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hamilton-here · 2 days ago

Note

heyyy i hope youre doing fine now :))) before i forget this (lol) can I request a reader x lewis with a comfortxangst that whenever lewis is on the track he doesnt mind if he can get injured or hurt while reader has been telling him to be careful and theyre always arguing over it and when he gets into a nasty crash reader reveals that she's pregnant and he'll be more careful now i just think this will be a reminder that f1 is a highly dangerous sportttt u can do this anytime u feel like it thank uuuu

𝒞𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒰𝓈

Authors Note: Hey everyone, I'm alive! I will be opening requests later tonight. Though I still have three to do after this one. Hopefully this meets your request. I hope you're all well. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton learns to race to come home after discovering he’s going to be a father.

Warnings: angst, mentions of swearing, mentions of crash

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You had always known that loving Lewis Hamilton came with risks.

It wasn’t just the time zones or the endless race weekends. It wasn’t the relentless moving, the constant packing and unpacking, the brief kisses goodbye that always tasted like he was already half gone.

It was what he chased. The high-speed danger of Formula 1. The knowledge that every time he stepped into that cockpit, he was gambling with gravity, dancing on the edge of control.

And still, you loved him.

You loved him because he was that person. Fearless. Passionate. Relentless. A man who didn’t know how to step back from a fight, who didn’t know how to race at anything less than the limit.

But that edge, the one that had drawn you to him like a moth to flame, had started to scare you now. It used to be thrilling to watch him thread the car through gaps that didn’t exist, to see him make impossible moves look effortless. You used to sit on the pit wall with your heart racing, smiling through your adrenaline-soaked nerves.

But now?

Now the thrill had warped into dread.

Lewis was older now.

In his Ferrari era, wearing the red that somehow made him look even more untouchable. The fire still burned in him, maybe brighter than ever but it had changed. He wasn’t chasing numbers anymore. He wasn’t chasing records.

He was chasing something more personal. Legacy. Purpose. A mark that no one could ever erase.

You had admired that. You still did. But lately, you’d started to hate what it could cost.

You.

“Be careful today,” you said softly, your fingertips grazing the tattoo on his chest as he zipped up his race suit, the Ferrari crest sitting proudly over his heart.

The Maranello red suited him. Too well. Like he’d always been meant to wear it. Like he was born to be exactly here, in this era, fighting for something only he could see.

He caught your eyes in the mirror and smiled - that easy, boyish smile that always seemed to dissolve your nerves. It was infuriating. It was comforting.

It was Lewis.

“Always am.”

You shook your head, pressing your lips together to keep them from trembling. “That’s not true.”

You sat down on the edge of the hotel bed, wringing your hands in your lap as the words gathered thickly in your throat.

“You take risks you don’t need to. You push when you don’t have to.”

His back stiffened just slightly as he adjusted the collar of his suit, eyes flicking down to his gloves as if focusing on something else would make this conversation pass quicker.

“It’s what I do,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “It’s who I am.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“It’s racing.”

“And racing can kill you.”

The words came out harder than you’d intended, but they were sitting on your chest like a weight, and you couldn’t hold them in anymore.

You needed him to hear you. Really hear you.

He turned toward you slowly, his expression softening, like he’d expected this argument but still didn’t know how to solve it. “You can’t think like that, baby. If I go out there scared, I won’t be me anymore. I can’t race like that. You know that.”

Your fingernails dug into your palms, your skin pinching painfully, the only thing grounding you in this moment. “Then what am I supposed to do? Sit here every weekend waiting for the phone call that you’re not coming back?”

His face dropped just slightly, a flicker of something like guilt, maybe shadowing his eyes.

“You’ve never gotten that phone call,” he said softly, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

“But one day I could.”

The words landed like a crack of thunder, final and brutal.

You’d both been tiptoeing around this truth for too long. You couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t clawing at you, waiting at the edge of every race weekend. The silence that stretched between you was suffocating. It thinned the air like you were both standing at the top of Eau Rouge, hearts in your throats, waiting for the drop.

Lewis finally crossed the room, crouching in front of you, his warm hands resting on your knees as he looked up at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“Look at me,” he said gently, his thumbs stroking soft circles against your skin. “I know you’re scared. I know. But I need you to trust me. I’ve been doing this a long time. I know what I’m doing.”

You looked into his eyes, those deep, familiar eyes that had always made you feel safe.

But this wasn’t about trust. It was about probability. Followed about the brutal, unforgiving statistics of a sport that took as much as it gave.

“You’re not twenty-five anymore, Lewis,” you whispered, your voice tight and trembling. “Your body can’t bounce back the way it used to.”

He exhaled a soft, almost amused laugh, but you could see the flicker of frustration tightening his jaw. “You sound like my physio.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

His hands squeezed yours, as if he could physically press reassurance into you. “I’ve got this, love. Don’t worry so much.”

But you did. You always did.

You worried through every corner, every pit stop, every time the camera cut to his onboard view, and you saw him chasing every millimetre like it was oxygen.

You worried because you loved him.

And the worst part? You didn’t even know yet that you were worrying for two.

However, it kept happening. Race after race. Argument after argument. Like clockwork.

You told yourself it was just the pressure of the season and the weight of Ferrari’s expectations pressing against his shoulders. Or the noise of the media questioning if he could still deliver at this stage of his career, the brutal self-imposed bar that Lewis never stopped raising.

You told yourself it was temporary.

You told yourself he would slow down.

But the more you watched him, the more you realised this wasn’t new at all.

Lewis had always raced like he didn’t care what happened to him.

And the terrible consequence?

You’d fallen in love with him because of that edge.

The way he danced so close to the line no one else dared to touch. The way he made you feel like the impossible was always just within reach.

But love changes things. Love rearranges your priorities. What used to thrill you now terrified you.

It was after the Spanish Grand Prix when the next argument exploded.

You waited for him in his driver’s room, the race replay still playing on mute on the little screen in the corner, but neither of you were paying attention. You’d seen it all live.

You’d seen him fight tooth and nail into Turn 3, holding a defensive line most drivers would’ve abandoned, forcing the other car wide, balancing on the edge of disaster.

You’d seen him almost lose control.

You’d felt your lungs collapse in that split second.

You’d felt your heart stop.

“You could’ve gone into the wall!” Your voice cracked, the panic still clawing its way up your throat, your whole-body trembling with leftover adrenaline.

“But I didn’t,” he said simply, pulling off his gloves, peeling away his sweat-soaked balaclava like it was just another Sunday.

“You didn’t this time.”

He turned to you sharply, exhaustion painting his features, his patience threadbare. “What do you want me to do? Let them pass me? Sit back and wave them through?”

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. “I want you to come home.”

His jaw clenched, his mouth flattening into a hard, unreadable line. “You knew what this was when you met me.”

“I didn’t know it would kill me slowly like this.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Stifling.

His voice dropped to something low, something brittle. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake every time I get in that car? I’m not stupid.”

“Then why don’t you drive like you care whether you come back?”

His head snapped toward you like you’d slapped him. For a long, suffocating moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you blinked. You felt like you’d crossed some invisible line.

His voice cracked. “I have to race like this. I can’t back down. If I start thinking about what I could lose, I won’t be me anymore.”

You stepped closer, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “You wouldn’t lose me, Lewis. You’d keep me. That’s the point.”

His shoulders sagged like something inside him had caved in. “But I’d lose me.”

It hit you then, like a gut punch. You weren’t just fighting for his safety. You were fighting against the very thing that made him him.

The argument fizzled out, not because you’d resolved it, but because you both knew there was nothing else to say.

That night, when you finally crawled into bed. Lewis wrapped his arm tightly around your waist, pulling you so close it almost hurt, as if holding you would stop the ground from crumbling underneath him.

You pressed a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist, right over the flutter of his pulse. “I’m sorry I keep bringing it up.”

His lips brushed the bare skin of your shoulder, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry I keep making you.”

You both meant it.

But deep down, you knew you’d fight about it again. Because what else could you do? Except keep loving him and praying that one day, he’d finally want to stay.

What neither of you knew then - was that soon, he’d have more to lose than just himself. And you didn’t know it yet, but that knowledge was already beginning to grow inside you.

It started small. So small you barely noticed.

The first time it hit you, you were standing in the kitchen of your Monaco apartment, the pale morning light spilling through the open balcony doors, the breeze carrying the faint scent of saltwater and sun-soaked pavement. You were making coffee just like you always did and pouring Lewis’s favourite beans into the machine, savouring the quiet hum of routine.

But when the coffee began to brew, the bitter familiar aroma suddenly twisted your stomach into tight, unforgiving knots. The sharp nausea hit you so hard and fast you had to grip the counter to steady yourself.

It passed quickly, but it left you shaken. But you brushed it off.

Maybe you hadn’t eaten enough. Maybe you were just overtired. Maybe it was the stress of the season building to a breaking point - the endless race weekends, the airports, the arguments that seemed to linger in the air long after they’d ended.

Maybe it was the weight of loving someone like Lewis Hamilton.

But the nausea didn’t fade. It returned the next day. And the day after that. It lingered when it shouldn’t have, curling around your mornings like smoke, settling in the back of your throat.

You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were being dramatic.

Until you couldn’t tell yourself that anymore.

The exhaustion crept in slowly too.

It wasn’t just tired but was bone-deep, dragging your body down like gravity had doubled its pull on you. No amount of sleep seemed to fix it. No amount of quiet seemed to refill the empty places. You found yourself lying awake long after Lewis had fallen asleep, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting absently over your stomach as though some part of you already knew before you dared to say it out loud.

You’d been keeping track in the back of your mind, but you hadn’t wanted to really look at the dates. You hadn’t wanted to connect the dots. Because what if you were wrong? And worse, what if you weren’t?

Until one quiet Wednesday morning.

Lewis had gone out cycling along the Monaco coast - a ritual, something he always did when the pressure got too loud in his head. He’d kissed your temple before he left, his curls still damp from the shower, his skin warm and real beneath your fingertips.

You’d told him to be careful, like you always did. And he’d given you that same soft, teasing smile the one that said Don’t worry about me, love. I’ve got this. The one that never really settled the panic rising in your throat.

When the door closed behind him, the apartment felt impossibly silent.

The echo of the ocean drifted in, soft and distant.

You sat on the cold marble floor of your shared bathroom, your legs folded tightly beneath you, your hands trembling violently as you clutched the little plastic test like it might burn you. Your heart hammered so hard it hurt.

You’re just being paranoid. Or you’re just late because you’re stressed.

It’s just your body playing tricks on you.

But then the lines appeared. Two of them. Bold. Bright. Unmistakable.

Pregnant.

The word slammed into you with the force of a tidal wave. Eyes widening. Pregnant.

You whispered it aloud, your voice breaking as the syllables slipped from your lips like they didn’t belong to you. Like you were watching this happen to someone else. You stared at the test, waiting for it to change, to fade, to dissolve into something deniable. But it didn’t. It stayed. Steady. Unmoving. Certain.

The seconds ticked by. Then minutes. Your knees ached from the cold tile pressing into your skin, but you couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe properly. The air felt too sharp, too thick.

You should’ve felt happy. Maybe you did, somewhere beneath all the static.

But it was buried under something bigger. Something heavier -

Fear.

Not of the baby. Not of being a parent. Not of how your life would change.

But of what if he doesn’t come back?

What if he never meets them?

The thought hollowed you out, cracking something inside you so fast the tears came before you could stop them. You sobbed into your folded knees, your body curling in on itself like you were trying to keep the whole world from falling apart inside your chest.

You weren’t afraid of becoming a mother. You were afraid of becoming one alone. Afraid of raising a child who would only know their father through old race footage and stories told in past tense. Afraid of what it would mean to love someone so fiercely and still not be able to keep them safe.

You wrapped your arms around your stomach, protective already, desperate to shield something so impossibly tiny, so fragile, from the storm you knew was coming. From the father you loved more than anything in the world, who didn’t know how to love himself enough to stay.

You should tell Lewis.

You should call him right now.

But the fear lodged in your throat, thick and unmoving. Would it make him more careful? Would it pull him back from the edge you’d watched him balance on for years?

Or would it push him harder - make him race with even more desperation, as if he needed to outrun time, to win faster, to lock in a legacy before the window slammed shut?

You didn’t know which answer terrified you more.

So you kept it to yourself. For now.

You folded the secret into the quietest places of your chest, tucked it beneath your ribs like maybe, if you just waited long enough, the right moment would come.

After the next race.

After the next fight.

After he’d shown you just once that he could choose to be careful. That he could choose to stay.

But Lewis didn’t slow down.

Not in Japan, Spain or Canada. Not when he skimmed the wall in Austria so close your knees nearly gave out watching the onboard.

You told him to be careful. Again. You begged him. You fought more than you ever had before. You screamed, sobbed and pleaded.

But nothing changed.

And the terrible, suffocating thought began to creep in, gnawing at the edges of your heart like something you couldn’t unthink -

Maybe he wouldn’t ever change.

Maybe nothing would be enough.

Not until something broke. Until the thing you feared most finally happened.

And you prayed desperately that it wouldn’t take a crash to make him finally understand what he was risking. That it wouldn’t take twisted metal and a red flag for him to see that there was more on the line now. That there was someone else on the line now.

But Formula 1 isn’t a sport that hands out second chances so easily.

You knew that. It was always going to break before he listened. The only thing you didn’t know was how much it would shatter you too.

The Spa weekend always terrified you.

There was something about it - a weight in the air, a shadow that lingered over the circuit no matter how bright the skies pretended to be. It wasn’t just the layout, the speed, the razor-thin margins. It was Spa’s reputation. Its history. The corners that swallowed cars whole. The weather that changed in minutes. The ghosts that never really left.

Lewis loved Spa. He always had. He loved it the way he loved anything that challenged him, anything that dared him to go further. And you hated it for exactly the same reason. You hated it because you could feel how alive it made him, how the danger seemed to call to him louder here than anywhere else.

And tonight, sitting in the hotel room the night before the race you hated that you were running out of ways to ask him to stay.

Your voice shook more than you wanted him to notice as you watched him pull on his compression shirt, the muscles in his back still tight from the long, gruelling practice sessions. “Lewis, please,” you whispered, standing by the edge of the bed like you could hold the whole conversation together with just the force of your desperation. “Just promise me you’ll be careful tomorrow.”

His gaze flicked toward you in the mirror, soft but distant, like he was already mentally walking the circuit. “I’m always careful, babe,” he said, pulling the shirt over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric across his chest.

You felt the words lodge in your throat, sharp and unbearable. “You’re not,” you choked out, your fists clenching at your sides. “You’re fast. You’re smart. But you’re not careful. Not when it matters. Not when you’re in the car.”

His sigh came hard, his jaw tightening, the same familiar frustration rising between you. “We’ve been through this -”

“No, you’ve dismissed this,” you cut in, stepping forward, grabbing his arm with both hands like you could physically tether him to the ground, to you. “Every time I bring it up, you act like I’m asking you to give up who you are. But I’m not. I’m not asking you to stop being Lewis Hamilton. I’m asking you to survive.”

His jaw flexed, a muscle twitching there, his body taut like a coiled spring. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked, the ache in your chest breaking loose. “Because the way you’ve been racing this season. It’s like you don’t care what happens to you anymore. Or like you’ve stopped believing you’re mortal.”

His eyes softened, just for a second, but when he pulled his arm away, it was gentle, final. “That’s not true.”

“It is.” You were trembling now, your heart hammering in your ribs, your throat thick with everything you hadn’t yet told him. “And I can’t watch you go out there tomorrow and race like you’ve got nothing to lose. Because you do. You have me. You have us. And -” Your breath faltered, your whole body bracing under the weight of the truth clawing its way to the surface. “You might have more than that soon.”

Lewis blinked, a frown knitting between his brows as he slowly turned to face you fully, finally hearing something in your voice that didn’t match the fight he thought you were having. “What do you mean?”

You almost told him. The words perched right there, aching to be spoken.

Almost.

But the fear twisted in your chest like barbed wire.

What if telling him changed nothing?

What if telling him made him race harder, like he was running out of time?

What if this new pressure only added fuel to the fire he’d never learned how to put out?

You swallowed hard, the moment slipping through your fingers. “Nothing. Just please.” Your voice cracked, desperate and hollow. “Please don’t make me regret tomorrow.”

His features wavered something caught between defiance and something softer, something that almost looked like he wanted to fold into you, like he wanted to end the argument right there and choose you.

But then his guard slid back into place. He reached for his cap, tugging it over his curls, angling it low to shield his eyes. “I know you’re scared. I get it. But you have to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” you whispered, your voice barely holding itself upright, “but I don’t trust the sport.”

His hand lingered on the door handle, a silent beat stretching between you like a chasm neither of you knew how to cross. “I can’t race scared,” he said quietly.

“And I can’t love you without being scared,” you whispered back, your voice splintering around the truth.

Silence again. The kind that left you hollow.

“I’ll see you after quali,” he said, soft but firm, stepping out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. The finality of that click shattered you.

You sank to the bed, your hand falling instinctively to your stomach, the tears slipping down your cheeks as you whispered to the tiny life inside you, the secret you’d been carrying like a glass heart.

“Please come back to us.”

Spa had always been cruel.

But you never thought it would be cruel to you.

The next day felt like moving through wet cement. You stood by the pit wall, the headset digging painfully into your ears, your heart pounding so loud you could barely hear the chatter of the engineers. Every breath felt borrowed.

Lewis had qualified third. He was in the fight. He was always in the fight.

But today, his driving was different - aggressive off the line, elbows out, like he was still chasing something invisible, something just out of reach. He’d found something this season with Ferrari, something that made him push like he was twenty-five again, like the weight of his body didn’t matter, like time was still bending to his will.

And you hated him for it. But at the same time you loved him for it. Therefore, it was tearing you apart.

Every lap felt like a gamble you hadn’t agreed to. Every defensive move felt like a warning you couldn’t shake.

Please, slow down. Please, don’t prove me right.

Lap 17. Raidillon.

You felt the sickness rise before it even happened.

The onboards flicked to him fighting for position, side by side with another driver, the track tightening, the line disappearing.

You knew what was coming. You felt it in your bones before the camera even caught it. No margin for error.

The car clipped the kerb. A heartbeat, desperate correction, brush of wheels. Lewis’s car was airborne. It twisted violently, flipping unnaturally, shrapnel spinning across the runoff as the Ferrari slammed into the barriers, skidded, bounced, then crumpled to a halt at a sickening angle.

The screen cut away.

“Red flag. Red flag. Session suspended.”

Your headset slipped from your ears and clattered to the ground, the sound of the paddock dissolving into static. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

The words hammered through your skull.

He’s not moving. He’s not moving. He’s not moving.

You bolted from the pit wall, shoving through engineers, security, the blur of people shouting at you to stop. Let me through. Let me through. Let me through.

You didn’t even realise you were crying until the salt hit your lips. Didn’t realise you were screaming until your throat burned.

By the time you reached the medical car, they were pulling him from the cockpit, his head slack against the halo, the medics stabilising his neck with clinical precision.

“He’s conscious but disoriented,” one of them said, his voice like a distant echo. “Heavy impact, possible concussion. We need scans immediately,” another called.

But you couldn’t hear anything beyond the roar in your ears. You fell to your knees beside the stretcher, your hand finding his glove still on, limp in yours and you sobbed, your body folding over like the weight of him might pull you under.

“Lewis,” you cried, clutching his fingers like they were the only thing tethering you to this earth. “Lewis, I’m here. I’m here. Please - please stay with me.”

His eyelids fluttered, unfocused, the barest hint of a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “You always…worry too much,” he slurred weakly.

“I told you -” Your voice cracked, the tears falling faster now, splashing onto his red race suit, “I told you this would happen.”

“I’m okay,” he whispered, but his voice was thin, as if even he didn’t believe it.

“You’re not.”

The medics ushered you into the ambulance, and you rode the entire way to the medical centre gripping his hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, the panic thrumming under your skin like a second heartbeat.

The scans. The blood tests. The neurological checks. You watched all of it through a haze, your body present but your soul still trapped on that corner still watching him fly.

They confirmed a mild concussion. Bruised ribs. No spinal injury. Lucky. They kept saying he was lucky.

But it didn’t feel like luck. It felt like you’d just watched the universe take a coin toss with his life. And one day, you wouldn’t win that toss.

When they finally let you sit with him alone you crumpled into the chair beside his bed, your shoulders shaking as you buried your face in your hands.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, your voice raw, each word clawing its way up your throat. “You can’t keep making me watch you destroy yourself.”

His tired brown eyes flicked to yours, soft, heavy with guilt. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You always scare me,” you sobbed, your whole-body trembling. “Every race. Every qualifying. Every lap. I can’t do this again.”

His hand found yours, weak but warm, his thumb brushing across your skin in tiny circles, as if that alone might fix all the broken pieces between you.

