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no1bookgirl · 3 months ago

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𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴

synopsis: Via Hawthorne-Grambs and Liam Hawthorne-Grambs are a powerful duo. One clinging to their more mischievous uncle and the other the too aware one. But one time, one when they didn’t listen to their parent’s advice, led them to someone the Hawthornes had been trying to avoid. (No idea what to write for a description for this… oopsies)

a/n: I have no clue how to write through the mind of a four-year-old so bear with me. But it makes more sense why she thinks more maturely when we find out Via’s favorite uncle. And, yes, as the first part went on I gave up on making her thoughts less… educated, but give me some slack here. This will probably have tons of errors too…

July 25, 2027, 11:38 a.m.

VIA HAWTHORNE-GRAMBS

“Are we almost there?” Liam whined, kicking his feet up on to Mama’s seat. My hand moved toward him, swatting at his leg and shaking my head when he glared at me.

“It might be a bit still,” the bodyguard man driving us said. There wasn’t much to this guy; casual clothes, no known name, no distinguishable accent.

Liam groaned, his hands coming up to fidget with the buckle on his seat, the whitening of his knuckles showing he was attempting to open it. Mama turned around as if she could see him through the back of her head—which Daddy said she could.

“Liam, stop trying to get out of your car seat,” she warned, giving him the same caution face Daddy gave Liam often.

He looked her straight in the eye, pressing the button to open it, listening to the click before a large grin spread across his face.

“Liam James.”

“But Mama! I’m four—“ he thrusted a hand holding three fingers up at her “—you said I’m a big boy!”

“That’s three, Liam,” I said, causing him to whip his head around to me.

His eyes narrowed, the same way I’d seen uncle Jamie do so many times. “And you can shut your mouth,” he bit.

“Liam James Hawthorne-Grambs! Nuh-uh!” Mama turned around fully in her seat, her finger pointing at him. “You are not going to speak to your sister like that, am I heard?”

Liam frowned, looking down at his hands.

“Liam James…” she warned again.

With a huff and the cross of his arms, Liam finally let go. “Fine.”

“Good. Now you apologize to your sister.”

There was silence.

“I will turn this car around.”

“Sorry, Via,” he gritted.

More silence. Waiting for more.

“For?”

“Telling you to shut up.”

“There, now be nice. And don’t try to unbuckle again. Via, can you help buckle him in again?”

“Sure, Mama.” My arms reached over, clicking each piece into place as Liam groaned, clearly unhappy with my assistance.

The rest of the car ride was silent, mostly. Aside from asking if we were almost there or how long it would take, Liam was quiet. And when the man driving leaned over to whisper something to Mama. Liam let go of his crossed arms and the frown on his face, instead facing to look out the window. I leaned over, trying to get a look at his face, only for him to turn to me with a new glare. “What are you looking at?”

I didn’t want to test him too much, but the frustration in his face was amusing. “Nothing.” I turned back to my own window, seeing the park coming into view.

A gasp came from Liam as it registered for him, his legs kicking Mama’s seat again. “We’re here! We’re here!”

“I know, buddy.”

The car came to a stop and the man and Mama unbuckled, opening both their doors before ours. They unbuckled our seats, lifting us up and out and onto the ground. Mama grabbed both our hands, leading us over to the park.

“Don’t go too far, you two,” she said, sitting down on a bench and opening her book. There was no way we could go far with the big man following us, but we always found a way to trouble.

Trying to beat the man, we ran onto the large playground, getting lost in the wood and metal structure. I went to the top spire of the castle shaped building, climbing all the way to the top. Liam went for the rock wall, climbing to the top and working his way around the other wood spikes onto one next to mine.

“I got here first,” I chanted, pumping my arms in the air.

Liam rolled his eyes, sitting down on his spike. “Whatever. I’m just trying to get away from that guy. He creeps me out.”

“We both are,” I agreed, feeling a new pair of eyes. They obviously weren’t the big man’s, I knew those ones, these one were new. Trying to shield myself from those eyes, I tucked my legs up, wrapping my arms around my knees and placing my chin between them. “What do we even do now? We’re up here but there’s nothing to do.”

He shrugged, looking down at the other kids running around below us. One particular kid stopped in their tracks pointing up at us.

“Hey!” they shouted, “those are them Hawthorne kids!”

A few more kids turned, following his finger. “It is!”

The unfamiliar gaze intensified, but there was still no way to find where it was coming from.

Distracted in the thought of the new stare, I hadn’t noticed the chunk of older kids nearing toward Liam and I. As they got closer we didn’t move. Not an inch. We were used to the stares, people trying to get up in our faces. It was natural for it to happen.

One kid, who looked to be the oldest of the group, stepped forward of the rest, standing on a spike close by.

“Lookie who we have here, huh?” he said, a heavy drawl that I had heard in Daddy’s voice.

Silence.

“Hello? Can you hear or did they stuff your ears with coins?” he said, seemingly entertained by his own joke.

Liam looked up at him, inching closer to me. “We’re just here to get away from the security guy following us around.”

Realization flashed across the boy’s face. “So there ain’t no one here to protect you two?”

I shrugged. Liam shrugged. The amusement faltered, being covered with frustration. “Are you not gonna answer?”

“Remember,” my dad’s words rung in my head, “silence is the best defense.”

Liam and I looked at each other, silent words shared between our eyes.

Stay quiet.

“Those coins must be in your ears,” he gritted out, taking a step closer, his foot slipping slightly.

“Leave them alone, Robert,” a voice said behind us. I turned around to find a girl, ‘round our age, with curly ginger braids falling above her shoulders.

The boy, now supposedly named Robert’s, face dropped, deadpanning at the new girl. “What do you want now, Dolly Pocket Change?”

Dolly Pocket Change?

“I already told you, Sullivan, my name is Dollyann, and stop trying to mess with kids you couldn’t score higher than on a spelling test,” she retorted, scrunching her face at him.

Robert’s face dropped again, this time into a deep frown. “You shut your mouth. Last I saw, your Mama’s card declined at Dollar General.” The kids around him laughed, pointing at Dollyann.

“That don’t have to do with anything here. You’re just trying to avoid that fact that this is the only way you’ll ever get attention from your parents. Not even your grades catch their eye. All they look for the sparkle of jewels or the sound of a crisp Benjamin,” Dollyann said, standing just as tall as before.

Robert’s fists clenched, his face turning red with embarrassment. “You’ve got a heart only a mother could love.”

“Your mother can’t even love your heart.”

Darn. That was rough.

A frown split Robert’s face, tears pooling in his eyes before he wiped them, pushing past the other kids and down to the ground, running off somewhere else, presumably home.

Dollyann sat down beside me, her red hair reflecting in the sun. “Sorry ‘bout him, he don’t get no love at home.”

“It’s fine. Our Daddy always told us silence was the greatest weapon,” I shrugged.

“But words can hurt worse than anything.”

We were silent again, just staring off to nowhere. That was until Dollyann spoke.

“Who are you guys, anyway?” she said, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

“I’m Via.”

“And I’m the better twin, Liam.”

She giggled, looking between us. “Ahh, so y’all are twins, that makes more sense. Well, I’m Dollyann if you didn’t catch before, but most people just call me Dolly.”

“Like Parton? My Daddy loves her,” Liam said, squinting against the sun.

Dolly snorted, a smile spreading further on her face. “Nash Westbrook Hawthorne like Dolly Parton? I’ll have to tell my folks that one.”

“Is there something wrong with like Dolly Parton?” I asked.

She shook her head, a frown on her lips, but not a sad one. “No, not at all. Speaking of him, since there’s no cameras surrounding us all I’m assuming he ain’t here?”

“No, just our Mama.”

“No big man trying guard you?”

Liam and I scoffed at the same time. “Oh there is,” I said.

“But we’re faster than that old thing,” he finished, waving his hand like it was no big deal. “Talking ‘bout our Mama, we should probably find her. Not always the best idea to run from her.”

“Do you got any siblings?” I asked, looking around to see if any other red-headed kids running.

She followed my gaze, looking around. “Yeah, I got an older brother, but he didn’t come today.”

“My Mama said I might be a big brother soon,” Liam chimed in. “How old’s your brother?”

“He’s six, so not too old,” she shrugged.

Liam nodded in approval, looking down. As Dollyann had before, I followed his gaze, finding Robert with his face buried in a shiny woman’s shirt.

“What’s that Robert kid’s problem, anyway?” Liam piped up, saying what I was thinking.

She sighed at the name, shaking her head. “He’s a bit strange. At school, he always tries to mess with the younger kids, but he’s a fifth grader! What does he want with us?”

“Some people are just like that,” I offered.

“I guess that’s what happens when you’re handed everything you want,” Dolly shrugged again. I studied her closer, looking at the splash of freckles on her face, the brown of her eyes having a goldish-honey stripe through it.

“I s’ppose Mama’s probably looking for us ‘cause she can’t rely on the old guy to watch us. Liam stood, reaching out to grab my hand and drag me up with him. “Well, we’ll be on our way,” he said, waving shyly at Dolly.

“Maybe I’ll see you here again?” Dolly offered.

We looked at each other, then back at her and nodded. “When our paths cross again, Dollyann.”

We climbed away, jumping back down to the ground. Our eyes searched the collection of parents, trying to find that bench from before. Apparently the altercation before had distracted me enough to forget the pair of eyes on us. They seemed closer, probably because we ere ground level now. The further we walked, the closer and more burning they got until a woman appeared in front of us. Her hair was a light brown, lighter than Daddy’s. Her eyes were also a rich hazel with darker shades of brown. Her skin was fair, unblemished, not wrinkles, making it difficult to pinpoint her age. She looked young. The woman crouched down in front of us, her flowy light blue dress scrunching at her hips.

“Hi, babies,” she greeted, “what are you two doing here all alone? Where’s your mama?”

Daddy and Mama always said to never talk to strangers no matter who they claimed they were. But this woman felt closer for some reason.

“We’re going to find her now, actually,” Liam said, inching closer to me.

The woman tilted her head. “Want me to help? I’ve got a good eye!” She grinned, the smile so bright. “Is your Daddy here? Maybe we could find him easier.”

“No, our Daddy’s not here,” I said, looking around by crowd for Mama.

She leaned in closer, looking like me might lose balance. “Wanna know something?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I know your Daddy.”

My brows furrowed, looking at Liam before going back to the woman. “What do you mean by that?”

The woman laughed. “Oh, I can tell you’ve spent some time with my little Graybear, huh? Y’know, I also know your uncles. Jamie, Xan? Your aunties too; Avery, Max—“

“Liam James and Octavia Hannah, get over here now!” the familiar voice of our Mama called out, an arm wrapping around mine, dragging my away. I looked up to find the big man also carrying Liam, bringing us to Mama.

Eventually, we were dropped off in front of her, glares being shot at both of us. “What did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

Liam and I looked down in shame, averting our gaze from our Mama. “Don’t.”

“Exactly, now get in the car. Your Daddy is not going to be happy with you two when he finds out,” she warned, taking our hands in hers.

Before we made it back to the parking lot, I looked back from the woman, finding her being aggressively talked to by the big man that drove us here. When we got to the car, we got buckled waiting for him to get back. The car was silent, Mama aggressively tapping away at her phone before bringing it out in front of her, the ring of her calling someone being the only thing filling the car. There was finally an answer after a few rings, the words coming from the speaker revealing who it was.

“Hey, Libs, everything alright?” Daddy’s voice said.

Mama sighed. “I think we’re gonna have to have another talk with Liam and Octavia and get new security.”

Octavia.

“What happened? Are they alright?” Worry sunk into Daddy’s voice, the rustle of his moving coming from him. A different voice could faintly be heard, but I couldn’t tell who it was.

“Thankfully they are, I got them in the back seat quiet as mice,” she said, glancing back at us.

The muffled voices came again, this time clearer. “Is…… som….. ong?”

Daddy quickly shushed them, bringing his attention back to Mama. “Okay, so what all happened? You’re really worrying me here, Libby.”

“When we took Octavia—“ Ouch. “—and Liam to the park, they wandered off onto the playground somewhere. Not even this new security guy could find them. And the next time I look up from my book, I see the two, it they were talking to—“ Mama cut herself off, not allowing us to hear the rest of it.

“Talking to who?” a more demanding voice came. Uncle Gray.

Mama pinched her nose, breathing deeply. “Here, how about when I get home I tell you it all? I don’t want them hearing and— and the security guard is almost back.”

“Fine, but it’s not going to just be Nash, Libby,” Uncle Gray warned, “it’s going to be us all: Xander, Jamie, Avery, Alisa.” There was a certain emphasis on Alisa that seemed targeted, more than just an emphasis on who she is and what she does.

“Bye, Grayson. Bye, Nash.”

“Bye, darlin’,” Daddy said, taking the phone back. But his voice was soon gone, the silence filled with the open and close of the car door as the security man got in, starting the car and letting it cool off for a minute.

“All buckled back there?” Mama asked, looking in the mirror between their seats.

Still trying not to look at her, we both had our eyes glued out the window. “Yes, ma’am.”

a/n: Lordy, I have not posted writing in a while. School and whatever other shit i have has been kicking my ass lately. I literally can’t even write stuff for school 🤕. And i have a bunch of testing for the next few weeks 😝😝 so lovely! 🥰 And, as previously stated, I have no clue how to write through a child’s mind. Idek how I can write when i can’t speak a coherent sentence! but yeah, that’s what’s been up. And if anyone is looking at my other fics and stuff, nothing is coming for a while… I also somehow cut my self with my fingernail really bad. This might get a second part if people like it, I have a few ideas… so let me know if you’re interested

#the inheritance games #the brothers hawthorne #the final gambit #the grandest game #the hawthorne legacy #grayson hawthorne #jameson hawthorne #nash hawthorne #avery kylie grambs #xander hawthorne #jennifer lynn barnes #libby grambs #avery grambs #hannah rooney #glorious rivals #next generation #writing

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kuruna · 11 months ago

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i keep thinking about a team flare AU for Xanthos... I think it would have to happen in a scenario where Xan and AZ don't have a bunch of coincidental reunions over the years, where the last time Xan sees AZ until the modern day is when AZ exiles himself 3000 years ago. And because his anger and bitterness towards his brother is still so huge and difficult to deal with he's willing to help Lysandre with his plans though his goal is different (in X it would be "if I have to be punished with Immortality so does everyone else" in Y it would be... Well... "If the ultimate weapon can grant Immortality maybe it can also taketh away and I can finally find peace in death" which is... kind of grim to think about but still 😭)

And thus a scenario where AZ isn't really angry with his brother at that point (Saddened? Definitely. Disappointed? Most likely. But not angry...) despite everything. But Xan is angry and he wishes AZ was angry too because because his Calm Acceptance at this point in time just makes Xan feel even worse. Something like that!

#hope talks #Xanthos #I actually think this would be a really fun and interesting way for Xan to be involved in the game's main story #But it doesn't work with what I have established so far + it's difficult to think about What Would Happen Next #After Lysandre's plan fails...#But it is fun as an AU 😭😭😭 though lately I do like the idea of #Involving Xan in the main story in general #Because I reaaaalllyy want him and Lysandre to interact #So similar and yet so different... Guy who inherited AZ's generosity and anger and desperation #And also inherited Xan's passion and incredible sense of shame and guilt. No wonder why he's Like That

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fushitoru · 9 months ago

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chapter 5: the fall a bridgerton!au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

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

warnings ⸺ nsfw, enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, SUGGESTIVE, eventual smut, jealousy, misogyny, description of injury, concussion, blood, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly

chapter summary ⸺ gojo comes up with a strange yet tempting arrangement, but the accident that follows it may cause epiphanies for the both of you. (11.8k)

a/n thank you to pookies @/sinn-clair and @/yasu-1234 (they are awesome and here are her works) for beta reading my work :3 ahaha pls forgive me for yapping so much in this chapter. i’ll meet you after the chapter is over for EVEN more yap

prev. the game | next. the house party

general masterlist | series masterlist

Dearest Gentle Readers,

It is well known across town that a certain gentleman, long absent from London’s bustling thoroughfares, has not graced its streets for a year. One cannot help but ponder how Mister Sukuna Itadori’s travels have fared, as he embarked on what we all know to be that of most enlightening of ventures–a Grand Tour of Europe. Those familiar with such journeys will know that for most young men of the ton, a tour of Europe offers more than just art and culture—it is a playground of indulgence and mischief. Will Mr. Itadori reappear as the brash and impetuous young man we once knew, or has Europe’s charms softened and tempered his spirit into one more befitting of a mature gentleman? This Author has her doubts, but one can never say for sure until a man reenters Society.

Yet, Gentle Reader, while Mr. Itadori’s return may provide fodder for speculation, there is another gentleman who has quietly yet decisively captured the attentions of the ton this season: His Grace, the Duke Nanami. Not only does His Grace possess a title and considerable inheritance—both of which set many hearts aflutter—but he is also known to be a most genteel and dignified young man, whose decorum and good sense have only enhanced his reputation. Many an eager mama and her hopeful daughter now look to him as the ideal suitor. His Grace, however, has been nothing if not a model of decorum—distant, polite, and entirely too elusive.

But therein, dear reader, lies the dilemma. The Duke’s refusal to engage in more than the most cursory conversation with any lady has led many to wonder: has he already chosen his future Duchess in secret, or is he simply too discerning for any of the eager young women who have presented themselves thus far? One thing is certain, though: the house party in the countryside promises to be most entertaining, especially if the Duke chooses that moment to make his intentions clear. One can only hope the object of his affections is prepared to be swept off her feet—or at the very least, that her mama is! Only time will tell, but one thing this Author assures—his next move shall be watched with the greatest anticipation.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

Dawn breaks out, bathing the land in a rich, golden hue. It seemed as if the very air of the Gojo estate had significantly altered your sense of slumber; before, it would take you fairly long to wake, preferring to stay well rested until Nobara barged in your room, bellowing at you to get ready.

The rhythmic clatter of hooves on the cobblestone path echoed as you guided your mare along the estate’s carefully tended gardens, resplendent in their display of colorful blooms. The thought flashes across your mind—whichever lady of the ton unfortunate enough to inherit the Gojo surname would certainly find herself living an enviable, lavish lifestyle. If nothing else, the manor, with its outstanding grandeur, would offer sufficient distraction from the trials of an insufferable marriage.

Horse-riding had always been of your taste, providing solace when you needed time to ponder upon your thoughts. The fresh morning air was so different from the stifling confines of your room’s walls, soothing your spirit in a way a fitful sleep could not. Inhaling deeply, the cool morning breeze carried with it the scent of flowers and morning dew, offering a reprieve and reminding you of freedom found in quiet moments.

