#inheritance hierarchies | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cobbled-peach · 2 months ago

Text

proposal(s)

aka: the four times Spencer thinks about proposing to you, and the one time he does

a/n: this is my first time writing/posting here pls be kind to me I just love him and I love books and I hope you love him and love books too !!!!! this hasn’t been edited much so apologies for sp mistakes cw: brief mention of sex, but nothing explicit. Fembau!reader. Lots of literature references (with books named at the end). I think this constitutes as fluff? Pre-prison Spencer, but no specific era. wc: 2.3k

darcy and elizabeth

The first time Spencer thinks about proposing to you, it’s the day you meet him.

The newest agent on the team. You’re emotionally intelligent in a way he can only dream of being.

You cradle a mug of coffee in your hands. His mug, which stuns Morgan into silence mid-sentence, his conversation with Garcia derailed by the sheer surprise of what he’s witnessing. Your mug had smashed thirty minutes earlier, an unfortunate casualty in the first-day desk unboxing. Spencer, seeing your disappointment, pulled a plain white mug from his top drawer, REID printed on the side.

He held it out tentatively. A peace offering. ‘Until you get a new one,’ he’d murmured, offering a small smile.

He’s always been wary of germs, but somehow didn’t care this time.

He watches your hands wrap around the mug. Soft, delicate, holding the item like its something precious. He wonders what it would be like to hold your hands himself. Then scolds the thought. Coworkers, Spencer.

You bring the cup up to your lips, humming in contentment after the first sip. Yor lipstick – or maybe lipgloss? He’s unsure of the correct term – leaves a gentle pink stain on the rim. He secretly hopes that it won’t wash off. He stares for a moment, and wonders, quite randomly, is this how Darcy felt when Elizabeth first touched his hand?

You set the mug down (Morgan still gaping in the background, like you’ve declared war on the Bureau’s hierarchy of personal property) and smile at him.

‘Thank you. Seriously. I desperately needed that caffeine.’

‘It’s not a problem. Did you know that caffeine sensitivity is actually inherited?’ A pause. To see if you’re listening. You are, and he suddenly wonders how appropriate it would be to stain his lips with your lipstick-lipgloss in a kiss. Not very, he concludes. ‘It’s all to do with polymorphisms in your enzymes. Its genetic; they tested it on twins.’

‘You sound well-versed in your coffee knowledge. A fellow connoisseur?’

‘I think the term “addict” is more fitting, actually. And I don’t know how much of my consumption is due to genetics over stress and lack of sleep.’

A laugh from you. He feels the sound in his chest and his stomach flips.

‘Good to know what’s in store for me,’ you tease.

‘Coffee addictions and sleepless nights,’ he replies. Then, hesitating. ‘Maybe I’ll let you use my high-quality espresso beans when it gets really bad.’

‘Literally marry me,’ you joke.

He almost says, I will.

He doesn’t, just stares at the mug like it holds the future.

2. the black cloud

The second time he thinks about proposing is your third-technically fourth date. (The first didn’t count, at least not to you. ‘You asked me to dinner to “celebrate closing the case,”’ you’d later said. ‘That’s not a date.’ He insisted that it was; he’d paid. You said so did JJ, once. Case closed.) They’re also technically not “dates” because dating within the team is prohibited, but Hotch showed some leniency.

Coffee in the park. A foolproof plan, not much room for error. He buys your drink, and you sip it beside him on the bench while he spews obscure facts about the tree you’re sitting under, intertwined with quotes from Ovid and Darwin. He offers to get you a refill as soon as you finish.

‘You haven’t even finished yours yet,’ you tell him.

‘I know. I can still get you a new one.’

‘Just drink your drink, Spencer.’ Accompanied by a fond smile.

You wander together. Conversation flows. He can’t quite explain why its so easy, why he feels so comfortable.

He’s puzzled by the anomaly, so he does what he does best: theorises. He’s been hypothesising for the past three-technically-four dates. Cross-referencing data points. He runs through the evidence, and draws the only viable conclusion:

Love.

Premature, maybe. But true.

You suggest dipping into a second-hand bookshop. He agrees eagerly, following you in like Orpheus descending. He’ll go anywhere, so long as he can find his way back to you. You disappear into your aisle; he into his. Mathematics, physics. The realm of science and fact. Only two minutes pass before you appear again, book clutched in your hand.

‘This is so you,’ you say.

It’s The Black Cloud. Fred Hoyle.

He blinks. Then again. Takes the book from your hand and turning it over like you’ve just handed him the world.

‘You’ve probably read it,’ you say. ‘But you’ve never mentioned it, and I know you like mid-century sci-fi.’

He has read it. Of course he has. But its not about the book. Its about you, thinking of him.

And you say it so casually. Like this isn’t the most intimate thing someone’s done for him.

‘You picked this out… for me?’

‘Yes.’

He turns it over again, shocked. He wants to hand you his heart, neatly wrapped in paper and ink.

‘Oh…’ he breathes out, the sound so quiet. He feels like he’s been winded, in the best way possible.

‘Not to your taste?’

‘No–’ he shakes his head. ‘No, its exactly to my taste. I think I have an older copy, but not this edition.’

‘Do you want it?’

‘Yes.’ The answer comes out before he even registers it. He does want the book. Not because he needs it, but because you picked it out for him.

You smile, gently take it back, and go to the register. He watches lamely, feels compelled to place a hand over his chest an steady his beating heart.

He thinks of Dante first catching sight of Beatrice. Of Gatsby staring across the bay. Of Gabriel and Bathsheba, paths destined to intertwine.

In the middle of the bookshop, he almost gets on one knee.

3. the hour of the star

The third time he thinks about proposing is directly after sex.

Not the first time, or the second. Somewhere in the quiet middle.

You’ve been officially together for six months. You transferred to a different department, and he asked the moment you were in your new office. (‘No interdepartmental fraternization,’ he’d quoted, followed by a nervous, ‘so, can you officially be my girlfriend now?’)

You’re both tangled beneath the sheets in your apartment, the place half his by default now. His toothbrush lives in the bathroom, his go-bag in the hallway, his own mug in your kitchen.

His copy of The Black Cloud lives on your bookshelf, annotated. He took it straight home, writing his thoughts in the margins, little notes to you. Fred Hoyle writes “There is a coherent plan to the universe” and beneath it, in Spencer’s barely legible font, is yes, and I think its you.

The book had been kept out of your sight for seven months, before he “sneakily” slipped it onto your shelf. “Sneakily,” because you watched every movement through the kitchen doorway. You’d read the whole thing that night, cried, and set to work annotating a book of your own for him.

The books are a love language themselves. If he could frame every annotated page on his wall, he would.

He’s reading aloud to you now.

It’s become a ritual. You, soft limbs and warm skin. Him, thumbing through whatever book is on the nightstand, voice a little hoarse. Sometimes it’s a play, sometimes poetry. Once, quantum physics (he didn’t take it personally when you instantly fell asleep to that).

Tonight, its Clarice Lispector. The Hour of the Star. Skin still flushed, he clears his throat and reads aloud, backed by your steady breaths. Each turn of a page is a pause in which he can press a kiss to your skin. Shoulder, cheek, temple. Wherever he can reach.

‘“Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad, because what is fully mature is very close to rotting.’” The sentence hangs in the air. Heavy. His voice stops, like he’s contemplating the words he’s just read.

You turn your head against his chest.

‘Everything okay?’

His quiet. Thinking, as always, a crease between his brows.

‘Mm.’ His arm shifts to wrap around your shoulders. ‘It’s just… interesting, isn’t it? How even the best things are fragile, maybe. Decaying.’

He doesn’t need to say “us” for you to catch what he’s referring to.

‘You think we’ll decay?’ you ask, propping yourself up on one elbow. He looks at your eyes, soft, unworried, and thinks again.

‘I think that… real things are vulnerable. We’re real. And I think that makes us susceptible.’ He hesitates, brushes some hair from your face absentmindedly. ‘Entropy. Everything tends towards disorder.’

‘Only if you don’t control it,’ you say. Factually incorrect, but he appreciates what you're saying.

And perhaps that’s it. Your unwavering faith. You’re a realist, not a romantic. Offering certainty in a world of disorder.

‘Decay isn’t death,’ you point out, continuing. ‘Its transformation, right? Compost to soil. Stars collapsing and becoming galaxies. Things can break and become something beautiful.’

His world shifts in that moment. He looks back at the line, reads it maybe 20 times in the span of five seconds.

‘We’re not going to rot, Spence.’

‘We’re not going to rot,’ he repeats. He knows it’s the truth as you press your lips to his chest, over his frantically beating heart. ‘Do you want me to keep going?’ he asks, lifting the book slightly.

‘Please.’

You adjust your position, curling into his side. He resumes his reading. He’s turning the page again when you mumble quietly.

‘We’re not going to rot, because I love you.’

Every syllable brands itself into his soul. He’s heard those three words before, but there’s something more to them in his context. He almost drops the book, catches I before it hits your head. He wants to tell you that you are his Eurydice, the person he’s always been trying to reach.

Instead, he says:

‘I love you, too.’

It falls easily. Inevitable, as always. No drama, no prelude. Just the truth, spoken to you many times before and many more to come.

He almost attaches a “marry me” to his words but instead kisses your hair and returns to the book. He’ll wait.

He already knows the ending will be worth it.

4. metamorphoses

The fourth time isn’t once. It’s every day.

You hand him coffee in the morning? Marry me.

You nurse him through a cold, unconcerned about coughing and sneezing, just wanting to be near to him? Here’s a ring fashioned out of Kleenex.

You coo over Henry in one of JJ’s photos? Let’s make one of our own. Just marry me first.

He asks Rossi for advice. (‘You’ve been married a lot, statistically speaking.’)

Garcia catches on quickly. Spencer Reid combined with search history is a concoction for whatever the opposite of “stealth” is. He looks at rings on his lunch break, tilting his computer screen like its classified information.

Pretty soon everyone knows. You remain oblivious – or pretend to be.

It’s simply a matter of when.

5. darcy and elizabeth

It’s a Tuesday. Raining.

Not a dramatic kind of rain. Unassuming. Soft and relentless, quietly soaking the world, a constant tap against the window of his apartment – now permanently shared with you.

He wonders if the rain is a piece of pathetic fallacy. A warning against his plans.

It’s four years to the day since he met you.

He had a plan. Of course he did. He was Spencer Reid. A riverside walk in the park. Take a picnic, surrounded by ducks. Bookmark a page in Much Ado About Nothing with the ring. But the weather has altered his plans, made him go off script.

But maybe that’s a good thing. Gentle touches and heartfelt gestures over big declarations, that’s what he’s always preferred. He just needs a moment.

You’re making coffee. Barefoot, hair damp from the rain that interrupted his plans. Wearing an old shirt of his effortlessly. A perfect picture of home. His home.

He stands in the doorway with a book in his hand. Pride and Prejudice. Not his favourite. Nowhere near his top ten. But it’s your favourite. You’ve worn it down with love, left your own story between the lines with annotations. And that makes it his favourite now, too.

His mismatched socks shift awkwardly on the floor.

‘Hi,’ he says, calling your attention.

You look up from the mugs with a pre-formed smile. Yours, a copy of the mug you’d smashed on your first day. His, the mug with your lipstick, now washed, but imprinted with you forever.

‘Hey,’ you respond. ‘Dry from the rain?’

He doesn’t respond. Crosses the kitchen and holds out the book. Why does it feel like a brick?

‘This is… mine?’ you say, unsure.

‘Yes,’ he confirms. ‘I added some annotations. For you.’

You open the cover. His handwriting – messy, familiar – sits below your own in black ink.

You know I am not very good with words. So, I thought I’d borrow someone else’s. Please turn to page 301.

He watches your breath hitch. Watches as you carefully flip the pages.

There’s a line. Circled not once, but many times over, holding the weight of what couldn’t be said with words.

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

Beside it, tentative but certain at the same time, his writing: but if you ever choose to be bound to someone, I hope it’s me.

He’s already on one knee when you glance up. Ring held out in his hand. A quiet promise, forged from the pages of books you’ve shared and the one you’ve written yourself.

Your hands are cradling his face. He’s crying. And you’re crying.

‘I will always choose you.’ Quiet, definitive. A fact.

He slips the ring on and kisses you. Pride and Prejudice lays open in the background. Page 301. A circled sentence. A note in the margins. A love undoubted.

hi I’m super awkward but I hope you enjoyed yippee!! I thought I’d quickly mention all the books I referenced/have implied references to because I love them all and if you like literature you should read them teehee (in order because I’m super sweet) (also I know darcy doesn’t touch her hand in the books pls don’t come for me <33) Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen Metamorphosis, Ovid The Origin of Species, Charles Darwin The Black Cloud, Fred Hoyle The Divine Comedy, Dante The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald Far from the Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy The Hour of the Star, Clarice Lispector Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare Hamlet, Shakespeare

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfic #i hope im doing this right

2K notes · View notes

inky-duchess · 2 years ago

Text

Fantasy Guide to Building A Culture

Culture is defined by a collection of morals, ethics, traditions, customs and behaviours shared by a group of people.

Hierarchy and Social Structures

Within every culture, there is a hierarchy. Hierarchies are an important part of any culture, usually do ingrained that one within the culture wouldn't even question it. Hierarchy can be established either by age, gender or wealth and could even determine roles within their society. Sometimes hierarchy can may be oppressive and rigid whilst other times, ranks can intermingle without trouble. You should consider how these different ranks interact with one another and whether there are any special gestures or acts of deference one must pay to those higher than them. For example, the Khasi people of Meghalaya (Northern India), are strictly matrillineal. Women run the households, inheritance runs through the female line, and the men of the culture typically defer to their mothers and wives. Here are a few questions to consider:

How is a leader determined within the culture as a whole and the family unit?

Is the culture matriarchal? Patriarchal? Or does gender even matter?

How would one recognise the different ranks?

How would one act around somebody higher ranking? How would somebody he expected to act around somebody lower ranking?

Can one move socially? If not, why? If so, how?

Traditions and Customs

Traditions are a staple in any culture. These can be gestures or living life a certain way or to the way a certain person should look. Traditions are a personal detail to culture, they are what make it important. Tradition can dictate how one should keep their home, run their family, take care of their appearance, act in public and even determine relationship. Tradition can also be a double edged sword. Traditions can also be restrictive and allow a culture to push away a former member if they do not adhere to them, eg Traditional expectations of chastity led to thousands of Irish women being imprisoned at the Magdelene Laundries. Customs could be anything from how one treats another, to how they greet someone.

How important is tradition?

What are some rituals your culture undertakes?

What are some traditional values in your world? Does it effect daily life?

Are there any traditions that determine one's status?