“I can’t lose you, Lewis,” you choked out, the truth finally too big to swallow. “Not now. Not when -”

Your voice faltered. But you couldn’t stop it now. “I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed swallowed the room whole. His chest stilled. His lips parted but no sound came. His fingers tightened, the realisation anchoring him back to the present. “You’re serious?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “We, we’re having a baby?”

You nodded, your tears flowing freely. “I found out before this weekend. I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure if it would change anything. I thought maybe you’d still race like you didn’t care. I thought maybe nothing would be enough.”

His hand cupped your cheek, the weight of his touch soft, trembling. “I didn’t know I was gambling with so much more.”

“You weren’t just gambling with yourself,” you whispered, leaning into his palm. “You were gambling with me. With us. And now with them.”

His other hand moved to your stomach, resting there gently like the world was holding its breath. His eyes filled, his voice thick with something you’d never heard before a vow.

“I have to change,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “I have to be more careful. I have to come back to you. To both of you.”

Your sob broke loose, your forehead resting against his as you finally let yourself believe him. This wasn’t just his life anymore. It was all of yours. And he finally realised he had everything to lose.

Lewis spent three days in the hospital.

Three long, agonising days where time moved in molasses and every beep of the machines laced a fresh layer of panic through your chest.

You never left his side. Not once.

You slept in the stiff, narrow visitor’s chair, curled up in impossible angles, your hand always laced with his like it was your lifeline. The dull ache in your neck and spine didn’t matter. The cold fluorescent lights didn’t matter. The dry hospital air, the stale taste of coffee you could barely choke down - they didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered was Lewis, breathing in the bed next to you.

Every time his heart monitor spiked or dipped whether from shifting in his sleep or reacting to pain you jolted awake in terror, your pulse skyrocketing as your hands shot out to steady him. The doctors assured you over and over that he was okay, that his injuries, though painful, were not life-threatening. But they didn’t understand that it wasn’t just his body you were terrified of losing, it was him.

It was the part of him that laughed. The part that loved you. The part that wanted to come home.

When he was finally discharged, you helped him into a quiet car waiting at the hospital entrance, both of you wearing hats pulled low and oversized sunglasses to shield from prying cameras. The media storm had erupted the moment the crash replayed on screens around the world with Ferrari issuing statements, journalists speculating, fans flooding social media with hashtags and heartbreak.

But you didn’t care about any of that.

You just wanted to get him home. Home to Monaco. Home to safety. Home to you.

The flight back was a blur, the low hum of the engines lulling him to sleep in the seat next to you, his head resting carefully against your shoulder while you traced slow, comforting circles on his thigh.

You didn’t let go of him once.

When you got back to your apartment, the world felt oddly still. No race noise, pit wall calls or tension threading through his body. Just soft linen sheets, gentle waves brushing the rocky coastline below the balcony, and the two of you bruised, but breathing.

The first night home, you helped him into bed like he was made of glass.

Every movement was slow, delicate, your hands ghosting over his ribs as you tucked the sheets gently around him, as if the fabric itself could offer protection. He watched you, silent, his usually strong, self-assured frame now resting heavily against the pillows.

You went to step away to grab him some water and get his medication, but his hand caught your wrist. “Baby?” His voice was raw, still cracked around the edges from the lingering pain and the adrenaline crash.

You sat back on the edge of the bed, your thumb automatically sweeping across his hand. “Yeah?”

His eyes flicked down to your stomach, a faint crease forming between his brows.

“Do you think they’re okay?” His voice was so soft, so unsure, it broke your heart open. “I mean we didn’t even get to talk about it properly.”

You guided his hand to rest over your belly, the skin still flat but warm beneath his palm. “They’re okay,” you whispered. “It’s early, but they’re here. We’re here.”

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging as though a weight he hadn’t dared to acknowledge was finally releasing its grip on him. “I want to do this right.”

“You already are,” you said, the words instinctive, immediate.

But he shook his head, his thumb beginning to trace slow, endless circles over your skin, like he was grounding himself to you, to this new future neither of you had been prepared for.

“No,” he said firmly, his voice thick. “I’ve spent my whole career believing I had nothing to lose. That I could risk everything because it was just me on the line. That if I went out, I went out chasing what I loved. But it’s not just me anymore.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his composure finally, finally splintering. “I want to be there for this. I want to be there for you. For them. I want to come home.”

Tears gathered in your eyes, blurring the soft edges of him, but you didn’t look away. You couldn’t. “You will,” you promised, your voice barely holding steady as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his.

His arms, weak and aching, still managed to pull you close, as tight as his bruised ribs would allow. “I’ll race differently. I’ll be smarter. I’m not done with this sport, but I’m done pretending I don’t care what happens to me.”

You smiled through your tears, your hands cradling his face, feeling the faint stubble against your palms. “Good. Because we care.”

His lips found yours slow, lingering, tasting of salt and something unspoken, something that tasted like a vow and for the first time in what felt like months, you let yourself believe him.

Lewis wasn’t making promises to the sport anymore. He was making promises to you. To your family.

The next few weeks moved in quiet rhythms. There was no travel. No schedule. No roaring engines. Just you and him, wrapped in the stillness of recovery.

You spent lazy mornings curled up on the couch, your hand resting over his as you flipped through baby name lists that made him groan and laugh in equal measure.

You caught him absently scrolling through baby gear on his phone, pretending not to care but his favourites folder said otherwise.

He went to physiotherapy religiously, never once skipping, never once complaining not because he was in a rush to return to the car, but because he wanted to heal properly this time. He wanted to be fully here, for you, for the baby.

He skipped the next race without hesitation.

When the media demanded answers, Ferrari’s statement was simple, pointed -

Family first.

And somehow, that meant more than any podium ever could.

He told you about the team’s reaction their genuine concern, their relief that he was okay, the way Charles had immediately texted when he heard about the baby.

Papa Hamilton! Charles had written and according to Lewis, he refused to stop using the nickname, even during debriefs, even when it made Lewis roll his eyes.

Angela cried when you both told her properly, her hug tight, teary, like she’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had.

When Lewis returned to the paddock later that season, something in him had shifted. Something permanent. The fire was still there, the brilliance, the hunger but it burned differently now.

He still attacked the corners, still carved through the grid like poetry, but gone were the reckless dives, the impossible lunges. Gone was the blind refusal to back off. He chose his battles now. He picked his moments. And for the first time, you saw him racing not for the risk but for the return.

Every time he climbed out of the car, the first thing he did was find you whether it was in the garage, in the motorhome, on the pit wall. His hands would find your stomach instinctively, his forehead pressing to yours, his whispered, “We’re good. I’m okay,” easing the weight in your chest.

You still worried. Of course you did. You always would. But now you worried knowing that he was finally racing to come home.

One crisp autumn afternoon, you stood by the pit wall, your hand resting protectively over your now-visible bump, feeling the soft flutter of tiny kicks under your palm as Lewis crossed the finish line.

He finished P4 that day. He didn’t force the podium. He didn’t throw the car into a gap that wasn’t there. But pulled out of a risky move on the final lap, a move the old Lewis would have taken without thinking.

And when the checkered flag waved, and the cheers rippled through the paddock, all you could feel was pride. Not because he won, but because he chose to be careful. When he returned to you, his fireproof suit still clinging to his skin, sweat still beading at his temple, he cupped your face in both hands and kissed you softly, deeply, as if the whole world had narrowed to this moment.

“You saw that, right?” he murmured against your lips.

You smiled, tears gathering in your eyes. “Yeah. I saw.”

It was never about making him stop or making him want to stay.

And now?

He did. He wanted to stay more than anything.

The labor came fast.

Faster than anyone expected.

You were supposed to have more time - weeks, maybe. Time to pack the hospital bag properly, to finish the nursery, to slow down and breathe before life as you knew it was rewritten. Time to walk hand-in-hand with Lewis through those final, quiet moments of just the two of you.

But life doesn’t always give you time.

Your water broke just before sunrise. The early Monaco sky was painted in soft lavender and streaks of gold, the peaceful morning breeze slipping through the cracked balcony door. You’d stirred awake, your hand resting instinctively on the gentle swell of your belly when you felt the sudden, unmistakable gush.

You gasped, sharp and panicked, sitting upright in bed as adrenaline punched through your chest. Beside you, Lewis jolted awake in an instant, blinking in confusion, his fresh curls messy and sticking to his forehead. “What - what is it? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” His hands were on you immediately, frantic, searching, like he could physically catch whatever had just changed. Your wide, terrified eyes met his.

“It’s happening,” you whispered, breathless. “She’s coming.” For a man who could handle a Formula 1 start with ice in his veins, Lewis unraveled spectacularly.

“Okay. Okay. Okay right.” He launched out of bed like he was sprinting to the grid, grabbing the hospital bag, dropping it, grabbing it again. “Wait did I pack enough? Where’s the list? Where are your shoes? Babe, where are your shoes? Do we need the charger? I need -” He trailed off, spinning in circles, pure panic on his face.

You groaned through another wave of pressure, squeezing his hand so tight you felt his wedding band bite into your palm. “Lewis. Shoes later. Baby now.”

That snapped him out of it. He all but carried you to the car, his hands trembling as he buckled your seatbelt, his lips brushing your forehead in between whispered apologies and frantic reassurances. Every red light, every roundabout, he muttered under his breath. “Not too fast. Not too slow. Can’t risk anything. But shit what if we don’t make it?”

When you got to the hospital, the world around you blurred. The midwives, the beeping monitors, the sterile smell, the tidal waves of pain that crested through you none of it stuck the way his presence did. He never left your side. Not for a second or a breath.

He whispered encouragement through every contraction, his voice shaking but steady enough for you to hold onto. His thumb stroked your palm in soothing circles, and when the pain became unbearable, you clutched his hand like a lifeline, his knuckles paling from the force of your grip.

When your strength faltered, when exhaustion tugged at your edges, Lewis pressed your hand to his lips, kissing your skin like it might anchor you both. “I’m here,” he whispered fiercely. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

And when the room finally filled with the sharp, piercing cry of your daughter. When the midwife placed her, tiny and wriggling, on your chest – you watched Lewis fall apart in the most beautiful way.

Tears streamed down his face, falling freely as his breath came in shallow, overwhelmed shudders. His hands trembled when they cradled your face, his forehead pressing tightly to yours as his words tumbled out in a desperate, joyful rush. “She’s here. She’s here. Oh my God. You did it. You did it, baby. I love you. I love you so much.”

When they finally placed her in his arms, she seemed impossibly small, her whole body barely the length of his forearm. He held her like she was the most fragile thing the world had ever made, his fingers trembling as he stroked the soft down of her hair. “She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice raw, reverent. His tears dripped onto her blanket, his thumb tracing tiny circles over her curled fist. “Look at her. Look at what we made.”

You leaned against him, exhausted but full, watching the man you loved melt entirely for this little life. “What do you want to name her?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. Lewis smiled through his tears, still staring at his daughter like she was the most precious thing he’d ever touched. “Something strong. Something beautiful.”

You spoke the name you’d both circled for months. The name that had felt right in your heart from the moment you saw those two lines. He nodded, pressing his lips to her forehead. “That’s her. That’s my girl.”

Your girl. His daughter. His reason to stay.

And from that moment, you knew there would never be a corner, a podium, or a championship that could matter more than coming home to her.

When the season resumed, Lewis returned to the paddock with something new stitched into his race suit - something that changed everything.

Her name. Embroidered in small, delicate letters, right over his heart.

It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the media. It was for him. For you. For her.

A quiet promise stitched into the fabric of his second skin. As well as a reminder of who he was racing for now.

For the first few races, he didn’t bring her. He told you he wasn’t ready not because he didn’t want to, but because the idea of exposing her to the flashing lights, the relentless cameras, the noise. It overwhelmed him.

“I just want her to be ours for a little longer,” he’d said one night, his arms wrapped protectively around both of you, his chin resting on your shoulder as your daughter slept peacefully on your chest. “The world can wait.”

But by the nearing of the season ending, the wait became unbearable. He wanted her there. Needed her there.

And so, that morning, you stood beside him at the track a place that once felt like the enemy, now softened by the weight of your shared history and the little life you both cradled between you.

The soft hum of the Ferrari garage wrapped around you like a familiar rhythm. The buzz of air guns, the shouted calls between engineers, the smell of petrol and rubber hanging thick in the air. It used to make your heart pound with anxiety, your pulse synced to every movement Lewis made, every corner he dared to dance around.

But now? Now it felt slower. Softer. Safer. Because this time, she was here.

Your daughter was strapped snugly to Lewis’s chest, tucked into the tiny carrier you’d agonised over choosing. Her oversized baby headphones sat slightly askew on her head, her small hands occasionally batting at them with innocent curiosity.

Her big brown eyes - his eyes darted around, wide and unblinking as they followed the bright colours, the glittering cars, the rhythm of the track life she’d somehow inherited.

Lewis leaned his chin gently against the top of her head, his thumb resting protectively over the curve of her back. He swayed on instinct, rocking her softly, like she was still fragile in his arms. “First race day, huh?” he whispered, his voice tinged with awe, like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real. Like the weight of her against his chest still grounded him in a way nothing else ever had.

“She’s probably wondering why so many people are fussing over just one car,” you teased, sliding your sunglasses up into your hair, watching the way his entire body softened around her.

“She’s going to love this one day,” he murmured, brushing his hand over her soft curls, his eyes not leaving her face. “It’s in her blood.”

“She might end up wanting to drive one of those cars, you know,” you said, raising your brows, unable to hide the amusement dancing in your voice.

His head snapped toward you in mock horror. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Piano lessons. Ballet. I’m buying her a library. She’s not touching a race car.” You laughed, resting your hand over his. “She’s already got you wrapped around her little finger.”

“She had me the second I heard her heartbeat,” he said softly, his thumb brushing tiny circles over the carrier strap, his heart so open, so vulnerable.

The team fell in love with her instantly. The Ferrari crew kept their distance at first, unsure if Lewis would want the attention. But when he knelt down to show her to them with proudness beaming and his eyes shining any hesitation dissolved.

One of the mechanics gifted her a miniature Ferrari cap, the brim too big for her tiny head. Another knelt beside her, gently tickling her toes as she stared, fascinated by his bright gloves.

Even rival drivers wandered over to meet her, their usual competitive edges dulling in the presence of something so pure. Lando made faces at her until she giggled. Carlos tapped his chest and whispered, “Future Ferrari champion.” You gave him a look. Lewis gave him a harder one.

Charles, of course, grinned the second he spotted them. “Papa Hamilton looks good on you LH,” he teased, ruffling the baby’s dark curls with brotherly ease.

Lewis just grinned, bouncing her gently against his chest, his whole face softening in a way you’d never seen before. “Yeah. Feels good, too CL.”

The media kept their distance for now. Ferrari had made it clear this was private, sacred, not for headlines.

When it was time for the formation lap, Lewis lingered by your side, reluctant to pass her back to you. He kissed your temple, slow and warm, then pressed a lingering kiss to his daughter’s head, his lips brushing against the soft baby hairs that had started to curl just like his. “You gonna cheer for Daddy?” he whispered to her, his voice low, sweet, full of reverence. “You’re gonna bring me good luck, huh? I race better when you’re here. You know that?”

She babbled back at him, clutching the edge of his chain with her tiny fingers, completely unaware she’d just rewired her father’s entire universe. You watched him pull on his helmet, watched him settle into the car but this time, the weight that used to crush your ribs didn’t settle in your chest.

Because Lewis still raced fiercely. But now he raced smartly.

As he tightened his gloves, as the roar of the crowd built, his gaze flicked across the pit wall right to you and your daughter, his entire world standing just beyond the barrier.

He tapped his chest twice, right over the stitched name.

For her. For you. For all of you.

When the lights went out, you didn’t feel fear.

You felt pride and love.

Because this was the balance you’d fought for, the life you’d built together. He had everything to lose now, and finally, he raced like he knew it.

And you knew now, without a single doubt -

He was always coming back to you.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 x reader #x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton one shot #team lh44 #f1 one shot #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #formula 1 fanfic #formula one

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sabanakurou · 2 days ago

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★ Leona x Gn!Reader, Reader is Yuu here! Mentions of Grim too but like, BARELY. A little over 1k words!

★ SYNOPSIS: In short, you made realizations about your relationship with Leona that you probably should've had... months ago.

★ A little warning for possible OOC, bad writing, and grammar mistakes, hehe! Regardless, I hope you enjoy :D

Being sure of yourself was something that you took pride in. That was the case back on Earth and especially the case now that you were thrown into Twisted Wonderland— a place so unfamiliar that you might as well have been considered an alien.

Maybe you already were? You were magicless with a strange fire-hazard for a cat-raccoon thing. Even now as you walked towards the botanical garden, you were carrying Grim. It wasn't hard at that point to take into account the way the other students looked at you. With their scrutinizing eyes and avoidance, you figured that your guess isn't so far off from the general opinion of the public.

You didn't care, though! You're CONFIDENT that you've experienced enough to have already met the worst jerks that this “d!$ney-knockoff house of villains-ahh” college had to offer.

Well,

that is…

…until you met Leona Kingscholar.

The most prickly jerk you ever came to know. A man so VILE that you're on your way to meet up with him in the garden for your regularly scheduled naps.

Honest to whatever God your current world had, as much as you wanted to moan about how long the stick in Leona’s mud of a butt is, he's nooooot… the worst guy ever. Actually, deny it as you might, the prince of the Afterglow Savannah was more of a friend than a jerk to you.

Still a jerk though.

One heck of a comfortable one, at that (much to your dismay). In fact, in recent times, he's quite the substitute for a pillow, if you could say so yourself. And you do! You even insisted on meeting today just to nap because you sleep better when Leona is your pillow.

"Huh?"

You suddenly stop walking, hit with the reality and weight of your own thoughts.

You use... Leona as… a pillow?

You… you use Leona as a pillow…???

You… huh…????

????

‘I DO WHAT NOW???’ You suddenly drop Grim onto the floor in the middle of the hallway, hands flying to your head as a slow, slow, quiet crisis takes over you. It was as if you gained sentience the moment you thought too deeply about your relationship with him.

No, but seriously!? Now that you put more of a conscious effort to evaluate your actions, you realized that you've been so affectionate with Leona! Using him as a pillow, resting on his side, napping with him in the garden and in his bed…!?!? In his bed for goodness’ sake!

How come no one has told you that you do these things!? (Ace and Deuce have mentioned it before.)

Why has no one mentioned how weird it is for you to act that way with Leona!? (Many have mentioned it: Namely the Heartslabyul folks, the first years, and even Grim.)

Is this even legal!? (It is but you were not being rational at that moment.)

“OH MY GOD!?”

So much for being sure of yourself!

Thinking back to your entire relationship, you wouldn't be able to say when it all started. When did the frightening lion of a beastman stop being so… frightening?

Was it after the Octavinelle fiasco when the subtle touches— lingering and often leaving an explicable amount of warmth in an otherwise tepid patch of skin— started to come about? You never would've thought that you'd say this but forced-proximity does wonders with communication and you did stay in his room for a good while (but you still don't advocate for it…).

Or was it after VDC when the softness held behind each of your gazes when you come across one another reared its worrying head?

Worrying to the point that the once untouchable prince became within reach of your hands, of your heart, and of your mind to be consumed with him, him, and only him.

When did the two of you stop being hesitant but oh so very careful as to avoid any alarm?

When exactly did the sands of your friendship break down into something so… different yet all the same? Like a sandcastle broken by the heavy tides. The foundation may have been broken and yet the material was still, irrevocably, sand.

Who knew a crisis driven by cuddles could induce metaphors?

And metaphors aside, you like the beach, and the sand, and the waves. Very much. It was always so warm to the touch, just like h— Oh.

When did—

“Oi, Herbivore, eyes on me.”

Leona's voice snaps you out of your overactive mind in an instant, as if your entire being knew that its main focus should be the person right in front of you. The person that had your left cheek cupped in his hand that could easily cover your entire face up if he wanted to do so.

But he won't. Especially when you haven't flinched away when you both knew how keen you were with keeping to yourself.

He would've backed off the moment you showed any reluctance. After all, your comfort is his priority. But you haven't shown him the slightest bit of discomfort and he was willing to take the chance to assume that perhaps he wasn't just seeing things when he thought you looked at him in a way no way else had before.

And by the Sevens were the two of you so compatible as similarly, your brain had decided to grow blank with only one thought to entertain it with.

No beastman should ever look that soft.

And yet, he does.

Because of me.

What the hell were you thinking? You weren't even fully conscious when you dragged your body to find his after your little crisis half an hour ago.

You supposed that that was simply another thing you aren't sure of.

“Herbivore, c'mon. Look at me. You can't possibly ignore me when you were the one who insisted on meeting up.” He almost whispers and you could've sworn that your heart had melted faster than anything under the scorching sun.

You almost felt like defying him just to see how far he'll go.

But you look at him anyways— eyes peering right into his viridescent ones that shined so ethereally under the setting sun.

