#you have such a basic name but ily | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

atomicami · 5 months ago

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party of three

boyfriend’s mom!abby x fem!reader ft. sevika

- summary: after that unforgettable night you spent with your boyfriend’s mother, you make the decision to stay with him just to continue seeing her behind his back. the affair runs smoothly at first—until her best friend gets into the picture.

- content: smut MDNI, no outbreak/modern au, age gap (abby is 38, reader is 20, sevika is 40), reader is in college, abby and sevika are best friends, abby and owen are divorced, reader is still dating abby’s son, infidelity/cheating, threesome (f/f/f), softdom!abby 🤝 roughdom!sevika, fingering & oral (all receiving, r&s giving), strap on usage (r!receiving), abby and sevika take turns hitting it from the back, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, these two women basically own you tbh

- author’s note: you ask, and i deliver. here is the long awaited full version of this drabble that i posted a while back, it took me so long to get this one out for y’all but it’s finally here! now this fic can be read standalone but here is the previous part i wrote if you guys need a refresher. other than that i hope y’all enjoy it :)

(also special thanks to @sunflowerwinds for proofreading this fic for me, ily cherry girl <3)

You should have walked away after that. Any sane person would have. But instead, you stayed.

Not for him, but for her.

It was only supposed to be just a moment of comfort—neither of you had expected for it to grow into something stronger. But you couldn’t leave him, because it meant that you would lose her too. And that was something that you weren’t ready to do.

And frankly, neither was she.

So you stayed, just for the sake of seeing her behind closed doors. It was wrong, and you both knew it. But the moment she would touch you, the moment she would whisper your name like a prayer before pressing her soft lips onto yours—that’s when it felt right.

But what neither of you expected was just how easily someone else could slip into the space between you two—someone who understood exactly what you both desired.

It was like déja vu hit you once again—you sat in your car, parked in the driveway of Abby’s house once again, preparing yourself to go inside. The night was clear this time—a stark contrast to the gloomy thunderstorm that went on when you first showed up that night. It was coincidental, because ever since then, being with Abby made you feel just as calm and clear as the night sky.

You exhale, taking your key out of your ignition and grabbing your bag before getting out of your car. As you exit your vehicle, the sight of a parked black truck catches your eye—one that you haven’t seen before. It wasn’t Abby’s or Andrew’s, which could only mean that Abby had some sort of company. You didn’t give it a second thought though, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you make your way over to the front door. You ring the bell, and in an instant you can hear a familiar sound of footsteps approaching to answer it. It was almost as if you could sense Abby’s excitement from a distance—a feeling that her son hardly expressed when he’d see you.

The front door opens, and you’re greeted with the sight of Abby standing in front of her, a soft smile plastered on her beautifully freckled face. “Hey there, sweetheart.” she says, leaning in to give you a hug. “Come on in, Andrew is still getting ready but you can wait with us in the meantime.” She gestures toward the living room, and curiosity starts to pique your interest as your head peeks inside. Us? Who could she have brought over?

Once you enter inside, you’re met with the sight of an unrecognizable woman who was seated comfortably on the living room couch—broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, and a striking set of gray eyes. Her hair was at her jawline’s length which framed her facial structure beautifully, and the left side of her face was littered down with scars that made her olive skin stand out even more. A half empty beer bottle rests in her hand, and the low hum of the football game playing on the TV fills the room before Abby’s voice cuts through. “This is Sevika—she’s a close friend of mine.” Abby shuts the door behind you before walking over to the couch and looking over to Sevika. “Sevika, this is my son’s girlfriend.”

Sevika sets her bottle of beer down onto the coffee table. “So this must be the not-so-lucky girlfriend, yeah?” she asks before turning her head to Abby, to which she nods. “Hey there, pretty girl. Name’s Sevika.” she says, offering her hand out to you.

You blush at the name she gives you and reach out to shake her hand as you give her your name. Her palm had felt so large and warm in yours, almost like Abby’s, but maybe a little bit bigger. You let go of her hand and sit down on the love seat next to her, and you can’t but curiously look at her other arm, seeing that it’s entirely replaced with a metal prosthetic. Sevika catches your glance shifting and she looks down at her arm. “Oh, this?” she says, looking back up at you. “I lost it about a decade ago…car accident.”

“Oh,” You hesitate for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “That…that must have been really intense.” you say, your voice gentle.

Sevika simply shakes it off, leaning back against the couch. “It’s alright, I’m just glad to have made it out alive. Besides…” she pauses for a moment before continuing. “My other hand still works just as good.” she says with a wink. You got the joke behind that, of course. But what you didn’t realize was how well she was going to prove that point soon.

Abby sits back down on the couch next to Sevika, leading you to switch the subject. “So, how long have you two known each other for?” you ask them curiously.

“Since college,” Sevika replies, turning her head towards Abby. Abby’s gaze matches with hers, and she starts to chuckle while shaking her head, almost as if she was reminiscing a moment. “Yeah…I guess you could say she was sort of my…awakening.”

Sevika was in the process of turning her head back to you, but she turns back to Abby again and raises an eyebrow at her. “Sort of?”

Abby sighs dramatically and laughs as she playfully nudges Sevika’s shoulder. “Alright alright, she was my awakening. But it was just that one time way back then.”

Sevika hums, a smirk growing on her lips as she reaches over for her beer and takes a swift sip from it. “One time was sure enough to rock your world though.”

Abby rolls her eyes at her but she doesn’t deny it, and you can’t help but feel the heat creep up in the back of your neck—and between your thighs as their history piques your curiosity even more.

“We didn’t have much back then,” Sevika says, taking another sip of her beer. “But I was sure able to do my job without the parts that were necessary.”

The realization clicks in an instant. Your mind flashes back to the first night you spent with Abby—the way she touched you like she knew exactly what you liked, the way she pressed herself against you just right, just enough to make you fall apart and come undone underneath her…it was all so perfectly executed, so well practiced—maybe a little too well practiced.

She learned it from her.

Your gaze flickers over to Sevika, watching as she takes another slow sip of her beer, her expression unreadable. But there’s something there—something in the way she looks at you, like she already knows what you’re thinking. Like she wants you to say it out loud.

Sevika’s voice cuts through the air, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Tell me about you, pretty girl. You in school?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning back slightly. “I’m in my third year now.”

“Halfway point, huh?” Sevika takes a sip from her beer, eyeing you with a casual but interested look in her eye. “You’ll be at the finish line before you know it.”

“Yeah, exactly, you say, nodding in agreement. “I still feel like I have so much left to figure out though.”

Abby chimes in from her side of the couch, grinning knowingly. “You’ve got time, sweetheart.” she says with a soft chuckle. “And you’ll do just fine.”

You smile, appreciating her reassurance. But before the conversation can continue, you hear footsteps coming from upstairs. A familiar voice calls your name—your boyfriend’s voice—and you feel a sudden shift in the air, the tension of the situation lingering in the back of your mind.

“Hey, babe!” Andrew calls out casually, the usual smugness laced in his tone as he did so. “You ready to go?”

Your expression falters in an instant, nose wrinkling up while your lips pressed together in a fine line full of grimace before you catch yourself and quickly shake things off. You let out a sigh as you stand up from the couch. “Yeah, let’s head out.” you reply flatly.

Sevika doesn’t miss it. Her gaze stays fixed on you as she observes your every move, the corner of her lips twitching into a subtle smirk as she did so. She doesn’t say anything as to not interfere, but she doesn't look away either, her gaze burning on you to where you could feel it from behind.

As you push yourself up from the couch, a sharp smack lands on your backside. Your body tenses instantly, irritation bubbling up inside you as you whip your head around. Andrew just stands there with that stupid grin on his face, completely oblivious—or maybe he just doesn’t care—about the way your jaw tightens, how your fingers curl into your palm in fists, fingernails digging into your skin as you hold back the urge to hit him away from you.

“Jesus, Andrew,” Abby says, shaking her head in disbelief. “Show some damn respect for her, will you?”

He simply shrugs, rolling his eyes in the most nonchalant way as if she was the one making a big deal about it. “Relax, Mom, it’s just a joke.” he shuffles his way over to the front door to head out. “C’mon babe, we’re already late to the party.” he says, opening the door.

You scoff behind his back, rolling your eyes. “That’s because you’re always so damn long to get ready,” you quietly mumble to yourself. Andrew was too stubborn to have overheard it, but you could hear a soft chuckle coming from Sevika, however you think nothing of it and move on.

Andrew steps out of the door and heads outside, and before you were about to follow him, a gentle tug on your arm keeps you from moving forward. You stop in your tracks and look over to Abby, who was rising up from the couch to shift closer to you. “Remember sweetheart, if he starts misbehaving tonight, you let me know, okay?” she says, giving you a wink.

A smirk crept up on the corner of your lips when she said that. You knew exactly what she had meant.

It took a while for you and Abby to have figured it out at first, but eventually you two decided on this particular arrangement—to stay with her douchebag son just to continue seeing her behind his back, and to let her know about any sort of trouble he’ll cause when he’s with you, because she can easily make it up to you without thinking twice. It didn’t matter how big or small the issue would be—if Andrew ended up upsetting you in any way, shape or form—Abby would be quick to take matters into the bedroom with you to apologize for her son’s actions. After all, it was the least she could do, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy it herself.

You give her a smile, gently squeezing her hand in reassurance before she lets go. “I’ll be sure to let you know, Ms. Anderson.” you reply to her.

You say your goodbyes to Abby and Sevika before heading outside, closing the front door shut behind you. As you watch your boyfriend make his way over to his car, you can’t help but wish that he’ll screw up the night for you just so you can get a taste of his mother’s forgiveness later on.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☽⋅⋆ ──

Your wish was already coming true in an instant.

The party was in full swing, music blasting within the thin walls, voices blending into the atmosphere. The house completely reeked of liquor and cheap cologne, making you feel as if you were being smothered by the thickness of it. It’s only been an hour, and all you wanted to do was get out of here and go home.

You push through the drunken crowd, trying to squeeze through the tight gaps between bodies until someone accidentally stumbles and spills their drink on you. All you could in that moment do was sigh and just keep moving. Andrew had disappeared a while ago, leaving you stranded in a house full of strangers. Going to this stupid party was his idea to begin with—you didn’t know, or even care about anyone here. On the contrary, all you had really wanted to do on a Saturday night like this was to stay at home and lie in bed—particularly his mother’s bed.

After a while of searching through the packed household, you finally spot him slumped over on an old leather couch, a half empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers.

But he’s not alone.

There’s a girl draped over him, her manicured fingers lazily playing with the fabric of his shirt as she leans into him, whispering something in his ear. He doesn’t react much aside from a drunken chuckle as his head tilts to rest against hers. You’re not sure if he knows her—or even cares.

Your jaw clenches as a bitter taste fills your mouth, but you’re quick to take a deep breath to ground yourself. There’s no point in confronting him. It’s a waste of your time and energy, both of which can be used on something better. So instead, you pull out your phone as you turn on your heel, dialing Abby’s number in an instant.

The line barely rings twice before Abby picks up. “Hey there, sweetheart,” she greets, her voice warm enough to alleviate you from the chills that traveled through your body. “Is everything alright?”

You hesitate, glancing back at Andrew as he exchanges another drunken laugh between the girl beside him before turning back around. “Not really…Can you come pick me up, please?”

There’s a brief pause, and you can hear the faint chatter of the TV in the background followed by Sevika’s groans and protests over whatever that was happening on screen. You hear Abby hum softly before replying. “Of course, honey. I’ll be right there.”

You hang up, slipping the phone into your pocket. Despite how rocky the night began, at least now, it was about to end exactly how you wanted.

It didn’t take long for your phone to ring again, screen lit up with Abby’s name. You answer quickly.

“I’m outside,” she says, her voice steady but firm.

Relief washes over you just for a moment, until the sense of obligation quickly replaces it. You glance back over to the mess of a living room where Andrew is still passed out and sigh in annoyance. “Okay, um, hold on a second so I can get—”

“No.” Abby cuts you off, her voice quickly going stern. “I’m here for you, sweetheart. Just you.”

“But what about—”

“He’ll be fine.” She reassures you firmly. “I already called Owen to pick him up. I’m not gonna be dealing with that tonight.” She says it in a way that shows that her son was the least of her priorities tonight—that he was more of an inconvenience rather than a concern.

You pause for a moment as her words settle into your chest. You exhale slowly, glancing at Andrew one last time before opening the door. He won’t even notice you’re gone.

The cool night air hits your skin once you step outside, finally giving you a moment to breathe after being cramped in the thick air of the party for the past hour. As you look up, you’re welcomed by the sight of Abby leaning against the open passenger door of a black truck—the same black truck that was parked in her driveway not too long ago. You take a closer look, eyes widening when you see Sevika sitting behind the wheel with an amused look on her face.

The sight of the two women together sends a mix of relief and anticipation coursing through your veins. Abby’s expression softens once she meets your eyes. “There you are. I was starting to think I’d have to come in and save you myself.” she says gently, giving you a smile.

Sevika, on the other hand, simply jerks her chin toward the passenger seat. “Get in, pretty girl. Don’t wanna waste gas waiting on your sorry excuse of a boyfriend.”

You don’t hesitate. With one last glance at the house you’re leaving behind, you move toward the truck, letting the door shut on the night and on Andrew without a second thought.

You step up into the truck, sliding into the middle seat while Abby hops in behind you and shuts the door with a soft thud. The space that was once between them disappears in an instant now that you were there, pressed between Abby’s present warmth and Sevika’s quiet intensity. Abby’s hand meets with your knee in a gentle and reassuring grip—almost as if she’s done this before. You barely register the comfort of it before Sevika shifts in her seat beside you, the warm fingers of her human hand gently brushing over your bare thigh in the process. You assume it’s unintentional, but the heat that her touch leaves behind lingers on your skin, sending a slow shiver down your spine.

The rest of the ride back home is quiet, but the tension between the three of you continues to roar inside the truck. As Abby and Sevika exchange the occasional hum of conversation, you remain situated in their place between them, completely aware of every shift of their bodies. Abby’s palm stays warm and steady on your knee, giving you a strong sense of comfort. However, Sevika’s touches are more teasing, almost in a way that makes you wonder if she's doing it by accident or not. Her fingers brushing over your thigh when she adjusts the gearshift, her thigh pressing against yours when she stretches—it’s enough to make you think if she could be desiring the same thing right now.

By the time you arrive at Abby’s house, your pulse is unsteady, and your breath feels tight in your chest. The three of you exit Sevika’s truck and step inside, the warmth of the house settling around you. Sevika rolls out her shoulders as she picks up her jacket that was draped over the couch. “Well,” she exhales, slipping her other hand into her pocket. “I should probably head out.”

Abby hums, tilting her head slightly. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Sevika nods. “Thanks for having me over.”

She’s still standing close to you, her fingers briefly brushing over lower back as she shifts past you to get to the front door. Her touch was brief, yet intentional. You swallow as the heat starts to coil in your stomach. Before Sevika can take another step, you speak up, the words slipping past your lips before you could even second guess saying them.

“You should stay,” you tell her.

Sevika stops mid-step, and both her and Abby turn over to look at you. Abby raises a brow, an amused look behind her eyes, while Sevika lets out a quiet shuckle, shaking her head slightly. “Oh yeah?” Sevika muses, her voice low and testing. She shifts toward your direction, tossing her jacket back onto the armrest of the couch before pressing her weight against it. “You sure about that, pretty girl?”

The challenge in Sevika’s tone sends a shiver down your spine. You swallow dryly, your heart pounding in your chest, but you don’t back down.

“Yeah,” you reply, voice steadier this time. “Stay with us.”

And so Sevika stays. She even makes herself comfortable too—leaning back against the armrest, her arms now crossing over her chest like she belongs here. Abby watches her, then watches you, all with a subtle amused expression on her face as if she already knows where this is headed.

You should sit down. You should relax. But you don’t. Instead, you remain standing, the anticipation causing your skin to erupt in goosebumps. It’s Abby who makes the first move—slow and concentrated as she steps closer to you from behind. Her fingers slowly brush your arm before leaning in just enough for you to hear her command. “Come on,” Abby murmurs, tilting her head toward the hallway that leads to her bedroom.

Sevika doesn’t move right away. She just watches, an amused smirk growing on her lips as she shifts her gaze between the two of you. She then lifts her weight off the arm rest to step closer to you, just enough for you to feel the heat of her body radiating against yours, and for her metal knuckles to brush over your hip again. Except this time, it wasn’t accidental. “You lead the way, sweetheart.” Sevika says, gesturing you toward the staircase.

You don’t do it just yet. Instead, you take a couple small steps back, eyes flickering between the two women before taking each of their hands into one of yours. You cautiously walk backwards as you approach the staircase, hand in hand with each of them. Abby is the first to fall into step in front of you, while Sevika lingers just beside her, close enough for you to hear the faintest chuckle under her breath, as if she already knows exactly what’s coming next.

The three of you arrive at Abby’s bedroom, and Abby briefly lets go of your hand before opening her door to the two of you. You enter inside with her, Sevika following right behind before shutting the door with her other hand. While still holding Sevika’s hand, you use your free hand to grab Abby by the collar of her shirt and pull her towards you in a deep kiss. Sevika lets go of your hand as she watches the two of you, but you’re quick to sense the loss of her touch and you pull away from Abby to turn to her and give her a kiss as well. For such a rugged woman like her, you were surprised to discover how soft Sevika’s lips were on yours—the kind of softness that would have you melting into her for more. The hair on the back of your neck quickly stands once Abby approaches you from behind. She brushes your hair over your shoulder, and begins to plant soft kisses on your bare skin as her hands meet with the zipper of your dress. However, her hand stills for a moment when she notices Sevika pulling away from you. “You sure about this, sweetheart? Bringing me in?” she asks, her head tilting slightly. “Because once we start, I’m not gonna be going easy on you.”

Abby scoffs and rolls her eyes back at her. “Don’t listen to her, sweetheart.” she says soothingly. “We’ll go at your pace, yeah?”

You nod at the two women, looking back at Sevika in reassurance. “I’m sure. I want you both here.”

Sevika lets out a low chuckle, stepping closer towards you as her fingers graze over your waist. “We’ll see about that.”

Her words are followed by the sound of a zipper, and you glance over to catch Abby unzipping your dress through your peripherals, a subtly desperate look in her blue eyes as she does so. Once the zipper reaches the end, she slides the dress off your body until it hits the ground, the fabric now pooling at your feet as you stand there fully exposed in nothing but the black thong that rested on your waist and hips. Sevika’s eyes darkened at the sight of your breasts, then bringing her gaze down to the rest of your figure. “My God…” she whispers, tracing the fingers of her flesh hand down the curves of your breast, waist and hip. “You look like a goddamn work of art, pretty girl.”

Abby chuckles over Sevika’s reaction as she presses another kiss on your shoulder. “She sure is a keeper, isn’t she?”

Sevika hums, briefly glancing at Abby before back at you. “Can’t believe your kid isn’t giving this pretty girl the attention she needs, Anderson.” she pauses for a moment before continuing. “If she were mine, I’d be worshipping her every damn second she’s with me.”

Your cheeks heat up a little over Sevika’s praise, and you inch a little closer to her to bring your hands over to the hem of her shirt. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re here with us now, Sevika.” you whisper back to her. Once your fingers meet with her shirt you attempt to pull it over her, to which she assists you in doing so. Sevika pulls the shirt over her head before tossing it to the ground, and you can’t help but fawn over her physique in pure lust. She was just as jacked as Abby, maybe a tiny bit bulkier, and her olive skin was littered with scars on her chest and torso. Despite how battle worn she resembled, it only made you more desperate for her.

You turn around to look over at Abby, chuckling once you also catch her admiring Sevika as well. You do the same with her, lifting her shirt up by the hem and tossing it over her, smiling at the ripped freckled physique you were familiar with seeing. A sudden squeeze on your hip startles you, causing you to glance back over at Sevika. “Sit behind Anderson, pretty girl.” She commands, jerking her head over to the bed. A subtle smirk grows on Abby’s face, and she brings one of your hands into hers as she follows you towards the bed. She then kicks off her shoes and discards her pants from her legs. You watch as she mounts onto the bed, accommodating the pillows before settling herself down, keeping the space in between her legs open for you to join her. You hesitate for a moment, glancing over at Sevika to see her tilting her head towards Abby with a smirk on her face. With that, your body instinctively follows along, kicking off your heels onto the floor before getting into bed and positioning yourself in front of Abby with your back against her chest. Sevika’s the last one to go in, settling herself on her stomach with her face already in between your legs. Her metal and flesh fingers trail up your thighs and hips to hook them underneath the waistband of your underwear, causing your breath to hitch at the contact. You press your palms on Abby’s thighs to lift up your hips, allowing Sevika to slide the underwear off of you in one fluid motion. Then, as if it were a reflex, your legs naturally spread themselves open right in front of her. Sevika lets out a soft groan, her gaze getting hungrier once they meet with the sight of your soaking wet pussy.

Sevika didn’t delay any longer after that. She’s quick to dive right in, her tongue licking a long, experimental stripe up your cunt. A soft moan elicits from your mouth over the sensation, followed by a whimper once Sevika tightens her grip on your thighs and yanks you closer to her mouth, her tongue continuing to lick slow strokes through your pussy. Abby leans over you and gives Sevika a gentle squeeze on her forearm, provoking her to slightly lift up her head. “Hey, be gentle with her, okay?” she murmurs, slowly loosening her grip on her before leaning back against the headboard. “She’s a sensitive girl.”