Values and Opinions

Values and Opinions are the bread and butter of any culture. This is the way your culture sees the world and how they approach different life hurdles. These may differ with other cultures and be considered odd to outsiders, what one culture may value another may not and what opinion another holds, one may not. There will be historical and traditional reasons to why these values and opinions are held. Cultures usually have a paragon to which they hold their members to, a list of characteristics that they expect one to if not adhere to then aspire to. The Yoruba people value honesty, hard work, courage and integrity. Here are some questions to consider?

How important are these ethics and core values? Could somebody be ostracised for not living up to them?

What are some morals that clash with other cultures?

What does your culture precieved to be right? Or wrong?

What are some opinions that are considered to be taboo in your culture? Why?

Dress Code

For many cultures, the way somebody dresses can be important. History and ethics can effect how one is meant to be dressed such as an expectation of chastity, can impose strict modesty. While other cultures, put more importance on details, the different sorts of clothes worn and when or what colour one might wear. The Palestinian people (من النهر إلى البحر ، قد يكونون أحرارا) denoted different family ties, marriage status and wealth by the embroidery and detailing on their thoub.

Are there traditional clothes for your world? Are they something somebody wears on a daily basis or just on occasion?

Are there any rules around what people can wear?

What would be considered formal dress? Casual dress?

What would happen if somebody wore the wrong clothes to an event?

Language

Language can also be ingrained as part of a Culture. It can be a specific way one speaks or a an entirely different language. For example, in the Southern States of America, one can engage in a sort of double talk, saying something that sounds sweet whilst delivering something pointed. Bless their heart. I have a post on creating your own language here.

Arts, Music and Craft

Many cultures are known for different styles of dance, their artwork and crafts. Art is a great part of culture, a way for people to express themselves and their culture in art form. Dance can be an integral part of culture, such as céilí dance in Ireland or the Polka in the Czech Republic. Handicrafts could also be important in culture, such as knitting in Scottish culture and Hebron glass in Palestine. Music is also close to culture, from traditional kinds of singing such as the White Voice in Ukraine and the playing of certain instruments such as the mvet.

Food and Diet

The way a culture prepares or intakes or treats certain foods are important to a culture. In some cultures, there is a diet yo adhere to, certain foods are completely banned. With Jewish culture, pork is prohibited along with fish such as sturgeon, along with shellfish and certain fowl. Meat must also be prepared in a certain way and animal byproducts such as dairy, must never be created or even eaten around this meat. This is known as kosher. The way one consumes food is also important to culture. In some cultures, only certain people may eat together. Some cultures place important on how food is eaten. In Nigerian culture, the oldest guests are served first usually the men before the women. In Japanese culture, one must say 'itadakimasu' (I recieve) before eating. Culture may also include fasting, periods of time one doesn't intake food for a specific reason.

What are some traditional dishes in your world?

What would be a basic diet for the common man?

What's considered a delicacy?

Is there a societal difference in diet? What are the factors that effect diet between classes?

Is there any influence from other cuisines? If not, why not? If so, to what extent?

What would a typical breakfast contain?

What meals are served during the day?

What's considered a comfort food or drink?

Are there any restrictions on who can eat what or when?

Are there any banned foods?

What stance does your world take on alcohol? Is it legal? Can anybody consume it?

Are there any dining customs? Are traditions?

Is there a difference in formal meals or casual meals? If so, what's involved?

Are there any gestures or actions unacceptable at the dinner table?

How are guests treated at meals? If they are given deference, how so?

11K notes · View notes

mylearnings519 · 2 years ago

Text

The concept of inheritance and its benefits in OOP java? Give me example.

Inheritance is a fundamental concept in Object-Oriented Programming (OOP) that allows you to create a new class (derived or subclass) based on an existing class (base or superclass). The derived class inherits attributes and behaviors (fields and methods) from the base class, and it can also have its own additional attributes and behaviors. Inheritance models the “is-a” relationship, where a…

View On WordPress

#CodeReuse #Customization #Hierarchy #Inheritance #JavaClasses #JavaInheritance #JavaProgramming #MethodOverriding #ObjectOrientedProgramming #OOP #Polymorphism #SoftwareDevelopment

1 note · View note

luceleste · 23 days ago

Text

Where Flowers Bow

Chapter 1

pairing – Satoru Gojo x f!reader summary – Invited to Duke Satoru Gojo’s palace as a potential bride, you arrive with nothing but a ruined name and perfect manners. Among jewels and judgment, you’re just another candidate in a parade of perfect girls — until a stranger in the garden, who isn’t what he seems, speaks to you like you’re real. In a palace of masks, someone has already chosen you. You just don’t know why.

warnings – renaissance!AU, female reader, eventual SMUT, strangers to lovers, angst with comfort, political drama, emotional tension, power imbalance, mentions of social hierarchy/class pressure, slow burn, manipulation, masks and appearances, gojo’s mother is named midora. reader’s mother is important in the story. the language leans slightly formal and poetic in tone to match the setting. more to be added.

word count – 7.7k

notes – This will be a long story because I love drama. I was completely obsessed with the idea of Duke Gojo after reading Silent Serenades by @madamechrissy and couldn’t get it out of my head. Thanks for the inspo, Chrissy ♡

divider by @thecutestgrotto

next chapter

It had never been a secret that you were meant to marry well — and soon. Since childhood, your mother had made it your life’s purpose. You were trained to move with grace, to speak only when spoken to, to always smile at the right moments. Every lesson, every correction, every praise was offered with the same quiet promise: become the perfect wife, and you’ll be rewarded. Preferably with wealth. Hopefully with influence. Love was never part of the arrangement.

You were raised knowing your fate, and it wasn’t as if you had any other choice, so you learned to accept it.

You also knew — though it was never spoken aloud — that your mother had pulled every string she could to keep your family’s downfall a secret. If anyone had learned the truth — the debt, the disgrace, the thin cracks in your inheritance — you wouldn’t have been offered to a tailor’s apprentice, let alone a Duke.

And yet, somehow, your name had made it to the list.

Now, as the carriage rocked gently beneath you, you pressed a hand to the velvet-lined wall and stared out through the narrow window. The estate was still far in the distance, but even from here, you could see the spires reaching toward the sky — proud, pale, and unreal. The Gojo palace was not meant for people like you. It belonged to stories. To legends. To those born into power, not those clawing at the edges of it.

You didn’t know what your mother had promised, or to whom. You didn’t know how many hands she’d kissed or threatened, how many secrets she’d buried. But she had gotten you here — one of the few young women selected to be considered for the hand of Duke Satoru Gojo.

And now, you would have to survive it.

The silence in the carriage was heavy — the kind that pressed against your ribs and made your thoughts feel too loud.

Your mother sat across from you, spine perfectly straight despite the uneven road. Her gloved hands rested in her lap, unmoving. Not a single strand of hair had escaped the smooth roll pinned at the base of her neck. She was composed, as always — the picture of control.

“You will remember what I taught you.” She said at last, not looking at you.

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded once. “Yes, Mother.”

Her gaze shifted to the window. “You must make yourself indispensable. But never too eager. You must appear grateful, but never desperate. If he suspects you want him—truly want him—it’s over.”

You said nothing.

A moment passed.

“You can’t ruin this.”

The words sat between you like an accusation. You turned your face toward the glass, watching the pale towers grow taller with every passing second. “What did you promise?”

Your mother’s jaw tightened.

“Nothing we can’t survive.” She said. “If you do well.”

You looked at her again then — really looked. There was something steely beneath her calm, something like exhaustion pressed behind her eyes. You wondered how many letters she had written. How many names she’d begged from. How many favors she’d burned to ash.

The silence returned. But you were used to it by now. In fact, you preferred it this way.

The carriage slowed.

The pale stone of the palace shimmered like a mirage — all towering columns and gleaming spires, its windows catching the sunlight like shards of cut glass. It didn’t look real. It looked like something out of a storybook, the kind your governess used to read aloud when you were small — back when your family still had a governess. Still had servants. Still had status.

Even the front yard — if it could be called that — was larger than your entire estate. Wide marble steps unfolded like a stage. Fountains danced in the sunlight as if they existed for no other purpose than to sparkle.

It was beautiful.

It was obscene.

And you were expected to belong here.

Your heart beat once. Then again, harder.

Still, your hands remained folded neatly in your lap. Your posture was perfect. Your face, serene.

Outside, servants moved with mechanical precision — polished boots striking stone in perfect cadence, crisp uniforms, faces impassive. No one looked at the carriage. And yet, you felt it. The watching.

This place had eyes. You could feel them the moment the wheels touched the marble drive — silent, faceless, everywhere.

Don’t show it. You told yourself. Not the awe. Not the fear. Not the ache in your chest that felt dangerously close to hope.

“Chin up.” Your mother said as the carriage door clicked open. Her voice was calm — too calm. The kind that disguised sharp edges.

She stepped out first, her movements elegant, unhurried. Then, with a gloved hand, she offered you help — not as a gesture of affection, but of precision. Ceremony. As expected.

You took it.

The breeze greeted you at once, cool and perfumed with something you couldn’t name — roses, maybe, or lavender crushed under carriage wheels. It brushed your face like a caress, but there was no comfort in it. Only the sharp reminder that you were no longer home.

Some of the servants nearby rushed forward to collect the luggage, moving with quiet efficiency, as if every step had been rehearsed. Then, a tall young woman approached — graceful and composed, each movement deliberate.

She had long black hair pulled back in a smooth coil, lashes dark as ink, and cheekbones so finely sculpted they gave her the air of something painted, not born.

“Ladies.” She said, bowing her head with effortless poise. Her voice was smooth, practiced. “I am Ysera. I’ll be attending you throughout your stay at the palace. If you would follow me?”

You tried to match her composure, straightening your spine just slightly. But something inside you twisted — not from fear exactly, but from the quiet, rising suspicion that even the palace’s servants were more prepared for this world than you were.

The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.

It was cooler here, like the walls had been holding their breath for centuries. The floors gleamed with such care that your reflection shimmered faintly beneath your feet. Tapestries the height of trees draped the walls, woven with gold thread and scenes you didn’t recognize. Stained glass windows filtered the sunlight into soft pools of blue, red, and purple that danced across the marble.

You had never seen anything so opulent. Or so quiet.

The corridor stretched endlessly before you. Every step felt too loud. You kept your chin up, your gaze steady, but your throat had gone dry.

Ysera walked ahead, graceful and unhurried. Your mother followed as if she belonged here — as if she’d done this before. Only you seemed to feel the weight pressing down from the ceiling itself, from the velvet silence, from the history threaded into every stone.

You tried not to stare too long at the grandeur around you. You couldn’t afford to be caught in awe. You were supposed to be used to this — supposed to belong among the gold and glass.

“You are to rest for now.” Ysera said as she led you down the hallway. “The banquet will be served at six. Please be prepared—Her Grace, Lady Midora Gojo, and His Grace, Lord Satoru Gojo, will see you there.”

You weren’t sure which name made your stomach twist more.

Ysera stopped before a tall white door and turned the handle with a graceful twist of her wrist.

“This is your room.”

You stepped forward — then froze.

It was a vision in blue and gold.

Sunlight poured through gauzy curtains, casting a soft glow over the white walls and spilled across an intricate carpet underfoot. The bed looked like something out of a painting: large enough to drown in, dressed in rich blue velvet and trimmed with golden tassels. Matching chairs stood beside a tall window. The room glowed with quiet warmth, like it had been prepared with care — not just for a guest, but for someone meant to be seen.

Your mother moved to enter behind you, but Ysera lifted a hand—polite, firm, immovable.

“I’m sorry, my lady.” She said. “This chamber is for your daughter alone. Don’t worry—your quarters are just as refined.”

Your mother’s lips thinned, but she said nothing.

You knew her well enough to recognize the displeasure in her silence. She didn’t like the idea of you being alone — not now, not in a place like this, where everything mattered and everything could be lost. But still, you couldn’t help the quiet relief that bloomed in your chest. For a few hours, at least, you would be able to breathe without being corrected. You could sleep without being jolted awake for sleeping in an improper position.

“Good evening, Mother. I hope you rest well.” You said, offering your most delicate smile — the one you’d practiced a hundred times in the mirror. “And thank you, Ysera.”

“I will return to escort you to the banquet hall, my lady.” Ysera replied, bowing with elegant precision before closing the door behind her with a soft, final click.

Silence.

Your knees wobbled. You reached for the edge of the bed, fingers curling into the thick velvet for balance.

Your mind spiraled — how were you supposed to become a Duchess when you could barely breathe in a place like this? How were you meant to impress a man whose palace made your childhood home look like the servant’s quarters? How could you ever convince a family like his that you belonged here?

The fear crept in slowly. Then all at once.

But you swallowed it, like you always did.

Because there was no room for doubt now.

You had to be perfect.

—

You couldn’t rest. Not even for a moment.

Lying in the enormous bed, you stared up at the blue and gold panels carved into the ceiling, your fingers drifting across the velvet sheets like they belonged to someone else. This wasn’t just a room — it was a throne disguised as a chamber, built for people born into power, not for girls like you, who had to be trained to imitate it.

The thoughts hadn’t stopped since the door clicked shut.

What would you do if he didn’t choose you? How would you face your mother then — look her in the eye after everything she’d risked?

Were the other pretenders just as close to breaking as you?

And the Duke… how did he look?

Not that it mattered. It wasn’t his face that would decide your future. It was his choice.

And it had never really been yours.

You kept repeating it in your head like a prayer — the way to walk, the right tone to speak in, how much to laugh, how little to eat, the exact pressure to hold a glass without showing a shake. Over and over. Again and again.

The walls felt like they were pressing in, gilded edges turning into a cage. Every breath you took felt shallow, like the air itself was too fine for your lungs. You knew this wasn’t how you were supposed to behave — a lady didn’t wander, didn’t drift unsupervised through a Duke’s palace like a restless ghost. But you needed air. Just a moment of it. Something real.

You stood by the door, frozen.

What if someone caught you? What if the Duke’s mother — Lady Gojo — heard of it? What if this single choice undid everything your mother had schemed to build? Your hands were cold, slick with nerves. But the thought of staying — of lying back on those sheets and letting the silence close in around you — felt worse. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You had to move.

You remembered a door you’d passed earlier, tucked between gilded columns and half-shadowed tapestries — it had looked like it led to the garden. You hoped you were right.

With fingers trembling against silk skirts, you stepped out of your room. The hall beyond was quiet. Too quiet.

Your mother would skin you alive if she found out. But with any luck, she was already resting. Or pretending to.

Your shoes made no sound on the polished floor as you walked, heart hammering with every step. A pair of servants passed — expressionless, dressed in silver and navy — and though their eyes slid to you, they said nothing. Just a bow of the head. Polite. Dismissive.