You met this vile, vile man's gaze, growing worried as the sound of birds chirping could've beaten the quiet volume your voice had taken. Still, you spoke, albeit without any thinking,

“Oh, God, I like you.”

And at this point? That was apparently the one thing you were sure of.

★ END NOTE: hiiii, I REALLY like Leona and SHORT YAP!! I always felt like he'll be the kind of love where you'll suddenly realize that you love him one day. Maybe the realization gets prompted because of how comforting he is, idk 👉👈 anyways!! header by me and stuff :D!

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sevsevteen · 1 day ago

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hii if requests are open (and you’re comfortable with it ofc) cab i pretty pls request an angsty fic about maybe a sasaeng breaking into readers house/hotel room and idk just the members beung protective haha

i love your work 🫶🫶

hello!! thank you for your compliment hehe 🫶 much love~

[DISCLAIMER: i've read a prompt like this a while back, however i forgot the exact details and user of the original writer who wrote about it. if any of you remember please let me know i'll be sure to tag the original ><

edit: a kind reader helped me find it! the original is 'Intruder in the dark' by @scoupsakakitty. click this for their original fic, please check it out as well~]

this scene is written entirely by me (with inspiration by the orig. creator) thank youu—

Warnings: s*saeng (booo tomatox3), breaking and entering, small injury, read with caution!

-- જ⁀➴°⋆

The hallway was quiet when everyone stepped out of the elevator. A small wave and mutters of goodbyes echoed as the members left for their own rooms.

Your hoodie was still damp at the collar from post-concert sweat, and your legs ached after hours of dancing. Tugging your keycard out the lanyard, you rubbed at your tired eyes as you reached the door.

Room 1714.

The familiar green beep clicked, and you pushed the door open.

The room was dark, only the faint amber glow of the city lights filtering through the sheer curtains. You didn’t bother turning on the lights - it seemed too tiring. But when you took the first step in, the back of your neck prickled.

Something was wrong.

The room looked, at first glance, exactly as you'd left it that morning. The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn, the complimentary water bottles untouched on the bedside table. It wasn't just the air conditioning; it was a deeper, unsettling sensation. The kind that made a chill sneak its way up your spine.

You walked toward the bed, senses on high alert. The duvet was perfectly smooth, but was the pillow fluffed just a little too much? You remembered leaving it slightly dented while getting up from your morning stretch.

Your purse - left hanging on the armchair when you left this morning - was now on the floor, contents half-spilled out. Did you knock it over when you rushed out?

A sweater, once folded on the bed, was crumpled in the corner of the room floor.

It was such a minor detail, easily dismissed as your own forgetfulness, but the unease persisted. There was a feeling. Like the air had been disturbed, the molecules rearranged by an unwelcome presence.

Your forced yourself to swallow whatever doubts you had as your hand hovered near the switch, finally flicking on the lights.

Ruffled pillow. Spilled purse. Phone charger unplugged. The mirror slightly tilted. Everything slightly…wrong.

It was tiny. Insignificant. But combined with the other small changes, it formed a terrifying mosaic in your mind.

Someone had been in the room.

Someone who definitely shouldn't have been.

And they had tried to make it look like they hadn't.

The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. Your breath caught in your throat, blood running cold. You hadn't been alone.

Or rather, you were not alone.

You took a shaky step backwards, toward the door.

That was, when a hand wrapped around your wrist - all your senses jumping to life.

Appearing from a blindspot behind the wall of the bathroom, a man's force yanked your arm back, hard. You tumbled to the floor with a loud thud, head spinning as you landed on your back. A scream tore through your throat - only to be quickly smothered by a gloved hand pressing against your mouth, rough and smelling faintly of disinfectant, muffling any sound.

Before you could react, he was climbing over your torso, his weight pressing you down, stealing whatever breath you had left. Your wrists were seized in an iron grip, pinned above your head, held so tightly you could already feel the angry beginnings of bruises forming.

His eyes were scary - sinister. Hiding just enough for your body to start shaking uncontrollably. Your eyes closed on instinct when he leaned down, his face a dark, indistinct blur above you, breath warm and tickling your ear.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispered against your ear, the wind tickling your skin. “You have no idea how long.”

You shook your head, eyes darting around frantically for an escape as tears welled up, fear surging like fire through your veins. But there was only the oppressive weight of his body and the terrifying, terrifying, intimacy of his voice.

“Don't be so cold. I know you get off work at this time every day. I've been following you for a few days now.” His voice suddenly lowered, “You looked so good in your blue sweater yesterday.”

You writhed, thrashing beneath him, screams muffled as your heart beat so violently you could hear it in your ears.

“We're a match made in heaven. Don’t you know that?”

Move. Move. Think.

A flicker of raw, desperate anger ignited within you. You weren't going to let this be your end. Not here. Not like this. The adrenaline surged, sharp and hot.

With a sudden, violent twist, you yanked one wrist free from his loosening grasp, the bruising pain a dull ache against the urgency to survive.

You fumbled the floor around you, feeling the rough carpet that scratched your skin, blindly searching – reaching out, your fingers wrapped around the cool, smooth shape of a glass cup, one that must've rolled off when you crashed against the table before.

Without thinking, you swung.

The smash echoed as the cup shattered against his temple, shards cutting skin. The grip on your wrist finally gave way as he recoiled, clutching his head, a dark stain rapidly spreading on his gloves.

Your hands weren't spared either – drops of blood rolling to your elbow while pain seared your fingertips. But you couldn't feel any of it, not right now.

You kicked hard, enough for him to roll off with a yelp.

Scrambling out from under him, you crawled toward the door with your palms scraped and bleeding. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

You yanked the door open with trembling hands - and ran like never before.

The crash had startled most of the floor. Staff were poking their heads out, some murmuring about the noise, but some retreated quickly, not wanting to intrude.

A few doors down, the members had already stirred, stepping out their own rooms.

“Did something fall?” Jun muttered, wandering out in a white tee and sweats.

“I heard glass,” Seungcheol said, appearing from the room beside him. “Wait–”

That’s when they saw you.

Barreling down the hallway barefoot, eyes wide, hair a mess, breath ragged as if you couldn’t get air into your lungs.

You turned back occasionally, a quick, fearful glance over the shoulder, convinced the man was right behind you, his chilling whispers still echoing in your ears.

Your legs only stopped moving when you slammed into someone - arms, chest - someone solid. The impact knocked the wind out of you.

“What's going–” It was Wonwoo.

He was cut off by your scream as you pushed away. "Get away from me!" Your voice was raw and hoarse, instinctively pushing and flailing, your hands coming up in a desperate attempt to fend off whoever had stood in your way.

Wonwoo fought your fists, grabbing your arms as his own ones caged you in, forcing your thrashing to come to a halt.

“It’s me, Wonwoo. It’s just me.”

A voice, familiar and deep, began to murmur, slowly, gently, cutting through the fog of panic.

“Can you look at me?”

You paused as your vision cleared, his familiar face grounding your sanity. You collapsed into him immediately, sobbing, clutching his shirt with trembling fingers. You cried into his shoulder, pointing a trembling hand back down the hallway toward your room, stuttering out broken words between gasps.

“He– he was in– he grabbed– he was in my room-”

Wonwoo caught you again, wrapping both arms around you protectively as your knees gave out. “What? Who?!”

The words sent a shockwave through the group for a second – but the members moved instantly.

“Get a blanket. Someone call security- NOW!” Seungcheol barked, eyes wide.

Jun knelt beside you, holding your uninjured hand as he gently stroked your back, whispering: “You’re okay now. We’ve got you. Whoever it is, he’s not getting near you again.”

Mingyu and Dokyeom quickly formed a physical barrier around you and Wonwoo, their large frames blocking any view down the hallway towards your room.

“Minghao and Seokmin went down to the lobby!” Chan called from the elevator lobby, rushing back after hearing the panic.

Joshua was already on the hotel phone, voice urgent but eerily calm. “Yes, a break-in. She’s hurt. We need security and the police.”

The hallway was chaos, but around you, it was shielded - every member blocking the world from getting any closer to you.

And just minutes later, hotel security arrived, followed closely by staff and local authorities. The masked man was found still inside your room, disoriented and bleeding from his temple.

Still, your head rang when his voice boomed throughout the floor. “We belong together! Wait for me my love!”

You sat on Seungcheol's bed, now changed into a clean sweatshirt that belonged to Joshua, wrapped in a blanket and cradling a heat pack in your lap.

Your hands still trembled.

But you weren’t alone.

Wonwoo hadn’t left your side once. Hoshi sat on the floor by your feet, rubbing slow circles into your ankle. Mingyu had your hand in his, carefully cleaning the small cuts and scrapes on your hands – the remnants of your desperate struggle. His touch was gentle as he dabbed away the last traces of blood and shards that had embedded themselves. It hurt, of course, but exhaustion overtook every bone in your body.

Across the room, Seungcheol and Jihoon were already deep in hushed conversation, strategizing. They were setting up surveillance shifts, ensuring someone would be by your side through the night. No one had to say it aloud; the unspoken fear of the stalker's words still hung heavy.

They didn’t say much after.

None of them needed to.

Because every quiet glance, every hand on your shoulder, every member sitting in the room long after midnight without saying a word - it all said the same thing:

You were safe, and no one will ever lay a hand on you again.

every situation has its repercussions [coming soon]

#seventeen 14th member #seventeen imagines #seventeen #seventeen drabbles #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #svt 14th member #svt imagines #svt scenarios #svt #sevsevasks

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tagged-by-trauma · 1 day ago

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The ring

After a lady's words Joel feels insecure, so he shows his feelings in ways he didn't think he could. Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x wife!reader Warnings: established relationship, a little hurt/comfort, Joel feeling insecure, reassurences, proposal, cuddles, but this is basically just pure fluff Word count: 1.7k

You have been married with Joel for years now. You found each other back at the Boston QZ and you he immediately fell for you. He tried to reject this feeling, thinking he could never love again, but after a rough day and a little bit too much whiskey you confessed, and he was feeling like a schoolboy whose crush just complimented his new shoes.

You were walking down the street of Jackson, hand in hand, the sun shining through everything, blinding everyone who was out of their houses. He was talking about his new project of carved owl that he just started, and you were listening to him, his voice seeping into your bones. He was mid-sentence when an old lady dropped her bag in front of you. He jumped into action, letting go of your hand and picking it up, handing it back.

“Oh, thank you, sweetheart,” she smiled warmly, adjusting the bag in her hand, making sure it won’t slip out between her fingers another time.

“No problem, ma’am.”

“You are lucky, my dear. You have an amazing boyfriend,” you looked at her and nodded. You could feel Joel go tense beside you for a moment, then relax into his previous position.

“Oh, actually he is my husband,” you corrected her with a respectful tone, and you saw her eyes widen.

“My dear, then you’re even luckier,” she gave you a final smile and started to walk away, leaving you and Joel standing in the middle of the road. You turned to him, trying to study his reactions, maybe even what feelings were in his mind, but he gave a small squeeze of his hand and stepped forward, continuing the little walk. But after this little interaction you could see something in his eyes. You couldn’t explain what, but he was more distant with you that night, quieter than usual, and his gaze almost never met yours.

—-—

You were sitting at the dinner table, food before you, Ellie up in her room. Joel was in the seat opposite yours, the chicken untouched on his plate, his eyes fixed on one spot on the table. You didn’t know what to do, what to ask, so you just remained quiet and ate your food in silence. He stood up before he even finished, and walked away, leaving you alone in the dining room. Moments later you heard the door of his little workroom open then close, and after that the house was buried in complete stillness.

You stood up, packed away his portion of food, then you washed away the dirty plates and the mugs. You tried to think about what would have possibly got into him. That afternoon he was more talkative, excited to share his plan with you and now, now he was closed off, building his walls up again. You heard the sound of his tools in the other room while you were drying the dishes.

That night you went to bed alone, laying on your side while his was empty. Since dinner he didn’t come out of his office—his little world as he called it—and you couldn’t help but feel guilty for not being there for him, but at the same time you felt completely helpless about his feelings. After years of being together he could still surprise you with his quick mood changes. As these thoughts were swimming around your head, your eyes grew heavy, and in the end, you fell asleep hugging his pillow close to you, inhaling his thick scent.

—-—

You woke up suddenly, jolting out of your sleep when you heard the loud echo of a tool falling to the floor. Pushing yourself into a sitting position, you looked around the dark room, still hard to see everything, but one thing you knew, saw and felt was that Joel’s side was still vacant. As you reached out and tapped the soft mattress, you let out a sigh by the coldness of it.

No, he still didn’t come to bed. Not even for an hour.

As you sat on the edge of the bed, back to the door, deep down in your thoughts, you saw the soft streak of light as the door to your shared bedroom opened with a creak. As you turned to face him, Joel was standing there with a remorseful and guilty look on his face. He was still in the clothes he was wearing the day before; hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Joel,” at your voice his whole head raising, but eyes avoiding looking directly on your form.

“Baby, I’m…” his voice broke a little, and you walked up to him, taking his face between your palms and caressing them. For a moment he closed his eyes, letting out a sigh that he has been keeping in himself since the day before, and his hands came up to your waist. “I’m sorry for being so distant, baby.”

“It’s alright just… Tell me what happens in that handsome head of yours,” a little smile spread over his face at your compliment, but it soon faded away as he tried to from words of his thoughts. It may have been minutes, maybe just a few seconds, but you were standing there, holding onto him, offering some kind of reassurance.

“I have been thinking. And I think I came to a conclusion,” he reached up for your hands and intertwined his fingers with yours as he pulled it between your bodies. “Years ago, when I first laid eyes on you in the QZ I knew that you were trouble and I would fall in love with you in a short time,” his eyes were shining in the low light with the unshed tears. You squeezed his hands trying to encourage him to go on. “I tried to deny it. Deny the feeling of being loved, of being in love. After everything that happened, I didn’t think that I could experience such strong emotions again, and I clearly remember that night when I asked you to marry me. It wasn’t much, we were lying in bed, and I just blurted it out. No ring, no big celebrations, just us.”

You smiled at the memory. That day you were both exhausted, working all day at different sides of the QZ. When you got home you were too tired to even do anything else, you just sat down opposite each other at the dining table, eating the little food you had, then fell into bed with clothes on. And in the dark, and the quietness of the room he asked you to marry him.

“Today,” he continued as he saw that you were deep in your thoughts, digging through the memories. “When that old lady called me your boyfriend, something came over me. If you asked me now what, I couldn’t explain it, but I knew one thing for sure,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little object that you couldn’t see in the dim light. “I knew that I want other people to recognize us as husband and wife, and not just partners so…” he let go of your hand and lowered himself to one knee in front of you with the little object—which now you recognized was a wooden ring—held between his fingers. “Will you do me the honour and be my wife, my partner and my best friend for the rest of our lives?”

For a few seconds you just stood there, still processing the image in front of you. You could feel the hot tears spilling from your eyes, streaking your cheeks, but you couldn’t care for a second. You crouched down in front of him, pulled his face between your palms and looked him in the eyes.

“Yes, Joel. A million times yes,” he let out a relieved chuckle and the most beautiful smile you’ve ever received from him. Without hesitation you leaned in a sealed your lips with a slow and tender kiss. No rush, no expectations. His arms came around you, and you pressed your body closer to his. He pulled away for a moment and looked at you with eyes full of happiness.

“I love you,” he took your hand and slowly pulled the little ring on your finger. Your eyes landed on it, and you let out a quiet chuckle in disbelief. It was carved from wood, with a little flower showing on the top.

“I love you, too, Joel, but this…” the words got drowned in your throat as you tried to give form to them.

“I thought that if I couldn’t buy you a real ring, I would make one myself,” his look suddenly turned shy—not something you often saw in Joel Miller’s demeanour. You reached for his hand and caressed his knuckles.

“It’s beautiful, Joel. And it means more than a real ring,” you pulled him into a bone crushing hug, melting into his body. His head fell onto your shoulder, inhaling your scent as your palms drew circles over his broad back.

“Come on,” you leaned back, and stood up from the ground, looking down at him. Moments later he followed you with a loud groan and a hand on his back and the other on his knee.

“Jesus. Remind me next time to put down a pillow,” you laughed at him, and pulled him to the bed. He followed you without a second thought. When your legs hit the edge of it you turned around and pushed down Joel. His hands immediately came up to hold onto your waist, and his eyes filled with pure desire. But as you felt the soft pressure of his palms against the fabric of your pajama shorts, you stepped away. He let out a little groan, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Darlin’.”

“No, not now, Joel. You haven’t eaten anything yesterday at dinner and you didn’t even sleep. So, now you lay back, close your eyes, and good night.”

“But…”

“If you’ll be asleep in the next ten minutes, I’ll let you have your way with me in the morning,” his eyes widened, and with the speed of a seven-year-old boy who was just told he could eat pancakes for breakfast, he laid back, pulled the blanket over him and stayed as still as a statue. You lowered yourself beside him, your head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

Tonight, everything happened in a blur, but what you will remember clearly in the future is going to be this moment. The weight of the ring on your finger, his strong arms around you, the whispered I love yous and the emotions that filled your whole body.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #joel miller #joelmiller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller fluff #pedro pascal fandom

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admiringlove · 1 day ago

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a tempest gilded in ruin - part two.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

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

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

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

↬ word count: 25.5k.

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

↬ navigation: part one, jjk masterlist.

Present, Highgrove House.

It has been three days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let us hope wedding bells come before the ruin does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then your mother clears her throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never your parents’.

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

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

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

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

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

Until the sound comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Twelve?” Utahime repeats, eyebrows raised.

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

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

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

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

“There is… one more thing.”

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

“He said he loves me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dearest gentle readers,

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

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

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

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

Yes, dear readers. She has reappeared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Berbrooke steps closer. You step back.

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

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

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

Two figures leap down. Moving fast. Familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhale. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

His jaw clenches slightly. “Hurt.”

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He holds you close. “Whatever for?”

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

Two days later, Highgrove House.

It is late in the evening when Gojo Satoru arrives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sits heavy in your chest.

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

Late afternoon of Sunday, Hyde Park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your story—beginning, here. In full view.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

"It's happening," you whisper.

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

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

You inhale, and then step forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dearest gentle readers,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't understand," you whisper.

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

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

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

"I... I don’t know how, but yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

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

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

“L-lay back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The pinnacle,” you gasp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You must miss her.”

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

You still. “You hated him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause. “Contract?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If?” Your voice is a whisper.

“If he marries. And sires an heir.”

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t—”

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

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

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

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

Shouldn’t you be the one owed remorse?

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

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

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

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

But even that is its own kind of torment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shifts, frowning. “No, I meant—”

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

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

You push open the door.

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

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

“Satoru—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wait. One second. Two. Five.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your father.

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

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

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

“You thought I knew?”

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

“That is not the only reason—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turn your head toward him, slowly.

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

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head, already leaning in.

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

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

“Satoru—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dearest gentle readers,

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

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

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

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

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

But not all tales are so quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

With quill in hand and heart ever listening, Phantom.

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noodle-bowls · 2 days ago

Text

For nothing?

A/n: so kinda hate this? Had this idea and then forgot about it. Hope you like it more than I do!

CW: None. Maybe a little angst and some smooching.

Jason Todd doesn't do friends. Not anymore. Not since his days as robin. There was one girl. You. A single little asshole that put up with him at his worst. And what's worse than a teenager with a god complex.

He thinks of you sometimes. When he's having a rough day. When he fights with Bruce. Like he is now. How many years has it been since he's seen you?

Jason walks through crime alley. The cigarette smoke and car horns are more nostalgic than anything he can think of. He's...feeling things again. Dragging his feet as he kicks pebbles. Then he hears it. Like an angel calling to him.

"You got a permit to kick rocks man?"

And boom. Just like that, Jason felt like a kid again. There you sat. On your windowsill outside of your building. You recognized him. Of course you did. But this fucker is supposed to be dead.

He says your name like it's heavenly. It's untouchable. And you just sit there taking another drag from the joint between your teeth.

"This must be the good shit...could have swore you were dead."

Jason could've fallen in love right then and there. He swears he did. You were the same, but so...so damn different. You weren't all limbs and laughs anymore. You actually looked... grown. And God, if you weren't the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

You look over the blunt as if examining the paper. Could be laced. This is gotham after all. Never know what could happen.

"I can explain..."

"You better."

That's how it started. How he sat on on yhe floor while wtaching your reaction to everything he said. How when he went missing on that mission he was infact killed and brought back in this pit if green gunk and on some search for vengeance to now where he sits infront of you. Hes waiting for approval. For forgiveness.

He stands to follow you before your hands land on his chest. Not in a loving embrace or a tearful reunion like he was hoping. But they push. They push him back with painful words, soemthing along the line of: "You prick I went to your funeral. I saw your body. There's no way you're here now and-"

He would be angry if it was anyone else. But its you. Before he knows what hes doing hes pulling you by the collar of your hoodie, his lips crashing into yours.

