling her hips to take you deeper. Her inner walls clench around your shaft, the friction sending sparks of pleasure coursing through her veins. Sullyoon's moans grow louder, more urgent, her mind turning hazy from lust, losing herself into your rhythm.

“Mmmh!” she moans. You continue fucking her. You’re chasing your own release now. Sullyoon doesn’t care what you do. Every movement, even the smallest, brings her the most pleasure she’s ever experienced.

You don’t want to last longer. You’ve endured enough. Her nails dig into your shoulders, urging you on, silently pleading for more of the exquisite friction.

"I love you," Sullyoon gasps, her voice strained with effort. "Don't stop, Master. Please, don't ever stop."

The room fills with the rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, the lewd squelch of their joined hips. You didn’t think she could get wetter but she did. You were sliding in and out of her without much effort at all. Your hips were now smashing into hers, kissing her womb at every thrust.

"Yes, Master!" Sullyoon cries out, her voice rising in pitch and volume as she surrenders to the brutal pace. "Harder, please! Make me yours!"

With each brutal slam of his hips, Sullyoon's body is driven up the bed, the headboard crashing against the wall. Sullyoon clings to you desperately, nails digging into your back as she tries to anchor herself against the torrent of sensations crashing over her.

Her breasts bounce wildly with each thrust, the hard nipples grazing your chest. Sullyoon's inner walls clench, milking your cock. The pressure builds rapidly, her orgasm coiling tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

"Master, I'm... I'm almost—" Sullyoon gasps, her words cut short by a loud, uncontrollable moan as her climax rips through her. Her body seizes, back arching as she comes hard, inner muscles rippling around your shaft.

Her orgasm hits her hard—Sullyoon's hips thrust wildly, and her words turn into a mix of incoherent moans. In the chaos, your cock slips out of her climaxing pussy, and you feel her squirt splattering against you. Your fingers quickly deep into her and you finger her pussy to help her ride it out. She creates quite a mess—not only is her cum all over your legs and cock, yet you keep on fucking more of it out of her.

Her body goes limp, sated, and spent. She pants heavily, trying to catch her breath amidst the aftershocks of her intense orgasm. Then she looks at you, with your penis still rock hard. “Master—you—you haven’t orgasmed yet,” she says apologetically.

“Well, no—” you start but Sullyoon interrupts you. “Please use me,” she begs you. “You have to cum too.”

With your fresh instructions, you get back to what you were doing with Sullyoon earlier. You hold her by the waist, and before long, you're back to pounding her pussy with thrusts. Sullyoon handles each thrust like a champ—she even pushes herself back onto your cock while moaning like crazy. Her eyes are glazed over, her jaw loose, but she still knows how to ride your cock and match every thrust flawlessly.

You thrust your cock deep into Sullyoon's cunt. Sullyoon screams at the rhythm—she's still sensitive from the orgasm, and your pounding of her tight cunt drives her wild—but somehow she still manages to bounce herself on your cock. 

You pull Sullyoon down roughly onto your cock, burying yourself deep inside her. Your cock erupts with thick, hot semen, shooting deep into her cunt, and you hardly move at all—just staying hilted in Sullyoon as you let your orgasm wash over you. All you do is shudder and thrust your hips as each wave of cum leaves your body and fills her up. The only thing Sullyoon can do is moan as the warmth of your release floods deep inside her, coating her walls white with shot after shot of your seed filling her womb.

She finally relaxes when you’re done and can barely raise her head to look at you. “Master… what is that? What’s that white liquid.”

“Oh, well that’s semen. Uhm, that’s what males let out when they cum,” you say, shyly. It’s embarrassing to have to explain such things, even after what you just did.

“As long as it’s from you, it’s fine,” she says. Sullyoon lifts her fingers from between her legs, her digits glistening with a thick layer of your cum and juices.

You see Sullyoon bring her fingers to her mouth. Her tongue peeks out from between her lips, and she savors your cum off her fingers as if it were a treat. She maintains her gaze on you while she cleans her fingers of your seed. 

“It tastes good,” she says casually and laughs. You chuckle as well to brush off the awkwardness. You both remain silent for a few minutes, processing what just happened.

“Thank you, master,” she whispers at last. “You never treated me like a slave. I just… I’m so happy to have you.”

“And I’m happy to have you,” you say, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I love you.”

She looks up at you, tears welling, her voice trembling. “Thank you, master.”

You smile gently, shaking your head. “I’m not your master anymore, Sullyoon. Not after this. You’re more than that. More than a maid. More than a title.”

She blinks slowly, her lips parting. “Then… what should I call you?”

“I don’t know,” you say, a little sheepishly.

She hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking down before rising to meet yours again, a soft light blooming in them. “What about… darling? I saw it once, in one of your books. It’s what people say when their hearts belong to each other.”

You smile, your chest tightening in the best way. “That’s perfect.”

A breathless laugh escapes her, half joy, half disbelief. She leans into you, her head finding its place against your chest, where your heartbeat thuds steadily and surely. Your arms come around her, not to hold her tightly, but completely. She isn’t just in your arms—she is where she belongs.

Outside, the forest stirs with the hush of wind through leaves, but inside, all is quiet.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” you murmur. “Not of the past. Not of tomorrow. As long as I’m breathing, I’ll keep you safe. Because I love you more than anything in this world.”

Her body shakes with quiet sobs—not of sorrow, but release. She clings to you, trembling with emotion, with the enormity of being loved without condition.

“Thank you,” she breathes through her tears. “Thank you… darling. I love you, too.”

The candle flickers low beside you, casting soft golden light over the two of you as the night folds gently around the house. She had never felt so safe in silence before.

THE END

Written, 27 May 2025 - 9 July 2025

Closing notes:

I promised to write this fic almost a year ago after my post received 160 notes. It took a really long time since I was busy, but I never forgot. It turns out I'm more of a summer writer who returns once a year. I hope you enjoyed the story if you arrived at this message.

I'd like to thank @usedpidemo, @leafostuff, and @4m1rz for editing this story. I would also like to thank @erospandemos, who helped write this story and made the cover art.

[cherienymphe]

Scorned

Friedrich Harding x Reader

Summary: With no possibility of a future with your lover, you make the decision to stop letting him break your heart.

warnings: Non-con, mentions of loss of virginity, obsession, forbidden relationship, power imbalance

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies 

♱

Friedrich Harding was a man who earned many compliments—he was a man of integrity, a man with wealth, and a man greatly respected in society. You personally had a few lesser known compliments for the dark-haired gentleman such as his caring demeanor and gentle touch and prowess in bed. It was something that only you had the pleasure of knowing. At least, that was what you were assured, and you chose to believe him for he was a man of integrity. 

Under the cover of darkness when you should have been asleep or even during earlier hours when he should have been using valuable time to find a suitable wife, Friedrich preferred to refresh his memory of what it felt like to touch you and taste you and find solace inside of you. The years-long friendship between Thomas and Friedrich made the former none the wiser to the true cause of the latter’s frequent visits over the past year. Your life was not the only one to be changed the moment you were taken in as a maid for the Hutter family.

Friedrich would spend every waking moment breathing you in and finding relaxation in your warmth if he had the choice, and you knew this because he told you so. He was, after all, an honest man. He told you how beautiful you were every time the thought crossed his mind and he told you about every time he thought of you while he was away and he told you how harder it was becoming to stay away from you. He was very honest…even when you wished that he would not be.

“You had to know that no other answer is possible…”

Those baby blues of his were heavy—with sadness or shame, you did not know, only that you yourself felt a bit of both. It was a silly thing to ask him one day—if he ever thought of marrying you—and truthfully you did not know what answer you were possibly expecting. Of course Herr Harding could not ever marry you. You were a maid, a servant—not much better than property in some places—and the gentleman that you had grown to care for needed a wife of good standing…a wife that many would envy him for. 

You were neither of those things.

Asking him such a thing only succeeded in making things tense for you two for a few moments and breaking your own heart, but that was quickly remedied when he told you not to think of such things before pressing his lips to yours. His manor only housed one, and so you were not so cautious in how you responded to him once he got his hands on you.

His lips did not stray from your face once as he slowly and gently curved his hips into yours, pushing his cock into you with a pace that he knew you loved. Nothing drove you crazier more, and you loved the sounds that escaped his lips whenever you grazed your fingers over his skin and pressed your nails into his naked back. The only time that you were not a maid and he was not a man out of reach was during these stolen moments, when he was inside of you and whispering sweet nothings in your ear and telling you that you were his.

Only…

You were not his.

He had made that clear to you. You were not his and he was not yours, and while it was never spoken of again, you moved forward with that in mind no matter how much it broke your heart day after day. You did not take words said in the heat of the moment to heart, and never did you ever think to.

“You did not come to me last night…”

The whispered words were said to you in a dimly lit hallway, Thomas’ family just in the sitting room and oblivious to your coupled absence. The dark-haired man had cornered you, his blue eyes hardly leaving your person from the moment he stepped into the house, so some part of you had expected it. With him so close—his warmth reaching out for you and the scent of him surrounding you—it was hard to remember why you had left his bedside cold the previous night. You took a deep breath before racking your brain for the truth.

“I did not think it was wise.”

Friedrich looked between your eyes for a moment before a light chuckle left him, his perfect teeth winking at you as he clearly found your response comical.

“When has it ever been…?”

He reached for you as he said this, but you were quick to grab his hand and halt his pursuit. The frown that knitted his brow was a rare sight—Friedrich hardly being the kind of man who was faced with a refusal from anyone—and you almost felt bad.

“Perhaps that is reason enough that I should have never warmed your bed to begin with,” you quietly told him, and you did not miss the way his face fell. “You must marry and have sons…and not only will that never be with me, but the longer this continues the longer you put it off.”

The man before you stared at you as if you were speaking another language, and when your words finally sank in, he straightened, staring at you in a way you had never been on the receiving end of before.

“It is not your place to worry about such things,” he said, making you bristle. “You let me worry about my affairs.”

You were not stupid. You could see that Friedrich was thinking and feeling way too many things than he was used to in this moment as the implications behind your words were finally starting to hit him, but it did not make his words sting any less.

“No, it is not my place to worry about your affairs,” you agreed. “...but it is my place to worry about mine.”

He was still as you slid from between him and the wall, his gaze stuck on you as you abandoned him in more ways than one. Refusing to sleep with Friedrich any more was no easy decision to make, even harder to execute. The man had introduced you to a world you wondered if you would ever be privy to, and he had made you feel things that made you shudder to think about even now, but you were tired of breaking your own heart day after day.

“I do not want any letters from you and do not seek me out. I no longer want that…”

Before your former lover could respond, you were rejoining the family who employed you. You ignored his gaze when he returned and throughout dinner and most especially as he was leaving. It was no easy feat because Friedrich had the kind of presence that was hard to ignore, and that was true in more ways than one.

Despite how many times you dreamt of the man in the weeks that followed, you told yourself that bittersweet memories were infinitely better than accepting the affections of someone who could never be yours. One day he would be married—guarantee—and maybe one day you would be too—not so much of a guarantee—and Friedrich was an honest man, yes, but it felt insulting to him to think that he might not possess the kind of strength required to never seek you out once he took a wife. You surely liked to think so, but the man himself had told you many times that he found it difficult to stay away from you.

…and he was no liar.

Despite your wishes, letters were still slipped beneath your door, waiting for you at the end of the day when he had long left and you were retiring for the night. Each one went unopened, too afraid of what you might do should you read what he had to say all the while imagining that smooth voice of his. In fact, none of your wishes were met, cornered by the blue-eyed man again and again.

“Friedrich…”

You nervously looked past his broad shoulders, your inability to hold his gaze bringing him great frustration.

“Forgive me for I believed that this was merely some tantrum, some lapse in thought brought on by fear or inadequacy or…”

He trailed off, seemingly unable to gather his thoughts as his eyes roamed your face.

“Friedrich, I have made my feelings clear to you,” you spoke before he could gather himself to do so again. “Leave me be.”

Your attempt to get away was stopped, and your wide eyes rested on his face. There was a deep frown on it, and the facial hair above his lip twitched as his fingers pressed into your arms.

“Have I not told you time and time again that you are mine? That I cannot be without you?”

“Words said while I was warming your bed,” you pointed out, the attitude in your tone clear. “Now it is you who will have to forgive me for not taking them seriously.”

You tried to slip away again.

“So, you thought I said them in jest? That they were not meant to be believed?”

He sounded incredulous, and you took that moment to finally break free.

“It is irrelevant,” you hissed. “Please, leave me be!”

Your voice slightly echoed, and you were quick to stride away from him lest someone come looking for you.

As it turns out, the only person who you ever had to worry about looking for you was your spurned lover. You did not know if his shameless behavior was scarier than if he had preferred to remain discreet. Gathering groceries for the Hutters was a shadowed task and every room you cleaned turned into a hiding place every time he came over.

Your dreams about the man who you had once thought you loved turned into nightmares.

…and those nightmares turned into reality.

“So, this is where you hide whenever you so much as hear my voice…”

His hands were on your face, and your lower back was pressed against a side table as he finally found you one day. Friedrich looked as distinguished as always, but his eyes…something about those eyes gave way to the disarray within him. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, and there was a pout on his own lips as he ran his eyes along your face.

“I have written to you,” he forced out.

“...and I have asked you not to.”

The man before you swallowed at that, and his fingers pressed harder into your skin.

“Have you read them?” he finally asked, and your resolute silence must have been answer enough because you did not miss the way his eyes dimmed and his face fell.

Friedrich was normally so composed and dignified, so to see him in such a way was not only fascinating…but also terrifying. A once predictable man had become anything but, and you did not know what to expect from him.

“Has your heart truly grown so cold towards me?” he murmured, a plea in his gaze, and you felt compelled to be truthful in your answer.

“No,” you whispered. “...but I know what I want, and you cannot give it to me, so why go on pretending otherwise?”

You wrestled yourself from his grip with difficulty, and when Friedrich reached out to you, you stepped away, his fingers grazing the fabric of your dress as you did so.