Mornings always feel like new beginnings to you. The sounds of the chirp and the peace of the feeling that you are currently the only person in the world, suspended in time, soothes you. You walk the path laid out in front of you, getting closer and closer to the woods that were next to the Gojo gardens.

The same ones you had the encounter with Gojo in the river.

You tensed slightly, the memory of your embarrassing fall washing over you like a cold splash of water. Gojo had yet to jest at your expense over it was nothing short of miraculous. No doubt, the teasing would come in time, as inevitable as night following day.

The distant sounds of hooves break you out of your thoughts, as you still, turning your head around to see where the sounds originated. When you finally manage to curve your head (almost) fully to the back, in the soft light of the morning, you see a flash of silver hair.

And groan internally.

"I would not have thought the great Lord Gojo so lacking in charm as to resort to covert stalking," you quip, turning in your saddle to face him.

"Stalking?" His familiar, lazy drawl carried across the air as he approached. "Surely you underestimate me, my lady. A mere smile is all it takes to win hearts."

Reluctantly, you wheeled your horse around to face him properly. "Ah, yes. How could I forget? Your captivating smile alone is surely enough to send every lady into a faint, and not at all the rather handsome fortune attached to your name." You eyed him critically—his attire was casual, much like that day in the library: a white shirt carelessly unbuttoned at the collar, black trousers tailored perfectly. There was a hint of weariness in his eyes, though his insufferable smirk remained firmly in place. His hair was fairly polished–in comparison to his clothes–as if he had gotten ready to go somewhere that didn’t require extravagant garments to be worn.

He tilted his head, his gaze moving past you as he urged his horse toward the woods ahead. "Ah, so you find my smile captivating?"

You bristle, realizing his play of making you follow him to continue the conversation and get the last word. “I find your opinion of yourself entirely too high. I never mentioned that I thought you captivating but that of the handsome sum tied to your name.”

“All I heard was handsome.”

You take a deep breath and hold it, your eyes narrowing at the man trotting carefree in front of you. “Are the ladies really so naive that they would fall for just a captivating smile rather than acknowledge your lack of wit?”

Gojo glanced back at you with a raised brow, his grin only widening as he slowed his pace slightly. "Naive, perhaps. Or maybe they’re wise enough to appreciate the finer things in life. Not everyone is so immune to charm.”

You rolled your eyes, clicking your tongue in mild irritation as you spurred your horse forward, coming level with him. “Charm without substance only lasts so long, my lord. I daresay one day you’ll meet someone immune to your tricks.”

He chuckled softly, the sound lazy and unbothered, as though you’d merely entertained him with a light jest. "And yet here you are, still engaging with my so-called ‘lack of substance.’ Could it be, perhaps, that you find me more interesting than you care to admit?”

"I find you no more interesting than a mildly amusing book—one that I can close whenever I please," you shot back, though your eyes flicked over his disheveled appearance. “But you, Lord Gojo, do seem rather underdressed for a morning ride. I hope you’re not planning on inflicting yourself on some unsuspecting lady like this.”

His eyes gleamed with that familiar glint of amusement. "Underdressed? Why, I thought you might prefer me this way—unpretentious and free of the heavy trappings of society." He gave a careless wave toward his shirt. "Besides, I’ve work to do today. I’m making rounds over the dukedom."

You raised an eyebrow. “Work? You?” you echoed, voice laden with playful disbelief.

“Hard to believe, I know. I’m more than just a pretty face, as you’ve so kindly pointed out,” he teased, eyes flicking to you briefly before turning back to the path ahead. “Would you care to join me on my rounds? You might learn something about the ‘substance’ you claim I lack.”

You hesitated, but only briefly. The truth was, the Gojo manor had begun to feel more like a cage with each passing day. The endless routine of polite conversations, tea under the watchful eyes of your mama and Duchess Gojo, and waiting for the upcoming house party with the maids and doormen watching for your every move was beginning to wear on you. The walls of the estate, grand as they were, could only offer so much distraction before they imposed on you. The gardens—beautiful and sprawling—had already been walked, the library somewhat explored. You had gone through the motions of being the perfect guest, yet none of it stirred the thrill of adventure that your heart craved.

Your mind drifted back to London, to a time before all the expectation and decorum had weighed so heavily on your shoulders. A year ago, Sukuna had been your partner in rebellion, the one who shared your disdain for society’s rigid rules. The two of you had stolen mornings together, sneaking out on horseback, galloping through the streets and parks as if the ton’s eyes couldn’t reach you. Sukuna, with his wild streak and brash charm, had always encouraged you to live for the moment, to taste freedom in a way that felt dangerously exhilarating. At night, you and him would enjoy stolen moments on a swing.

There had been no chaperones then, no one to watch your every move or to remind you of what was ‘proper.’ You had been free, in a way you never thought possible—a freedom that felt distant now, almost like a dream.

You studied him for a moment, curiosity beginning to outweigh the slight irritation you felt toward his smug demeanor. What exactly did a duke like Gojo do when he wasn’t parading through society, charming every lady within reach? Despite yourself, you were intrigued by the possibility of seeing him in a different light, away from the polished halls and pretenses.

Here, far from the city’s strict social rules, you felt a flicker of that same wildness returning. There were no watchful eyes in the countryside, no endless stream of whispers and gossip to navigate. The Gojo estate, for all its grandeur, was isolated. Out here, you could indulge in a fleeting taste of freedom once more—especially if it meant escaping the suffocating sense of propriety that came with every room of the mansion.

With Gojo, the stakes were different. He wasn’t Sukuna, who lived on the fringes of the ton with his devil-may-care attitude. No, Gojo occupied the very heart of society’s structure—a duke, a man of immense power and wealth, a figure who could easily sweep up any lady of the ton with a glance. Yet here he was, offering you a glimpse of his world beyond the ballroom, beyond the pretense of polite society.

The thought of accompanying him into the village—unaccompanied, and without the constant pressure of reputation—was thrilling in a way you hadn’t expected. It was as if you were being offered another chance to experience the freedom you once shared with Sukuna. Out here, away from the prying eyes of the ton, you could simply… be. There would be no eyes to judge, no chaperones to pull you away. For a few hours, you could escape the suffocating decorum that bound you so tightly, and just breathe.

And perhaps, just perhaps, there was a part of you curious to see what lay beneath Gojo’s surface. Despite all his teasing and arrogance, there had to be more to the man than his carefully cultivated charm. What did the world of a duke truly entail? What responsibilities lay hidden beneath that confident smirk?

“Well?” Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts, a hint of amusement dancing on the edge of his words. “You could always go back to the estate. But if you join me, you might learn something. Something real.”

You met his gaze, curiosity stirring. How much freedom could you taste before the world pulled you back into its orbit?

“And what, pray tell, does this so-called ‘work’ of yours truly entail, my lord? Are you certain it isn’t merely an excuse for you to idly saunter about?” you asked, feigning disinterest even as your heart began to quicken at the thought of leaving the mansion’s confines.

Gojo shrugged. “Managing a dukedom is more than just attending parties, my lady. There are land disputes, tenant needs, crops to inspect. All terribly boring, I assure you,” he drawled, though his teasing tone did little to hide his satisfaction.

“And yet, here you are, inviting me to partake in such ‘dreadful’ tasks.” You arched an eyebrow, testing the waters of this strange proposal.

He cast you a sidelong glance, that insufferable smirk playing on his lips again. “You seemed in need of something less tedious than idle conversation. Besides, I can’t let you think I’m all charm and no substance.”

You scoffed lightly, but the temptation was undeniable. A morning spent away from the watchful eyes of society, away from the restrictions that had grown more suffocating with each passing day, sounded like exactly what you needed.

And so, you nudged your horse forward. "Very well, my lord. Lead the way."

As Gojo turned his horse toward the village, you followed, anticipation swirling within you. For just a little while, you would forget the rigid expectations that clung to your every move. And who knew? You might learn something about the man who was far more than just a smile—or at least, you hoped so.

As you and Gojo rode along the countryside road, the gentle thrum of horse hooves against the dirt path filled the early morning air. The village lay just beyond the hill, but the tranquil quiet of the ride had settled between you for now. You looked at the open landscape, enjoying the rare opportunity to simply exist outside the bounds of society's expectations. While Gojo glanced at you, his gaze briefly lingering before he forced his eyes forward again.

To Gojo, you are an enigma.

There was something about you that drew him in—something beyond the usual appeal of a pretty face and a sharp tongue. He had been thinking and rethinking your diary entries ever since he had discovered them, going over every word in his mind like an irritating riddle. Of course, he knew better than to admit that he had read them, let alone how much those words had unsettled him.

Your thoughts, penned in those private moments, had been both surprising and dangerously radical. They spoke of dissatisfaction with the very society that had molded both of you. Critiques of the ton, its shallow expectations, and even its treatment of women—thoughts that, if discovered by the wrong person, could ruin you. Lady Whistledown wouldn’t need much to twist those words into a scandal, to paint you as a rebel, a woman too difficult for any suitor to consider. You would be exiled from the marriage market in an instant, no longer the diamond the people adored.

Realistically, he could do it, in fact. That is, ruin your image for the rest of high society. Gojo knew he had power over you. He could destroy you if he wanted to, could slip a few words into the right ears and watch as your pristine image crumbled like delicate glass. A small, vindictive part of him—perhaps the part that still bristled at your quick wit and frequent jabs—almost considered it. With the way you have been snarkily snapping back, making a fool out of him, and in general being not a very agreeable person, he, in fact, should have incentive to do so, as a payback.

Of course, Gojo could always be the bigger person. He should let you go, keep his distance, and find a more agreeable match—someone easier, someone less troublesome. It would be the rational thing to do. He was Lord Gojo, heir to the Duke of Gojo, after all. He didn’t need to deal with a woman who questioned him at every turn, who might even challenge his reputation just by association.

He knew he should stop courting you, stop this dance before it spiraled into something neither of you could control. And he didn’t know what exactly to choose.

He cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence. “You seem deep in thought, my lady. I do hope I’m not boring you already.” His tone was light, though there was an undercurrent of curiosity.

You quirked an eyebrow, as if debating whether to entertain his question. “No more than usual, my lord.”

He grinned at your response, but then his expression softened, just slightly. “And here I thought you might have enjoyed escaping the estate for a bit. Surely the quiet countryside must be a relief after the pressures of town.”

You gave a small nod, but your guardedness remained. “It is a relief, but one must still be careful, even out here. There are no watchful eyes, but gossip has a way of traveling regardless.”

Gojo smirked, leaning slightly in his saddle. “I doubt anyone could catch up to us before we make it back for breakfast.”

He watched you from the corner of his eye, gauging your reaction. The morning wasn’t extremely windy, but his eyes took in your hair, how the wind shifted it so that your nape—and the slopes of your back and body—was uncovered. Your torso rocked as both your horses moved on, and you were fidgeting with the reins of your horse with gloved hands. You were a puzzle he couldn’t yet solve, but for some reason, that only made him more determined to try.

With a measured tone, he added, “Tell me, do you ever tire of it all? The expectations, the constant scrutiny. It must be exhausting.”

He watched you closely, curious how you might respond, wondering if you would offer something more than your usual sharp wit. Even if you didn’t, Gojo was prepared to nudge you, just enough to see what truly lay beneath the surface.

You turned your head slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your neck as you gave him a searching look. Unconsciously, your horses had drifted closer together, and as you moved your hair, revealing your simple, unadorned hairstyle from the morning ride, Gojo caught the intoxicating scent of your shampoo.

Sandalwood.

The notes lingered in the cool morning air, drawing him in. He found himself momentarily captivated, closing his eyes to take in the fragrance. It wasn’t until he regained his composure that he realized you were watching him expectantly, waiting for him to respond.

“My apologies,” Gojo cleared his throat, flashing you a semi-apologetic smile. “You were saying?”

You arched a brow at his absent-mindedness but chose not to press the matter. “As I was saying,” you continued with a subtle edge of humor, “it is a lady’s duty to endure the endless gossip and scrutiny of society. After all, we are part of it, are we not? I am a part of that society—diamond or not.” Then, you snarkily remarked, “Though I imagine you know as much about gossip as I do, my lord.”

There it is. Gojo felt the familiar flare of irritation rise within him as you brought up, yet again, that night on the terrace. How many times would you throw that back in his face? Instead of showing how it bothered him, he slipped into a mocking stance, clutching his chest in an exaggerated display of faux hurt. "You wound me, my lady. Can a gentleman truly not express his true sentiments in private company?"

His smirk faltered slightly, but he pressed on, unwilling to let you have the upper hand. "However, I do know more than you think. I hear things all the time. Not everyone is as... mysterious as they pretend to be."

There was an edge in his voice that hadn’t been there before, and he knew you noticed. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not now.

You narrowed your eyes, your tone sharp. "Is that so? Or are you simply adept at making people feel small, my lord?"

Gojo shrugged, keeping his expression casual, though his jaw tightened. Why did you always know exactly how to get under his skin? "I do not belittle, my lady, but observe. And if you're concerned with my words, rest assured I never speak ill of a lady unless she has thoroughly earned it. After all, gossip, for all its flaws, often carries a kernel of truth."

"I see," you replied, voice clipped. "So you place your trust in whatever the ton whispers, so long as it serves your purposes?"

Gojo met your gaze, his voice lowering with intent. "It is not a matter of convenience, my lady, but discernment. Knowing who is genuine and who is merely playing a part."

He saw the way his words hit you, the way your expression flickered. Good. Let it sink in. You’d been sniping at him for days now, and it was about time you felt a little of the sting you so effortlessly delivered.

"And you, Lord Gojo, are the arbiter of what's 'real'?" Your voice rose, sharp as a blade. "Tell me, then—what’s real about you, besides your title and your incessant need to make others feel beneath you?"

The smirk that usually danced on his lips vanished. He felt something sharp coil in his chest—defensiveness, maybe, or frustration. He wasn’t sure anymore. His tone turned cold, dangerous. "Tread carefully, my lady. You are not as untouchable as you might believe. Perhaps others coddle you, treat you with delicacy because they think you fragile, but I am not of their number."

He saw the way his words cut, deeper than he’d intended, and a part of him regretted it. But another part—the part that was tired of always being one step behind in this game you played—felt a grim satisfaction.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he wasn’t finished. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to an almost dangerous softness. “You think you are the only one who carries burdens? I have duties too—my name, my estate, my people. You may despise me for all you like, but at least I do not pretend that none of it matters."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the weight of the truths neither of you had spoken before. For a moment, you were speechless, and Gojo couldn’t quite read the expression on your face.

There was a vulnerability in your eyes, something real beneath all the snark and bitterness. It was unsettling. He hadn’t expected to feel any sympathy for you, but seeing that flicker of something raw, something that mirrored the exhaustion he himself felt, made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t like.

You finally broke the silence, your voice quieter now. "I never asked for any of this."

Gojo let out a long breath, some of the tension in his body loosening. His voice softened, the sharp edge gone. "Nor did I."

The moment of mutual understanding was fleeting, fragile, and Gojo wasn’t sure if he wanted to dwell on it or forget it entirely. The silence that followed wasn’t quite hostile anymore, but it wasn’t comfortable either.

Straightening in his saddle, Gojo cleared his throat and gestured ahead. "The village lies just ahead. We should proceed before the shops open, unless, of course, you would rather remain here, basking in your righteous discontent."

He smirked, but it felt more like a mask than anything genuine. He needed the banter, the distance it created between you. It was safer than whatever had just passed between you—a moment of weakness he couldn’t afford to dwell on.

You rolled your eyes but gave a small nod, your expression still guarded. "Lead the way, my lord."

Gojo nudged his horse forward, the tension easing just enough for the both of you to fall back into their usual roles. But the memory of that brief, unguarded moment between you lingered in the back of his mind, nagging at him as they rode towards the marketplace.

Soon enough, the dirt road gradually transformed into cobblestones beneath the horses' hooves, the soft clatter of stone replacing the muffled sound of earth. Up ahead, the village began to unfurl itself, a bustling marketplace coming into view, vibrant with the daily hum of activity. Stalls lined the streets, laden with goods—fresh produce, meats, textiles, and trinkets. The air was thick with the mingling scents of fresh bread, roasting chestnuts, and the subtle hint of herbs from the nearby apothecary. Your stomach twisted sharply at the realization that you had yet to break your fast, and the sweet aroma of bread, freshly baked and still warm from the ovens, stirred your hunger even more.

It was a small comfort that you had chosen to appear on Gojo’s rounds in a simple dress. While far from a maid’s garb, it was enough to blend in with the modest attire of the villagers, allowing you to remain somewhat inconspicuous. You imagined what a spectacle it might have been if you had arrived adorned in the usual finery expected of a lady of your status—a diamond strolling through the marketplace like some exotic bird, plumed and out of place. Even if that interpretation wouldn’t be completely wrong.

You stole a glance at Gojo. His attire, though far more refined than that of the villagers, was practical enough for the countryside—a waistcoat and riding cloak that spoke of wealth but not ostentation. He moved with ease through the marketplace, his presence commanding attention without demanding it. Residents and shopkeepers greeted him warmly, others calling out his name with familiarity. It was clear that he was well-known and, more surprisingly, well-liked among the people here.

You, on the other hand, felt like an outsider—acutely aware of every gaze that lingered a moment too long in your direction. Although the villagers were preoccupied with their own business, there was no mistaking the subtle glances thrown your way as you rode alongside Gojo. Perhaps it was the curiosity of seeing a noblewoman in such a humble place, or perhaps it was simply the oddity of your pairing with him.

“Ah, Satoru!” A baker called out from a window in his store, a wide grin on his flour-dusted face. “Come for your usual loaf, I presume?”

Gojo chuckled softly, bringing his horse to a gentle halt. With practiced ease, he dismounted, his movements graceful and assured as he swung his leg over and landed lightly on his heels. The smoothness of the motion caught you off guard—it was almost unsettling how effortlessly he moved, as if every action was calculated yet unforced. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of irritation, knowing full well that you would never manage such a feat with half as much elegance, even with assistance.

He strode toward the baker with the kind of natural ease that spoke of familiarity and comfort, offering the man a warm, familiar smile as they exchanged pleasantries. There was a certain charm in his manner, a fluidity in the way he blended himself into the simple rhythm of village life, so unlike the polished and sometimes disingenuous world of high society. You found yourself watching their conversation, noting how easily he made himself a part of this world—something that unsettled you more than you cared to admit.