In that moment, everything feels right in the world. There is a purpose to his suffering.

When you pull back for air theres a small glare in your face but even you know you can't stay mad at him.

"I hugged your brother for nothing?"

#x reader #dc comics #dcu #x you #jason todd #fanfiction #angst with a happy ending

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trippinsorrows · 2 days ago

Text

grief

authors note: if you not tryna cry or be mad at me, just go on and skip this.

no tags at all, cause i ain't tryna traumatize anyone.

words: 800

warnings: angst

Their arrival is something felt more than anything.

The way the guards who keep a good but safe distance suddenly stand at attention, shoulders straight, chin jutted in the air, mouths set into perfect lines.

Acknowledgement.

Solana uses the pencil in hand as a makeshift bookmark, closing the the sketchbook. Usually, she has no qualms about her children seeing her artwork. Never has. She’s always welcomed the sharing, but this….this is different.

Personal.

Hers.

Using her hand to shield from the sun, she makes out the three bodies that walk towards her. Each wear white, Leya’s long dress floating and waving with the wind. Lina’s is short and more form-fitting. It’s Tama’s matching white shirt and shorts, however, that make her take pause. From the moment she held Tamasa after giving birth, she saw him. Something that’s continued over the years. When he was just a toddler, then a boy, but now as a man, it’s all she sees.

Roman.

She sees Roman.

She has to ignore that weight in her chest that’s been present for now exactly a year to the day but even heavier this day.

She focuses on the items in hand of her children. Flowers for Leya and Tama, the ula fala for Lina. Hers.

Roman’s.

“Mama.” Her eldest son calling for her pulls Solana from yet another memory. Tama moves to one knee, hand gently resting on her shoulder. “You alright?” She can see it, the way he closes his eyes and looks down.

The way he mentally answers his own question.

Of course you’re not.

Solana offers a warm smile, offering reassurance, even when today, of all her grief riddled days, she's struggled the most. “As long as I have you all, I’ll always be okay.”

The same thing she’s repeated to herself every day that’s passed where she wakes up to the other side of the bed being cold, untouched, and empty.

That she’s woken up without her best friend.

Kisses to her temple from her three eldest children who then redirect their focus to the reason all of the children, grandchildren, and in-laws have gathered here at various points in the day.

Leya is the first to speak, stepping forward and carefully laying down the flowers. “Hi, daddy...”

Tama follows, clearing his throat. “Hope this wasn’t too much socialization for you today, old man.” He also lays down his flowers, stuffing his hands in his shorts afterwards. “Though something tells me you wouldn’t have mind.”

“No,” Lina speaks up, voice soft as she moves towards the headstone, hesitating slightly before gingerly laying the ula fala across, fingers glossing over his name. “He wouldn’t have.”

Solana says nothing, and neither do her children. Together, they sit in this shared grief, a first of many, an anniversary no one ever wanted to think about but a time that’s finally come.

The first anniversary of Roman’s passing.

“What do you think he’s doing up there today?”

Leya’s question is quiet, hesitant almost.

Tama scoffs, reaching over and taking his sister’s hand. “What he does everyday probably.”

“Acting a damn fool.”

A smile breaks across Solana’s face at Lina’s answer. Same with Leya.

“Him, Uncle Dwayne, Uncle Matteo. I can only imagine the trouble they cause.”

Tama shakes his head, also smiling, running his hand over his bearded face. “Man, if there was ever a case of people getting kicked out of heaven, it would be those three.”

“Especially daddy,” Leya joins in, the small smile previously on her face settling into something unspoken but also felt by everyone. “I—I miss him.”

At that, Solana looks over at her daughter, sees the way her irises expand and minimize, the slight tremble of her bottom lip, the way she turns her head, lifting her hand to her mouth. While Lina and Tama move to comfort her, Solana moves to stand, Tama, naturally, senses her movement and offers his arm, helping her to her feet.

Tama keeps his arm around her, Lina turning and angling her body as well as Leya’s, who cries quietly.

She shakes her head, offering unnecessary apologies for showing what everyone else is feeling. “I’m sorry, mommy….”

Solana eases towards her, lifting her hands to her daughter’s face, never once missing the way Tama and Lina, so alike, so much like him, work to hide the unshed tears in both of their eyes.

Unlike their sister.

Unlike Solana.

The mother of nine shakes her head, pulling her little girl into a hug, holding her the same way she did so many years ago.

“I know, baby.” Her voice breaks, eyes shutting, emotions cascading. “I miss him, too.”

#roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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afictionalwhor3 · 24 hours ago

Text

All I Ask

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Inspired by the song All I Ask by Adele.

Word Count: 2.1k

Divider by @cafekitsune

I won't say a word

They've all been said before, you know

“Bucky I don’t understand how you can’t see where I’m coming from with this?!” You yell as you watch Bucky pace the living room floor.

“I can’t see it because you are being ridiculous y/n! As per fucking usual with you!” He yells causing you to take a step back

“As per usual? As per usual?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I ask you for the bare minimum. Bucky, I asked you to show up for me for one night. One four night of your attention! This was supposed to be one of the highlights of my career and you couldn’t even be bothered to show up in time for my speech. You knew how much this night meant to me and you don’t even care! And I’m the one that’s fucking ridiculous?!” You yell before storming off

So why don't we just play pretend, Like we're not scared of what is coming next

Or scared of having nothing left

“I don’t know what else you want me to say y/n. I don’t know what else you want me to do. I’m done yelling, I’m done fighting. The therapy didn’t work, nothing is working. And if we are being honest nothing has worked for a while,” Bucky sighs clearly exasperated. He leans back in his chair folding his arms across his chest. He looks at you, awaiting whatever retort you had this time.

It was hard to pinpoint when your marriage started to go downhill. And over the last several months you had tried, really hard. Everytime you reflected on your relationship with Bucky, it was as if things were good until they weren’t. You were madly in love one day, destined to spend the rest of your days together. And then you couldn’t be in the same room together without screaming at each other. It could have been the words left unsaid after petty disputes. The apologies left unsaid and the forgiveness that acted as a band-air. Or your shared inability to show up for the other when they needed it. Or even in the way your bodies stopped searching each other. Two heat signatures that constantly needed the other to stay lit, had suddenly fanned out.

You sat across the table from Bucky nervously biting at your cuticles. It was him that got you to nick this habit once and for all. As things between you two crescendoed, this terrible habit creeped its way back. Your knees were pulled to your chest and your cheek was resting on your knee looking away from him. You didn’t notice the way your body rocked in on itself in an effort to self soothe, but Bucky did.

“Y/n. I need you to say something,” Bucky says, his tone turning soft as he looks at you. You finally turn your head to look at him with glassy eyes and shrug your shoulders,

“I don’t know what you want from me Bucky. Like you said… we haven’t worked in a while,”

I don't need your honesty, It's already in your eyes

And I'm sure my eyes, they speak for me

The walk to the bedroom was silent. Bucky allowed you to go before him. Both of you refusing to look at each other. You brushed your teeth side by side in silence. A place where you would once recap both of your days with laughs and smiles, while trying not to get toothpaste everywhere. You washed your face alone, Bucky leaving you to go lay in bed. Where once he would wrap his arms around your waist and rest his cheek against your spine. He claimed it was because of how warm you always were and he refused to get into a cold bed without you. You put on pajama pants where at once you would have put one of his sweaters on. Playful arguments from him about having to go shopping because his clothes were disappearing. Teasing from you that you would eventually give it back with no plans of doing it. His sweaters now lied in his drawers neatly, untouched, and all accounted for.

No one knows me like you do, and since you're the only one that matters

Tell me who do I run to?

You wipe sweat from your forehead sighing. Of course the day you had decided to start renovations was one of the hottest days of the year. The electric company got the dates wrong, so there was currently no electrical in the house, which meant no air conditioning. Bucky ran out to grab pizza roughly twenty minutes ago. You stayed behind, determined to make some leeway with painting the master bedroom. You fall right onto your butt when you finally finish the wall you were working on. You slowly lay down and starfish your limbs out. The plastic sheet you and Bucky put down to protect the floor, stuck uncomfortably to your skin. You were far too hot to care as you looked around at the two walls still needding paint.

“Guess what I got!” Bucky yells walking in and turning his head in confusion as he looks at you

“I hope it is electric and an ac unit” You say not moving from your position. He laughs softly setting the box of pizza down a little ways away from you and sitting with his legs crossed.

“I do consider myself a master of tricks, but I definitely do not have that up my sleeve,”

“Why did we decide to one, buy a house. And two, renovate it in the summer” You ask. Bucky opens the box and puts a slice on a plate for you, and another for him. He slides it over to you, so all you have to do is roll over.

“Because we are madly in love and love makes people a little dumb?” He asks rhetorically and it makes you laugh. You sit up slowly picking up your slice of pizza. His smile as he stares at you, “You have paint all over you,”.

“Yeah I’m trying out a new look. Serving modern day Picasso you think?” You tease with a smile giving him a pose. Taking a bite of your pizza you accompany it with a groan,“God I needed this. What would I do without you?” You ask seriously taking another bite.

“Be pizzaless and probably less sweaty,” He responds making you laugh once again and look at him.

“Yeah. Definitely less sweaty,”

“I love you,” Bucky says suddenly. His sudden seriousness takes you by surprise, but you are quick in your response.

“Forever and always,”

Let this be our lesson in love

Let this be the way we remember us

You get into bed next to Bucky. The first room you renovated in your home was the bedroom. Now painted, furnished and cool. That coldness had found itself not just in your sheets but between you and Bucky as well. You both laid on your backs looking at the ceiling. Despite the yelling and the endless fights, there was so much left unsaid. Empty promises that felt pointless to bring up now, and fresh feelings that were scared of being seen in the light. The silent night ticked on, as a sinking feeling settled itself at the pit of both of your stomach’s. There wasn’t a enough time to say everything. To relieve the dreams you two once shared in this bed, in this room. The talks of a future, of a family. Maybe a smaller house one day with a big yard for grandkids and a porch swing for the two of you. Maybe it was the slippery feeling of time running away, or the acceptance this would be your last time together that guided Bucky’s hand on top of yours. Playing with the bands on your ring finger, that had at one point brought you two together. The physical reminder of your love and commitment to each other. Now, it had become a vice that got tighter everyday. Threatening to choke both of you if you didn’t get out fast enough. You allowed Bucky’s fingers to make their way between yours, and give your hand a squeeze.

I don't wanna be cruel or vicious, And I ain't asking for forgiveness

All I ask is

You turn your head and find Bucky’s bright blue eyes already looking at yours. His dark eyelashes blink slowly. “No fighting. Not tonight. Let’s not even say anything. I just… Wanna hold you. If that is alright with you,”

If this is my last night with you

Hold me like I'm more than just a friend

Without saying another word, you moved closer to Bucky. You rolled onto your side so you could properly wrap your arms around his neck. You draped your leg across his hip, which he easily adjusted and began to stroke your thigh. These actions were muscle memory to your bones, at one point behaving more like instinct. Whenever you were near Bucky, your body yearned to touch his. Now the movements felt clumsy, slow, almost forced. Bucky sighed, and for once it was in appreciation. If only one last time you two would be connected like you used to. He too rolls on his side so he could get a proper view of you. While his metal hand rubbed your leg, his flesh one drew tiny circles on your lower back. You rested your head near Bucky’s neck, letting your warm breath fan over the sensitive skin there.

Give me a memory I can use

Take me by the hand while we do what lovers do

You can feel yourself fighting the sleep that threatens to close your lids. You couldn’t fall asleep, not now. Because when you woke up it would be morning, a new day. But you knew this would be the last night of you and Bucky. The last time your bodies would behave like two pieces of a puzzle hoping to become one. He wouldn’t be your Bucky and you wouldn’t be his. Even though neither you had been for a long time.

It was impossible to know what time it was, but you knew the moon still hung itself high in the sky. Offering the purveyors of the night, a light to guide them. It was in this moonlight you felt yourself whisper,

“I’m scared James. I don’t want to go to sleep,”. You could feel the way Bucky tensed up, and his hand on your thigh stop suddenly. Your own body stiffened in return, petrified that you had ruined this final moment. He asked you not to speak, but choking down words had led you two to this moment. With nothing left to lose, you didn’t want to hold back anymore. You didn’t relax again until you felt Bucky’s cool metal fingers traveling up your body. They didn’t stop until they reached your neck, using his thumb to usher your head back just enough to look at him. You studied his blue eyes. They were almost pure, but specks of green and grays threatened their purity. You studied his eyes as if you were studying a test, trying to burn them into your memory. You moved your hands from his neck in order to cup his jaw. The stubble scratched at your palm, but you didn’t mind. You rubbed the apples of his cheek with your thumbs, enjoying the texture of his skin beneath the pads of your fingers. Without asking Bucky leans in for a kiss.

It was an embarrassing confession, but you neither of you could remember the last time you kissed each other. In the beginnings of your relationship, every kiss was filled with passion. The promise of more that sent a shock up and down your spine. The chemistry between the two of you would cause Bucky to get dizzy and breathless after kissing you. This kiss was filled with finality. With longing and apologies unsaid. Mournful yearning and understanding of the future. You pulled away to look at each other again. Bucky wasn’t breathless, there were no shocks racing through your body. Just a stray tear that ran down your cheek. Bucky swiped it away with his thumb,

“I love you,”

“Forever and always,”

It matters how this ends

Cause what if I never love again?

#bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x black!reader #bucky x black!reader

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a99jazzybean · 8 hours ago

Note

HIIIII! I just binge read your date everything fics and I love them! May i ask for yet another Chance fic, where y/n is familiar with g&g and used to play with their friends from time to time - using his dice of course! And... y/n used to kiss the piece for the "lucky shot", doesn't matter if it worked or not. So now, with Skylars help, y/n can speak with him and even play a session or two and it is so much fun! But she is completely oblivious to the fact that he remembers every time y/ns lips touched his dice-y form and each time he silently yearns for her lips to touch him once again... The rest is up to you, lots of love!

I love this prompt so much! Thank you for the request!

With a Taste of Your Lips...

synop: You and Chance decide to play another session of G&G. Little do you know, a special tradition of yours has him feeling all sorts of hot and bothered. i.e. You discover Chance can feel when you kiss his die.

words: 4.7K

includes: chancexfem!reader, ttrpg playing, making out, fondling an object?, cumming untouched kinda, smut

a/n: I might make a part 2 to this one, thoughts? Also, its got smut. No minors!

“You feel yourself growing weaker. The spell the lich cast on you drains your life force. All of your comrades are downed. You are their final hope.” Your GM stares you down, brow raised. “What would you like to do?”

Looking around the table you see all of your friends' faces are grim. All eyes are on you. Taking a look at the battlemap before you, your eyes widened.

“Past the cliff, it’s the Abysmal Pit, correct?” You asked the GM.

“Correct.”

“And anyone who falls in is erased from existence, right?

“Correct.”

“No!” Sam shouted. “I know what you’re thinking. You can’t do it!”

You give her a solemn look, eyes filled with sadness.

“I’m sorry.” You pick up your red D20. “But you can’t stop me. I’m going for a grapple on the lich, then I’m dragging him over the edge with me.”

A chorus of gasps erupts from your party members. Some are getting teary-eyed.

Two years of a campaign filled with adventure, friendship, romance, and tears. This is how it ends. Perhaps it was destined to be.

“Make your roll.” Your GM feels tears prick in their own eyes. Not knowing whether they want you to succeed on this or not.

As is tradition on major rolls, you bring your trusty die to your lips. Pecking it softly, you pray that this works.

“Lucky shot,” you hear Sam say under their breath.

Cupping the die in your hands, you give a good shake. Then you release it onto the table. Everyone in the room is holding their breath as it rolls. Finally, it stops. Natural 20.

Normally, the table would erupt with cheers. This time, it wasn’t proper to celebrate.

“Prim,” your GM took in a shaky breath as he spoke your character’s name. Trying to hold back tears. “You muster up the final dregs of strength within you. Pulling yourself up with a groan. Everything hurts, but your mind has been made up. Pushing through it all, you start to run. Taking one final look at your fallen teammates. This is the last time you will see them. Tell me how this ends.” Their voice wavered.

“As I run toward the lich, I let out a final ‘goodbye’. I grab it around the waist, then throw both of us off of the ledge. No matter what it does I keep ahold of it. It’s coming with me.” Your own eyes fill with tears.

“As you fall, the lich tries to get you off of it, but to no avail. For a brief moment you can see a flash of its past humanity. Fear filling its face as it realizes the one thing that it tried to run from has finally arrived. Death in the shape of a half-elf rogue who risked it all to defeat it.”

Chance sighed dreamily, remembering your great sacrifice. Seemed like you frequently played characters that laid their life on the line. No wonder he was absolutely smitten.

While you weren’t able to see his personified form at the moment, he was able to see you. Back hunched over as you typed on Mac. The computer feeling pretty good about themselves as you cranked out your latest self-insert fanfic. What else were you supposed to do when an AI took over your job?

Chance wasn’t able to see what you were writing, but could see Mac occasionally blush and chuckle at the words you were typing onto them.

“Care to share?” He asked the computer.

Mac glanced over at him, then back to one of the screens in front of them.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. She’s kind of mortified that I’ve even read this stuff.” Mac turned back to read what you had just typed out, red blooming on their face. “Yeah, no. You don’t need to know about this.”

Chance grumbled to himself. It didn’t feel fair that Mac got to see the sexiest innermost thoughts of yours. Actually, he was kind of jealous of many of your objects. Betty slept with you every night, witnessing the limited sexual exploits of yours. Johnny, he wouldn’t talk about it, too much of a gentleman. But the massage setting on his shower head? He might have alluded to activities you had accomplished with that.

It was frustrating to say the least. Seeing how much better the other beings in the home got to know you intimately. All Chance wanted was a taste of that knowledge.

He hoped you’d put your Dateviators back on again. Now that you had been able to see him, all he wanted was your attention. It didn’t help that you enthusiastically offered to play G&G with him. Only feeding into the ever-growing obsession with you.

It didn’t start when you put those glasses on, no. It started when you came up with that damned tradition. Kissing the 20 side of his die body. You didn’t know, couldn’t know, really. But he felt it, every single time. It was special, something you only did when making a major roll. And you always picked him. Your “lucky shot” for your “lucky die”.

The thing was, you hadn’t ended that tradition. When you began playing with Chance, you continued to make your lucky shots. Not realizing that although the personified version was sitting in front of you, Chance was still very much connected to the object he was. He would have you roll on something difficult, and as if it were instinct, you pressed your soft lips right on the20 side. Thankfully, Chance had been able to maintain his composure as you watched the die roll. However, it was beginning to become too much.

Each press of your lips to the die had him falling for you harder and harder.

With a sigh, you pushed away from your computer. Eyeing the die beside you with a smirk. Tapping on the desk, your gaze flitted over to your glasses. It had been a few hours since you had them on, couldn’t hurt to say hi to your office. And there might have been a specific object that held your affections.

“You know. I can feel you looking at me, right?” You teased the die before putting on the Dateviators.

Chance’s face was ruddy when you looked at him, caught red handed. Rubbing his neck sheepishly, he gave you an apologetic look.

“What can I say? You’re nice to look at.”

Now it was your turn to blush. The damned man always seemed to fluster you in such innocuous ways. Somehow always polite with his flirting.

There were times he could be fairly forward, but he never pushed. It was sweet.

Thinking about it, you could go for something sweet now. But nothing that was consumable.

“Do you have a session prepped?” You asked.

Immediately, he perked up. A bright smile on his face complimented by an enthused flush.

“Of course! Ever since you’ve come along, I’m like ten sessions ahead!” He leaned toward you, bouncing on his toes.

“I’m glad that you’ve been so inspired. I love your stories.” You gave him a soft smile.

His eyes widen, practically sparkling at your words.

“Y-you love my stories?” He held his hand to his heart, feeling the muscle pump faster at your compliment.

“Why do you think I want to play with you so often?” You pulled his die over with a finger, rolling it around. “I have a lot of fun with you.”

“We could have more fun.” He raised a brow suggestively, looking over his glasses at you.

Red in the face, you waved him off with a giggle.

“Do you have time to play now?”

“I always have time for you.”

You were sure you heard Timothy scoff somewhere in the distance. That was no matter though, for now you had the full attention of your favorite die.

“Shall we play, then?”

Chance nodded enthusiastically, then proceeded to get his GM station set up. When his screen and notes were all in place, he gave an approved nod. Looking up, he beamed at you again. Feeling his heart squeeze at the content smile on your face as you sat on the other end of the table from him. Oh how he wished to always keep you happy. He would play forever with you just to make sure that smile never fell from your lips.

“Alright, where did we leave off?” He glanced over his notes.

“I managed to talk myself out of being eaten by a giant.” You had your own notes pulled out.

Chance felt his heart swell again. You took notes! Oh, you truly were the perfect player.

“That’s right! My charismatic girl!” He chuckled as your face grew red.