You found the door. Tall. Glass-paneled. Cool to the touch.

You pushed it open.

And breathed.

The garden unfolded like something from a dream — all sculpted hedges and marble fountains, arching roses and soft grass that looked too delicate to walk on. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, faint and heady. Lanterns glowed in the distance like fireflies caught mid-flight.

You had never seen anything so beautiful.

A light breeze played with your hair as you walked, catching at the loose strands and brushing cool against your cheeks. For the first time since arriving, you felt something close to peace — fragile, fleeting, but real. The distant sound of water trickling from a fountain filled the silence without demanding anything from you.

Then, you stopped.

A bush of blue flowers caught your eye — their color so vivid, it hardly seemed real. Not sapphire. Not cornflower. Something deeper, stranger, like the sky just before a storm or the pigment of a dream you couldn’t quite name. It was a shade you didn’t know flowers could be — not in books, not in gardens, not in anything meant to bloom.

You knelt, skirts folding beneath you, fingers hovering just above the petals. There was something sacred in the way they bent with the breeze — not broken, not fragile, only reverent. Your hand trembled slightly as you reached out, not quite touching. As if afraid contact would wake you from whatever this was.

They looked too beautiful to be allowed. And yet they bowed gently toward your palm, like they were the ones drawn to you.

“Are you lost?”

The voice cut through the quiet — warm, unhurried, and far too close.

You startled.

Spine snapping straight, you turned so quickly your hand brushed the petals. The flowers trembled — or maybe it was you.

There he was.

A tall man with silver-white hair, his skin pale and glowing faintly in the evening light. And his eyes — blue, yes, but nothing like the flowers. His eyes were unreal. Too vivid. Too piercing. Like they didn’t belong to this world.

He wasn’t dressed like a servant. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and he wore no coat, but there was an ease to the way he stood — like he belonged here more than anyone.

You stood quickly, smoothing your dress. “I’m so sorry, sir.” You said, breathless. “I only came to get some fresh air.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Lady Midora doesn’t like people picking her flowers.”

You froze. His voice sent a chill down your spine. And then you noticed — the way he’d called Duchess Gojo only by her first name.

Panic tightened in your chest. You couldn’t get in trouble on your first day in the palace.

“I—I wasn’t going to pick them.” You stammered, cursing yourself. “I’m really sorry. I just meant to—”

Your words caught in your throat as he stepped closer, reaching past you. His hand moved with quiet ease as he plucked one of the vibrant blooms from the bush behind you.

“But she’ll forgive me.” He said simply, offering it to you with a faint smile. “Eventually.”

You hesitated before taking the flower. His fingers brushed yours — just for a second — and something in your stomach twisted in response.

“Thank you.” You said uncertainly.

He only nodded, studying you with quiet curiosity.

“You’re not from the capital.” Not a question, but a fact.

You swallowed. “No, I’m not.”

“So what brings you here?”

You let your fingers trace the petals, trying to mask the thudding of your heart.

“I’m here for the banquet.” you said quickly. “Just a guest.”

“A guest.” he echoed, the corner of his mouth lifting like the word struck him as unexpected.

There was something about him — the way he stood, so relaxed, so confident — like no one had ever told him to be quiet or careful in his entire life.

You took a breath. “May I ask who you are, sir?” You asked carefully, trying not to look directly into his eyes.

“Same as you.” He said. “Just a guest.”

The tension in your chest loosened just slightly. He was clearly someone important, but if he wasn’t part of the Gojo household… you could breathe a little easier.

“Oh. I see.” You glanced down, your grip tightening around the flower. “The garden was so beautiful, I just had to see it for myself. I hope Duchess Gojo won’t be too upset.”

“She won’t, if she doesn’t find out.”

You let out a small laugh, hiding your smile behind your free hand.

“Well… I hope she doesn’t, then.”

“I won’t tell.” He said, already turning toward one of the marble fountains nearby. “If you don’t tell I’m here either.”

“Your secret is safe, sir.” You replied.

And when he walked, you followed.

His steps were slow but deliberate, hands clasped behind his back, like your presence was a detail, not a disruption. He moved with a kind of ease — not arrogant, exactly, but far from the stiff grace you’d been trained to recognize in noblemen.

And just when you thought the silence might stretch forever—

“Do you think he’ll choose you?” He asked, casually — like commenting on the weather, eyes still fixed on the marble fountain ahead.

You blinked. “What?”

“The Duke.” He clarified. “You’re here as one of the pretenders, aren’t you?”

Your step faltered.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, a faint smile ghosting across his lips — but his voice had dropped lower now.

“Do you think he’ll choose you?”

The question landed softly — but it echoed through your ribs like a bell. You turned to him, uncertain if you’d heard him correctly. But he was watching the water.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“I… I wouldn’t know.” You said at last, the words careful, almost measured. “I haven’t even met him. Or the other girls.”

He tilted his head, studying you.

“I imagine they were trained as well as you.” He said, leaning against the fountain’s edge. “They know how to pretend they belong.”

“Would you blame us? It’s not like we have a choice.” The words slipped out — too fast, too real — and you winced. That wasn’t how you spoke. Not here. But something about him disarmed your careful rehearsals.

He smiled, faintly amused. “No blame. Don’t worry.”

He looked to the palace — the gold-trimmed walls glowing in the twilight. “This place swallows people.” He said. “It’s made to. Most who walk through those doors forget who they were before.”

“You speak like you’ve seen it happen.”

He shrugged, trailing his fingers through the fountain’s water. “I have.”

A beat passed. You moved closer, the flower in your hand was warm from your grip.

“Why did you ask me that?”

His eyes met yours. “Because you don’t seem like you’ve forgotten yet.”

You weren’t sure if it was a compliment. Or a warning. But it landed somewhere deep — like he saw something you weren’t sure you meant to show.

Then, more lightly, he added, “Or maybe I’m just trying to make conversation with the girl who wasn’t supposed to be in the garden.”

You huffed — almost a laugh — tension easing from your chest. “Well, you said you weren’t supposed to be here either. So I’d say we’re even.”

This time, it was your fingers brushing the water’s surface.

He didn’t speak at first. He just watched the motion of your hand — not rudely, not with the judgment you were used to. It was more like… curiosity. The kind that didn’t need answering.

“So,” he said at last, voice mellow, “do you make a habit of wandering into forbidden places?”

You glanced at him, arching an eyebrow. “Only when they’re beautiful.”

He smiled at that. Not the kind you’d expect — not polite, not rehearsed. It was crooked, almost boyish, like he hadn’t meant to let it out. “Dangerous answer.”

“Is it?” You challenged, resting your hands on the stone edge. “Or is it just honest?”

He tilted his head, regarding you again. “Honesty isn’t common here.” He said. “I can tell you are really not from the capital.”

“I didn’t think it was that obvious.” You murmured, glancing down.

“I didn't mean it in a bad way, trust me.”

You turned to him again, surprised by his tone. There was no mockery in it. If anything, he sounded almost wistful.

Then he glanced back at the water and said, lightly. “You know, when I was younger, I used to think there were tiny spirits living in fountains.”

You smiled. “Spirits?”

He nodded. “They’d whisper secrets to anyone brave enough to listen. I spent a whole summer trying to make them talk to me.”

“And did they?”

He leaned in slightly, stage-whispering. “Only once. But they had terrible advice.”

You laughed, and it came out too loud — real, surprised. You covered your mouth again, embarrassed.

But he just looked pleased.

He grinned. “They told me to cut all my hair off. I did. My mother nearly banished me to the mountains.”

“You can’t be real!” You said, still trying — and failing — to hold your laugh.

“I mean it!” He insisted, mock-offended. “She was furious, and I was completely frustrated — the tiny spirits conspired against me.”

You gave him a look — amused, curious, surprised at yourself. He wasn't afraid to say what he wanted, like you always were.

“What about you?” You asked. “You’re a guest… you said?”

Where was this curiosity coming from? You never let yourself speak so freely — but your spine wasn’t so straight now, your voice not so careful. Around him, it was like remembering how to breathe.

“I did say that.”

“But that’s not all, I presume.”

“Isn’t it?” His smile sharpened, eyes glittering. “I’m not lying.”

“No. But you’re not telling everything, either.”

“I’m always more sincere before breakfast.” He said with a grin. “After that, I tend to talk between the lines and hang around gardens hoping someone interesting loses their way.”

It took you a moment to register what he’d said — and when you did, the corners of your mouth betrayed you. A smile, quick and involuntary, slipped out before you could hide it.

As you part your lips to answer him, something shifts in the sky — a single star, then another. Your heart skips a beat.

“Oh dear lord — I’m going to be late!” You breathe, panic clutching your ribs like a corset drawn too tight. You hadn’t even noticed the time passing.

You were supposed to be ready by now. Your gown — laid out across your bed, untouched. Your hair — had the pins held through your aimless wandering? Had the curls fallen? And your shoes — dusty now from the garden paths, the fine leather smudged with soil and crushed petals.

You turn on your heel, but your body refuses to move as quickly as your thoughts. Your feet, suddenly heavy, hesitate on the garden path like they knew something your mind hadn’t admitted yet.

You didn’t want to leave.

How could you? The garden had been the only place you’d felt peace in a long time. Your breath was easier, your voice your own. The quiet here had soothed you, wrapped around your shoulders more gently than silk ever could. And maybe it wasn’t just the garden.

Maybe it was the man beside the fountain.

You look back.

He hasn’t moved. Still by the fountain, the water now glowing silver beneath the deepening twilight. His expression is unreadable — but he’s still watching you.

“Go.” He says softly, almost teasing. “I’ll see you around.”

The words warmed something under your skin. Ridiculous, maybe, how much you wanted to believe him. That this wouldn’t be the last time.

But you lingered a moment longer anyway. Just one more breath. Just in case.

You walked back toward the palace, your steps quieter now, slower than urgency demanded. With each one, the garden slipped further behind you. The flickering lanterns. The scent of jasmine. The sound of trickling water.

But a part of you — maybe the most honest part — was still there, somewhere between the fountain and the blue flowers.

And you weren’t sure if it would follow you back.

—

You didn’t need help getting ready.

Not anymore.

Since your family’s fall, you had learned to pin your own hair, apply your own makeup, to fasten corset laces with aching arms and silent frustration. You had taught yourself to move with elegance, even when no one was watching. Especially then.

Tonight, all of that practice had paid off. You were ready on time.

You’d just finished polishing your shoes — a careful, obsessive effort to remove every speck of dirt from the soles — when three soft knocks came at your door.

“It is time, my lady.” Came Ysera’s voice, muffled through the heavy wood. The same servant who’d helped you and your mother settle in earlier.

You closed your eyes.

That was it.

The performance began now.

You turned to the mirror for a final glance. Your reflection stared back — composed, poised, unfamiliar. You adjusted a curl near your temple, tucking it neatly behind your ear. Then, slowly, you layered on the smile you had practiced for years: gentle, beautiful, convincing.

Perfect.

You reached for the golden handle and opened the door.

Ysera stood before you in her spotless uniform, her face calm, giving nothing away. Behind her was your mother — rigid, as always, her gaze slicing through you like glass.

Just looking at her made your stomach clench. You knew what she was thinking. You knew what was at stake. You knew how much she had gambled to bring you here.

And so, you locked your arm with hers. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared.

You would make this right.

Ysera turned and began to lead you down the corridor, your heels echoing against marble floors. You and your mother followed in silence, arms intertwined, your pace practiced, your steps too careful to be natural.

You wanted to notice the palace — to let yourself be awed by the arched ceilings, the embroidered tapestries, the decor. But your mind was somewhere else entirely. Trapped in your chest. Beating fast, too fast, as though your body already knew what you were walking into.

“You won’t have another chance.” Your mother whispered beside you.

“I will cherish this opportunity, Mother.”

She didn’t look at you. She hadn’t looked at you in a long time. Not really. Her gaze always seemed to move just past you — like you were an image she hadn’t fully decided to keep.

“This isn’t the pair of earrings I told you to wear.”

Your hand flew to your ear without thinking, brushing the tiny gold drops you’d chosen.

“You were supposed to wear the pearls. I told you twice.”

“I know.” You said, softly. “I forgot to bring them.”

She sighed. A short breath. Not angry. Just disappointed. And tired.

You were always tired around each other.

“Of course you did.”

You said nothing. There was nothing to say. You were already working so hard to hold yourself together, your smile strained at the edges, your spine starting to ache from how perfectly you were standing.

Ysera turned to you both, her voice gentle and practiced. “When you enter the hall, please sit immediately and do not speak until Her Grace, Lady Gojo, arrives. Do not interact with the others. Do not touch anything.”

You nodded. Your mother did the same.

Ysera stepped ahead and knocked on a tall, intricately carved white door.

It opened.

And for a moment, the world beyond it stole your breath.

The banquet hall was the largest room you had ever seen. The ceiling arched like a cathedral. Gilded columns stood in quiet rows along the walls, and between them, paintings — scenes of battles, saints, and heavenly skies — hung in golden frames as tall as you.

Statues stood like ghosts in the corners: marble maidens, a king holding a broken sword. Even the air smelled expensive — a blend of beeswax, rose oil, and something cool and sharp you couldn’t name.

But nothing — nothing — caught your attention like the table.

A single, enormous thing of polished mahogany, stretched the length of the room, set with silver platters and porcelain plates. Dozens of candles flickered in crystal holders, their flames casting shadows that danced across the glass. Every fork and knife was placed with precision, every napkin folded in identical perfection.

And around that table sat the other girls.

Three of them.

Each one more dazzling than the last.

Their dresses were made of the kind of fabric you’d only ever seen in paintings — silk that shimmered like water, lace so fine it looked like mist. Their jewelry sparkled with diamonds and pearls that didn’t catch the light — they commanded it. Their mothers sat beside them, regal and composed.

You had worn your finest gown. The one your mother had preserved from her younger years. You had tailored it yourself, adjusted the sleeves, stitched new embroidery along the hem.

You had thought it would be enough.

You were wrong.

They looked at you as you entered. All of them.

Not cruelly. Not even unkindly. Just… assessing. Like you were another item on the table, something to be weighed, compared, measured for worth.

And for the first time tonight, your smile nearly slipped.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself not to flinch under their eyes.

You had come this far.

You had to be perfect.

Even if it was already clear that perfection might not be enough.

The walk to your chair felt like a slow unraveling.

The stone floor echoed beneath your shoes, each step striking sharper than it should have. In the silence of the room, the sound was unkind — like you were announcing your presence when you would’ve rather disappeared.

No one spoke. Not even a polite murmur.

The three girls didn’t look at one another. They didn’t need to. The awareness in the room was a current — unseen, electric. You could feel it tightening around you with every step. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and already, you were being measured.