Sevika clicks her tongue and shakes her head, almost in a way that she might not be able to stick with Abby's directions. “Can’t make any promises on that, Anderson,” she replies, letting her flesh hand go from your thigh so she can run a finger through your wet slit. “Especially when she tastes this good.”

Without warning, Sevika inserts a finger into your soaking cunt. You initially jerk back at the sudden sensation, before slowly easing into it, your hole gently clenching itself around her finger. Sevika is quick to slowly pump her finger in and out of your pussy while latching her mouth back onto your throbbing clit, and as she does so, Abby trails her hands up and down your torso before pausing at your breasts, gently stroking and squeezing them as Sevika continues to eat your pussy out in a painfully slow, yet rough manner. Her lips wrap around your clit even tighter and her finger starts to harshly curl against your g spot, causing you to whine at the sudden pressure.

“Sevika, I said be gentle,” Abby reminds her from behind, gently caressing your breasts as she watches Sevika’s movements. “I told you she’s sensitive.”

Sevika grunts back at her, briefly removing her mouth off of your throbbing clit to speak to her. “Where’s the fun in that, Anderson?” she replies as she inserts a second finger into your soaked cunt, admiring how you squirmed and whined at her touch. “Look at how much she likes it…pretty girl seems to be enjoying herself from the looks of it.”

While Abby and Sevika may present themselves in similar ways, you realize that they are both completely different in bed. Abby was the gentle type, who’d always touch you and handle your body with care as if you were a porcelain doll that could shatter at any moment. Sevika, on the other hand, was the opposite. She’s been manhandling the hell out of your thighs and pussy for the past ten minutes now, as if you had now turned into a ragdoll that could easily be thrown around the bed.

But if there’s one thing the two women have in common…it’s that making you cum was going to be their number one priority.

“You okay, beautiful?” Abby purrs into your ear, gently planting kisses on the back of your neck as Sevika continues to finger your cunt. “Is Sevika taking good care of you?”

You nod with a whine, and while Abby took that as a valid answer, Sevika sure didn’t. Her metal hand gripped your inner thigh harshly, causing you to jerk back at her once more. “Answer her question, sweetheart.” she mused, her steel gray eyes staring you down.

“Y-Yes! Please keep going, Sev…” you whine back to her. Sevika hummed, bringing her gaze back down to your gushing pussy as her fingers continued to pump at its standard pace. “Such a pretty pussy, baby…it’s crazy how Anderson’s kid can get to taste this whenever he wants.”

“Yeah, about that…” Abby chimes in, stifling a laugh. “It’s just me who does that. Andrew always refuses to do it.”

Sevika scoffed and shook her head in disbelief, her fingers slowing down their movements inside you. “You’re fucking lying.” Her eyes shift back over to you. “She’s lying, right?”

You look down at Sevika with a straight face, slowly shaking your head. “I-It’s true…h-he never does…”

Sevika couldn’t help herself. She starts to laugh, still unable to wrap her head around it. “Jesus, Anderson, your kid is pretty stupid for that. Who wouldn’t wanna get a taste of this gorgeous girl?” She leans in and licks another stripe up your pussy, letting out a groan as she savored the arousal that caught on her taste buds. “She tastes like fucking heaven.”

“That’s exactly what I had told her.” Abby replied. “But what can I say? He’s self-absorbed just like his father, and I sure can’t fix his stupidity either.”

You whined as your pussy clenched tightly around Sevika’s thick fingers. It felt insane to think about it, but the fact that Abby and Sevika were talking shit about your boyfriend like this couldn’t help but turn you on even more. However, Sevika was quick to sense your actions as her gaze dropped back down to your pussy. “Did you just clench around me?” she asks, looking back up at you. Her fingers began to speed up a little now, causing a whimper to escape from your throat as you clutch onto Abby’s bicep. “Seems like she’s getting off on hearing us talk shit about her stupid boyfriend.”

Abby chuckles, leaning in to press a gentle kiss on your cheek. “It’s because she knows it’s true. Besides, she’s got two women right here who’s gonna give her all the pleasure her body needs tonight.”

Sevika smirks, using her metal hand to spread your thighs out farther for her. “In that case, you better buckle up, princess…because we’re just getting started.”

With that, Sevika’s fingers speed up into your pussy even faster. You’re caught completely off guard by the sudden action, jerking back against her once more only for your hips to involuntarily grind against her and for your cunt to clench around her fingers once more. Sevika chuckles and watches you closely, relishing over how willing your body has become for her touch. “Can’t believe you even let him touch you,” she says, shaking her head. “Bet a pathetic boy like him doesn’t even know what to do with you.”

Abby hums in agreement, pressing another kiss on your shoulder as she starts to roll your hardened nipples in between her fingers. “But it was never about my son, was it, sweetheart?” she muses, a subtle smirk growing on her lips. “You always did have a clever way of getting what you want.”

“That so?” Sevika grins back, her voice getting rougher as she looks at you. “Then maybe it’s time that you really got what you wanted.”

A third finger slides into you, and a cry elicits from your mouth at the stretch. Your hands fly down to Abby’s thighs, nails digging into her soft freckled skin as your own thighs instinctively close around Sevika’s hand. “S-Sev…t-too much…” you whine out to her.

Sevika simply laughs, shaking her head tauntingly at your direction. “Oh no, you don’t get to close out on me, princess.” she says, forcing your legs back open with her metal arm and folding them up to your chest. “You wanted me to stay, remember? So you’re gonna take what I give you.”

Her fingers move relentlessly after that, and her head dips back down to suck on your clit. You’re quick to reach your peak as the coil in your stomach gets tighter with each passing second. Abby tries to coo and praise you as she continues to softly kiss you and hold your breasts, but her gentle actions do nothing to sublimate the intensity of Sevika’s fingers ramming in and out of your cunt. The combined sounds of your pitchy whines and the squelching sounds of your pussy filling the bedroom were borderline filthy. You try to tell Sevika that you’re close, give her some sort of warning—but you just can’t get the words out of your mouth. Sevika lifts her mouth off your clit and replaces it with the thumb of her metal hand while the rest of her arm keeps your thighs pinned up, the cold metal causing the rest of your body to shiver. “What’s wrong, princess?” she grins, tilting her head slightly as she watches you struggle. “Can’t get the words out?”

“I…I—” you’re cut off with another whine as Sevika’s fingers continue grazing over your g spot. All you could do was whine and writhe under her grasp, clawing for some sort of escape from the stimulation. Abby releases one of her hands from your breasts and brings it up to your jaw, tilting it to face her. “It’s okay, beautiful. You don’t have to say it.”

Sevika clicks her tongue in disagreement, pushing her fingertips harder inside you—as if she was trying to make you struggle even more to speak to her. “C’mon, princess. Use that pretty mouth of yours for something other than whining.”

Abby rolls her eyes and shakes her head, pressing a slow kiss to your jaw as her soothing voice remains intact. “Shh, it’s okay. We already know what you need.”

Sevika groans as her gaze shifts over to Abby. “Yeah, but I still wanna hear her say it.” She looks back over to you. “Go on, princess…say it.”

Your voice feels lodged in your throat, more gasps and whines slipping from it until finally—you get the words out. Or—you try to.

“S-Sevika, I…I-’m gonna—”

But it was too late. The stimulation gets to your body before you could even get the words out of your mouth. Without warning, a stream of release spurts out of your pussy and soaks up Sevika’s arm and Abby’s bed sheets in the process. Your thighs tremble under her grasp, back arching off of Abby’s chest as your eyes flutter shut and the rest of your face contorts in pure pleasure.

An astonished look is spread across Sevika’s face, her movements still not faltering inside you as your cunt continues to spasm and squirt all over her hand. “That’s it, pretty girl…let it all out for us.” she praised, her voice in a low, wicked purr. “Fuck, she looks so beautiful like this. So fucking perfect.” Her eyes fawn over your contorted face, taking in the way your back arched, your tits thrusting out and your mouth open into a silent scream of ecstasy. As your orgasm begins to subside, your body goes completely boneless on top of Abby. Sevika’s flesh fingers quickly withdraw from your cunt while her metal arm loosens its grip from the backs of your thighs. With her fingers still coated in your release, she brings them up to her mouth to suck them clean, her eyes briefly closing shut as she savors your taste. When she pulls them away from her lips, her voice is now laced with satisfaction. “Sweet girl. Just like I thought.” She’s quick to dive back into your cunt, her tongue lapping quickly on the surface as she cleans you off from the rest of your release. Sevika presses a final lingering kiss against your inner thigh, smirking as she looks back up at you. “No wonder you had Abby wrapped around your little finger.” she muses as she sat back up. “Think I might just keep you for myself.”

Your breath is still uneven, body still pliant against Abby’s as the aftershocks pulse through you. You barely have the strength to meet her gaze, but once you do, the heat in your eyes makes your stomach flip once more. Abby’s fingers trace slow circles over your shoulder, keeping you grounded as you slowly shift back to reality. She then reaches over to your jaw, cupping it gently as her blue eyes search for yours. “Still with us, sweetheart?” she asks softly, to which you reply to her with a whiny nod.

Sevika watches the two of you intently, and amused look on her face as she watches your fucked out self. “Oh, she’s with you alright. But let’s see if she can keep up, yeah?”

Once you catch your breath, your head drags over to face Sevika, who was now kneeling with a dark grin on her face. “I…I can handle it.” you pant out to her.

Sevika lets out a chuckle, shaking her head in disagreement. “Oh, yeah? We’ll see about that, pretty girl.”

Abby scoffs, playfully glaring back at Sevika before looking back down at you. “Ignore her. She likes to pretend she doesn’t have a soft side.”

Sevika simply raises an eyebrow, smirking as she crosses her arms over her chest. “And you like pretending you don’t want me to ruin her.”

Abby just smirks back at her, but she tilts her head just a bit in thought—as if an idea had just clicked into place. Her fingers trail gently up and down your arm, her touch light as a feather in comparison to Sevika’s rough hands from earlier. “Sevika sure made you feel good, didn’t she, sweetheart?” she purrs, leaning in closer to you.

Your breath hitches at her question, only mustering up the energy to answer her with a small nod. Sevika scoffs and shakes her head, shifting her weight against the mattress. “Oh, come on—”

Abby cuts her off with a hum, almost as if she had expected that reaction from her. Her fingers tilt your chin just enough to make you look at her. “I think she deserves a thank you, don’t you think?”

Sevika scoffs once more, rolling her eyes. “Oh please, I don’t need–”

“Don’t need what?” Abby asks, tilting her head slightly in amusement.

Sevika exhales through her nose, crossing her arms over her chest as if she couldn’t care less. But her gaze flickers over to you, watching you carefully. You shift, mustering the energy to sit yourself up from Abby’s lap, your pulse still pounding in your ears. You wanted to do it, not just to thank her—but to see her fall apart. You wanted to see how Sevika’s composure can slip, to see just how deep that soft spot of hers can be, no matter how much she denies it.

The click of Sevika’s tongue shakes you out of your thoughts as she leans in towards you. “You don’t have to do that for me, sweetheart.” she says, her voice quieter this time.

You swallow, your lips parting slightly as your eyes stay fixed on hers. “I want to do it, Sev.” you murmur back to her.

Sevika’s jaw tenses, just for a bit—but the rest of her doesn’t falter as she raises an eyebrow at you, her smirk still plastered on her face. “...Yeah? Is that so?”

You nod in response, and Abby leans in from behind to press a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s my girl.” she murmurs softly, brushing your hair to your other shoulder. “Go on, beautiful, you know what to do.”

Sevika doesn’t stop you this time. She watches as you sit up and approach her, already prepared for you to lean in and give her a tender kiss. Her lips melt against yours, and her hand trails down to your ass to give it a gentle squeeze, causing you to whimper softly against her. She pulls away to sit herself up against the headboard next to Abby, but impatience starts to fill you as your hands meet with the buttons of her jeans. You sense some shifting from above, and you look up to see that Sevika has discarded her bra off to the side. Your eyes widen at the sight of her breasts, large and enticing to your gaze. Your lips part open, and you lift up one of your hands from her jeans to hold her breast, gently squeezing it before leaning in to latch your mouth onto her nipple. Sevika lets out a low groan at the sensation of your warm mouth on her chest. She gently runs her flesh hand down your head and upper back before bringing it down to her jeans to unbutton them.

Your mouth quickly switches over to her other breast, but before you could give it the attention it was needing, a rough tap against your forearm brings you out of focus. You pull away from Sevika’s chest and bring your gaze down to her lap, gasping softly once you see the sight below you. A dark purple strap attached to her hips through a black harness, its length thick and protruding, showing a sign that it needed something to fill. Arousal starts to flourish out your cunt once more, dripping down your inner thighs as your mind wanders on how you could possibly be able to take something this big.

Abby lets out a sigh next to you and you look over to see her shaking her head in disbelief. “That is way too big for her, Sevika,” she says, her voice slightly laced with concern as she wraps a firm hand around the length to take a closer look at it. “You’ll break her with something like this.”

Sevika scoffed and shook her head in disagreement. “That’s what you think.” She brings her gaze back down to her lap and begins to unbuckle the harness. “But let’s save that part for later, yeah?”

You didn’t want to admit it, but Abby was right. Even though Sevika might know her way around any woman’s body, Abby was the one who knew yours the best. She knew what made you melt, what pushed you too far, how much you could handle—and she knew that this would be more than what you could take.

But Sevika was going to prove her wrong very soon.

However, she wasn’t going to be worrying about that just yet. Sevika finishes removing her strap and sets it down next to her before shimmying off her pants and boxers in one motion. You watch with a hooded gaze as her legs spread out slowly on the bed, your eyes darkening at the sight of her cunt. It was a sight for sore eyes—her brown folds were puffy, glistening with her own arousal, and topped off with a trimmed patch of hair as the overall musk of it filled the room in an instant. Sevika’s pussy elicited a primal hunger inside of you, and you’re quick to lie down onto the bed and settle yourself in between her thick thighs. Your head slowly dips in, tongue darting out to lick a slow and savory stripe up her cunt, your eyes closing in pure bliss as Sevika’s arousal clings onto your taste buds. A low groan slips from Sevika’s mouth, her body instantly going soft from your touch. Her hips lift slightly, instantly offering herself to you, silently begging for more of your mouth onto her aching cunt. Your lips move up to gently suck onto Sevika’s throbbing clit, and the two of you could have sworn that she let out a whimper. Abby simply chuckles as she watches the sinful sight of the two of you unfold in front of her. “Well, would you look at that? I think my pretty girl has you melting, Sev.”

Sevika shook her head, shifting around as she tried to maintain her composure underneath you. “Don’t flatter yourself, Anderson.”

Abby laughs at her, crossing her arms over her chest as her eyes flicker between you and Sevika. “Oh, I don’t have to. You’re doing that all on your own.”

Sevika narrows her eyes down at the blonde woman, her mouth opening to spit back at her only to be cut off by another soft groan once your tongue slides inside her cunt. Her jaw clenches in an attempt to restrain herself, but her body betrays her, hips twitching further against your mouth. A shaky exhale slips from her lips, her eyes darkening as her gaze snaps back down to you. “F-Fuck, just like that…Don’t stop.”

Abby shifts closer to Sevika to watch the two of you, continuing to spur Sevika on as she brings a hand down to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “You should see yourself, Sev. Maybe you do have a soft spot after all.”

Another low grunt escapes from Sevika’s throat as your tongue swirls around her cunt, the tension in her body continuing to betray her. She doesn't even bother talking back to Abby and brings her focus back to you, her human fingers tangling in your hair as her breath continues to stutter. “Keep going, pretty girl. Just like that.”

You moan softly over her praises, the vibrations from your mouth stimulating her cunt in the most exquisite way. Sevika groans at the sensation, her eyes snapping shut as she tips her head back against the headboard.

Abby continues to watch the two of you, admiring how you both became lost in each other’s pleasure as if it were a trance. Her gaze drops back down to you—your body splayed face down on the bed, eyes closed in complete bliss as your tongue continues to flutter over Sevika’s puffy wet cunt, getting a fresh taste of her arousal with every jerk of her hips. Then, almost instinctively—your back arches off the mattress, leaving your ass perked up into the air—and an idea sparking into Abby’s mind.

The two of you don’t even register Abby’s movements around the bedroom—the weight shifting on the bed, the sound of soft footsteps on the ground, followed by the sound of her nightstand drawer—raises no curiosity to you and Sevika whatsoever.

The weight shifts around the bed once more—particularly right behind you. You think nothing of it at first—until a sudden pressure begins to stretch into your cunt. You gasp, and your mouth briefly parts away from Sevika’s pussy, curious to find the source of this familiar stretch. You glance over your shoulder to see Abby kneeling behind, now fully nude with her strap buckled around her hips, the tip of it already teasing into your cunt. She keeps her hands firm on your hips, slowly pushing her strap inch by inch until it reaches the base. A low moan slips from your mouth once she bottoms out, the stretch of her cock filling your cunt already making you go dizzy. Abby smirks once she sees the already fucked out look that was spreading onto your face. “You should see yourself, princess. Looks like you missed having my cock in you, yeah?” she asks, to which you reply with a whiny nod. Without even warning you, Abby begins to slowly thrust her cock in and out of you, causing your eyes to roll back in pleasure.

The headspace didn’t last for long when a sharp tap against your cheek pulled you back from the fog that Abby’s cock had you drowning in. It’s not harsh, but firm enough to make your eyes snap back open, to remind you that there’s still someone else waiting on you. Sevika’s smirk is lazy, her eyes still dark with lust as her calloused fingers squish your cheeks, making your lips pout while it’s still glistening with her arousal. “Did I say you could stop, pretty girl?” she asks sternly, tilting her head slightly.

Your lips part open to respond to her, but Abby thrusts into your pussy once more, causing only a broken whine to come out instead. You shake your head at Sevika, and her grip loosens on your face just to move to the back of your head, fingers now tangling in your hair. “That’s what I thought.” Her hand begins to push your head back into her neglected cunt once more. “Get back in there, princess. I’m still not done with you.”

All you can do is oblige, allowing Sevika’s cunt to stuff your mouth while Abby’s cock stuffed your cunt. Once your tongue slides back inside her, Sevika takes full control of your mouth, keeping your face buried into her pussy as she fucks herself onto your tongue, desperate groans and grunts of pleasure slipping from her mouth with every thrust of her hips. She can feel every inch of your tongue, every flick and swirl sending shockwaves of ecstasy through her body. Her clit throbs as she grinds herself harder against your mouth, chasing the sweet release that was bound to happen at any moment. However, you also couldn’t miss the sounds that Abby made from behind either, the breathy pants and gasps escaping her lips as the strap deliciously rubs against her clit every time she thrusts it into your hungry cunt. Your body shifts back and forth between the two women despite the firm grips they had on you, practically using you as a toy for their own pleasure.

Sevika is quick to get close, her grip on your hair tightening, holding you firmly in place as she continues to grind her cunt, her low groans shifting into desperate cries with each passing second. Her strong thighs quiver on the sides of your head, her body tensing as you feel her rapidly approaching climax. Abby continues to thrust her cock steadily into your dripping pussy from behind, the obscene sound of her hips slapping against your ass filling the bedroom.

Your brain starts to feel like mush as you’re lost into the pleasure of the two women using your body for their own satisfaction. The sensation of Abby’s strap sliding in and out of your dripping cunt combined with the salty taste of Sevika’s arousal filling your mouth is almost too much for you to handle. You can feel your own climax building quickly as your walls start to tense and spasm around Abby’s thick length.

A string of incoherent moans and curses coming from above hit your eardrums as Sevika thrusts her hips further into your face, her pussy clenching as she hits the brink of her orgasm. With a loud cry of your name, her body goes rigid as she finally comes undone. Her pussy clenches once more around your tongue, gushing and pulsing as her release floods onto your mouth and chin. The intensity of her climax causes her thighs to brutally shake around your head, her fingers twisting almost painfully in your hair as she rides out the final shockwaves of her pleasure.

As Sevika recovers from her orgasm, she watches as Abby continues to pound you from behind, admiring how your face remained pressed against her crotch, eyes fluttered shut in pleasure as drool pools from your lips and onto her cunt while Abby’s strap fucked you deliciously. A mischievous idea sparks in her mind, and she signals Abby to stop. “Mind if I finish our pretty girl off, Anderson?” she asks, her eyes darkening towards the blonde.

Abby looks back at her, nodding in agreement “Why of course, you’re our guest of honor after all.”

You were too drunk, too fucked out to register the conversation between the two women. Until—Abby stops. She slowly begins to pull her cock out of you, and your mind slowly begins to shift back to reality. You start to whine as the loss, weakly pushing your hips back against her as a desperate sign for her to keep you full. Sevika simply chuckles as she gently lifts your head to push herself off the bed. “There, there, pretty girl,” Sevika muses, reaching for her strap on the bed and putting it on. “Anderson and I are just gonna switch places, yeah? But don’t worry, you’ll get your fill again soon.”

Abby slowly pulls the rest of her strap out of your dripping cunt before shifting aside to let Sevika take her place, the thick strap of hers bobbing obscenely as she settles in between your legs. Her gaze lingers on the immense length of Sevika’s strap, shaking her head in uncertainty. “Sevika, there’s no way she’s gonna be able to take this.” she reminds her.