He was glad that he managed to make you as flustered as you made him. Equal opportunity flirting to make the other squirm. Again, perfect.

“You’ve gotten away from the giant, but you still have yet to find the gilded egg laying hen.”

“Thankfully, you have quite the wise girl as well!” You let out a satisfied huff. “Can I make a perception check to see where the chicken is?”

“You may.” He motioned for you to continue.

Shaking the die in your hands you urged it to roll well.

“C’mon D20, show me what you’re made of!”

You released the die, it clattered into your dice tray. After a moment of circling, it landed on a 16.

“Nice! And that’s a plus four to my perception!”

“Wonderful!” He cleared his throat, continuing his tale. “As you look around the foyer of the giant’s castle, you aren’t finding any indications of where a hen might be roosting. However, after a moment of hearing silence, there’s a new sound filtering down the hallway to the north.”

“What’s the sound?” You ask with a knowing smirk.

“It’s soft harp music, almost dreamlike.”

After your previous character died valiantly saving a village from a dragon, Chance asked if you would mind experimenting with a fairytale themed game. Of course, you agreed, excited to see what he would come up with. While some of the quests you have been on so far were a bit predictable, he had many twists and turns added in.

Like Cinderella’s slipper turning out to be a baby mimic. When you had managed to aid the prince in finding his lost love, the mimic revealed itself, chomping down on her foot. However, she didn’t scream. It turned out, Cinderella’s ballgown had already consumed her and was using her head and limbs to blend in. The fairy godmother revealed herself as a demon looking to collect on the souls of the kingdom. All she needed was the prince to disappear so she could take his place.

It was a lovely twist that ended with a fairly hard battle. Thankfully the prince that accompanied you turned out to be part of the bloodline of very powerful sorcerers, so he was able to aid in the defeat of the fairy godmother.

The prince tried asking for your hand in marriage, but you had other adventures to go on. Instead, you left with a hefty amount of gold. A token of appreciation for saving the kingdom. The engagement ring hidden amongst the coins didn’t go unnoticed, Chance giving you a cheeky wink when he mentioned it.

You had noticed the man had been throwing romance options at you throughout each of the fairy tales. Many of them were love stories, sure, but it seemed like he really wanted you to get with someone. Little Red Riding Hood, growing smitten with you after you saved her from the belly of a wolf. A huntsman asking for your hand after you aided him in saving the kingdom from a corrupt king. Snow White practically begged you to marry her after you turned out to be her “true love's kiss”. He was laying it on pretty thick, so to speak.

Truthfully, the reason why you never accepted was because you wanted Chance to stop hiding his affections behind characters in your game. The two of you had constant flirty banter, but it felt like he could only speak through innuendo when hinting at wanting anything more. While it was endearing, it was starting to become tiring.

Though admittedly, you were a coward too. It would be hypocritical to judge the man considering you couldn’t muster up the courage to do anything either. Instead, you sat in a flirtatious purgatory. Something that could be viewed as a comfortable platonic relationship, but in reality had very, very heavy overtones of desire.

Neither you or Chance could be subtle. There were times where you could feel the hunger in his eyes as he ran your game. Usually when you did something quite clever.

That time when you answered his Latin riddle? The man was very glad he had baggy pants on.

Then there was you. Easily bending to his dominating whims when he was GMing. Something about him having that kind of authority over you often had you clenching your thighs and squirming in your chair. And don’t even get started on the villain monologues. He pulled one of those out, you left the gaming table with your panties soaked. Giving Betty quite the show when you couldn’t get to sleep.

Back to your current game, Chance asked for your next move.

“I follow the sound of the harp.”

“You feel almost entranced at the music. Your steps pulling you to the north hallway. After about an hour of walking (remember, this is a GIANT’S castle) you made it to the room the music was coming from. Peering inside, you see a giant sitting on a bed. She appears to be much shorter than the one you first encountered, but still clearly a giant. You can tell she is related to the other giant, both sporting the same nose shape. The giant girl is playing the harp, her fingers delicately plucking at the strings. You look across from her and see what you’ve been looking for. A hen nestled in a nest of straw. Its body swaying side to side with the music. Below it you see a peek of gold. What would you like to do?”

“I’m not going to try and hide.”

Chance looked at you with wide eyes, surprised at your blatant move.

“I handled the other giant with my words, I can easily do the same again.”

Oh, he loved your confidence. Your willingness to dive in despite the consequences. He just hoped that it wouldn’t end with your bones ground up to make bread. Quite the horrific way to depart this mortal realm.

“If you say so. You stride inside with confidence. Hyping yourself up from your previous encounter with a giant.” He rolled a die, giving a grimace. “The giant girl doesn’t appear to see you. She’s looking right at the hen, swaying side to side as she continues to play the harp.”

“I try to catch her attention by clearing my throat loudly.”

“You clear your throat, and she stops playing. A sour look grows on her face as she looks for the source of the sound. Looking down, she finally spots you. Crossing her arms, she gives you a pout.”

“You know, it’s quite rude to interrupt a performance.” Chance put on the voice of a little girl, making you chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

“Chance, you know that wasn’t in-game.” You gave him a stern look.

“I know, I’m just messin. Anyways… she looks at you, waiting for you to respond.”

“I apologize, your music is lovely.”

“Then why did you interrupt me?”

“Well, I have some important matters to discuss.”

“Important matters? What’s important is that Bailey gets her proper rest.” Chance returns to his normal voice. “You follow her gaze to the hen in the nest.”

“Is Bailey your hen?”

“Obviously!” The character voice returned. “And she won’t lay eggs unless I play for her.”

“I see.” You ponder on that information for a moment, then ask. “Is the harp huge?”

“It’s giant, so is the hen.”

“Didn’t the asshole who hired me say he had been here before? Why send me up if there’s no way to bring the items down?” You huffed in frustration at the quest-giver.

“Who said there wasn’t a way to bring them down?” He clicked his tongue at you, admonishingly.

“Hmmm. I think I'll talk to the girl some more.” He motioned for you to continue. “I’m sure Bailey loves your music.”

“She does, she always lays an egg when I play! My daddy says I’m gettin just as good as my mama!” Chance goes back to narrating. “After she says that she goes quiet. Her eyes widening as if she’s just realized you were here. There’s a darkness in them that surprises you for a girl so young.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this.” You bit your lip nervously.

“You’re a human. Humans aren’t allowed here!”

“Um, you’re dad let me go. At least I think it was your dad.” You give Chance a nervous glance.

“Roll on persuasion.”

Shaking the dice, you let it drop. Watching in fear as it lands on a three. Chance’s gaze grows dark.

“You only think you know? How can I know if you’re telling the truth?” Chance narrates again. “The giant girl stands up, towering high over you. A glare on her face as her eyes narrow. But you spot something odd, her eyes are watering.” The little girl voice is put back on. “All humans lie! I bet you’re no different!”

“I decide to stay quiet, letting her speak.” You say to Chance. Again, he’s surprised at your action.

“Your people killed my mom!” He switches back to normal. “You now see tears falling from her eyes. She’s going to reach for you.” He rolls a die, eyeing you expectantly. “Would you like to do anything to stop it?”

“No. I let her.”

“A large hand grabs you with a crushing squeeze. You feel the air forced out of your body by the strong grip of her hand. She lifts you to her head.” He clears his throat, going back to the girl voice. “I should just eat you, show you how it feels.” He gives you another expectant look. “Are you going to try and do anything?”

“Nope. I’m gonna close my eyes and accept my fate.”

Impressed, Chance sits back with his arms crossed. Pondering on what to do next. While you had managed to talk your way out of the last giant encounter, he thought you would at least try to fight your way out of this one. The giant child’s stat block was something that you could manage on your own.

“Okay. I want you to roll persuasion, and I’ll be nice and give you advantage for what you’ve managed to do so far.”

Pumping your fist in the air, you reached for the die. This time, you brought the D20 to your lips, giving it a light peck. This was a roll that was gonna need it.

“C’mon lucky shot, don’t let me down now.”

The first roll landed on a 6. Again, you brought the die to your lips. The kiss to the dice slightly lingering, just for good luck. You shook it in your hand and released, crossing your fingers for a good roll. Slowly, it spun to land on a 20.

“Nat 20 babee! Let’s gooooo!” You stood up and cheered, your character saved.

Chance remained seated, face beet red. His breathing had become labored. For some reason, he couldn’t get himself to calm down. Maybe it was the fact that you had kissed the die in succession. Something he could feel burning through his body.

Coming down from your high, you realized Chance hadn’t continued. Turning, you gave him a concerned look. Walking over, you eyed the state he was in. Face still extremely flushed.

“Are you okay?” You leaned toward him, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“I-I’m fine. We can continue!” He rubbed his neck nervously.

“Are you sure? Your face is really red.”

“What did you expect after kissing me like that!” He clamped his hands over his mouth, face turning another shade darker.

“What? I didn’t kiss…” You looked over to the die, feeling a heat crawl up your neck. “C-can you feel that?”

Hands still over his mouth, he nodded. You realized you had been performing your luck ritual the entire time you had been playing with Chance. He could feel it. Every. Single. Time.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You felt terrible, doing that to him without asking.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He said softly.

“But then I kept making you uncomfortable! Kissing you without your consent, ugh. I’m so sorry, Chance.” You gave him a sad look that pierced his heart. That wasn’t what he meant at all!

“I never said I was uncomfortable.” He composed himself somewhat.

“Huh?”

“I might have liked it…” He trailed quietly.

“What was that?” You couldn’t make out what he said.

“I like it!” He blurted. “I really like it when you kiss me.” His face grew red again as he waited for your response.

“Y-you do?”

He nodded sheepishly.

“Yeah. It feels… nice. Really nice.” He bit his lip nervously. “You’re always so soft and sweet.”

“Oh.” Your face was burning.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He gave you an apologetic look.

“Chance…” This time you were nervous.

“Yes?”

You leaned down toward his face. Arms planted on the headrest of his chair.

“Can I actually kiss you?”

“I-I mean technically you are ‘actually’ kissing me…” He stuttered out, eyes flitting between your eyes and lips.

You gave him an unamused pout.

“You know what I mean. How’s about this? Can I give you a reciprocated kiss? One that you also participate in?”

“Yes. Please.”

With that, you pressed your lips to his. Chance froze up at first, eyes wide at the fact that this was happening. Leaning into the kiss, his eyes fluttered shut. You let out a content sigh at the feel of his lips against yours. Soft and plush, perfectly meldable with your own.

With your tongue, you teased at his bottom lip. Gladly, he slightly opened his mouth for your tongues to intertwine. A low groan left him as he tasted you. So fucking perfect.

The man pushed the chair away from the table, letting you sink onto his lap. Your hand trailed up his neck, fingers lightly scratching at his scalp. He moaned against you at the action. His own hands trailed over your body, mapping out your slopes and curves. Ultimately they landed on your ass, giving it a quick squeeze. You giggled against his lips, pulling away to get a good look at him.

Face still flushed with kiss bitten lips and blown out pupils. He stared up at you like you were a goddess that was granting him a blessing. That was sure how this encounter was feeling. Something that he had only dreamed of.

“You’re so handsome.” You pressed kisses against his jaw and down his throat, making him shiver.

“And you’re beautiful. So perfect.” He pressed a kiss to your lips.

Leaning your forehead against his, you smiled. Then an idea came to you. Biting your lip, you wondered if the man beneath you would oblige to your whims.

“Chance…”

“Hmm?”

“When I kiss your die, where do you feel it?”

“Oh, um, I guess on my face? Like a whisper against my cheeks and the corner of my lips.” He let out an awkward chuckle.

You shifted off of him to grab the die, then returned to his lap. Holding the die in front of you, you looked over the numbers.

“So what would happen if I kissed the other numbers?” You asked, gaze hungry.

Oh, oh, this was hot. So fucking hot. Chance thought just kissing you was a dream come true. You wanting more from him? That was merely a fantasy.

“I suppose I would feel you kissing me on other parts of my body.” He answered. Truthfully, he had no idea what would happen. You only ever kissed the 20.

“So if I kiss the one.” You brought the dice to your lips, pecking the side.

Chance giggled at the feeling. Right on the bottom of his foot.

“I take it that was your foot?”

He nodded, excited to see where this was going. Already feeling himself growing semi-hard in his pants as he watched you in anticipation.

You pressed a kiss to the five, eyeing Chance’s response. He twitched under you with a whimper.

“Where was that?”

“My left thigh.”

Okay, so if five was the left thigh then… you pressed a kiss to the six.

“R-right thigh.” He groaned out. Having your lips on him like this was something else.

It was probably a good thing you never kissed the other numbers. He was sure you would make him cum from just kissing him alone.

“So if six is your other thigh then that must mean seven or eight is likely your-”

“What if we avoided that area?” He cut you off, a nervous sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Why’s that?” You leaned in, giving him a deep kiss.

“I-I just…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Chance, would me kissing the dice equivalent of your crotch make you cum?” Wow, just right out with it.

“Y-yeah, yeah. It would. I’m gonna be honest. With the way that you’re already going at it, I’d probably cum just from you kissing me.”

“Really?” You sat upright, eyes sparkling.

He nodded, blushing furiously.

“Could we try it?” You bit your lip.

The thought of having the man fall apart just from you kissing him had you riled up. You could feel yourself growing wetter at the thought. Seeing him squirm from your kisses before coming undone. Oh, that was very appealing.

“You want to?” He was surprised.

“Yeah, I do. Only if you want to.”

“You don’t have to ask twice.” He wrapped a hand around your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. Your tongues tangled with each other as you moaned.

Pulling away, you brought the dice back up to your face. Eyeing the numbers, you decided to go for the 19. You gave it a slow kiss, watching Chance as he shivered and moaned. The feeling reached a sweet spot on his neck that had him keening. He was pretty sure he was addicted to your lips now.

You continued to press kisses to various numbers. Loving every whimper and moan you managed to get out of the man. Occasionally you would lean back in to give him a proper kiss on the lips, only to return to tease him with the die.

Chance could tell you were avoiding the seven and eight. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“P-please.” He groaned through gritted teeth as he felt your lips on his chest. “I need you…”

“Need me to what?” You teased with a smirk.

“Kiss the seven and eight. Please.” He begged, squirming beneath you.

“Hmm. Good boy.” Oh fuck. That had his dick throbbing.

Slowly, you brought the die to your lips. You pecked all over it, then finally pressed a kiss to the seven. Chance cried out at the feeling. Your lips right where he needed them. Feeling them press against his throbbing length. He was sure the next one would be the last he needed. You gave another slow kiss to the eight. It was his undoing. Cock twitching in his pants, releasing a sticky load into his boxers. His hands gripped at your hips as he rutted against the feeling of your lips.

“Oh f-fuck.” He stuttered out.

You pressed your lips to his, then kissed all over his face. The man melting into your affection.

“How was that?” You asked softly.

“Amazing. Perfect. Wonderful. Perfect. Did I mention perfect?” He chuckled.

“I’m glad I could give you that.” You picked up the die again, giving it a peck on the 20.

“Guess I’ll be keeping my lucky shot tradition for our other games.” You gave him a sweet smile.

“Oh sweetheart,” Chance pulled you back to him, “did you think playtime was over?”

#a99jazzybean #date everything x reader #date everything #chance date everything #chance x reader #chance x you #D20xreader #date everything fanfic

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musingsofheaven · 7 hours ago

Text

EAT YOUR YOUNG.

summary: You weren’t supposed to matter. But Patrick noticed you anyway. But now he knows your name, your face, your routine. And when you show signs about the ex who wouldn’t leave you alone… He thinks you’re worth killing for. It’s not your fault you trust him. It’s not your fault he makes dinner. You’re lucky, really. He’d do anything for you. Anything.

pairings: killer!patrick zweig x afab!reader

warnings: 13.8k words. mature themes. graphic violence. premeditated murder. stalking. surveillance. dubcon-adjacent tone. food tampering. implied cannibalism. body mutilation. blood and flesh horror. references to emotional and physical abuse (from a past relationship). power imbalance. emotional dependency. unprotected p in v. praise kink. nipple play. mild overstimulation. breeding kink. mild somno-adjacent. read & consume responsibly.

note: I actually finished this a while ago but got stuck on proofreading this. Kept staring at it and overthinking. Originally it was a lot more graphic (especially the killing scenes, I had those written out already), but I ended up toning it down a bit. Thank you for reading. Please check the warnings before reading… 😅

He doesn‘t know your name. Doesn't know you. Never seen you before. Not even familiar with him. He knows he’s never seen you courtside before- not in that seat, not in his line of vision, and definitely not in that hoodie and legs crossed like you’re cold. Like you didn’t even plan to be here. Like you are bored and not enjoying the game. That’s what gets him first- how you don’t look like you belong. Not because you’re out of place. Just untouched by it. Like the noise, the tight skirts, the heat of the match- all of it is background. You have your own world, it seems. You’re scrolling with one headphone in, thumb flicking slowly. You shift when the sun moves, tug your sleeve down, and pick at your phone case like you love them.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until the ball flies past him, untouched. Patrick blinks, totally distracted. Clears his throat. Focus, fuck, focus. But then someone slides into the seat next to you- loud, late, elbows you like he knows you. Too comfortable. You don’t flinch, but your leg stops bouncing. You're anxious but you don't show it to him. Your phone disappears. The side of your face goes still. Not angry- just resigned... look tired. This smug asshole is wearing a backwards cap. His arm was draped behind your chair like he’d done it before. And Patrick knows the type. The breakup didn’t stick. He's a leech. He still shows up. Still acts like nothing’s changed because there's always an opening. The door that never closed. And you’re letting him. That’s what is infuriating, even though he doesn't know you, he reads the situation, knows what kind of setup you are stuck with.

Of course, he knows this. He’s seen this before. The kind of guy who poisons the air just enough that you stop calling it out. The guy who will drain you out. He's the guy where you will learn to shrink yourself to survive it. Maybe it’s none of his business. Maybe. He's aware of that. He shouldn't have cared. But he saw you before the serve- and that was the mistake. One of his many mistakes in his life. You were never supposed to be in focus. You're supposed to be a glance. Because you're just some... you’re in the box like someone dragged you there- too many tickets, too many “it’ll be fun” texts. Maybe it would’ve been. If he hadn’t noticed. If you weren’t sitting there in that hoodie, sleeves over your hands, headphones around your neck, typing something, deleting it. Not even looking up when they announce his name. Which hurts his ego a little, but that's not the point.

Everyone else claps like he might hear it. But not you. Okay, maybe he's bothered by it. You just sit there. And he should’ve looked away. Bounced in place. Blocked you out. But he doesn’t. He watches your mouth twist when your friend nudges you. Watches your eyes flick up, slow and unimpressed, like you were doing something more important and now he’s in your way. Like his game doesn't matter. You barely move and it drives him crazy. Like you don’t feel it too. Jesus, why would he even look at you every time they announced the scoring?

And then that guy. Loud. Smirking. Maybe too much ego. He also has a lot of ego, but he's not like that. Not sliding into your airspace like he owns it. Patrick sees the way you fold in, pull your shoulders up. You don’t smile. Don’t lean in. But you don’t push him away either. You just let it be. Maybe he was someone once- someone who saw you cry. Someone who still texts even when you never answer. He talks close to your mouth. You laugh, but it’s hollow. Patrick can smell it. You’re not scared. You’re tired. And that kind of tired makes men bold. Makes them confident. Makes them feel powerful.

Patrick forgets the court. Forgets the match. He’s supposed to win today- clean. But there’s something hot in his jaw. Something sour in his gut. He cracks his neck like it’ll shake the feeling loose. It doesn’t. He doesn’t even know you. But you’re soft. And someone’s already wrecked that. And he hates it. And he’ll fix it. Sooner or later.

You leave before the match ends. Of course you do. You’re not screaming or filming or wearing merch. You’re just there. Crossed legs. Half-scrolling. Like someone dragged you to a sports bar and didn’t tell you why. Your friend’s the fan- squealing at the good plays. You’re just in the photo. Then the guy grabs your wrist. Doesn’t even glance at the court. Just pulls. You don’t argue. Don’t look back. You just go. Like none of it mattered to you in the first place.

That should’ve been the end of it, right? Match over, crowd on their feet, sweat still clinging to his neck. That's what he thinks, but Patrick’s still buzzing. Still hot. And you’re gone. Not just out of sight- out of reach too. Slipped through like steam. He doesn’t know why that bothers him, it's not like you're his girlfriend. He doesn’t know why he even looked, but your friends are still there. Still laughing and just let you leave like it's a normal thing. Like it's a tendency you always do. Still near the exit like nothing just tore through him mid-serve. So he walks. Not to fans. Not to cameras. Straight to them.