You wanted to look down.

But your mother’s voice echoed in your mind — firm, steady. “Head high. Chin soft. Never let them see where it hurts.”

So you did as she taught you. You lifted your gaze and let it drift, slow and deliberate, across the table.

Lady Taira.

Her silver gown shimmered like the moonlight. Every fold fell perfectly, not by accident — but because she’d been trained to make it seem accidental. Her wavy blonde hair had the kind of polish no brush could give without servants. And she sat like a statue — not stiff, but still. As if stillness was her natural state.

Your mother’s words came back to you, clipped and precise: “Baroness by title, but richer than half the dukes in the realm. Her family could buy land from the crown and not blink. She grew up in court — learned how to smile without warmth, and bow without bending. Watch her closely.”

Lady Vale.

She looked like something carved from ivory — soft, luminous, too pure to be real. Her dress shimmered like pearl dust, but her eyes… they gleamed. Curls were pinned atop her head, each one meticulous. She blinked slowly, almost too slowly.

“She’s the youngest, but don’t mistake that for innocence. Her family’s been loyal to the Gojo house for generations. Her father commanded the guard of the late Duke Gojo. She won’t make a scene — she’ll make allies. And she’ll do it quietly.”

And then — Condess Shinto.

There was no softness in her. Her eyes were green like shattered glass — beautiful, but not safe. She wore a dress the color of drying blood, velvet with a neckline like a blade. Around her throat sat a string of emeralds, polished to gleam like envy itself. She didn’t smile, not really. Not in any way that counted.

Your mother hadn’t even hesitated about her:

“She’s the favorite. Everyone knows it. Her uncle sits on the Council. Her cousins command fleets. She doesn’t have to try. The game is already rigged in her favor.”

You still remembered the day you found out a Condess — a woman with rank, wealth, and lineage — wasn’t the automatic choice for the Duke’s hand.

It had seemed impossible. If Condess Shinto wasn’t already chosen, then what were the rest of you doing here?

Even now, you didn’t have the answer.

They sat like portraits in a gallery — elegant, composed, untouchable.

You, by contrast, were a question mark. A curiosity.

A last-minute invitation.

A gamble made by a mother with nothing left but her name.

Still — you sat without flinching.

Lady Taira adjusted her glove with practiced indifference. Lady Vale blinked — slow, measured. Countess Shinto tapped one perfect nail against her glass, the sound sharp as judgment.

It was a game, all of it. And you were part of it, whether you liked it or not.

You were all pawns.

The only unfairness was that you were playing against perfection — girls raised for this moment, sculpted like marble into their roles. You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself you had no illusions. But sitting here, surrounded by them, it was hard not to feel the crushing weight of inadequacy.

Of course, you had been raised to be perfect too — taught the art of posture, of quiet obedience, of speaking only when spoken to. But as you looked around the table, at the glinting jewels, the practiced stillness, the effortless grace stitched into every gesture of the girls before you, you knew with aching certainty: you could never compare. Not to them. Not here. Not like this.

You had known, the moment you received the letter sealed with the Gojo crest, that this was far beyond you. You’d told yourself it was a formality. A courtesy. A trap, perhaps. But seeing them — the daughters of power and pedigree — was far more harrowing than any whispered rumor.

Your thoughts were scattered, tangled with tension, until—just for a flicker—you remembered the man in the garden.

The memory came soft at first: a breath of wind, the scent of crushed petals, the way the late sunlight caught the edge of his smile. He had seemed too unreal to belong to a place like this — and yet, in that moment, beside him, you had felt more yourself than you had in days. Maybe years.

Next to him, you had felt human.

Real.

Like you could belong in a place where flowers bloomed without permission and skies stretched wide and generous.

You barely caught yourself flushing, the ghost of that smile threatening to surface again.

And that’s when the door opened.

The great double doors at the far end of the hall parted without a single trumpet. Just the hush of wood and silk and breath. You turned delicately, instinctively, unsure of what you were expecting.

A woman entered — tall, composed, resplendent in restraint.

Duchess Midora Gojo.

You had heard the stories. Everyone had. That she’d ruled the Gojo estate with a blade sheathed in velvet. That she’d survived the fall of her husband without lowering her chin once. That she’d raised her son — the son — with wolves at the gate and knives at her back. And yet, no story prepared you for the sight of her.

She didn’t walk.

She arrived.

Her gown was navy, trimmed with gold — the kind of understated elegance that made more extravagant outfits look like theater costumes. The fabric shimmered subtly, embroidery catching only the softest hints of light. Her silver hair was braided into a crown, regal and exact. Not a single strand rebelled.

She did not smile.

She didn’t need to.

The Duchess moved to the head of the table, placed a single hand on the back of her chair — and stopped.

Without a word, every woman in the room stood. Including you.

You bowed your head, not out of respect but instinct. The atmosphere demanded it.

Her gaze swept the table slowly, like moonlight across still water. Calculated. Cold. Not unkind — but far from warm.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Then her eyes found you.

It wasn’t just looking. It was the weight of being seen — truly, unmistakably seen. Her gaze was cool, discerning, a quiet threat wrapped in curiosity.

You didn’t blink.

Couldn’t.

Something told you that blinking would count against you.

So you held her eyes. Just long enough to feel the tremor of challenge. Until she moved on.

“Good evening.”

The women answered in perfect harmony. Like a prayer they’d recited since birth.

The Duchess sat. The rest of you followed.

Silence lingered, thick and reverent, until she spoke again — voice smooth but sharp as drawn steel.

“Ladies,” She said “you are here because your families have placed great faith in you. As have I.”

Her tone left no room for uncertainty.

“Conduct yourselves with composure. I expect grace. Poise. This is a demonstration.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Each word carried the weight of command — clean, final, unarguable.

“Each of you has been granted a seat. Whether you keep it,” She continued, her eyes gleaming with meaning, “depends on more than posture and pleasantries. The Duke will join us shortly.”

The mere mention of him was enough to set the air humming with tension. Some of the girls straightened in their chairs. Others held their breath.

The Duchess glanced toward the servants.

That was all it took.

They moved like clockwork — coordinated, efficient, silent. Wine was poured into crystal glasses. Platters were uncovered. Silverware gleamed. Aromas filled the air, rich and delicate. But no one relaxed. If anything, the tension only deepened. The ritual of dining had begun, and every movement now was a test.

You watched the girls — how they lifted forks with dainty precision, how they dabbed their lips, how they smiled just enough. Not too much. Never too much.

You mimicked them as best you could. Wrist poised. Chin tucked. Back unbending. You smiled when required. You didn’t breathe when you shouldn’t.

Across the table, Duchess Gojo engaged each mother in conversation — even yours. Her words weren’t warm, but they commanded. She dominated the room without trying. She didn’t need to try.

And then — it happened.

The door again.

You knew. Before you saw him. Before you heard a step.

The room didn’t just fall silent.

It held its breath.

You didn’t dare look. Looking would make it real. And part of you — the scared, unready part — didn’t want it to be real just yet.

There was no announcement.

No flourish.

No grand entrance.

Just the sound of footsteps.

Measured. Casual. Unhurried.

He moved through the room like the air adjusted for him. Like the space recognized who it belonged to. Like the walls bent slightly to accommodate his presence.

He took the seat beside the Duchess.

And your heart dropped.

No.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

The man from the garden. The stranger who had spoken to you like you mattered. Who had watched you reach for flowers like it was allowed. Who had made you laugh like it was safe.

You hadn’t just ruined everything.

You’d ruined it before it had even begun.

He was dressed now in formal regalia — a coat of midnight blue, its collar open with defiant elegance. Silver embroidery twisted along his sleeves like vines. A ceremonial sword hung at his hip, glinting softly. At his throat, the Gojo crest, a six-petaled flower.

He didn’t hurry.

Didn’t bow. Didn’t acknowledge.

And worst of all — he didn’t look at you.

Not even once.

Not a flicker of recognition.

Not even the smallest glance.

You looked down at your plate, fists clenched tight in your lap.

And still, your hands trembled.

You took a sip from your wine, careful not to gulp — though part of you wanted nothing more than to drain the whole glass and ask for another. You tried to look composed, as the Duchess demanded. Composed, like every other girl at the table seemed born to be.

But your chest was too tight. Your throat too dry.

You could only hope this was some cruel dream.

At first, you thought he wouldn’t speak — that he’d sit through the evening like a shadow cast by his mother’s presence. But then, quietly, effortlessly, he stood.

He did not need to raise his voice.

“Thank you all for coming.” He said, his posture relaxed but his tone exact. “My mother — Her Grace, Duchess Gojo — and I are pleased that your families have placed their trust in our name.”

It was him. You knew it. You would always know him by those eyes. But nothing else was the same.

The warmth was gone.

“This banquet.” He continued. “is simply a gesture of our appreciation.”

A lie — all of you knew that. Every girl seated here knew this was no simple dinner.

“I look forward to getting to know each of you in due time.”

And then — he smiled.

Not the off-kilter, boyish grin that had slipped free in the garden. No. This smile was sculpted. Beautiful. Practiced. The kind of smile that could win favor, or undo alliances, depending on where it was aimed.

His gaze moved from girl to girl — smooth, precise, unrevealing.

And when it landed on you, it did not soften.

It did not linger.

It did not recognize you.

Not truly.

And that, somehow, hurt more than if he hadn’t looked at you at all.

You held the eye contact because you had to. Because the rules of the room demanded it.

But inside, something cold was settling in your ribs — the slow realization that the man in the garden may never have existed at all.

Because standing before you now wasn’t him.

It was the Duke — Satoru Gojo. And there was no room in his eyes for who you’d been, or what you thought you’d shared.

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo smut #strangers to lovers #renaissance au #historical au #slow burn #jjk x you #jjk #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you

802 notes · View notes

untitlzd · 3 months ago

Text

silence doesn’t stop rich boys

top!sim jaeyun x btm!male reader smut

Jake Sim's party invite arrives—thick cardstock, old-money cursive. You go because that's what people like you do. The champagne flows, his gaze lingers, and no one notices when you disappear into the penthouse's private wing.

continued in “rich boys don’t get dirty.”

warnings: noncon/dubcon, power dynamics, possessiveness, semi-public sex, oral sex, rough sex, breeding kink (implied), aftercare as manipulation, lowkey inspired by gossip girl

Old money has a scent. A blend of expensive leather, French perfume, and promises sealed generations ago. In this closed circle, luxury isn't ostentation—it's routine. Watches worth more than cars, dinners in penthouses that don't appear on Google Maps, and last names that function as keys. And among them stands Y/n.

He was never exactly one of them, but he learned fast. The son of an influential attorney—the kind who turns crises into lucrative settlements—he grew up between silent meetings and champagne toasts before even understanding what was being celebrated. He didn't inherit a centuries-old fortune, but carried something nearly as valuable: influence. And in this game, knowing how to use it is what truly matters.

To others, Y/n belongs. He wears the right brands, speaks with the confidence of someone who knows the backstage dealings, and maintains that discreet smile of someone who never falters. But behind the shine lies a fragile structure. Exclusive parties hide unstable alliances, and anonymous messages circulate more frequently than truths.

Because in this world, what sustains you isn't having the most—it's knowing how to remain silent when everyone is watching.

Despite not carrying a surname forged by generations, Y/n was always there—at the most private parties, at invitation-only gatherings, at the center of the group where few truly belong. His mere presence was enough to calm any tension: when your father commands one of the country's most feared law firms, scandals tend to disappear before they even take shape. Having Y/n around wasn't just prestige—it was protection.

So it came as no surprise when Jake's name appeared linked to the next big party. Jake belonged to a nearly extinct type of social royalty: his family synonymous with political tradition, silent influence, and inherited power. Even among the most well-connected, Jake stood out. The typical good guy—or at least, he knew how to play one. Always smiling, always impeccable, always untouchable. No one dared confront him. And at the same time, no one seemed to care enough to try.

Y/n wasn't the type to decline a party, but the invitation from Jake caused some unease. Reserved, careful, molded by the image his parents insisted he maintain, Jake rarely exposed himself beyond what was necessary. Still, the news spread fast. A single anonymous post on the city's most venomous blog turned the night into an event:

"Party at the politicians' house? Seems the new generation decided to play at freedom. Closed list, open bottles..."

The warning had been issued, and as always, everyone would pretend not to care.

Y/n dressed in silence as he read the post. No surprise—just the sensation that everything was following its course. He and Jake weren't friends. Never had been. But there was a silent pact between them: a strategic coexistence, without excess, without intimacy. Both knew where they stood, and more importantly, where they wanted to remain.

At the top.

It was as if they respected, without ever saying it aloud, each other's places in that hierarchy. Neither wanted to take the other's space—it wasn't necessary. But somehow, there was a strange companionship between them. An implicit recognition that even amidst so many masks, you could trust someone who didn't try to be you.

Jake's penthouse occupied one of the oldest—and most discreetly luxurious—buildings on the Upper East Side. The pale stone facade, wrought-iron balconies, and silent corridors covered by time-worn red carpets all seemed part of a New York that refused to die. A place where power needed no ostentation—just permanence.

When the elevator opened directly into the main hall, Y/n was met with an expected scene: warm lighting, music perfectly chosen to seem spontaneous, uniformed waiters circulating with crystal trays, and a group of people who knew exactly the value of being seen—and even more, the value of pretending not to care.

Jake appeared immediately, with that classic, trained, millimeter-perfect smile.

"So glad you came," he said, extending a glass to Y/n. His voice was low, his gaze a bit too intense for the casual tone. He was impeccable, as always. Light linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm, cologne expensive enough not to be obvious. And there was something more there—a touch on the shoulder that lasted a second too long, a look that took too long to look away.

Y/n smiled back, with that kind of calculated lightness he used when he didn't want to seem surprised. The environment enveloped him easily: flowing conversations, muffled laughter, soundtrack alternating between sophistication and faux nonchalance. The penthouse view framed the city lights, as if the world outside were just a backdrop for what really mattered—what was happening here inside.

The hours passed almost fluidly, dissolved in sips of expensive drinks and conversations that said little. Y/n drank slowly, as he always did. But at some point, he lost count. Maybe because he was too relaxed, maybe because the drinks were stronger than they seemed. Or maybe because Jake made sure his glass was never empty.

The music had shifted to something more sensual, and the spaces between bodies grew smaller. Y/n leaned against the frame of one of the wide windows, feeling the night air against his skin. The alcohol's effects were showing: the edges of the room softened, voices blurred, thoughts slightly tangled.

And then he noticed.

Jake was still nearby. Too nearby.

All night, he seemed to be watching Y/n. Never directly—but from time to time, a quick glance, a directed comment, a constant presence in the same spaces. It wasn't aggressive, nor was it clear. But there was something there. An excessive care, a proximity that bordered on intimacy, even if wrapped in the same facade as always.