“If you ignore my wishes again…” you took a deep, shuddering breath. “...I fear that you might never find me should you seek me out.”

You did not miss his stricken gaze as you left him, and despite what you wanted, it still hurt to see. You loved working for the Hutters, and perhaps you shared some blame in getting involved with a man who was so closely intertwined with them, but Friedrich had become an overbearing presence that would force you to find employment elsewhere if need be. He did not respect any boundary you attempted to put in place, and that made you feel terrified in a place you once felt so safe in.

He consumed your every waking thought—and not in a way that was pleasing—and perhaps that was why you found yourself touching the pile of letters you swore you would never open. But open them you did, one by one, and each letter grew more worrying than the last. The first was mild in comparison, mostly filled with declarations of desire to be near you and the odd jest here and there about what he had wrongly assumed was some temporary break.

Each one after talked less and less about love and any other gentle feelings and more about the need to never be without you and the ramblings of a man whose thoughts were far from coherent. Words like ‘consume’ and ‘torture’ and ‘despair’ stood out the most, and as you read every one, you had not even realized that you had begun to tremble. The parchment in your hands was shaking, and the cold that gripped you had nothing to do with the weather outside.

So much of what he had written was not all that different from the things Friedrich would whisper in your ear in the dead of night when he was pinning you beneath him and gently biting your flesh and parting your legs to make room for him. So many things that he would say in passionate moments were not at all anything you ever thought to take to heart. After all, how could you possibly expect to believe that he would never want to be away from you when he told you in no uncertain terms that he would never marry you?

For days those letters haunted you, and you struggled with how best to proceed. You did not relish the thought of leaving, but Friedrich—while a well respected gentleman—was a man who often and almost always got what he wanted. You did not know if the hold he wanted to have over you was because he truly loved you or because he felt that being your first meant something more or because…you were simply denying him something he wanted.

All scenarios scared you, and while you were fretting over the unnerving words that never left your thoughts, a storm ravaged your coastal town.

A storm that stranded Herr Harding under the same roof where you laid your head.

Some part of you expected him to give into his temptations.

“I do not know if you think me fickle or you just do not take anything I say seriously…”

You quietly trailed off, shaking your head and moving away from him as the heavy rain pelted against your window. The bad weather kept the rest of the house unaware of the argument going on beneath their very roof.

“...but I told you-.”

“Where do you think you can go that I will not follow?”

His words stumped you, and a flash of lightning brightened the room for a moment before it was bathed in the warm glow from your candles once again. His bright eyes stood out in the low lighting, but you swore that the more you stared into them, the darker they grew. The silence between you was thick with tension, and you felt your throat tighten at the predicament you found yourself in.

“Friedrich,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “Please…”

“You break my heart, and you are the one begging?”

When he moved closer, you stood your ground despite your fear.

“Your heart?” you gasped. “You tell me that you will never marry me, and you do not think that broke mine? That day after day of being with you while knowing that did not continue to do so?”

You watched as he pressed his lips together, jaw clenching at your words.

“Friedrich…you must marry…and you have no intention of making me your bride. Are you telling me that the respectable and honorable Herr Harding had it in mind to keep me on as some shameful mistress? Hardly more than some whore?”

Your tone was thick with incredulity, and the dark-haired man had no response, only looking away with a huff.

“Or did you simply never think that far?”

“That day is nowhere along the horizon-.”

“Of course, you did not think that far,” you sighed, interrupting. “You are a man. There is no such thing as ‘ruin’ for you. Of course, you do not care.”

“Never speak such things,” he spat, cornering you. “Of course, I care.”

“You care, and yet you have never concerned yourself with what will become of me after you have taken a wife. You care, but you ignore my every wish to be free of you, to move on from you…”

“...because I cannot-.”

He cut himself off, hands placed on your cheeks as he stared at you.

“...because I cannot bear the thought,” he eventually said, pushing the words out through his teeth. “The mere thought of you with another tempts me to do unspeakable things.”

Those words caused a shudder to crawl down your spine, not unfamiliar with them as you recalled reading those exact words on a piece of parchment. His thumbs brushed along your skin, and when he moved closer, your stomach twisted into knots.

“Do you even grasp the insanity that would send me into?”

“Does that seem fair to you? That you must move on one day while I remain here right where you would prefer me?”

“I will never be able to move on from you, what about that do you not understand?”

You looked away from him, and Friedrich touched the tip of his nose to your temple, breathing you in.

“You speak of things that simply make no sense, Friedrich. It seems that I am the one who has to be reasonable yet again…”

“...and how do you plan on doing that? By leaving?”

The silence was loud, and you stumbled out from between him and the wall the moment his hands trailed further down to your shoulder and arm. He softly called your name as you turned your back to him, twice, then a bit louder on the third time.

“I will not allow it,” he harshly whispered, a hand circling your wrist. “Surely, you know that.”

His other hand dug into your waist, pulling you against him.

“I saw the letters on your bed table,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I know you read them. I know that you know what you mean to me.”

“Let go of me,” you breathed.

“That will only happen if you manage to make me,” was his mocking response, and your heart skipped a beat at his words. “If I leave you tonight, I worry that I shall never hold you again.”

His soft lips swallowed whatever you were going to say, and as you went to push him away, he pinned your arm between you.

“I refuse to be without you,” he murmured into the kiss, one hand firm on the small of your back and preventing you from getting away.

Wind whipped rain and leaves against the window, and the thunder carefully hid your fearful yelp as his lips trailed down your jaw and to your neck. His facial hair brushed against your skin, and you shuddered from the familiarity of it. Every attempt to break free from him was thwarted, and you had half a mind to wake the entire house, but you feared the consequences for you should the discovery of such a scene get out.

The man before you would go on fine as if nothing happened.

You, on the other hand, would be lucky to find another decent place of employment…let alone a husband.

Friedrich was unlike anything you had ever experienced, acting so unlike himself as he forced you to go and move in whatever direction he wished. Your panic only began to set in when you found yourself on your bed, a place that had seen your coupling numerous times, but tonight would be different.

Nothing about tonight would be loving.

The sound of ripping fabric made your heart jump, and when Friedrich’s lips wrapped around one of your breasts, you could not hold in your gasp. His other hand slid between your thighs as it had a hundred times, and every push against his chest was useless. You were focused on too much at once—trying to get his lips off of you and his fingers out of you.

When he curved them into you and circled his tongue on your skin, you faltered.

What followed played out just as you expected it to.

The strong man—whose strength you had once admired—was not deterred at all by any hit or scratch or punch you gave him. He murmured many things against your skin as he released himself, pinning your writing frame between him and your bed. Some of it was loving words that you were not at all unfamiliar with, and some of it was reminiscent of the more unnerving things he had put into his writing to you. 

“I told you that I cannot resist you,” he whispered, slowly thrusting into you in the way he knew you liked.

It made your stomach churn, now.

“Every time I am inside of you, you bear witness to every confession I make…”

His fingers threaded through your own against your will, pinning your hand to the bed as he held it. His lips pressed opened mouthed kisses against the expanse of your neck, your tearful gaze on the ceiling as your lashes fluttered. Every time he sank into you, your stomach tightened.

He kissed you again, forcing you to move your mouth against his as he tasted the inside of yours. Your free hand unconsciously trailed along his arm, forgetting for a brief moment that this was not like all the other times you snuck away or was lowered onto his bed. Friedrich kisses you intensely, his hips moving against yours with the same intensity, and it made your toes curl.

“Tell me that you shall never leave me,” he gently demanded.

When you could not give him the answer he wanted, his gaze met your tearful one. If there was any guilt within him for his actions then it was not present in his eyes at all. Those blue eyes of his shone like you suspected yours did, the candlelight reflecting in his tearful gaze.

“Must I make it so that you never can…?”

The ominous nature of his words were not lost on you, and a million different scenarios filled your mind.

“You speak of ruin, now…but I imagine that whisperings of the true nature of our relationship would really ruin you…”

Your wide eyes did not look away from his, and you wondered if he was even capable of what he was saying. Friedrich would not—he was a good and honorable man—and even he did not look like he believed himself capable of what he was threatening. However, you remembered your current position and that a good and honorable man would never put you in such a place. His train of thought seemed to be on the same track as yours, and you watched as he mentally resolved himself to whatever he had to in order to keep you.

“Perhaps a delicate condition…”

You dug your nails into his skin, a few tears spilling over, and for the first time in months, you saw uncertainty in his gaze.

“Friedrich…you wouldn’t…”

He swallowed, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your still lips.

“Then do not make me…”

Your lips trembled as he lifted his head and brushed his fingers over your mouth, a deep frown on his handsome face.

“I refuse to be without you,” he choked out. “You have already driven me to the lowest of moral character.”

You flinched as if he had slapped you, and he wiped a few tears away.

“Do not make me sink so low again, I beg you,” he breathed, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

He remained there and circled his arms around you as he continued to gently sink his cock into you, and too afraid to say anything but what he wanted to hear, you hesitantly nodded.

“Okay,” you shakily whispered. “I shall never leave you.”

The only response you got was a passionate kiss.

[fushitoru]

chapter 10: the art gallery a bridgerton au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, heir to a dukedom mr. satoru gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

genre/warnings ⸺ enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, suggestive, jealousy, misogyny, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly, all they do is bicker 💀, some historical inaccuracies, mentions of sex work

chapter summary ⸺ duke nanami suprises you with an inquiry, and the panic caused by it leads to an encounter with a very unexpected person (4.7k)

a/n she's a short one but i swear sm happened that im kind of surprised it was so short? mostly beta read (thank u to them as always), and i'll see u down below ~~~~

prev. the embers | next. soon!

general masterlist | series masterlist

Gentle Reader,

It seems that the next excursion polite society will be undertaking is at the art gallery, here in London itself. Filled with beautiful and evoking pieces, will it evoke affections and fuel potential matches? After all, it seems that the venue contains many hidden alcoves and hallways for potential confessions and intimate colloquies—so intimate that they are proposals.

One of these proposals this Author cannot help but speculate upon—that of Miss Itadori and Duke Nanami’s. After all, at every ball the fine lady and gentleman seem to be engaged in personal and amiable conversation; it appears clear to everyone in their surroundings that our season’s diamond has captured His Grace’s affections. But, dear reader, is this to amount to a future with wedding bells and blushing babes? Only time will tell; for now, your Author has no promises. After all, it seems that this season is sure to contain many surprises at every turn.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across your bedroom. The scent of lavender lingered in the air, likely from the sachet Nobara had insisted on tucking into your dresser to “keep you from smelling like an old book.” She stood behind you now, deft hands working through your hair with practiced ease, twisting locks into an elegant style fit for the day’s engagements.

“I came across something interesting in my brother’s study last night,” Nobara said conversationally, sliding a pin into place. “A rather compelling critique on the landowning gentry—Reflections on the Inequity of Titles—have you read it?”

Your attention perked at the mention of the text. “Yes,” you said, your brows knitting as you searched your memory. “It argues against inherited privilege and the consolidation of power within a select few, does it not? I recall making notes on it.”

As you spoke, you shifted slightly in your seat, the urge to review your thoughts overtaking you. Almost without thinking, your hand reached toward the hidden compartment in the floorboards—a small, carefully loosened plank where you kept your private writings. Your commonplace diary contained notes on radical philosophies you could never openly share, and even—if you were to be honest with yourself—a few stray reflections on Gojo (before it all went askew) that you had not yet had the courage to confront.

While you rummaged through the possible planks to find the hollow one, Nobara remarked, “There have been whispers of you among the maids, as well.”

You paused, turning to look at her fully as she twiddled with the ends of your comb. “Well, what do they say?”

She paused for a brief moment, as if weighing the effect her words could have on you. However, your closest companion was not one to mince words—especially if they would end up as beneficial for you, no matter how harsh. “That you’ve recovered from Lord Gojo quite well, and that you as a duchess is on the horizon—not as Mrs. Gojo, but Mrs. Nanami.”

Oh. This was not the least bit surprising—even your mama had heard these rumors. Part of you was concerned as to how your mother had gotten ahold of these whispers, given that Sukuna had long forbade her to attend balls with you after her last…episode, but it seemed that your mama had jaundiced channels of retrieving information herself. That, or the Whistledown had reported on it, which you would be ignorant to, for you did not care for gossip lately.

You wave a hand, and soon find the hollow space in your floorboards. “Those rumors may be all just hearsay soon enough, I suppose.” Then, you pull the floorboard where your diary is supposed to reside. “After all, Christ knows my luck with the creatures called men—”

Your fingers brushed against empty space.

Your breath caught.

The floorboard was there. The hollow beneath it remained. But your diary—your most guarded possession—was gone.

A sharp jolt of panic shot through you. You froze, your heartbeat thundering in your ears as your stomach twisted. No, no—perhaps you had misplaced it? You tried to recall, but the memory eluded you, replaced by a rising dread that gripped your chest in an iron vice.

The last you remember of it was packing it so that you could take it to the Gojo manor. Did you use it there? You did. If you recall correctly, you had done so in Nobara’s company, where you were secretly observing Gojo’s show of archery to Yuji on the balcony. After that, it was all a blur.

“Everything alright?” Nobara asked, tugging your hair slightly as she adjusted the style.

You barely heard her, your hands still hovering near the empty space as if willing the book to reappear. You wracked your brain carefully, trying to will in a memory where you had, in fact, succeeded to retrieve it from the Gojo countryside residence. A moment where you had packed it or a recollection of picking it up from the balcony—

Just as your thoughts began to spiral, the door burst open.

“Oi Sister, are you ready yet?” Yuji’s voice rang through the room, cutting through your panic. He leaned against the doorway with a lazy grin, arms crossed over his chest. “You do know we have to pay a visit to the art gallery today, correct?”

You barely had time to compose yourself, forcing a steady breath as you pulled your hand away from the floor. Nobara swatted at Yuji with a hairbrush, scolding him for his lack of manners, but you could hardly focus on their banter.

Your diary was missing.

And someone had taken it.