They see him fast. The loud one freezes mid-sip. Her friend elbows her. Patrick smiles like this is normal. “You guys were courtside, right?” His question sounds so casual. Like he’s not already fishing for information. The loud one lights up. “Yes! I told you- oh my god, I told you!” Already talking too much. Being all jumpy and excited. Says she dragged the group here. Says she made them come. Someone groans, says she’s said that six times. He hums before asking, “Dragged them?” She nods fast like an eager puppy. “My best friend doesn’t even like tennis. She literally left in the middle.”

He feigns surprise. “She left?” Another girl cuts in, voice flat: “With her ex.” He doesn’t flinch because he's right at guessing that it was your ex. “She ditched you mid-match?” The loud one holds up her phone like proof. “Yeah- here. White sweater. That’s her.” He barely glances. He already knows. “She’s the one in the corner?” Asking like he didn't even see her earlier. “The one who left,” she confirms. Then he asks, trying to be smooth and not harmful, “What’s her name?”

They give it. Full name. No pause. The one you wiped from socials. The one that only lives on mail and ID forms. You need to change your friends because they really gave you away. He nods, like he’s filing it away. Smiles for the camera. Like a good player, he is. Tag them. Let's them scream. But not long after he got what he wanted, he was already gone.

By the time his Uber’s halfway to the hotel, he’s on your social. One click from the tag and there you are. Easy. Unguarded. Sloppy. Real. Like you didn’t think anyone important would ever look. But he’s looking. And now he can’t stop. Just taking a look at anything he can find. It doesn’t take long actually. A few scrolls. Your college. Major. A blurry concert selfie. A liked tweet about throwing your prof into traffic. Then it tilts. A second account. TikToks with too-honest captions. A playlist. A mirror selfie- legs tucked, mouth soft, someone’s elbow just barely in frame. Cropped, but not enough.

It’s him. Same watch. Same slouch like your space belongs to him. Patrick knows the type. The ex who lingers. Exes who don't want you to move on. Who walks like time didn’t pass. Like your name’s still his. He scrolls faster. Screenshots everything he can find. Finds him. Tagged photos. Everywhere. Hotel mirror. Your legs are in a robe. Two toothbrushes are on the sink. They’re still up. He stares, but he's not jealous. It's something else. A darker thing. A creep creeps under his ribs. Heat in his jaw, his fists, his throat. You’re not with the guy anymore. Doesn’t matter. Not when someone else got there first. Not when someone else saw you soft and didn’t care. Patrick didn’t mean to want this. Didn’t plan it. But now you’re everywhere. In his hands. In his teeth. You gave him everything- your name, your face, your friends, your weekend. You walked away. But you didn’t vanish. And he's getting delusional.

Well, here he is... close to you. But he doesn’t mean to run into you. Not really. Not after spending the night watching your Instagram like it's breathing. Not after scrolling through your tagged photos and memorizing people from there. Not even when he heads down to the lobby past midnight for a cigarette. Coincidence, yeah, that’s what he tells himself. Until you walk in. The hoodie is too big. Mascara smeared. Hair messt that says don’t fucking talk to me. You look wrecked. Crying or fucking. Or both. Don't want to know.

You don’t see him until he steps out of the shadow, cigarette nearly out. He doesn’t say your name. Just, “Hey. You were at the match earlier, right?” Casual. Just curious. Just observant. God, he hopes he doesn't sound like a creep. You blink. “Huh?” He shrugs. “With your friends. One of them had a tennis shirt something.” You sigh and nod before chuckling, “Jesus. Yeah. Sorry- I, yeah. My friend’s obsessed.”

He hums like it’s news. “You’re not a fan?” You shake your head. “Not really.” He smiles. “Didn’t think so.” You squint. “Wait- were you playing?” He nods. “Patrick.” You huff a tired laugh. “Shit. Sorry. Didn’t recognize you.” He could probably guess that you don't, but it doesn't really hurt or bother him. “It’s late,” he says. “It is,” you echo. You shift on your feet, scraped thin. He wonders if the ex is upstairs. If you came back to cry. “Everything okay?” he asks. Softly. Not really pushing. Just enough for you to shrug off or answer. You pause. “Not really.” He doesn’t press. Just flicks the cigarette, nods at the bench. “You want to sit?” You glance. Then sit.

That’s the shift. The turn. You talk- slow, hesitant, too tired to keep the mask on. He listens. Doesn’t ask your name. Just waits. And when you finally stand, brushing your hands down your thighs like you’re putting the weight back on, he watches like he’s memorizing something. Then, just before you go, he lifts a brow. “You on IG?” You blink. “What?” He shrugs. “Didn’t catch your name earlier. Thought I’d follow you.” No pressure. But it still feels like pressure.

You pause. Then you give it. Because he doesn’t feel dangerous. But he is- just patient. The next morning, he DMs you: Was that your walk-of-shame fit or your signature style? You wait, then answer: Bold coming from a man in tube socks. That’s all it takes. That's where it all starts. The gate. The hook, line, and sinker. You feel like water. He plays it perfectly- just enough to stay near, never enough to draw attention. A heart in your story. A sarcastic reply. A meme at 1 AM. A blurry mirror selfie with a kill me caption. He's the guy you can easily get close to because he's easy to talk to. Like he knows all the strings. You laugh. You answer. You send photos back- nothing posed. A messy corner. Your foot is under a blanket. Iced coffee is sweating in your lap.

He saves them. He loves them. God, he's obsessed with them. Jerks off to your selfies like they’re sacred- licks his palm, strokes slow, your story lighting up his screen. He can be one of those freaks you may see on television. Your voice is worse in his case. A FaceTime while you’re tipsy, brushing your teeth with a towel. He waits until you hang up, already touching himself, replaying the part where you yawn and say, I wish you were here, until he’s coming, mouthing your name. You don’t know any of this. To you, he’s just that weird, funny tennis guy who always texts back.

You mentioned him to someone, but he doesn't know that. Maybe you said something like... yeah, I’ve been talking to this pro tennis player. I know. It’s dumb. Your friends laugh though. They don’t believe you. You don’t correct them. You don't really give a fuck about it. It’s not about proving anything. You like that he’s yours- quietly. Maybe. Maybe you're getting used to talking to him every day in chats, calls, or FaceTime. That he remembers the breakup, the ferret, the TA who smells old and expired cologne. That he listens like it matters.

You start looking forward to his messages. Noticing when they don’t come. Dressing better in your stories. Maybe a thirst trap if you are bold. Watching his reactions. Smiling at your phone. It’s nothing. Casual. You’re not together. But he’s there- in your day, your pocket, your bed when you whisper, “Are you awake?” And he is. Always. For you. Some nights, you stare at your phone and think: If he asked me to fly out tomorrow, I wouldn’t pack. I’d just go.

And yeah. It happened. But it's the other way around. It starts like this: “I’m in your city. 2:14AM.” You’re half-drunk on a couch that isn’t yours. “Wanna get a drink?” Casual. Like he didn’t see your tagged location an hour ago before sending that message. Still- you say yes and end up being a date. The first date is quiet. Hoodie and cap. You’re too busy trying not to stare at his mouth. You take a booth and talk until close. He asks the right questions. You laugh. He buys two drinks. Doesn’t touch you once. Just listening to you and talking to you like real adults do. Probably looks like he's so invested and getting to know you. Until he walks you home. You stop outside your building. Kiss his cheek- thank you, goodnight. He smiles. Doesn’t push. But you feel it. That shift. That which stays under your skin.

You fuck him after the third date. Invite him over. Not really expensive and all kinds of dates. Intimate. Cook something half-hearted. He does the dishes. You sit barefoot on the counter, no bra. He turns to say something- but you’re already sliding down. You kiss him. Hard. He gives in like he’s starving. Carries you to bed. The sex is slow. Measured. But raw. His hands shake when he spreads your legs. He moans into your cunt. You come with your hand in his hair, his teeth at your thigh. Your pleasure first, he said. He fucks you after. When he comes, he bites your shoulder. Barely. Like instinct. You wake up in his shirt. He makes coffee. After that, it just happens. When he’s in town, he’s at your place. Just a text: Landing soon. Still like Pinot? Takeout or are you feeding me? Then he’s back- shoes half-off, hands on you.

He tells you stories. A moment with his mom. A dog that ran away. You believe him. It’s easier than being suspicious. You soft-launch him: a wine glass, a blurry elbow. He never posts back to you. Always “busy.” But he answers. Shows up unannounced. Keeps you hidden- not like a secret, like something fragile. Says you’re his calm. That you don’t ask for anything. You tell yourself it’s enough. Even when it isn’t.

When the summer ends. Your dorm is empty. Then he texts- “Come with me.” You call. He picks up too fast. “Need me to book it?” You laugh. Say yes. You don’t know he already picked the dates. The trip blurs. Cities stop mattering. He pays for everything- hotels, wine, whatever you need. You offer once. “Don’t insult me”, he says, but he's just teasing you. You laugh, but something twists. He fucks you everywhere. Sometimes he just watches. When he finishes, he mouths something into your skin. Always the same. Always too quiet. You try to hear it. Can’t. You let him braid your hair. Let him fuck you rough. You think it’s love. But it’s too late.

You don’t see the cracks. He never leaves his phone out. But he knows your passwords. Knows your cousin’s boyfriend. Knows your ex is back before you do. While you sleep, he scrolls- old photos, old chats. He knows what your bedroom looked like at sixteen. That your favorite teacher died. He’s building you from the inside out. And you’re still smiling. Still whispering, I’ve never felt this safe, like it’s a blessing. Not a trap. Because he’s sweet. He makes you coffee. Let you sleep in. Touches you just to watch you flinch. You laugh. Call him insatiable. You think it’s love. But it’s colder. Sharper. You don’t see the fake IDs. Don’t ask why his phone never rings. When he says, No one’s ever gotten this close, you smile. Let him in. And that’s exactly what he wanted.

The relationship is okay. Got even closer. Got more comfortable with him. And now? It starts after a FaceTime call. You’re in bed, voice slow and sleepy, tucked in the kind of way that makes him feel like your city’s the only place he can breathe. He’s still in his hotel- post-match sweat drying, skyline behind him, TV on mute. The first thing he touched when he came back was his phone. Told you he wants to see your face, that he misses you. Of course, you miss him too and you don't really have anything to do so you accept the FaceTime call. You ask if he’s coming back for the off-season. He pretends to think, but you both know. “Yeah,” he says, eyes low. “I think I’ll stay for a while. Your city’s nice.” You smiled into the pillow when he said that. Happy that you'll be with him longer. He always tries to memorize that smile. You say you’d like that. Ask how long. He shrugs. “Long enough to fix some things.” You don’t ask what he means. But something in the way he says it lingers. And when he got there? He starts small- intentions folded like linen, nothing rushed. Just the start of a quiet storm.

Because there’s a man. One you never talk about. Patrick saw him gripping your wrist too tightly the first time he saw you. The one you brushed off with a shrug and a smile. The one who still views your stories the second they go up. Your ex- the violent, obsessive one. The one who made you small. Patrick doesn’t ask about him. He doesn’t need to. He already knows the story. He just watches. Then he begins. Quiet. Always searching for something. Deletes searches. Uses burner tabs. Wipes metadata like instinct. The obsession grows slowly, like he's too eager to want it to be perfect, to be precise. He starts with fiction: Hannibal, You, Dexter. Not for flair- for process. Ritual. Control. Maybe get some ideas from it. At night, he watches documentaries- unsolved murders, killers who prepped, studied, and perfected. There’s calm in their madness he understands. He dives deep: forums, tutorials, subreddits on disposal and blood spray, books on decomposition and forensics. He highlights passages. Rereads them like he's studying for board exams.

He learns the man’s schedule. The layout of his building. The doorman’s smoke breaks. He maps blind spots, times deliveries, studies routines like game tape- clinical, obsessive. He tests gloves. The good ones. Practice knots. How to tie someone. How to tie when you have a wound. Times the knife. He rents a basement flat two neighborhoods over. Concrete floors. No cameras. Cash only. Shady one. The kind of place that hums with pipes and disappears from people. Inside: bleach, rope, gloves, tape, wipes. A mini fridge. A comforter that's already there. A duffle packed with precision. Nothing extra. Just a boring shirt, deodorant, and drugstore soap. (He’ll toss it anyway.)

He buys everything slowly- different stores, cities, and aliases. Pays cash. Burns receipts. Bags double-wiped and folded flat. No prints. Even the gear breaks into parts. It lives in a crate marked TENNIS STRING + TENSION TOOLS, tucked between rackets and sweatbands. Make it look like a tennis thing. Looks normal. Because it’s not rage. Not jealousy. It’s control. Preparation. Something that’s his. He watches the man’s socials like clockwork. Never from his own account- he’s careful. Uses a fake: mutuals, old photos, just real enough. That’s where he sees it. Wednesday, 11:42 AM. Blurry cake. Two candles. Caption: “Nan’s bday. Family thing all day lol.” Perfect. He waits thirty minutes. Then moves.

Midday. Bright sky. Business casual. Wig under a plain cap. Short cut, light contacts, pale foundation over fake tan. Layered clothes shift his build, boots tweak his height. Hoodie’s neutral. The coffee cup’s a prop. His voice- low, bored, and forgettable. Make him look different. Not Patrick Zweig. At the gate, he buzzes. No name. Says he saw a listing. Just moved. Looking for quiet. The caretaker opens up. “Try 2C. Layout’s the same.” Patrick nods. That's a good one. He feels like every layout of it is the same for the furnitures inside.

Inside, he moves like he cares. Like he is really interested in moving in. But he’s tracking everything: creaks, locks, smells. Mailboxes. Shoes at the door. “Anyone stay up late?” he asks. “Mostly early risers,” the guy shrugs. Patrick nods. “That’s good. Just need quiet.” The tour lasts six minutes. No name. No number. Just, “I’ll think about it.” Doesn’t look back. He already knows the layout. No mess. No panic. Just a clean grab. The kind he’s practiced- like other people practice falling in love.

In his mind, the first kill wasn’t about chaos- it was about stillness. It's focus. Especially if it's planned. If it's not a sudden one. The one you will feel guilty doing. It is kind of cold that tightens the skin and thins the breath. It wasn’t about the scream or the way a body jerks when silence breaks. Patrick wanted it quiet. Methodical. Intimate. He needed to feel life leave with precision- not for power, but to know what it meant to step over a boundary like it was nothing. That’s why he went for the wrist first- anatomical, strategic. Just want to make it hurt. Control lives in the limbs; silence in the throat. He grabbed the arm mid-step and pulled until it cracked backward. Not just broken- dislocated, tenting the skin wrong. The grunt that followed was sharp, dazed, like pain had just arrived. He reacted like a fucking girl getting fucked.

“W-wait- fuck, man, what the fuck are you- ” That voice men use when they still think reason might save them. Well it won't save his ass this time. Not when he already turned the kill switch of being guilty about it. That he will pity this piece of shit. Patrick didn’t respond. Just stepped in, palm to chin, and twisted- quick, brutal. The jaw cracked out of alignment, tongue caught, mouth hanging open like a trap that forgot how to close.

Then the knife. Not a rage-stab, not messy- a tool, chosen after weeks of testing grips, weights, edges. Curved like a scalpel, thin enough to slip between ribs. Sharp enough to use in things like this. He drove it in with purpose- under the rib, angled up. Yeah, he learned where it would hurt the most when the knife pressed. But it's not a wild lunge. Just calm insertion. The way butchers work. Inside, it slid clean. Warm meat. Soft tissue. No spray- just a slow hiss, like air escaping a balloon. The blood pooled steadily, not dramatically. Not like a shaken champagne when it gets opened. A red thread trailed down like a ribbon. Almost pretty.

The man stumbled, knees gone and wobbly, breath broken, and hit the floor sideways. One hand twitched in a last protest, then stillness. Patrick knelt beside him, unhurried. His heart wasn’t racing- it was settling. He brushed damp hair from his forehead and looked down like he was studying an old photograph. A bruise was already blooming where he used to grab you too tightly- wrist, throat. Patrick smiled. Soft. Private. Like something inside him finally unknotted.

He unzipped the duffel. No panic. Just routine. The sterilized kit opened clean. He lifted the leg by the knee. The jeans were half-off, fabric was dark. He peeled them down further, exposing the thigh- pale, veined, still warm. Pressed a palm to it, testing the give, then cut. A clean crescent, two fingers wide. He slid the blade beneath the skin, separating it from the muscle- slow, steady. No spray. Just a bloom. He held the slice to the light, then folded it into a tin. Not a trophy. Not rage. Just process. Something to keep. Not the man- never the man. Just the flesh.

Made it look like a mugging- nothing more. He wore a sealed base layer, a thrifted hoodie, and jeans. Gloves: nitrile under leather. Boots: two sizes too big, stuffed with paper. Bought for this. No prints. No skin. He didn’t break the window until after. Corner scored. A gloved elbow, glass spilling in. Forced entry. Inside, a few drawers open, a lamp knocked over, a chair nudged. Just enough to suggest chaos.

He wiped the phone, removed the SIM, and crushed it. Sliced out the GPS chip, fed it to the disposal. The thigh wound- deliberate, clean- was hidden. Pants refastened. Just a stain. The missing flesh? No one would notice. Not until autopsy. And even then- it would look jagged. Accidental. Nothing sacred. Nothing stolen.

When he’s done, he opens the fridge, takes a beer, and leaves it half-finished- poured but untouched- on the counter, like someone panicked mid-theft. He wipes it clean. Even the bottle cap is gone. Then he slips out the back, loops through the alley, crosses two streets, and ducks into a delivery alcove between dumpsters. Just enough cover.

There, he changes fast. Shirt, pants, boots- everything that touched what he did- folded into a heavy-duty plastic bag. Gloves, mask, sleeves- sealed. The tin goes in last, not in the burn bag but the duffel, separate. Still double-wrapped, tucked beneath a towel like a relic. Preserved. The new clothes are plain: zip jacket, clean sneakers, surgical mask, same cap. Nothing traceable. Just a guy running errands. He slides the trash into the duffel, zipped opposite the tin. Three blocks later, he reaches the rental parked under a flickering streetlamp. No cameras. No traffic. Just dead space near condemned buildings. The car is basic, rented a week ago under a fake name, and paid in full. Always clean. Always untouched.

He drives under the speed limit, hands steady, making two legal turns just to avoid an empty intersection. No sirens, no phone. The real one stays off so no location traced. Eventually, he pulls into the industrial zone- rail yards, warped fencing, nothing alive. He parks deep. Engine running. Headlights off. He opens the duffel and drops everything- clothes, gloves, knife- into a rusted oil drum. The tin stays. He soaks the pile in gasoline and lights it. Flame curls plastic into smoke. When it’s ash, he seals the trash bag and stows it in the trunk. The burner phone snaps in half, SIMless, tossed in a storm drain. The rental stays for now. Still clean. Still boring.

By dawn, he’s home. Basement flat. Concrete floors. Mattress on the ground. Fridge that hums like it’s dying. He showers twice. Scrub nails. Flushes his nose. Ditches the contacts. Every hair accounted for. He files down the callus the boots left on his toe. And in the freezer, sealed in a separate tin: the piece he took. Still warm when he stole it. Wrapped in gauze. Preserved. Untouched. No one will know. No one will tie it to Patrick Zweig because how can they even tie it to him?

He doesn’t sleep after that. Can't. Just sends a text before leaving: good morning, baby ❤️ / thought I’d grab groceries / text me when you wake. You’re still out since 2:44 a.m., wine in hand, lashes low from a picture you sent earlier when he's breaking your ex's wrist. You fell asleep safe. Unaware. Still, he sends the message. Routine.

By sunrise, he’s dressed again. Hoodie zipped just enough to shadow his mouth. Same baseball cap. The city is soft and slow, still half-asleep. He moves like a ghost. No breath fogs the glass. He drives with silently. Same rental. Clean. The duffel was zipped in the trunk. He parks three lots away and walks the rest of- hood up, head down. Still too early to be seen. Just sleepy couples and men in visors. The store opens. Fluorescents bloom. He grabs a basket. No rush. Muscle memory.

It’s a nice store. Too quiet for the morning. People look minding their own business. Soft music. Lavender and basil in the air. He starts with produce- rosemary, thyme, garlic, shallots. He rolls one in his palm, reading it. Near the pastry: pappardelle. Flour-dusted. He tilts the tray, watching the noodles shift. Intentional. Next: tomato paste. Imported. Blood-thick. He drops it in.

The cheese counter girl smiles. “Parmigiano?” she asks. “Shaved,” he says. She wraps it. Hand it over. Her eyes linger. He doesn’t look up. Just nods. “Thanks.” Then wine. He lingers. Finger bottles. Watches the red cling to the neck. Picks one. At the butcher: “Two pounds boneless short rib,” he says. “Trimmed?” He shakes his head at the question. “No. And half-pound pork belly.” His voice stays low. Certain. The paper’s thick. Folded neatly.

Then dairy. Foil-wrapped French butter. He presses his thumb- cold, dense, soft enough to melt. Tools next. Disposable knife, two cutting boards, gloves, vacuum bags, and bleach spray. All of it clockwork. Steadying. Then- a black takeout container. Glossy. Fancy without trying. Enough to hold what matters. Small enough to ignore.