You brought your horse to a stop beside his, watching as Gojo clasped the baker’s hand in greeting. “Not today, I’m afraid,” Gojo remarked with a light laugh, his tone amiable, yet restrained, “though the aroma is tempting enough to make one reconsider their resolve.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, though the tempting aroma of freshly baked bread was almost enough to make you forget your irritation. You remained silent, feeling somewhat out of place amid Gojo’s easy banter with the villagers. There was something about the way he interacted with them—so at ease, so familiar—that unsettled you. The way the baker addressed him by his given name, Satoru, only added to your bewilderment, and you couldn’t help but wonder how much of this was genuine and how much was part of the façade he wielded so effortlessly in society.

“And who might this lovely young lady be?” The baker’s voice drew you from your thoughts. Both men were now looking at you, you the center of attention as the baker looked between you and Gojo expectantly.

Gojo had his arm resting casually on the baker’s shoulder, his usual smirk slipping for a brief moment as he scratched at the back of his head—a gesture that seemed oddly boyish for someone of his station. It was so unlike him that you blinked in surprise. “Ah, this is—”

“Satoru!” Before he could finish, a sharp voice rang out. The next moment, Gojo winced as an older woman smacked him on the back of the head, leaving him clutching it in exaggerated pain. “You’ve found yourself a wife and didn’t think to inform me?”

Gojo turned with a dramatic groan. “No, Mrs. Tanaka, she is not my wife. Must you always strike me so?”

The woman—short in stature but brimming with fiery energy—had her arms crossed, looking up at him with a mixture of affection and reprimand. “And what reason would I have not to, given how you leave everyone guessing?”

Her gaze then shifted to you, her stern expression softening instantly as she hurried over. Taking your hands in hers, she smiled brightly. “Ah, so this is the young lady who’s finally tamed our Satoru.”

You looked between Mrs. Tanaka and Gojo, bewildered, searching for any explanation or protest that might spare you from the implication. But Gojo merely shrugged, an amused—though slightly embarrassed—expression on his face.

Before you could respond, Mrs. Tanaka waved off any attempt at explanation, placing a finger to her lips as though she already knew the truth. “Say no more, my dear. A fine match, indeed.” She then turned to her husband, giving him a pointed look. “Dear, didn’t you say you had some business with Lord Satoru today? Why not invite them into the bakery?”

At the mention of business, Gojo’s expression shifted, and it was almost unnerving how quickly his lighthearted, carefree demeanor gave way to a more serious and focused air. He turned to the baker, his brow slightly furrowed. “Mr. Tanaka, is there another issue with the ledgers? I had thought that those troubles had long since ceased.”

The baker scratched his head sheepishly. “Well, my lord, there have been further claims—false ones, no doubt—regarding the ledgers, particularly in reference to the debt I incurred when I purchased the bakery. I did not wish to trouble you, especially as,” he cast a quick glance at you and nudged Gojo with a knowing grin, “you have a fine lady with you today. But your assistance in resolving the matter would be most appreciated, my lord.”

Gojo’s expression darkened slightly, his jaw tightening as the gravity of the situation became apparent. “Of course, Mr. Tanaka. We shall address it at once. Let us discuss the matter inside.”

Mrs. Tanaka, turning to you with a motherly smile, cooed, “Why don’t you come inside as well, my dear? You look positively famished! Let me prepare something for you.”

As the men disappeared into the back of the bakery to attend to their business, Gojo offering you a brief glance as he followed (as well as an exchange with the baker to have your horses carried to a stable in the village), you were left to follow Mrs. Tanaka’s lead. She guided you to a chair with a gentle, yet insistent, manner, ushering you to sit as though you were a guest of the highest importance. Though her attentiveness was kind, you couldn’t help but feel slightly out of place.

Sitting down, you couldn’t shake the thought—why were you being treated with such familiarity? Yes, Mrs. Tanaka assumed you to be Gojo’s wife, but was the lord you knew, so self-assured and pretentious within society, truly capable of leaving such an impression on these villagers? The notion seemed almost laughable.

You concluded that Gojo must have performed some extraordinary deed—something grand yet deceptively simple, like saving their child from rolling down a hill. A gesture that, while not heroic by any noble standard, had been enough to secure the couple’s undying gratitude. Of course, you mused with a bitter edge, only Gojo could manipulate such a mundane act into a permanent place in their hearts. The thought soured your mood further. It was just like him to charm even the most unsuspecting, innocent villagers into adoring him, using that devilish smile and unearned charisma to weave them into his—--

You were jolted out of your spiraling thoughts, your internal conspiracy theories evaporating at the first whiff of fresh bread. The warm, buttery aroma wafted throughout the room as Mrs. Tanaka made her way towards you, carrying a tray of fresh loaves that looked as good as they smelled–moist and buttery. The sight of the golden-brown crusts made your stomach clench painfully in hunger, reminding you that you had yet to break your fast because of your rendezvous with Gojo.

Mrs. Tanaka set the basket down before you, settling herself across the table, leaning back in her chair with a look of comfortable familiarity as her eyes studied you with quiet observation. Sensing your hesitation, she waved a hand, smiling warmly. “Go on, my dear, help yourself. You’ve yet to break your fast, and it’s no good going hungry.”

With a silent nod of gratitude, you took the invitation, though some part of you briefly wondered what your mother would say if she were to catch you eating so eagerly. But knowing she was nowhere near to scold you for indulgence, you wasted no time. The moment the warm, fresh bread touched your lips, you had to suppress the urge to devour it outright. Though you tried to remain composed, you could not help the small, contented sigh that escaped as the heavenly taste spread across your tongue.

Mrs. Tanaka watched you with delight, the sparkle in her eye showing how your evident enjoyment amused her. You chewed as gracefully as possible, closing your eyes in brief bliss, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Once you had swallowed and could speak without impropriety, you offered her a sincere, “I am deeply grateful to you for your kindness. This bread is truly unlike any I have tasted before.”

The woman waved off your praise with a hearty laugh. “Oh, my dear, you flatter me too much. Have some more! Your words are as sweet as your disposition.”

A flush crept up your neck at her compliment, and for a moment, you were flustered. Despite being praised endlessly by members of the ton for your beauty and title, there was something undeniably genuine in Mrs. Tanaka’s words—an absence of ulterior motives or expectations. She did not seek anything from you: no favor, no power, no advantageous marriage proposal. Her compliment felt simple, warm, and real.

Mrs. Tanaka continued to smile warmly, her gaze soft as she leaned in a little closer, clearly intrigued by the presence of a lady beside Lord Gojo. She took a sip of tea, her fingers tapping lightly against the table as she asked, “So, my dear, where did you meet our Satoru? He’s never brought a lady to our village before.”

The question caught you off guard. You paused for a moment, careful not to reveal too much or seem overly invested in his affairs. “We met in... social circles,” you answered simply, averting your gaze slightly, trying to keep your tone neutral. There was no need to elaborate or dwell on how precisely your paths had crossed—certainly not to Mrs. Tanaka, no matter how kind she seemed.

But Mrs. Tanaka was undeterred by your hesitance, her eyes lighting up with fondness as she spoke again. “Ah, yes, I suppose that would be the case. Though I’ve known him far longer than most in those circles.” She chuckled, a motherly gleam in her eye. “I’ve been with him since birth, you know. I was his nurse—watched him grow from a babe to the man you see now. Heaven knows it wasn’t easy.”

You glanced up, startled at the intimacy of her revelation. The thought of this woman, now sitting across from you, having been a part of his life since his earliest days struck you in a way you hadn’t expected. Gojo had always seemed like an enigma—a man of privilege and power, impossible to know beyond his title and public persona. But here, in the humble setting of this village, Mrs. Tanaka spoke of him as if he were not some distant lord, but a boy she had raised, a person with a story you had never even considered.

“He was the most energetic child,” Mrs. Tanaka continued, her voice fond and nostalgic. “Always getting into mischief, running circles around everyone. He had so much spirit, but oh, the responsibilities placed on those little shoulders were heavy from the start. Even when he was just a boy, his father had him learning the estate's business, sorting through documents before he could properly read some of them. I remember once—he couldn’t have been more than ten years old—his father handed him a stack of contracts to review. The poor lad spent hours poring over them, brow furrowed like a little man.”

You listened intently, the bread in your hand momentarily forgotten. It was strange, hearing Gojo being spoken of this way—no longer just a lord or rival, but a child burdened by duty far too early.

The woman continued, “I remember thinking how much that experience must’ve aged him. He always carried that burden with such grace, but you could see it—it weighed on him.”

A strange turmoil began to stir in your chest. You had only ever known Gojo as the man he presented to society—arrogant, infuriatingly self-assured, with a grin that could cut like a knife. But now, you were being offered a glimpse of someone else entirely: a boy who had been shaped by forces beyond his control.

Mrs. Tanaka’s voice softened, her gaze faraway as she reminisced. “It was not easy for him, growing up with so much expected of him. He would act out sometimes, just to remind everyone that he was still a boy—still someone who needed room to breathe. But even so, he never shied away from what was asked of him. He understood his duty, perhaps too well.”

“I see.” You swallowed, a strange sensation creeping up your spine.

“He’s a good man, Satoru,” Mrs. Tanaka said softly. “He’s had to grow up faster than most, and he’s been shaped by that weight. But I hope you can see that there’s more to him than what’s on the surface.”

You offered her a polite smile, but inside, your thoughts were a storm of conflicting emotions. Gojo, a man burdened by duty? The notion seemed almost laughable... and yet, there was a part of you that couldn’t dismiss it so easily.

Your gaze then wandered to the man of the topic itself. The baker and him were poring and scanning endlessly over sheets of paper, an uptick in his jaw visible as his eyes remained concentrated, oblivious to your observation from across the bakery. His hand raked over his hair, the muscles in his forearm clenching and unclenching due to the action, as he discussed something with the baker. Whatever matter they were discussing, it was clear it a serious matter, for you could hear the gears whirring through his mind through the calculative look on his face.

The scene felt oddly intimate—watching him in such a serious, unguarded moment. His usual carefree demeanor was replaced by something sharp, calculating, as if the gears of his mind were turning at full speed. He pointed at something on the paper, his brow furrowing, and exchanged a few terse words with the baker. From the look on their faces, the issue seemed grave, but Gojo handled it with a calm decisiveness that surprised you.

Finally, after several moments of quiet but intense discussion, there was a visible shift. The baker nodded, sighing in relief, and Gojo’s posture relaxed, the tension in his frame unwinding. He stood a little taller, rolling his shoulders as though shedding the weight of responsibility that had pressed down on him so heavily just moments before. He glanced at the baker with a reassuring smile, offering a firm pat on the man’s back. It seemed the matter had been resolved.

As Gojo turned his head, his eyes caught yours from across the bakery. Your heart leapt unexpectedly, and you quickly averted your gaze, heat creeping up your neck as you pretended to be fascinated by the contents of the breadbasket in front of you. Despite yourself, a faint flustered feeling bloomed in your chest, and you couldn’t shake the sense of being caught staring.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Gojo making his way toward you, his steps slow but deliberate. You could feel the gentle thud of his boots against the wooden floor, the sound growing louder with each stride. Your back straightened instinctively, your gaze fixed firmly on Mrs. Tanaka, trying to distract yourself from the awareness that Gojo was now directly behind you.

Then, a hand placed on the back of your chair as Gojo effectively leaned over you, peering down to look down at you and Mrs. Tanaka. “Ah, I see you’ve been well entertained,” he drawled, a teasing lilt to it, though quieter and more casual than before.

You manage a polite smile to Mrs. Tanaka despite the teasing intent behind Satoru’s words. "Mrs. Tanaka has been a most gracious host," you replied, avoiding meeting his eyes directly, though you could feel his presence and the heat of his hand behind you, on the back of your chair.

“Well, the business is settled for now,” Gojo turned slightly so that he was addressing Mrs. Tanaka as well. "I’m glad we could clear it up."

Mrs. Tanaka nodded, her expression pleased. "That’s good to hear. I don’t know what we’d do without you, Satoru. You always manage to set things right."

Gojo shrugged modestly, though the smirk playing on his lips told you he was aware of his importance in the village. "I do what I can," he said with an exaggerated sigh, though the humor in his tone softened the boast.

You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes at his self-satisfaction, but Mrs. Tanaka was having none of it, laughing and swatting at his arm. "Enough of that, lad. You’ll give yourself a swollen head.”

Gojo laughed heartily at that, the sound easy and infectious. For a moment, it was almost disarming how comfortable he seemed in this setting, a far cry from the lord who prowled through the ton with that arrogant air of superiority. The contrast gnawed at you, but you pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on Mrs. Tanaka, who now wore an expression of mild concern.

Curiosity piqued, you glanced over to Gojo, only to find a matching look of confusion on his face, his eyebrows slightly raised as he too turned to the woman.

Mrs. Tanaka’s frown deepened as she folded her arms, the lines of worry clear upon her face. “Satoru,” she began, her tone earnest, “is your wife pregnant yet?”

The question landed between you like a stone dropped in still water.

Gojo sputtered, his usual composure vanishing in an instant, and you—taken aback—choked on nothing but air, coughing violently as the shock of the statement hit you squarely.

"P-Pardon?" Gojo stammered, eyes wide, and for once, his usual glib charm utterly failed him.

You managed to recover just enough to speak, though your voice came out hoarse and incredulous. “I—I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

The tension in the room skyrocketed as Mrs. Tanaka blinked innocently between the two of you, utterly oblivious to the awkwardness spreading like wildfire. "Well, it’s just—he’s always been so strong and healthy. I thought, surely by now…"

You quickly attempted to intervene, “No, I assure you—”

But before you could get a full sentence out, Mrs. Tanaka turned to Satoru, her gaze suddenly serious as she leveled him with an intent stare. “You’re doing your task correctly, I presume? You have to apply a bit of force, or you're not performing the act quite right.”

She then turned her concerned frown toward you. “Is he not doing his job properly? You do feel pleasure, don’t you, my dear?”

You blinked, utterly baffled, and turned to Gojo, seeking some kind of explanation. But to no avail—he was conspicuously avoiding your gaze, a rare flush creeping up his neck. The sight of him, normally so self-assured, now visibly flustered, did nothing to quell your rising confusion. “Pleasure?” you echoed, unsure of what she was referring to.

“Satoru!” Mrs. Tanaka scolded, her tone growing more exasperated. “You must conduct the marital act properly!”

Gojo finally intervened, cutting Mrs. Tanaka off with a polite but decisive, "Thank you, Mrs. Tanaka. We shall consider your counsel. I have many errands to get to, so we must take our leave now." His voice was calm, though firm, signaling that the conversation had reached its conclusion. Offering her a swift bow, he gestured for you to follow, and you did so with a quiet, grateful nod.

Once outside, the air between you both felt lighter, though a strange silence still lingered. Both of you took to the streets again—Gojo didn’t seem to make motions towards the bakery’s stable to grab your horses, so you assumed the medium of travel was to be foot for the rest of his errands.

However, after a few steps, curiosity gnawed at you, and you could no longer hold back your question.

"What, exactly, is the marital act?"

Gojo stopped abruptly, turning to face you with a look of utter bewilderment amidst the bustle of the market traveling around you both. "You cannot be serious."

You met his gaze earnestly. "I am entirely serious. My mama hasn't…enlightened me, simply skirting around the topic. I was wondering if you could, given that it has arisen in our conversation."

He blinked, seemingly at a loss for words, before letting out a startled laugh. "It is... how children are conceived."

"Oh," you responded, thinking on it for a moment. "So... one must marry, then?"

Gojo stared at you, incredulity plain on his face. "What?"

"You sign the contract," you explained, as though clarifying something obvious, "and then you lay in bed and embrace, do you not?"

Gojo’s mouth fell open for a moment before he threw his head back with a short, disbelieving laugh. "Just embrace?"

You nodded, though your cheeks had begun to burn under his astonished gaze and you averted your gaze to look at the shiny, red apples a vendor was presenting. "Yes, merely embrace."

Shaking his head, Gojo let out another incredulous chuckle. "And you believe children are delivered by storks as well, I suppose?"

You crossed your arms, feeling your face grow hotter. "I most certainly do not. I was present when my mother gave birth to Yuji, and I heard every scream, thank you very much."

Gojo ran a hand over his face, stifling his amusement as he tried to gather his thoughts. "Clearly there is more to it than simply embracing. It is... a rather more intimate affair."

"More intimate? You mean like wrestling?"

At this, Gojo choked on his laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. "No, not wrestling. It’s... well, I hardly know how to explain it delicately. But it is how one begets children."

You frowned, now growing frustrated with his vagueness. "You speak in riddles. If I am mistaken, then kindly explain what the act entails!"

Gojo sighed deeply, clearly struggling between frustration and amusement. "The marital act is not simply laying beside one another—it involves a... a physical connection, far beyond mere affection. It is, indeed, how children come to be."

You blinked, still not fully understanding, though you refused to let it show. "You could simply say so, instead of dancing around the matter."

Gojo’s lips twitched into a grin. "Ah, but where would be the fun in that?"

"Fun?" you repeated, exasperated. "This is a matter of knowledge!"

"Indeed, a matter of knowledge I did not expect to be imparting today," Gojo said with a wry shake of his head. "Suffice it to say, it is more than an embrace, and when the time comes, you shall learn well enough."

You glared at him, cheeks still warm with embarrassment. "I shall inquire elsewhere, then."

“I would advise you not to,” Gojo remarked wryly, tilting his head to indicate that both of you move, which you surmise is a wise move given that a heavy and big cart was moving towards the general direction of the both of you, and your feet followed him through the market. Roving his eyes over the general treats and food available, you see–from beside him–that his eyes fixate on some sweet smelling pastries on a cart. Not taking his eyes off of them, he adds, “It’s quite a sensitive topic among the ton. I suspect your mama would faint if she heard you were out and about inquiring the true nature of the marital act.”

“I can…consult texts,” you say, offhandedly, but you are equally as enraptured towards the sweets stall you both are walking towards.

“Mmh,” Gojo hums, “You could, I’m sure. However, you might encounter more…scientific things, rather than the personal.”

You shrugged, eyes locked in on the pasty bursting with apples. “Makes no distinction to me.”

In your…focus on the pastry, you failed to hear the upcoming hooves against the street, steadily getting louder and louder towards you. Just as you were reaching the pastry stall, the thunderous clatter of hooves on cobblestones cut through the air, snapping you from your reverie. A carriage barreled down the narrow lane, far too close for comfort and ready to crush you.

Before you could react, Gojo’s hand shot out, firm and unyielding, pulling you back toward him with a swift motion. He held you against his side, shielding you from the oncoming threat, his grip steady and protective. The world seemed to spin for a moment, your senses heightened by the closeness, the warmth of his touch, and the rapid beat of your own heart.

"Must I be responsible for keeping you from walking into trouble?" he murmured, his voice tinged with both relief and a hint of exasperation. You could feel his grip on your arm and waist as he breathed heavily, the sheer strength he possessed making you shocked, even dizzy. The carriage rumbled past, stirring up a cloud of dust, and you were left standing so near to him that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath.