Sevika simply scoffs and looks over to her, raising a confident brow. “She’s a big girl, Anderson. If she can be able to withstand faking it with your kid for this long, then she can handle me.”

Abby sighs back at her, unable to fight back with that statement. She moves closer to Sevika, and she allows her some space for her to settle next to her. “Well, in that case, let me help you break her in.”

A shiver starts to travel down your spine once Abby’s warm palms land onto the skin of your ass, slowly spreading them open to reveal the sight of your cunt, still dripping with your arousal, your clit throbbing while your hole clenches around nothing with a desire to be filled again. Sevika groans softly, bringing her flesh fingers to your puffy folds and spreading them open to get a better look. “Fuck, I’ve never seen a pussy this needy before.” She muses, angling her flesh thumb down to rub gentle circles on your throbbing clit, only for more of your arousal to drip out of your hole. A laugh elicits from her mouth at the sight of it, shaking her head. “And he really thought he was keeping you satisfied, huh? Poor bastard.”

With that, Sevika’s metal hand wraps around the shaft of her strap, aligning it with your entrance before she pushes the tip inside. Half of her length is quick to slide in, and it was no surprise to the two women given how soaking wet you were. A groan falls from your mouth once Sevika bottoms out inside you, your mind already floating from being so full of her.

Abby lets go of your cheeks and trails a gentle hand down your thigh, rubbing it soothingly as her gaze stays fixed on your face, scanning for any pain or discomfort you might express. Her lips part open to speak to you, but a firm squeeze on her forearm keeps her from doing so. “Hey,” Sevika murmurs, leaning close to her. “She’ll be fine, yeah? Look how good she’s already taking me.”

She gestures to Abby to lie back down on the bed, and she hesitates, just for a moment—but obliges. Abby settles herself on the bed in front of you, spreading her legs wide. You try to lift up your head, the weight of it feeling like a thousand pounds. A gentle hand is placed on your jaw as Abby lifts your head up and slowly guides you closer to her until your face is hovering over her glistening cunt. Before you could latch your mouth onto her, Sevika is already beginning to thrust her cock into you, causing a strangled moan to escape from your throat. Your mind is reeling, overwhelmed by the pleasure of being so used and filled by these two women. But you still obey nonetheless as you give in to Sevika’s thrusts and dive into Abby’s wet pussy. Your tongue lazily slides between Abby’s slick folds, stroking and swirling around her tight hole and her sensitive clit as you lose yourself in pleasuring her.

Abby’s head tilts back against the pillows, eyes fluttered shut in pleasure at the sensation of your mouth lapping onto her cunt. “O-Oh fuck, sweetheart…you’re d-doing so good taking me and Sev like this…” Abby’s fingers tangle into your hair, holding you firmly against her as she grinds her cunt against your mouth. Her moans grow louder, more desperate, spurring you on as you feel Sevika’s thick strap stretching you wide with every thrust of hers, her movements getting quicker and rougher with each passing second.

Sevika’s metal and flesh hands tighten their grip on your ass as she leans over your back, her muscular body pressing against you as her strap continues to plunge in and out of your dripping cunt with brutal intensity. “Fuck, pretty girl…Look at you, taking my cock while eating Anderson out like a good girl.” she praises, letting out a groan right when the harness hits on her clit. “I bet this is a hell of a lot easier than pretending to enjoy yourself with that useless boyfriend of yours, huh?"

A muffled whine was all you reply to her with as your mouth stays fixed on Abby’s pussy. Abby’s back arches off the bed, her moans and cries escalating higher as your tongue pushes her closer to the edge. “Fuck, sweetheart! Right there!” she exclaims, pushing your head further into her as she angles her hips against you. “D-Don’t stop, sweet girl, don’t fucking stop…”

Feeling both of them closing in on their releases, you try to fight through the haze in your mind and muster up the energy to double your efforts. Your lips tighten around Abby’s clit, tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive bud of hers. Your inner walls start to clench around Sevika’s plunging strap, your own climax quickly accumulating as she continues to stretch and fill your pussy in the most sensational way. “That’s it, pretty girl, come for us.” Sevika demands, reaching her flesh hand around to rub tight circles over your clit. “Let us hear what he was too pathetic to pull from you.”

Sevika’s final words were what pushed you over the edge. A scream of ecstasy erupts from your lungs, muffled against Abby’s cunt as your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clenches harshly around the strap, walls spasming as you cum all over the length, completely coating the purple silicone with your thick release as it keeps stretching you wide. Your body shakes and convulses between the two women, back arching in pleasure as your vision goes white, leaving you a writhing and whimpering mess. Abby’s own climax is quick to follow next, cumming a loud cry of your name as she grinds her gushing cunt into your face, coating your lips and cheeks with her release. You drink up every last drop of her in primal thirst, her thighs trembling between your head as her orgasm tears through her.

The two women hold you in place, using your trembling body as they ride out their highs, Abby eventually collapses back onto the bed, chest heaving, while Sevika leans over you, both of you panting and shining in sweat and arousal. As the haze of pleasure slowly subsides between the three of you, you find yourself sandwiched between them, your face still pressed against Abby’s twitching cunt while Sevika’s strap was still buried deep inside your fluttering pussy. You truly have never felt so thoroughly used, so deliciously satisfied—it was a sensation that Andrew could have never fulfilled.

The two women slowly loosen their grips from you, and Sevika eventually pulls out of you with a wet squelch. The strap slipping from your abused cunt followed by a final gush of your release, and the rest of your body goes limp and collapses onto the mattress once Sevika lets go of your hips. The weight of exhaustion settles deep in your limbs, the warmth of the bed and the lingering touch of their hands pulling you under. The last thing you feel before slumber consumes you is the soft press of lips—whose, you’re not sure—against your temple, followed by the distant murmuring of their voices as they move around you.

The room is much calmer and quieter by the time you stir awake. You’re tucked beneath a fresh set of sheets, and you realize you’re no longer bare once you notice one of Abby’s shirts was clinging onto you instead. A weight shifts beside you, and you look to the right to see Abby slipping into bed beside you, now comfortably dressed, her hand finding yours under the covers. Across the room, Sevika is still standing, her boxers back on as she searches around for the rest of her clothes on the floor. The two of you watch her intently, both tempted to do the same thing—to not let her go just yet.

Abby chimes in, sitting up just enough to face her. “You should stay,” she murmurs, voice thick with drowsiness.

Sevika sighs, picking up her jeans from the floor. “It’s late. I should—”

“It is late,” you repeat, voice softer and laced with sleep. You shift closer to Abby to make an open space for her as you meet with her gaze, your eyes heavy-lidded but certain. “Stay with us, please?”

There’s a brief pause. Her eyes linger on you, and for a moment, it seems like she’ll refuse—but then, the corner of her mouth twitches just a bit. She doesn’t want to admit it—not to Abby, not to you—but something about the way you say it, the way Abby's voice softens, makes her want to stay. She gives into it in an instant, letting out a low, amused grunt as she sets her discarded clothed back down. “Alright, I’ll stay. I can’t exactly say no to the two of you.”

Abby smirks, her hand brushing over yours. “We’ll make it worth your while, Sev.”

Sevika only shakes her head, her lips twitching into a smile as she removes her prosthetic arm and sets it aside before settling back into the bed. The warmth from her body pressed against yours as she gets comfortable, but there’s a gentle side of hers in the way she adjusts the covers, a quiet understanding in the way her human hand brushes over yours, just enough to remind you that she’s still there with you too.

And soon enough with Sevika’s steady presence beside you and Abby’s warmth wrapping around you from behind, the exhaustion takes over you once more. You fall asleep again, nestled between the two of them, safe in the soft rhythm of their breaths.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☽⋅⋆ ──

Later in the night, Abby stirs. The peacefulness of the house is interrupted by the distant sound of tires rolling over pavement, followed by the familiar footsteps approaching the front door. She’s out of bed by now, patiently waiting at the top of the stairs, curious as to who could be coming here this late. The door creaks open, and Andrew stumbles inside, still slightly drunk and disoriented as the keys jingle in his grip. Abby scoffs under her breath, shaking her head as she moves past him and heads to the kitchen for a glass of water.

It isn’t until she heads back up the stairs, cold glass now resting in her hand, that she hears him follow behind her. “Hey Mom, uh…where is she?”

She doesn’t answer right away, only peeks through the slight crack in her bedroom door. Inside, under the soft glow of the moonlight, you’re now curled up on your back beside Sevika, face peaceful, body relaxed in a way he’s sure he’s never seen before.

Andrew shifts around uncomfortably, rubbing at his neck. “She didn’t answer my texts, and her car is still outside.”

Abby turns over to look at him, raising a brow. “Maybe she finally had something better to do.”

His brows furrowed in conclusion, an uncertain look expressed on his face over his mother’s response. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Abby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she takes a sip of her water before responding to him. “Don’t think too hard about it, Andrew. Just go to bed.”

She turns back to her door before he speaks again. “Do you know if she’s okay, at least?”

Abby glances over to him, then through the door again—at the way Sevika’s flesh arm rests loosely over your waist, at how you press into her warmth, both of you lost in deep slumber. The sheets are slightly rumpled where Abby had been lying before she got up, the warmth of her spot still lingering and waiting for her return. A small, knowing smile grows on her lips before she looks back at him. “She’s in good hands, Andrew.” she says simply. “Exactly where she’s meant to be.”

Without another word, she steps into her bedroom and shuts the door behind her, leaving him standing alone in the dimly lit hallway while she returns to where she belongs—where she’s also meant to be.

i’m not gonna lie…writing this fic drained me so much. but i hope it was worth the wait 🥲

requested tags 🏷️: @jinxvex @lucidfairies @valentinewife @willurms @jhyoos @thatgrlnany @sevikas-whore @brisaccount @iluvwomensm @halle5s @tohoko @blackdykegirlblogger @lenahhsworld @starrycherie @acidblum

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admiringlove · 2 months ago

Text

a tempest gilded in ruin.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

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

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

↬ warnings: DRAMA; profanity; gojo being a dick at times; mentions of alcohol; politics; mentions of death; regency era inconsistencies because i am clearly not from that time nor am i british; OH ALSO slight geto and shoko shipping solely for plot purposes i promise; etc.

↬ word count: 27k.

↬ note: hi! so this is a little thought child of mine that i wrote per request of my best friend, aspen. it was supposed to be her birthday gift. but unfortunately, i am so very late because of. um, reasons (uni i hate you). @gojover ily :3

↬ navigation: part two, jjk masterlist.

THE VEILED QUILL Volume II, Issue I A Tempest Gilded In Ruin.

My dearest gentle readers.

The impossible has come to pass—the Duke of Six Eyes, the most elusive bachelor in the kingdom, is to wed at last. Yes, you read that correctly. The very same His Grace, Gojo Satoru, known for his mastery of duels, razor-sharp wit, and a scandalous fondness for the less refined pleasures of high society, has finally been caught in the silken snare of matrimony. But before we all begin preparing our congratulatory sentiments, let us examine the matter closely—for this match is as perplexing as it is impractical.

His betrothed? The Viscount’s daughter, a lady of unimpeachable standing, one whose name has never been inked in these pages for any wrongdoing. No moonlit dalliances, no whispered improprieties, not a single rumor worth repeating. A model of grace and virtue, bound in wedlock to a lord of reckless indulgence. A match ordained by fate? Or a disaster waiting to unfold?

The Duke of Six Eyes, after all, is no ordinary noble. He is a man who bows to no one, who treats duty as a suggestion rather than a law, whose very presence in court is an unpredictable tempest—one moment dazzling with charm, the next vanishing into the night with a knowing smirk. That such a man should take a wife is scandal enough—that he should take this wife, a woman so wholly unlike him, is beyond comprehension.

And yet, dear readers, not all is as it seems.

For while the public sees a coldly arranged union, those with ears close to the court whisper of a history shared. It is said that this betrothal is not as sudden as we are meant to believe—that, in their youth, the Duke and his intended were not strangers but rather childhood acquaintances. Could it be that the ever-unattainable Gojo Satoru once harbored a softness for the Viscount’s daughter? Did they once exchange lingering glances, secret words, or something far more telling?

It is, of course, equally possible that the Duke treats this match as he does all matters of duty—with complete disregard and thinly veiled mockery. After all, has he not been seen in the finest gambling halls and gentlemen’s clubs well past the hour of reason? Does he not revel in the company of artists and libertines rather than the noble ladies who sigh longingly behind their lace fans?

Perhaps His Grace is merely playing along for now—letting the world believe he is tamed, while he quietly plots his escape.

Or perhaps—just perhaps—the storm that is Gojo Satoru has met his match.

Will this marriage be a battle of wills, a contest of untamed hearts, or something far more dangerous—a love that neither party dares to admit?

One can only wonder… and watch.

With quill in hand and ears ever listening, Phantom.

Present, Highgrove House.

“Dear God, she has published it already,” your mother whispers, her fingers tightening around the edges of the scandal sheet as though she might wring the ink from the very pages. Her wide eyes scan the print for what must be the fourth or fifth time, her lips parting slightly in disbelief before pressing into a tight, unimpressed line.

You shift in your seat, smoothing the already immaculate folds of your dress for the twelfth time that morning. A nervous habit, unbecoming of a lady, she would say, though she is too preoccupied with the article to scold you for it. You have already pushed stray wisps of hair from your face half a dozen times, exhaled sharply in impatience twice, and asked—oh-so-politely—to see it yourself, only to be ignored.

"Mother," you begin again, schooling your voice into something calm, something reasonable, something that does not betray the unease curling in your stomach. "Might I read what she has written?"

Your mother inhales through her nose, a measured breath of restraint, before exhaling as though she might expel her frustration along with it. "It is about you and the Duke." The words are clipped, firm. A statement of fact, as though that alone should answer your question. And then, after a pause, she presses the paper into your waiting hands.

She reaches for her tea—her tea, imported all the way from India, an indulgence she would rather die than go without—and sips hurriedly, as though the warmth might quell her distress. Her movements are too quick, too rushed, betraying a nervous energy she would never otherwise allow herself to display.

Your eyes skim the first few lines, and then, "My goodness," you whisper. Your fingers tighten against the paper. "She has written ‘coldly arranged union.’"

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose. "I ought to strangle whoever is behind that wretched column. She writes about our family as though we are characters in some sordid stage play." She sets down her teacup with a decisive clink and reaches for a scone, biting into it with the kind of measured elegance that suggests she is doing it to keep herself from saying something truly unladylike.

Your lips press together. You have read 'The Veiled Quill' before. Everyone has. It is as much a staple of the ton as afternoon tea, as illicit whispers exchanged behind lace fans, as the suffocating expectation that every daughter of good breeding must wed, and wed well.

“She is using the word outright," your mother continues, still fuming. "Arranged. And now, of course, the ton will talk."

You sigh, refolding the paper in your lap, though the words still burn behind your eyes. "Mother, you and I both know that the ton talks regardless of what we do."

She waves a hand, dismissive but restless. "Yes, but now they will have proof of it. Do you know how many women will seek me out simply for the pleasure of wringing a detail from me? The very same women who once turned their noses up at us? And now, I shall be forced to endure their chatter, their smiles, their insipid little remarks—"

Her hand comes up to rub delicately at her temple. A headache, then. It is always like this. For all the elegance and etiquette and carefully curated perfection, your mother has never been able to stomach the ton.

"Well," you say, sighing once more. "All we must do is let it happen."

Your mother makes a noise of disapproval but says nothing, lifting the scandal sheet once more, her sharp eyes scanning it as though, just perhaps, she might find some new offense hidden within its words.

The season has not yet begun, and yet already, the whispers have started. Your engagement to the Duke of Six Eyes is the subject of every hushed conversation, the ink of the latest gossip column barely dry before the news spreads like wildfire. Ladies in drawing rooms clutch their pearls, gentlemen murmur over brandy, and your mother, ever composed, feigns indifference while discreetly watching for your reaction.

But, of course, there is no engagement. Not officially. No rings have been exchanged, no letters of intent sent, no courtship witnessed. Instead, there is only a verbal agreement—one you had no part in, sealed in your absence over a quiet dinner, as if you were a parcel to be negotiated rather than a daughter to be consulted.

You had been in Bath, visiting your aunt, a summons orchestrated by your father under the guise of familial duty. Yuji, your younger cousin brother and your father’s heir, had been your only companion, blissfully unaware of the deception at play. And so, while you strolled the Crescent and sipped tea in the Pump Room, your future was being carved out without so much as a whisper in your ear. You had returned home only to find yourself already spoken for.

The rage had come swiftly, burning hot beneath your skin, but it had nowhere to go. A lady does not raise her voice. A lady does not question the will of her father. A lady does not—

But then, had you not spent your whole life believing in a different story?

You had pictured it all so vividly. A proper courtship. A lingering glance across a crowded ballroom. A hand, gloved and steady, extended in silent invitation. Walks through Hyde Park with your mother as chaperone, stolen moments at the edge of a dance floor, a gentleman—your gentleman—asking for more than one waltz, a sure sign of intent. You had imagined choice. That at the very least, you would be allowed to choose.

Instead, your father has chosen for you.

Gojo Satoru.

Once, he had been a friend, a familiar presence in your childhood—sharp-tongued, reckless, a boy who could outrun any governess and charm his way out of any scolding. But then his father had died, and he had disappeared into the halls of Oxford, far away from the world you knew. And when he had returned, he had been someone else entirely. A man, but not the kind you had dreamed of.

He was too much of everything society feared. Too powerful, too ungovernable, too beautiful in a way that unsettled rather than soothed. He moved through the ton with a knowing smirk, collecting whispers like trophies, indulging in every vice afforded to a man of his station. He did not court women—he ruined them. And now, he is to be your husband.

Your mother has spent the last two years warning you away from him, and now she expects you to wed him.

You wonder if she, too, feels the cruel irony of it.

Your father is a landowner, a judge, a man of principle and quiet power. He is neither cruel nor unkind—no, far from it. He is, in every way, the finest father a daughter could ask for. He has always treated you not as a delicate ornament to be admired from afar, but as something far greater—a mind to be sharpened, a will to be forged.

While many girls in the ton spent their childhoods perfecting embroidery and reciting poetry, you were schooled in far more than the expected graces. You had both a governess and a governor—the former tasked with refining your posture, your curtsies, your ability to charm a ballroom, while the latter instructed you in history, arithmetic, science. You understood the rise and fall of empires as well as you understood the language of flowers, could debate the structure of a sonnet while knowing precisely when to demur in conversation. Your father made certain of it. You'd only recently questioned if it was because he didn't have a son.

It was he who, on one long summer in the country, placed a bow in your hands and taught you how to steady your breath, how to hold, aim, release. He had laughed when you hit the target dead-center, a sound rich with pride, and when you returned to London that spring, your mother had been horrified to find her daughter capable of such things. You had been ten. Your father had endured her fury with nothing more than a knowing smile, and later that evening, you had laughed about it together in the drawing room, the kind of conspiratorial laughter shared only between the dearest of friends.

Yes, he is a good man. A great man, even. But good men, great men, can still wound.

Because now, all these years later, that same father—the one who once pressed books into your hands and promised you the freedom to become whoever you wished to be—has arranged for you to marry a man you did not choose. Not just any man, but Gojo Satoru, the Duke of Six Eyes.

He had done it quietly, too. So quietly that even you had been unaware.

You have not spoken to him since. When he enters a room, you leave it. When he calls your name, you pretend not to hear. You have spent your life learning how to shoot arrows, how to weave through the intricacies of court, how to carry yourself like the perfect daughter of a viscount. But you never learned how to forgive.

Not when the betrayal cuts this deep.

Once your mother leaves the room, you sink back against the pillows of the lounge, exhaling slowly. The tension in your limbs unwinds, but the weight in your chest remains. You close your eyes, tilting your head back, listening to the faint crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of servants moving about the house.

You do not even remember what Gojo looks like anymore. Not truly. Not as he is now. You remember him only as a boy—wild and untamed, silver hair always a touch too unkempt for polite society, eyes the color of an open sky. Not the pale, dreary sky of London, but the endless blue that stretched above Hyde Park in late spring, when you would lay in the grass beside your father and watch the clouds drift past. Or the blue that deepened on winter nights, when the stars freckled the heavens like scattered pearls.

And his lips—his lips had been pink. Pinker than yours. That, you remember most of all. You had been so terribly jealous of it, so convinced he must have stolen his mother’s rouge and used it in secret. You had accused him of this many times, demanded to know his trick, but he had only laughed, infuriating as ever, and made a jest at your expense.

You suppose Geto Suguru would know what he looks like now. Of all people, he would. They had been inseparable once, and it seems they are still so, even now. Both of them had gone to Oxford. Suguru’s father was an earl—not as powerful as a duke, but powerful enough. Powerful in ways your father, even as a viscount and a magistrate, would never be.

Even Nanami Kento, you think with some resentment, still knows Gojo. They, too, had studied together.

It has always been this way. The men of your acquaintance, bound by privilege, free to pursue knowledge, free to roam the halls of Cambridge, of Oxford, of Aberdeen, their futures unshackled by duty, by expectation. You wish—oh, how you wish—that you could have had the same. That you could have spent your days in lecture halls, poring over books that were not simply for passing time but for something greater. Instead, you are left with the shelves in your father’s study, with well-worn books on law and history, with fiction that serves as both an escape and a reminder of what you cannot have.