The art gallery was abuzz with the murmurs of the ton, the usual symphony of rustling silk, polite laughter, and the occasional overzealous exclamation from an admirer who fancied themselves an aesthete. Candles flickered in their sconces, casting a warm, golden light over the oil paintings that lined the walls—portraits of long-dead nobility, pastoral scenes meant to evoke longing for a simpler time, and a few ambitious attempts at allegory that left much to be desired.

As you walked hand in hand with Nanami, the weight of his palm in yours both familiar and grounding, your mind wandered elsewhere—back to the morning, to the jolt of panic that had seized you when you realized your diary was missing.

It had been a frantic affair. Nobara had barely twisted the last pin into your hair when you had rushed to the hidden space beneath the floorboards, expecting to feel the familiar worn leather beneath your fingertips. But it was gone. The shock of it had knocked the breath from your lungs, sent your thoughts scattering into a storm of fragmented memories—where had you last seen it? Had you truly packed it? No, you had taken it with you to the Gojo estate, that much you knew. But had you brought it back? The certainty evaded you, slipping through your grasp like water.

Before you could dwell further, Yuji had appeared in the doorway, cheerfully oblivious to your distress as he urged you to hurry. 

Choso had been more perceptive, his dark eyes lingering on your face as the four of you were ushered into the carriage. "Something wrong?" he had asked, quiet and measured.

You had shaken your head. What were you to say? That your diary—your most personal possession, filled with your thoughts, your observations, your private musings—had vanished into thin air? That the last place you remembered having it was the very home of the man who vexed you most? The thought alone had made your stomach twist. So instead, you had murmured some excuse about being distracted, about having not yet woken fully, and let the conversation drift elsewhere as the carriage rattled down the cobbled streets toward the gallery.

Now, standing in the midst of polite society, surrounded by paintings and candlelight and the low hum of cultured voices, the unease still clung to you.

"It is a fine collection," Nanami remarked beside you, his gaze sweeping over a landscape of rolling hills. "Though I must say, the artist’s depiction of light is rather conventional. There is no true feeling to it, only a replication of what is expected."

You nodded, your agreement automatic. "Indeed. It lacks a certain… depth. The brushwork is delicate, but there is no challenge in it, no provocation of thought."

Nanami hummed in approval. "Precisely."

The conversation continued in this fashion—pleasant, agreeable, effortless. But with each passing moment, a strange disquiet settled over you. Your mind drifted, not toward the paintings, nor to the man at your side, but to something far removed from this genteel setting.

The diary.

You had searched again this morning before leaving, hands trembling as you sifted through your belongings, the panic curling in your stomach like a tightening noose. Yet it was not there. No matter how many times you retraced your steps, no matter how much you willed the memory to sharpen, the last certain recollection you had was of the Gojo estate—of the evening spent watching Satoru’s archery from the balcony, of penning your thoughts in the quiet company of Nobara. And after that? Nothing.

Had you left it behind? Had someone found it?

A fresh wave of unease coursed through you. If it had been discovered, if its contents had been read—

"Are you feeling unwell?"

Nanami’s voice pulled you back to the present. You turned to him, startled, and realized belatedly that you had grown silent. His brow was slightly furrowed, his concern subtle yet unmistakable.

"I—no," you hastily assured him, forcing a small smile. "Merely lost in thought, Your Grace."

His gaze lingered, as if gauging the truth of your words, before he continued, seemingly appeased. "I was saying," he began, as the two of you came to a stop before a grand painting of a woman reading by candlelight, "that I should like to spend my life in such quiet appreciation of art and literature. With a loving wife, of course, who shares the same sensibilities."

The words were spoken casually, but the weight of them struck you like a blow. You stiffened, the meaning settling into place a second too late.

“It is time the Nanami dukedom get its duchess,” he continues, seeming to pay no mind to how you’ve frozen like a deer hunted. He turns to you, looking to you with a twinkle in his eyes, one you could not read. “And I seem to have found a very…capable option.”

“I see,” you force out, swallowing nervously. 

“Indeed.” For a beat too long, Duke Nanami looks at you, but then says, “And I would suppose I’ve done my utmost to show what a dutiful, respectful husband I can be—after all, it is freedom that makes one prosper, not a gilded cage. 

"Furthermore, I have my fancy on someone who fits this description," he continued, his tone carefully measured. "But I am unsure if she would accept my proposal." He glanced at you then, his gaze steady. "Do you think she would?"

The air seemed to thin around you.

It would take a fool to miss what His Grace was implying—hand in hand, after you’ve both been courting each other for a week or so now, it is quite clear he’s using this to test the waters. To gauge your reaction.

The air in the gallery suddenly felt too thick, too heavy, pressing in from all sides. You had been aware, on some distant level, of Nanami’s affections. He had always been steady, always constant, always present. But to hear it spoken so plainly, so deliberately—it sent a sharp, startling panic through you.

Your thoughts scrambled, grasping for something—anything—to say. Did you want this? He was everything a woman could ask for in a husband. Kind. Thoughtful. Intelligent. A man of great integrity. There was nothing about him that should make you hesitate.

And yet, you were hesitating.

"I think…" Your voice was too thin, too unsteady. "I think she would have to ponder upon it. For marriage is no small covenant."

It was a poor deflection, and you knew it the moment the words left your lips. Nanami’s expression remained composed, but there was something in the silence that followed—something in the way his gaze lingered on you, as if seeing past your carefully chosen words.

You needed to leave.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" you blurted out, taking a half-step back. "I—I believe I should like to get some air."

Nanami studied you for a fraction too long before inclining his head. "Of course."

You curtsied hastily, turning away before he could say anything else. The moment you stepped away from him, your breath came out in a shallow, uneven exhale. Marble walls, floors, and ornately framed pieces of art blurred together, dresses and suits melding together in the edges of your vision. 

You didn’t know why this reaction had seized you so violently, only that it had. And you had no answer for it. You stumbled your way, heart pounding as you sought a respite—then, pinpointing an empty hallway. 

As you made your way to the target space, you heard other voices calling out to you—some of them might even be your brothers’. However, you were in no headspace to offer coherence responses, not over the beating of your heart. 

When you finally arrived, you were relieved to find that the hallway was blissfully quiet. Away from the bustling crowd and the low hum of conversation, you finally allowed yourself to exhale, pressing a cool hand to your neck as if that alone could soothe the rapid beat of your pulse.

Nanami’s words still lingered in your mind, coiling around your thoughts like a vice. Do you think she will accept?

Your breath had caught before you could form a proper response. You should have expected it—Nanami was nothing if not deliberate, never speaking without intent—but somehow, the weight of it still unsettled you. It had been a question and yet not a question at all.

A proposal loomed on the horizon.

You turned, gaze sweeping the dimly lit corridor until it landed on a single painting near the end of the hall.

Unlike the grand, gilded masterpieces displayed in the main gallery, this one had been tucked away from the grandeur. It lacked the polish of a commissioned work, the smooth elegance of a court-approved artist. And yet, something about it pulled you in.

Your fingers skimmed over the folds of your gown as you steadied yourself, gaze flicking upward to the painting before you. It was unlike the others in the exhibition—less grand in scale, less ostentatious in its display of wealth or pedigree. There were no poised noblewomen adorned in lace, no battlefields drenched in glory, no sweeping landscapes inviting idle admiration. Instead, it was a quiet tableau: a man standing beneath a twilight sky, arm outstretched toward a woman who stood just beyond his reach. Her posture was composed, her hands clasped before her, the tilt of her chin ever so slightly downward. She was not running, not spurning him—but she was not reaching back either.

Your brow furrowed as you studied it further. It was not a painting that offered easy interpretation. Was it longing? Was it duty? Was it loss? The artist had chosen to render their expressions in subtlety, eschewing exaggerated pathos for something far more ambiguous. The man was reaching—but did he truly expect to grasp her hand? The woman was still—but did she wish to be? The tension between them sat heavy in the air, much like the one that had lingered in your own chest ever since—

Before you could ponder upon the painting for long, however, you heard footsteps. Approaching in the hallway, they echoed softly in quiet chamber—after all, it was only you and the person who was approaching, seeming to need a reprieve of their own as well in the hidden alcove. 

But you didn’t need to see the person to know who he was.

Soft, unhurried, yet a bit shaken. By now, you had grown familiar with the rhythm of his gait—the lazy confidence in his stride, the way his heels struck the floor just a bit too deliberately, as if he never truly moved without purpose, even when he pretended otherwise. Right now, they were a little bit too arrhythmical to truly match the attitude you were far too familiar with at the beginning of the season.

A prickle of awareness traced along your spine, your pulse betraying you with its quickened tempo. But you kept your eyes fixed forward, feigning complete absorption in the painting before you. It was not as if you were eager for company—not after the morning’s ordeal, not after Nanami’s near-proposal, not when your mind was already tangled enough without the added complication of Gojo Satoru.

Yet he did not call your name, nor did he demand your attention. He merely came to stand beside you, hands clasped lazily behind his back, exhaling softly as he, too, observed the artwork.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, with the same easy lilt he always carried, Gojo remarked, “This is quite the departure from the usual fare.”

You nodded, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your gloves. “Indeed.”

Silence stretched between you once more. He did not press you for further conversation, and for that, you were strangely grateful. It was unlike him, really—so rarely was he subdued, so rarely did he refrain from prodding and teasing and making his presence unbearably known. But here, in this dim-lit corridor, he was simply… standing beside you.

A quiet hum. The faintest shift of weight. You could feel him looking at you now, though you refused to meet his gaze, instead fixing your gaze on the painting, the frame, anything almost desperately to calm your racing heart before you could have an over-the-top ebullition once more, embarrassing yourself in front of him for the nth time this season. 

A brief silence settled, and then—

“Are you enjoying the gallery?”

The question was polite, normal, and unremarkable. You latched onto it like a lifeline.

“It’s a fine collection,” you replied, keeping your voice carefully measured. “Some works are predictable, but others are…” You gestured vaguely toward the piece in front of you. “Surprising.”

Gojo hummed in agreement, stepping closer—not intrusively, but just enough that you could catch the scent of tobacco leaves and something subtly sweet. “That’s one way to put it. Though I have to say, you look like you’re concentrating awfully hard.”

You blinked, glancing at him briefly before looking back at the painting. “It’s a rather curious piece.”

“That it is,” he agreed, hands tucked behind his back as he regarded it. “But, like I said, a bit dreary. The colors are not vibrant, and there is much to be desired in regards to their harmony.”

You almost smiled at that. “Not everything has to be grand and gilded to have meaning.”

“A fair point.”

Another pause.

“You came with your brothers, didn’t you?” he asked.

“I did,” you said, grateful for the change in topic. “They were speaking with some friends when I last saw them. And you?”

“Oh, you know how it is.” He waved a hand. “Came with Geto, ended up being dragged into conversation with half the room.”

You nodded, the corners of your lips tugging upward just slightly. “A best friend’s love, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

A comfortable silence fell over the both of you. At the opportunity given to you—of not having to fill the silence courteously with further small talk—you instead set aim on settling your heart. Pressing a hand to your bosom, you took in deep breaths until your frantic pulse became more regular. 

Finally, he spoke again. “It is rather unusual, though.”

You inhaled slowly. “How so?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Most paintings of this sort would either commit fully to tragedy or leave some feeble hope within the composition. But this—” He gestured lightly. “There is no resolution. No grand confession, no dramatic refusal. It simply is.”

You found yourself exhaling, your posture easing ever so slightly. “That is precisely what intrigues me.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “So we agree.”

You huffed softly. “A rare occurrence, indeed.”

Gojo chuckled at that, shifting his weight as he observed the painting anew. “Still,” he mused, “I do think the artist intends for us to sympathize with the man. See how he reaches? How he refuses to yield to their distance? A weaker man might call it tragic.”

Your brow arched slightly, turning your gaze toward him. “And what would a stronger man call it?”

Gojo hummed. “Hopeful.”

You studied him for a moment. Then, returning your attention to the painting, you shook your head. “I disagree.”

“Of course you do.”

“The woman is not simply distant—she is removed,” you continued, ignoring the teasing—softer than the one you recognize—edge to his voice. “She does not reach back, not because she is afraid or reluctant, but because she cannot. She is bound by something greater than yearning.”

Gojo exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression flickering with amusement. “You think it is duty, then?”

“What else could it be?”

His gaze lingered on the canvas, his smile fading just slightly. “Perhaps love.”

Something in your chest stilled.

Gojo let the words settle, slow and deliberate, before finally turning to face you fully. The candlelight cast his features in soft relief, catching on the silver embroidery of his waistcoat, the pale strands of his hair, the unmistakable glint in his eyes. “I find it rather grim—albeit in a different direction than of yours,” he remarked. “Rather than fear of what she cannot, it is better that love and duty do not coexist, for their amalgam can prove troublesome.”

You parted your lips, but hesitation stilled your tongue. Not because you lacked an answer, but because—for all your certainty earlier—you were no longer so sure.

A moment passed.

Finally, you exhaled, your posture softening by a fraction. “Perhaps,” you said, voice even, “we are simply of different minds.”

Gojo studied you for a beat longer before a slow, knowing smile curled at the corner of his lips. He inclined his head ever so slightly. “As we so often are.”

It was not a challenge. Not a victory.

Merely an understanding.

As you stood there, the conversation settling between you, you found yourself thinking—not just of the painting, not just of duty and love, but of him. Of what he had done for you. Of how, despite everything—despite his arrogance, his sharp tongue, the way he had needled and provoked you, the way he had wounded your pride in ways no one else ever had—he had still stood by you when it truly mattered. When the moment arrived, when the weight of the world bore down on you, he had not hesitated. He had not faltered.

It was no small thing.

Perhaps he was not someone you could court, not someone who fit the shape of the life you had imagined for yourself. Perhaps he was not someone you could love—not in the way you had once thought love should be. But he did not need to be an enemy.

Not anymore.

There were worse things in this world than an unbearable, impossible man who, despite it all, had proven himself in the ways that truly counted.

When Satoru had wandered into the hidden hallway to escape Suguru’s notorious actions, he had not expected to find you. But it seems that the day was full of surprises, for he hadn’t expected your sentiments and posture about him to have changed.