You opened your mouth to stammer some excuse, your cheeks hot with embarrassment, but his expression had already softened into that infuriatingly familiar smirk, and he let go of the contact he had on you. "I shall have to keep a closer watch over you, lest pastries and carriages both be your undoing," he teased lightly.

You huffed, stepping back from his person with as much dignity as you could muster. "I was merely... distracted by the sweets, as were you," you replied, sounding petulant even to your own ears.

"Ah, yes, distracted to the point of self-endangerment. Truly, the pastries of this market wield extraordinary power over you."

"I am hardly so careless. It was a mere lapse of focus." Your lips twitched, fighting the smile threatening to surface despite your annoyance.

"If you say so," he drawled, his tone full of mock skepticism. Then, with a more serious note, he added, "Perhaps it would be wise to focus on the task at hand, rather than leaving your life in the hands of apple tarts."

You flushed slightly, more from his sheer perceptiveness than the scolding itself, and cast your eyes away, suddenly unsure of what to say. It was so much simpler when he was mocking you, but this unexpected gentleness was a new kind of challenge altogether.

"Come then," he said, his voice returning to its light, teasing timbre. "Let us continue our quest for knowledge—or, at the very least, for pastries that won't lead to your untimely end."

Moving towards the stall, the smell of various fruits baked into sweets with delicious sauces sprinkled on top. The treats were clearly crafted with care, the kind of sincerity and dedication that no gilded manor kitchen could quite capture. The young couple behind the stall radiated a warmth and pride that spoke of a passion for their craft, one that valued love of the work over the cost of the ingredients.

Gojo, ever at ease among the townsfolk, exchanged pleasantries with the couple, his attention split between their conversation and the tempting selection of tarts. He spoke with the man about some local issue, but you found your focus entirely absorbed by the golden-crusted apple pie that seemed to call to you.

“Would you like to try these?” You looked up to see the presumed wife of the man, smiling at you and eyes twinkling with genuine hospitality.

Returning her smile with a polite nod, you said, "There is no need, truly. How much do you ask for one of these?" You thanked God for remembering to carry your small coin purse—a habit drilled into you by Sukuna’s lessons on self-sufficiency, even if Judgement day came in, you always carried money on your person so long as you were not within your family’s vicinity.

The lady named her price, and you promptly began to search for the correct coins in your purse. Just as your fingers brushed against the cool metal, a gloved hand caught your wrist, halting your movement.

"You must be the only lady in all of Christendom who insists on paying for her own tarts whilst her husband stands idly by," came Gojo’s teasing voice. You didn’t need to look up to know that his familiar smirk was firmly in place, brimming with that infuriating mirth that seemed to accompany his every word.

Without relinquishing his gentle hold on your wrist, he smoothly handed over the coins to the stall owner, then deftly picked up a golden apple tart. His eyes gleamed with something unreadable as he offered the pastry to you, the corners of his mouth twitching as if daring you to protest.

But you didn’t give him what he wanted; rather, you took it without protest—not without rolling your eyes—and looked it over appreciatively.

Gojo bent over to lean his face close into yours, ever so playing the part of a husband wanting to spoil his wife. “Happy?”

You gave him a hum, sticking your tongue out and then taking a bite of the pastry in front of you.

Gojo's smirk widened, clearly amused by your reaction, his blue eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and satisfaction. He watched you intently, as though gauging your every move, delighting in this little game of his. You knew he expected some sharp retort or flustered reaction, but you were determined not to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, you took a slow, deliberate bite of the tart, savoring its warmth and sweetness. The flaky crust gave way to the soft, spiced apple filling that practically melted on your tongue. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, relishing the taste, and let out a contented sigh. "It is quite satisfactory," you said, allowing a small smile to play on your lips as you met his gaze.

"Well, I should hope so," Gojo said with a chuckle, still playing the role of the devoted husband. "One does go to great lengths to ensure one's wife is suitably indulged."

You rolled your eyes at his theatrics, but there was no denying the way the scene had amused you, despite your best efforts to remain unflappable. “You enjoy this, don’t you?” you remarked dryly.

"More than you can imagine," he replied, his tone light and teasing. "Seeing you this flustered and yet so determined not to show it? Absolutely delightful."

You narrowed your eyes at him, though you couldn't quite suppress the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "You are insufferable."

"And yet," he said, leaning in ever so slightly, a touch of softness behind the humor in his voice, "you tolerate me still."

You huffed. "Only because you happen to be useful at times, particularly for giving me the opportunity to escape the confines of your godforsaken manor."

He laughed, a genuine sound that echoed above the bustle of the market. "Oh, I'll take that as the highest compliment, coming from you."

"Enjoy it while you can, Gojo. It may be the last time I am so generous."

"Noted," he said with a grin, giving you a playful wink. "I'll savor it as much as you did that tart."

"You know," you began, musing, "our mamas have truly squandered their efforts. We would never have made a compatible match."

Both of you rode side by side on horseback, the forest trail stretching out before you as you made your way back to the manor. The journey was not far now—the stone turrets of the Gojo estate were already visible in the distance. The both of you hadn’t had much time to do much other than two encounters you had, deciding to make your return before your rendezvous got behindhand. You turned your head slightly to study Gojo's reaction, expecting to find that familiar, self-assured smirk he always wore. But instead, his expression was... different. A touch more solemn, perhaps even conflicted.

At last, he spoke, his voice softer than usual. "And what, pray tell, do you consider a suitable match?"

You let his question hang in the air for a moment, taking in the rustling leaves and the steady rhythm of your horses' hooves against the well-trodden path. It was just the two of you here in the quiet of the forest, far from the prying eyes of society. There was a certain unspoken understanding between you—a truce of sorts—yet also a acknowledgement that either of you could easily betray this moment's candor.

So, ultimately, you chose honesty. Partial honesty.

With a quiet sigh, you chose your words carefully. "I think," you hesitated, your gaze caught by Gojo's steady, penetrating eyes, "I should prefer a life of tranquility once I am wed. Someone gentle, who would respect my desire to occupy myself as I please, who would allow me a measure of privacy." You quickly added, as to not seem too radical, "I mean to say, someone who would not object if I wished to practice my piano in solitude or to pursue a quiet hobby. Surely you understand, my lord, the burden of constantly being in the public eye."

Instead of seeming understanding, Gojo’s gaze on you was…pensive. Your heart sped up as the solace you needed from Gojo after being a bit vulnerable didn’t appear, leaving your mind running as to what he was thinking.The sunlight filtered through the trees, catching in his white hair, giving him an almost ethereal appearance as the two of you rode on in silence.

Then, the clouds covered the sun up, giving his figure a glum, ruminative cast.

After a long pause, he finally spoke, and his voice seemed to carry a note of something deeper, something unspoken. As if he was aware of something you weren’t. “What I do understand that is that you are being deceitful. Both your future husband and to yourself.”

His words hung in the air between you, more like a question than a statement, challenging in a way that left you unprepared. The forest around you seemed to hold its breath, the rustling leaves and birdsong fading into the background as his gaze locked onto yours, probing, almost too perceptive. It was the windiness indicative of rainfall, with the thunder of clouds above you to provide testament to the change in weather.

You straightened in your saddle, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. "I fail to see what you mean," you replied, a touch defensive, though you kept your tone level. "What else should one seek from a marriage if not harmony and respect?"

"You speak of privacy and quiet, of being left to your own devices. But tell me," he said, his voice barely above a murmur, "would that truly satisfy you? To be married to a man who treats you as if you were a painting—beautiful, yes, but best admired from a distance, untouched and unengaged?"

You opened your mouth to respond but found no words. There was a part of you, a stubborn part, that wanted to argue—to tell him he was wrong, that a peaceful life was exactly what you desired.

"I... simply wish to avoid the chaos that comes with too much entanglement," you said finally, more quietly. "I’ve seen what happens when people become too wrapped up in one another. It's a vulnerability I do not wish to expose myself to."

"Ah, I see," he said, nodding slowly yet mockingly as if he was piecing together a puzzle, making you bristle involuntarily. "So, you’d rather not risk the mess of it all—the unpredictability, the chance of losing control. You want safety."

You narrowed your eyes at him, both irritated and unnerved by his perceptiveness. "Is that so wrong?" you challenged. "To desire a life where I can control my own happiness, rather than leave it in the hands of another?"

He matched your tone and fervor. “Is that truly what you believe a marriage is for?”

You sneered. “And don’t you want an accountant for a wife, my lord? It is quite laughable for you to be advising me on the beauty of marriage.”

Enraptured in the heat of the moment, you hadn’t realized that you were nearly at the stables where you had to station your horses until Satoru grabbed his reins—-hands idle before, directing his horse in no particular direction—to now steer his into the stall next to the ones you directed yours.

“My stance on marriage and my character bear no relevance to this matter,” he replied, a rueful smile tugging at his lips as he tethered his horse. His tone was controlled, though a trace of irritation bled through. “Whatever my faults, they do not make your notions any more rational.”

“But you forget that it illuminates who you are,” you hissed, walking towards the exit of the barn, tired of the smell of manure and Gojo, unsure which was more repugnant. “A hypocrite. A whited sepulchre, if you will.”

Gojo barks out a laugh from behind you, following closely behind on your heels. “Any supposed sanctimonious nature of mine does not alter the fact that you are steering yourself into a life of misery. Not just you, but any poor fool incapable of seeing through your polished smiles to your true intentions.”

On a given day, had you not been so incensed or had your opponent been anyone other than Lord Gojo, you might have heeded the thunderous roar of the rain on the stable’s roof or the slick ground outside that awaited you. And on a given day, you wouldn’t have stepped so fast, as if daring the friction of the ground and force of gravity to make you fall flat on your face.

But, alas, it was not that said given day and your ankle made a sickening crunch! against the ground as you fell, your head and body hitting the wet grass. You felt the world tilt unnaturally as you hit the ground, the impact jarring through your body, sending a shockwave of pain radiating from your ankle to the back of your skull. A dull throb began to pulse at your temples, and the rain poured down, blurring your vision into a haze of grays and greens.

Through the blend of sensations, you heard a sharp intake of breath, and then there were hurried footsteps approaching. Somewhere above the din of the storm, a voice called your name, its usual calm fraying at the edges with alarm.

“Miss Itadori!” WIth that you jumped, eyes finally registering a Gojo clenching your wrists tight. “Can you understand what I am saying?”

Your gaze drifted over his face, focusing on the small details—his rain-slicked hair, the concern that flickered behind his eyes, the humorless smile that strained at his lips. Slowly, you managed a nod, though even that small movement made your head swim. “Yes,” you whispered.

Then, you became acutely aware of a warm, crimson fluid pooling around you, contrasting sharply with the rain-soaked earth. You began to feel faint, though not from the severity of the injury itself, but rather from the unfamiliar sight of so much blood. It was unnerving, especially for someone who had never experienced a wound of this nature. The lightheadedness must have been responsible for your sudden admission, “I am frightened.”

Lord Gojo’s eyes, which had moments ago glinted with amusement at your pitiful state, softened ever so slightly. His smirk remained in place, yet you noticed the way his fingers twitched restlessly at his side, betraying the composure he desperately clung to. “My lady, it’s merely a gash. You are not in danger of perishing,” he said, his tone light, almost too light, like a mask hiding something unspoken. “However, it seems I’ll have to carry you to a physician, lest you collapse entirely.”

He stood up from where he had been inspecting your ankle, bending slightly before you with his arms extended. But there was a slight hesitation in his movement, a momentary pause before his hands reached for you, as if he were weighing the consequences, considering the impropriety of the action.

Your eyes widened in alarm at the very idea of being carried by him. “Carry me? What--AHHH!” A sharp scream left your lips as Lord Gojo, without warning, scooped you into his arms. In the blink of an eye, you found yourself in a bridal carry, your gown catching the rain as he strode out of the greenhouse. He moved with a purposeful stride, though his grip on you was perhaps a fraction tighter than necessary, his jaw clenched just a bit too firmly.

You pounded your fists ineffectively against his chest, cheeks burning with indignation. “Gojo, let me down!”

He, of course, ignored your demands entirely, his voice annoyingly gentle as he cooed, “Now, now, it’s for your own good. You’re in no condition to walk, and I can hardly risk your injury worsening.” But despite his calm words, his eyes flickered nervously to your face and then away, almost as though he was afraid of what he might see in your expression if he looked too long.

“What if someone sees us?” you hissed, your mind racing at the impropriety of the situation. The two of you, unchaperoned, in such an undignified position—it would provide gossip for Whistledown and the ton for weeks.

Gojo’s smirk returned, though there was a tightness around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “I am wearing gloves, my lady. Fear not, I am not making contact with your bare skin.” His attempt at humor felt forced, his voice lacking its usual ease, and when he added, “Though I daresay, it would not be such an unpleasant thought,” the playfulness seemed almost like a deflection.

You narrowed your eyes, trying to distract yourself from the warmth of his arms. “Why do you always wear those?”

“Writing ledgers and doing a lot of work with pens make my fingers blister. It’s quite unsightly, so I prefer to wear them,” he said, his voice steady, though the hand supporting your back trembled almost imperceptibly.

You hummed, settling a little more comfortably in his hold. "You know, you’re quite strong to be able to carry me like this. What manual labor are your parents making you do to get the title of duke?”

“Well,” Gojo began, but his voice sounded tighter now, the rumble of it vibrating through his chest where your head was so near. The proximity seemed to unsettle him in a way his words could not hide; he cleared his throat as if to steady himself, but his breathing was just a touch uneven. My vindication for such close contact will be the blood loss, you thought, as you nestled your head closer to his chest, until your nose was almost grazing his neck. The scent of tobacco and vanilla filled your senses, lulling you closer to the pulse that beat a bit too fast beneath his skin. “I enjoy doing archery. I’ve been doing it ever since I was a child, which happens to strengthen your shoulders.”

You thought back to the night you were strolling in the garden the day of your debut, musing on the size of his shoulders, and mumbled, “Mmmm, I was right.”

Gojo stiffened almost imperceptibly, his gaze flickering down to you in a way that was almost too quick, too searching. His lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something, but he hesitated. "Right about what?" he asked finally, his tone a bit too casual, as though trying to mask the turmoil behind his nonchalance.

“Nothing,” you murmured, closing your eyes and leaning your head against his shoulder. You felt his gaze linger on you, as though he were trying to decipher a puzzle that was just beyond his reach, before he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. And as he carried you onward, the rhythm of his heartbeat felt almost in sync with the rain, though you both pretended not to notice how fast it was racing.

As you leaned against him, the warmth of his presence enveloped you, a soothing balm against the chaos swirling in your mind. But the world began to tilt, colors blurring at the edges, and the sounds of the forest faded into a distant hum.

“Gojo…” you whispered, your voice barely a breath, a final plea for clarity before darkness crept in.

The last thing you registered was his grip tightening around you, a hint of alarm breaking through his facade. “Stay with me,” you heard, though his voice felt miles away, echoing in the void as consciousness slipped through your fingers like grains of sand.

Then, the world faded entirely, leaving only the warmth of his arms and the distant sound of his voice.

prev. the game | next. the house party

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n AHHH HI BRIDGERTON!GOJO READERS I MISSED U!!! im very sorry for the delay that happened with this chapter but for me it's so hard to write...development and angst and fluff becasue when you write it's so hard to know when any of your writing hits :(

but re-reading ur comments reblogs and asks inspire me a lot to continue so we all good :3 i think what happened was that i kind of went thru a crisis where i thought my writing wasn't good at all because of certain things i saw in other authors', i.e. writing longfics that have 10k+ words that led me to believe i wasn't writing enough, that my plotline was progressing too fast, etc. i might have long chapters going on, i might not because i realize how stupid that belief was lol. anyways moving forward i dont think we will see that type of delay because i have the best readers hehe <3 love you all and im kind of giggling in anticipation to all your funny comments because they make my day

ANYWAYS like always reblogs and comments are appreciated <333

meme time

gojo getting to business w the baker (credits to @/sinn-clair LOL)

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@byhuenii @geniejunn @a-girl-with-thoughts @dazedin2d @chuuqxs

@megumiivs @anthastudios @arranacosmist @arishaxml @jingyuun

@undercooked-chaos-noodle @jaegersity @camzzn @bluelai @1sweetheart1

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untitlzd · 3 months ago

Text

silence doesn’t stop rich boys

top!sim jaeyun x btm!male reader smut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the top.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he noticed.

Jake was still nearby. Too nearby.

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

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

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

And maybe it was. Or maybe not.

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

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

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

Y/n needed air.

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

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

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

And then, the door opened.

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

"Hey, Y/n?"

Jake.

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

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

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

"Are you okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

Jake continued:

"Enjoying the party?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stay down."

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

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

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

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

Y/n's silence was taken as provocation.

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

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

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

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

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

Y/n swallowed hard.

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

But there was nothing harmless in that smile anymore.

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

"Cat got your fucking tongue?"

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

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

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

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

Jake didn't respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake didn't waste time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake wasn't gentle.

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

And against all reason, Y/n stopped resisting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, as if flipping a switch, Jake moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or if, in the end, they both were.

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

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

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hrtwayne · 4 months ago

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My Kink is Karma || Alexia Putellas [Part One]

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Physiotherapist!Reader

Summary: Where Y/n is hired as the new Physiotherapist for Barcelona Women's Team after a recent complicated breakup with one of the stars of English football.

Note: English is not my first language!

Warning: None!

Next Chapter | Women's Football Masterlist

Y/n Henry adjusted her sunglasses as she walked through the streets of the Northern Quarter, her favorite refuge in Manchester. Despite the overwhelming success she had achieved over the past two years with her skills in physiotherapy, working with the Arsenal women's team and the French national team, she always found a way to return to this place, with its record stores and the cafés of the neighborhood where she grew up.

Manchester wasn't just her hometown; it was the essence of who she was. Her way of thinking, her sporting spirit inherited from her father—a player so well-known by the Gunners' fans, Thierry Henry—and the influence of her mothers in aspects that didn't involve a football or late-night study sessions to find ways to help some player.

It was almost impossible to ignore the influences in her life, growing up in a home divided by two footballing passions. Her father, a football star who had marked an entire generation of Arsenal fans, always took every opportunity to remind her of her roots. On the other hand, her mother, a loyal Barcelona supporter, made sure to balance the man's fanatical narrative.

That morning, Y/n decided to start her day at a cozy café, Fig + Sparrow, a place she had loved since her teenage years. She ordered her usual flat white and sat at a table near the window, watching the flow of people walking down the streets. Some were in a hurry, others glued to their phones, and a few chatting idly. As Y/n finished up some last-minute work for the semester, she tried to forget everything that was happening in her life: a recent breakup with one of English football's stars, her possible departure from Arsenal, and her new contract with a Spanish team.