And then, of course, there is the matter of your impending betrothal.

The only ones who know of it are Shoko and Utahime. You had whispered it to them as though speaking it aloud might make it more real. It had been meant to be your first season—the first real step into society, into the world you had spent years preparing for. And yet, before you have even had the chance to take that step, your name is already on the lips of the ton.

It is not scandal, not yet. But it is gossip. And soon, it will be something much, much worse.

You rise from your seat, smoothing the creases from your skirts with absent fingers. The house is quiet, save for the distant chime of the drawing room clock and the occasional murmur of servants passing in the hall. Soon, Yuji will return from his lessons—fencing today, if you recall correctly. No doubt he will burst into the room, eyes alight with enthusiasm, eager to regale you with every detail of his triumphs and failures alike.

Your father, too, will return before long. The steady rhythm of his day is as predictable as the turning of the seasons—court in the morning, deliberations through the afternoon, home by dusk. You know the moment he steps through the door, he will expect to see you. Perhaps he will look for you in the parlor, where you used to wait for him as a child, eager to listen as he recounted the day's affairs. Or in the library, where he once pressed heavy tomes into your hands and smiled at the way you devoured their contents.

But you will not see him. Not today. Let him return to a house that is quieter than it once was. Let him feel the absence of your voice, the weight of your silence.

Present, Six Eyes Estate.

“My lord,” intones a footman, his voice carefully modulated, betraying none of the wariness Gojo Satoru knows must lurk beneath the surface. The servants have long since mastered the art of appearing unaffected, though he suspects they are anything but.

Seated at his desk, he lifts his gaze, the polished mahogany smooth beneath his palm, cool and grounding. The dimness of the study is deliberate. Heavy velvet drapes block out the afternoon sun, leaving the space shrouded in shadows, touched only by the flickering glow of a single oil lamp. He prefers it this way—cold, dark, uninviting.

This house—his house—is as much a prison as it is a fortress, grand in its architecture, suffocating in its legacy. The towering bookshelves of mahogany and walnut, the thick tomes bound in gold leaf, the scent of aged parchment and wax—it all feels like a taunt, a reminder that none of this was ever meant for him, and yet, it belongs to him all the same.

The title. The estate. The responsibility.

All of it a curse disguised as a crown.

“Mr. Geto Suguru is here to see you, my lord,” the footman continues, his gloved hands folded neatly behind his back. “He says it is urgent. He waits in the parlor.”

Gojo exhales, a sound halfway between amusement and resignation. Of course Suguru would come running.

The scandal sheets had found their next great obsession, and for once, it was not his latest indiscretion at the gaming hells or some sordid rumor regarding a widowed countess. No, this time, it was his impending marriage.

He rises languidly, his movements unhurried, calculated in their ease. There is no reason to rush. Suguru will wait.

His footsteps echo through the marble halls as he strides toward the parlor, a sound as sharp and deliberate as the man himself. When he enters, Geto is already pacing, an unreadable expression clouding his usually composed features. Suguru is rarely unsettled.

But then, it is not every day that one learns that Gojo Satoru—the most notorious rake in the ton—is to be wed.

“I see you’ve read it,” Satoru drawls, making his way toward the drinks table. He need not specify which ‘it’ he speaks of. The Veiled Quill had wasted no time in ensuring all of London knew of his so-called betrothal.

Suguru turns sharply to face him, eyes dark with something like disbelief. “You’re marrying her? The viscount’s daughter?” He takes a step forward, voice edged with incredulity. “How, in God’s name, did you even court her? The season hasn’t even begun!”

Satoru merely hums, reaching for a crystal decanter. He pours himself a measure of brandy, the amber liquid catching the light. “I didn’t,” he replies, lifting the glass to his lips. “It was arranged.”

Suguru stills. “Arranged?” The word drips with distaste, as though it offends him on principle.

Satoru smirks. “Her father’s in a bit of a predicament. Some legal entanglement, he may well lose his position in the magistrate. As it happens, I owed him a favor from long ago.”

Suguru’s gaze sharpens. “And for that, you’re marrying his daughter?” There is judgment in his tone, threaded through with something that almost resembles concern. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am always serious,” Satoru murmurs, tilting his head in amusement.

“And what, pray tell, are your own reasons?” Suguru presses.

Satoru exhales slowly, swirling the brandy in his glass before setting it down with a quiet clink. “I recently discovered,” he says, voice deceptively light, “that my dear, departed father—may his soul never rest—saw fit to include a rather tedious clause in his will.” He lifts a brow. “I retain control over my estate and fortune for a limited time. Unless, of course, I wed.”

Suguru exhales sharply, shaking his head. “That blasted man,” he mutters. “Let me guess. He also wanted you to produce an heir.”

Satoru grins, wolfish and without humor. “Undoubtedly. I suspect he imagined a parade of them.”

Suguru scoffs, lifting his own glass as Satoru finally offers it. “Well, if nothing else, you likely already have a few running about near the brothels.”

Satoru laughs, the sound rich, unbothered. He leans back against the edge of the table, swirling his drink in idle amusement.

“She hasn’t seen you in ten years, you know,” Suguru murmurs, swirling the brandy in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. “You must speak to her soon. Can’t very well marry a woman you haven’t spoken to. Society dictates it.”

Gojo exhales, sharp and unimpressed. “Oh, fuck society.” He downs his drink in one go, the burn of it sharp but hardly unpleasant. When he looks back at Suguru, his expression is unreadable, impassive. “I’ll indulge in their stupid rules, their expectations, their ridiculous romantic gestures—only when I have to.”

Suguru huffs, shaking his head with something between amusement and exasperation. “You’re unbelievably bitter.”

“And you’re only just realizing?”

Suguru’s lips curve, but his eyes remain scrutinizing, searching. “Come now, don’t you want to see her?”

Gojo’s fingers tighten imperceptibly around his glass before he sets it down with an easy shrug. “Not really,” he admits. “I’m doing this for the money, nothing else. You know well enough that I can’t be seen falling in love with someone like her.”

Suguru doesn’t answer immediately, merely watching him. There is a knowing in his gaze, an unspoken challenge. Gojo ignores it.

“Well,” Suguru finally says, setting his own glass down, “you’ll have to speak to her at some point. And as it happens, you will get your opportunity soon enough.”

Gojo lifts a brow.

“The season begins next week,” Suguru reminds him. “The baron—Utahime’s father—is hosting the first ball of the year at his estate. The entire ton will be in attendance, including your betrothed. You’ll have to speak to her then. Tell her what needs to be said.”

Gojo hums noncommittally, though he knows Suguru is right. He cannot very well avoid you forever—not when the papers are already buzzing, not when his name and yours are being whispered through drawing rooms and parlors across London.

Still, you cannot know the truth.

You cannot know that this arrangement is nothing more than a means to an end, that he does not care enough to spare your feelings. He does not care enough to be cruel. To tell a naïve, sweet little thing that she is a pawn in a game she never agreed to play—well, what purpose would that serve? You would wed him regardless. That was the only truth that mattered.

Present, Hyde Park.

The afternoon sun glows golden over the lake, shimmering over its glassy surface, where swans glide in elegant arcs, their feathered forms mirrored perfectly in the water. A gentle breeze carries the scent of blooming roses from the manicured gardens, ruffling the ribbons of Utahime’s dress as she clutches her parasol with an iron grip, her expression one of pure indignation.

"I cannot believe it. That conniving, ruthless, insufferable gossip columnist—writing such things about you, and before the season has even begun!" Utahime seethes, her dark eyes flashing with irritation. She has always been quick to anger, quick to take offense on behalf of those she holds dear. You’ve always admired that about her.

You exhale softly, smoothing a hand over your skirts. The fabric of your gown—soft mauve, embroidered with delicate gold thread—catches the light. You chose it carefully this morning, hoping to appear composed, serene, unshaken. But your hands still tremble at your sides, betraying you.

Shoko, walking beside you with her usual air of easy indifference, hums thoughtfully at Utahime’s words. "Have you even seen him yet?" she asks, pushing a loose curl behind her ear. "Last I recall, your father made this arrangement without so much as a word to you. It’s not as if you’re engaged yet. Not officially, anyway."

You hesitate, glancing at her. "I haven’t seen him since that day," you murmur. "Since he left."

Shoko whistles low under her breath. You widen your eyes at her, though you say nothing. She has always had the tongue of a sailor, regardless of how improper it is for a lady. You only thank the heavens that your maid lingers a few paces behind, out of earshot.

"Well," Shoko continues, stretching her arms above her head before linking them behind her back, "you’ll see him at Utahime’s ball, won’t you? That’ll be your chance to talk to him."

"Hopefully," you say, though your gaze is fixed on the water, watching the swans usher their young through the rippling lake. You hesitate before adding, "I just… hope he isn’t as they say."

Utahime snorts, twirling the handle of her parasol between gloved fingers. "Oh, he is exactly as they say," she tells you with a sigh. "When I visited Oxfordshire with my father last year, I caught sight of him. He isn’t that unruly, wild, funny child we knew anymore. He’s beautiful, yes, but he is utterly wicked."

Her words send a chill down your spine. Wicked. The papers whisper of his indulgences, the ton gossips behind painted fans, and servants murmur when they think no one listens. He drinks himself to the brink of ruin in the afternoons, smokes cigars in dimly lit gentlemen’s clubs until his lungs turn black, and courts women with no regard for propriety or consequence.

Your stomach churns at the thought. Perhaps the rumors are exaggerated. Perhaps this is nothing more than the cruel nature of society, tearing down a man whose power and beauty make him untouchable. But what if it isn’t? What if Gojo Satoru is everything they say? What if he is a man wholly incapable of being a good husband?

A warm hand squeezes your arm. Shoko, whose face is unreadable, leans in just slightly, her voice a murmur meant only for you. "You’ll be fine," she says. "And if you aren’t, if he so much as looks at you the wrong way, I’ll whisk you away myself, and we’ll hide somewhere far, far away from all of this. Yes?"

The corners of your lips lift, just slightly. Shoko has never been one for empty words. If she says she would, then she truly would. You nod once, grateful.

"Now," Shoko sighs, stretching her arms again, "let’s find a parlor and have some tea, shall we? I’m absolutely famished."

Utahime huffs, still disgruntled, but she links her arm with yours anyway, steering you toward the tree-lined path that leads away from the lake. "You’re lucky we adore you," she mutters.

A small laugh escapes you, the first you’ve allowed yourself since the news broke. Yes, you think, you are lucky. Even if everything else in your life feels utterly uncertain, at least you have them.

One week later, Highgrove House.

You sit before the looking glass, hands folded neatly in your lap, your spine held straight despite the quiet storm of doubt brewing beneath your ribs. The candlelight flickers against the polished wood of your dressing table, casting a golden glow over your reflection, illuminating the gown that has taken hours to perfect.

It is a breathtaking thing, this gown—spun from the finest silk, dyed the softest, most luminous shade of blue. Not the sharp, icy hue of a winter sky, nor the deep, endless navy of a turbulent sea, but something delicate, something ethereal. A blue reminiscent of morning mist, of moonlight against still water, of something just barely tangible yet impossible to ignore. The fabric shimmers with the movement of your breath, embroidered with threads of silver that catch the light, mimicking the stars that will no doubt hang over the ballroom tonight. The bodice, fitted to perfection, traces the lines of your figure with an almost agonizing precision, while the shoulder sleeves rest against your collarbones, leaving the length of your neck and the gentle slope of your shoulders bare.

Your maid had worked tirelessly on your hair, curling each strand with careful fingers, arranging it into an elaborate coiffure secured with delicate pearl-tipped pins. But it is the tendrils left loose; the soft curls framing your face that make you look softer, more like yourself. You had insisted upon them.

You picked blue for a reason. For him.

If you were to see him again—if you were to truly face him—you must be as impeccable as they come. Unimpeachable, as the Phantom had said. Untouchable. You must be the picture of poise, of elegance, of control. The perfect woman. The perfect bride. If there was to be a game played, you would not be the one left floundering. And yet, as you stare at yourself in the mirror, you cannot help but feel like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s silks and rouge.

The pink on your lips is too soft, too sweet. The flush on your cheeks feels artificial, an imitation of a woman rather than the mark of one. You look the part. You know you do. Every detail is meticulous. Every choice, intentional. You should feel powerful. But all you see is someone pretending. A girl in a beautiful gown, swallowed whole by a role she is not certain she knows how to play.

A knock at the door jolts you from your thoughts. Your maid’s voice, gentle yet firm, follows shortly after. "My lady, the carriage is ready."

You exhale, smoothing your gloved hands over your skirts one final time. The silk whispers beneath your touch, reminding you that there is no turning back now. You lift your chin, push aside the lingering doubts, and rise to your feet. If you are to be seen, then you will be seen as nothing less than magnificent.

You descend the staircase with careful poise, the soft rustle of your gown whispering against the polished wood. The chandelier overhead casts golden light over the marble floors, glinting off the banister like droplets of molten sun. But your attention is drawn to the familiar sight of Yuji darting through the grand hall, his laughter echoing as one of the maids scurries after him in exasperation.

"Yuji," you call, your voice firm yet warm.

He halts at once, turning to you with wide, bright eyes, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of his play. You have always loved this about him—his boundless energy, yes, but also his unwavering devotion to you. Mischievous as he was, he always listened when you spoke, always sought your approval as if it was the only one that mattered.

He straightens, brushing dust off the waistcoat that had likely been pristine mere hours ago. "You look magnificent," he announces with the confidence of someone much older than his twelve years. "Truly. I must admit."

A quiet laugh escapes you. "You do not sound your age," you say, reaching out to ruffle his unruly hair. He protests with a scrunched nose, but you see the flicker of affection in his eyes. "If only children were permitted at balls, I would bring you with me in a heartbeat."

He folds his arms, feigning great insult. "I am not a child. I am twelve."

"And yet," you tease, bending slightly to press a small, carefully wrapped chocolate into his palm, "still young enough to be bribed with sweets. Do not tell anyone, yes? And make sure to go to bed on time."

He huffs, but his fingers curl around the confection, tucking it into his pocket with a smirk. "Of course I will. What else is there to do? I will attend my fair share of balls when the time comes."

You smile, squeezing his shoulder before stepping away. "That, I do not doubt."

At the threshold of the grand entryway, your mother waits, a vision of authority wrapped in deep emerald silk. The moment she sees you, her lips press into a firm line—not disapproving, but calculating, assessing every detail of your appearance with the sharp eye of a woman who has spent years navigating the unforgiving scrutiny of society.

"At last," she sighs, reaching out to adjust the lace at your sleeve, though nothing about your attire is amiss. "We are already late."

You arch a brow. "We are precisely on time. Early, even."

She does not acknowledge this, instead fussing over a curl near your temple, tilting your chin one way, then the other. Then, at last, she concedes, though her words are clipped. "You look well enough. But make sure you are seen dancing with the Duke at least once tonight."

You school your expression into something neutral, something agreeable, though your stomach tightens at the mention of his name. Gojo Satoru. The man who had once been your friend, and now—what? A stranger? A specter of your childhood, now grown into a man with a reputation that preceded him like an ill-fated storm.

Your mother’s hand is warm but insistent on your arm. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes," you murmur. "I hear you."

The words feel distant, detached from the quickening pulse at your throat. As the footman opens the carriage door for you, a quiet dread settles in the hollow of your ribs. It is not the ball that unsettles you. Not the music or the dance or even the careful performance of polite conversation. It is him.

You had spent years imagining what this night might feel like, picturing yourself gliding across a ballroom floor with a suitor of your choosing, your heart light, your fate unwritten. But now, your fate is inked in a gossip column, whispered between fans and champagne flutes before you have even had the chance to shape it yourself.

You breathe in, steadying your hands in your lap as the carriage door clicks shut. It will be fine, you tell yourself. You will endure it, as you must. And yet, no matter how much you smooth the fabric of your skirt, no matter how straight you sit, you cannot shake the feeling that something has already slipped out of your grasp.

As the carriage rolls to a gentle stop in front of the Baron’s estate, your breath catches in your throat. The house stands tall and grand beneath the soft glow of lantern light, its stately brick façade softened by cascades of flowering vines. Roses—deep crimson, blush pink, and pale ivory—twine themselves along trellises and drape over the archways, their scent lingering in the cool evening air. It is breath-taking, the kind of beauty that belongs in fairytales rather than reality.

A footman steps forward to open the carriage door, and you gather your skirts as you step down, careful not to let the hem of your gown brush against the damp gravel. Your mother is at your side in an instant, ever the vigilant chaperone, pressing a dance card into your palm with a firm nod.

"Keep it full," she whispers, her voice edged with quiet urgency. "And make sure Gojo is on it."

You barely have time to roll your eyes before she ushers you through the grand doors, where the ballroom unfolds before you in a dazzling display of opulence. Chandeliers glitter above, casting golden light over the polished floors, the air thick with laughter, the hum of conversation, and the soft strains of the string quartet.

And then, amidst the sea of swirling gowns and tailored coats, your gaze finds her. Utahime. Dressed in the loveliest shade of pastel yellow, her gown shimmers under the light, the delicate embroidery of pink blooms catching in the movement of the fabric. She looks radiant, every inch the hostess, her posture poised yet warm as she welcomes guests into her home.

A smile tugs at your lips as you make your way toward her.

"You look stunning," you greet her, reaching for her hand in a friendly squeeze.

Her eyes twinkle with mischief as she takes you in, the corner of her mouth quirking up knowingly. "So do you. But don’t think I don’t know why you chose blue tonight."

"Must you always read me so plainly?" you murmur, voice barely rising above the growing hum of conversation. The ballroom is filling quickly now, an endless stream of silks and lace and fine-tailored coats. A dizzying array of faces—some familiar, others unknown—flit through the gilded candlelight, their gazes sharp, appraising. You haven’t been surrounded by this many people since last season, but that had been different. You had been merely an observer then, a quiet shadow lingering at the edges of ballrooms, an unnoticed presence in a sea of more important introductions.

But tonight, there is no escaping their eyes.

Their stares settle on you like a heavy weight, pressing against your skin. Some are curious, speculative, but most are laced with something sharper. Resentment, envy, a quiet kind of loathing that sends a shiver down your spine. The young ladies of the ton watch you with barely concealed scorn, their lips forming perfect little pouts, their gloved hands tightening around their fans. They do not see you as one of them—not anymore. You are the interloper, the girl who has taken something they believed belonged to them. The Duke was meant to be theirs, a prize to be won, a man to be chased and captured. That he had never truly belonged to any of them does not seem to matter.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

"I want to leave," you whisper, voice trembling as you turn to Utahime. "Truly, I-I can’t do this. Look at them." Your fingers clutch at the soft fabric of your skirts, knuckles turning white. "They look as if they wish to devour me whole."

Utahime exhales, her lips curving in something that is not quite amusement but not quite pity either. "They’re jealous, that’s all. And they should be." She casts a deliberate glance over you, eyes sweeping from the elegant slope of your shoulders to the careful draping of your gown. "You are exquisite tonight. No fault to be found anywhere. And they hate that. They hate that it is you he is bound to, and not them."

You let out a shaky breath, gaze falling to the polished marble beneath your feet. "From what you’ve told me, nobody can have him," you murmur, almost to yourself. "Not really."

For the first time that night, you allow the thought to settle, to linger.

"I’m afraid of him, Utahime," you admit, voice barely audible over the music.

She does not answer immediately. Instead, she looks at you carefully, as if trying to gauge whether this is simple nervousness or something deeper, something more dangerous. And when she finally speaks, her words are careful, measured. "You should be. But you must learn to be two steps ahead of him. Always."

And yet, she offers you her arm, guiding you further into the golden haze of the ballroom, into the heart of everything you have been dreading.

You try not to think about it—the stares, the murmurs, the way the ladies of the ton glance at you from the corners of their eyes, pretending not to whisper while making no effort to lower their voices. Instead, you focus on smiling politely at the guests who approach you, offering pleasantries and subtle compliments on their gowns, their jewelry, their finely coiffed hair. You let them fawn over your own attire, bask in the envy laced beneath their admiration. The game of socializing is a delicate one, and tonight, you must play it well.

But then, the whispers shift.

It happens gradually, a ripple through the gilded air of the ballroom. A murmur here, a hushed exclamation there. And then—something else. A tension that winds through the space like a taut string, stretching, pulling, waiting to snap. You feel it before you hear it, the weight of it pressing against your skin. Utahime’s fingers tighten around your arm.

Your breath hitches as you follow her gaze.

And there, standing at the grand entrance, bathed in the flickering glow of the chandelier, he appears.

Gojo Satoru.

He strides into the ballroom like a tempest draped in navy and silver, an effortless conqueror stepping into his kingdom. His tailcoat, cut from the richest midnight blue velvet, fits him like a second skin, accentuating the broad expanse of his shoulders, the lean strength of his frame. The waistcoat beneath gleams with delicate embroidery, an intricate pattern of silver thread that catches the light with every measured step. His cravat is immaculately tied, starched white against the deep hues of his attire, and it rests against the hollow of his throat, drawing the eye to the elegant lines of his jaw. He wears white gloves, pristine against the dark fabric, and his boots shine with a polish so fine they reflect the glow of the chandeliers above.

And then, there are his eyes.

A glacial blue, the shade of an unforgiving winter sky—too pale to be entirely human, too piercing to be ignored. They sweep over the room with an unsettling sort of ease, as if he is only half-interested in the spectacle before him. As if none of it matters. As if he has already seen it all and found it wanting.