Gojo had expected a sharp tongue, a ready rebuttal, the usual resistance you always met him with. Instead, you spoke with a peculiar softness tonight, your responses thoughtful, your gaze lingering not on him, but on the painting before you. He had not expected you to be so—what was the word?—empathetic. You had a ready answer for everything, a thoughtfulness to your opinions that was neither contrived nor merely spoken to please. And so, he found himself asking more, pressing you for further insights, testing the depth of your knowledge not to challenge, but because he wanted to hear what you had to say. At first, when he had wandered in, you seemed completely distraught but had seemed to ease your way into comfort, even in his presence.

Curious thing, that.

“You truly have an answer for everything,” he murmured at one point, more to himself than to you.

You glanced at him sidelong, the corner of your lips tugging in what might have been amusement. “You say it as though it is a fault.”

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “On the contrary, it is rather impressive.”

You inclined her head, not as a show of modesty but of simple acknowledgment. And for a brief moment, Satoru found himself simply… looking at you.

Your hair was finely arranged, swept up with delicate precision, though a few strands framed your face in an artful softness. The candlelight played upon the curve of your cheek, your lashes casting faint shadows upon your skin. Your dress—subtle in its elegance—complimented you in a way that felt effortless, the cut revealing just enough of the delicate arch of your throat, the slope of your shoulders, without ever breaching the realm of impropriety. You had always carried herself well, but there was something about you tonight, something that held his gaze longer than he intended.

He might have lingered longer still, might have remained entranced by the way the flickering light moved across your skin, had you not turned to him suddenly and called his name.

“My lord?”

He blinked, startled out of his reverie. “Hm?”

You studied him for a beat, her expression unreadable, before you simply exhaled and turned your gaze back to the painting. “I meant to thank you,” you said, voice quieter now. “For what you did last time.”

He knew what you referred to at once. The day he had defended you. The accusations that had been hurled at your feet, the venom spat in your direction—he had not tolerated it, would not have suffered it, no matter what might have stood between them.

Satoru felt the tips of his ears warm, though he smirked to deflect from it. “Ah. Well. It was merely a matter of preserving your honor.”

You turned to him fully now, your gaze steady. “You need not have done so.”

Satoru shrugged, though he found himself holding that gaze longer than he should have. “I could not stand to hear such things said of you.”

A quiet pause stretched between you both, and something in your expression shifted. A sort of understanding, perhaps. A recognition of something he could not yet name. He could not tell how long you both stood there like that, neither looking away, nor breaking the quiet that had settled so easily between you.

Then—

“Ah, here you are.”

Gojo turned sharply, his expression cooling the moment he recognized the voice.

Sukuna stood at the entrance of the hallway, his presence an unwelcome disruption to the delicate moment that had just transpired. His gaze flickered between you and Gojo, a slow, dangerous scowl settling over his features. “What the hell—”

You stiffened, immediately stepping away from Gojo, though his gaze remained steady on you. "Sukuna—"

"You’re with him?" he snapped, his tone sharp with outrage. His glare darted toward Satoru, seething. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Not here," you hissed under your breath, already moving toward him. "Let us leave, brother."

Sukuna's jaw tightened, but his glare burned hot as he pointed a warning finger at Satoru. It was almost comical how his figure seemed to be an impenetrable boulder as you—tiny in comparison to his frame—tried to shove him out to salvage whatever grace you could in your exist. “Lord Gojo, you—!”

But it was to no avail, for you had hastily quieted whatever ill reprimand Mister Sukuna Itadori had to throw towards him by shoving a hand over his mouth. Then, you grabbed his arm, practically dragging him away, as you cast one last, hurried glance at Gojo. "Good evening, my lord." And then you were gone, Sukuna stalking beside you, fuming, while Gojo remained behind, watching you disappear into the halls lined with art.

prev. the embers | next. soon!

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n is this....character development??

i hope this appeased anyone who was beginning to worry that miss itadori was a bit too antagonistic ... i have my beta readers to thank otherwise we never would've made it out the trenches

reader after nanami dropped the bomb on her

lowk i dont have much else to say but uhhh streets been saying there's gonna be another forced proximity library scene soon but how would i know what happens lolz

reblog and comment to lmk ur thoughts!

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[thebestsetter]

"When a boy likes a girl, he's mean to her. He pulls her pigtails, stucks his tongue out at her, screams at her--"

Wrong. Because Blue Lock boys would never.

When Isagi first discovered he liked you, his first instinct was to become your personal "maid", while also following you around like a shadow. Everytime you needed help, he'd be the first to do so. Everytime you passed by each other on the halls, he tried to make your shoulders touch. Everytime you forgot your lunch, he gave you his, even if he spent the rest of the day hungry as hell. Everytime someone bad mouthed you, you can bet Yoichi was right there, ready to beat someone up. He's the perfect gentleman, through and throughout.

When Reo realized he was in love with you, he showered you with gifts. You couldn't spend a single day without recieving tons of your favorite things, even after you told him he didn't need to get you anything: favorite food, merch of your favorite show, etc etc. And you can bet no one can hurt you, his beloved. He doesn't even have to "get his hands dirty". He's going to use his influence to make the person's life a living hell without as much as lifting a finger. It's all for you, after all!

Hiori managed to ditch some practices just to spend more time with you. It was NOT and easy feat: it looked like his parents knew where he was at all times (do they have a tracker on his phone or something? Oh wait. They probably do), and he had a perfectly made schedule he needed to follow strictly. Even so, he managed to fool his parents (with the help of Karasu, who lied to them telling him he was at practice, bless him for it) and take a break from football for a while. And when you both are laying in the grass and looking at the sky while you caress his hair gently, he can't help but close his eyes and wonder if this is the closest he'll ever get to freedom. When he opens his eyes again and sees you, he also can't help but notice that, if you're the closest thing he has to happiness, he doesn't want nor need anything else.

So yeah, that affirmation is just ridiculous. When a man is really in love with a woman, he does everything in his powers to be close to her. And here's the proof.

[urhoneycombwitch]

common tongue of you lovin' me

Eddie Munson x Reader loverboy smut of the touchstarved variety.

foreword: based on THIS anon everyone say THANKS anon. R and Eddie are in their early 20’s, R is on a gap year from college (so me), they’re in a new relationship with each other, I’m writing this while blasted on edibles idk what else to say 0_o

cw: nervous Eddie, touchstarved R, smut, dry humping (is it actually dry if they’re both wet…?), cumming in pants, one (1) use of the word “daddy”, light use of the miscommunication trope

wc: 2.5k 

____

By nature, Eddie Munson is not a shy person.

Even though his dark reputation in Hawkins hasn’t been completely erased, he still manages to make friends wherever he goes through sheer force of personality. It’s like a magic trick, one that you never get tired of- he’ll pause in the middle of grocery stores to make faces at a baby in a stroller, getting belly laughs out of a stranger’s kid in less than ten seconds while still holding your hand down the aisle. One second he’s right behind you in the record store, looking over your shoulder as you browsed, and the next he’ll be on one knee charming a elementary school-aged kid into getting the latest Dio album.

You’ve seen him flirt his way out of speeding tickets with Hopper, for christ’s sake. 

Eddie isn’t shy by any stretch of the imagination, so after three months of nothing but chaste kisses and quiet hand-holding, you’re left to assume he actually wants to take things slow with you.

He’s been nothing but a gentleman, in these early days of dating- the most action you’ve gotten from him was unintentional. On your third date, a dollop of his ice cream landed on your lap when he used the cone to gesture, which led him to manically grabbing napkins out of his dashboard to wipe at your skirt while you laughed it off. The second he’d brushed against your bare thigh he snapped his hands back like he’d touched a live wire, hastily heaping on apologies, leaving you to allay his nerves while wiping at the stain yourself.  

Which, whatever. It’s fine. It’s not like you’re complaining about him being respectful, per se, it’s just that it’s getting harder and harder (hah) to pretend like you don’t wanna fuck him. The feeling between your thighs only seems to increase in intensity when he gives you one of those precious little hand kisses at the end of a date, or a closed-mouth peck before he drives off into the night. 

Unfortunately for you and your wet dreams, Eddie Munson has the most edible body you’ve ever seen. Biceps bulging through those form-fitting tees he likes to wear, rounded nose and strong jaw outlined by that cloud of soft black hair, those lithe hips…

Hips that you’re openly staring at from across the room as you sit quietly on Eddie’s couch. He’s reaching up to grab a mug from the cabinet, his Metallica tee pulling up out of his dark denim at the motion, flashing a stripe of his pale lower back.  

You feel like a Victorian maid seeing ankle for the first time. You subtly press your thighs together under your short tartan skirt as Eddie moves around the kitchen, talking animatedly about the start of his upcoming campaign.

“I haven’t decided yet if I’m gonna go easy on the little shits or not,” he says, metal spoon clinking against ceramic as he mixes hot chocolate powder. “It’s Max’s first session as an official player, and I don’t wanna scare her off but I do have a reputation to uphold.”

“Yeah,” you agree, giving him a knowing smile as he crosses the room to pass you your mug- “You’re a DM most fearsome. Can’t let them off the hook too easily.”

Eddie blooms under your praise, wiggling his eyebrows with familiar cockiness as he settles on the cushion beside you. “Gotta keep Hawkins' finest in line. It’s a tough gig but I did swear an oath, after all.”

You smile around a sip of hot cocoa, then reach over to set your mug on the coffee table. Eddie has been sat in his usual manner (knees far enough apart to be taking up his whole seat, arm draped casually on the back of the couch) but the second your knee knocks against his, he adjusts himself stiffly, drawing his arm back with a nervous throat-clearing and a murmured “sorry”.

Normally you’d let it go, not wanting to push the issue past the point of his comfortability. But it’s been Three. Months. Of this. And you wanna test the waters, just a little.

“Sorry for what?” You ask, rotating to face him, your shoulders almost-but-not-quite touching.

He’d doing an uncanny impression of a deer caught in headlights, blinking at you with those doey brown eyes, stuttering his way through a weak explanation- “Uh… uh. Sorry for being- f-for touching you?”

There’s a lift at the end of his sentence, one that you mirror with a tilt of your own brow, a playful challenge. “You don’t have to apologize for touching me, Eddie. I’m your girlfriend.”

He chuckles, a nervous edge bleeding around the sound. The curls around his face dance with the head shake he gives. “No, of course, yeah, I know that.”

“Do you?” You scoot closer, a kick of assertiveness giving you the courage to press your leg against his. 

“Uh huh.” He’s gazing openly now at the bare skin of your thigh, like he’s waiting to see if it'll burn a hole into his denim. 

When you gently lift his hand and place it on the skin that he’s looking at, you hear him gulp, audibly. 

So he does want to touch you. Interesting.  

You know for a fact Eddie’s not a virgin. Back in high school, you’d both dated around your respective circles, gossip surrounding escapades in the Munson Van circulating back to you through mutual friends. When he’d asked you out a few months previous, you’d happily accepted, wanting to take full advantage of your interim gap year from college. For the first few weeks, you’d chalked his near-celibate behavior up to nerves.

But now, you’ve got him squirming with just a thigh touch. So maybe… he’s waiting for you to make the first move?

Fuck testing the waters- you’re gonna dive in head-first. 

You swing your leg over his lap, kneeling on the outside of his hips. His hands automatically go to your waist, and he lets out a little “Oh” as you rest your arms around his shoulders.

“You gonna kiss your girlfriend?” you whisper, forehead crushing into his bangs as you wrap a hand around the back of his neck.

Eddie looks up at you like he’s seeing a full moon for the first time, eyes sparkling with want. “Yeah,” he rasps, angling his face up to kiss you.

It’s soft, at first, like it always has been. His plush lips softly move against yours, breaking for air once, twice; when he kisses you with that same softness for a third time you press your tongue to the seam between his lips.

He lets you in with a little noise, low in the back of his throat as you lick into his mouth. His hands twitch on your hips as your tongues twine, slight movements in his own hips creating a ripple effect.

When the hard seam of his jeans bumps against the warmth of your cunt, you both gasp, your hand at the back of his neck tightening. 

“We should probably, um-” he’s panting against your mouth, grip flexing between hard and soft- “I mean, if you wanna stop…”

“I don’t wanna stop. Do you wanna stop?” you ask, equally out of breath.

“Fuck no,” he rasps again, in that smoke-salt voice, and this time when he kisses you it’s with one hand at the back of your head and the other pulling your hips to meet his.

The noises from the wet slide of your mouths are turning you on more than you care to admit, and you’re sure he can feel the damp patch that’s soaking through your panties as the crotch of his jeans make contact again. Which normally would make you feel really self-conscious, if it weren’t for the fact that Eddie’s hard as a rock underneath you, the bulge in his pants thickening with each roll of your hips.

You drop your kisses down, exploring where you haven’t been able to before: against his cheek, his jaw, stopping just behind his ear. Unable to help yourself, you graze your teeth against the velvet skin there, and he jolts beneath you with a small yelp.

“Sorry,” you whisper, still a touch mirthful but soothing your tongue over the mark.

Eddie brushes his thumb across the back of your neck as you continue your path down the column of his throat. “Now who’s sayin’ sorry for no reason. Baby, I’m begging you to do that again.”

So you do, this time at the junction where his neck and shoulder meet, grinning against his skin when he groans and bucks his hips up. 

Around your hickey-making, he’s choking out words that you just manage to string together. “I wanna… make you feel- christ, sweetheart- good too, wanna make it good for you-”

When you sit up to see his face, he looks absolutely wrecked- rosy flush in his cheeks, lips swollen and kiss-bitten, pupils blown so big his eyes are nearly black with lust.

“You are making me feel good,” you assure him, pulling the hand he’s got on your neck down to where the end of your skirt sits, pausing before your next move. “You want me to prove it?”

He nods, and you guide him into the warmth of your thighs, letting his fingers graze the stickiness that’s been steadily soaking through the fabric.

Eddie inhales sharply, moans out, “Fuck, honey”, and when his thumb finds your clit you sink down into his touch, stomach tightening with the shock of arousal coursing through you.