Before checkout, he doubles back for sea salt. Flaked. In a gold tin. Hand-harvested. Pretentious. Unnecessary. He takes it anyway. For you. Self-checkout is fast. Cash only. No receipt. The bag’s heavier than it looks- by design. He wipes the screen. No prints. No trail. The day unfolds like nothing happened. like no one’s missing. Like no one will ever look at him twice.

Outside, the sun is sharp now. Too bright enough to be annoying. He walks the last stretch to the car like nothing matters. Grocery bag swinging from one hand- glass bottle tapping plastic, pasta sliding gently inside its tray. His face is blank. Shoulders loose. No rush. No tension. The world doesn’t know it should be afraid of him yet. The rental’s still where he left it- three lots over, behind a closed appliance store. No cameras, no foot traffic. He's really careful with the things he's doing. He opens the trunk, sets the bag inside, and shuts it softly. Slides into the driver’s seat. Your reply buzzes in: What’s for dinner? 😚 He types, deletes, rewrites: just wait. You’re gonna love this. Then starts the engine, window cracked, driving like he’s lived here forever.

The streets are busier now. More alive. Kids with cones. Men walking dogs. People running or jogging. The delivery truck was idling crookedly. The city doesn’t stop for him- and he prefers it that way. The car is boring, clean, and quiet. No playlist. No voice memo. Just the hum of routine. Seven minutes later, he’s back to his shitty temporary place. He doesn't really sleep there, just when he's planning things. Two neighborhoods away. Quiet block. No cameras. He pulls in slowly, wheels crunching gravel, and parks behind the alley wall. Shuts the engine and looks around. Cracks the door open. The bag thumps once against his thigh. One motion for the gate. Another for the door. Pipes make sounds as he steps inside, like the building knows him now. Like knows how rotten he is inside. How dark.

He doesn’t take off his jacket. Doesn’t pour the wine. He moves straight to the fridge- small, matte black, chosen for its separate freezer. Cold enough to burn your skin if you touch the back wall. He opens it. Not really smelling yet. Still fresh. Blood. It's like just an animal after being butchered. The tin is still there. Gauze white, lid tight. Metal cold as bone. He sets it beside the bag and begins. He pulls items from the grocery bag one by one. Paring knife- still sealed. He tears it open with his teeth. Cutting boards- white and red. The black takeout container- snapped open, just let it sit and wait. The rest stays in the bag. For now, anyway. He washes his hands. Fingertips to wrist. No gloves. He likes it better this way. Then unwraps the meat. Short rib first. Pork belly second. Spread out on the white cutting board, marbled and dense. He squares the rib, feels the grain, and cuts- clean, slow, practiced. Not sawing. Just slicing. Just like what he saw from cooking tutorials how to cut the meat for this specific meal. The fibers split like cloth. Cubed, measured. Wiped clean.

The pork belly is firmer, slicker. He scores it shallow- crosshatched for marinade- then slices smaller than the rib. It should melt. It was felt more than tasted. He transfers both cuts to the container- first the belly, then the rib. Setting it aside for marinating later. The container swallows it whole, made for this. Glossy. Black. Innocent. Then he reaches for the tin. Still cold. He sets it on the red board, steadies it, and lifts the lid. The gauze is still tight- careful, reverent. He unwraps it slowly. The flesh inside is pale, blushed with frost. Not frozen. Pliable. Tender. He doesn’t hesitate. Slide the blade beneath the skin. Begins to peel. The skin lifts in strips. Some clean, some stubborn. A little hair- fine, like the back of a wrist. He scrapes it too. Then flays the rest. Pink at the edges. Firmer than veal, softer than pork. He inspects the grain. Begins to cut. Not chunks. Too noticeable. He slices thin- smaller than the belly, close but not identical. He wants it to vanish in sauce, to be mistaken for something familiar. The blade moves confidently. Like he’s done this before. Because he has.

And when he’s done, it doesn’t look like a person. It looks like meat. Just animal meat. He wipes the blade. Slides the flesh in one handful, then another. It folds gently over the others, pink and soft. Visually distinct, but just enough to disappear. He presses the last bits in with his fingers. No force. No waste. It all fits. The container looks full. Heavy. Meant to be eaten. Like a gift. He wipes his hands, then pulls out what he needs. Rosemary- one sprig. Stripped by hand. Then thyme. Finer. Softer. It dusts the top. A shallot- sliced thin, rings sweetening in the air. Garlic- two cloves. Crushed, peeled, minced. A pinch of sea salt. Big flakes. Bright. They stick where they land.

He opens the tomato paste. Scoops a small amount. Scrapes it over the top. Thick. Deep red. Doesn’t mix it. Just let it sit. No oil. That’ll come later. From your kitchen. He knows what’s there. The meat is streaked now. Red, glossed with shallot, dusted with herbs. It’s starting to look like dinner. Smells like something someone would want. He seals the lid. Tight. Let it sit. Let it sink. Let it become. He cleans like it’s all muscle memory. Like the end is just as sacred as the act. Red board first- slick with meat juices. Then white- flayed, marked, ghosting what used to be skin. He rinses both under hot water, sprays, and scrubs until nothing sticks. Then snaps them in half. One clean crack. Two. Plastic splitting like bone. The knife- disposable, blade dulled- gets rinsed, wiped, and wrapped in a paper towel. The tin too. Cold. Hollow. Emptied now. He holds it for a second, then drops it in the bag like it means nothing. Because it doesn’t anymore.

The skin follows. Wrapped tightly in the same butcher paper that the pork belly came in. Folded neatly. Gloved once. Bare-handed now. It goes in with the rest. The butter foil. Garlic ends. Shallot skins. The first chocolate wrapper he opened but never ate. Everything that touched the process. Everything spent. Then, more. The rest of the flat: mattress, clothes, hoodie, notebook, dying pen. The candle he burned while writing. Lighter. Charger. Toothbrush. Cracked razor. Saline bottle. Tissue pack. Sock. Contact lens wrapper. Swept in. No pause. It all goes into the same bag. The whole life of the place, reduced to garbage. One knot at the top. Tight. No labels. No sorting. Just disposal. Just the final step of something holy.

He slips the grocery bag over his shoulder like it’s nothing- just dinner, just errands, just another quiet evening. The weight rests easily. Familiar. Domestic, even. Like he didn’t just unmake someone hours ago. The other bag- heavier, dense with use- goes in his hand. Gloves, boards, wipes, the tin, the skin. He opens the front door without looking back. The key drops to the mat with a soft clink. That’s it. No second thoughts. The sun’s too high. Too clean. Like it doesn’t know what it swallowed last night. He moves through it steadily, invisible the way men like him are trained to be. The flat door swings shut behind him. Doesn’t echo. Doesn’t matter. At the car, he opens the passenger side first- a grocery bag lies gently on the seat. Pasta shifts, bottle rolls, but everything stays contained. Curated. Innocent. Then he pops the trunk. Lifts the trash with one practiced heave, lets it fall beside the duffel still waiting from last night- silent, zipped, untouched.

The two bags sit together. One was already burned in his mind. The other is about to be. He closes the trunk. Starts the engine. Doesn’t turn on the radio. Doesn’t check his phone. Just exhales once, slow and full, and pulls away like he’s done this before. He drives the route he knows by heart- past half-awake neighborhoods and sun-bleached alleys, broken fences, old warehouses, into the dead zone. Condemned industrial sprawl where no one looks long. The air smells like rust and disuse. The kind of place you can burn a life and no one asks what it was.

He parks deep, where the shadows pool thick. Opens the trunk. Trash first. Then the duffel- lighter now but stained with memory. Both go into the same rusted drum. Lid clanks. He unscrews the gas can- tacky around the lip. Pours until the smell sticks to his sleeves. One flick. One bloom. The flame climbs fast. It eats everything. Wipes. Paper. Gauze. Skin. Every trace. He watches until it curls black and the smoke turns thin. Then gets back in the car. Doesn’t rush. The drive to the rental return is clean. Normal. It’s a weekday lot- quiet, tucked behind a plaza where no one looks twice at a man with a grocery bag and a calm return.

He parks. Checks the seats. No stains. No smell. One glance in the rearview. Then walks inside. Returns the keys. Sign your name on the fake ID. The desk guy nods. “Need a ride anywhere?” Patrick smiles. Shakes his head. “Already called one.” He’s out before the sentence finishes. Outside, the grocery bag hangs from his arm. Wine, pasta, herbs, and meat. Nothing suspicious. Just indulgent. Just sweet. He orders the Uber before the door shuts behind him. The driver’s three minutes away. When it pulls up, he gets in like anyone else. Backseat. Calm. Bag in his lap.

By 1:00 p.m., they’re back in the city. Sun high. Heat rippling off storefronts and car hoods. Patrick doesn’t say a word. Just leans his head back, letting the hum of the car press softly into his temples. He's feeling tired but the adrenaline and the high from all the things he did are still there. The grocery bag is warm now. One hand around the handles. The smell of herbs. The faint, metallic heat of meat marinating slowly in its quiet. It’s sealed. Clean. Safe. But it’s there. All of it. Settling together. Becoming something else.

He texts just before the car turns onto your street: on my way up 🩶. You open the door before he knocks. Hair mussed. The tank top is soft. No shoes. You blink against the light when he steps in golden from outside, like something expensive. You smile, lazily. “Hi,” you say. He smiles back, soft and familiar. “Hi,” he echoes, quieter. He leans in and kisses your cheek, shoulder brushing yours as he slips past, like this has always been his home too. Like he's already too comfortable with the space. The grocery bag rustles as he sets it down on your counter, weighted placement like he’s already thinking ahead. He exhales through his nose, loosening his spine.

“You get everything?” you ask, padding in barefoot behind him after you locked the door. He nods, reaching into the bag. “More than enough,” he says, voice calm. He pulls out fresh pappardelle, herbs, and a black takeout container. You eye it. “What’s that?” you ask. “Pre-marinated,” he says. “Saves time later.” You raise a brow, curious. “Smells intense.” He smiles, eyes flicking to yours. “It will be. Slow-cooked. You’ll love it,” he promises. You lean on the counter, watching him place the sea salt near your stove, then the wine, butter, and head to the fridge. You smile while you are eyeing him, he looks so domestic.

“Is it one of those meals that takes hours?” you ask. Feels like it is because why does he need to marinate it already? He nods. “Yeah. I’ll start it around four.” You’re about to tease him when he pauses. “Did you eat lunch?” he asks, tone careful. He knows you don't. He feels like you woke up late. You blink. “Not yet,” you admit, pouting. He frowns faintly. “Want me to make you something quick? Eggs? Toast?” You tilt your head. “Did you eat?” His smile softens. “I’m fine,” he says. (He hasn’t eaten since before sunrise, but he says it like it doesn’t matter.)

“I can also order,” he offers. You hum before you shake your head. “Eggs sound good,” you tell him. He nods. “Go sit,” he says, voice low but firm. He likes cooking for you, it shows. You laugh and roll your eyes. “You’re so bossy,” you tease. He gives you a look over his shoulder, that quiet, amused curve of mouth. “You say that like you don’t love it,” he replies and huffs. You roll your eyes, but you sit, watching him move- calm, sure, sleeves pushed to the elbow.

There’s silence while the pan warms. Then he says it- casually. “I’m gonna stay here for a while.” You blink. “Here?” He nods. “Your place. I want to be closer to you. Dropped the place I rented. But it's just until the season picks up again.” It hits you warm. “Okay,” you say, smiling and nodding. The lunch is soft, lazy. He makes eggs and toast- simple, warm. He eats just enough to pass for hunger. He just likes sitting across from you.

After, the day stretches. You nap for maybe 30 minutes or an hour on the couch, sun on your legs. He washes the dishes, wipes the counter. At two, he starts cooking while you're sleeping. He doesn't even know how it can last. He hasn't slept since the moment he woke up yesterday. Garlic first, then shallots. Tomato paste blooms in the pan. The meat goes in short ribs, pork. It smells… expensive. You offer to help when you hear him moving around the kitchen. He smiles. “Let me take care of you.”

So you just shower instead while it simmers. Not a date, just something warm. You throw on a loose tee and cotton shorts. Damp hair, no makeup. Just comfortable with him seeing you like this. When you pad back out, the light’s gone gold. The wine bottle’s open. Two glasses poured- yours fuller. He’s leaning against the counter, mouth soft like he’s been smiling to himself. “Hey,” you say.

“You look soft,” he murmurs and smirks. You roll your eyes, but heat blooms anyway. Likes getting complimented by him. He brushes your damp hair behind your ear, kisses your cheekbone. “Hungry?” he asks. You nod and sigh. “Good,” he says. “Almost done.” You settle at the counter, sip your wine. The sauce is thick now, and the meat is tender. He stirs it like it’s sacred, adds butter off-heat. He plates it quietly. You just watch him while he moves around.

He uses the shaved Parmigiano over both bowls, then brings it to you to taste test it. The first bite melts. You hum without meaning to, you almost moan when you taste it honestly. “This is insane,” you say, incredulous. He nods, calm. “Wanted it to taste like something worth staying for,” he says. Before you can respond, he steps in close. His arms slide around your waist, slowly. He lifts you effortlessly. “Patrick- !” you exclaim, laughing and you wrap your legs around him. “You’re ridiculous,” you tease. “And you’re not sitting there,” he says. He sets you down gently in the chair, arms still around your hips. You lean in first. He meets you halfway. The kiss is soft, unhurried. Like a thank you. Just all sweetness. Just love.

When you pull away, your smile stays. You look like a love-sick woman. Can't really help it when you have a tennis player boyfriend that can't breathe when you're not around, yearns for you, take care of you, a great cook and fucks you so good. The light’s soft- gold through the windows. He’s plating with focus. Two dishes. No garnish- just pappardelle curled like silk. He sets yours down first, then his. He pours the wine, deep and syrupy. He doesn’t toast, just clinks, looking at you. You take your first bite. “Holy shit,” you say, breaking the silence. “This is stupid good.” You laugh softly, incredulous. He smiles, quiet and proud.

You eat like you trust him. You moan faintly, without thinking. He just watches, eyes soft. A man who’s cleaned up the mess someone else made of you. A man who made you dinner. You finish before he does. Wipe the corner of your mouth with the pad of your thumb and lean back, bare legs stretched under the table, your wine glass half-full and tilted idly in your hand like you’re debating another sip.

“I should clean up,” you say, not moving. Patrick lifts a brow. “Sit. I’ve got it.” You shake your head, insisting on doing something because you feel bad just sitting the whole time since he arrived. “You cooked. I’ll help.” He starts to get up, and you mirror it, the two of you moving like magnets, bumping hips in the tiny kitchen, laughing softly when your knees knock. You reach for the glasses; he grabs the bowls. “Not the pans,” you say, nudging him. It's messy and disgusting. You feel like he's not also in the mood to clean it though. “That’s a tomorrow problem.” He grins and sighs. “Yeah.” You take the dishes to the sink while he collects the cutlery, wiping the table with a damp cloth, pretending to be productive but really just stalling. You glance over at him, rolled sleeves, back straight, water running hot. The plate in his hand looks small, and the veins in his forearm flex with each movement. He’s quiet and focused, like doing the dishes is some ritual.

You grab the wine bottle and top off your glass, taking a slow sip to let the warmth coat you. You drift, listening to the water, feeling the weight in your stomach, the aftertaste of thyme and tomato. He’s right there, humming under his breath, relaxed in a way that makes your chest ache a little. You move behind him and wrap your arm around his waist while the other free hand of yours is holding the wine glass, just enough for your cheek to press against his shoulder blades. He goes still, then sets the dish down and turns on the faucet. He doesn’t speak; he just lets you hold him there, your arm loose around his stomach.

“You’re warm,” you murmur. “So are you,” he hums before he replies. You chuckle and close your eyes, breathing in the moment. The sink water is still hot, running over his hands, catching the last of the tomato-streaked plates. You kiss his back once, just a small press of lips. He pauses, then resumes, calm and silent. You're feeling needy. Two reasons: you miss him and the wine puts you to be in the mood. You grin to yourself and kiss him again, higher this time, and he exhales, amused.

You hold him tighter, wine glass still in your hand, then set it on the counter beside him. He’s rinsing now, turning off the faucet, shaking the water from his fingers. He reaches for the towel with a rhythm that makes you ache. You shift against him and press another kiss to his spine, then lower- kissing the small of his back, nuzzling there. Your nose brushes the hem of his shirt, and he tenses slightly.

You smile. “You’re doing a good job.” Your tone is playful but sincere. Complementing him. Just acknowledging what he’s doing for you. “Of what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Everything.” You nod, emphasizing the warmth in the moment. His breath catches as he folds the towel deliberately, then sets it aside. He turns to face you, and you look up at him, chin tipped, flushed and warm. He raises a hand and brushes a thumb across your bottom lip. “You’re drunk,” he says, studying your face. You shake your head. “Just full.” You're not really drunk. You can't get drunk that fast from the wine. Maybe just feeling looser. “Full,” he echoes, his voice low. “Of me?” His voice drops, a hint of vulnerability. You bite your lip.

He steps closer, and when he kisses you this time, it’s deep and intentional- one hand at your jaw, the other sliding down your waist, gripping your hip. You gasp softly into his mouth, fumbling until your fingertips hit the counter. The wine glass clicks gently as you set it down, too focused on his touch. His mouth doesn’t leave yours; he pulls you closer- hips to hips, his chest warm and steady. His fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt, slow and aching.

First, at your waist- palm flat, calluses brushing your skin. Then higher, gliding up your stomach until his knuckles skim your ribs. You inhale sharply, and he smiles into your mouth. “Okay?” he murmurs. You nod and press your mouth back to his. “More,” you whisper. He gives it to you, his hand going slow and sure, dragging heat with it- up until his palm slides beneath your breast, fingers curling slightly. You sigh, breathless. His other hand lifts to your throat, just to hold- thumb at your jaw, fingers curved gently behind your neck. Just feeling territorial over you. He kisses you harder now, tongue slow and controlled, like he’s been starving for this and he is. So starving for you. To have you.

He swipes his thumb across your nipple, and you break the kiss with a gasp, breath hitching. He leans in, kisses along your jaw, down your neck. His hand cups your breast again, groping it in his hand, thumb circling your nipple through your shirt, slow and lazy. You make a soft noise- half moan, half whimper- and his mouth curves into it. “Pretty,” he murmurs against your skin. His other hand slides lower, curves around your waist, down to your hip, then your ass, squeezing once, firm. Making it bounce a little. You gasp again, your knees going loose.

You pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging slightly. He kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. His hand slips under your shirt completely, hot and sure, sliding up your spine. You arch into it instinctively- chest to chest, breath caught. You don’t realize you’re moving until your back bumps the wall. He breathes against your mouth like he planned that, proud of it. But he doesn’t pin you; just kisses you again, slow and open-mouthed. His hand curls into your hair, gripping the base of your neck, while his other palm is full on your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

Your hands move like instinct. One slides under his shirt- palm pressed flat to his stomach. He twitches, groaning into your mouth. The other hand goes lower, pressing against the front of his jeans. He stutters against your mouth and then kisses you harder, hips pressing into your hand like he’s already aching. You squeeze gently, rubbing once, slowly. “Fuck,” he breathes, voice quiet and hoarse. He pulls you away from the wall, walking you backward, his mouth never leaving yours. Your legs bump the edge of the hallway. He guides you around the corner, not gently, not softly- hungrily. His hand keeps dragging your shirt higher. He doesn’t stop; he just wants more skin.

You don’t stop palming him; you work him through his jeans with deliberate pressure, and he’s rock-hard already, hips flexing into your touch. His cock getting more reactive from your touch. His hand slides up your back again- under your shirt, over your spine, up between your shoulder blades. His other hand stays over your breast, squeezing, thumb brushing your nipple. Your mouths are messy now- wet, open, your lips parting just to inhale each other. He kisses like a man who has nothing left to say, who’s told you everything in the way he fed you, touched you. And you? You kiss him back like you know, like you want it all.

He walks you faster now- still careful, still guiding- but desperate in the way his hips stay pressed to yours. You’re practically tripping backward, your hand leaving his cock only to grab the back of his neck, pulling him back into your mouth. The heat between your legs is sticky now, liquid and throbbing. You ache to sit on him, to be filled. The bedroom stretches open behind you, the door already wide, a lamp casting soft light, the bed waiting like it knew.