You are not the only one staring. The entire room has fallen under his spell.

Because for the last ten years, the Duke of Six Eyes has been a ghost, a whisper, a legend. A man who refused to play society’s games, who had no need for the approval of men and even less patience for the affections of women. He had not graced a single ball in the years he's been of age. And yet, here he stands now. Regal. Untouchable. Magnificent.

The sight of him is nearly unbearable.

"I might faint," you whisper, more to yourself than to Utahime. "He’s—he’s beautiful."

"Close your mouth," Utahime mutters under her breath, her tone sharp despite the amusement dancing in her eyes. "He is yours, is he not? You mustn’t look so taken. Do not be a sheep in the herd."

You swallow hard, willing your expression into something unreadable, sculpting your features into an indifference that feels almost unnatural. You know what is expected of you. You must not appear enthralled. You must not let them see how he affects you.

And then, his eyes find yours. A cold shudder races down your spine, sharp as a blade against bare skin.

It is as if he has known you were here all along, as if the weight of his gaze has been pressing upon you even before he turned his head. He looks at you, and for a single, breathless moment, there is no one else in the room. The chatter, the music, the rustling of skirts and the clinking of glasses—it all fades into nothing as his lips curl into a knowing smirk.

Because he is looking at you. And you are looking at him.

And whether you are ready or not, the game has begun.

The evening is drawing to its inevitable close, and yet, not once has Gojo Satoru spoken to you. Not once has he taken your hand and led you to the dance floor, nor has he even so much as acknowledged you with a glance. The rumors swirl heavier with each passing moment, whispering through the gilded ballroom like a breeze slipping through a cracked window. Was the gossip column mistaken? Had the engagement been nothing but a fabrication? A scandalous lie meant to provoke amusement before being tossed aside as all great gossip eventually is?

You could not bear it any longer.

The weight of their eyes, the suffocating murmur of their voices—it is all too much. So you slip away, unnoticed, into the quiet embrace of the garden. The air is cooler here, untainted by perfume and sweat and the heady warmth of too many bodies pressed together in dance. A slow trickle of water hums from the grand marble fountain at the garden’s center, its melody soft and unhurried. The night is fragrant, thick with the scent of roses and jasmine, their petals brushing against one another in the breeze. If you close your eyes, just for a moment, you can almost pretend you are somewhere else. Somewhere far away.

Your hands smooth over your skirts once more, a motion you have repeated so often tonight that the silk must be near-worn beneath your fingertips. You had spent the evening waiting, pretending not to, but waiting all the same. Shoko and Utahime had remained at your side for as long as they could, offering distractions, idle chatter, even half-hearted jokes to ease the tightness in your chest. But it had not changed the fact that not a single man of noble standing had come to ask for your hand.

It should not bother you.

It should not wound you so terribly to watch others be chosen, to see Utahime’s dance card fill with ease, to hear Shoko’s delighted laughter as yet another gentleman approached. And yet, with every passing waltz, with every invitation extended to someone who was not you, a little piece of your heart splintered.

You had smiled. You had sipped your lemonade and picked at your hors d’oeuvres, nodding politely to every acquaintance who passed by. You had feigned indifference so masterfully that even you nearly believed it.

But you could not pretend anymore.

Here, in the solitude of the garden, you allow yourself the moment of surrender. A deep sigh escapes you, long and quiet, and you lower your gaze, watching the ripples disturb the fountain’s surface as though they might offer you some semblance of clarity. And then—

"You do that a lot."

The voice is smooth, low, almost amused.

Your breath catches in your throat as you spin sharply, your hands frozen mid-motion against the fabric of your gown. Your pulse stumbles, tripping over itself as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and then—there he is.

Gojo Satoru leans against a stone pillar, arms crossed over his broad chest, the silver embroidery of his waistcoat glinting beneath the lantern light. His posture is relaxed, effortless, as if he had been standing there for hours, waiting for precisely this moment.

You swallow. "Excuse me?"

He shifts, pushing off the pillar, and strolls toward you with the kind of easy grace that makes your stomach tighten. "You touch your skirt a lot," he says. "Nervous habit?"

You narrow your eyes, heat prickling at your cheeks. "And why, exactly, have you been watching my skirt?"

"Well," he hums, as if contemplating, "it is very pretty."

The air stills. You blink, caught between indignation and something dangerously close to breathlessness. He is impossibly close now, close enough that you can see the faintest curve of a smirk playing at his lips, close enough that his presence alone threatens to unravel every careful piece of composure you have spent the night holding together.

You stare at him, searching for something—mockery, insolence, some trace of jest in his expression. But there is only observation. Consideration.

Every single thing about him is unreachably perfect.

And that, more than anything, unsettles you the most.

"Why are you here?" His voice carries the same lazy amusement he wears so well, as if it were not already glaringly obvious that he is the very reason for your current misery. Every whisper, every sideways glance, every pointed murmur of speculation that had followed you through the evening—all of it, his doing. He is the source of it all.

You exhale sharply, leveling him with a pointed stare before shifting your gaze back toward the fountain. You do not wish to look at him, not when his presence alone is enough to send your thoughts scattering in all directions. And yet, resisting the pull of him—his voice, his eyes, his entire being—is proving to be an impossible task. "I hate it," you mutter at last, voice quiet but firm. "The whispers, the prying eyes, the women who watch me like I have stolen something from them. I hate it all."

"Ah." He follows your gaze to the water, where the moonlight ripples over its surface, casting silver shadows along the stone. "That would be the fault of the gossip column, I suppose. Which is precisely why I am here tonight, actually."

Your eyes flick back to him, brows lifting in mild surprise. He meets your curiosity with a slow, knowing smile, one that feels so thoroughly practiced that it unsettles you in a way you cannot name. "You don’t seem like a man who has been dragged here against his will by ink and idle words."

"Because I haven’t spoken to you all evening?"

"So you do know what you've done," you huff, crossing your arms. He chuckles, the sound low and quiet, before shaking his head.

"I wasn’t sure how to approach you," he admits, so easily, as if it were the simplest thing in the world to say. "For that, I apologize."

You hesitate, watching him carefully. The soft glow of the lanterns casts light along the sharp lines of his face, illuminating every refined angle. He looks wholly unbothered by the evening's events, by the storm of rumors and speculation swirling within the ballroom. And yet, there is something unreadable in his expression as he watches you now, a quiet deliberation that makes your breath catch.

A moment passes. Then another.

And then you ask, softly, "Is it true?"

His brows lift slightly. "Is what true?"

"Our betrothal." Your voice is steady, but the weight of the evening hangs heavy over every syllable. "You have not spoken to me all night. I thought—" You trail off, unwilling to finish the thought aloud, but he sees it. He sees the doubt, the uncertainty, the quiet ache of being left alone beneath so many watchful gazes.

His expression shifts, barely, but enough. The teasing glint in his eyes dulls, if only for a moment, replaced by something more thoughtful. "Give me your dance card."

You blink. "What?"

"We might still have time for one last dance," he says, tilting his head as though listening to the distant melody still playing within the ballroom. "Come now, give me your card."

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. "That is not how one asks for a dance."

"And what kind of gentleman would that make me?"

"A poor one," you retort, lips pressing into a thin line.

He smirks. "One that is marrying you, regardless."

A pause. The air between you is thick with the unspoken, the uncertain, the strange weight of an engagement neither of you had chosen yet could not escape.

"Card," he says again, and this time, without truly knowing why, you relent.

He signs his name with an effortless flick of his wrist, and before you can fully comprehend what has just transpired, he presses the dance card back into your gloved palm. The warmth of his fingers lingers for a fraction too long before he steps back. Then, with the same insufferable ease that he carries himself with, he straightens his cuffs and nods at you—a silent instruction. You are to walk in first. He will follow, but only after enough time has passed to ensure that no one suspects where the two of you have been.

And so, you do.

The moment you step back into the ballroom, the air feels heavier, thick with the scent of candle wax and expensive perfume. The murmur of voices swells and contracts, but your ears are trained on the music—the delicate, courtly notes of one of Haydn’s minuets swelling from the quartets. The notes weave around you like a silken ribbon, but even the music cannot drown out the weight of your mother’s gaze. You feel her before you see her, the sharpness of her scrutiny cutting through the room from where she stands near the French doors.

She is watching. Waiting.

You turn your head, just slightly, and meet her eye. The look you send her is as composed as you can make it, a delicate reassurance. You have done what was expected of you. The situation is in hand. She need not worry. But when the Duke of Six Eyes enters the room not moments later, her face tightens ever so slightly.

Because she knows.

She alone has seen the two of you return separately, a paltry attempt to erase the sin of having been alone together, unchaperoned. She knows how easily ruin can find you. And so, she does not speak. She does not move. She only watches, and in that quiet scrutiny, you know what she will say to you when the night is over. But you know, that she, too, is glad.

The dance continues, couples spinning across the ballroom in elegant, calculated formations. Shoko and Utahime are among them, dancing with Geto Suguru and Nanami Kento, respectively, their gowns moving like ripples upon the water. You move to the edge of the room, keeping your back straight, your gloved fingers smoothing over the silk of your skirt in a mindless attempt to keep yourself occupied. The hem of your gown barely brushes the floor, the intricate embroidery catching the glow of the chandeliers as you exhale softly. It is almost over. The night is almost—

A tap.

Light, but firm.

You turn, and for the second time that evening, you forget how to breathe.

There, standing before you, is Gojo Satoru. And this time, he does not simply look at you. He touches you.

A single, gloved finger grazing the barest part of your shoulder, just where your silk sleeve meets skin. A mere whisper of contact, but in a room such as this, with eyes as sharp as blades, it is enough to set the ton ablaze. Gasps ripple through the crowd like the first drops of rain upon still water. The Duke has touched you. In public. With purpose.

His lips curve into something dangerously close to amusement, though he keeps his voice carefully composed as he tilts his head, offering his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Your heartbeat thrums at the base of your throat. You know this is a performance—an answer to the rumors that have begun to spin faster than the dancers on the floor. And yet, when you slide your hand into his, allowing him to lead you forward, the thrill that rushes through your veins is far from artificial.

He guides you into position, his movements effortless, a man who has never once faltered in his confidence. His hand comes to rest upon your waist—lower than what propriety would dictate, but not enough to be scandalous. Just enough to be noticed. His fingers, even through the thin barrier of your gown, are warm. His breath, when he leans in just slightly, brushes your temple.

The orchestra begins again. A minuet.

Gojo steps forward, and you step back, your fingers lightly resting upon his shoulder as he leads you into the first figure of the dance. The motion is deliberate, an intimate familiarity masked within the rigid formality of the steps. Every movement—every turn, every glance—is a performance. And yet, beneath it, something unfamiliar stirs.

The room is watching. Every pair of eyes follows your movements as if they are witnessing something unfold that is too significant to be ignored. The whispers are deafening. But for the first time tonight, you do not hate them.

“Would you say,” Gojo murmurs, his lips barely moving as he twirls you beneath his arm, “that we have given them something to talk about?”

You inhale, steadying yourself as he pulls you back into place, his fingers pressing ever so slightly into your waist. Your pulse skitters against your ribs.

“I would,” you say softly.

His smile deepens. “And do you still despise the whispers?”

You glance up at him then, the candlelight catching the blue of his eyes, making them glimmer like something celestial.

“No,” you admit, lips curling in a slow, deliberate smile of your own. “I think I love them.”

THE VEILED QUILL Volume II, Issue VI A Tempest Gilded In Ruin.

Dearest gentle readers,

It has come to everyone's utmost watchful eyes that Gojo Satoru, the Duke of Six Eyes, shared his first dance with the woman he is to marry at the Baron Iori’s splendid ball.

One must note that the pair caused quite the spectacle, as His Grace, ever the master of theatrics, deliberately ensured all eyes were upon them when he reached out and touched his betrothed’s shoulder. A scandalous display? Perhaps. But one executed with such confidence, such deliberate ease, that no one could look away. If the Duke sought to silence the wagging tongues that doubted the truth of their engagement, he has done so in the most spectacular fashion.

And what a dance it was, dear readers. It was neither stiff nor forced, but filled with quiet conversation, subtle glances, and the kind of smiles that make poets of men and fools of women. For a lady who had spent much of the evening as a mere observer, [Y/N] [L/N] had finally stepped into the light, and how radiant she was. Even more telling, however, was the way the Duke held her—his hand resting at her waist just a fraction lower than propriety would deem appropriate. But not low enough to cause a scandal. A pity.

One must also extend their deepest admiration to the Baron and Baroness Iori, who outdid themselves with the evening’s arrangements. The ballroom, bathed in the golden glow of a hundred flickering candles, was a sight to behold, while the soft strains of Haydn’s minuets carried each couple across the floor with effortless grace. The air was thick with the scent of roses and gardenias, a fragrance that only heightened the romance of the evening. Even the refreshments, which included the most delightful lemon cakes and delicately spiced wine, left no guest wanting.

And yet, dear readers, while one pair commanded the room’s attention, another conducted a quieter, but no less intriguing affair on the dance floor. It would be remiss of me not to mention that Lady Shoko Ieiri and Lord Geto Suguru danced not once, but twice.

A single dance is a courtesy. A second is an intention.

Whispers of their companionship have existed for some time, but last night, those whispers grew louder. Lord Geto Suguru, whose sharp wit is matched only by his elusive nature, seemed entirely unbothered by the attention, while Lady Ieiri, in all her effortless elegance, bore the scrutiny with that knowing smirk of hers. But what does it all mean? Is this simply the mark of a long-standing friendship, or is there something more to be said for the way Lord Geto’s gaze lingered, even after the music had ended?

I shall leave you with that thought, dear readers. But rest assured, this writer shall not be resting until the truth of the matter is known.

Yours in unwavering vigilance, Phantom.

Six Eyes Estate.

"Your Grace?"

Gojo Satoru does not look up immediately. His gaze lingers on the crisp pages of the morning’s most scandalous publication, the ink still fresh, the words razor-sharp. And yet, they amuse him more than they should. A slow, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips—something caught between triumph and mischief, something practiced, yet effortless. He exhales through his nose, folding the paper with precise fingers before finally glancing up.

"That will be all, Jeffrey. Thank you."

The footman bows his head, his posture unwavering, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He turns to leave, but just as his fingers graze the handle, Satoru speaks again.

"Although, Jeffrey," he muses, rising to his feet with a languid stretch, his movements measured, "send a card to Highgrove House. I’ll be calling today."

There is a moment—brief, nearly imperceptible—where the servant hesitates. Just a second’s pause, a sharp intake of breath that would go unnoticed by most. But Satoru notices everything.

Still, Jeffrey recovers swiftly, nodding before stepping out of the room.

Satoru smooths a hand down the lapels of his coat, fingertips grazing the fine embroidery. That night lingers at the edge of his mind, a memory he cannot seem to brush away. The music, the warmth of candlelight flickering against polished floors, the way you had fit so perfectly in the crook of his arm. It has been years since he last attended a ball and engaged in anything resembling courtship. The notion should feel ridiculous. And yet, for reasons he refuses to examine too closely, he had enjoyed it.

For a moment, he had felt as though he were ten again, when you, an eight year old, had accused him—with such assurance—of using rouge on his lips, convinced that no mere boy could possess such an unfair shade naturally. He had, of course, retaliated by claiming yours were far too pale, that you would never understand.

A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest as he sets the paper down, his expression shifting—bemusement giving way to something unreadable. He exhales, running a hand through his hair, then steps into the corridor.

"Jeffrey," he calls out, voice steady, self-assured. "Have these articles stored properly. Any mention of me or the Viscount’s daughter—bind them in leather and keep them in my study."

The footman bows in acknowledgment, already moving to fulfill the request.

Satoru does not wait for confirmation. He strides toward the entrance, the morning light catching against the sharp planes of his face. There is work to be done at the palace, obligations to fulfill.

But the afternoon—well, that belongs to something else entirely. To you.

Late afternoon, Highgrove House.

When the calling card arrives at Highgrove House that morning, your mother gasps as though she has been struck. A hand flies to her chest, eyes wide with something between delight and disbelief. Within moments, the household is set into a flurry of movement—servants rushing to press linens, to polish silver, to prepare the most delicate sandwiches and the finest selection of tea. The Duke of Six Eyes is calling. And your mother is making a big commotion, even though she knows he is your betrothed.

Ever since that night at the ball, the ton has regarded you with a particular sort of wariness, their once-inquisitive glances now imbibed with caution. You had expected, rather naïvely, that suitors might come forward in the days following. That, with no formal announcement to them, other gentlemen might take their chances. And yet—nothing. No flowers, no eager letters, no lingering gazes from across the promenade.

It leaves you with an unsettling thought.

Are they afraid of him? Or are they wary of you, of the way you had allowed yourself to stand so close to a man like him, in full view of the world?

Perhaps you have let yourself be swept away by it all. The thought lingers as you stand before the mirror, securing an extra pin into your hair, just in case. The strands have a tendency to loosen, much like your thoughts—unruly things, slipping free when you least expect them. You exhale, settling into the quiet solitude of your room. You despise this feeling. The uncertainty of it.

But it does not matter. Not really.

You have chosen blue again. A gown of the softest periwinkle, its fabric light as air, embroidered with the most delicate florals at the hem and sleeves. The bodice is fitted, the square neckline elegant but modest, drawing just enough attention to be considered fashionable. The empire waistline gathers beneath your chest before spilling into a graceful cascade of silk, moving like water when you shift. It is a dress designed to make an impression. To suggest quiet refinement, subtle beauty, and a touch of something just out of reach.

Your hands smooth over the skirt, an unconscious motion—until you catch yourself. You stop mid-gesture, the Duke’s words surfacing in your mind. A nervous habit, he had called it. And just as quickly as the memory arrives, so does the faintest trace of a smile. You blink it away.

This is a role. You must remember that. You must play it well.

You tell yourself this again and again, yet it feels alarmingly like courtship. A staged one, certainly, but a courtship all the same. The papers have called you one of the great beauties of the season, but that hardly matters now. The Veiled Quill—or rather, the Phantom—only writes of you when necessary, when you step into the public eye. And now, you suppose, you are to give them something to write about once more.

Your gaze drifts toward the desk, where quill and parchment await. A familiar temptation. But before you can act on it, a knock sounds at the door.

“My lady?” your maid calls softly. “The Duke is here.”

You nod. “Thank you, Agatha.” Then, with a knowing look, you glance at her, and she smiles—warm, familiar, and just a touch amused.

"You look beautiful," she says, adjusting the sleeve of your gown with practiced ease. "I trust the Duke will look at you the way your mother looks at her tea. Or the way your father looks at your mother."

Your breath catches, just for a moment. "Do you think so?" you ask, voice quieter now, uncertain.

"I do," Agatha replies, firm and fond. Then, with a gentle nudge toward the door, she adds, "Now, go on, Miss. He has been waiting for ten minutes already. Best not to keep a Duke waiting too long."

With a sigh, you descend the staircase, smoothing your skirts as you go. From the tea room, you can hear your mother’s voice, lilting and graceful, guiding the conversation with ease. She speaks of trade, of land, of matters that seem so far removed from the present moment, and yet, she makes it sound effortless. It unsettles you. You have never possessed her mastery of small talk. No, you have always preferred to remain silent until directly spoken to. You did have the skill for polite, gliding conversation, although that wasn't useful until someone actually spoke to you.

A sudden hiss—soft, but unmistakable—draws your attention, shaking you out of your thoughts.

"Psst."

You blink, glancing toward the parlor, and there, peeking his head around the door, is Yuji, grinning like a boy who has just discovered some delightful secret. You hesitate, checking the tea room. No one has announced your arrival yet. So, with a quick step, you make your way toward your younger brother.

"Something wrong?" you ask, crouching slightly to meet his eyes.

He shakes his head, mischief written all over his face. "Quite the opposite, actually."

"Oh?" You tilt your head. "And what might that be?"

"He's handsome," Yuji whispers, eyes wide with the weight of his revelation. "Really, really handsome."

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. "Well, if you'd like to make his acquaintance, you are welcome to accompany me, you know. Mama might leave us be after a while, considering we are already betrothed."

Yuji merely grins. "No need. Just let him know that you have a rather intelligent and devastatingly good-looking younger brother, and if he happens to have any sisters, I might be interested in the future."

"You are utterly shameless," you murmur, fighting a smile.

"I like to think of myself as opportunistic."

Shaking your head, you move to leave, but Yuji gasps, stopping you in your tracks. "Wait. If Mother leaves after ten or twenty minutes…" His eyes sparkle with mischief. "That means you won’t have a chaperone in the room." He waggles his brows. "How scandalous."

You narrow your eyes at him. "Stop reading my novels. Go study. Or whatever it is you do when your governor is ill."

He grins wider. "You wound me."

You merely roll your eyes and turn on your heel, making your way toward the tea room—where, waiting on the other side, is the Duke of Six Eyes himself.

"Good afternoon," you say, dipping your head in a practiced nod.

Gojo mirrors the gesture, his knowing smile as sharp as ever. His appearance, for lack of a better word, is immaculate. It is impossible not to take note of it—the crispness of his finely tailored coat, the perfect fold of his cravat, the waistcoat that fits so precisely, you can discern the strength beneath the layers. He is, undeniably, a man who commands attention without effort.