The Northern Quarter had always been a haven of creativity and calm for her, and even now, at the peak of her career, she returned to those bustling streets when she needed to unwind.

After her coffee, Y/n headed to Afflecks, the paradise of alternative shops, where she used to spend her teenage allowance buying books and vinyl records with her younger brother, Harry. As she walked with her phone in hand to let the blond player know she was near the store, Y/n started a small list of things to buy by the end of the day.

"I thought you'd never stop giving autographs," Y/n joked, hearing the man's chuckle.

Harry, who was leaning on a counter, looking at some vinyl records, turned his attention to his sister.

"Hmm, did Charlotte call you?"

"The last time she called me, she was in Los Angeles filming that series," Y/n replied, picking up The Smiths' album. "Did something happen?"

"You know, the same old story. The idiot ex-boyfriend she always ends up going back to," Harry said, grabbing the blue-covered album, which Y/n recognized as Taylor Swift's "1989."

Y/n rolled her eyes at Charlotte's excessive stubbornness.

"So, she called you to say she got back with him?"

Harry placed the vinyl in the basket along with The Smiths' album.

"She called saying they were going to film a 'romantic' scene together, and then they ended up drunk in the trailer," Harry explained, seeing the bored expression on his older sister's face. "Dad's going to kill her when he finds out."

"And you know he'll blame some of it on us, right? Charlotte's an adult, H. If she made a mistake like that, she should face the consequences," Y/n cut the conversation short, noticing how Harry sighed wearily. "You need to stop worrying about other people's problems and focus on yourself, dude. You have an important game in a few days."

Harry seemed to relax his posture gradually, nodding as he followed his sister to fill the basket with vinyl records and old discs.

That same day, around 8:40 PM, Y/n stepped out of the bathroom wearing an oversized Arsenal shirt, her hair still wet and a somewhat tired look on her face. The messy room in her Manchester apartment was filled with books and reports about some players.

That place was truly the perfect mix of her chaotic personality. Y/n sat on her bed, arranging the scattered papers to try to organize the post-apocalyptic zone.

The sound of her phone ringing broke the deep train of thought Y/n was in. The French physiotherapist sighed, putting the paperwork aside to answer the phone. An unknown number flashed on the screen.

"Hello?" Y/n said, her voice still tired.

"Hey, Y/n. Did I wake you?" A firm voice with a slightly funny accent asked.

"No, I just got back from a walk with Harry," Y/n replied, recognizing the voice as Aitana's. "Did something happen?"

"I heard about your breakup with the English player, and I wanted to know if you're okay," Aitana began, in a tone that Y/n immediately recognized as genuine concern. "Last time you said things weren't going so well between you two."

Y/n hesitated, taking a generous sip of the tea that warmed her throat. She knew she couldn't hide anything from the player.

"Maybe breaking up was the healthier solution, A. It wasn't exactly news that things weren't good between us," Y/n paused. "You know, I couldn't run away from it forever."

Aitana seemed to hesitate, and the call fell silent for a few seconds.

"And are you going to stay on the same team as her?" she finally asked, in an almost maternal tone.

"Well... I've received a few offers from some teams. Nothing too different from what I do here at Arsenal, but it might be a chance to try something new. My contract is up now, so I can sign a pre-contract with any team that's not an English rival."

"Don't tell me there's an offer from Barcelona in the mix," Aitana said, hearing the physiotherapist's chuckle.

"Well, you guessed it," Y/n said, in a fake tone of annoyance. "Next week I'll land in the city to sign the contract and start working."

"I can finally rub it in the English girls' faces that I have you on my team," the woman celebrated, making Y/n laugh. "Now I'll let you think about what you're going to tell your dad."

"Don't even remind me, he's going to be furious. But at least it's not Chelsea or Manchester," Y/n joked, hearing the midfielder laugh.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #alexia x reader #woso x reader #aitana bonmati #barcelona femeni #fem reader #gxg

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alanisstonedd · 8 months ago

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okay bluecollar!rafe but yall. can we make it MARINE!RAFE?? or more specifically MARSOC!rafe* who works for ward at cameron construction co. on leave?? like hello i need him bad guys.

cw: MDNI smut, cursing, stuff in public, food play, cum eating, military stuff, ass play, manhandling, 1 mention of fighting, recording

*marsoc: Marine Forces Special Operations Command - basically what COD men do

like he starts off as a standard private officer after enlisting when you guys graduate high school. he works his way up from private to corporal to sergeant major, and then eventually to captain, colonel, then general. i mean hes fucking unstoppable, hes blowing thru these ranks like nobodys fuckin business, and he not stopping anytime soon baby he in his primeeee.

he moves on to MARSOC and leads a small team on SPEC-OP missions in like borneo. hes literally the best of the best. his full file is like 4 pounds, full of successful recon missions, confirmed kills, successful captures of enemy targets, accurate tracking efforts, successful counterterrorism efforts, successful hostage rescue and successful direct action raids. when theres a REAL threat? they call LT Cameron. callsign? RAIDER

NOW. when baby comes home on leave he works at the family construction company ward owns, building giant beach houses for rich kooks. he eventually inherits cameron construction when ward gets too old to work and he helps ward retire bcs of the cash from being the most elite soldier in the US military. bae is tannnn bcs of construction work ofc, but also since being in the military he likes to go on runs and be in nature to clear his head. and yall alr know hes yatteddddd, both sleeves done by his boy at home on the cut, who happens to be a very talented tattoo artist (barry...)

strictly keeps a buzz for deployment but will grow out a mullet when hes home. signature gold chain is always on, and has a tat on his ring finger for you and maybe one on his forearm. does he have both ears pierced with fake diamond studs in? yes.

is currently in the blueprint stage for a beach house he wants to build you on figure 8 (and one in florida... and will probably start planning another one if he ends up having a long ship-out next deployment) even tho he despises rich fucks and is suchhhh a country boy. i mean hes like pogue!rafe but hes more of a mudding, dirt biking, bonfire, shotgunning beer, lifted truck, bar hop, football game kind of guy. and the most elite soldier in the US military ofc.

takes you on stargazing dates and fucks you in the truck bed, a big beach towel set down and his head in your neck while he ruts into you short and fast. occasionally gets into bar fights when some dick is tryna say sum to u. is such an ass man and will smack and grope that shit wheneverrrr whereverrrr - has zoned out of convos with people while feelin HIS booty up + loves to grip your pussy with his big ass paw when no one is looking.

has a super firm grip due to years of being a marine and WILL manhandle ur ass around - into various positions, onto the bed or couch or counter or etc., up over his shoulder when you gettin on his nerves. gets actually animalistic when yall fuckin, and yk that boy a munch. growls and grunts sooo loud the whole time.

will take you to the dock and fuck you on the family fishing boat. will christen any new bar yall go to by fucking you in the gross bathroom and carving both your initials in the wall with his pocket knife that ward gave him when he was 15. is kinky af but lets u bring it up bcs he feels awkward talking about it. is sooooo nasty - will eat his cum out of you with his whole mouth, eyes locked on yours, sucking your lips into his mouth. then, when it’s not enough, he drags you up to sit on his face and rubs your clit, watching you clench and letting his cum drip from you right onto his tongue.

will stick a thumb in your ass during doggy, while reaching for his phone bcs the way u throwin that ass back on him? yall bout to make another movie. loves watching you clean him up after round 5, when his dick is covered in his and your cum - will not let you miss a spot, even where it dripped down over his hefty balls to his ass. and he rarely shaves - uncut.

if it’s a hot day, he’ll turn the ac off and find you so he can lick the sweat off every crevice of your beautiful body while he’s fucking you over the counter. both of you completely butt naked bcs it’s hot. has a sweet tooth - will interrupt you while you’re baking and strip you, laying you on the counter like the dessert you are and eating the frosting off his favorite parts. get especially excited when it comes to sweets on your nipples.

honestly if that aint a FEASTTTT i dont know what issss

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tricksh0t · 6 months ago

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★ stag

☾ tywin lannister x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ need that old man part 2, also happy new year

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 2.43k words

cw: hair pulling, from behind, first time anal for tywin, age gap, use of boy as a nickname for the reader, pretty long, small mention of period-typical homophobia

Tywin was never one for hunts, not the ceremonious ones. Hunting was a necessity. It was not like joustings and tourneys, the entertainment found in the desperation and death of boastful warriors; those, he could understand. It is joy and amusement there, and he knows there is no joy to be found in letting your scouts capture the beast for you. It is duller still to plunge your blade into a helpless creature.

Most of all, there is no necessity to send the Lord Lannister, the commander of the Lannister army, a trusted advisor to the crown hunting. The so-said "better taste" of the game you hunted yourself is nothing but delusion to cover up for the time wasted, he knows this too.

There are always men perfectly capable of hunting for him, and if there aren't any, Westeros is damned for its incompetency.

Tywin only understands a good, old-fashioned hunt with purpose.

His army marches on in its journey to tame the North. Night falls, and dinner must be served. So, he hunts.

He's a noble, still, a man who enjoys the comforts of filling meals and cupbearers and wine, regardless of how worthless they are in showing anything except that he is still wealthy.

That is why here, on the table of his very own tent, he's skinning a stag.

He won't be the only one to eat it, no. The man behind him will, too.

You were, seventeen years ago, a soldier; but, just like now, you were also more than that. You were a killer of Targaryen Generals, which grants you today the title of General too: the Commander of the remaining Baratheon army that is still loyal to the admittedly blonder, true Baratheons.

The Baratheon colors became the Lannister's. Yellow became gold and red, but colors were nothing in the face of loyalty.

Tywin's the Lord of Casterly Rock while you're just a lesser cousin, a distant nephew, the farthest there is from inheriting Storm's End, yet you are only one rank below him in power, and that is something to admire.

Suppose that's why he allows you a cut of his meat.

"You stare." Tywin says.

There's no surprise in the statement, even with his back turned towards you. "I do."

"Yes, you do. Often, might I add. State your intentions, plainly."

You know each other, you might even dare to say, well. Tywin is a clever man, he always considers his alliances and his relationships carefully, and you have his trust. It is not easily given.

That does not mean he won't walk on eggshells around you.

"You know, there's reason to my staring. You're easy to stare at."

"Choose your next words carefully."

You have your worth, you're valueable, you're irreplacable. Digging a dagger into your throat won't be easy.

He wedges the butcher's knife into the table with a strong stab. It'd be anger, if that wasn't his usual way of doing it. Here, it's a show of strength. He turns to face you.

"I apologize, my Lord, it appears I wasn't speaking plainly." You play. Oh, you play. You Baratheons don't know when to quit. "You look good. Not good like the pretty princesses in their skirts, but like the men, if you have seen it, if you can understand it, the men on hot summer days that are still bound to the sword, training, muscles golden under the sun."

Tywin doesn't realize he's entertaining you when he says, "We are under shade. It is almost fall."

"Then let me fix it." You look interested now, sitting up, it's a pursuit. "You hide your body under armor, because one does not need to see your body to see your strength. You are commanding, powerful, outside of the physical. Your voice is deep and it allures me even though you don't intend it."

He raises a brow. At this point, not denying you is encouraging you.

You serve him. He could execute you just for saying this. Men have been killed for less, though that is a kind of command he has never given. This is a first, to be wanted like this, by a man, no less, and since many years.

Tywin picks up his knife, turns towards the table, back to the stag, back to skinning it. He's busying his hands. "Continue."

You stride forward, boot upon the earth like you're sneaking up to prey. He does not move to turn, nor does he open his mouth to stop you.

"You're an admirable man, you're ruthless, you're cunning. You plan ahead, you lead the Crown's army." You huff out something of a laugh at yourself, "I am only feeding your ego now, am I not?"

"You think that will get you somewhere?" Tywin returns. HIs knife separates a stubborn bit of the stag's skin from its muscles with a sickening schlick.

"No, I don't believe so." Your hands come to rest on the table on either side of him. It'd be trapping him if he were any other man but Tywin.

He wields the knife.

"And you think this will get you somewhere?"

"Maybe." Your voice is closer to his ear now. He almost flinches. Instead, you press your nose against his neck, and the rest of your head against the back of his.

Intimacy, warmth. It gets colder the further north you go, but he knows that's not why he isn't pushing you away now.

"I think, you'd have ordered my head or killed me yourself if you weren't interested."

Silence is enough of an answer.

You have been, at times, that man bound to the sword in the summer. Tywin has seen it, though he's never allowed himself more than a glance. He knows the sight of them, but pressed up against him now, he can feel your muscles beneath the thinner garments you wear under your armor.

Much the way you admire the strength of him, he can feel your strength; and again, he has seen it in the way you cleave down your enemies, but he is feeling it now, and it is different.

His silence was enough then, and his words won't be enough now, not unless they are stop or you're dead. So he chooses, instead, to poke fun at you.

"You aren't even the age I was when the Mad King was felled, do you know that, boy?"

If it is a night of entertainment that he'll find today, then he might as well have his fun. After all, he's a noble, still, a man who enjoys his comforts.

"Is that supposed to stop me?" You laugh against the skin of his neck.

The knife comes down into the wood of the table again, threateningly close to your hand. You don't flinch. He admires that.

There's the first couple of kisses against his neck. They're wet, which isn't quite his preference, but they're tolerable.

Tywin sighs, which he regrets quickly.

He gave you an inch, and you took a mile. "What was that?"

"A sigh, boy." His voice is stern. It'd be threatening, if you didn't hear that tone all the time. "Keep going."

Your hands undo the clasps of his leather overgarment, then untuck the shirt from his pants, and then meet his skin. They're cold against his stomach, but quickly warming up as you rub over it, like a lady's belly.

He sneers. "Don't keep that up. Move on."

You laugh. He should smack you, but he doesn't. "Apologies, my Lord."

"Does it please you to call me that?" His hand comes back to grab a handful of your hair, a grasp for control in this situation.

"Yes." You don't deny it.

This desire you have for him is his upper hand. He turns around and roughly tugs your hair back, pulling a wince from you.

He's rougher still with the laces of your pants, undoing them quickly and finally wrapping a hand around your cock. You're different from him, unrestrained, already groaning. "Do you want me because I'm the Lord of Casterly Rock and you're insignificant to the Baratheon house? Are you trying to see which is the highest bed you can sleep on?"

"No-no, my Lord."

That surprises him. He works you quickly, root to tip, the cold and the dryness of it all don't help. "Then what is it?"

"I want you," Instinct calls and you pathetically thrust your hips into his hand. "fuck, because it's your strength and power that make my cock stir."

"Funny, that it's my hand now."

For a moment, Tywin considers if he should continue the affair. Since Stannis and Renly Baratheon's individual rebellions, he hasn't been entirely sure of your loyalty. Blood is thicker than water, and it seems the Baratheon blood in his grandchildren has spread thinner than even water.

You'd be his pet, if he kept this up. The Baratheon army that follows you would be entirely his, secured.

"But a hand isn't what you want, is it?"

He spits on his hand then continues to jerk you off, and, "Fuuck."

"You aren't making it easy to tell." Tywin laughs, thoroughly amused.

"No, my Lord," You gulp back a moan to speak properly in front of your Lord, "I wanna fuck you."

"Fuck me? That's hilarious."

He considers it. It's true that it's something he's never tried, but he's not sure if he's willing to try it at all. Well, then again, men are driven by their cocks, and you're no exception.

"Please."

You sound so pathetic, it's cute. Tywin sighs again, letting go of you. "Alright. Go fetch oil. That is what you men use, yes?"

Tywin was not a youth seventeen years ago, and he is much less a youth now.

That does not mean that his knees are weak, nor that he can't fuck, just that he tires easily. His only concern was to take it with caution.

Sex is such a vulnerable act, after all. That's why it's such a powerful tool.

He never cleaned up the table. There was still blood on it, steadily but lazily flowing out of the stag where he'd cut open right down the middle.

Tywin cared for his cleanliness, but he didn't seem to care right now. His well-established dominance had faded into pleasured sighs and heavy breaths, as this was a sensation he'd never felt before.

It isn't how he imagined it, like a cold, struggling humping against his back and into the only hole he'd let you use.

Instead, there's pleasure in it, his nerves lighting up with shocks as if lightning. Then there was one that spot you'd rub against sometimes with terrible consistency.

It's carnal, is what it is.

Your lips find his neck again, and he lets out a shaky sigh. The kisses you give are wet, and he likes it.

With each time your pelvis meets his ass, his breath gets shakier.

"My Lord–"

"Don't speak."

It's terrifying, how much Tywin likes this. He'd always thought queer men to be bumbling fools, if only he knew the pleasure that came with it.

Your hand finds his; he takes it, squeezes it. It's somewhat of a blood union, with stag's blood.

The irony of it, a dead stag, a Baratheon fucking him.

Some sort of possession runs through him. You wear his colors.

"Fuck." He says, an indecency. This is indecent. This is fraternization. Oh, but he couldn't care less right now.

His hand comes back, finds your hair again. He tugs, causing your lips to pull off his neck with a smack. He does it for nothing but the pleasure of hearing you gasp, a grasp for control where he finds it.

"My Lord." You don't seek to speak this time, he knows it. You're only moaning out for him, and it's rather pleasing.

He leans down further, pressing his ass into you, pushing your cock deeper into him. His back arches like a whore's. It's unbecoming.

And yet the heat feeds into it. It's still cold, here, but the way you work your bodies heats the both of you up in what feels like a mania to have more, to seek more, to want more, to fuck because you need it.

It's like a fire in his old, worn body.

The hand that was holding his travels down to his body, grasping his cock. Tywin gasps. His hand quickly follows, wrapping around your wrist with a slapping sound, and yet he doesn't pull it off.

It's stimulation on both sides, your hand around his cock and his asshole clenching around yours.

He almost loses his mind.

He tugs at your hair again, pulling another groan from your lips. It's a reminder of his control. You enjoy calling him your Lord, so he has to remind you that the title has meaning to it, before he loses himself to instinct.

He does, in the next moment, opening his mouth to let out a breath of a groan.

He shuts it, quickly. Tents are only fabric.

His hips follow in pursuit of instinct and pleasure, anyway; forward into your hand, finding pleasure for his length, then backwards onto your cock, spearing himself open.

When he cums, his mouth falls just slightly open to moan as quiet as instinct allows, and his hole clenches around you in tandem. You follow soon enough, groaning into his skin with enough restraint to remember you are an army general.

Tywin leans against the dirty table to catch his breath, before he's back to a fearsome commander the next moment.

"Get yourself tidied up." He's pulling his garments back on rather impersonally, because he cannot stay vulnerable. "And do not breathe a word of this to anyone."