The strange thing was that this intimacy had never existed. They'd never been close. Not like that. And yet, Jake acted as if there were something between them that only he remembered. As if he were just resuming a familiarity that had never truly been built.

Y/n looked away, as if trying to regain control of his own space. But even without meeting his gaze directly, he knew Jake was still there, firm, smiling as if everything were perfectly in order.

And maybe it was. Or maybe not.

But in that world, that was the rule: you could never be certain of anything.

The night wore on, and gradually the number of guests began to dwindle. Those who knew the right time to leave—before the shine turned to weariness—began saying goodbye with soft hugs and empty promises of "see you soon." Y/n took the opportunity to circulate a bit more, exchange some basic pleasantries here and there, maintain the social posture he knew by heart.

But as the room emptied, other presences took up the space—more intense, more distracted. Certain substances began appearing naturally, passing between familiar hands, hidden behind loose laughter and wandering gazes. And suddenly, it all felt like too much.

Y/n needed air.

He wasn't the type to make a scene, much less allow himself vulnerabilities in public. So without anyone noticing, he slipped down one of the hallways until he found a slightly ajar door. He entered silently. It was one of the bedrooms—well-decorated, immaculate, almost impersonal, like the rest of the penthouse. He closed the door behind him and sat on the bed. A few seconds later, he lay down.

He wasn't exactly unwell. But he wasn't fine either. Everything felt stifling, as if the air had grown thicker. Jake's insistent gaze all night, the never-empty glass, the conversations that always demanded a response, a reaction, a version of himself. It was too much.

His head throbbed silently. The ceiling seemed farther away than it should. For a few minutes, Y/n let his mind go blank, float, trying to organize what he felt—or perhaps just distance himself from what he didn't want to think about.

And then, the door opened.

At first, Y/n didn't even register it. He was somewhere outside himself, numb, as if the world beyond had slowed to a crawl. He only realized he wasn't alone anymore when he heard the voice—low and sweet, almost too careful.

"Hey, Y/n?"

Jake.

He was there, beside the bed, his gaze too gentle for someone who—as far as anyone knew—never got this close. His presence, unexpectedly near, cut through the silence like a whisper loaded with something Y/n couldn't yet name.

And even as his body sank deeper into the mattress, motionless, his mind was now alert.

Because in that world, nothing happened by accident. Not even sincere concern. If that's what this was.

"Are you okay?"

Y/n nodded almost reflexively, his voice stuck in his throat.

"Just... not feeling too well," he murmured, quiet, as if speaking louder would upset what little stability remained. It wasn't a lie. His body felt too heavy, his head spun at an odd rhythm, and everything around him seemed slightly out of focus.

Jake didn't answer right away. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on Y/n with an intensity that seemed kind but was something more. There was something hidden there—a concern that wasn't just concern.

"You drank too much," he said, almost accusatory. Then, softer: "Should've told me you weren't feeling well."

Y/n frowned slightly, trying to understand why, exactly, that would be Jake's responsibility. But he said nothing. Couldn't.

Jake continued:

"Enjoying the party?"

The question was simple, but loaded with expectation. Y/n blinked slowly, fighting to keep his eyes open. Before he could answer, Jake spoke again, his voice still low, sweet... but now a little tighter.

"Saw you talking a lot with that guy..." He tilted his head slightly. "You hook up with someone?"

Y/n took too long to process. The question felt misplaced, invasive. As if they were having a different conversation in a different context. He tried to sit up a little, but his body still weighed him down. And then he felt it.

That initial concern—so delicate—now sounded like something else. Control disguised as care. A subtle demand hidden in a sweet tone. As if every word had been chosen to seem harmless but carried something heavier underneath.

Jake kept his fingers there, lightly stroking Y/n's cheek. As if marking his presence. As if reminding Y/n—without saying it aloud—who was here, who had always been watching.

"Just wanna know if you had fun... with me around," he said, still wearing that contained smile.

It wasn't just curiosity. It was something between a warning and a reminder.

Y/n's stomach turned. His head was still foggy, his body still heavy, and now Jake was too close, too demanding. He was smiling, but it wasn't the same smile as before.

And in that moment, it became clear: this wasn't concern. It was surveillance.

And worst of all—Jake didn't seem at all inclined to leave.

Y/n shifted, restless. The discomfort wasn't just emotional anymore—it was physical. Jake's presence seemed to fill more space than the room allowed. What had been a quiet bedroom now felt claustrophobic. The air was thin. With a silent effort, Y/n tried to sit up, to push away the weight of the situation.

But the moment his elbows left the mattress, Jake acted.

One hand shoved him back down against the bed. Not a subtle gesture—direct, firm, making it clear this wasn't about care. It was control.

"Stay down."

The words were still polite, but the tone betrayed the tension beneath the facade. Jake's face remained aligned with the image of the perfect heir, the composed scion of old politics. But his eyes said something else: impatience, dominance. Something that wanted more than answers—it wanted certainty that Y/n knew his place.

Y/n stared up at him, surprised, his body still hesitant. His mind, muddled by alcohol and the night's atmosphere, struggled to process this clearly, but the alarm bells were ringing now. This was far from a normal conversation.

Jake leaned in, bracing one arm beside Y/n's head, closing even more of the space between them. His posture was carefully relaxed. But the proximity was invasive.

"You didn't answer my question." The words came sharp, with the coldness of someone who wouldn't tolerate being ignored. Not a request. A demand. "Did you hook up with anyone tonight?"

Y/n's silence was taken as provocation.

Jake didn't back off. If anything, he pressed closer.

"Because..." He murmured, that tense smile still on his lips, "honestly, I don't get what you're still looking for out there."

Then came the gesture that sealed it. Jake's hand went straight to Y/n's hair. His fingers moved slowly, almost as if fixing something out of place. But nothing was out of place—it was just an excuse to touch. An intimacy too familiar for the superficial relationship they had. Almost possessive. Almost a warning.

"You know there's no one here like me."

His voice stayed quiet, but weighted. There was a tension there, masked by the same veneer of good manners as always. Not an offhand comment. This was territorial.

Y/n swallowed hard.

The music, the laughter, the voices from the party seemed to have vanished. Everything now revolved around that presence—suffocating, constant. Jake was here. Too close. Too firm. And still smiling.

But there was nothing harmless in that smile anymore.

Suddenly, the hand that had been stroking Y/n's hair slid down to his face—fingers firm, pressing into the sides of his jaw, forcing him to maintain eye contact.

"Cat got your fucking tongue?"

The question cut through the air like a slap. No more polish, no more well-bred heir persona. Jake's mask had slipped, and what remained was pure, aggressive, direct control. The entire room seemed to shrink under the weight of those words.

Y/n looked away, his pulse racing, body rigid under a touch that was no longer ambiguous.

"Jake... you're drunk," he said, voice low, hesitant.

But it was obvious Jake was completely sober where it counted. His gaze was steady, his speech firm, his movements coldly calculated. No confusion or clumsiness in his actions—just intent.

Jake didn't respond.

Instead, his fingers trailed down, slow and deliberate, to the first button of Y/n's white shirt. He began undoing them, one by one, without hurry, as if exploring territory he already considered his.

The silence between them grew heavy, suffocating. The room remained isolated from the rest of the world, time seeming to slow. The tension was palpable—and above all, dangerous.

Because Jake knew exactly what he was doing. And he made sure Y/n knew that here, he set the pace.

The air in the bedroom grew thick, charged with the scent of expensive whiskey and Jake's woody cologne. His fingers—always so careful in public—now worked with brutal efficiency on Y/n's buttons, like a merchant unwrapping a package he already owned.

"Bet sluts like you love attention, don't you?" Jake murmured, his voice dripping like poisoned honey. His breath was hot against Y/n's face as he leaned closer. "Show up and suddenly everything has to be about you, huh?"

The second button came undone with an almost inaudible snap. Jake smiled, his dark amber eyes glinting with a light that didn't belong to the room.

"Think a little toy can go around denying what its owner decides?" The word "owner" came out like a whip, just as his fingers found the waistband of Y/n's pants.

Y/n tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond—whether from the alcohol, the shock, or something deeper he refused to name. Jake chuckled low, the sound vibrating against Y/n's neck.

"Look at you," he whispered, the zipper sliding down with an obscene noise in the quiet room. "Don't even need help. Already know your place."

His hand slipped beneath the fabric, finding heated skin. Jake exhaled, as if rediscovering something long lost.

"All this time pretending you didn't want it..." His grip tightened possessively, making Y/n arch. "But your body always knew the truth, didn't it?"

The touch was both intimate and cruel, as if Jake weren't exploring but verifying what he already owned. His eyes never left Y/n's face, watching every microexpression like a scientist observing an experiment.

"Should've seen your face when I invited you," he continued, fingers now toying with Y/n's waistband, pushing it down in slow, deliberate motions. "Everyone watching. Everyone knowing." A calculated pause. "You liked it, didn't you? Knowing I wanted you here."

Y/n tried to speak, but only a rough sound escaped. Jake smiled, satisfied.

"Don't answer." His free hand gripped Y/n's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "We've got all night for you to learn to say 'thank you.'"

Y/n froze, his body tense yet strangely pliant, as if some deep part of him already understood resistance was futile. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven, his gaze locked on Jake's face—half desire, half dominion.

Jake didn't waste time.

With one rough motion, he yanked Y/n's pants down, exposing him to the cool air of the bedroom. He was already hard, precum glistening at the tip, and Jake didn't hesitate—he gripped the back of Y/n's neck and shoved his cock down that warm throat in one thrust.

"Open wider, whore," Jake snarled, fingers tangling in Y/n's hair as he pushed deeper, making him gag. Spit spilled from the corners of his mouth, tears springing to his eyes, but Jake gave no quarter.

"That's it, take it all, you fucking slut," Jake groaned, hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt, his coarse pubes grinding against Y/n's nose. "This what you wanted? All that attention?"

Y/n could barely breathe, his hands fisting the sheets, his body trembling between shock and submission. But for some reason, he didn't fight. Didn't try to shove Jake away. Just accepted it, as if some part of him had always known this was inevitable.

Jake grinned, triumphant, yanking Y/n's head back to stare into his eyes while fucking his mouth without mercy.

"Gonna swallow every drop, pretty boy. Every last one."

Y/n didn't realize when he started sucking in earnest. It was instinctive, like his body knew what to do even as his mind scrambled to process. His lips sealed around Jake's cock, tongue lapping at the salty precum as his head began to move, trying to please.

Jake let out a ragged moan, his grip tightening in Y/n's hair.

"Fuck, you learn fast," he growled, pulling Y/n's head back just to slam forward again, dragging his cock over that willing tongue. "Already sucking like a trained little cockslut."

Y/n could barely think, his body hot and pliant, but when Jake thrust deep again, forcing his throat to open, he choked, tears spilling over. Drool dripped down his chin, making an even bigger mess, but Jake didn't stop.

"Swallow it, bitch," he ordered, pounding into Y/n's mouth with brutal strokes. "Take it."

When Jake finally pulled out, leaving Y/n gasping and dripping, he grabbed his chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Now that you've got the mouth down," Jake murmured, rubbing the head of his cock over Y/n's swollen lips, "time you learned how to take a cock in that tight little ass."

Y/n's eyes widened, but Jake was already hauling him up by the hips, flipping him onto his stomach like a doll.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he whispered, spitting into his palm and slicking himself up. "I'll make it fit."

And Y/n, somehow, already knew there was no choice left.

When Y/n blinked, he was on his stomach, fingers clawing at the obscenely expensive silk sheets of Jake's bed. His tailored slacks—the ones that cost more than a waiter's monthly salary—were bunched around his knees, trapping him like fabric handcuffs, leaving only his ass exposed to the dim bedroom light. His skin prickled with awareness as Jake positioned himself behind him, a predator moving in for the final strike.

Jake took his time. Spitting into his own hand with a crudeness that would've been vulgar anywhere else but here, in this locked penthouse bedroom, felt as natural as pouring an 18-year-old whiskey. His wet fingers rubbed over Y/n's tight hole, making him shiver.

"Gonna hurt less if you relax," Jake murmured, his voice equal parts threat and promise, as the thick head of his cock pressed against resistant muscle. "Still gonna hurt, though."

When he pushed in, it was like a banker closing a hostile deal—slow enough to be deliberate, hard enough to brook no negotiation. Y/n bit back a scream, his fingers destroying the expensive sheets, his teeth sinking into his own bottom lip until he tasted blood.

Jake gave him a cruelly short moment to adjust, his hands gripping Y/n's hips like handles. When he started moving, every thrust was a lesson, a territorial claim.

"Look at you," Jake rasped, watching Y/n's body give way beneath him, molding to his. "All prim and proper at the party, and now?" A sharp snap of his hips. "Just a ruined little slut on my cock."

Y/n tried to muffle his moans in the pillow, but Jake yanked his head back by the hair, forcing out a broken sound.

Jake wasn't gentle.

Every movement was a declaration, a brand made with his entire body—as if he needed to carve the truth into Y/n's skin: he was owned now.

And against all reason, Y/n stopped resisting.

The sounds spilling from his lips weren't protests anymore, but surrender, need. Broken, shameless, desperate—as if every noise was another piece of his defiance being ripped away.

This wasn't the Jake he knew. This was someone darker, more possessive, more real. And no matter how much Y/n tried not to think about it, his body responded like it had always belonged to him.

"Such a pretty little thing," Jake growled, crushing their mouths together in a wet, sloppy kiss. Spit smeared across Y/n's lips, mixing them together. "Finally admitting you're just a whore, huh?"

The pace turned punishing, each thrust deeper, harder, more claiming. Jake dug his fingers into Y/n's jaw, marking the bone beneath.

"Gonna come together, yeah?" His voice was rough, wrecked with lust. "Know you're close. Be a good toy for me."

Y/n could feel his own orgasm building, his body tightening in response to Jake’s relentless rhythm. He was so close—so close—and Jake knew it, his thrusts growing sharper, more erratic.

"Come on, baby," Jake panted against his ear, his voice breaking. "Come with me."

And then it hit them both at once—Y/n’s body arched, his release crashing over him like a wave, his moan muffled against the sheets. Jake followed instantly, burying himself deep as he came, his groan raw and unfiltered against Y/n’s skin.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, the heat between them, the weight of Jake’s body pressing Y/n into the mattress.

Then, as if flipping a switch, Jake moved.

"Should go say goodbye to everyone," he said, his voice already smoothing back into the perfect host's cadence, like the last hour never happened. He stood, his cock still glistening where it brushed Y/n's thigh, and cleaned up with a casual swipe, like an artist wiping his hands after a painting. "Can't just disappear."