"I shall be just over there," your mother announces as she rises from her seat, smoothing down her skirts with practiced ease. "And I will call for refreshments. Do sit, dear," she adds, giving you a look so layered with meaning that it hardly requires words. She moves across the room, gesturing to a maid before settling herself near the unlit fireplace, a book in hand.

"Blue again?" Gojo muses, stepping closer. "Is it your favorite?"

His gaze lingers, not improper, but appraising. You blink, caught off guard, before shaking your head. "Not particularly, no."

He hums as though this is interesting, as though it is something to be considered. "I must apologize—I have come empty-handed. I had every intention of bringing flowers, but my morning was consumed by matters at the palace. Time, it seems, was not on my side."

"You needn't trouble yourself," you reply, shaking your head. "There is no need for pretense here. Not in my home."

"Oh, but I must," he counters smoothly, tilting his head with amusement. "How else will we ensure that tales of our great romance sweep through the ton? The Phantom, that ever-elusive wretch, is already watching our every move. Did you read this morning’s issue? An entire column dedicated to us. Well, and Geto Suguru. But mostly us."

You arch a brow, suppressing a smile. "And that pleases you? The ton whispering about you and me?"

"Immensely," he grins, leaning in just so, as if sharing a secret. "Consider it much like that moment at the ball. The hush of voices, the stolen glances, the weight of every lingering touch. You enjoyed it, did you not?"

His words settle in the space between you, light and teasing, yet holding something heavier beneath. You say nothing for a moment, only letting the silence stretch. Then, finally, you concede—just barely. "Perhaps. You have a way with words, I must say."

"A way with words?" He lifts a brow, his tone edged with amusement. "You think so?"

"Well," you murmur, glancing away, "everything you say seems effortless. I could never speak to people like that."

He exhales a soft chuckle. "And yet, you are. Right this very moment."

His gaze lingers, sharp yet unreadable, before he lifts a hand slightly, hesitating. A silent request. You offer the smallest nod, and he takes it as permission, his fingers brushing the space between your brows, smoothing the faint crease there.

"Worrying will do nothing but wear you down," he murmurs.

Your breath catches, the words barely registering. His gloves are absent today, and his touch is cool against your skin—a stark contrast to your own warmth. It sends a shiver through you, unexpected and not entirely unwelcome.

"A-ah," you manage, barely above a whisper.

His fingers linger for a moment longer than they should, a deliberate pause, before he withdraws his hand. The absence is felt immediately.

He regards you for a lingering moment before tilting his head, his voice quieter now, as if extending an invitation to something far more intimate than mere conversation. “Would you care to take a walk in the park tomorrow? In the morning?”

You inhale, just enough for it to steady you. “That would be nice,” you murmur. “I would like that.”

There’s a rustle of movement behind you—the faint shift of silk against the upholstery, the careful closing of a book—and then the unmistakable sound of your mother’s footsteps retreating down the hall. You blink, half-turning your head to confirm that she has, indeed, left. When you glance back, Gojo remains exactly where he was, only a foot away, watching you with an amused expression that suggests he knew before you did that you were now alone.

Your throat feels oddly dry. “Would you like some refreshments?” you ask, a touch too quickly. “You must be hungry, after working at the palace for so long.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t be so nervous, darling,” he chides, his voice threaded with amusement. “I promise I won’t tease you for having pale lips, as I did when we were children. On the contrary,” he pauses, his gaze dipping for just a fraction of a second, “they seem perfectly pink to me.”

Your breath catches. He steps forward.

“I used rouge,” you say hurriedly, pulse quickening. “That’s why they’re pink, and—”

He hums, as if he isn’t really listening, as if his attention has shifted elsewhere entirely. Slowly, he lifts a hand to your temple, fingers brushing against your hair with the lightest of touches. You freeze.

“What’s this?” he murmurs, almost to himself. And then, before you can answer, he plucks the small silver pin from where you had tucked it so carefully.

A curl tumbles free, slipping forward to frame the curve of your cheek. The weight of it is unfamiliar—you had fastened it back for a reason, and now it lingers there, soft and unruly, as though it had always belonged in that place.

Gojo exhales, quietly, his fingers still twirling the pin between them. “You didn’t have this piece pinned at the ball,” he says, eyes flicking up to yours. “You look beautiful with it loose.”

Your lips part, though you are uncertain of what to say. He has the gall to smile at your silence, as if pleased by it.

“You are…” You hesitate, though the words still come, hushed and half-formed. “You are terribly confident, aren’t you? Too confident, to stand this close, to touch a lady so effortlessly with no chaperone to witness it. Does it not affect you at all?”

Gojo’s lips curl. “Should it?” he counters, slipping the pin into his palm. “If I recall correctly, you were quite fond of whispers when they were about you.”

His words flicker through you like the ghost of a touch. He does not need to step closer to overwhelm you—you are already caught in the weight of his gaze, in the suggestion of something unspoken between you.

The curl still rests against your cheek. He does not tuck it away.

For a moment, you can only stare at him, words caught somewhere between your throat and your lips, tangled like a ribbon left too long in the wind.

He pockets the pin with an air of easy arrogance, as if it were his by right, as if the act of taking it—of taking something so small yet so intimately yours—was as natural as breathing. His fingers, still lingering near your temple, trace the space where the pin once sat, brushing against your skin with the faintest pressure, the kind that lingers long after the touch is gone.

“Don’t tuck it away,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you at the park tomorrow.”

And just like that, he steps back, turning on his heel with all the unbothered grace of a man who knows exactly what he has done, what he has left behind. You watch as he strides toward the door, the soft click of his boots against the polished floor grounding you in a moment that feels altogether unreal.

Your heart pounds, heavy and insistent, so loud that you half-wonder if he can hear it. If, just before he disappears past the threshold, he catches the way your breath wavers, the way your hand curls ever so slightly into the fabric of your gown as if to steady yourself.

But he does not look back.

The door shuts with an infuriatingly soft click. And you exhale, the weight of it shuddering through you, as if only now your body remembers how to breathe.

That night, you lay in bed with your hands clasped over your chest, as if to still the erratic rhythm of your heart. It is foolish, you tell yourself, to let a mere touch, a stolen pin, a murmured promise set your thoughts ablaze like a hearth stoked too eagerly. And yet, the warmth refuses to fade. You turn onto your side, the ghost of a smile threatening to surface before you school your features into careful neutrality. This is not real—it is a performance, a spectacle for the ton to admire and dissect until the wedding is done, until the curtain falls. And still, when you close your eyes, you see the way he looked at you, hear the quiet weight of his voice, feel the phantom touch of his fingers at your temple. You sigh, sinking deeper into the sheets, knowing full well that sleep will not come easily tonight.

The next morning, Hyde Park.

You're standing near the lake when his voice reaches you, smooth, curling around your senses like a ribbon caught in the breeze. Your fingers tighten slightly, a reflex more than anything, before you turn to face him. A short distance away, your mother lingers in quiet conversation with Lady Iori, their voices hushed but ever watchful. They are, after all, your chaperones for the day.

"You're early," he observes, his tone edged with amusement. "Punctuality is quite the virtue, my lady."

"No, you've simply always been late," you reply, a small smile touching your lips.

That earns you one of his own—slight, knowing. And then, with practiced ease, he offers his arm. "Shall we?"

You glance toward your mother, who gives the smallest nod of approval, before resting your gloved hand against his sleeve. The fabric is rich beneath your touch, the arm beneath it firm and steady. A fleeting moment of awareness washes over you, but you shake it off as the two of you begin walking.

The morning air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and freshly bloomed roses. Your gown—pale blue with sleeves that reached just above your wrists, flows just so with every measured step—had seemed the most appropriate choice for a walk. Your other option had been lilac, but something about blue always felt safer. More composed. More perfect.

Satoru, of course, is immaculately dressed. He always is. The navy of his tailcoat deepens the striking brightness of his features, the white of his cravat impossibly pristine. He carries himself with the careless elegance of a man who has never had to doubt his place in the world.

"So," you begin, breaking the silence, "how shall we go about today?"

"You tell me," he muses. "I should like to know you better. Do you still delight in the same things you did as a child? Or have the years refined your tastes?"

You tilt your head, puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"

He nods toward you, his expression betraying nothing but idle curiosity. "For instance, do you still prefer the taste of rose in your ice cream? Or is it something else now? And once upon a time, you swore pink was the loveliest color of all. Yet now, every time I see you, you're dressed in blue. I begin to wonder if your affections have shifted."

"Ah," you murmur, glancing down at the path ahead, "I suppose I like blue."

"And why is that?" he asks, his tone light, though there’s something knowing in the way he watches you.

You narrow your eyes at him, sensing the trap he is laying. "I do like lilac more, actually. Purple, lavender—shades of that sort."

He hums, considering this. "So the color of my eyes holds no particular intrigue for you?"

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "I never said that. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is precisely why I have been wearing blue more often, as of late."

His lips curve, a flicker of triumph there. "Ah. So you admit it, then. You wore it for me."

"I did," you confess with a sigh, before adding, with exaggerated regret, "Regrettably."

He places a hand over his chest, feigning injury. "You wound me, my lady. How cruel."

"You sound like my brother," you tease, grinning as he huffs in mock indignation.

His expression shifts slightly, brows knitting together. "Since when do you have a brother?"

You inhale, the shift in conversation catching you slightly off guard. "He is my uncle’s son—my father’s younger brother. My uncle died in an accident while traveling, and his wife did not long survive him. The shock of it all, you understand. And so, Yuji is the heir now. The next Viscount [L/N]." A warmth spreads through your voice as you add, "He is quite impossible. But I adore him."

"How old is he?" he asks, voice tempered with quiet curiosity. "Perhaps he is the same age as my brother. Megumi. You remember him, don’t you?"

You nod, recalling the solemn-eyed boy who had once clung to his elder brother’s side. "They are both twelve, if I remember correctly. Megumi was only two when you left, wasn’t he?"

"He was," Satoru confirms, a faint smile playing at his lips. "I made certain to take him with me to Oxfordshire. I had purchased a house there before my studies began, and while I was at Oxford, he remained. I would visit whenever I had a day to spare. And now—" he exhales, shaking his head with the ghost of a laugh. "Well, now he goes wherever I go. I cannot keep him away too long, I’m afraid. He claims it is for his own sake, but truthfully, I think it is for mine. I would not sleep soundly without knowing where he is."

You soften at his words, a warmth settling in your chest. "He must be wonderful company. You care for him a great deal."

"I do," he admits, something unspoken lingering in his expression.

"And that," you say gently, "is a very good thing."

A quiet moment passes between you, the air shifting as you hesitate. Your feet still against the gravel path, your gloved fingers twitching at your sides. There is something you wish to say, something that has lingered on the tip of your tongue since this arrangement was first thrust upon you. You wonder if it is foolish to ask.

"If I were to make a request," you murmur at last, voice softer now, measured, "would you deny me?"

He tilts his head, considering you with an air of lazy amusement. "How could I possibly refuse anything of you?" he says. "You are my betrothed. The future Duchess. It is my duty to fulfill your every wish."

The words make your breath catch, an unfamiliar warmth curling in your chest. You lower your gaze, fingers idly smoothing the fabric of your gloves. "I—" You clear your throat, suddenly self-conscious. "I have a few requests, actually."

He chuckles, as though entertained by your hesitance. "Then speak them."

You nod, inhaling deeply. "As you know, I had no say in this. I did not choose it. I did not even know it was to happen."

"Do you not want it?"

"No!" Your response is too quick, too sharp, and his lips twitch as though he might laugh. You press on, determined. "What I mean is… I want a courtship. A proper one."

"A courtship," he echoes, amusement laced through every syllable. "That is all?"

"I want it to be real," you say, voice firm now. "The sort of courtship the ton will whisper about for years. The kind with grand balls and afternoon strolls. Flowers, letters—" You lift your chin, meeting his gaze. "Eight or nine balls, bouquets once a week, and letters. I do not care what you write in them. They must simply arrive."

He exhales dramatically. "Balls are dreadfully tedious. What if we agree on four?"

"Eight," you say, unwavering. "That is the lowest I will go."

He sighs as if in great suffering, though the gleam in his eyes betrays him. "What if I send flowers every other day?"

You laugh, shaking your head. "If you were truly courting me, you would buy out every florist in London."

"The things we do for love," he muses, his voice carrying the weight of amusement, of something unspoken yet lingering between you. His arm is warm beneath your touch, the scent of bergamot and something faintly sweet clinging to him, as if he had walked through a garden before arriving.

You shake your head, exhaling softly. "I think this was merely my parents’ way of ensuring I marry within my first season. A practical arrangement, nothing more. There is no love involved." You pause, a flicker of something betraying you as your fingers brush against the fine fabric of your gloves. "Not yet, at least."

The admission unsettles you. It sits on your tongue like honey, too rich, too sweet, and you wish you had not said it aloud.

He presses a hand to his chest, staggering back half a step as though truly wounded. "How cruel you are," he sighs, his expression caught between laughter and mock despair. "To suggest that I have done all of this without the guiding force of affection."

"You have done all of this because you must," you counter, though your voice lacks conviction.

He hums, tilting his head as though contemplating your words. Then, softly, with an edge of mischief, he murmurs, "Perhaps. But I believe 'the things I do for you' would be a far more fitting phrase, in this situation."

Your breath catches, the weight of his gaze pinning you to the moment. You turn away before he can see the way your lips curve upward, before he can witness the foolish, giddy beat of your heart betraying you entirely.

“Shall I see you here again? Tomorrow?” His voice is soft, coaxing, laced with something so light it could almost be mistaken for sincerity. “I want to see you as much as I can. As much as I must. Before the engagement. Before the wedding.”

You pause, your fingers still resting lightly on the crook of his arm. He is watching you intently, the sharpness of his gaze at odds with the slow, amused curve of his lips, and for a moment, you forget how to respond. The world around you—the crunch of gravel beneath passing carriages, the gentle ripple of the lake, the distant laughter of children—fades into nothing but the space between you.

“We cannot be seen together every day,” you murmur at last, recovering with a measured breath. “It would not be proper. I have no desire to court scandal.”

“Ah.” He tilts his head, all feigned contemplation. “Of course. The darling of the season cannot be seen lingering too often with just one suitor.”

You exhale sharply, narrowing your eyes at him. “That is not it, and you know it.”

His laughter is quiet, knowing. He steps closer, lowering his voice to something just above a whisper. “You concern yourself too much with the idle tongues of the ton. Must we truly care for their approval?”

“They are not idle tongues,” you reply, voice firm but quiet. “These are the men and women who hold influence, who shape reputations, who decide futures. Even those at the top, like us, must abide by the rules of society.”

His smile lingers, as if amused by the notion of rules at all. “And is it still considered improper to swear in front of a lady?”

You give him a look, and he chuckles, shaking his head. “Very well. If I cannot see you, I shall send flowers. Tomorrow morning, without fail. And a letter the day after—though I make no promises about its contents.”

You fight back a smile. “And then?”

He hums, considering. “Then, I shall see you at—”

“The opera,” you supply, blinking as the thought strikes you. “Beethoven's Fidelio. Father has secured a box for Friday evening. Will you be there?”

Satoru regards you for a beat longer than necessary, as if debating whether to make you wait for his answer. But then, with a slow tilt of his head, he murmurs, “Then I shall get myself there.”

And though the air between you remains light, easy, there is something about the way he says it that makes your breath catch.

Friday, Highgrove House.

"Darling," your mother calls just as you fasten the last clasp of your pearl necklace.

You glance at your reflection—a vision of refined elegance, bathed in candlelight. The gown, a delicate shade of powder blue, clings to your frame with a quiet kind of opulence, the empire waist cinched just beneath your bust in the latest Parisian fashion. The short, puffed sleeves offer an air of charm, though the fine embroidery cascading down the skirt is silently sophisticated. The fabric shimmers under the glow of the chandelier, the minute movements of your body catching the light just so. You tug your gloves higher up your arms, adjusting them over your wrists, the silk cool against your skin.

"Yes, Mother?" you ask, turning as she stands in the doorway. She takes a moment, eyes sweeping over you, a keen gaze that misses nothing. Finally, she hums in approval, smoothing an invisible crease in her own gown.

"You look beautiful," she declares. "We must hurry, though."

"Of course," you nod, casting one last glance at your maid, who smiles at you as she adjusts a wayward curl behind your ear.

The carriage ride to the Royal Opera House is quiet, save for the gentle hum of conversation between your parents and the rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone. But you? You can only think of him. It is always this way before you see him—before you are faced with those impossibly blue eyes, before you are once again reminded that he is no longer just the mischievous boy from your childhood but something else entirely. Something overwhelming. And yet, when you are finally before him, the weight of it all always seems to dissipate, as though he were the only person in the world capable of setting you at ease.

When the carriage draws to a halt, footmen step forward, their hands outstretched to assist you down. The Royal Opera House glows with the flickering warmth of a hundred lanterns, its grand facade imposing yet utterly magnificent. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of perfume and candle wax, with the low murmur of anticipation as elegantly dressed men and women sweep through the corridors, their laughter lilting through the space like a melody of its own.

You find yourself seated within your family’s private box, your gloved fingers smoothing over the silk of your skirt as your eyes drift over the audience below. The Duke's box is positioned centrally, of course—the best seat in the house. You scan the gilded tiers, recognizing familiar faces. There, across the way, sits Utahime’s family, their box filled with quiet chatter. A few seats down, you spot Shoko, languid and unbothered, her mother speaking to a rather enthusiastic lord.

You lean toward your mother, voice barely above a whisper. "Shall I go to the retiring room to adjust my gown? And perhaps see Utahime or Shoko on the way?"

"Not now, dear," she replies, shaking her head. "It would be improper to leave just as the performance is beginning."

And indeed, the orchestra has already begun its overture, the first deep, resounding notes of Fidelio filling the hall like the swell of an oncoming tide. You settle in your seat, folding your hands in your lap as the curtain rises, revealing a scene bathed in dramatic lighting.

The first act unfolds before you—Leonore, disguised as a man, moving through the prison in search of her husband, Florestan. The music is rich; melodies weave around you, as if binding you in place, the soprano’s voice soaring through the rafters, carrying with it the weight of longing and sacrifice.

And yet, your thoughts begin to drift. Not entirely, but enough. Enough to notice the way your heart beats a little faster at the thought of who sits just a few boxes away. Enough to wonder if he is watching the performance with the same rapt attention as everyone else, or if, perhaps, his eyes have wandered—to the audience, to the private boxes, to you.

It is only at the close of the first act, as the applause swells through the opera house, that your mother gives you a nod. A silent permission. Now is an appropriate time.

You rise gracefully, smoothing down your skirts before slipping toward the corridor, the air cooler beyond the warmth of the auditorium. A few ladies have already made their way toward the retiring room, their voices hushed, their steps careful. You follow, though a part of you wonders—would he follow, too?

The hush of the corridor is exhilarating, the murmur of the opera fading behind heavy velvet curtains and gilded doors. You move quickly, the silk of your gown whispering against the marble floor, the candle sconces casting yellow light upon the stretch of hall. A glance over your shoulder and you exhale, relieved that you're alone.

You should turn toward the retiring room, as you had planned. It would be the proper thing, the expected thing. And yet, your feet hesitate, lingering just a little longer. What harm would there be in taking a few more steps, just enough to draw you closer to the direction of his box? You tell yourself it is nothing—merely a coincidence, a passing fancy. After all, the halls are empty. There will be no whispers. No scandal.

And yet, would he think less of you for it? Would he see you as another girl caught in the thrall of his presence, desperate for his notice? The thought unsettles you. You let out a quiet sigh, smoothing the fabric of your skirts, over and over, as if the motion could still the indecision in your heart. You keep your eyes lowered, lost in thought, your fingers tracing absent patterns along the delicate embroidery at your waist. You don't see him until it is too late.

“I take it you wanted to see me.”

The voice, rich with amusement, startles you. Your breath catches as your gaze snaps upward. And there he is.

He stands just a few paces ahead, half-shadowed beneath the candlelight, the sharpness of his features softened by the golden glow. His lips curl into something just shy of a smirk, though his eyes tell another story—a more knowing warmth. You feel the tension in your shoulders ease, the weight of uncertainty lifting in an instant.

“I was headed to the retiring room, actually,” you say, though the words sound unconvincing even to your own ears.

“Really?” He steps closer, the polished heel of his boot barely making a sound against the marble. He looks at you, properly looks at you, before tilting his head. “Powder blue is a good color on you.”

A warmth unfurls in your chest, curling at the edges of your composure. “Thank you,” you murmur, fighting against the smile that tugs at your lips. “I chose it myself.”

You try, truly, to keep your expression composed. To keep yourself from betraying the foolish, fluttering joy that his presence stirs within you. But it is a losing battle, and you know it the moment he catches you in it. His grin widening as yours finally, inevitably, breaks free.

Miserable failure, indeed.

"Alright," you concede, barely more than a whisper. "I wanted to see you."

A low hum escapes him, a sound of amusement, of satisfaction, of something else you dare not name. He steps forward, the candlelight catching the sharp edges of his cheekbones. It is ridiculous, truly, the way he moves—like he is always dancing, even when he is standing still. And you, despite your better judgment, step right into his rhythm.

But then, your breath stills. You see it.

The realization seizes you all at once, rushing through your veins like a violin bow gliding, taunting, over tightening strings. Your heart flutters with the giddy, breathless delight of a child discovering a long-lost secret. Your pulse stumbles, as if it, too, is caught in his spell.