Despite that, there is some joy to knowing he's enjoyed this, especially as you wipe off the evidence of his pleasure on the dirty rag he'd been using to clean the blood off his hands. "Yes, my Lord."

"Keep that smirk off your face, boy." Tywin's face is back to cold and emotionless, though there is something of an amused lift to his eyes. "When next you decide to seduce me, do pick a better location. Army encampments are dreadful enough."

You can hardly speak about next time before he waves you off.

You'll see him later tonight, anyhow.

Tywin does not care to make sure you're walking away when he turns around, because it's the best he can do to hide the amused smirk that rises on his lips. A new pet, hm?

A smell makes itself apparent and Tywin remembers there is still a stag to skin.

#tricksh0t #backsh0t #x top male reader #tywin lannister x male reader #Tywin lannister x reader #tywin lannister x top male reader #tywin x reader #tywin x male reader #tywin x top male reader #got x top male reader #got x male reader #got x reader #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones x male reader

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lyratea · 4 months ago

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Welcome to the Hustle & Heart Legacy Challenge! 💼✨ This 8-generation challenge is all about building businesses, taking risks, and leaving a lasting dynasty! Your Sims won’t just inherit wealth—they’ll have to hustle, grind, and master their craft to create successful businesses from the ground up. From pottery shops to buzzing nightclubs, peaceful spas to chatty tattoo parlors, every generation will take on a new business venture, each with its own set of rules, skills, and challenges.

Can your family go from small-time entrepreneurs to legendary business moguls? Let’s find out!

(GOOGLE DOCS VERSION)

I plan to actively refine and add more generations once i've played through the game more, if there's any advice or something flawed you've noticed please let me know!

expand to see the legacy challenge!

NEEDED PACKS: Business and Hobbies

RECOMMENDED, BUT BASE GAME ALTERNATIVES PROVIDED: City Living Cats and Dogs Discover University Eco Lifestyle Get Together Get To Work Jungle Adventures Lovestruck Outdoor Retreat Parenthood Seasons Spa Day Werewolves

GOAL: Build a family legacy by creating a multi-generational business empire! Each generation must 'master' a different business type and pass the family fortune to the next heir! RULES: You may use freerealestate for your first HOUSE/LIVING AREA but after please refrain from using any more money cheats. Normal or Long lifespans recommended. The business must be started from scratch- no inheriting a previous successful business and remolding the lot/changing business activities. You may use the funds from your household to help kickstart a new business. IF you'd rather start from scratch each time, that's fine too. Each business should reach a 4-star rating before the heir can 'retire'. Try to train and promote employees- don't just fire them! NO selling the business for a quick payout- run it long-term.

Play the generations in whatever way you see fit or amusing if you don't like how i lined them up <3

GENERATION 1: Pottery Maker

Traits: Idealist, Ambitious, Maker(bga: creative) Aspiration: Esteemed Entrepreneur Goals: Reach max level in the Pottery and Handiness skills. Have at least 5 successful 'lectures' Make 10 Excellent Pieces Extra: Start selling one other 'home furniture' item in your shop

GENERATION 2: Tattoo Artist

Traits: Creative, Practice Makes Perfect, Art Lover Aspiration: Mastor Mentor Goals: Reach max level in the Tattooing and Charisma skills. Have a celebrity sim as a customer (if using get famous) Mentor at least 2 sims 'becoming tattoo apprentices' Extra: create at least 5 custom tattoos and give them to customers.

GENERATION 3: Nightclub

Traits: Shady, Dance Machine(bga: Music Lover), Lovebug(bga: romantic) Aspiration: Party Animal Goals: Open and run a high-energy nightclub with a bar and dancefloor. Have at least 1 romantic relationship with a coworker or clubgoer before 'settling down'. Reach max level in Dancing, and Mixology skills. Extra: Earn minimum §100,000 from club earnings.

GENERATION 4: Museum

Traits: Genius, Overachiever(bga: Perfectionist), Bookworm Aspiration: Nerd Brain Goals: Open a museum showcasing AT LEAST 6 ITEMS from 4 DIFFERENT collections. (Pick your own collections if you please, there are 16 BG options. For the ones I find the most ‘museum like’, here are my suggestions: Microscope prints, Insects(O.R), Fossils, Ancient Omiscan Artifacts(J.A), MoonWood Relics(Werewolves)). Reach max level in logic, and research and debate(bga: Writing) Extra: Publish at least 2 research books or guides.

GENERATION 5: Gym/Spa

Traits: Active, Bro, High-Maintenance(bga: Self-Assured) Aspiration: Zen Guru (bga: Bodybuilder) Goals: Reach max level in Fitness and Wellness skills. Have at least ONE close friend to workout with once a week Host at least 5 meditation or yoga sessions (if using spa day) Extra: Do a yoga routine everyday!

GENERATION 6: Lounge

Traits: Outgoing, Goofball, Foodie Aspiration: Friend of the World Goals: Open a run a lounge that offers live entertainment and good drinks. Reach max level in Charisma, Comedy OR Singing(bga: piano) Become friends with regular customers. Extra: Perform comedy or singing gigs at your lounge!

GENERATION 7: Daycare

Traits: Family-Oriented, Neat, Proper(bga: Loyal) Aspiration: Super Parent(bga: Successful Lineage) Goals: Reach lmax level in Baking(bga: cooking), and Parenting(bga: Handiness) Have at least three children (biological, or adopted) Host your daycare from your home!

GENERATION 8: Park Owner

Traits: Green Fiend(bga: Loves Outdoors), Vegetarian, Animal Enthusiast(bga: Good) Aspiration: Outdoor Enthusiast(bga: Freelance Botanist) Goals: Reach max level in Gardening, Fishing, and Flower Arranging(bga: creative) Plant and maintain at least 20 plants/trees. Open and run a PUBLIC PARK (NO ENTRY FEES!) Rescue or adopt at least 5 animals (if using Cats and Dogs)

This is the ROUGHEST draft I’m currently producing as of now without playing much of the new expansion pack myself. When I get back from my work trip and figure out exactly how much cross-compatibility there is with other- packs, there might be a whole new set of generations coming out.

happy simming! Lyratea ^^

#sims 4 legacy #sims community #challenges #ts4 legacy #sims 4 legacy challenge #the sims 4 #sims 4 businesses & hobbies #the sims community

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peacock-patrol · 2 months ago

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TIG Universe Timeline

This is a very! imperfect visualization but I have been waiting for someone to make one.

Although we rarely get dates mentioned, you'd be surprised how carefully structured the timeline still manages to be.

I used every ambiguous "next day" to approximate the time. Key word is approximate. I was quite generous with GG because the game isn't over but we know it will last "a few days". I was the most confused with the second half of the second book because everything after the -boom- is a total blur.

The quotes:

Book 1 The Inheritance Games

■ “The letters that my grandfather’s attorneys have been sending to your residence for the better part of three weeks.”

"My grandfather passed away earlier this month.” [so, in Octomber. Avery finally arrives at the will reading first week of November]

■ "[Jameson] wasn’t wearing a shirt. Always a good decision in the middle of winter."

■ “You’ll be attending a pink ribbon fund raiser this Saturday night and a game next Sunday"

“A game?” I repeated.

“NFL,” she said curtly. “You own the team."

Book 2 (could possibly stretch into January)

■ "Would I be correct in assuming you’ve forgotten about the game?”

[...]

“The game,” I repeated again, comprehension dawning. “As in, an NFL game. Because I own a football team.”

■ "I couldn’t tip my hand that the reason we were here had nothing to do with wanting a winter getaway."

Book 3 Final Gambit

■ "We need to talk about your eighteenth birthday.”

"My birthday was October eighteenth. I would hit the year mark the first week in November and instantly become the richest teenager on the planet. Until then, I had other things to focus on."

Book 4 Brothers Hawthrone

■ “You’ve filed at least three patents since school let out for the summer last month, Xan.”

Book 5 Grandest Game

■ "Your dad thinks the first week in November is too early for Christmas decorations."

■ "There were no remnants of furniture or belongings—just the leaves, the first few to turn color and fall in an unusually warm autumn."

■ [Proprietor —] "by December 31th of next year, I will pass the crown"

Games Untold (only Prague)

■ "GPS tracking had to be enabled. The person seeking had an hour. In the past six months, Jameson and I had played [...]"

■ "Jameson’s gap year was three-quarters done. Day by day, I could feel him growing more restless in his own skin."

#the inheritance games #jennifer lynn barnes #the brothers hawthorne #hawthorne legacy #the final gambit #games untold #the grandest game #glorious rivals #tig timeline #tig post

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fandomhighau · 7 days ago

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Introduction!

Hi everyone! I made this blog to keep everything from this AU together and not have it mixed in with my normal blog. I've been working on this off and on for years, but new characters are being added whenever I join a new fandom lol. This is basically a social media au of if the next generation of characters from all of my book fandoms went to high school together. I have no idea if anyone would be interested in this lol.

Fandom list (will be updated as more things are added)

Harry Potter

Hunger Games

Divergent

Keeper of the Lost Cities

Six of Crows & King of Scars

Red White & Royal Blue

The Inheritance Games

The Mortal Instruments

A Court of Thorns and Roses

Emry Merlin

Home Field Advantage

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charliegyrth · 1 month ago

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Fat Farm Boys

It's Time for Their Feeding

Hey, everybody! This story was based on another request from @nolantrojan. He also came up with the idea for my throuple story Three Roommates. (That one was pretty fun.) Enjoy!

***

When I got home from my basketball game, Sonny was sitting frozen on the couch. He looked like he was in shock. His arms were wrapped around his narrow shoulders and his eyes were staring at nothing.

“What happened?”

He jerked backward at my voice. Even though I was standing right in front of him, he didn’t realize that I was home. “Babe, I have news.”

I sat next to him, not sure whether he needed me to hold him.

He did. He leaned his much smaller body against me, and I wrapped him in my arms. “It’s okay,” I said, even though I had no idea if that was true. He’d been out of a job for a few months, and while my salary was okay, we didn’t have any savings yet. We couldn’t afford any setbacks this early into our marriage.

I held him, waiting for an explanation.

Slowly, he stopped trembling. “I just got a call from a lawyer. My uncle just died.”

“Who?” I didn’t know he had an uncle. I just knew about his parents, who had both disowned him years ago. Outside of them, I didn’t think he had any family.

“Well, my great-uncle. I’d never met him. He was a farmer in rural Illinois.”

“Okay? I’m really sorry.”

“No, I’m not upset. I’m… I think I’m in shock.”

“A death in the family is always hard,” I said. It was a generic thing to say, but I’ve always been terrible about talking to people about grief.

“It’s not that. It’s…” He pulled back so he could look me in the face. His beautiful amber eyes looked right at me. “We’re rich now.”

“What?”

Sonny explained that his uncle’s farm was worth millions. It had a full staff and hundreds of acres of different crops. And as of today, his property and all his money was ours.

And just like that, the shock Sonny felt was transferred to me. I was numb. I’d lived my entire life in small-town New Mexico, barely scraping by. And now we were millionaires? I literally couldn’t process this.

“But there’s a catch,” Sonny added. “Uncle Sven wants the farm to remain in the family. So I can’t get the inheritance unless I agree to live there.”

“You want us to move to a farm? You want us to be farmers?”

“We don’t have to do anything physical,” Sonny explained. “It’s fully staffed. I mean, Uncle Sven was 90. He didn’t work the fields or anything. All we have to do is…”

“Live there,” I finished for him. “Okay. If that’s what you want, let’s be super-rich farmers! Why not?”

Sonny kissed me. No more shock for either of us. Just excitement.

***

After a three-hour tour of the property, Hank led us back into the air conditioning. Thank God. I was about to get heat stroke.

You’d think that growing up in oven-hot New Mexico would prepare me for an Illinois summer, but my God! I probably lost ten pounds in sweat alone.

Sonny was a bit red-faced, but he didn’t look as overheated. In muggy weather like this, I guess it helps to be so small and skinny.

“And we’re back where we started,” Hank announced, officially finishing his tour. He’d shown us all the buildings on the property as well as most of the fields. He introduced us to some of the other staff, but there were dozens more that just waved at us as we passed by.

“Thanks,” I huffed, wiping the sweat out of my eyes.

“Let me know if you have any other questions. I’m always available.” The burly man turned to leave, but Sonny stopped him.

“And what areas would you say need the most hands-on attention from us?”

Hank forced a smile. “None, really. We’re a well-oiled machine, sir. So…”

My husband cut him off. “I’d really like to help out. Get my hands dirty. Right, Kel?”

“You’re on your own,” I mumbled, still struggling to cool down. I was not cut out for farm labor. And in all honesty, Sonny wasn’t, either. I couldn’t imagine him lifting a bale of hay or manning any of the tractors.

“Just me, then,” Sonny said to Hank. “This is my place now, and I’d feel terrible if I just sat around all day.”

“Very well,” Hank said, doing a poor job of hiding his annoyance. “We’ll find something.”

***

I took a big bite of shepherd’s pie. It was the single best dinner I’d ever tasted. The savory flavors danced across my tongue.

“Is every dinner gonna taste this good?” I asked Nancy, our cook, before she left the room.

“Every meal. The kitchen staff is on call 24/7, sir.”

I looked over at Sonny, who was plowing into his food. “Did you hear that?”

“Mm hmm,” he said with his mouth full. “Thank you, Nancy!”

The old woman scurried out of the room.

Sonny and I were so focused on eating that we barely said anything to each other. I ate a massive amount (nearly everything that Nancy had scooped onto my plate) before I scooted back in my chair, full and satisfied.

Shockingly, Sonny wasn’t finished. Well, he was finished with his first plate, but he’d reached for seconds.

I was shocked. My husband was five inches shorter than me and (I think) 40 pounds lighter. He had never eaten more than me at a meal.

I think he noticed me staring, because he took a break from chewing, smiled at me as his cheeks bulged with food, and mumbled, “Worked up an appetite.”

He must’ve. He spent the last few hours helping outside. I guess I was wrong about him getting in the way. Who knows? Maybe my slim twink of a husband would grow into a big, muscly farmer. I’d like that.

***

Even though I was lugging the heavy picnic basket, I reached the pond first. Sonny arrived a few minutes after me.

I laid out our blanket under a tree and we sat in the shade. It was early September, so the weather wasn’t aggressively humid anymore. Still pretty damn hot, though. I couldn’t wait to jump into the cool water.

Sonny had the same idea. As soon as he sat down, he stripped off his shirt. He smiled at me, but then his face turned serious. “What’s wrong? Why are you staring?”

I didn’t realize that I was. But since he caught me, I might as well come clean. “Honey, I’ve noticed that since we moved here, you’ve gotten a little… bigger.”

“Little” was an understatement. He’d gotten fat. His belly folded into his lap, his ass was huge, and even his face was rounder.

During our first dinner together, I had images of him growing thick with muscle from all the farmwork, but I couldn’t see any muscle on his new body. Just flab. It had been noticeable just two weeks into our stay, but now, it was undeniable. He looked like a completely different person.

In a way, I kind of liked it. Sure, I missed his old body, but he felt so much more… comfortable now.

I waited for his reaction. Surely he'd noticed how much he'd changed.

He stared at me for a while, until he let out a hearty laugh. “You’re one to talk, Kel.”

“Huh?”

“Strip off your shirt, please.”

I did.

He crawled over the picnic blanket toward me, his belly dangling under him, until he leaned next to me and squeezed my stomach.

I had a roll of pudge just under my belly button. A few months ago, I had abs (more or less). It wasn’t a lot (and probably only visible because I was sitting), but it was definitely there.

“Oh,” I said.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Our eating habits had changed a lot since we’d moved here. Dinners were bigger and heartier. Plus, with the weather so hot, I stayed inside the air conditioned farmhouse all the time. No more basketball games. No gym visits.

“Don’t be like that,” Sonny said, kissing my cheek as he squeezed both hands into my roll. “I think it’s really cute.”

“Back at you,” I said, giving his (much softer) stomach a squeeze in return.

So what if we’d both softened? We were farm boys now.

***

I was playing video games in the living room, the air conditioner on full blast even though the weather had finally started to cool, when Hank rushed in.

I jumped up, looking around for my shirt. I didn’t want our lead farmhand to see my belly hanging out like this. I couldn’t find it, though, so I stood up straight and tried to suck in.

He politely ignored my shirtlessness. “Sir, I need your help.”

This was his first time asking for help. It must be serious. “Okay.”

“You have to convince your husband to stop ‘helping’ us,” he said.

“Huh?”

Sonny was so proud of all the work he did on the farm. I didn’t really know what he did out there, but he spent a lot of time with Hank and the staff.

“May I be honest, sir?”

“Please.”

“Sonny is a great guy, but he doesn’t realize how much harder he’s making all our lives. He can’t do anything. He just gets in people’s way, especially now with his added… size. The only thing he’s good at is eating our inventory. I’m sorry to put you in this position, but can you…?”

“So all this time,” I interrupted, “he hasn’t done anything useful?”

Hank thought for a second. “He’s good at feeding the pigs. But we have a machine for that. So…”

“I’ll talk to him,” I promised. “And I won’t mention this conversation.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hank literally hugged me. Jeeze, Sonny must’ve been a real nuisance. I felt vicariously embarrassed for him. And I should’ve known from his changing body that he wasn’t actually doing physical work out there.

Hank left and I went back to my game. Twenty minutes later, Sonny came in from his “long day of work.” He grabbed a tray of biscuits, doused them with a sickening amount of honey, and sat next to me on the couch.

I patted his sweaty belly to welcome him home. “Hard day?”

“A farmer’s gotta do what a farmer’s gotta do.” He nibbled on his first biscuit.

“Babe, we need to talk.”

***

“No peeking,” Sonny said as he guided me down the hallway. I was a little nervous about his anniversary surprise. Knowing Sonny, it was something food-related.

In the last six months, since he’d stopped trying to work outside, pretty much all we did was stay inside and eat together.

I heard him push a door open and then he pulled me inside. “Can I look now?”

“Yes.”

I opened my eyes, but I had no idea what I was looking at. We were in one of the downstairs guest rooms that we never used, but Sonny had changed everything. He’d taken out all the furniture and replaced it with a massive mattress that filled most of the room. I wouldn’t call it a bed. It was more like an elevated platform. And surrounding it on three sides was a trough with some sort of conveyor belt coming out of the wall.

“Surprise!” Sonny shouted. He bounced a little on his feet, sending ripples through his whole body. He looked so damn cute.

“What is this place?”

“Don’t you get it? I modeled everything after our pig pens. This is our new feeding room. Happy anniversary!”

He pulled me into his softness for a hug. Then he kissed me.