Y/n didn't answer. Couldn't. Just closed his eyes, his body heavy, his mind hazy.

Jake smiled, adjusting his shirt, his hair, everything back into place.

"Get some rest, okay?" Soft, almost tender. "I'll be back soon." A pause. "You were such a good boy. Did so well."

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

From outside, Jake's voice carried, bright and animated, mixing with the remaining guests' laughter, the clink of champagne flutes, the soft music. As if nothing had changed. As if he were still just the perfect Jake everyone knew.

And Y/n, as sleep pulled him under, couldn't tell which version was real anymore.

Or if, in the end, they both were.

note: hey! that's my first time writing something like this, so please be nice :) english is not my first language, so im sorry if something sounds off or weird! bye

#enhypen x male reader #kpop x male reader #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #sim jaeyun x male reader #jake x male reader #kpop smut #jake x reader #jake sim #sim jaeyun #luke fics :)#enhypen smut #jake x yn

536 notes · View notes

coffeepaintwater · 2 months ago

Text

shen yuan, luo binghe and shen jiu the most explosive trio to ever trio i fear (there are two duos in these trio and hint hint both of them feature sy lol)

also this is basically fanart for Shen Yuan of No Relation on ao3 by Gemi bc i'm binge reading/listening to it and it's so good!!! the characterisation is so on point it dragged me back into the svsss fandom by my hair. the character study tag 100% deserves its' place there.

notes, bc how could there not be??:

i saw a post that said that any svsss fanwork's inaccuracy to history can be attributed to airplane's lazy pidw world-building and. yeah. basically.

i was thinking what would the disciple robes look like to both seem regal to the commoners (as described in 99% xianxia novels) and good to train in and i realized that there shouldn't probably be more than two layers anyways because it isn't even really accurate. also, i like the interpretation that each disciple has a subtly different uniform, but i just can't picture how that would work???? 100% the rich kids and older disciples who can actually earn some money would add accesories to their robes, but for shen yuan and luo binghe, i just couldn't imagine where they'd get anything like that, besides the hair pins ning yingying made/gave them (sry if i mix some shit up, i've read 20 chapters in 2 days okey have mercy). plus, with a world that focuses on social standing as much as pidw/svsss does, i think that the sects would naturally aim to recreate that hierarchy in their own society.

with the example of cang qiong mountain, yue qingyuan would have the highest rank, and (as syonr showed!!!) probably boast the biggest estate on the peak, inheriting all the wealth the previous sect leaders had accumulated. and while from what i understand, being a sect-affilated cultivator means your payment is basically getting fed, clothed and having a roof over your head in the sect instead of idk, coin, yue qingyuan would still have monetary means because of, surprise surprise, inheriting it. so, clothes just on the better side from the other peak lords perhaps

next in the food chain would be the other peak lords, except that we see that even the peaks have different 'rankings'. so, while on the outside each peak lord carries the same authority, shen jiu would have been able to be as he was in canon (MASSIVE side eye btw) and no one would have been really in a place to kick him in the gut and say he was a fucking asshole, for example, besides yue qingyuan. that is, from a purely theoretical stand-point, bc all hierarchical order is sometimes broken but that's besides the pointttt. the point is, they would have freedom to dress however they wish and while i believe the disciple robes remain unchanged since the founding of the sect (bc svsss universe is implied to be a largely unadvancing society, regarding anything besides cultivation), the peak lords most likely don't have one set uniform, besides each peak being color-coded apparently??

there was a post i was inspired by (https://www.tumblr.com/svsssfanonarchive/736782613008809984?source=share) that confirmed that the peaks (or at least three of them, but we don't get much of the others anyways) do in fact have the disciples wear robes of one color. qing jing favors greens and teals (see the post for more details pls pls pls it's so good) BUT i love adding white to my art bc i feel like a fabric this vibrant and light would fit the scholars there. also, white seems like the furthest one could get from the gutter to me, bc while it is the color of mourning, it's also the color of purity and shen jiu would take the chance to put one more barrier between shen qingqiu the peak lord and shen jiu the slave. don't ask why i put shen yuan in better robes; there's no reason other to make him more like a mini shen qingqiu lol

the head disciples could probably get modified uniforms or a layer more, to make them really stand out. and i'm not touching on the hall masters and senior disciples bc NOPE. not my problem for now

last thing, fu yue my love, my beauty, my life force, WHICH CHARACTER ARE WE TALKING ABOUT FOR FU?????? i decided on these ones bc there were the closest i could get to the meaning Gemi intended but :(( i have a gut feeling the first character is wronggg

#fanart #svsss #shen yuan #shen jiu #luo binghe #shen qingqiu #mxtx #shen yuan of no relation #oh shit is that and actual tag let's go????#fanfic fanart

429 notes · View notes

tanadrin · 6 months ago

Note

Can you explain in what what you think eugenics doesn't work? Does this basically boil down to skepticism about the accuracy of GWAS studies? My understanding is that academic consensus is "G probably exists, disentangling direct genetic inheritance vs genetic cultural inheritance is complicated but possible, we can identify a number of alleles which we're reasonably confident are directly causally involved in having a higher G factor"

when it comes to intelligence, its heritability, and its variation at the population level, my understanding of the science is:

highly adaptive traits don't, in fact, vary much at the genetic level between populations of a species because they are strongly selected for. in an environment where a trait is being strongly selected for, a population that failed to express that trait strongly will be rapidly outcompeted.

intelligence is probably the quintessential such trait for humans. we have sacrificed a great deal of other kinds of specialization in favor of our big brains. we spend an enormous amount of calories supporting those brains. tool use, the ability to plan for the future, the ability to navigate complex social situations and hierarchies in order to secure status, the ability to model the minds of others for the purposes of cooperation and deception means that we should expect intelligence to be strongly selected for for as long as our lineage has been social and tool-using, which is at least the last three million years or so.

so, at least as a matter of a priori assumptions, we should expect human populations not to vary greatly in their genetic predisposition to intelligence. it may nonetheless, but we'd need pretty strong evidence. i think i read this argument on PZ Myers' blog a million years ago, so credit where that's due.

complicating the picture is that we just don't have good evidence for how IQ does vary across populations, even before we get into the question of "how much of this variation is genetic and how much of it is not." the cross-national data on which a lot of IQ arguments have been based is really bad. and that would be assuming IQ tests are in fact good at capturing a notion of IQ that is independent of cultural context, which historically they're pretty bad at

this screed by nassim nicholas taleb (not a diss; AFAICT the guy only writes in screeds) makes a number of arguments, but one argument I find persuasive is that IQ is really only predictive of achievement in the sense that it does usefully discriminate between people with obvious intellectual disabilities and those without--but you do not actually need an IQ test for that sort of thing, any more than you need to use a height chart to figure out who is missing both their legs. in that sense, sure, IQ is predictive of a lot of things. but once you remove this group, the much-vaunted correlations between IQ and stuff like wealth just straight-up vanishes

heritability studies are a useful tool, but a tool which must be wielded carefully; they were developed for studying traits which were relatively easy to isolate in very specific populations, like a crop under study at an agricultural research site, and are more precarious when applied to, e.g., human populations

my understanding based on jonathan kaplan articles like this one is that twin studies are not actually that good at distinguishing heritable factors from environmental ones--they have serious limitations compared to heritability studies where you actually can rigorously control for environmental effects, like you can with plants or livestock.

as this post also points out, heritability studies also only examine heritability within groups, and are not really suited to examining large-scale population differences, *especially* in the realm of intelligence where there is a huge raft of confounding factors, and a lack of a really robust measurement tool.

(if we are worried about intelligence at the population level, it seems to me there are interventions we know are going to be effective and do not rely on deeply dubious scientific speculation, e.g., around nutrition and healthcare and serious wealth inequality and ofc education; and if what people actually want is to raise the average intelligence of the population rather than justify discrimination against minorities, then they might focus on those much more empirically grounded interventions. even if population differences in IQ are real and significant and point to big differences in intelligence, we know those things are worth a fair few IQ points. but most people who are or historically have been the biggest advocates for eugenics are, in my estimation, mostly interested in justifying discrimination.)

i think the claims/application of eugenics extend well beyond just intelligence, ftr. eugenics as an ideology is complex and historically pretty interesting, and many eugenicists have made much broader claims than just "population-level differences in intelligence exist due to genetic factors, and we should try to influence them with policy," but that is a useful point for them to fall back onto when pressed on those other claims. but i don't think even that claim is at all well-supported.

744 notes · View notes

gottencents · 5 months ago

Text

CASUAL - Yu Jimin

part two. | part three.

pairing. mean girl!karina x star soccer player!reader

synopsis. at Changryeo University, Yu Jimin or just Karina is the ultimate “mean rich girl” — popular, wealthy, and always seeking ways to stay on top. After setting her sights on Sunghoon, the charming soccer captain, Karina shifts her focus to Y/N, an up-and-coming soccer star with an unexpected breakout season. Unlike the polished Sunghoon, Y/N is more of an outsider who got by on talent but doesn’t fit the typical college elite mold.

Realizing that Y/N is the only one who doesn’t care about the social hierarchy, Karina proposes a deal: they’ll fake date so Karina can boost her popularity, while Y/N gets protection from relentless attention. Reluctantly, Y/N agrees, and the two navigate a world of social manipulation, only to find that their fake relationship might lead to something more real than either expected.

Changryeo University was everything Y/N despised about high school, except on steroids. The social hierarchy was alive and thriving, fueled by wealth, good looks, and the kind of academic and athletic achievements that could only be purchased or inherited. Y/N, on the other hand, had gotten in on her soccer skills alone. And while she was proud of her co-captain status, it came with one massive downside—people were starting to notice her.

One of those people was Karina Yu .

Karina was the embodiment of every “mean rich girl” stereotype that Y/N had tried to avoid. She was the queen of Changryeo’s social pyramid, the head cheerleader, and the reigning queen bee. The worst part? Karina wasn’t just popular. She was strategic. Every move she made was calculated, designed to keep her at the top.

So when Y/N walked into the campus coffee shop one afternoon and saw Karina waiting for her with a smile that could freeze fire, she immediately knew something was up.

“Y/N,” Karina said smoothly, her manicured nails tapping on the table in front of her. “Sit.”

Y/N sighed. “What do you want, Karina? I’m kind of busy.”

Karina tilted her head, giving her an incredulous look. “Busy doing what? Pretending to ignore the fact that you’re the most talked-about soccer player on campus right now?”

Y/N frowned, adjusting the strap of her soccer bag. “I’m just trying to focus on my grades and practice. I don’t really care about all… this.” She gestured vaguely to the bustling café, full of students whispering and staring.

Karina smirked. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. You can’t just ‘not care.’ You’re part of this world now, whether you like it or not.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “And let me guess—you’re here to welcome me to the ‘world’ with some sort of deal?”

Karina’s smile widened. “Exactly. I knew you weren’t as slow as you pretend to be.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Here’s the thing, Y/N. I need someone who can keep my social status intact until graduation. Someone who’s popular enough to keep people talking but also low-maintenance enough that I don’t have to babysit them. You, unfortunately, check both boxes.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait… what?”

Karina sighed, as if she were explaining something painfully obvious. “Fake date me. You get everyone off your back—because trust me, no one messes with what I call dibs on—and I get to ride your… what do they call it? Soccer hype?”

Y/N stared at her, trying to process what she was hearing. “You want me to pretend to date you? For popularity?”

Karina rolled her eyes. “Don’t act so surprised. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. You get to focus on your precious soccer and grades, and I stay on top where I belong. Everyone wins.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “Except I don’t care about popularity, Karina. And I’m not sure why you’re even interested in me. I’m not exactly your type.”

Karina’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “That’s exactly why you’re perfect. You don’t care about any of this. You’re not going to embarrass me by trying too hard or starting drama. And honestly? People love an underdog. It’s… charming.”

Y/N scoffed. “Charming? You’ve spent the past two years pretending I don’t exist.”

Karina shrugged. “I didn’t need you then. Now I do.” She leaned back, crossing her legs. “Look, you can say no. But I guarantee the attention you’re getting right now? It’s only going to get worse. And when people start digging into your past or spreading rumors about you…” She trailed off, her expression smug. “Well, let’s just say it’s easier to let me handle it.”

Y/N hesitated. She hated everything about this. But she also hated the constant whispers, the stares, and the endless stream of people trying to insert themselves into her life. As much as she wanted to tell Karina to take her offer and shove it, she couldn’t deny that it would be easier to let the queen of the social ladder scare everyone off.

“Fine,” Y/N said finally. “But I have a few conditions.”

Karina raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh? Do tell.”

“One,” Y/N said, holding up a finger, “this ends the second I don’t need it anymore. Two, you don’t get to micromanage my life outside of this… whatever this is. And three, you don’t get to pull any of your mean girl crap on me. Got it?”

Karina’s smile didn’t waver. “Of course. I’m always nice to my significant others.” She extended a hand. “Deal?”

Y/N stared at her for a moment before reluctantly shaking her hand. “Deal.”

As Y/N walked away, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life. Karina, meanwhile, watched her go with a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Karina murmured to herself, already planning her next move.

Y/N left the café feeling like she’d just signed a deal with the devil. What had she gotten herself into? Fake dating Karina Yoo? The girl who practically ruled Changryeo University with an iron fist wrapped in designer gloves? It sounded insane.

The next day, Y/N started to see the consequences of her decision almost immediately. She was walking to class when she noticed people whispering and pointing at her. Some of the cheerleaders giggled as she passed, and a group of guys from the basketball team gave her an approving nod.

Y/N sighed, pulling her hoodie up in an attempt to block out the attention. But just as she thought she’d make it to class unnoticed, she heard the sharp click of heels behind her.

“Y/N!” Karina’s voice rang out, cutting through the crowd like a knife.

Y/N froze. Here we go.

Karina strutted toward her like she was walking a runway, her designer bag swinging at her side. She was dressed to perfection, as always, in a tailored outfit that probably cost more than Y/N’s tuition.

Karina stopped right in front of her, giving her a radiant smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You were just going to class without me? What kind of fake girlfriend are you?”

Y/N blinked. “I—what?”

Karina sighed dramatically, looping her arm through Y/N’s before she could protest. “We’re supposed to sell this, remember? People are watching.”

Y/N glanced around and realized Karina was right. Half the students in the courtyard were staring at them, some openly gaping, others whispering behind their hands.

“Fine,” Y/N muttered, awkwardly adjusting to the sudden closeness. “But could you maybe not treat me like a handbag?”

Karina laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You’re not a handbag, Y/N. You’re an accessory. There’s a difference.”

Y/N groaned. “This is going to be a long semester.”