He’s watching your face intently as he slowly circles your clit, gauging your reactions, pressing in a bit harder and faster when the pace change makes you cry out.

Feeling doubly exposed with his eye contact and hand against your core, you try making a joke to diffuse some of the tension as the pad of his finger moves against you in steady rhythm. “Still thinkin’ about stopping?”

“A train could crash through that wall and it wouldn’t stop me for a second,” Eddie says, resolute and getting a little braver, kissing his own path across your throat, nibbling at a spot that makes your clit pulse beneath his fingertip and your cunt clench around nothing. 

Goddamn, he’s a quick learner. In less than two minutes he’s got you so close to the edge, squirming around his touch, that you have to grab his wrist and still his fingers between your thighs.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. You can feel his breath punching up down up, your breasts pushed up against his chest from the way your body was trying to coil in on itself.

“Nothing,” you assure him, and now it’s your turn to falter around your words. “I just- maybe can I… I wanna get o-off at the same time. If you want. And I’m really, really close.”

Eddie’s head falls back against the couch with a thunk, eyes scrunching shut as if in concentration, a strung-out whine leaving his throat. “Hang on. Give me a second.”

He’s still got his hand on your clothed pussy, and you can’t help but giggle once he blinks back to the present, dazed- “Christ. You can’t say shit like that, baby, I almost came in my jeans.”

You give him a condescending little pout, accented with another twist of your hips. “Well maybe that’s what I want.”

“Give you anything,” Eddie replies, unabashedly babbling now as you adjust yourself in his lap. “Anything you want, sweetheart. It’s yours. All yours.”

He helps you maneuver into a new angle: now, your drenched core can rub freely against his thigh, while your knee in the socket of his hip means he can rut his cock along the flat of your leg.

When you move experimentally in shallow circles on his thigh, the newly-gained friction lights up your throbbing clit. Soon, all pretenses melt away as you both find your rhythm again, little grunts and pants filling the air.

“Feel good, angel? That’s it,” Eddie encourages, slipping his hand under your skirt to grope at the meat of your ass, helping your movements along as he chases his own pleasure with a rocking grind against your leg. “Take what you need. Lemme get you there. Please, please…”

His whines spur you on, one of your hands shooting out to clutch at the back of the couch beside his head while the other anchors itself on his opposing bicep. “Fuck, Eddie, keep talking like that, ‘m so close…”

“Talk to you all day,” he heaves out, “you make me so fucking hard, princess. You feel how hard I am for you? God, you’re so wet, that’s so fucking hot…”

You should have expected that bravado and charm you’ve seen these last few years to naturally be carried over into his sex life, but god, not in your wettest of dreams could you have imagined the mouth on him. 

The combination of his dirty talk and thigh between your legs is bringing you right up to that edge again, toes curling in anticipation, cunt starting to flutter erratically with every thrust.

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come…” your head rolls back on its hinge, eyes flickering shut as Eddie fumbles to catch at your clit again, movements becoming sloppy. 

“C’mon, pretty baby, let go.” He’s sucking another mark into your neck between his praises, teeth catching- “Let me see you come, honey, be a good girl for daddy…”

“Jesus FUCKING christ” is all you manage to grit out before you’re tipping over the edge into orgasm, all your muscles bearing down into the bright point of pleasure, high sob winding its way from your throat. 

Eddie keeps kneading at your spasming clit as you ride it out on his thigh, even as he lets out a series of short, keening whimpers, even as his cock jerks against your leg into his own release. 

You sag into his waiting arms, tittering lightly against his neck as you both work on catching your collective breaths. 

“Holy shit, and I was really starting to think you actually didn’t want to fuck me.” You laugh in relief.

His hand pauses mid-stroke up the slope of your back, sounding genuinely aghast when he asks “Why the fuck would you think that?”

You straighten in his arms with an incredulous stare. “Uh, maybe because you acted like a monk that I was corrupting every time I even breathed near you?”

Eddie covers his eyes with his hands, heels to sockets, groaning- “Fuck, honey, I was tryn’a be respectful. You’re telling me we could’ve been doing this sooner?”

You reach to soothe your palms over the length of his forearms, equally fond and serious when you say “I’m telling you I absolutely would have slept with you on the first date.”

He makes a strangled, pained noise before you continue- “You described to me in detail the entire mating cycle of a bat, and then walked directly into a trash can by accident. How did you expect me to wait on jumping your bones?”

He lets you take his hands, enveloping them in your own and bringing them to your chest, pressing your lips affectionately to each ring.

He whispers, “Can I ask you something?” 

When you look up at him again, he says, with sincerity, “Can I see your tits next time?”

You hide your laughter into the crook of his neck. 

________

guys i cannot stress how high I am is this even any good plz perceive me 

[megumishotgf]

more jjk fic recs (pt. iv) ⭑

finally got around to making a new post omg… sorry this took so long to upload. credits go to all these wonderful writers!!

featuring: mainly megumi, satoru, suguru, toji, nanami, other mentioned characters in the ‘multiple’ section . both ao3 + tumblr links!

masterlist fic recs (pt.i, pt. ii, pt. iii)

: ̗̀➛ megumi fushiguro x reader - ao3

this deleted one day on tumblr but baby i found it on ao3!! yakuza a.u. w/ childhood best friend! y/n

yuuji watches + films you guys… nsfw

nasty study session w/ megumi oh my

lingerie + megumi comes home. that’s it

: ̗̀➛ megumi fushiguro x reader - tumblr

‘are lemons fruits or vegetables?’ adorable drabble!

celebrating your nsfw birthday!!

megumi takes care of you after a long day yes in that way

megumi + his so who loves makeup ⋆˚✿˖°

alt! megumi + alt! y/n smut!! hell yeah!!

megumi + casual by chappell roan… that is all

masterlist of a wonderful + creative smau!!

and another one!! these are perfect!!

‘can i date your brother’ - you to tsumiki

megumi’s instagram!!

soft! megumi dating headcanons (these are perfect)

some more dating headcanons! i love him omg

and finally reverse comfort! megumi we need more of this omg he’s such a pretty boy

: ̗̀➛ satoru gojo x reader

satoru proposes!!

and here’s some smut for you afterwards

: ̗̀➛ suguru geto x reader

‘a series of snapshots of your life with suguru + satoru’ truly a masterpiece

smut w/ bassist player! suguru oh great heavens

brother’s best friend! suguru this is beautiful

and part. two we have truly been blessed!

sending tiktoks to college student! bf! suguru

: ̗̀➛ toji fushiguro x reader

masterlist from one of the best toji writers on this app!

being toji’s barbie doll gf⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

maid! reader x toji damn!!

: ̗̀➛ nanami kento x reader - ao3

you need a date to your sister’s wedding. major gentleman! nanami

: ̗̀➛ multiple characters

dick sizes… (megumi, yuuji, toge)

jealous texts w/ bae (gojo, nanami, toji, yuuji, megumi, yuuta, toge, sukuna)

shy! megumi, satoru + yuuji x popular! y/n (aka. my favourite trope because i am a leo)

gym texts (everyone included author was working hard af on this one!!)

big-tittied gf texts! (i love this god. gojo, nanami, toji, yuuji, megumi, yuuta, toge, sukuna)

sensitive! gf headcanons (megumi, yuuji, satoru, suguru)

finding out you were mistreated before (satoru, kento, choso, sukuna, toji, megumi, yuuji + suguru)

some wonderful dating headcanons! (yuuji, megumi, satoru + toge)

grocery shopping w/ suguru + satoru (poly? platonic? you can decide!!)

NEW!!

wonderful choso x original character (reader insert) fic from ao3!! thank you to anonymous for sending this in!!

feel free to send me your favourite fics, or even your own writing, so i can add it to my current or future recs list!! i love reading new stuff!!

also a bonus for levi fans… i introduce you to my favourite fic of all time (ao3 link!)

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡

[disgustingtwitches]

141 as clients for sexworker reader!

//König and Nikto are here too//

MDNI

Ghost

You rarely see him, but you look forward to hearing from him. He always books multiple hours, sometimes even overnights. It's just hour after hour of pounding. Every hole you can take it. You tell him not to leave marks, but you don't really mean it. You know it. He knows it. Bitemarks and bruises are on your skin for days afterwards, he pays for you to send pictures of them healing. Thank God your regulars don't give a shit about the marks. Even if they did you wouldn't stop him from leaving them. Can't really stop him from leaving them. He asks you to wear makeup so he can fuck it off your face. You recently found out he's been stealing your fake eyelashes when they fall off, he collects them like trophies(???) Only praises you when he's felt you've earned it, which was rare. Never said I love you. Don't think he knows those words.

Gaz

Ugh, perfect client. Always a gentleman and really hot. Like "why are you hiring me when you can fuck anybody?" hot. Such a pretty dick too, has a little beauty mark on his shaft you like to kiss. He books three hours every other week just to cuddle and fuck. Really big on pleasing you, so he'll request you not to wear underwear just so he can pull your pants down as soon as you walk through his door and start eating you out. Sometimes when he really wants the "girlfriend experience" he'll slide into you while your spooning and watching Netflix. Has accidently said "I love you" once while ploughing into you, his lips pressed right up to your ear. You don't bring it up.

Price

One of the older clients. Big pussy eater. Huge. Likes to hire you to do stuff around his flat in a skirt and g-string so he can pull it to the side and eat you out while you're doing whatever he asks you to do. Watching TV? Cleaning the windows? Folding laundry? Sometimes he just straight up wants you to sit on his face, holding the skirt up so he can still see your face. When he's finally satiated, he'll get his. Sitting you on his lap and helping you bounce up and down, still in that skirt. Says I love you, but not to you. To your pussy. Literally looks at your pussy and says it.

Soap

So, so weird. Likes to act out scenes he sees in porn. Seriously. Like "help me I'm stuck in the washing machine" or "did you order a pizza with extra sausage". He'll buy outfits for the scenes; cheerleader, nurse, maid, even has a oddly realistic army uniform, right down to the boots. You get the point. One day he wanted to "try ass stuff", because he thought it "looked cool". He said I love you as soon as you stuck the tip of your strap-on in him and continues to do so every time you fuck him in the ass.

König

Yeah... Sorry to be basic but he's a bondage guy through and through. He likes to switch it up sometimes but he's mostly the dominating party. Not the kind to care about fancy shibari, really just hogties and knots that will keep you in your place. Taught you a few moves to take him down when he wants that. Wants you to use him for your pleasure when you're dominating, just like he uses you for his own. Doesn't say I love you. But he does teach you to say "I am yours" in German. So whenever he asks you a question in German, your line is always "Ja, Ich bin dein, Oberst."

Nikto

Very clingy. He was odd off rip. You were kind of uncomfortable with him because you didn't really understand him. Then he became endearing when you finally "get" him. He's sweet. Doesn't want to be alone. He'll pay anything just to have you sit next to him. Watching TV. He sits on the floor between your legs while you sit on the couch and play with his hair. He tells you lame jokes while eating whatever you wanted that day. One day you decide to tell him a corny joke too.

"We... don't think that is very funny."

Of course, he has needs. It depends on the day, but he's always changing the dynamics. Very much a switch at heart. He'll have you bent over the table while holding your jaw to look up into his eyes. Making you say thank you everytime he strokes into you. Other days he'll want to be rode while you hold him, "handsome man," you say between every kiss, "love you so much," while he whimpers under you, "you deserve to feel good." He says I love you. A lot. You say it back. Whether it's because you want to continue getting paid or you actually care about him, you're not too sure at this point.

[thebunnednun]

Whispers of the Heart Dracule Mihawk x Fm! Reader (Chapter 2)

Picking up from the first chapter.

Art by @xuchuan25

Backstory:

You've been Dracule Mihawk's personal maid and housekeeper for what feels like an eternity. Let's cut to the chase – you're a badass, sweetheart. Sexy, cool, and confident, with a reputation that precedes you. Been friends with the stoic man for eons by now.

Everyone knows you or knows of you, and it's not just because you keep Mihawk's castle running like a well-oiled machine.

So what happens when you develop feelings for your old friend and boss?

What does he do when he comes home to find you in his room without your panties?

_________________Chapter 2: Fragments of Feelings_______________

"Perona, my dear, would you care to assist me in preparing afternoon tea?" you asked, a smile playing on your lips. The warmth of spring beckoned, and you longed to savor the pleasant weather before the bugs emerged to disturb your tranquility. Perona's enthusiastic nod was all the confirmation you needed before she darted inside, unable to contain her excitement.

Chuckling at her exuberance, you called out, "Zoro will be joining us later!~"

Unbeknownst to you, both Mihawk and Perona stiffened at the mention of Zoro's arrival. Mihawk sighed, realizing that you had withheld this information from him, likely as a response to his perceived slight at breakfast. Meanwhile, Perona squealed with delight at the prospect of her old roommate and friend joining them at the castle once more.

As the time for afternoon tea drew near, you immersed yourself in preparations, meticulously arranging an assortment of pastries and tea cakes on a delicate china platter. Perona flitted about eagerly, her pink hair trailing behind her like a vibrant ribbon as she eagerly helped set the table.

Caught in the whirlwind of activity, your mind couldn't help but wander back to the intriguing interaction you had shared with Mihawk over breakfast. Despite your best efforts to focus on the task at hand, his enigmatic presence lingered in your thoughts, his piercing gaze and subtle gestures haunting your every waking moment.

'The fucker could've at least asked for a bite.'

At that moment, you couldn't help but acknowledge that you were indeed caught in the throes of infatuation. (COugh*DOwn bad*CoUgh)

'He's definitely an odd one, no doubt about it. But hey, who isn't a little quirky?' You offered this casual remark, trying to downplay the deeper thoughts swirling in your mind.

As you gazed off into the distance, your mind wandered to him, the man you had known for so long. The memory of his biceps curling and the sight of his broad shoulders made you smile, evoking feelings you only allowed yourself to entertain in the quiet solitude of the night.