I pushed him away. “What’s a feeding room?”

“What do you think it is? We don’t have to spend all our time at the dinner table anymore. We can do all our fun stuff in private. Get as messy as we want.” He nodded up toward the ceiling, where he’d installed shower nozzles to spray the whole place down.

This was wild, even for him. I mean, yeah, we ate all the time. You could even say we started using food as foreplay, stuffing ourselves beyond our capacity before taking things to the bedroom. And yeah, when he was full, I usually straddled his (mostly gone) lap and coaxed him into eating his dessert.

I guess that was feeding. And I guess we were into it.

But to have an actual room like this? It seemed like too much.

“Do you love it or do you love it?” he asked. He slid onto the mattress and stretched out his soft, bulging body. His voice turned huskier. “Come on. Wanna try it out?”

I didn’t. Honestly, I was scared. I’d gained 60 pounds since we moved here. Sonny had gained twice that. We both liked our changes, but a room like this implied that we were going to start really pushing ourselves now. Actively gaining instead of just… Well, I guess we’d been actively gaining for months now, but not to this extent.

I didn’t want to disappoint him, though. I needed to keep an open mind.

Slowly, I climbed onto the mattress. It was firmer than our bed. Still comfortable, though.

He got flat on his stomach, his chin on the edge of the trough. I didn’t feel comfortable doing that, so I sat cross-legged next to him.

“See those buttons?” he asked. There were three buttons on the wall. One had a cake logo, one had a meat logo, and one had a question mark. “I’ll let you pick. Sweet, savory, or surprise.”

I pressed the cake button.

The conveyor belt started to whirr in front of us. Nothing was on it at first. Then, chocolate cake came out of the wall. Not a full cake, though. Not even slices. It was clumps of cake, as if someone in the kitchen had mashed it all up with their hands.

As the first piles of cake rolled past us, Sonny stuck his head into the trough and ate like a pig. Chocolate flew everywhere.

I watched him for about a minute, trying to process the image. This was what Sonny liked now. What started as slightly bigger dinners on a farm had snowballed into… this?

It took me about twenty seconds to accept that, yes, this was what Sonny wanted. It took me forty seconds to accept that I wanted it, too. His total gluttony was weird, but it was so freaking hot. After a minute, I grabbed my first chunk of cake (unlike my husband, I decided to use my hands) and shoved it into my mouth.

***

“Kel!” my husband screamed from the feeding room. “I’m lonely!”

“One second!” I shouted back. I wasn’t really in the mood for another feeding session, but it would be nice to watch. Poker was fun, but it didn’t hold a candle to messy alone-time with my husband.

I gave my remaining chips to Hank and left the table.

“Have fun!” our farmhand Lucas called to me.

“Don’t get too close to his mouth or he might bite you!” Nancy joked.

I ignored them.

When I stepped into the feeding room, I pulled off my shirt. I didn’t want it to get stained. Plus, it always felt weird to wear clothes next to my naked husband.

He had the platform half-inclined, so he could lean on his back and grab food with his right hand. I know he preferred to be on his stomach, but that had become too uncomfortable about fifty pounds ago. “Is that you?” he asked through a mouthful of something. He couldn’t turn his head enough to look.

“Who do you think?” I slid next to him, getting cozy against his ocean of soft flesh. When I was with the farm workers, I always felt enormous, but when I was next to Sonny, I felt so tiny and insignificant.

He leaned over as much as he could so I could kiss his cheek.

“You're interrupting my poker game again,” I said.

“I know.” He shoved another handful of mashed potatoes and gravy into his mouth, though most of it flopped down his chin. “Joining me?”

“Not tonight,” I said. I only joined in once or twice a week. Most of the time, I just came in to cheer him on and massage his beautiful belly. And to help wash him afterward, of course. The shower jets cleaned off all the mess, but he still needed me to soap him up between his rolls.

When he designed our little feeding room, I had no idea it would turn into his permanent home. I know there were moments when he got sad, when he remembered how small his world was compared to the enormous property that he was no longer able to see for himself. But those moments were fleeting. Most of the time, like right now, he was blissfully happy.

I laid my head on his belly, looking up at his smiling face as he chewed and swallowed, and appreciated our lives as farm boys.

Eventually, his eating would slow. That’s when I’d climb on top of him and hand-feed him the rest. But that wouldn’t happen for a while. He still had a long way to go.

The End

Thanks for reading! Check out all my stories here. Also, this story is included in my new ebook collection Three Times as Fat! Check it out.

#male wg #gainer stories #gainerstory #feeder fiction #weight gain fiction #gainerstories #gainerfiction #gainer story #gainer fiction #gay feeder #wg fiction #immobility #fatty getting fatter #fat belly #fat piggy

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iloveladybuglucy · 2 months ago

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*slaps a messy sketch and some next gens onto your desk and explodes*

got the urge to design some invincible next gens, enjoy ig :P

heres a familiar face! ive tweaked a couple things w her design and fleshed out her relationship w her family some :]

Vega Grayson Age: 9 (Next Gen Timeline) Parents: Mark Grayson (Indomitable) & Rex Grayson (née Sloan) (Rex Splode) Species: Human (3/4) -Viltrumite (1/4) Hybrid Nickname(s): Vee, Starfire (only by Rex)

Personality:

Bold & Fearless: Vega is never afraid to speak her mind, often surprising adults with her confidence and sharp wit.

Inquisitive: Always asking questions, she wants to understand everything from science to superheroes to why her dad makes weird faces when he’s stressed.

Empathetic: While she has a wild streak, Vega is emotionally perceptive and quick to comfort someone in pain—often before they even realize they need it.

Master of Sass: She inherited Rex’s quick comebacks and Mark’s sarcasm, often combining both into clever humor.

Family Dynamics:

Mark Grayson (Dad): Vega admires Mark’s strength and compassion but isn’t afraid to call him out if he’s being overprotective or mopey. She thinks his superhero name is kinda lame, but secretly loves watching old footage of him.

Rex Grayson (Papa): She’s fiercely attached to Rex, who she shares a mischievous streak with. He’s the parent she confides in when she’s feeling overwhelmed, and she often brags that she has “the coolest Papa in the world.”

Debbie Grayson (Grandma): Vega is extremely close to Debbie, who treats her like a partner in crime. Debbie often jokes that Vega is “too sharp for her own good,” while sneaking her candy.

Nolan Grayson (The Weird Guy Who Never Smiles That Dad Hates): Being that Mark had long since cut contact with Nolan, Vega hasn't officially been introduced to him. However, as luck would have it she bumps into him in the markets of Talescria and is instantly curious when he's chased off by her parents...who is this weirdo and why does everyone from Earth hate him?

Strengths & Interests:

Superhero Obsessed: Vega reads Mark's old Seance Dog comics and has suckered her grandma into buying her tons of toys and sweatshirts.

Fast Learner: Though not as physically powerful as some Viltrumites, she learns at lightning speed—especially when motivated by competition.

Weaknesses:

Impulse Control: Like both her dads, she sometimes leaps before she looks.

Stubborn: Once she believes something, it takes a lot to convince her otherwise, even when she’s clearly wrong.

Distractability: Vega struggles with staying on-task and has to be reminded to pay attention during school and training.

Roanan the Alien

Age: 11 (Next Gen Timeline) Species: Unopan Hybrid Parents: Allen the Alien & General Telia Homeworld: Talescria (primary), with frequent visits to Earth and Coalition outposts

Personality:

Strategic Mind: Ronan has inherited Telia’s tactical precision and Allen’s analytical mindset. Even in games, he’s the kid planning five steps ahead.

Awkwardly Sincere: Raised by two blunt, duty-driven parents, Ronan speaks his mind in a way that can be a little too honest—but never unkind. He’s working on "tone of voice" with mixed success.

Bookish Adventurer: He devours Coalition mission logs, alien history, and old Earth comic books. He wants to be a hero—but first, he wants to understand everything about what that means.

Loyal to a Fault: He’d walk into a plasma storm for his friends, especially Paulie who he’s fiercely protective of, even when he insists he doesn’t need it.

Family Dynamics:

Allen the Alien (Dad): Allen is Roanan’s emotional anchor. He encourages kindness and individuality, often reminding Roanan that “being a hero is more than just being strong.” They have a shared love of Earth culture and comics.

General Telia (Mom): Telia is a firm but loving figure. She believes in raising Ronan to think critically and lead with honor. Though sometimes intense, she always makes time to talk to him like an equal.

Strengths & Interests:

Tactical Thinking: He’s scary good at strategy games and simulations, often outwitting older kids.

Multilingual: Speaks multiple alien dialects fluently, thanks to Coalition tutoring and his parents’ background.

Curious About Earth: Though he was born on Talescria, Ronan is fascinated by Earth culture, especially music, snacks, and weird idioms he doesn’t fully understand.

Inventive: Loves making things out of spare parts—usually weird, creative devices like “empathy translators” or “friendship shields.”

Weaknesses:

Emotionally Naive: Struggles to process feelings like jealousy, fear, and guilt, and sometimes freezes when emotions run high.

People-Pleaser: Tries hard to make everyone proud—especially his mom—and puts pressure on himself to be “perfect.”

Socially Stiff: He’s not the most graceful in casual settings. He’ll recite Coalition protocols at a birthday party without realizing it’s weird.

Overthinks Everything: Decisions—even small ones—take forever because he’s running every scenario in his head.

Trivia:

His name is a play off of his father's voice actor's (Seth Rogan) last name.

He has two eyes, preferring to keep his smaller one on his forehead closed.

Paulie Elias Somner

Age: 10 (Next-Gen Timeline) Species: Human Parents: Samantha Eve Wilkins (Atom Eve) & Caelum Somner (Reverie) [OC]

Bio:

Paulie is the introspective, sharp-witted son of two of the most emotionally complex and quietly powerful people in the world. Born into a legacy of heroes, Paulie stands out for one simple but soul-shaping reason: he’s entirely human. No powers, no enhancements, no special abilities. Just Paulie.

But that doesn’t mean he’s ordinary.

Personality:

Paulie is observant and introspective, with a dry sense of humor and a biting wit he uses both as armor and sword. He’s naturally perceptive, often noticing tension before anyone says a word.

Despite his intelligence and emotional maturity, Paulie is deeply conflicted. He harbors quiet resentment over his powerlessness, something he’s internalized as a failing. He loves his parents, but it’s hard not to feel like he missed out on something vital, growing up in the literal and emotional orbit of superpowered beings. He sometimes asks himself if his parents see him as a disappointment, even though they’ve never implied or thought it.

He’s loyal to a fault, protective of those he loves, and much more idealistic than he lets on. A part of him does want to help people like his parents do, but he’s unsure what that looks like for someone without powers. He feels pulled between proving himself and learning to accept himself.

Strengths:

Emotionally intuitive, especially with others in distress

Gifted writer and storyteller—he journals religiously and secretly writes fiction

Unshakable loyalty and resilience—he keeps going, even when he feels lost

Deep empathy, though he hides it behind sarcasm

Weaknesses:

Self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy

Prone to bottling emotions until they erupt

Often pushes people away when he’s hurting

Overcompensates by trying to be the “smartest” in the room

Relationships:

Eve (Mom): Paulie idolizes Eve more than he lets on. They’re similar in their tendency to put others first, but he’s also frustrated by how much of herself she gave up to be a hero. Sometimes he wonders if she regrets not having a "normal" life—and whether he was worth it. Their relationship is tender but full of unspoken questions.

Caelum (Dad): With Caelum, Paulie shares a quiet, layered connection. They understand each other emotionally, often communicating more with looks and silences than words. Caelum is one of the few people Paulie doesn’t feel the need to “perform” for—but he also knows his dad is holding back a lot, which makes Paulie feel like he has to carry the emotional weight sometimes.

Character Arc:

Paulie’s biggest struggle is identity. In a world of powers, legacy, and extraordinary people, he feels like a footnote. He’s not sure where he belongs or what he's meant to do, especially when people constantly expect him to follow in his parents’ footsteps. His journey is one of self-definition—figuring out who he is, not in spite of his lack of powers, but because of it.

Trivia:

He was named after two very important people in Eve's life: her bioligcal mother, Polly, and Dr. Elias Brandyworth.

Inherited his pink irises and love for the color from his grandma Polly.