Duke Gojo Satoru, in all his insufferable glory, had once plucked the silver hairpin from your tresses with all the entitlement of a man who takes what he likes. "Don't tuck it away," he had murmured, thumb brushing against your temple. And then, with a smirk that had burned itself into your memory, he had sauntered off, leaving you there, untethered, your heart hammering in the hollow of your throat.

And now—now, he wears it.

The silver hairpin sits proudly at his throat, nestled against the folds of his cravat, as if it has always belonged there. Not discarded, not forgotten, but displayed. Claimed.

You stare, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to delight. He follows your gaze, feigning ignorance with a performance so masterful it is almost admirable. Almost.

"That's..." You swallow, pointing, though the words stick to the roof of your mouth. "Surely, you didn’t—"

His lips curve, slow and deliberate, into something entirely too knowing. A smile that is both playful and perilous, like a masked reveler inviting you into a waltz where the steps are known only to him.

"Oh, this?" he drawls, tilting his head ever so slightly. As if it is nothing at all. As if he has not just set the entire world off its axis.

The violins in your chest reach a fever pitch.

"You are wearing my hairpin?" The words escape you before you can gather them, before you can make them sound anything less than incredulous. You step closer, closer than is proper, closer than is wise. Close enough to see the flicker of amusement in his gaze, the way his lips curve. Not in a smirk, no, but something softer, almost perilous.

It is intimate. It is scandal. And yet, you do not step away.

"Why?" you ask, though you suspect you already know the answer.

"Do you not want me to?" His voice is languid, coaxing, as if he is leading you into a game where he alone knows the rules. But you know them, too, don’t you? You know exactly what this is.

He wears it so boldly, that silver pin nestled against the folds of his neck, an open declaration for the entire world to see. He has taken something of yours, and in doing so, has turned it into something of his own. It is not lost on you. Not at all.

"You know I do," you murmur, eyes narrowing slightly. "You know, you really are something."

"Something?" he echoes, laughing under his breath. "You say that as if it is a compliment. And yet, you—"

His gaze flickers over you, unrushed, deliberate. "You’ve tucked your hair away again, despite my asking you not to. You wear the color of my eyes every time you know I will be near. And you act so coy."

"Coy?" You blink at him, lips parting as if he has accused you of something utterly preposterous. "I am anything but coy."

"Oh, but you are," he counters, eyes gleaming, stepping ever so slightly forward. "You know exactly what it is you do. You always have. You like the whispers, the stolen glances, the way the ton watches you with thinly veiled envy. You like being the most exquisite creature in every room you enter. You like knowing that your name will be the first on everyone’s lips before the night is through."

There is no malice in his voice, only certainty, as if he is merely stating what has always been true.

"And is that so wrong?" you ask quietly, looking into his endless eyes.

"Not at all," he replies, shaking his head. "But do not pretend it is not what you want."

Something flickers between you, something fleeting and restless, like a waltz that never quite ends.

"You are not like the others," he says at last, voice softer now. "You never have been."

You watch him carefully, brow furrowed. "What are you trying to say?"

He exhales, shaking his head as if he himself cannot quite place it. Then, so effortlessly, so easily, he lifts his hand to your temple.

And just like before, he plucks the delicate pin from your hair. A breath stills in your throat as the curl falls to frame the side of your cheekbone again.

"Shall I take this one with me, too?" he murmurs. You do not answer immediately. You cannot. You swallow, feeling the weight of the moment press against your ribs, feeling the world narrow down to nothing but the space between you.

And then, finally, you nod.

The violins stop in your mind. A hush falls over your thoughts, quieting the flutter in your chest. You blink, once, twice, the spell nearly breaks. "I should be getting back."

His fingers close gently around your wrist before you can step away. Not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to halt you mid-motion. You stiffen, not out of fear but something else entirely—something dangerously close to anticipation. He must feel the way your pulse stutters beneath his touch because he hesitates, eyes flicking down to where his hand lingers on your glove. A second passes, a breath held. Then, just as carefully, he releases you.

“Wait,” he says, softer now, glancing around as if remembering himself. The corridor remains empty, scandal held at bay by sheer luck or fate. You watch as he reaches into his coat pocket, producing something small and gleaming, and then pressing it into your palm. Your fingers close around it instinctively.

You glance down, and the breath catches in your throat. A cravat pin. Gold filigree, impossibly delicate, intricate in its craftsmanship, and set at its center is an iridescent pearl. A thing of beauty, understated but unmistakably precious. You run your thumb over its cool surface, marveling at it.

“Perhaps this will make up for the two pins I stole from you,” he muses, voice light but laced with an unreadable tenderness.

Your heart does something traitorous in your chest. You look up at him, lips parting slightly as if to say something, anything, but the words never come. There’s something in his expression, something teasing yet entirely sincere, that roots you to the spot.

“I should like to see it on you sometime,” he murmurs. A confession, barely more than a breath.

You blink, heat blooming high on your cheeks. The world shrinks—there is only you and him, only the steady weight of the pin in your palm, only the sharp realization that he has just given you a token, a gift that means something. Your fingers tighten around it, delicate but possessive.

“A-alright,” you manage, hating the waver in your voice.

He smiles then, slow and warm, his teeth flashing through it. The kind of smile that holds secrets, the kind that lingers in the mind long after it is gone. “Alright?” he echoes, amused.

You nod, eager to break free from the gravity of his gaze, from the peculiar thrill his presence stirs in you. He chuckles, a sound low in his throat, and it does something strange to your resolve.

“I should let you go,” he says at last, though he does not move.

You hum, unable to trust your voice, and step back first. He follows suit, a breath of space reappearing between you, though it does nothing to quell the sensation that he is still far too close. The moment stretches, fragile as glass.

Just as you turn on your heel, he speaks again, voice quicker now, as if afraid the words will be lost if he does not say them fast enough. “I might head back to the countryside for a week. I thought I should tell you.”

You pause, tilting your head slightly. “Oh,” you say, and the word sounds far too small. “Alright. I suppose I’ll see you at Shoko’s ball, then. It's next Sunday.”

His lips quirk, something knowing in the set of them. “I’ll look forward to it.”

You linger for a second longer than you should, long enough to see the quiet amusement in his eyes, the way the candlelight catches in his hair. Then, with a breath you barely manage to steady, you turn away and walk back toward the theater.

As you reach the entrance to your family’s box, you pause. Against every rule of decorum, against every lesson your mother ever instilled in you, you allow yourself one last indulgence. You turn your head, just slightly, just enough.

He is still standing where you left him. He catches your glance immediately, as if waiting for it. And then, impossibly, he bows his head ever so slightly—deferential, teasing, a farewell wrapped in a gesture that feels too intimate for a public hall.

Your breath hitches, and you slip inside before you can embarrass yourself further. The murmur of the opera house washes over you again, but it does nothing to quiet the thrumming in your chest. You settle into your seat, hands folded primly in your lap, the weight of the pin pressing gently against your palm.

It is only then that you realize—your curls are loose again. They are framing your face just the way he likes. And you are starting to like it too.

The next evening, Whites' Gentlemens' Club.

The crystal tumbler pauses midway to Suguru Geto’s lips. A single dark brow lifts, his expression unreadable save for the slight, measured tilt of his head.

"You did what?" he asks.

Across the table, Gojo Satoru exhales, slow and unbothered, before knocking back another sip of whiskey. The amber liquid catches in the dim glow of the club’s chandelier, casting fractured light across the polished mahogany.

"Well," Satoru says, stretching out the syllable with languid ease. "She did say she wanted a proper courtship. I am merely obliging."

Suguru sets his glass down with deliberate care. "That," he begins, after a measured pause, "is the most foolish and psychotic thing I have ever heard." His voice does not rise, does not waver; it is the same as always—cool, composed. But there is something sharp beneath it, a blade’s edge just barely concealed.

Satoru scoffs. "It is not psychotic."

"It is," Suguru replies flatly.

"You cannot expect me to neglect her happiness," Satoru continues as if he has not heard him. "This is what she wants, and I am simply fulfilling her wishes."

"You are setting her up for disaster," Suguru counters, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching the liquid lap at the rim. "A marriage that will ruin her, that will weigh her down like an anchor." His voice has lowered, quieter now, but with the distinct cadence of someone biting back something stronger.

Satoru only raises a pale brow. "Ruin? I am only ensuring she likes me."

Suguru exhales sharply, gaze narrowing. "At this rate, she will fall in love with you." A beat. "And you, my friend, are known for being a rake."

Satoru laughs, light and careless, tipping his head back against the velvet of his chair. "I am also known for being rich, handsome, and the most eligible bachelor in the ton," he says, as if that alone is reason enough.

Suguru does not laugh.

Instead, he watches Satoru with that unnerving stillness of his, the kind that has always been far too perceptive, far too knowing. "You cannot play with her like a toy," he says at last, voice tempered steel. "You know that. This foolish courtship of yours will only end one way—with that damned gossip column painting your engagement as something out of a fairytale, and her believing it." He leans forward, just slightly, fingers threading together over the tabletop. "And we both know that, once the vows are exchanged, you will not look at her twice."

Satoru’s easy grin fades. His expression darkens, just slightly, as he shifts in his seat. "Oh, come off it," he mutters. "I am not that horrible."

Suguru lifts his glass again, studies the golden liquid inside before taking a slow sip. "You surely don’t believe that, do you?"

A waiter approaches, pouring another generous measure into his glass before slipping away. Suguru does not look away from his friend, not even for a moment.

"Satoru," he says, voice softer now. "Do not hurt her."

There is something unsettling about the way he says it, something that pricks at Satoru’s skin like a splinter too deep to be removed. He shifts again, forcing a chuckle, reaching for his own glass. "What," he says, "just because she’s friends with the lady you’re pursuing?"

Suguru shakes his head. "No, you insufferable fool," he sighs. "Because she is my friend, too."

Satoru stills.

"We do not see each other often," Suguru continues, "not like we once did, not since the expectations of the ton came between all of us. But I exchange letters with her, now and then." He lifts his glass again, but his gaze remains unwavering. "And I would not like to see her broken at the hands of someone who does not deserve her. She is smart, kind, and most of all, capable."

Satoru’s fingers tighten around his tumbler, grip pressing into the etched glass. A muscle twitches in his jaw. "You care for my fiancée," he says, voice edged with something unreadable.

Suguru rolls his eyes. "Can you," he asks, exasperated, "for once in your privileged, insufferable life, not make this about yourself?"

This time, Satoru does laugh—quietly, breathlessly, because what else can he do?

"Alright, fine," Satoru exhales, tilting his head back against the plush chair, the very picture of theatrical resignation. "When the time is right, I shall tell her. That I am only pursuing her to secure my life. There. Are you happy now?"

Across from him, Suguru does not move. Does not so much as blink. He only watches, fingers idly tapping against the rim of his glass, his mouth set in something thoughtful.

"Please do not say that to me for the sake of saying it," he murmurs, scratching lightly at his temple, voice steady but lined with the faintest trace of exhaustion. "Follow through with it, Satoru."

Satoru presses his lips together in something close to a pout. "When the time is right," he repeats, firm now. "Not before, nor after. Exactly when it is right."

Suguru exhales, slowly. "Gojo."

Satoru grins. "Geto."

It is a long-standing habit of theirs, this game of cat and mouse, of half-truths and veiled warnings. It stretches between them now, weighty in the air, the gap between their gazes shrinking, their wills clashing in the silence.

Suguru, unyielding. Satoru, unrepentant.

And then, after a moment that drags on too long, Satoru huffs, tossing his head back in the most cavalier manner possible. "Fine. You win. Whatever." He waves a careless hand. "I'm still telling her when the time is right."

"Before the wedding," Suguru insists, quieter this time. "She has the right to know."

Satoru’s fingers tighten around his glass. "Right, of course," he echoes, tone light, easy—so easy, in fact, that it is clear he is only going along with it to move the conversation along. "Before the wedding."

Suguru watches him, his expression unreadable, but he does not push further. Instead, he lifts his drink again, taking a slow sip, as if washing away the bitterness of this conversation.

Satoru shifts in his seat, stretching out one long leg, as if restless. His fingers drum against the edge of the table before he finally exhales, long and slow, and says, "I should be heading back to Limitless Hall for a week. Tonight, actually. The carriage is ready, I'm assuming. To take me back home."

Suguru glances up at him at that, brow furrowing slightly. "So soon?"

"There are matters that need attending to." Satoru’s voice remains flippant, but there is the smallest shift in his expression—a quirk of the brow, a flicker in his otherwise unreadable gaze. And Suguru, being who he is, catches it.

Ah. The will. Complications regarding it, again. Suguru knows it immediately.

Suguru says nothing. But his fingers tighten, ever so slightly, around his glass.

Satoru does not elaborate. Instead, he leans back, the ghost of a smirk curling at his lips, masking whatever discomfort lingers beneath. "Try not to miss me too much," he drawls, pushing back his chair, the legs scraping against the floor.

Suguru rolls his eyes, but it is not an exasperated thing. It is something softer, something knowing.

Satoru merely grins, tipping his head in a lazy farewell before turning on his heel, the tails of his coat sweeping behind him as he makes his exit.

And then, just like that, he is gone.

One week later, Highgrove House.

It had now been a week—seven days of silence from him, and yet not a moment without him.

Every morning at precisely half-past nine, as if summoned by clockwork or divine orchestration, the doorbell would ring. And there, in the arms of a solemn-faced footman dressed in Six Eyes livery, would be the day’s bouquet—carefully cradled in a box lined with silk, as if it were not a gift but a relic. Accompanying it, every other day, came a letter. Each folded in thick parchment, the Duke’s seal pressed in wax so burgundy it appeared almost maroon, and every word inside bearing the elegant slant of a hand you had once seen scrawl nonsense on napkins and map the constellations on your skin as a child.

He had written, quite plainly, that the flowers were to be delivered in the evening. And yet they arrived each morning, at the very beginning of your day, without fail. You wondered—was it a deliberate mistake, or a silent confession? That he wanted to be the first thing you thought of when you awoke. That he was thinking of you still, and with an urgency that made him careless with time.

On the first day: white musk roses—their scent faintly sweet, their petals soft, their message unmistakable. A flower meant to tell a lady she is charming, as if you required a floral confirmation of what he’d already made abundantly clear that night in the corridor of the opera. On the second: hibiscus, deep and plush, the colour of crushed velvet, meant to symbolise grace and beauty that does not wither. Then came the irises, their purple-blue hue catching the light like a secret; they spoke of messages unspoken, of conversations unfinished, of all the things one cannot say in public.

Daffodils followed—bright, golden, cheerful, unassuming things—and something in their simplicity made your breath catch. They meant regard. They meant sincerity. They meant, “I see you.”

And then, as if unable to choose just one sentiment, he began sending them all. The last three days had brought arrangements so lavish they eclipsed the windowsills they sat upon. Musk roses nestled against hibiscus; irises leaned toward daffodils in a floral communion. Their fragrance filled your chamber from dawn until long past dusk. Every bloom felt like a word he could not say aloud. Every petal felt like a confession too scandalous to name.

You feared your rooms might begin to overflow. And still, you kept them all.

You told yourself it was for courtesy at first. But each time your eyes rested on the riot of colour blooming across your desk, your windowsill, your bedside, something in your chest turned warm and disobedient. As if love—quiet, and unnamed—had found its way into the gaps he’d left behind.

And the Phantom? She had made sure—whoever she was—that the entire ton was made aware of what was going on. Today's issue read: It would appear that the Duke of Six Eyes, most eligible and most incorrigible, has taken to the art of floristry with startling devotion. Daily deliveries, never once delayed, have been seen arriving at a certain young lady’s doorstep with a consistency that would put even the Royal Mail to shame. Musk roses, hibiscus, irises, daffodils—each bouquet more extravagant than the last. And though His Grace has not been seen in London all week, one might argue he’s made his presence known in the most fragrant way possible. One wonders: is it affection, obligation… or something far more performative?

Tonight is Shoko’s masquerade ball.

The city has been humming about it for days—its guest list a battleground of status, its gowns measured in silks and sequins, its secrets poised to bloom in candlelit corners. And though the evening promised anonymity, it was the kind fashioned only by masks—fragile, feathered, and far too beautiful to truly conceal anything at all.

Satoru was meant to return tonight. Whether he would actually arrive remained to be seen, but of one thing you were certain: the Duke did enjoy an entrance. He adored pageantry, the hush that fell over a room when he walked in, the way people tilted their heads to get a better look. He liked spectacle. He lived for it.

You had, perhaps to your own surprise, learned to stomach that kind of attention too. There was something oddly thrilling about it—about being watched, speculated upon, whispered about behind lace-gloved hands. But the masquerade was different. It was not simply about being seen. It was about being misseen. Unseen. A room full of people pretending not to know who they were, while revealing more of themselves than ever before.

And yet, of all those attending, Gojo Satoru could never disappear into such a crowd. With those silver lashes, that startling constellation of blue behind his mask—he would always be recognized. He was, in every sense, unmistakable.

You, however, were not.

And that, somehow, sat ill with you.

But you were never the sort of person to completely retreat into shadows simply because the sun chose to shine elsewhere. No—whatever else the world thought of you, you would not be eclipsed. Not tonight.

Your gaze drifts to the corner of your writing desk, where the gold cravat pin sat like a quiet talisman. It had arrived with him and remained long after he'd gone, left behind in the hush between touches and secrets. It is absurd, truly, how something so small could possess such a commanding presence. Even now, it glints faintly in the slant of late afternoon light, as if in silent challenge, as if daring you to pretend he hadn't happened at all.

You reach for your quill instead.

The scent of ink had become something of a second perfume to you—less roses and daffodils and irises, more candle wax and steel. You had written more in the past week than you had in the fortnight before, your thoughts unspooling like silk from a spindle.

You bend your head lower, brows furrowing in concentration as your quill moves over the parchment. You barely look up until the floorboards creaked, light and practiced, and the scent of your mother’s rosewater perfume announce her before her voice does.

You flip the page over in one fluid motion, a subtle twitch of your wrist honed from too many close calls. The parchment looked innocuous now—blank, untouched. Being clever, as you had learned, was not always loud. Sometimes it was quiet and elegant, like a breath held too long.

She stands in the doorway, her head tilted, one brow arching in mild curiosity. "You must begin getting ready, darling. Agatha will require considerable time tonight. As you know, masquerades demand more… grandeur."

She does not say it, but you could hear what she meant: tonight would be unlike the other nights. The ball would be a tempest of satin and secrets, of glittering masks and veiled intentions. Everyone would be watching everyone else—and yet no one would be truly seen.

You smile faintly and nod. It is a demure expression. Practiced. The kind of smile they loved to write about in columns—the beauty who never said too much, who always wore pretty colors, who'll become a duchess.

They knew so very little.

Your mother lingers for another moment, studying you with eyes that have seen too much of the world to ever be fully deceived. But then she turned, her silks whispering behind her like waves pulling back from shore, and left you once more to your silence.

You let the blank parchment sit there a moment longer. Then, slowly, you flip it back over.

Once you’ve finished the final strokes of your entry, you rise from the chair with a slow breath. “I’ll be ready in a moment, Agatha,” you say, voice smooth but distant. “I just need to wash my hands. I've got ink on them.”

The washstand stands discreetly in the corner, a porcelain basin nestled atop polished wood, flanked by folded linen and a jug of rosewater. You rinse your hands quietly, the chilled water biting at your fingers, grounding you. The sky outside will soon darken. The hush of anticipation coils beneath your ribs because of it, like a ribbon waiting to be pulled.

When Agatha returns to you, her fingers are brisk, the fabric of your gown whispering as she moves with measured grace. Her touch is calloused but reverent, as if dressing you were a kind of ceremony. “Stand still now, m’lady,” she instructs, voice steady but softened with pride. “This silk wasn’t made for fidgeting.”

Your gown—dusky ivory, heavy with grace—settles over your frame like a second skin. The bodice, boned and very flattering, is embroidered with gold thread and fine blue vines. Tiny beads are sewn like dew along the seams, glimmering faintly in the lamplight. At your shoulder sits a bow, understated but elegant, anchored by a brooch the size of a coin.

The train flows behind you in a spill of silk, light as mist and twice as elegant. In your gloved hand, Agatha places a fan of marigold-dyed plume and satin, aged like pressed flowers between the pages of time. But it is the mask that draws the room still.

She holds it delicately, almost full of wonder—a confection of ivory lace, gold and blue filigree, with fine feathering. “Lift your chin,” she murmurs. The satin ribbons are tied carefully at the back of your head, disappearing into the sculpted tumble of curls she’s pinned with expert care.

When you meet your reflection, you hardly recognize her—the woman in the mirror. Her gaze is yours, yes, but shadowed by lace, her mouth painted with precision, her figure full of riddles. A vision. A story waiting to be told.

Agatha hums faintly. “Tonight, you’re not merely a viscount’s daughter.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Tonight, you are mystery.”

There’s a quiet in the room, as though something is about to shift.

“Agatha?” you say softly, your gaze drifting toward the desk. “There’s a pin. On the desk. Would you place it… somewhere? My dress, or perhaps, my hair?”

She moves toward it without a word, the rustle of skirts the only sound between you. And then she stops.

The cravat pin gleams in the waning light, the gold glint unmistakable. She stays still a beat too long, her eyes resting on it, reading it as one might read a secret. You wonder, briefly, whether she understands. Whether she realizes that the Duke's pin has sat there for days, nestled among your journals, overlooked by everyone but you.