As you put the finishing touches on the spread, the sound of footsteps reverberated through the halls, signaling Zoro's arrival. Turning to greet him, a warm smile graced your lips, and your heart fluttered at the sight of the rugged swordsman. With open arms, you welcomed him into a hug, feeling his shy reciprocation, careful not to squeeze too tightly.

"Hey, [Name]," Zoro greeted you, his voice gruff yet oddly comforting. "Perona mentioned tea. Mind if I join?"

You chuckled at his straightforwardness, gesturing for him to take a seat at the outside table. "Of course not, Zoro. You're always welcome here," you replied warmly, pouring him a cup of tea, with just a hint of wine, as he settled into his seat.

As you all sat down to enjoy the afternoon together, you couldn't ignore the tension in the air, a palpable energy crackling between you and Zoro. Catching your eye, he offered a small smile, his lips twitching in a silent toast as he raised his cup.

"Here's to unexpected reunions," Zoro said, his voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia.

Raising your own cup in response, you felt the warmth of the tea soothing your frayed nerves. "To unexpected reunions," you echoed softly, taking a sip as you let the moment wash over you.

But just as you settled into the comfortable silence, the sound of footsteps broke through the tranquility, signaling Mihawk's arrival. Glancing up, you found him standing in the doorway, his gaze fixed on you with a curious intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Ah, [Name], I see you've already begun tea," Mihawk remarked, his voice smooth as silk as he crossed the room to join you at the table. "Mind if I join you?"

You smiled sweetly at the old eagle. "Of course, ‘Master’ Mihawk," you replied, gesturing for him to take a seat. “Do forgive me, I didn’t notice you had already risen from your morning nap.” He rolled his eyes but approached the table and took a seat next to you and Perona as you poured him a cup of wine.

As the four of you sat down to enjoy tea together, you couldn't shake the feeling of being caught in the middle of a brewing storm. With Zoro on one side and Mihawk on the other, you found yourself torn between two worlds, each pulling you in a different direction.

But as the conversation flowed and laughter filled the air, a sense of peace settled over you. In that moment, regardless of what the future held, you cherished these fleeting moments of happiness. It almost made you miss life on the sea. When was the last time you had even traveled back home to your island?

With the sun climbing higher into the sky, warming the castle grounds, gratitude filled you for the unexpected reunions and the bonds that held you together, even in the face of uncertainty.

"So, Zoro, are you still as hopeless with directions as ever?" Perona teased, her tone laced with playful sarcasm as she shot a pointed glance at the moss-head swordsman. Zoro scowled in response, his jaw tensing as he bristled at the jab. "I'll have you know, I've improved significantly since our last encounter," he retorted, annoyance dripping from his voice.

Perona rolled her eyes, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips as she leaned back in her chair. "Oh, please. We both know you'd be lost even with a map and a compass," she shot back, her tone teasing yet strangely affectionate.

The exchange between the two quickly escalated into a full-blown argument, with insults flying back and forth like daggers in the air. You watched with amusement as they bickered like siblings, their banter a familiar melody that echoed through the room. It was sweet, sitting there and exchanging glances with Mihawk over the wards as they traded insults.

Almost as if you were parents. 

"Enough, you two," Mihawk interjected, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "We're here to enjoy tea, not engage in petty squabbles."

Perona and Zoro fell silent at his reprimand, casting sheepish glances at each other before reluctantly conceding defeat. You couldn't help but smile at the sight, grateful for the brief moment of respite from the chaos that often surrounded you.

Placing a hand on Mihawk's bicept, you smiled at the two, causing them to perk back up and resume the conversation. When you retrieved your hand to offer more tea, Mihawk missed the soft warmth it provided. 

As the afternoon wore on, the conversation shifted to lighter topics, with Perona regaling Zoro all with tales of her adventures on Thriller Bark and Zoro recounting his latest training sessions with Luffy and the rest of the crew. Despite the occasional disagreement, the four of you found common ground and shared a rather good lunch together.

With a smile on your face and warmth in your heart, you raised your cup in a silent toast to the bonds that held you together, stronger than steel and unbreakable as the dawn.

As the afternoon tea concluded, you and Mihawk found yourselves facing a mountain of dirty dishes in the kitchen. With a sigh, you rolled up your sleeves and got to work, Mihawk joining you without hesitation.

As you scrubbed and rinsed, the sound of laughter drifted in from the adjacent room, where Zoro and Perona were engaged in their own conversation. You couldn't help but smile at the familiar sound, grateful for the moments of camaraderie that you shared with your friends.

"Looks like they're getting along," you remarked, glancing over at Mihawk as you handed him a plate to dry.

Mihawk nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Indeed. It's good to see them catching up," he replied, his voice soft with genuine affection.

The two of you fell into a comfortable rhythm as you worked, the silence punctuated only by the occasional clink of dishes and the sound of water running in the sink. Despite the mundane task at hand, you couldn't help but feel a sense of peace wash over you in Mihawk's presence.

As you finished the last of the dishes, you wiped your hands on a towel and turned to Mihawk with a grateful smile. "Thanks for helping out," you said, sincerity shining in your voice.

Mihawk nodded in response, his gaze meeting yours with a gentle warmth that sent a shiver down your spine. "Of course. Anything for you, my dear," he replied, his voice low and content. Even after living together and having known him for more than half your life you never fully got over the effect his eyes had on you.

You felt your cheeks heat at his words, a fluttering sensation stirring in the pit of your stomach. Mihawk was leaning down to your height and dangerously close to your face. Before you could respond, however, the sound of footsteps interrupted the moment, and Zoro and Perona entered the kitchen, their laughter echoing off the walls.

"Looks like we're just in time," Zoro remarked, flashing you a grin as he grabbed a towel and joined Mihawk at the sink. You tore away from each other like parents caught having a moment alone. 

"So nice to see mother and father getting along!~" 

You both shot them a playful death glare before using your best 'motherly' voice. "Young man, there's dishes in this sink with your name on them!" Zoro resorted to a barking laugh and you caught the tiniest upturn of Mihawks lips before he turned his attention to the wine glasses. 

Perona rolled her eyes playfully, but there was a hint of fondness in her gaze as she watched the scene unfold. "Typical men, leaving all the work to us," she teased, nudging you with her elbow.

You chuckled in response, grateful for the distraction as you helped Zoro and Mihawk finish drying the dishes. Despite the chaos of the day, you couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment settle over you as you worked side by side with your friends, the bonds of friendship stronger than ever.

As the dishes were being dried, Mihawk cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. "I have an announcement to make," he began, his voice commanding the room's attention.

"I will be leaving on a mission again soon. [Name], I trust you to take care of everything while I am away."

You felt a pang of sadness at the news, knowing that you would miss Mihawk's presence in the castle. However, you quickly masked your emotions with your usual flirty and sassy demeanor, offering him a playful smirk.

"Don't worry, Mihawk. I'll throw you a big surprise party for your return," you replied, your voice dripping with confidence. The old eagle grimace at the thought of company and flashed you a hot warning with his eyes before he nodded and took Zoro with him to the shoreline to prepare his boat, leaving you alone with Perona.

As soon as Mihawk and Zoro left, you excused yourself from the kitchen, slipping away quietly to pack Mihawk's bags. Alone in his chambers, you couldn't help but feel a sense of longing wash over you as you folded his clothes and packed his belongings. You knew that there were some nights before where you snuck into his chambers to sleep.

Meanwhile, in another part of the castle, Perona approached you with a knowing look in her eyes. "You seem a little sad," she remarked, her voice soft with concern. You shrugged nonchalantly, attempting to brush off her observation. "It's nothing," you replied, forcing a smile. "Just a little tired, that's all."

Perona raised an eyebrow skeptically but didn't press the matter further. Instead, she changed the subject, her thoughts drifting to the unspoken feelings between you and Mihawk. "You know, I can tell that you have feelings for him," she said quietly, her gaze searching for you for confirmation.

You felt your ears flush at her words, but you quickly composed yourself, determined not to let your emotions get the best of you. "I have no idea what you're talking about," you replied coyly, hoping to deflect her suspicions. 

You paused, considering her question carefully. It wasn't that you didn't want to give Perona an honest answer; rather, you found yourself grappling with the complexity of your emotions. After all, your feelings for each of them were unique and multifaceted.

You cherished Perona like a daughter, reveling in the opportunity to care for her and nurture her like your own. And when Zoro stayed over, you found joy in fussing over him, listening eagerly as he regaled you with tales of his friends and adventures. Even Mihawk, with his reserved demeanor, always held a special place in your heart.

Despite his lack of overt romantic gestures, you appreciated the thoughtfulness he always extended toward you, from opening his home to you to allowing you the freedom to make it your own.

As you glanced back at Perona, who sat contentedly with her stuffed bear, your gaze shifted to the black luggage you were arranging. The scene struck you with a pang of familiarity, reminiscent of a wife preparing for her husband's business trip.

It was a peculiar feeling, one that stirred a mixture of emotions within you, leaving you pondering the complexities of your relationships with each of them.

The evening wore on, everyone reconvened for dinner, the atmosphere filled with lively chatter and laughter. Mihawk checked in on you periodically throughout the meal, but you played it off like everything was fine, masking your true feelings behind a facade of confidence and composure.

After desert, Perona and Zoro excused themselves, heading to the drawing room to play games before inevitably dozing off on the sofa. You and Mihawk remained behind, clearing away the remnants of dinner before joining them in the drawing room.

Upon entering, you found Perona and Zoro fast asleep, their heads resting against each other, a faint smile on their faces. You couldn't help but smile at the sight, the warmth of the fire casting a golden hue over the room.

With a soft smile, you removed your shawl and draped it over them, tucking them in gently before turning to Mihawk. He nodded in silent agreement and set about adding more logs to the fire, casting a warm glow over the room.

Together, you quietly retreat to the staircase, and Mihawk paused for a moment, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the otherwise silent castle. It was then that Mihawk broke the silence, his voice soft and filled with concern. 

"[Name], are you really okay?" he asked, stopping at your bedroom door. His hand gently reaching out to touch your forehead before cupping your cheek for a fleeting moment. "You barely touched your supper."

You met his burning gaze, finding solace in the warmth of his touch and the genuine concern in his eyes. With a small nod, you offered a faint smile, silently appreciating the comfort he provided in the midst of your inner turmoil.

The way he made you feel naked and bare while fully clothed will always be a wonder to you. 

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "I'm fine, Mihawk. Just a bit tired," you replied, grateful for his concern. His approach was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his usual stoicism.

Taking this as you feeling cold, Mihawk placed his jacket over your shoulders before tipping your jaw towards him once more.

"Goodnight, [Name]. Sweet dreams and sleep well," his voice was low and smooth, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through you. It was a routine you had grown accustomed to over the years, yet it never failed to make you feel like royalty, like the most cherished person in the world.

"Goodnight, old friend," you whispered back, your voice barely above a breath, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched him retreat to his chambers.

Once he was out of sight, you hurried into your room, closing the door behind you with a soft click. Leaning against the cool wood, you took a deep breath, trying to calm the racing of your heart. The encounter had left you feeling breathless and exhilarated, your mind swirling with a whirlwind of emotions.

With trembling fingers, you pressed your hand against your chest, trying to steady the erratic beating of your heart. It was moments like these that made you acutely aware of the depth of your feelings for him, feelings you had long tried to suppress.

But as you stood there in the quiet of your room, the realization washed over you like a tidal wave. You were hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him, and there was no denying it any longer.

Feeling overwhelmed, you sank to the floor, your head spinning with a whirlwind of emotions. You pressed your palms against your cheeks, trying to calm the heat that flushed your skin.

Despite your best efforts to push the thoughts aside, they lingered, refusing to be ignored. You knew you couldn't keep hiding from your feelings, couldn't keep pretending that everything was fine when it wasn't. However, you didn't know what would become of your bestfriend if you let your emotions take control. 

With a sigh, you pushed yourself up from the floor, determined to ignore your emotions head-on. But for now, you allowed yourself a moment of vulnerability, a moment to acknowledge the depth of your longing before steeling yourself for what lay ahead.

Because deep down, your heart aches at the thought of Mihawk leaving again, and you couldn't help but wonder if he would ever truly understand the depth of your feelings for him.

______________________________________________________________

Part 1 posted: Here

Part 3: Posted Here

Part 4 is here my loves.

Part 5 is now posted

This is also posted on the a03 account by the same name. A new update post will also be out tomorrow regarding updates and new stories.

Please check out my other works and leave likes and comments, they really help. Drop a follow as well if you please.

Seen you soon my loves!!~ <<33

[dilf-docs]

Strobbing Lights, Circled Calendars

harry castillo x younger fem!reader

summary: of course you're bound to see him here -- harry castillo, one of your dad's bestfriends and main sponsors of this gala. you'll need a mountain of champagne to make it through the night without losing your temper, but harry has never made it easy.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, (eventual) smut, foes to hoes, (one sided) enemies to lovers, angst, rich ppl (yes that's a warning), slowburn, reader may be a bit of a cunt (sorry if this x reader fic is mischaracterizing u), ft. dbf!harry (love this trope so much and had to squeeze it in, my bad)

word count: 3,898 words

side note: I KNOW the movie isn't out yet but the mental illness and hyperfixiation combo is killing my ass lately. besides, i alr posted this in wattpad (oc version tho), and thought why shouldn't i post it here too; we all deserve rich gentleman pedro AMIRITE ++pls i wanna see ur comments and reblogs, lemme know what u think!!! :,) we're still far far away from that type of interaction wINk WoNK so for now, enjoy(??) their annoying banter and try to get my vision okBYE

part: prev | masterlist | next

Your parents divorced when you were a kid.

Your birthday had been a day before, the sun casting it's rays as your feet walked barefoot through the marble frigid floors; it could've been an omen about the cold to come. Around you, staff scrubbed floors with remanents of confetti. Some balloons were still standing in the garden. There was some leftover cake in the fridge.

"Y/n. You're awake"

Your father's gaze was one of pity. You were too young to understand that.

"Where's mommy?"

You hadn't even opened the mountain of presents awaiting in the living room and Sofía Reyes was gone.