Loves when his mom tells him stories about her real family; it makes Paulie wish he got to meet them.

~~~

anyways do any of yall have any invincible next gens youd like to share bc i love that shit sm

#invincible #invincible show #invincible fanart #invincible original character #invincible oc #invincible: indomitable #invincible next gen #alternate invincible #markrex #mark x rex #atom eve x oc #allen x telia #mark grayson x rex sloan #rex sloan #rex splode

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fushitoru · 10 months ago

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chapter 4: the game a bridgerton!au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

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

warnings ⸺ nsfw, enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, SUGGESTIVE, eventual smut, jealousy, misogyny, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly

chapter summary: satoru has some revelations about you. both you and satoru share some quite...happening days at the manor, including an eventful game of pall mall. (4.9k)

a/n WARNING this chapter is suggestive. like always minors dni. not edited at all bc im sick of this chapter lol (like always i fear). see u at the bottom ;)

prev. the manor | next. the fall

general masterlist | series masterlist

Dearest reader,

It has come to the attention of This Author that Miss Itadori, the undeniable diamond of the season, has made her appearance at Gojo Manor a full week ahead of the rest of the ton. Such early arrival can only provoke speculation: might the tender buds of affection be blossoming in the Kentish countryside? Shall we soon witness Miss Itadori departing with more than just fond memories, perhaps even a ring upon her finger? These are the very questions now fluttering through the minds of young ladies and their ever-watchful mamas, who may find their carefully laid plans to ensnare Lord Gojo dashed before the house party has even begun.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

Gojo leaned back in his chair, fingers absentmindedly drumming on the armrest as he watched you fumble with the library door. The soft fabric of your nightgown slipped off your shoulder, a glimpse of bare skin catching in the dim light⸺something not lost to Gojo’s eyes as he watched your figure disappear angrily. Your face was flushed, eyes wide and uncertain. Despite the flurry of emotions playing across your features, what struck him most was the way your hands trembled as you fought to maintain composure.

His lips pressed into a thin line as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. You had come here⸺of all places⸺into his sanctuary, and for what? A part of him couldn’t reconcile the image of you sneaking into the library in the dead of night with the proper, composed lady you portrayed during the day. The whole encounter felt surreal, leaving a knot of confusion coiled tightly in his chest.

His gaze lingered on the empty doorway after you vanished, a strange hollowness settling in his chest. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake off the feeling, but it clung to him like the shadows of the room. His fingers tightened around the armrest, knuckles whitening as if he could grasp onto something concrete⸺something that made sense. But all he was left with was the lingering echo of your footsteps in the hallway and the ghost of your flushed face in his mind.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. His mind kept returning to the way your nightgown had slipped from your shoulder as you fumbled with the door. The pale fabric had slid down so effortlessly, exposing the curve of your bare skin. It wasn’t scandalous, not really⸺not enough to warrant the way his thoughts kept circling back to it. And yet, he couldn’t shake the image, the unexpected flash of vulnerability. The sight of it stirred something in him, a quiet confusion that unsettled his usual composure.

What was it that made him notice? Gojo’s brow furrowed as he considered it, his fingers absently drumming on the armrest of his chair. He had witnessed plenty of women in far less modest circumstances (most of them courtesy of his friends, who forced him to go to ridiculous events), and yet, this felt different. There was something about the way you had tried to maintain your dignity, the way you had fought to compose yourself even as your face flushed and your nightgown betrayed you. It was... distracting.

The memory of your fearful expression gnawed at him. He had expected haughty arrogance or calculated charm, not genuine fear. You weren’t like the people who usually surrounded him, playing their part in society's grand performance, all vying for his attention. There was an intelligence in your eyes, a spark that made him feel something unsettlingly close to admiration.

He couldn’t make sense of it. Why did it matter that you were different? Why did he find himself enjoying your company, despite the fact that you seemed entirely uninterested in his? He drummed his fingers against the armrest, contemplating the possibility of pursuing you for the rest of the season⸺though he quickly dismissed the thought. You were uncooperative, difficult. A chase after you would be nothing short of exhausting.

And yet...

His attention shifted back to the desk, to the scattered papers you had left behind. Gojo reached for them, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the parchment as though handling something fragile. The numbers and diagrams were a mess of scribbled notes, and yet, they held a strange familiarity. His brow furrowed as he traced the lines with his eyes, piecing together the fragmented calculations. Then, like a puzzle falling into place, it clicked.

Venus. Of all things, you had been calculating the size of Venus.

Gojo’s hand froze midair, hovering over the papers. He blinked, his breath catching in his throat. He had assumed⸺no, expected⸺you to be reading some frivolous romance, a book about love and passion, something fitting for a young lady sneaking into a library. But instead, you were working on complex celestial calculations.

He had pegged you for a typical young lady of the ton⸺someone more interested in the latest gossip or the affections of suitors than in the stars. It annoyed him, more than he cared to admit, that he had been wrong.

Gojo set the paper down, his hand resting on the edge of the desk as he leaned back in his chair. The flicker of irritation that sparked in his chest was unfamiliar, unsettling even. It wasn’t just that you had surprised him⸺plenty of people had done that before. No, it was the fact that he had misjudged you so completely. He prided himself on being perceptive, on seeing through people’s masks with ease. Yet here you were, slipping past his assumptions with nothing more than a few scribbled notes and a fleeting presence.

His gaze dropped to the floor, and for the first time in a long while, he felt uncertain. Gojo wasn’t used to feeling this way⸺unsettled, annoyed, and a little too curious for his own good. He tapped the papers lightly, lost in thought. What did it mean that you had gotten under his skin like this? That he found himself wanting to unravel the mystery of you, to see what lay beneath the surface of your carefully constructed facade?

A sigh escaped his lips, low and quiet. His hand finally left the papers, and he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers he couldn’t quite grasp. The world around him was filled with people who either fawned over his charms or remained blissfully unaware of his true nature. But you? You saw right through him. You challenged him, unsettled him, made him question things he had never thought to question before.

With a final glance at the empty doorway, Satoru leaned forward again, ready to dive back into his work. But this time, his thoughts weren’t solely on his family’s ledgers. They were on you⸺and the undeniable pull that had started to form between you.

And inevitably, because Satoru is distracted, he lets the lull of sleep sneak up on him, swathing him in its deep, heavy blanket.

No, Satoru hears himself think. You’re not supposed to be here.

You’re sitting on his bed, somehow made it up to his chambers. A part of Satoru comprehends⸺in all his sleep-deprived glory⸺that he is definitely dreaming, but there’s an overwhelmingly stubborn part of him that dominates his entire consciousness, refusing to accept the fact.

You’re leaning on your elbow, resting on your side on the foot of his bed. Part of him wants to believe that you are really here, sheer nightgown that seems to get shorter and shorter⸺slipping up your thighs⸺every time his consciousness paints an image of you. The sheer material drapes over your figure, accentuating the gentle curve of your waist and the fullness of your hips, painting a picture that torments him.

“My lord,” you whisper.

It’s just his title, but your voice carries a sweetness it never holds in reality, dripping with an unfamiliar softness that makes Satoru’s heart lurch. Panic takes root, and he scrambles back, trying to distance himself from the fantasy in front of him. His back slams against the headboard as he fights to resist⸺not just you, but the part of himself that aches to abandon all notions of honor. That part of him that craves to do things to you that are anything but honorable.

Then, he notices your smile. It’s not the polite, practiced smile you show at balls or to suitors vying for your attention. This one is sincere, warm⸺a smile that speaks of affection, the kind you’ve never shown him before.

Like you are in love.

And you are not helping Satoru in his restraint because you position yourself, crawling like a predator, straddling his lap. Satoru is suddenly breathing too fast, his chest tightening with the weight of desire and disbelief.

Your lips are at his ear. Your lips are so soft. “Touch me,” you say, trailing your lips down feather light across his jaw.

Right now, you are in love. With him. You are his, and Satoru desperately does not want to fight it.

He does not want to.

Your hands start trailing down his torso, and now he registers that he is simply wearing a linen shirt and underwear because you are tracing the edge of his underwear, touching his inner thighs, getting so, so impossibly close to⸺

“No,” he rasps, squeezing his eyes shut. “I am a man of honor.”

But that’s a lie. One that Satoru clings to, because admitting the truth would shatter everything he’s built. His identity, his values⸺they all rest on the lie he’s desperately trying to hold onto.

What he really wants is nothing between you and him.

He wants that flimsy nightgown gone, the one that barely covers your thighs and what lies between them. He wants to keep the candlelight burning so he can see every inch of you, learn every detail of your body. He wants to slip off your chemise and explore the softness of your skin, trace the swell of your breasts, the dip of your hips, and taste the sweetness of your lips.

Satoru can’t focus on anything except the fact you are utterly, scandalously close to him, sitting on his lap and staring at him as if you love him.

And his treacherous heart wants to abandon duty, honor, the dukedom, the royal family⸺everything⸺and simply take you. To feel the weight of you pressed against him, wrapped around him.

But just as his hands move to cup your face, you start giggling. “No, you are not.”

Satoru blinks, confused.

You laugh again, light and teasing. “You are no man of honor.”

And suddenly, your laughter echoes in his mind, filling the room with its taunting melody. It etches itself into his thoughts, leaving an indelible mark.

“You are a coward.”

You entered the drawing room to break your fast, Choso by your side, and immediately locked eyes with Gojo, who was already seated at the table with his mother. He quickly looked away, focusing on the toast he was slathering with an ungodly amount of jam.

As you moved to sit at the table with Choso, you couldn't help but study him. Gojo appeared more disheveled than usual, perhaps a bit fatigued, though any sign of vulnerability quickly vanished when your mother spoke.

“Lord Gojo, it is a fine morning, is it not?” she inquired with her usual warmth.

Gojo smiled, leaning back in his chair with his characteristic nonchalance. “Indeed, Lady Itadori, especially as I am blessed with such lovely company as yourself and your daughter.” His eyes flickered toward you, an arrogant glint in them before they shifted back to your mother.

You and Choso exchanged exasperated glances.

Your mother chuckled, clearly charmed. “Oh, my lord, you flatter me. Tell me, what do you favor for breakfast? I am always curious to hear of others' preferences.”

“Clearly, it is toast drowned in enough jam to satisfy an army,” you muttered under your breath, delicately spreading butter onto your own toast.

Gojo’s eyes flashed, and he couldn’t resist a retort. “At least I do not indulge in something as dull as butter.”

You stiffened. “Butter is far superior to such overwhelming sweetness. Jam annihilates the taste of the toast itself, rendering it pointless.”

“And butter,” he shot back, “adds nothing but blandness. It is unremarkable, simple, and tasteless.”

A surge of heat rose to your face, ready to deliver another sharp remark, but before you could respond, Duchess Gojo’s lilting laughter filled the room. “Oh, my dears, what a lively couple you make!” Her tone was teasing, her eyes alight with amusement. “Such spirited conversation at breakfast⸺how delightful!”

Both you and Gojo stiffened, your faces flushing, though whether it was from irritation or something else entirely, you couldn’t say. You hastily turned your attention back to your toast, while Gojo busied himself with his tea.

Duchess Gojo clapped her hands together lightly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Since we are all in such a lively mood this morning, I do believe a game of pall-mall is in order once breakfast is through. The garden is in full bloom, and the weather is perfect for it.”

Your mother smiled graciously. “A wonderful idea, Duchess. It has been some time since we last enjoyed a game.”

“Indeed,” the Duchess agreed. “And I daresay a little friendly competition will do us all good. What do you say, Lord Gojo?” She turned to her son with a knowing look. “I trust you are up for the challenge?”

Gojo leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “I never shy away from a challenge, Mother. But do be warned, I have no intention of losing.”

“Confidence is a virtue,” you remarked dryly, reaching for your teacup, “but do not let it cloud your judgment. Pall-mall requires more than mere bravado.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow, his smile widening. “Ah, a challenge from you as well. This shall be an interesting morning indeed.”

“Let us hope your skills in the garden match your flair for words, my lord,” you retorted, your tone light (for the sake of preventing your mother a heart attack) but your gaze to Gojo sharp.

Duchess Gojo’s laughter rang out once more, her eyes gleaming with delight. “Oh, this will be most entertaining! Come now, let us finish our breakfast, and then we shall see who emerges victorious on the field.”

You took a sip of your tea, pointedly ignoring the way Gojo’s gaze lingered on you as you did so. The day had barely begun, and already, you felt the familiar tension of being in his presence. But if there was one thing you knew, it was that you wouldn’t back down from a challenge⸺whether at the breakfast table or in the garden.

Duchess Gojo clapped her hands together, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Now, we must let our diamond choose first. After all, she is the only lady participating today.”

You smiled warmly at her, a polite nod of appreciation. Gojo, however, frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced between you and the bag of mallets. “Are we not simply setting her up for victory?”

Turning to him with an innocent smile, you crossed your arms. “What’s that, my lord? Are you unable, as a man, to deal with the loss of your chosen mallet? I know some men depend heavily on certain familiars to win.”

Gojo held your gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a dismissive shrug, he looked away. “Choose whatever you want. I will be sure to defeat you regardless.”

Duchess Gojo placed a warm hand on your back, encouraging you forward. “That’s the spirit, my son. Now, Miss Itadori, do choose which one you fancy.”

You approached the bag of mallets, your eyes scanning over the selection. They varied in subtle shapes and sizes, each one seemingly tailored for a different style of play. Your gaze settled on a mallet slightly larger than the others, painted a light blue shade. Its weight and shape seemed particularly advantageous for aim and control—perfect for directing the ball with precision.

As you picked it up, Gojo’s expression darkened, a hint of irritation flickering in his eyes. “Of course, she chooses the best one,” he muttered under his breath.

“Well,” Duchess Gojo crossed her arms. “I suppose it’s only fair that you all let the lady go first.” She turned to you, nodding. “I will go join your mother for tea inside, my dear.” Winking, she adds, “Show these boys how real ladies do it.”

As the duchess took her leave, Choso, always the supportive brother, leaned over to you with a small smile. “Excellent choice, sister. Show them how it’s done.”

You gave him a grateful nod and positioned yourself for your turn. With a graceful swing, you sent the ball rolling smoothly across the lawn. Choso clapped in approval, but when you looked up, Gojo and Yuji were both glowering at you from the sidelines.

Gojo’s lips curled into a smirk, clearly not amused by your success. “Beginner’s luck,” he commented dryly. Yuji could only nod in mindless agreement to Gojo, and you graced him with a glower. Traitor.

Now it was Gojo’s turn. He stepped forward with confident ease, positioning himself with the mallet as though he had been doing this his entire life. With a swift, practiced swing, his ball shot forward and struck a target dead center. Yuji’s eyes sparkled with admiration, practically beaming at Gojo’s skill.

Choso and you exchanged petulant glances, unimpressed by Gojo’s display. But Yuji’s excitement only grew, and he couldn’t resist praising his mentor. “Incredible, my lord! You never miss!”

Choso’s turn came next. With a focused look, he lined up his shot and knocked Gojo’s ball right out of position, sending it tumbling off course into a forested area. Gojo let out a forced laugh, masking his irritation as best as he could, and you clapped and let out a small, petty giggle. “Good shot, brother! I fear Lord Gojo will have to travel much distance to retrieve and get it on course.”

You would come to bite your words.

When it was Yuji’s turn, he aimed with all his might and sent your ball flying out of position. You gasped in outrage, turning to him with narrowed eyes. “Oh, you will pay for this.”.

Gojo, on the other hand, gave Yuji a hearty pat on the back, beaming with pride. “Well done, Yuji. Well done.”

It was now your turn, and you stomped your way towards the forested area where you and Gojo’s balls had traveled towards. Soon enough, Gojo was following after you.

The path was shaded by trees, and the coolness of the forest was a welcome relief from the heat of the sun. You could help but give each other glares until you finally broke the silence.

“How dare you bewitch my brother into turning against me?” you accused him, stepping over a stray root.

Gojo rolled his eyes, a playful smirk on his lips. “It appears that Yuji’s blood is indeed not thicker than water,”

“Or maybe⸺just maybe⸺your charm isn’t as infallible as you think.”

Keeping pace beside you, Gojo scoffed. “And yet, here you are, still engaged in conversation with me. I must be doing something right.”

You shoot him an angry sideways glance. “I’m only here because my ball is, unfortunately, in the same direction as yours. Nothing more.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so it’s mere coincidence that fate keeps pulling us together.”

“More like unfortunate circumstance.”

The two of you continued bickering as you searched for your wayward balls. The back-and-forth banter echoed through the forest, neither of you willing to back down.

Finally, you spotted them⸺your ball and Gojo’s⸺resting precariously on top of a narrow stream of water. You both halted, glancing at each other, and then, without a word, you raced forward.

Gojo reached the water’s edge first, but you weren’t far behind. Neither of you hesitated as you waded into the shallow stream, your focus entirely on retrieving your respective balls. The bottoms of your clothes became soaked in the cool water, but neither of you paid it any mind, too busy grappling to reach your goals first.

Just as you managed to scoop up your ball, your dress snagged on something in the water. You stumbled forward, colliding directly into Gojo, who had just retrieved his own. The sudden impact sent both of you toppling into the water.

You landed squarely on top of him, the shock of the fall leaving you momentarily dazed. Gojo blinked up at you, his breath catching as his gaze dropped to your now-dampened bodice, honing in on your bosom. For a moment, his usually sharp and calculating eyes softened, confusion flickering across his face as if he didn’t quite understand the effect you were having on him.

You scrambled to find your words, unsure of what to say. “I didn’t mean to⸺”

Before you could finish, Gojo gently grasped your shoulders and helped you off of him. He stood up first, his expression uncharacteristically serious as he brushed off his wet clothing and offered you a hand. You took it, steadying yourself as you rose to your feet.

Gojo swallowed hard, clearly at a loss for words. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then quickly closed it, shaking his head. “I must go,” he muttered,.

Without another word, he turned and left, leaving you standing there in the stream, confused and flustered as you watched him disappear into the trees.

“I am not impressed.” Nobara impassively stares you down with a glower.

You fluttered your fan, maintaining a delicate air of mock innocence. “Whatever do you mean, my dear friend?”

The two of you sat at a small table on the terrace, its stone surface warm from the midday sun. Before you, the expansive field served as Gojo’s personal training ground, scattered with targets and archery equipment. Gojo and his protégé, Yuji, had clearly been at it for hours, their bare skin glistening with sweat under the relentless sun. They moved with a practiced ease, their focus entirely on the task at hand.

Gojo was currently demonstrating a particular stance to Yuji, his voice carrying faintly over the terrace as he corrected the younger man’s posture and grip. Yuji, ever the diligent student, watched him with an intensity that bordered on awe. You couldn’t help but reflect that his expression now⸺determined and assured⸺contrasted much with his encounter with you at the game.

Nobara’s eyes narrowed as she regarded the scene. “Why are we here?” she asked flatly, her gaze lingering on the two men.

You turned to her with a smile, fluttering your fan with exaggerated elegance. “Why, to record in my journal, of course. One must capture the beauty of Mother Nature when it presents itself so generously from this terrace.”

Her expression remained unimpressed. “Is it truly Mother Nature that has captivated you, or Lord Gojo’s bare skin?” She glanced down at your unopened journal, its quill resting untouched beside it. “And how much progress have you made in this recording of yours?”

You couldn’t suppress a laugh, caught in your own half-hearted excuse. “Well, even you cannot deny that he presents a rather fine figure, can you? And I will get to my writing in due time. Inspiration must first strike, after all.”

Nobara sighed, folding her arms across her chest. “I cannot fathom how you find pleasure in looking upon a man who has caused you so much distress. Many times, in fact.”

You glanced back toward the field, watching as Gojo effortlessly pulled back his bowstring, the muscles in his back rippling with the movement. His form was impeccable, each action a demonstration of his skill and strength. Yuji, in contrast, struggled to replicate the motion with as much ease and accuracy, though his determination was evident.

"He’s clearly enjoying himself," you commented dryly, turning your attention back to Nobara. "Torturing me, that is. I might as well make due of my harrowing and demeaning stay here and enjoy some aspects of Gojo. I swear, he delights in the fact that I’m stuck here."

Nobara’s eyes narrowed, and she snorted. "Oh, absolutely. Men like him don’t get much amusement in life unless it involves making someone else miserable."

You shook your head, remembering the library encounter all too vividly. Gojo had seemed genuinely surprised to find you there, and yet he had taken to taunting you with his usual smugness. That infernal smirk of his had been etched into your memory.

"I almost wonder," you mused, "if he was actually shocked to find me in the library. Perhaps I caught him off guard for once."

Nobara raised an eyebrow. "What were you doing? Looking for a book on how to survive insufferable dukes?"

You chuckled softly. "No, I was reading about Venus, actually. But Gojo⸺he assumed I was indulging in some silly romance. Imagine his surprise when he realized I was working on calculations instead."

Nobara’s lips twitched upward in amusement, but before she could respond, a loud thud! echoed across the terrace. Both of you looked down just in time to see Gojo's arrow hit the target dead center.

You rolled your eyes. Of course, he would show off. That insufferable man never missed an opportunity to flaunt his skills. Yuji, predictably, looked like he was about to faint from admiration.

Gojo notched another arrow, his back muscles rippling as he drew it back with practiced ease. His abs tightened with the effort, and though you told yourself you were merely observing his technique, your gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary. The tautness of his form was, undeniably, impressive.

“It is a shame,” Nobara remarked, her voice breaking through your thoughts. “He does present a rather fine figure. If only his character matched his appearance.”

You blinked, realizing that your gaze had lingered on him for far too long. “What?”

Nobara glanced at you, her expression half-amused, half-pitying. “I merely observe that if his manners were as well-formed as his physique, he might be a most agreeable companion.”

You opened your fan again, waving it lightly in front of your face. “Perhaps. But we both know that appearances can be deceiving.”

Nobara’s expression turned serious as she looked at you. “You must find yourself a husband who is both well-formed and well-mannered, my dear. Else I shall be forced to gouge out my eyes every time I am called to attend on you.”

You sighed dramatically, closing your fan with a soft snap. “Whatever you say, Nobara.”

Yet, even as you dismissed her words, your gaze drifted back to the field. Gojo was a puzzle, indeed. And whether you liked it or not, he had captured more of your attention than you were willing to admit.

Satoru is sweaty and hot, and therefore he must rush back to take a cold bath.

The weather is quite warm, he must admit to himself. Teaching Yuji had been nothing sort of pleasurable; the boy’s physical prowess was quite impressive, and he learned things very, very fast. If Yuji were to keep learning and working on his skill, he would easily be up to Gojo’s level or even surpass him.

As he climbs up the stairs to the terrace, he wipes his brow, which has budded with sweat. When he crosses a table that overlooks the field, he notices a book. His mother and him wouldn’t expose any books like this⸺a fine and intricate design covering the top⸺to the harsh, humid weather, so he picks up the book, frowning.

Frowning, he picked it up, curiosity getting the better of him. The book felt unfamiliar in his hands, and as he opened it, the words within seemed to swim before his eyes. Annoyed, he rubbed the sweat from his forehead and squinted, finally making out the fine, neat handwriting on the page.

I confess, there is something intoxicating about the notion that women might be more than what society has so neatly confined us to be. Is it truly so outlandish to consider that we, too, possess minds capable of great thought and spirits yearning for freedom?

Satoru's eyes widened, and a flicker of intrigue sparked within him. He flipped to the next page, where the writing grew messier, more hurried.

Indeed, God truly blesses the wrong soldiers with features such as his. However, I take pride in being one of His strongest for I possess the fortitude to resist the temptation of ending Gojo’s miserable existence myself.

His eyes widened. If he had been intrigued before, now he was thoroughly captivated. This had to be you. His heart began to beat faster as he quickly turned to another page, where the ink was still fresh, and a pressed leaf lay nestled between the pages.

If I were to base my choice of husband solely on physical appearance, I must confess that Lord Gojo would be a most compelling candidate. However, to consider him without regard to his character would be a grave disservice to myself and to dear Nobara, who would bear the consequences of such a choice daily.

I hold out hope for a suitor with a similar strength of physique, one whose form displays power and grace, much like Gojo. His muscles, so clearly defined, speak of formidable strength and control—his back rippling with every pull of the bowstring, his breath labored as he steadies himself.

Alas, such attributes, though appealing, are not enough…

His fingers hovered over the delicate page, the words sinking in. A part of him wanted to laugh at your sharpness, your refusal to fall prey to his charms, but another part⸺one that kept resurfacing and resurfacing against his will, showing up even in his slumber⸺felt something else entirely.

…What a pity, indeed.

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a/n i feel like the only important plot point in this chapter is that gojo is a boobs guy

sorry if this chapter was a little icky :( i prefered publishing this than having to subject my dear beta reader to having to edit this mess or even me having to think about it further. i will rest so that the next chapter is better <3 (lots of fluffy moments to come in the next one)

gojo when you spawned in his bedroom

will finally treat myself to answering asks after I wake up since i'm done with this dreadfull chapter <333 jesus it's 3am

comment, reblog, and send in an ask to let me know ur thots :3 memes are also appreciated <3

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