Later that day, the two of them walked into the dining hall together, and Y/N instantly regretted agreeing to this arrangement. The room went silent the moment they entered, and all eyes turned to them.

Karina didn’t seem fazed at all. In fact, she seemed to thrive under the attention, walking with her head held high and a confident smile on her face. Y/N, on the other hand, wanted to disappear into the floor.

They made their way to a table where Winter and Ningning were already sitting. Winter raised an eyebrow as they approached, her expression somewhere between confusion and amusement.

“Wow,” Winter said as they sat down. “So it’s true. The queen of Changryeo has a new trophy.”

Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Please don’t start.”

Karina, however, looked completely unbothered. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and smirked at Winter. “Jealous?”

Ningning snickered, nudging Winter. “I think she’s just surprised. Everyone is. Y/N doesn’t exactly scream ‘Karina’s type.’”

“Hey,” Y/N protested. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Winter shrugged. “You’re not… polished. No offense.”

“None taken,” Y/N muttered.

Karina leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs. “Y/N is refreshing. She’s not trying too hard to impress me, unlike certain people.” She gave Winter a pointed look, and Winter rolled her eyes.

“This is going to be fun to watch,” Ningning said, her grin widening. “You two are so different it’s almost funny.”

“Almost?” Karina asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Okay, fine. It’s hilarious,” Ningning admitted.

Y/N groaned again, slumping in her seat. “This was a mistake.”

Karina reached over and patted her hand in an overly dramatic gesture. “Oh, sweetie. It’s not a mistake. It’s an opportunity. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

Winter and Ningning burst into laughter, and Y/N could only sit there, wondering how she was going to survive the rest of the semester with Karina Yoo as her fake girlfriend.

Meanwhile…

Karina was already planning their next big “date.” She knew Y/N wasn’t going to make this easy, but that only made it more interesting. Y/N wasn’t like the others—she didn’t care about status or appearances, which made her unpredictable.

For Karina, it wasn’t just about maintaining her social status anymore. There was something about Y/N’s unwillingness to play by the rules that intrigued her. Maybe this arrangement would end up being more fun than she’d originally thought.

But for Y/N, this was already a nightmare. The attention, the whispers, the constant proximity to Karina—it was overwhelming. All she wanted was to get through college quietly and focus on her future. But now, thanks to Karina’s scheme, she was front and center in the social spotlight.

And whether she liked it or not, there was no turning back now.

Y/N was convinced she was cursed. It was the only explanation for why her life had spiraled into this chaotic mess. Before the fake dating arrangement, she was invisible—just a girl who played soccer and tried to keep her head down. But now, every step she took was met with stares, whispers, and the occasional wide-eyed double-take.

Even her teammates had started treating her differently.

At practice the next day, Y/N barely had time to put her cleats on before her co-captain, Sunghoon, jogged over, smirking.

“Y/N,” he said, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. “So, you and Karina Yoo, huh?”

Y/N groaned, already dreading the conversation. “Don’t start, Sunghoon.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he teased. “You’re dating the most popular girl on campus. You’re practically royalty now.”

“She’s not really my girlfriend,” Y/N muttered under her breath, lacing up her cleats.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sunghoon said, grinning. “You know she’s sitting in the bleachers right now, right?”

Y/N’s head snapped up. “What?”

He pointed over to the stands, where Karina was lounging in her designer coat, her legs crossed as if she were attending a fashion show instead of a soccer practice. She was scrolling through her phone, completely oblivious to the curious glances from the rest of the team.

Y/N marched over to the bleachers, her heart pounding. “Karina!” she called, trying to keep her voice low enough so the entire team wouldn’t hear. “What are you doing here?”

Karina looked up, smiling innocently. “Watching my girlfriend practice, of course. Isn’t that what supportive partners do?”

Y/N resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. “You didn’t have to come. This is just practice.”

Karina tilted her head, pretending to be hurt. “Are you embarrassed of me?”

“Yes,” Y/N said immediately. “I mean, no! I mean—ugh.” She ran a hand through her hair, already regretting her decision to agree to this arrangement.

“Relax,” Karina said, waving her off. “I’m just here to make sure the other girls on your team don’t get any ideas. Can’t have them thinking you’re single, now can we?”

Y/N groaned. “Karina, no one on this team thinks that—”

“Y/N! Who’s your friend?” one of her teammates called from the field, cutting her off.

Karina turned and waved, flashing a dazzling smile. “Hi! I’m her girlfriend.”

Y/N could feel her teammates’ collective jaws drop.

“Oh my God,” Y/N muttered under her breath.

Later that day…

After practice, Y/N trudged into the dining hall, fully prepared to eat her dinner in peace. Unfortunately, peace wasn’t on the menu.

Karina was already sitting at their usual table with Winter and Ningning. She waved Y/N over as soon as she walked in, her smile bright and attention-grabbing.

Y/N reluctantly joined them, sliding into the seat next to Karina. She immediately noticed the looks from other students in the dining hall. Some were staring openly, others whispering behind their hands.

“Everyone’s staring,” Y/N muttered under her breath.

“Of course they are,” Karina said, flipping her hair. “We’re Changryeo’s new power couple.”

“We’re not a couple,” Y/N said quietly, picking at her food.

Ningning leaned forward, grinning. “You’re not fooling anyone, Y/N. Karina is selling this so well it’s practically an Oscar-winning performance.”

Winter snorted. “I’ll give it to her—she’s committed. But Y/N? You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

Y/N sighed, slumping in her seat. “That’s because I would be.”

Karina reached over and patted her hand, her touch light but deliberate. “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re doing great. And for the record, you’re lucky to have me as your fake girlfriend. Most people would kill for this opportunity.”

“Most people don’t have to deal with you,” Y/N shot back, unable to stop herself.

Winter and Ningning burst out laughing, and even Karina cracked a smile.

“You’re lucky I find your sass endearing,” Karina said, leaning back in her seat with a smirk.

A few weeks later…

The fake dating arrangement had started to feel like a full-time job. Karina was everywhere—showing up to Y/N’s practices, dragging her to parties, and insisting on coordinating outfits for their “dates.”

But the weirdest part? Y/N was starting to get used to it.

Karina was still Karina—bossy, overconfident, and annoyingly good at getting her way. But every now and then, Y/N caught glimpses of something deeper. Like the way Karina would soften when talking about her younger sister, or how she’d quietly help out a classmate who was struggling without making a big deal about it.

It didn’t make her any less infuriating, but it did make her… interesting.

One night, after yet another party where Karina had spent most of the time pretending to be the perfect girlfriend, Y/N finally spoke up.

“Why are you doing all this?” Y/N asked as they walked back to their dorms.

Karina glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“This whole fake dating thing,” Y/N said. “You’re already popular. You don’t need me to stay on top.”

Karina was quiet for a moment, which was rare for her. Then she shrugged, her expression unreadable. “Maybe I just like having someone around who doesn’t kiss up to me.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “You… like having me around?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Karina said, smirking. “You’re tolerable. That’s all.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Karina smiled, and for once, it wasn’t calculated or forced. It was just… genuine.

Over the next month, the lines between their fake relationship and reality began to blur in ways Y/N hadn’t anticipated. Karina was still annoyingly bossy and dramatic, but Y/N couldn’t deny that she was also surprisingly attentive. She remembered little things, like Y/N’s coffee order or how she hated when her cleats weren’t broken in yet.

Y/N, for her part, started to see sides of Karina that no one else seemed to notice. Like how she’d subtly steer conversations away from Winter’s nervous stuttering in class presentations or how she always brought snacks for Ningning, claiming it was “just in case” but always ended up handing them over.

And then there were the moments when Karina’s carefully constructed mask slipped entirely. Like the night of the big soccer game against their school’s rival, where everything changed.

Game Night

The stadium was packed, buzzing with energy as Changryeo prepared to face its fiercest rival. Y/N felt the weight of the crowd’s expectations as she warmed up on the field. Being co-captain was no joke, and all eyes were on her to deliver.

Karina was there, of course, perched in the VIP section with Winter and Ningning. She was decked out in Changryeo colors, her designer coat somehow perfectly matching the school’s logo. She looked like she belonged on a billboard, not in the stands of a college soccer game.

But even from the field, Y/N could feel her presence. Karina’s gaze was sharp, focused entirely on her.

As the game began, Y/N threw herself into it, blocking out everything but the ball, her teammates, and the roaring crowd. By halftime, they were tied 1-1, and the pressure was mounting.

In the locker room, Y/N sat on the bench, trying to catch her breath. Sunghoon clapped her on the back. “You’re doing great out there. Just keep your head in the game.”

“Yeah,” Y/N muttered, wiping sweat from her face.

But her focus was shaken as soon as she stepped back onto the field. The rival team’s captain, a cocky player named Minjae, smirked as he jogged past her.

“Your girlfriend’s got the whole stadium staring,” Minjae said with a sneer. “Must be nice having the queen of Changryeo cheering you on.”

Y/N gritted her teeth. She knew he was trying to get in her head, but it still worked.

By the time the second half ended, the score was still tied, and they were headed into overtime. The tension was palpable.

As Y/N lined up for a crucial penalty kick, she glanced at the stands and locked eyes with Karina. Karina gave her a small nod, her expression serious for once.

“You’ve got this,” Karina mouthed.

Y/N took a deep breath and focused. The world seemed to slow as she approached the ball, her foot connecting perfectly. The stadium erupted as the ball sailed into the net, securing their victory.

Post-Game

After the game, Y/N was mobbed by her teammates and the crowd. She barely had time to breathe before Karina appeared, pushing through the chaos like it was nothing.

“There’s my star player,” Karina said, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

Before Y/N could respond, Karina grabbed her face and kissed her.

The crowd went wild.

Y/N froze, her brain short-circuiting. When Karina finally pulled back, she smirked. “You looked like you needed some motivation out there.”

Y/N blinked, still processing. “Motivation? I just won the game.”

“Exactly,” Karina said, flipping her hair. “You’re welcome.”

Winter and Ningning appeared behind her, both grinning like they were enjoying the show way too much.

“Wow, Karina really went all in,” Winter said.

“I’m living for this drama,” Ningning added.

Y/N groaned. “You guys are the worst.”

Karina, however, looked entirely unbothered. She leaned closer, her voice dropping so only Y/N could hear. “Relax. You’re a hero now. Everyone’s going to be talking about this for weeks.”

Y/N glanced at her, a mix of exasperation and something she couldn’t quite name. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep agreeing to my plans,” Karina said, smirking.

As the night went on and the celebrations continued, Y/N found herself smiling despite the chaos. Maybe this whole fake dating thing wasn’t as fake as she’d thought.

Later That Night

Back at their dorms, Y/N sat on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Karina was perched on the armrest, scrolling through her phone.

“You didn’t have to kiss me, you know,” Y/N said suddenly.

Karina glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “It worked, didn’t it? The crowd loved it. You’re basically a legend now.”

Y/N shook her head. “That’s not the point. You keep doing all this stuff like it’s some kind of game.”

Karina’s expression softened, just for a moment. “It’s not a game,” she said quietly.

Y/N turned to look at her, surprised by the shift in her tone. “Then what is it?”

Karina hesitated, her walls cracking just enough for Y/N to see something real beneath them. “It’s… complicated.”

Y/N studied her, realizing for the first time that maybe Karina wasn’t as confident and untouchable as she seemed.

“Complicated, huh?” Y/N said, her voice soft.

Karina gave her a small, almost shy smile. “Don’t overthink it. Just… go with it.”

For once, Y/N decided not to argue.

“Alright,” she said. “But if you pull another stunt like that in public, I’m kicking your ass.”

Karina laughed, and the sound was lighter than Y/N had ever heard. “Deal.”

And for the first time since this whole thing started, Y/N felt like maybe, just maybe, they were onto something real.

The Morning After the Game

Y/N woke up the next morning to chaos. Her phone was blowing up with notifications—texts, Instagram tags, even a few congratulatory emails from professors who were clearly too invested in Changryeo sports. She groaned, rubbing her eyes as she scrolled through the messages.

Her teammates had turned the group chat into a full-on meme fest. Screenshots of Karina’s dramatic kiss at the game were plastered everywhere, complete with captions like “Changryeo’s new power couple” and “Karina really said, ‘My girlfriend won the game.’”

Just as Y/N was about to bury her face back into her pillow, there was a knock at her door.

She opened it to find Karina standing there, holding two cups of coffee and a bag of pastries.

“Good morning, star player,” Karina said with a smirk, pushing her way into the room without waiting for an invitation. She set the coffee and bag on Y/N’s desk before sitting on the edge of her bed like she owned the place.

“What are you doing here?” Y/N asked, still half-asleep.

“Damage control,” Karina said, scrolling through her phone. “Your PR image is my responsibility now, remember?”

Y/N blinked. “PR image? What are you talking about?”

Karina rolled her eyes, turning her phone to show Y/N the flood of posts on social media. The school’s official athletics account had reposted a photo of their kiss, and the comments were a mix of admiration, jokes, and speculation.

“Karina Yoo kissing Y/N on the field after the game? Iconic.”

“Never thought I’d see the day Y/N gets swept up by Changryeo’s queen bee.”

“Plot twist: Karina’s actually soft for her.”

“I thought Karina only cared about status. Maybe this is real???”

Y/N groaned, sinking onto her bed. “This is a nightmare.”

“It’s a dream,” Karina corrected, sipping her coffee. “The PR is gold. You’re officially untouchable now.”

“I didn’t ask to be untouchable,” Y/N said, rubbing her temples.

Karina tilted her head, her expression softening slightly. “You didn’t have to ask. That’s what I’m here for.”

Y/N looked at her, trying to figure out if Karina was joking. But her tone was serious, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of her usual sarcasm.

“Thanks… I guess,” Y/N said awkwardly.

“Don’t mention it,” Karina said, waving her off. Then, as if remembering something, she added, “Oh, and don’t forget—we’re going to that party tonight.”

“What party?”

Karina raised an eyebrow. “The victory party, obviously. The soccer team’s throwing it, and as your girlfriend, I have to be there.”

Y/N sighed. “Do I have a choice in this?”

“No,” Karina said with a smug smile. “But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t embarrass yourself.”

“Gee, thanks,” Y/N muttered.

The Party

That night, the victory party was in full swing by the time Y/N and Karina arrived. The team had rented out one of the biggest event spaces on campus, and the room was packed with students. Music blasted from the speakers, and the energy was electric.

As soon as they walked in, all eyes turned to them. Y/N felt her shoulders tense under the weight of the stares, but Karina didn’t seem fazed at all. She grabbed Y/N’s hand, lacing their fingers together as she led her through the crowd.

“You’re doing great,” Karina whispered, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

Y/N felt her cheeks flush but didn’t pull away.