She never came back.

Maybe that's why you hate your birthday. Maybe that's why you hate marriages. Love. It was a cruel lie sold to you and then taken away, to be locked behind a part of you that died the day you turned eight. You were forced to grow up, devoid of the loving touch of a mother who didn't hesitate to leave you behind like the discarded dolls you tore that day, futile attempts of replicating her touch with the maids, a sea of faces who failed to last long, characters broken by your desperate wails and short temper.

All you had was the rage of an unloved child. Hate.

Hate turned into resent, then barely a quiet rage, enough to carry you through cold interactions and your father's second, third, fourth, now fifth marriage. Enough to fuel the determination that had driven you to excel in your classes. Conquer. Crush. No one dared to mess with you. And that's what made you raise to the top: the best of the very best. Paired with your father's money and contacts, a few years later and you were New York's most sought after divorce lawyer.

It filled you with a wicked pride. A cruel sense of satisfaction of some sorts. May be the power of ending what once was love, and now had dwindled into apathy, bitterness or just the cold silence of a foretold death, ending with just the twisted knife of your signature. In a way, it made you feel like a god: capable of doing and undoing what people considered sacred. You laughed about that. Forever was, indeed, the sweetest con.

You didn't believe in love.

And you were final about it, just like with everything else.

"Mrs. Wallace is outside" your secretary's voice chimes in. You told her to stop using the phone and instead come to your door directly: you never know when you could answer and it'd be your dad, the last person you want to hear ask you about anything going on in your life. "Should I tell her to come in?"

Your latest client. About to end a marriage of almost two decades because her husband cheated. The goal? Keep her lavish lifestyle, which meant winning a part of his money.

Of course, she had come to your office for help.

"Yes. Thank you"

You search for her file in your computer, feeling disoriented all of a sudden.

"Um, I'm sorry, Caro" she stops on her tracks at your office's door. "What day is today?"

"June 17th"

It's today.

Carolina quirks an eyebrow, and you hate the way she squints her eyes, as if to decipher you.

"Should I clear your schedule for the rest of the day?"

A beat goes by.

"No" you resume your typing, probably to avoid her gaze or to busy yourself. Maybe both. "As a matter of fact, pack it up as much as you can"

She sighs, turning her heels, not before looking at you one last time.

"Happy birthday, Ms. Beaumont"

She leaves you alone, closing the door softly after her. The Reyes is silent, as the room. You shake your head, typing your thoughts away.

There is nothing to celebrate.

The door flings open, the loud click of heels against your office floors. You just hope Mrs. Wallace doesn't ruin your handmade carpet from Morocco with her shoes.

"Hello, Y/n!" her voice may be annoying, but at least she took the weight of your last name off. "Ugh, I've been dying to see you"

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Wallace"

"Drop that. Just Mia" winking while placing her Hermès on the chair to her side. "And it's all thanks to you"

Mia isn't an awful person, just annoying. Annoyingly rich.

You pull out a stack of documents neatly organized inside a carpet.

"Okay, so I just need you to check this documents-"

"No need" she's quick to dissmiss coolly, in that elegant yet frigid way of her kind. Then, her red lips (try to) form a smile through her botox injections. "Do me a favor and entertain this soon to be divorcee, dear. Show me your client list, maybe set me up with another hot-"

You let out your first real laugh in a while.

"Oh, you're funny Mia! But I'm not a matchmaker" you lean back in your chair, giving you a perfect peek of your degree, diploma and doctorate. You smile, satisfied. "See those behind you? I don't bring couples together. I tear them apart"

She stares at you, dumbfounded.

"That was cold" Mia deadpans.

Bit ironic, innit?

You shrug, unbothered. "It's my job and I'm the best. Which is why you came to me, right?"

She nods, slowly.

"Well then!" you clasp your hands together, startling the blonde woman. "Let's get back to what matters, shall we? I promise you that pathetic excuse of a husband you have named Mark will pay"

There's only two things you know: money and heartbreak. Born into New York's posh society, all your life you've been surrounded by the lavish of the elite world: a world that smells like unaffordable cologne, brands, burnt cigars, exclusivity and superciliousity.

You're as familiar with extravangance and parties as you are with big lonely houses and no one to call when you're down. It is all a blur of strenuous music of bars and drinks down, but when it's quiet, it's all about the silence like someone has died.

It's the price to pay, you think as you look down, to the tiny passerby walking on the bustling streets. You like to wonder about their lives and if they're happier than you, a secret torture kept hidden between you and the glass walls of your office at the firm.

You're already thinking what movie you'll choose for tonight as Joaquín, your personal chauffeur, drives up to your apartment.

He opens the door for you, lending a hand.

"Have a good night, Ms. Y/n"

For some reason, be it his respect for your chosen aphony or the familiarity not to be confused with warmth, you let him address you by your name, unlike the rest of your staff.

"Thank you" a word so small and repetitive yet foreign in your lips.

No congratulations, but his last look over the shoulder and nod may be. He probably is the only one who has seen the faces of distate as you answered your phone through his rearview mirror, displeased at the words of supposed affection of your acquaintances.

As you step inside, the bright lights and minimalist decoration wash over your tired form.

"Ms. Beaumont" it's your concierge. Your feet are killing you, and all you want is to take a bath and order some sushi. Not more human interactions for the day. "There's someone waiting for you"

Just what you needed.

"It's nine, Clark" you seethe his name, rolling your eyes. "Who could possibly need me?"

"Hey, little one"

Never have those words felt more out of place. He has never felt more out of place.

"Dad" you force a smile. He takes some strides across the lobby until he's stading in front of you, close as to see the new spots on his skin but not enough to be at hug's length. It's not like you ever did. "You could've called, you know?"

To say those two words I could care less about.

"It's important" he makes a gesture of remembering. "Oh! Happy birthday, by the way" you didn't expect less, "how much is it?"

Of course he didn't cross half Manhattan to congratulate you.

"Twenty-six" you reply, nonchalant.

"Time flies by, does it?" he tries to sound nostalgic, but it falls flat and artificial, as a rehearsed speech. It all felt like that, anyways.

"It does" you cut his bullshit off. "What do you want?"

He laughs, loudly. "Ah, that's my girl! Look at you" he points your suit, making your cheeks flare up between anger and embarrassement. "In this tight attire, talking like a bussiness woman!"

Your father looked as if you had slapped him in his face when you told him you wanted to be a lawyer. He could've cut you off, but you were his only family. I will make you proud, you assured him. At the end of the day, above all, you were still a daughter. So you used his money and your skills to build where you stand today. Despite it all, he still found ways to put you down and make you feel eighteen again, as the weak little girl who quietly cried herself to sleep, Yale acceptance letter tucked harshly in the trash.

But he started this.

Your father would never understand this choice was his fault.

"Now, let's talk, then" you snicker a small finally in there. "Impatient one, as always. Aren't you? Here, take a look for yourself"

He hands you an envelope. It doesn't take you two to put the pieces together.

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Annabelle is sick" he's quick to explain. "I want you to come with me"

Sick could mean many things: the flu, sick of me... Maybe he'll show up in a few months at your office to end his fifth.

You quirk an eyebrow, annoyed. "Do you want me or need me to?"

"Whatever suits you" he adopts that posture of his, as to indicate the conversation is over. "I just need you to be there"

Not an option. You eye the envelope again, tearing it open. The first words you see, big in bold are Open Bar. You place the invitation inside again, not bothering to read the rest. That's enough for now.

"I will be"

If you knew all that was to come, you would've declined.

The image of your father on the lobby of your apartment, one he just hadn't bothered to visit since you moved in two years ago, has been in your mind since last night.

Why was he there? It must've been important.

"What do you mean you were busy?" your friend, Rachel, huffs. You roll your eyes at her over the top voice for a simple conversation at brunch. Your head pounds, probably for tonight's event or the guilty bottle of wine emptied alone now turned hangover.

"I was working" you reply, stuffing a bit of salad on your mouth to avoid a gag.

"You're always working" she's quick to counter. "You're supposed to have fun in your birthday! And, you know, reply to your friend's texts"

You look at a spot on the white tablecloth.

"You know I'm not one to celebrate my birthday. We can go out any other day you'd like"

Rachel twirls a loose strand of her curly ginger hair, absentminded.

"You still ignored me"

You stiffle a laugh. "Should I apologize?"

"You never do" she leans back on her seat. "By the way, what's that?"

Your phone chimes in again, as on cue.

"Ugh, it's Nessa. No idea? My personal stylist, Rach" you turn off your phone, annoyed. "I don't get the point of validating my appointment. If I booked it last minute, urgently, why would I cancel?"

Rachel wiggles her brows, teasingly.

"Is it for a date? Please tell me it's for a date"

Last time you went on one, it was last year; you just didn't want to go to Rachel's New Year's Eve party alone. You haven't spoken to Barret (or was it Baxter?) ever since.

"It's a gala" you sigh.

"That's pretty much the same to me" she raises her glass. "Any cute boys going?"

"I didn't check the invitation. My dad forced me to go" you yawn. "Is it important, anyway? It's for amFAR. Won't be the first nor the last of the year"

"Figures. My dad is going" she casually mentions, diving back to her forgotten croissant.

"Wait" a beat. "If my dad and your dad are going, then-"

"Harry Castillo" you seethe.

He's in the back, surrounded by a crowd, wrapped around his finger. He may be aware, by his charming smile. All the world, licking at his hand for scraps of his precious attention, hovering around as dirty flies over the most exquisite banquet. Harry is like the sun: everyone can't help but orbit around him, drawn by his light.

But he was never like the others.

Which is why you despised him.

Him, who is now walking towards you with purposeful strides and a polite smile.

"Ah, David!" his voice utters in a deep tone. It's cheerful, too cheerful for a gala full of the cold echo of cutlery and rehearsed smiles. "How's Annabelle?"

"Sick" he smiles, but it sounds scornful. "Do you remember my daughter, Y/n? She's here on behalf of her"

Your father offers the same tight smile your way. Behave, as if you were the same little kid who cried to be taken home.

He lets out a boisterous laugh. "Of course I do"

Him, who knew exactly how to get under your skin: could be the way his brown orbs shine with sincere warmth as he leans forward, or his tone, charged with an autority that demanded respect. Like the world owed him a favor just for existing. But it is too the way he takes in your hand, chapped lips pressing against the soft of your skin, the sound of a kiss as he whispers your name like he owns it: as if Harry Castillo was the only man capable of saying it.

You can feel his moustache scratch your palm. Can feel his cologne start to invade your nostrils. Your mind. Your common sense. Your head spins, but you haven't even had a drink yet.

What is happening and why does he look at you like he knows?

"Always a gentleman, my friend" your father bursts your train of thoughts.

"Someone has to" he replies, velvet voice laced with something you can't quite place.

Why does he affect you so much, down to the marrow of your silver bones?

"Don't you think so, Y/n?"

"What?"

"The world needs more people" your father speaks, "like Harry"

More people with gelled curls pulled backwards. With expensive cologne that enters the room before they did, as intoxicating as their presence. With more new spots on their skin, blooming as the grays that have started to sprout between the chocolate of their hair.

More people who preferred a dinner and conversation over a club and a drink. Who took their time to search all of Manhattan for the perfect bouquet. That kissed with a force so inebriating, your cheeks turned vinious and body went limp.

More people who still believed in love. Good old-fashioned lover boys.

You purse your lips. "Sure thing. Would be wonderful"

Harry Castillo gives you his best smile. "I'm glad you agree"

You so desperately need a drink.

Outside, the world seems quiet.

Just at your feet, cars zoom and people walk, sounds beating raw with the hearbeat of a city that never sleeps.

But up here, you like the con of a lull night.

For a moment, it's like the world let's you breath, and no matter how much you love the club's strobbing lights and loud beat, or the sharp edge of words thrown in the court's enclosed space, you would still choose this fleeting moment of calm.

Your heart has never felt at peace.

"You have a bit of a habit of running away, don't you?"

Your breath steadies a bit. Like you expected this to happen.

"And you have one of prying into other people's bussiness"

Just like that, your wall is up again, long gone the sense of silent ease.

He chuckles, lightly so. "It's kind of what I do for a living. Guess old habits die hard"

Speaking of which, he pulls out a cigarette from his pocket.

"Do you mind?"

You look at him, puzzled. He pats his pristine suit, then shoots you an apologetic smile.

"I seem to have forgotten my lighter"

"I quit"

He raises an eyebrow. "Good for you" but his tone is full of mockery.

Like he doesn't believe you to be capable of holding to your promises.

Surrendering to Harry felt easy, not humiliating. It's not like you would be the first, nor last to do so.

"I still carry some for emergencies"

It's the same lighter he's seen all this years, accompanying you on lonely balconies and packed rooms, yet looking as new as the day you were given so, because you had a knack for caring too much.

It had an S, a B and an R, but even as he heard some things, he never dared to ask why you treasured it so much.

"Is this an emergency enough?"

The corner of his lips curve upwards at the same time he leans closer. You recognize the Myrrhe Mystère he's bathed his honeyed skin in.

You flicker the light once.

"Come closer and find out"

You flick it again, and it's just him and you, in that terrace, the wind blowing hard but not enough to kill the flame: for a moment, barely seconds, the blaze bathes his auburn eyes in a warm glow, as if they were the very same fire in your hand.

"There you go" voice impossibly soft.

This is hate: the way your breaths seems to mingle with your pulse, paused. Afraid to reveal more than meets the eye. The way your voice reduces to a whisper, as if speaking loudly would give your thoughts away.

This is the real reason you hate him: because no matter how many roads you take, the world is a sphere, and at the end of the day, it all leads to Harry Castillo's irritating, irksome and exasperating way of haunting your mind when you give him just a small space.

But that was him. Demanding. It was never enough. He needed more: even in the scope of your thoughts. Consuming. As the cigarette that hangs from his lips.

"Thanks" he pulls back, taking a drag. "Aren't you a doll?"

You remain emotionless. You try. Try, try, try.

"Dolls don't speak. They just look pretty"

Another drag. Slow. Your eyes drift to the shape of his mouth.