Your knees hit the edge of the mattress, but he doesn’t stop kissing you. He doesn’t stop touching you. His palm stays full on your breast, cupping you through your shirt- no bra, just thin fabric- your nipple pressing firm against his thumb as he rubs lazy, taunting circles. His other hand grips your waist, slipping beneath your shirt, fingers splayed wide across your back like he’s holding you together. You gasp into his mouth and moan when he tugs the hem of your shirt upward.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your shirt over your head. You raise your arms without thinking, and it lands somewhere behind you. You’re bare from the waist up now, hair mussed, breathing heavy. Your skin glows in the lamplight- chest flushed, nipples tight, stomach trembling slightly when the cool air hits you. He groans- actually groans- when he sees you, and then leans down, taking one nipple in his mouth, warm and slow and deep. You whimper, fingers threading through his hair as your hips roll against his thigh, reflexive and needy. The soft cotton between your legs sticks wet to your skin, and there’s no hiding it anymore- not the heat, not the mess, not the way you’re already soaked through. “Fuck, Patrick- ” you manage to say, your voice thick with desire.

He hums against your skin and sucks harder. You reach for his shirt, fisting the back of it, then tug. “Off,” you command, urgency lacing your words. Your palm flattens against his chest, trailing down slowly over his ribs, feeling the heat coming off him in waves. Your other hand dips lower, sliding past your waistband, fingers slipping into the soft cotton of your shorts- wet already, clinging, thin enough that your knuckles drag over the slick between your legs almost immediately. But before you can go any further, before you can even press your fingers where you ache, he catches your wrist gently, firmly. He brings your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles once- soft, purposeful. “Let me,” he says low, his eyes locked onto yours. You nod, breath caught in your throat.

Then he sinks to his knees, eyes never leaving you as his fingers find the waistband of your shorts. The knot at the front comes loose with one tug, and his hands slide inside- skin to skin- as he pulls them down slowly, dragging the soaked fabric down your thighs, past your knees, watching the way it peels away from you like he’s unwrapping something rare. You’re bare beneath him, just flushed skin and wet heat, glistening where he’s barely even touched you. He breathes out like he’s in pain. “Jesus,” he mutters, taking in the sight of you. You say nothing, just look up at him, your heart racing. He stands, straightening fully, eyes still on yours, hands loose at his sides like he doesn’t know where to touch next- your shoulder, your mouth, your thighs- all of it. He just breathes for a moment, heavy, as you shift on the mattress, legs falling open without thinking.

Now he’s standing between your thighs, bare-chested and flushed, watching you like he might break if you stop. You’re still sitting at the edge of the bed, completely bare, knees parted, your hands still warm from tugging down your shorts. The heat between your legs is slick and obvious, and his eyes flick down for just a second, like he can’t help it, then right back to you. You reach for him slowly, one hand at the button of his jeans, the other dragging lightly up the front of his thigh. He flinches slightly- just the tension, not fear- like your touch is too much. You pop the button and tug the zipper down, the fabric parting. Glancing up at him through your lashes, your palm slides over the front of his boxers, and he’s already so hard you can feel it twitch under your hand.

“God,” he breathes, his voice breaking on your name. You hook your fingers in the waistband, and he lets you drag them down- jeans and boxers both- slow and smooth, the fabric catching briefly at his thighs. He steps out and kicks them aside, standing completely naked, just like you, with his cock heavy and flushed, dripping at the tip. You don’t say anything; you just reach forward and wrap your fingers around him. You stroke once, slow, feeling him pulse in your hand, thick and twitching, the skin warm and stretched. Leaning in, you don’t tease or suck him off; you just want to taste. Your mouth closes over the head- soft and brief- your tongue flicking once across the slit to catch the precome before it drips. His hips jerk, a broken sound leaving his throat. You suck just once, light and slow, like you’re drinking from the source. Then you pull back and lick your lips. “Get on the bed,” you whisper.

His hands are shaking as he moves, climbing back while keeping his eyes locked on yours. His breath is tight in his chest, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe without your body pressed against his. He leans back against the pillows, legs spread slightly, his cock hard and flushed, slick where your mouth has touched him. You follow him up, climbing into his lap, straddling him slowly and deliberately. It feels quiet, as if this isn’t about sex, not really, but about care- about giving back what he’s already given you. You place your hands on his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath your palms. And then you say it, soft and honest: “I want to ride you,” you murmur. “Because you cooked for me.” His breath stutters as you roll your hips over him, not sinking down yet- just pressing your slick heat against the length of his cock. He shudders under you, and you lean in, kissing his cheek, his jaw, his throat. “Because you took care of me.”

He exhales as if he’s been holding his breath all night. His cock rests heavy and flushed against his stomach, already slick and twitching. You shift your hips, sliding slowly over him, your clit catching on the thick ridge as you roll forward, deliberately. Humping it as if it's a pillow. “Because you’re a good boyfriend.” You drag yourself up his length again, slow and smooth, your slick coating his stomach, leaving a trail as you grind against him. His hands grip your thighs, but he doesn’t push; he just holds on and lets you take the lead. “Because you treat me right,” you breathe, your voice warm and dreamy as your hips roll again, your clit barely catching at the tip now. “Because you make me feel loved.” Another drag, another grind. Your breath stutters in your chest, thighs starting to shake from how sensitive you’re becoming. “Because you made me dinner,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. You press down harder as you rock over him again, and he groans- quiet, broken, desperate. “Because you poured my wine.”

You feel the slick stick as you roll forward, your whole body melting into it, catching him just right. “Because you cleaned up.” Your hands plant against his chest as you lean your weight forward. Your rhythm is steady now- slower and dirtier, a deliberate act of devotion. “Because you let me hold you at the sink,” you murmur. “Because you let me kiss your back.” He gasps, fingers twitching as he watches you with his mouth half-open, eyes glazed like he’s witnessing something sacred. “Because you’re soft with me,” you say next, your voice quieter and breathier. Your clit rubs hard against the head of his cock, and you can’t help but moan, high and gentle, forehead resting against his as your hips move again. “Because you’d do anything I ask,” you whisper, so close that your lips brush against his. “Because you’d never hurt me.” He lets out a choked sound, trembling now, his whole body tense beneath yours.

You reach down between you, taking him in your hand and guiding him to your entrance- just there, resting. You grind one last time, slow and close, his cock sliding along your soaked slit, the tip catching right where you’re warmest. And then you breathe, barely audible, just for him: “Because you deserve it.” That’s what you whisper when you finally stop grinding, lifting your hips to guide him- thick, hot, and twitching against your fingers, both of you breathless and messy. You angle him just right and sink down slowly. The stretch punches the air from your chest, so full, so deep, and you’re not even halfway. He groans like he’s in pain, head falling back against the pillows as his hands grip your hips like they’re the only thing tethering him to this moment. You press your palm to his chest, steadying yourself, and slide down another inch. God, he’s thick; the way he fills you makes your whole body lightheaded.

“F-fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so- fuck, you’re tight.” You bite your lip, breath shaking, loving how he sounds, how he’s trying so hard to stay still, letting you take your time. You settle the rest of the way, hips flush to his, thighs trembling around him, fully seated. All of him is inside you. You breathe. He breathes. Nothing moves for a moment- the room is still, your skin flushed, your mouth hovering just above his. You feel him throb inside you, and your own heartbeat stutters where you're wrapped around him. Then you move, beginning a slow grind, barely lifting off him. You rock forward, letting him feel the heat, the squeeze, the way you clench every time he presses against the spot that’s already burning. His hands slip up your waist and back down- everywhere- like he doesn’t know where to hold on, as if you’re too much.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking good- ” You smile, lazy and wine-drunk, riding him like you’ve got all the time in the world. “I know,” you murmur. “I wanted you to feel it.” You roll your hips again, slower this time, letting him drag against every inch inside you. His cock twitches, and you moan softly. He’s completely under you- shaky and still- allowing you to move how you want, how you need. You keep it steady: up, down, grind. Your clit brushes against his pelvis every time you seat yourself again, making your head spin. You can’t tell if the slick sounds are coming from him, you, or both; it’s all soaked and sticky and loud in the quiet room. Suddenly, he grabs your face and kisses you hard. You melt into it- your tongue against his, your cunt fluttering around him from the way he moans into your mouth.

You pull back, panting and dazed, your forehead resting against his. The air between you is hot and heavy; every breath makes your chest brush his, your hips shifting instinctively to keep moving on him with shallow, needy rolls. He brushes his knuckles down your cheek, eyes half-lidded, voice low. “Don’t rush it.” You blink and nod, feeling the weight of his words as his hands find your hips again. This time, he holds them firm- not to stop you, just to guide. One thumb presses into the curve of your waist, the other tilting your body slightly forward. “Stay close,” he murmurs. “Grind on me. Real slow. That’s all I want right now.” So you do. You listen and settle into it, starting to move again in small, languid circles, a rhythm that feels like it could last forever. He’s so deep inside you, the drag of every roll catching just enough to make you gasp.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t lift off me yet. Just stay right there.” Your hands clutch his shoulders as you moan softly, lips parted and skin flushed. His cock feels thick and warm, the pressure hitting deep without the sharpness of a thrust- just this perfect, stretching fullness that makes you feel safe and desperate at once. “You feel so good like this,” he whispers. “Let me feel every inch of you.” Your thighs tremble, and he notices. “Slow it down,” he says again, gentler now, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re getting worked up. Take your time.” You breathe and steady yourself, rolling your hips again, slower this time- longer, deeper. It makes you twitch, and you whimper as he swallows it with a kiss. His hands never leave you; one roams up your back, under your hair, while the other strokes the side of your thigh.

“You’re so…” he murmurs but doesn't even finish it. “I don’t want to rush this. I want to feel you like this for a while.” You nod again, feeling helpless. You can sense how wet you are, how soaked the space between your bodies is. Your clit pulses every time you grind forward, and it’s so good, but you hold back because he asked, and because he’s right. You’re not ready to come yet- not when it feels this good just being here. You kiss him again- slow and deep. He groans into your mouth and murmurs, “We’ll get there. I just want to stay like this.” And you do too. You keep your hips low, your body pressed to his, his cock resting deep inside you like it was always meant to be. There’s no rhythm now, no urgency- just the slow grind of slick skin and soft breath, just the stretch, just the heat. His hands roam lazily- one at your hip, the other drifting up your spine, slipping under your hair and spreading warmth down your back with every slow pass.

You move gently above him, rolling your hips in long, slow circles, not lifting off, just grinding. The kind that makes your clit throb every time your bodies meet just right. He breathes harder through his nose, brow drawn like he’s trying to hold on, like this is the only thing tethering him to the moment- your body, wrapped around his, rocking so slow it doesn’t even feel like movement until it hits you just right. You shudder, and he feels it; his hands flex. “You’re so warm,” he comments, his voice softer now, almost dreamy. “So good.” Your lips brush his cheek, his jaw, his mouth again. You don’t speak; you just grind deeper. Another soft moan spills from your throat. He keeps you close- doesn’t thrust, doesn’t chase- just lets you ride it out, lets you use his cock like it’s yours, like it’s your anchor, your relief, your final comfort.

But after a while, the tension shifts. It grows- not sharp, not urgent- just heavier, just warmer. Your body wants more now: a little more drag, a little more stretch. So you lift yourself- just barely- until the tip of him threatens to slip free, that shallow, breathless place where you’re empty for a second. Then you sink back down. Slow. Deep. Full. He groans beneath you- low, wrecked, head tipping back as your cunt takes him again, warm and tight and wet, like you were made to keep him there. You move again, the same rhythm: half-lift, slow descent, letting him feel the squeeze, the slide, the way you grip every inch as you move. It’s not bouncing- not yet- just a lazy, liquid rise and fall, a rhythm built for dragging out pleasure, not chasing the end of it.

He watches you now, eyes half-open, mouth parted. His hands stroke your hips, guiding you but not controlling- just helping, just holding you steady while you ride him soft, deep, and warm. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Just like that.” You keep going, lifting and sinking over and over, thighs starting to burn from the slow control. His cock drags along your walls just right, pressing into that spot each time you drop down again, and you feel yourself start to flutter around him, breath coming faster. He feels it too, tightening his grip and letting out a groan. “Fuck- keep going.” And you do: over and over, slow, fluid, deeper now. A little more bounce, a little more breath.

His hands roam up your sides, sliding over sweat-slick skin. Thumbs brush beneath your breasts before he cups them fully- warm palms, steady hold, catching their weight as they move with you. He watches everything: the way your body lifts and falls, how your tits shift in his hands with every bounce of your hips, and the way your cunt tightens around him when you drop down deep. You’re not rushing, not pounding- just riding him slow, bouncing in that lazy, delicious rhythm that leaves you both panting. Your thighs ache, and your body shakes. Every movement presses him into your sweet spot just right, almost too much. Your clit rubs against his stomach when you sink down far enough, making you whimper and claw at his chest like you need to hold onto something to stay grounded. He groans under you, hands tightening at your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples again and again. Leaning up, his mouth is hot, tongue flicking out to taste the curve of one.

He sucks it in- soft at first, then deeper- and the way you twitch above him makes him moan like he’s the one unraveling. “Jesus,” he breathes, lips dragging across your skin. You keep moving, hips rocking, thighs trembling, hands braced against his shoulders as you bounce- not high, not fast- just enough to stay filled and to keep grinding the pleasure into both of you like it could last forever. The room is thick with it: slick sounds, breathy moans, and the wet drag of your cunt around his cock as he throbs inside you, harder now, hotter, desperate to stay buried. His mouth trails down your chest, and his hands slide to your hips again, gripping tighter now- not guiding, not yet, but wanting to. He looks up at you, eyes glazed, lips swollen, and chest heaving. Then he says it, voice low and raw, barely holding back: “Can I fuck you now?” It’s not rough or urgent; it’s reverent, quiet- like he’s asking for something sacred. “I mean- ” his voice catches, trying to smile through it, trying to hold himself steady. “Really fuck you. Let me take over. Let me feel all of you.”

You slow your hips, hovering there, still full of him. He breathes again, softer now, as if it’s the only thing he can think to say: “Please.” It’s soft, barely audible, but wrecked. You lean forward, chest to chest, pressing your mouth to his- one more kiss, sweet and warm and loaded. You feel his fingers curl harder around your hips, and you nod, barely, against his lips. That’s all he needs. He flips you gently but surely, hands firm, arms curling around your back as he rolls you both over in one smooth motion. You gasp at the shift, at the way his cock slips almost all the way out before he sinks back in- slow, thick, and perfect- pushing deep until you’re gasping, legs falling open wider beneath him. He braces himself above you, one hand cradling your thigh, the other sliding up to cup your cheek. He looks down at you like you’re something he’s not sure he deserves but plans to keep anyway.

“You’re so good,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking good for me.” Then he starts to move, slow thrusts that are full and deep. He doesn’t slam into you; he fills you, rolling his hips like he’s been waiting his whole life to do this right. Every stroke is long, thick, and tender, and every time he pulls back, you feel the drag of him, the stretch, the delicious pressure. You whimper beneath him, legs trembling as they curl tighter around his waist. Your arms come up around his back, nails digging in lightly. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.” He stays close, never leaving your body. His chest presses to yours with every thrust, his mouth brushing your skin, your hair, your lips. You feel his cock grind deeper inside you, slow and rhythmic, the head hitting that spot that makes your eyes flutter and your breath stutter every single time.

He’s not pounding; he’s pouring himself into you- each stroke slow, full, and unbearably deep. His hands move constantly- stroking your thigh, smoothing up your ribcage, cupping your face- like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. “You’re so good for me,” he whispers, kissing your temple. “So fucking good, baby. You take me like you were made for it.” You moan beneath him, your body a mess of nerves and heat. You arch into him, letting him press you deeper into the mattress. He rolls his hips harder, slower, pushing so deep you swear you see stars. “So tight,” he breathes. “Like a virgin all over again. Fuck, baby- you’re perfect.” His hands slide to your breasts now, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples as he thrusts in again- slow and deliberate. You clench around him, crying out when his fingers squeeze just right. He groans, dropping his mouth to your ear. “Gonna fill you up.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t stop moving- just keeps grinding deeper, his voice low and steady as he fucks the words into your skin. “You’d look so pretty carrying my baby.” You whimper, and he kisses your cheek, still fucking you soft and slow and maddeningly deep. “Can you imagine it?” he murmurs. “These tits- ” he squeezes them, thumbs circling- “full. Heavy. Leaking. Made for me.” You shake beneath him. It’s too much. It’s not enough. You’re so close now, clenching around him with every slow, deliberate thrust. “Don’t need it now,” he whispers, voice thick. “But one day? Fuck. I’ll fill you up and keep you that way.” Your mouth falls open. He grinds into that spot again, making your eyes roll back. “You’d be so good,” he says, almost tender, almost reverent. “So warm. So soft. Letting me fuck it in deeper every night.” And you moan, helpless beneath him, head tipped back in offering.

He kisses your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. Still moving- slow, deep strokes that make your body jolt when he hits that angle. Not fast. Not rushed. Just patient, like he’s trying to carve himself into you. His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together beside your head, thumb brushing lazy circles into your palm. “You don’t need anything else,” he murmurs. “No job. No noise. No reason to leave the house.” His other hand glides down your body, palm catching your breast, your waist, and finally your thigh- pressing it up, opening you further, sinking himself deeper. “You’ll stay home for me,” he says softly. “Wear those little dresses I like. Keep everything warm and soft and mine.” You whimper again, cunt pulsing around him. “I’ll win my matches,” he continues, “and you’ll be waiting at home, all perfect and quiet and dripping.” The words land in your gut like heat. You can’t breathe. You can’t look away. Your whole body pulses around him, like it’s agreeing with everything he says.

He moans into your mouth, voice trembling. “Fuck, you’d look so good with my ring on your finger.” He thrusts deeper. You cry out, nails digging into his skin. “Mrs. Zweig,” he murmurs, and it sounds like worship. “That’s all you have to be.” His hand strokes your belly- slow, possessive- and his mouth hovers right at your ear. “You’ll come to my matches glowing. Full of me. Round with it. And I’ll fuck another one into you the second we get home.” You gasp- his hips grind down instead of pulling out, rocking into you, thick and hot and deliberate. Every thrust is more intense than the last. “I’ll take care of everything,” he breathes. “You’ll cook when you want to. Sleep when you want to. Keep the house pretty. Keep my cock warm. Let me breed you every night until you’re begging me to stop.” Your hands clutch at his shoulders. He kisses you again, slower now. Deeper.

Your body trembles under him. Every stroke feels heavier, like his hips are sculpting your body to fit him permanently. And it’s building- hot and sharp in your belly, curling tighter with every grind. You can’t stop it. He feels it too. His voice cracks open, sweet again. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” he whispers. “I’ve got you, baby. Come on. You’ve been so good.” You nod, breath caught in your throat. Every slow thrust wrings a moan from you. “You’re doing so good for me,” he says, slower now, like he’s in awe of you. “Taking me so well. Just like that. Let it happen, baby.” His hand strokes your cheek, and you realize- too late- you’re crying. His thumb wipes the tear gently. “That’s it,” he breathes. “You can come now. I’ve got you.”

And you do. Your whole body locks around him- tight, shaking, your thighs trembling, heat spilling out from your core. You arch up into him, mouth falling open in a broken cry as your orgasm crashes over you in slow, endless waves. You sob his name. You hold on like you’ll fall apart without him. And he doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, slow and deep, as if he needs to feel all of it, every twitch and pulse and aftershock. He groans- rough, shaking- as his rhythm falters. “I’m gonna come,” he gasps. “Fuck- baby- inside?” You nod before he can even finish. And then he’s breaking. His cock pulses deep inside, his body curling forward like it’s too much, too full. He stays buried in you, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your neck, whispering thank you thank you thank you between every breath like a prayer.

You’re still shaking, still pressed together. Still joined. When the tension finally fades- when all that’s left is the sound of your mingled breathing and your hearts pounding- he kisses you gently and says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “Shh. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” Like he didn’t just fuck your future into you. Like he’s just a boyfriend. A man who made you dinner, and then made you his. Your body’s still twitching as he slows. His hips lose rhythm, his breath catching as the last of him spills into you. He groans against your skin, cock buried as deep as it can go, and he stays there. Just for a moment. Like he can’t bear to leave. And maybe- he can’t. You lie there, tangled together, soaked and shaking, breathless and stunned. His hand strokes your side. His chest rises against yours. You’re dazed from it- fucked out and full.

Eventually, he pulls out. You whimper. He hushes you with a kiss to your shoulder. Then he shifts in the sheets, pulling you into his chest from behind, spooning you, bare skin against bare skin. One leg hooked over yours. One arm wrapped around your waist. His hand settles low, over your belly. Protective. Possessive. Gentle. You’re still catching your breath, still wet where he filled you. His palm just rests there- like he’s holding something in. Like he’s dreaming of something that hasn’t even begun yet. He kisses the back of your neck and murmurs it so softly, you almost don’t hear it. “I’d kill for you.” You smile. Eyes flutter closed. It sounds like a promise. Like love. You think it’s just a phrase. Something people say when they’re drunk on each other. Something sweet. Something harmless. You let him hold you tighter, his hand still pressed over your belly as you slip into sleep- skin sticky, heart full, the scent of sex and wine still clinging to the sheets. You don’t ask what he means. And he doesn’t explain.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

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