They joined Sunghoon and the rest of the soccer team near the bar, where Winter and Ningning were already waiting with drinks in hand.

“Well, well,” Winter said, raising her glass. “If it isn’t the couple of the century.”

Ningning grinned, nudging Y/N. “You look so uncomfortable. It’s adorable.”

“Glad you’re enjoying this,” Y/N muttered.

Karina, however, was in her element. She charmed the team effortlessly, laughing at their jokes and pretending to be genuinely interested in their stories. Y/N couldn’t tell if it was an act or if Karina was just naturally good at winning people over.

At one point, Sunghoon leaned over to Y/N, his voice low. “She’s really something, huh?”

Y/N glanced at Karina, who was animatedly telling a story to the rest of the group. She was gesturing wildly, her face lit up in a way that made it hard to look away.

“Yeah,” Y/N said softly. “She really is.”

Later That Night

As the party wound down, Karina and Y/N found themselves sitting on the steps outside the event space. The cool night air was a welcome relief after the chaos inside.

Karina leaned back on her hands, gazing up at the stars. “You survived your first official event as my girlfriend. How do you feel?”

“Exhausted,” Y/N said honestly.

Karina laughed, her voice soft and melodic. “You’ll get used to it.”

Y/N studied her for a moment, the glow of the streetlights casting shadows across her face. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

“Being… you,” Y/N said. “Always in the spotlight, always being perfect for everyone.”

Karina was quiet for a moment, her confident facade slipping just enough for Y/N to see the vulnerability underneath.

“Sometimes,” Karina admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s the only thing I know how to do.”

Y/N frowned. “You don’t have to be perfect all the time, you know. You’re allowed to just… be yourself.”

Karina turned to look at her, her expression unreadable. “And what if I don’t know who that is?”

Y/N hesitated, then reached over and took her hand. “Then maybe it’s time you figured it out.”

Karina stared at her, and for once, she didn’t have a clever comeback.

The silence between them was heavy but not uncomfortable, and for the first time, Y/N felt like she was finally seeing the real Karina—the one who hid behind all the glitz and glamour.

Life didn’t slow down after the victory party. If anything, it picked up speed. The school was abuzz with gossip about Y/N and Karina’s “relationship.” Everywhere Y/N went, people whispered or stared. Some congratulated her on her game-winning goal, but most wanted to talk about Karina.

“So, is it real?”

“How did you even bag Karina ?”

“Are you two, like, for real-for real?”

Y/N tried to dodge the questions, but Karina seemed to thrive on the attention. She’d casually wrap an arm around Y/N’s shoulder in the cafeteria or bring her a coffee in the middle of class, always with a knowing smirk. It was like a game to her—a game Y/N wasn’t entirely sure she was winning.

By the end of the week, Y/N was exhausted. She trudged into her dorm room after soccer practice, still sweaty and aching, only to find Karina lounging on her bed like she owned the place.

“Do you not have your own dorm?” Y/N asked, dropping her bag onto the floor.

Karina looked up from her phone. “Mine’s boring. Yours has personality. And snacks.”

Y/N sighed, pulling off her cleats. “What do you want, Karina?”

Karina sat up, crossing her legs. “We need to strategize. There’s a gala next weekend, and we have to make an appearance.”

“A gala?” Y/N repeated, groaning. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Karina said, standing up and walking over to her. “You’re my girlfriend, remember? People will expect us to be there together. Plus, it’ll be fun.”

“Your definition of fun is very different from mine,” Y/N muttered.

Karina tilted her head, a sly smile on her lips. “You’ll survive. And who knows? You might even enjoy it.”

The Night of the Gala

The Changryeo University gala was nothing like the sweaty chaos of the victory party. It was a high-class affair, with students and faculty dressed to the nines in designer suits and gowns. The event hall was decorated with glittering chandeliers and pristine white tablecloths, and a string quartet played softly in the background.

Y/N felt completely out of place. She adjusted the cuffs of her borrowed suit, glancing nervously at the crowd.

Karina appeared beside her, radiant in a sleek, black dress that hugged her figure perfectly. She looked every bit the queen bee, her confidence practically oozing from every pore.

“You clean up well,” she said, eyeing Y/N with an approving nod.

“You mean I don’t look like a sweaty soccer player for once?” Y/N asked, tugging at her tie.

Karina smirked. “Exactly.”

She grabbed Y/N’s arm and led her into the crowd, greeting people with effortless charm. Y/N tried to keep up, but it felt like Karina was operating on a completely different level.

At one point, they were cornered by a group of Karina’s friends, who bombarded Y/N with questions.

“So, how did you two meet?” one of them asked, batting her eyelashes.

Y/N froze, her mind going blank. She hadn’t prepared for this.

“Y/N heroically saved me from a terrible date,” Karina said smoothly, looping her arm through Y/N’s. “It was love at first sight.”

The group burst into laughter, and Y/N shot Karina a look. She just winked at her, clearly enjoying herself.

Later That Night

After hours of mingling, Y/N finally managed to escape to the balcony. She leaned against the railing, taking a deep breath of the cool night air.

A moment later, Karina joined her, holding two glasses of champagne.

“You’re not hiding, are you?” she asked, handing Y/N a glass.

“Maybe,” Y/N admitted, taking a sip. “This whole thing is… overwhelming.”

Karina leaned against the railing beside her, her expression unusually soft. “You’re doing fine.”

Y/N glanced at her. “Why do you even care about all this? The parties, the popularity, the drama. What’s the point?”

Karina was quiet for a moment, staring out at the city lights. “Because it’s easier to play the game than to let people see the real you,” she said finally.

Y/N frowned. “And what’s the real you like?”

Karina turned to her, a small, almost shy smile on her lips. “I guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush but didn’t look away. For a moment, it felt like the world had gone quiet, leaving just the two of them standing there under the stars.

“You’re… complicated,” Y/N said eventually, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

Karina laughed, the sound light and genuine. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

As the night went on, Y/N realized that maybe, just maybe, being stuck in Karina’s world wasn’t as bad as she thought.

#cents works #aespa #aespa x reader #yu jimin #yu jimin x reader #karina #karina x reader #kpop gg #kpop gg x reader

750 notes · View notes

dvchvnde · 4 months ago

Text

when the earth starts spinning backwards

EXCERPT: GEORGIAN ERA AU. ARRANGED MARRIAGE. AGE GAP.

You've been told for most of your life that the measure of a woman's worth laid in the pedigree of her potential suitors.

And maybe that's why—on the eve of your birthday—the pool of your of esteem dwindles to a mere maudlin tear at the bottom of a weather-worn bucket. One swiped up by the trembling finger of your desperate father as he shakes his hand (and within it, the crumpled dowry he had expected to part with on the dawn of your eighteenth year inside his household) at the only man who seems keen to take the heavy burden from his white-knuckled fist.

A man named John Price.

Captain, they say, of the King's Army. Someone who led them to victory on several fronts before being called home year ago when his second wife had passed, marking him a widower with two children. A powerful man on the battlefield, unshakeable in his tenants and faith. A warrior. As fearsome as a wild bear, and hungry for flesh as one, too.

And it's this facet of his character that is given before much else, including the formidable temper that nervously follows when all points of fascinating esteem run dry.

His rage is as legendary as his exploits under the King.

And you're to marry him tomorrow.

A quick, decisive arrangement that brokered no room for negotiations, and likely couldn't since you're well past respectable marrying age and have been already ushered, quietly, into the encompassing title of a spinster. A blemish on your mutable reputation.

But despite the desperate lengths your father had gone to tuck away money for a dowery on the eve of your birth, it had been for naught. Everyone knows the debts your name carries, and any man stupid enough to take you on a bride would only inherit the devastating black hole of your crumbling finances.

Untouchable, it had seemed. Or so those were the whispers late at night.

It's unfathomable a man of his esteem would stoop so low in the social hierarchy for a wife, but from the stilted, haggard conversations you've pried upon, he's in need of a mother to his grieving children. The abysmal state of your family name doesn't matter much when all he needs is a nanny for his children and a pretty thing to warm his bed.

And, they offered begrudgingly, you are rather pretty.

Just much more suited to be the mistress of a Duke rather than a wife of significance to an important advisor to the King.

Envy, you realise, and this pitiless thing called social standing, leaves you very little room to weep over the ill-made match with a stern, ferocious man two decades your senior and twice widowed with three children desperate for comfort you have no idea how to give.

Then again, respectability is more important than comfort, isn't it? And perhaps this is for the best considering your second, and only, option is to agree to warm the bed of a Duke (or several) when he's away from his wife. Who would want to marry the daughter of a penniless estate drowning in so much debt, it's a wonder your father got to keep his flimsy title when the collectors started breathing down his neck, after all? When the jewels were stripped from your neck, the curtains, your clothes and pawned for recompense for a financial loss that happened when you were hardly old enough to feed yourself?

Such is life, you suppose.

And maybe you're giving too much credence to the feverish whispers about your soon-to-be bridegroom.

Two wives—both gifted to him from the kings pool of consorts—who died under strange, mysterious circumstances aside, he might be the polar opposite to the surly beast they make him out to be. One with a temper so formidable, enemies of the country write to air out their grievances after crossing paths with the savage Captain on the battlefield, lamenting the brutal nature of his warfare practises.

It might not be the cage you've been told it will be. Instead of squandering your youth under the thumb of a man so animalistic, they claimed he was birthed by a bear, it could be the escape you've been yearning for.

And perhaps—as silly as the notion is for women of your station—even love.

It's a thought that blots the unease inside your chest. A bandaid over uncertainty even though it's such a silly, silly thing because just what is love to a man thrice wed? Indignity, surely, to stoop so low as to pledge his heart to someone two decades younger than he when an heir has already been secured. Nuptials tied twice before. An old hat at this farce.

What room is left inside of him for a destitute bride with little more than a brooch to your name, and a contemptible debt that will surely ruin any burgeoning matrimony when he doles out whatever sum he agreed to when taking you on as a—

A nanny, maybe.

Pretty thing to warm his bed.

It'll be fine, you think, knuckles bulging from under the thin skin of your fist; so long as there is harmony between you and this man.

That's really all you can ask for, and even that seems overmuch.

He stands across from a man you don't recognise, dressed in a handsome black waistcoat and black breeches. The bristles of his beard—the sight of which gives your mother a terrible start when she sees the unkempt ruggedness of his appearance—brushes against the silk of his white cravat when he angles his chin in defiance at something the man says, arms folded over his broad chest, looking mutinous.

It's not the stance of a man eagerly awaiting his bride but of someone making idle, impatient chatter until the festivities begin.

But—

You can't deny he makes quite a striking spectacle.

His legs are thicker than all of the men in the room, breeches pasted tightly against his skin showing off the beastly appearance they whisper about. More bear than man. And you see it now when he moves. Arms barely contained inside the confines of a thick waistcoat, bulging at the seams. Flexing.

His hair is dark brown. His beard a seamless match to the umbre hue. It peppers along the span of his face, cut clean below the tip of his nose. Bedraggled comes to mind as you take him in. Then—

Wild.

His eyes flash. He rocks forward on the tips of his toes until his nose is a breath away from the man who stands opposite of him, swallowed up in the untenable bulk that threatens to collapse upon him like an unsturdy house. Heaving. The buttons along his jacket stretch taut around every ragged breath he takes, whining under the strain.

He's a beast.

A bear ripped from the wilds and shoved to ill-fitting finery; told to behave.

It's breathtaking, really. All that raw power forced into the shape of a man, one that buzzes with a frenetic energy around the edges as if the potency of it is too much for mortal flesh to carry. Crackling through the air like a whip. His snarling rejoinder clashing against the stained glass mosaic of Mary and Joseph readying their inn for the arrival of baby Jesus, the echo trembling through your bones.

You hadn't realised they were quite so hollow until his growl bounced inside them like a stone tossed into an empty bucket.

Beside you, your mother makes an impatient, contemptuous sound. That, too, echoes, and you smother a wince by burying your hands in the plentiful lace gathering at your thighs. Clinging to the old silks as the men blink from their churlish debate, turning towards the sound.

His gaze is purposeful. He doesn't linger. Doesn't meander. It slashes across the chest of the man standing in front of him like a clutched dagger, stabbing into the thin-lipped frown your mother wears more comfortably than finery with a slight tick of his brow. Settles there just for a moment. Taking her measure. Her worth.

And then it rolls over to you.

Dutiful bride to be.

Standing on fawnlike legs and drenched in a fine sheen of sweat under the swelter of dusty velvet no one expected to ever see the light of day, and jaundiced lace—the one thing your mother was able to convince the debt collectors was worth less than the meagre loaf of bread sitting on the dining room table.

A pittance.

And it's a dismal thing, really. The way he looks at you. Brows pinched. Puckering in displeasure. It's little less than a sneer, and even that feels like a kindness. A blessing.

But you suppose if a woman is fit to lay with the king, then she must be a thing of beauty. That must be the level of esteem he's used to. Lavishness. Sylphlike, pretty things the king is wont to imbibe himself on—a never-ending search for a faerie, or so the rumours go.

But these lissome beauties, the King's hand-offs, birthed this man's children—and rather quickly, you'd heard. Almost scandalously so. But had declared himself the father—at the hurried acceptance of the King—and the matter brought to the church in whispers had been silenced.

You can't help but wonder how you compare in his eyes.

It makes you so acutely aware of every inch of your body that it all starts to sting. Burn. From the way the shoulder of your grown doesn't quite sit tight—having been altered and hemmed over the years to account for your growth; a dress made at the fourteen under the assumption you'd be married away immediately. Extra fabric added at seventeen with illustrious care. There was still hope, you know. And each delicate stitch reflects that. But the ones that follow—twenty, twenty-three, twenty-five—are looser. Less attention was paid to the seam. The project was just that: an obligation. A duty.

Hope ended with the addition scrap of off-colour silk on your eighteenth birthday.

And with such hawkish, keen eyes, you know he must see it.

They dip along the curve of your throat, following a taut, intense line of oceanblue down the drape of it. Puddling at the base where a tear in the lace sits against your neck. Folded into itself because there simply wasn't enough time to mend it properly. A blemish.

Beneath the thick bed of wry, burnt umbre curls, his jaw clenches tight, muscles budging at the sides.

The intensity of endless blue is too much for you to wade through—his stare, the weight of his regard, a crushing thing—and you dip your chin in silent supplication, staring at the floorboards in a shameful display of cowardice to avoid the heat in those eyes. A searing fury hot enough to scald you from this far away.

He doesn't want you.

On the alter, John clenches his fist tight against his thighs as he devours the little bride too frightened to meet his eye, and wonders how much longer this nonsense will take before he can finally sink his cock inside of you—

#eventual: dubcon/wifely duties/dom price/breeding/carriage fucking

937 notes · View notes