His eyes find yours, smirking. "Then you're already halfway there"

You give him your back, already done with this conversation. But he isn't: something about rich people and not knowing how to lose. You know it all too well, carry the disease yourself.

Harry Castillo always needs to have the last word. Like the last bullet of a gun.

It's got to land.

"You know, you're just like your dad"

The bitter aftertaste of champagne bubbles up your throat. You turn around, with pounding head and heart.

"I'm his daughter" you reply.

"I mean you're shit at pretending"

You laugh, incredulously. "Oh, aren't you a know it all? What, is that your job too?"

"Sometimes, we enjoy doing things that aren't our duty. Nonetheless, they capture our interest"

You feel a myriad of things: angry, humiliated, brave, stupid. Briefly reminds you of Rufus, your dad's old hunting dog. When he got sick, he got mean and angry. Bit the hand of his owner and licked it after.

"And what could I possibly offer to capture yours?"

He smiles. You feel him walk closer, cut the distance between your cold bodies, until the green of his ring becomes clear in your visual field.

"Your inability to keep your lies alive"

You forget how to breath until his arm brushes past yours. He kills the cigarette with a learnt casualty, the flame going out with a hss. His body remains rooted in place, caging you against the cold metal until it presses on the bare back your dress shows.

"Fuck you, Harry" you seethe.

How he always managed to ruin your day was a mystery, but it's always been like this: the push and pull, until someone gives in.

Small cuts until the wound is too big to ignore.

Dards thrown against the biggest of dartboards to exist, where every hit hurts.

"S' not the first time I've been told so" he chuckles. "Not by you, either. Looking forward to that"

The bewilderment in your face must be obvious by the way he smiles, sadly so. He starts to walk away, back to the on-going party.

"Hey! Where are you going?" you shout, "this isn't over yet"

You think he mumbles a You can't have it all.

"I can" you feel your body shake with vitriol. "Don't you know who I am?"

Why do you keep letting him get away with it?

You tell yourself each time that this is it, but it's impossible to ignore how he always makes you lose the mask you have carefully crafted.

He's like a mirror, but where light meets his reflection, you meet the darks of his shadow. It's like his sole purpose it's to remind you of the filth within you and the heavy weight of the crown with your father's last name. The more you stare at his eyes, the easier is to pick apart the flaws you know but don't feel in yourself to change.

It's like he knows you. Like Harry truly sees you for who you are: past your silver spoon, your spiteful remarks meant to wound, night life, expensive brands and opulence.

Worst part? He doesn't seem to mind the crisp of your rotten skin. You don't, either: a burnt child loves the fire.

"I do" he replies, his soft remark washing over your ember flaming anger. "But do you?"

You let him walk away. It's too much. You look at the the expanse of water surrounding the island, all to not drown on his eyes and the thoughts in your head he always makes you second-guess.

Pathetic.

Then, one final time, he turns around, glancing at you deeply, as if remembering something.

"I know it was yesterday but, happy birthday, Y/n" whispered in a fragile breath that gets lost in the sea of buildings and smog of Manhattan.

It lingers. Like his perfume over your clothes and the smell of the smashed cigarrette against the railing. It too lingers like the weight that's pressed over your chest and you can't name.

He doesn't wait for an answer. You don't have one.

And then he leaves.

You look to the skycrapers, coldly trying to replicate the beauty of the stars above, trying to reach the sky but falling short.

Trying, trying, trying.

You close your eyes and breath.

Falling, falling, falling.

Two words. Almost two decades of hating it. All it took was Harry Castillo's mouth to utter them as if it was important.

You shake your head in disbelief.

Because, for the first time in a lifetime, your birthday feels like it matters.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas / 🏷: @io12n @dowscal @oscar-isaac @joelscowgirl @jxvipike @klarkapascal @lostinmyownmaze @folklore-barnes @alinacecee @sukitruqui (comment if u wanna be tagged!)

[dailybridgerton]

‘Bridgerton’ Season 4 Casts Yerin Ha as Benedict’s Love Interest Sophie Beckett

“Bridgerton” has cast Yerin Ha as Benedict Bridgerton’s love interest for Season 4.

According to sources, Ha will play Sophie Beckett in the upcoming season of the hit Shondaland-Netflix series. As previously announced, Season 4 will tell Benedict’s (Luke Thompson) love story and will be based on the events of Julia Quinn’s third “Bridgerton” novel, “An Offer From a Gentleman.”

Beckett is the “Lady in Silver.” In the novel, she is the illegitimate daughter of an earl and one his maids. She was brought up in her father’s house, though he never publicly acknowledged her as his daughter.

Ha is perhaps best known to American audiences for her role in the Paramount+ series adaptation of the “Halo” video games. She appeared in both seasons of the series in the role of Kwan Ha. Her other credits include the Australian shows “Reef Break,” “Troppo,” and “Bad Behaviour,” as well as the independent horror film “Sissy.” She will next appear in the Max prequel series “Dune: Prophecy,” which is slated to air in November on the streamer.

She is repped by WME and Morrissey Management.

— via Variety

[ridingthatd]

◕◔ RYOMEN TWINS II

◔◕ itadorixfem!reader, sukunaxfem!reader, nsfw, heavy smut, twins breeding you, possessive, kinky asf part 2

sukuna ryomen. sukuna was never interested in anything other then aiming to evolve himself, becoming even stronger and ruling with immense power.

after all sukuna is the strongest sorcerer of a thousand years, and is known as "the King of Curses".

sukuna is selfish, cold-hearted, immoral, and exceptionally sadistic. while his brother itadori found humans amusing , sukuna thought the slaughter of women and children are just like maggots crawling around.

he never understood why his brother was so obsessed with humans souls- their emotions, emotions both him and his brother never felt.

fear. sadness. anger. jealousy. love- they were think they never got the taste of. sukuna never understood why would a man beg on his knees- broken knees to spare his so called wifes life, why would a man care about another humans life- as less as a pathetic woman's life more than his own.

he never understood that, until he met his little human- right you were his- theirs, he would end a whole nation if even one of their people dare to touch a single stand of your long delicate hair. and he knows his brother felt the same.

sukuna wanted to take you- have you, knot you with his seeds the moment he laid his dark eyes on you, his cock was hard-ragging demanding to fill your little pussy with his warm seeds, demanding to break your little pussy- tear it open with his two cocks.

his whole body filled with heat, as he stare at you bowing infornt of him- him and his brother, he was aware that his body was larger then any average human. but you- you were even smaller then an average human, he could take you right here, claim you right here and you wouldn't be able to do anything about it, just cry out as his fat cock stretch both of your holes out.

at first it would be painful for your pretty little pussy to take his fat cock- you would beg him to stop, choking on your sobs but as soon as he hits the sweet spot in your womb you would start drolling, brain high, as you beg him for more- beg him to tear your little ass with his other cock.

sukuna smirks at his thoughts, he couldn't help the dark deep laugh he let's out as he glance at his brother- his brother that was clearly thinking the same thing as him, as he stare at their little loyal maid.

sukuna knew you were someone who will serve him and worship him, live under his shadow. someone who would be playful with him and be bratty on purpose, seducing him so innocently. he wasn't ever interested in sexual intercourse, more like no one caught his attention enough to have him as much as glance at them.

he lost count on how many woman's head he had beheaded off because of their pathetic in tempt to seduce him- but here you are innocently sitting on his lap, dress drenched with his cursed bath water, revealing your hard nipples as you gently scrub on his skin not aware of his hard cocks that were ready to devour you.

he chuckled to himself, you were so naive that you thought his filthy brother was a gentleman- an Innocent man, but in reality itaodori was a filthy as much as he was , a man who would steal your cute little panties while he claimed that he wanted to "help" you with the laundries, a man who would beat his cock raw as he sniff on your panties, he would go as far as taking your used ones just to stroke his cock with it.

sukuna wasn't any better, he sighs to himself as he lean in to sniff your scent, he was obsessed with how soft your body was in his big arms, his body always relaxed like he's in cloud nine as soon as your rosy scent hit his nose, he growls pushing his face harder into your plumpy breast, brushing his nose softly on your exposed cleavage.

as the loyal submissive human you are, you don't deny him your body, you simply continue your work on him- your hands massaging his hard sculp, running your delicate fingers through his pink locks, making him groan into you- you can feel the vibration through your body.

oh how much he loved this.

you wake up heat- heat running through your whole body, through your veins, it was like you were on fire- fire of pleasure, it stings so bad yet so good, it's like your body was boiling under hot water, the heat source comes directly from your cunt.

you felt something huge, something wet, something warm, something rough- stroking your pussy. once. twice. third-

you lost count, to focused on the sensation of your pussy burning, it was so so warm, so so wet you couldn't help but arch your hips into it, wanting more, whining as you feel it leave burning trail from your pussy to your ass, stroking- no licking at your hole.

you finally snap your eyes open pulling yourself up, realization hit you, you weren't laying on the bed sheets you were laying on something hard, you look down just to make contact with dark eyes, pupils thin, filled with lust- eyes who belong to non other then your master sukuna.

your body slumps back into sukunas chest again, whimpering as you feel two long-thick fingers shoved up your tight ass hole, tearing through you, you felt a warm chest being pressed behind your back- you're being sandwiched between two hard, muscles ripped chests.

a warm tongue peak out, licking the shell of your ear, making you squirm on the wet thing under you- the wet thing was non other then sukunas mouth stomach.

"our baby woke up" your master itadori mutter out, his hot breath behind your ear, his nose softly brushing your neck, as he leaves wet-sloppy kisses inside your ear, this way the only thing you can hear was the wet noises his mouth made.

you feel sukunas stomach-tongue circling your ass before going back to your pussy shoving it completely inside your sore hole making you arch your back against itadori chest, screaming as the long wet tongue entered your walls.

"no- ngh no- no to much" you choke out a sob as you feel sukunas tongue hit your womb circling around your sensitive spot that drives you crazy, it was to slippery, to wet, you felt to stuffed with his huge stomach-tongue, thrusting so fast inside your pussy.

itadori was still licking on your ear- it was soaking wet-sloppy soaking with his spit, everything was to much, you couldn't hear anything other then the wet sounds of itadoris tongue, and the sloppy sounds of sukunas tongue entering you again and again and again.

sukunas two lower hands trail to your hips, kneading them in his large hands before he hashly lift you up and slam you down his tongue making you cry out, "ah- ah- master- please no more" you beg for mercy.

"shh i know, i know let master take care of the sweet pussy of yours" he purrs out, as he watches the way your juice coat his tongue dripping down his stomach- you tasted like honey and he couldn't get enough, his tongue selfishly lapping on every single corner inside your pussy.

"fuck she's gushing her juice all over you" itadori hot breath hits your wet ear as he darkly speaks out, causing you to finally lose it at the sensation as he plugs your ass with his finger shoving them deep inside.

you shake, body giving up as you land on sukuna your face hovering over his, pushing your pussy- your ass more into them, as soon as you see the way sukuna was staring at you so hungrily as he slams your pussy into his tongue and his brothers finger.

you squirt- gushing out clear liquid, crying out as you feel your whole body shake, fingers holding into your master sukuna for dear life. itadoris finger still inside of you, shoved deep but making no movement while sukuna crazily continue rocking your pussy into him.

"yes! yes! fucking give it to me! all of it" he growls out, two of his upper hands grab your hair and lean it to his face just to suck on your lips, while he continue his brutal movement on your sensitive pussy.

another orgasm rips out of you, you feel like you could pass out, your screams were muffled out by sukunas mouth as he sucks, leaving them red.

"god fucking girl" itadori stoke your back leaving kisses on your spine while sukuna finally slow his movement, ripping his mouth away from yours, just to lick the tears that left your eyes.

sukuna flip you over- so he was on top of you, slowly pulling his tongue out of your soaked pussy, eyes darken as he looks at the way it was so swollen, it was barely recognizable, it was wide open leaking your clear cum and his spit out, he purrs satisfied at the sight.

itadori doesn't know why did he agree on letting his brother have you, but looking at you right now he doesn't regret his decision one bit. shoving his finger inside your beat up cunt, making you whine before he shove it inside his mouth groaning at the filthy taste.

sukuna leans over to you pressing his forehead into yours, you stif as you feel a rock hard warm thing brush against your ass, you open your eyes glancing at sukuna- your eyes widen as you see- not one but two of his fat cocks lining against your hole.

"you're going to take it like a good girl for master" he growls out before he completely tear through your tight ass, ripping you apart. two of his hand-mouth that was holding your hips down, lick up your waist leaving a wet trail before landing on your nipples, trapping them in his mouth, suckling on the hard bud.

you were sure the bed was going to break, from how hard sukuna was thrusting into your ass, your voice was caught in your throat, eyes crossed, mouth hanging open causing spit to leave it.

"we can't leave your sweet mouth hanging empty like that" itadori coo at you as he swipe your drool with his finger before sucking it into his mouth, you glace at his hard cock that he was stroking precum leaking out of his reddish head, you moan out as you feel sukuna rock into you faster, causing your body to crash into itadoris from the force.

you feel his cock at your lips, and you immediately open your mouth wider welcoming him, lazily licking the head before slurping it into your mouth, focusing on it, coating it with your spit.

itadoris thighs shake, the way your tongue licked up his sensitive clit had him close to cumming undone, just as close as sukuna was.

"fill down her throat, I'm going to fucking fill this ass of hers" sukuna groan out as he slaps your ass with his other two hands, gripping your cheeks and spreading them wide to take a good look at how your tight ass was hungrily taking his fat cock.

your moan vibrate into itadoris huge cock and that has him spilling his hot cum down your throat with a loud moan, his brother soon follow him, filling your ass with every single last drop.

"fucking." thrust.

"take." thrust.

"it." thrust.

"all." thrust.

your mind was blank, every single hole of yours was filled with their cum- leaking with their cum, your body was twitching.

sukuna lean in to kiss your clit, while itadori kiss your nose. maybe after all they did have something in common.

₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ end ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ

: ̗̀➛ part 1 is 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