When she returns, she says nothing. But her eyes linger a moment too long at your temple as she pins it into place.

“Be careful, m’lady,” Agatha murmurs, letting a final curl fall into place with the lightest touch. Her voice held that same hushed reverence it always did when she looked at you like this—not as the girl she laced into stays and slippers, but as something rarer. “You look beautiful. As always.”

You gave her a small smile, but it barely reached your eyes. The mask covered most of your face now anyway.

Your descent from the staircase was measured, the fabric of your gown whispering against each step, your gloved hand ghosting along the rail. Outside, the carriage gleamed under lamplight, and your parents were already seated within, their expressions unreadable. You climbed in without a word. The door shut behind you with a definitive click. The carriage jolted forward.

And silence pressed in like silk drawn too tight. Your father sat across from you, his eyes finding yours in the half-dark. You felt the weight of them—curious, expectant, perhaps even repentant—but you did not lift your gaze. He was waiting for a sign, a word, even the softest acknowledgment. You gave him none.

You had decided, weeks ago, that he would not be granted the luxury of your voice. Not yet.

The ride is quiet save for the polite, practiced exchanges between your parents—about the weather, the guest list, Lord Zenin’s latest indiscretion. You stare out of the window, watching as countryside gave way to torchlight and splendor.

And then, you arrive.

Shoko’s estate, Greymoor, rises before you like a dream veiled in gold. You’ve been here more times than you can count—weekly teas with her and Utahime in the east parlour, that one summer you swam in the pond just beyond the gardens and pretended not to hear the scandalized screams of the maids. And yet, tonight, it feels wholly unfamiliar. Bewitched.

The first sign of it—of what the evening is becoming—is the lanterns. Hundreds of them. Hung from wrought iron posts, threaded through the trees like constellations come to earth. The drive shimmers in their golden light, dappled and warm, with long shadows stretching across the gravel path as though the night itself has fingers.

The manor reveals itself slowly, its limestone façade glowing with the light of dozens of sconces and beeswax candles. Garlands of white roses and ivy twist around the banisters and columns, breathing scent into the air—green and wild and just on the edge of decay. Guests glide toward the entrance like ghosts in silk and tulle, their faces hidden behind elaborate masks—plumes, beads, velvet, and glittering glass.

At the doors, masked attendants offer feathered fans or tiny velvet pouches filled with confetti, tied with ribbon and meant, perhaps, to be thrown at the height of the music—or at the height of scandal. Music, live and lilting, spills from within: the soft ache of violins, the steady hum of cello, the seduction of a flute weaving through it all. The scent of bergamot, beeswax, and blooming orange trees clings to the night like perfume.

You step forward, your heels clicking against the stone.

And for a moment—for the briefest, most decadent moment—you are not yourself. Not a daughter. Not a silent fixture in your father’s ambitions. You are something else entirely. A whisper in the crowd. A woman in silk and shadow. A mystery, poised to be unravelled.

The ton is already here, of course. The entire glittering menagerie of them—masked, perfumed, gloved, and grinning. The lords and ladies who pretend not to recognize each other even as they scheme, flirt, and perhaps even betray. There will be gossip. There always is. But tonight… tonight feels different.

It doesn’t take you long to notice him.

He stands near the corner of the ballroom, framed in golden light, laughing about something with Geto Suguru. His posture is easy, careless, like he owns the room and has only decided to amuse himself with it tonight. And perhaps he does.

Because that’s the thing about Gojo Satoru—he is impossible to overlook. The silver-white of his hair gleams like frost under the chandeliers. His eyes, when they flick toward you, are the colour of ancient ice and distant oceans, the sort of blue that makes astronomers go quiet. It’s as if he carries entire constellations behind his irises. You are not sure how he sees you through the mask. But he does.

He always does.

His smile widens when your eyes meet, slow and feline, all amusement and sharpened teeth. You see the glint of his canines. You feel it in your knees.

You begin to move before you’ve even decided to.

The crowd parts around you like silk being drawn aside. Gossamer dresses and cologne-thick gentlemen vanish into a blur. Someone calls your name—your mother, by the tone—but you don’t look back. You keep walking. So does he.

The distance between you shrinks like something inevitable.

When you reach him, he tilts his head. “No blue?” he murmurs, feigning disappointment, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “And here I was hoping you’d try to woo me again.”

Your spine straightens at once. “I have done no such thing,” you say crisply, praying your voice does not tremble. “You’re the one who sent flowers every day for a week. You’ve practically declared to the entire ton that we are to be wed.”

He chuckles, low and far too pleased. “The ton has known for weeks. Ever since that dreadful gossip column named us the pair to watch.” His gaze flickers over your face, deliberately slow, stopping somewhere near your lips. “Everyone knows I am yours. And that you are mine.”

You blink.

The words land somewhere beneath your ribs. Not quite romantic. Not quite unserious. Not love, not yet—but something far more dangerous. Something that wears the shape of affection but hides its teeth.

You want to say something clever. Something that makes him smile again. But all you can do is stand there, beautiful and blinking, while the music swells behind you.

“Dance?” he asks, head tilting with that familiar, infuriating charm. You nod, already reaching for your dance card when he steps forward—and takes your wrist in his hand.

Your breath catches. The contact is brief, featherlight even, but it’s enough. Enough to send your heart thudding in your chest. Enough to toe the line of scandal. Because no self-respecting lady of the ton allows a gentleman to touch her like this unless they are engaged—properly engaged. And even then, never so brazenly. Not in public.

Which, in hindsight, you are. But the ton still whispers.

“Leave the formalities behind, darling,” he murmurs, gaze sweeping over your masked face. “Really. There’s no other man here who’d dare ask you.”

You blink at him, your voice momentarily lost. But then you clear your throat, soft and composed, and place your hand in his. “Just one. For now. I don’t want to cause a scene.”

“A scene?” he echoes, brow arched as he leads you into the figures of the minuet, your steps mirroring the others’. “You're playing safe?”

“It’s not playing safe,” you reply, voice low. “It’s avoiding scandal. Avoiding the ton calling me names wrapped in sugar.”

He chuckles. “Ah. Of course. You love caring what all these idiots think.”

You narrow your eyes at him as you glide through the turn. “You can’t possibly say you don’t care at all. You must care about something.”

“The ton thinks I’m a rake,” he says smoothly. “They think I drink myself into ruin and haunt all the… let’s say, less reputable establishments of London. They only tolerate me because of my name. My charm. My wealth.”

He turns you elegantly beneath his arm. You arch a brow. “Less reputable establishments?”

“Unladylike places,” he confirms, voice utterly casual.

You frown as the two of you cross paths again. “What do you mean unladylike?”

“I told you,” he says, smiling lazily. “Improper conversation for a lady of your standing. You’d be scandalized.”

Your steps falter for half a second—but only just. You recover quickly, offering him a withering look beneath your mask as the final notes of the minuet echo in the air.

You drop his hand. “I doubt it. But do enjoy your… unladylike places.”

And you turn, leaving him with a smirk tugging at his lips and far too many eyes watching.

In the corner, you spot Utahime near the refreshments table, and make your way toward her, weaving between the ladies and gentlemen of the ton. The scent of sweet wine and candlewax hangs heavy in the air. On the table are silver trays lined with fruit jellies and sugared rose petals, delicate meringues shaped like swans, and crystal glasses filled with golden ratafia that glows under the chandelier light.

You reach for a meringue and begin exchanging pleasantries with Utahime, your voice soft, your smile loosening. But then, something splinters the air.

“She must think herself so clever. Dancing so boldly with the Duke. That mask can’t hide everything, after all.”

The words drift from somewhere just beyond the curtain of chatter. You freeze, fingers still brushing the edge of your glass. Utahime stiffens beside you, her eyes narrowing as she turns ever so slightly toward the voices.

“I’d bet my father’s stables back in the countryside that whatever the Phantom wrote about them is true.”

You can feel it: the flush rising to your cheeks, the thrum of your pulse tapping out a rhythm in your throat. You don't turn to look at them—you won’t give them the satisfaction—but the words wedge themselves into your ribs, unyieldingly sharp.

Utahime’s hands are clenched now, her fingers trembling slightly around the stem of her glass. She’s seconds from saying something—you know her well enough to recognize the tell—but you reach out, catching her hand gently, anchoring her.

“Just let me say something,” she whispers through her teeth.

You shake your head, soft but firm. “No. It’s alright.”

“It is not—”

“‘Hime, really,” you murmur, forcing your voice steady. “I don’t even know who they are. I haven’t even bothered to look.”

But it’s a lie. Not the part about not looking—no, that’s true—but the part where you pretend it doesn’t matter. You’ve already started to hear the words echo in your skull like the toll of a distant bell.

Besides, you add, swallowing tightly, “Whatever they’re saying… it’s mostly true. It doesn’t affect me.”

She looks at you like she doesn’t believe you—and she shouldn't—but before she can argue, a gentleman approaches and bows politely. Utahime throws one last lingering glance over her shoulder as she’s led to the dance floor for a minuet. And just like that, you’re alone.

Alone, and the words catch up to you.

You try to sip your ratafia, but the sweetness sticks in your throat. Your gaze roams over the glittering crowd, looking for something—anything—to focus on, but nothing helps. Your thoughts have already turned inward, cruelly fast.

The flowers Gojo had sent—had he meant them? Or had it all been part of the same careless charm he wears like a second skin?

Where was any of this going? What were you doing? What was he doing? You grip the edge of the table to ground yourself, but it doesn’t help. You need air.

You glance around once, then again. No one is looking at you. The music swells and dancers twirl, too consumed with their own steps to notice you slipping away.

You walk. Past the columns and into the corridor, your shoes muffled against the carpet. Your mind is loud enough for both.

You know this house. You know there’s a balcony just up the stairs and to the right, the one overlooking the Marchioness’ rose garden. You’ve stood there with Shoko and Utahime before, whispering secrets into the flowery air. Tonight, though, you don’t want company.

You climb. One step, then another. Your hands tremble as they brush the banister. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a warning. You glance behind you, half-expecting a maid or a chaperone to call out—but no one comes.

At the top of the stairs, you see it—the small door to the balcony. You unlatch it, heart thudding, and step outside.

Cold air hits your skin like absolution.

You exhale, a sound that trembles more than you’d like. For the first time in what feels like hours, you breathe freely. The stars blink overhead, silent witnesses. Below, the roses are bathed in silver moonlight.

And still, you can hear the voices in your mind, cruel and glittering like broken glass.

You grip the railing, trying not to let it show—how badly it hurt, how much it still does.

Sure, you were betrothed to Gojo. That was the simple part. That was the easy, socially palatable narrative: two names inked together, a man offering his hand, a girl accepting it. He had done what was expected—presented himself as a gentleman, sent flowers, held doors open, looked at you like you mattered. And maybe, for a time, you'd believed it. Maybe you’d even tried to believe it harder than you should have. His cravat pin is still in your hair, and yet it feels heavier now than any ornament has a right to be, like a weight holding your head to the past.

You exhale. Or try to. The breath doesn’t quite come. It catches somewhere in your throat, turning brittle, sharp, as if the air has collapsed into shards of glass and is slicing its way down. The night air doesn’t help. It’s colder out here than you remembered. Your chest constricts, a visceral tightness, and for a moment it feels as though someone has reached down into your ribcage and is slowly, steadily pulling you apart.

You press your palm to the balcony railing. The iron is damp with dew, slick beneath your skin. You stare out into the garden but you can’t see anything, really. The roses blur together, a smear of gray in the darkness. You blink against the sting in your eyes. Useless. You are, perhaps, on the verge of crying, though you wouldn’t call it that—not exactly. It’s quieter, more private, a mourning for something that never had a name.

You were to be married by the end of the season. That, too, was a fact. Your father had signed you away with the calm certainty of a man arranging a chessboard, as though you were just another piece to position in the pursuit of legacy. And now here you were: promised, claimed, still standing alone in the dark with questions that had no shape, only weight. Almost half the season had already slipped by in a blur of silk gowns and empty laughter and unreadable glances across candlelit rooms. You had come to know Gojo—or something like him—but the more you understood, the less solid it all seemed. Absurd. Stagnant. Like treading water in a glass ballroom.

And then, “Are you alright?”

You flinch. Truly flinch. Your whole body contracts as if struck. You hadn’t heard footsteps. You hadn’t expected him.

He is there. He is already beside you. Gojo. The Duke. Satoru. In moonlight, he looks unreal, less a man than the idea of one. He steps forward without hesitation and cups your face in his hands, tilting your chin up so you’re forced to meet his eyes.

His palms are warm, but he winces as soon as he touches you. “You’re cold,” he says, softly, more accusation than observation.

“N-no,” you lie. Your voice fractures on the first syllable. “I am alright.”

He tilts his head, almost pityingly. “Darling,” he says, and the word sounds too intimate, too practiced. “Who do you think you’re lying to?”

His thumb traces just beneath your eye. “Your lashes are wet,” he says. “You’ve been crying. You’re struggling to breathe.”

You say nothing. You look away. You try to turn, but he doesn’t let you.

“Please,” you whisper. “Leave me be.”

His hand shifts, not gripping but anchoring. “And what would I gain from doing that?” His voice is lower now, tight, like he’s trying to rein something in. “You think I came out here just to watch you unravel from a distance?”

You say nothing again. Because part of you did want to be seen. And the other part—larger, quieter—didn’t. Didn’t want him to see you like this. Red-eyed and aching and unsure of where she begins and the arrangement ends.

“I don’t want to speak of this to you,” you say. Your voice wavers, thin and frayed, as if it’s being pulled through a narrow throat. “I can’t speak of this to you.”

There’s a silence. Not stunned, not yet. Just momentary confusion. Then he inhales, sharply, audibly.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” he asks. His voice has an edge to it now. Not anger, not even indignation, but something coarser. More human.

“I am your intended,” he says, as though this alone should undo your fear. As though this name—intended—means safety, or intimacy, or understanding. “If there is anyone you can tell anything to, it is I.”

You shake your head once, slowly. It’s not a rejection, not entirely. It’s grief. It’s weariness. “I cannot,” you repeat, quieter this time. “I cannot possibly wrap my head around this arrangement of ours.”

Something flickers across his face—hesitation, incomprehension. He falters, just for a second, as though your words are a foreign tongue he’s suddenly forgotten how to speak. You watch him blink, mouth parted, eyes too sharp for the softness you need right now.

“What do you mean?” he whispers, and it’s so gentle you almost mistake it for tenderness. But no, it is need. It is demand, cloaked in stillness.

You breathe in through your nose, and it does nothing to steady you. Your lungs feel small, crumpled, like there isn’t enough space inside you for all the things you want to say but don’t know how to phrase.

“I mean,” You stop, start again. “I mean I am to be yours someday, and yet I hear the whispers. From the ton. The women. The men. The ones who smile too sweetly and speak too loud. They bother me. They didn’t, not at first. I thought I could ignore them. I even felt good about it. But now—”

You stop again. Your hand trembles against the fabric of your dress. “Now they follow me. They echo. And I hate that they get to decide what this is when I don’t even know.”

He doesn’t speak. You continue, not because he urges you to, but because the words are spilling now, unstoppable.

“I don’t know what you and I are doing,” you say, the confession unraveling between your teeth. “You sent me flowers that meant things. You write the most beautiful, absurdly romantic things in your letters. You tell me about your estate and your travels and the time you were almost caught in a storm in Vienna and how the horses wouldn’t settle until you spoke to them. You—”

Your voice shakes again. “You speak to me like I matter. But we’ve only ever existed together in the controlled light of ballrooms. We’ve had one walk. One. You hold my hand when no one sees it and kiss it when everyone does.”

Your voice lowers, threads thinner. “And sometimes, I think you care for me. But then I wonder if you care for me in private, or if you simply perform well in public.”

That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? That you no longer know which version of him is real. The man who looks at you as if you are worth something more than what you’ve been bartered for—or the one who stands beside you in every ballroom, polished, smiling, untouchable.

You look at him now, and his expression is unreadable. His hands have fallen away from your face. His mouth is tight. His eyes do not waver from yours, and yet they do not reach you either. Not yet.

“Say something,” you whisper. Your voice is quieter than you intend it to be—threadbare, cracking just at the edge. It barely makes it past your lips.

He licks his bottom lip, almost absently, as if he's buying himself a second he doesn’t need. His eyes stay on you. Unmoving. Unflinching. And then he steps forward, and the world tips.

He is too close. The heat of him—his body, his breath, his scent—folds over you like a second skin. Your chest grazes his, and even through layers of silk and wool and stays and satin, you feel it: that subtle, invisible friction of skin craving skin. One of his hands moves to your waist, settling there without question. The other rises, past your shoulder, your jaw, until it finds your temple.

You flinch when his fingers reach the ribbon at the side of your mask. He pulls. Not harshly, not roughly, but with the kind of assuredness that leaves no room for refusal. The silk comes undone, the mask slides from your face and falls. You don’t look at him. You watch the mask land near the edge of your skirt, pale and gleaming like something defeated.

“You’ve had your turn,” he says, low and certain.

He raises his other hand, and without ceremony, yanks off his own mask. He lets it fall, too. He doesn’t even glance at it. It lands beside yours, two halves of a secret now exposed.

“Now it’s mine.”

You blink up at him, swallowing hard. You try to step back—because that is what you are meant to do. Because you are still a woman of the ton, still a daughter, betrothed to him. Still, all the things that require distance and decorum. But he moves with you. He closes the space again. Your back brushes the cold marble balustrade of the balcony and there is nowhere left to go.

“What are you doing?” Your voice hitches, your breath catching against the air between your mouths. “We can’t be seen like this. If anyone—”

“No one is around,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, soft but certain. “I assure you.”

You want to say something else. You don’t. You can’t. Because now his hand is on your cheek, steadying you, and everything you’ve known of propriety and performance begins to fray at the seams.

“Say my name,” he murmurs, and it’s so soft, so unbearably soft, that for a moment, you pretend you didn’t hear it. As though silence will dissolve it. But he says it again, thumb tracing the fragile line of your jaw, as if he could etch the sound into your skin by touch alone.

You freeze.

He’s looking at you in that way he sometimes does. Like you are the only fixed thing in the room, like everything else is dissolving into fog and static except for the breath that leaves your lungs and the weight of your name in his mouth.

“G-Gojo,” you manage, and it slips out like a confession. Unsteady. Uncertain. The syllables awkward and formal on your tongue, like a glove worn inside out.

He lets out a low laugh—gentle, but not mocking. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

His hand stays at your jaw. Still moving, barely. Just enough that you feel the pad of his thumb stroking over your pulse, coaxing rather than restraining. Your instinct is to shake your head, and you do. A soft, futile gesture of denial that even you don’t believe. Because you’re still standing here. Still letting him touch you. Still breathing in the sharp, expensive scent of him like it’s something you need to stay upright.

He leans in closer than before. It makes your heart claw its way up your ribs. You can hear it, stupidly loud, like it wants out.

His forehead almost brushes yours. His breath, ratafia and mint-laced, ghosts over your skin. And you hate that it affects you so wholly. That it turns your spine to water. That it makes your knees consider giving in.

“Call me by my name, sweetheart,” he says again, quieter this time. That voice. Low, silken, exact. Not a demand. A request dressed in velvet. One that leaves no space for refusal.

You blink up at him—once, twice—long, deliberate lashes like shutters trying to close over something you don’t want to see. You wish the weight of your gaze could communicate everything you can’t say aloud. That it could beg him to stop without the indignity of a verbal plea.

But he does not stop. He watches you with that unbearable patience. That silent certainty.

“Satoru,” you whisper, the name pliant on your tongue. You barely recognize your own voice. It is reverent. Intimate. It tastes like a secret that belongs.

He exhales, visibly, and you see it—how the sound of his name in your mouth does something to him. His jaw flexes just slightly. His fingers tighten at your waist. He looks at you like he wants to ruin something delicate.

“You're only saying because if I forced you,” he says, after a pause. “Is that how it’s going to be, then?”

You blink, startled. “Excuse me?” Your voice pitches, halfway afront. “That’s rich, coming from you. When I had to ask you to send me flowers—”

But he kisses you before you finish.

There is no warning. No breath between words. Just the abrupt, dizzying heat of his mouth on yours. Firm and consuming and wholly unapologetic. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise and a challenge. One that makes your breath stutter in your chest and your body lean into him before you even realize you’ve moved.

It swallows whatever protest you were about to make.

Because suddenly, words are useless.

There is only him. And the feel of his lips pressing against yours like he has wanted to do it for months. Like he deserves to do it. Like you have already said yes.

The next morning is unremarkable. Pale light filters through the gauzy curtains and the air is thick with the perfume of yesterday’s roses, already starting to curl at the edges. You’re seated in the parlor, spine curved delicately over the book in your lap, the weight of the morning sun pressing down against your shoulder. There’s a fire lit, but it’s more for routine than warmth. The room smells faintly of cinders and lavender water, and the house is, for once, still.

You are trying to read. Or pretend to. Your thumb rests against a paragraph you haven’t comprehended. Your mind drifts, unwilling to be anchored. Last night plays over in your head like a quiet theatre performance, played in reverse and in candlelight.

After the kiss, you had stayed there with him. The two of you alone on the balcony, the cold night lapping at your skin through silk and velvet, but you hadn’t minded. Neither of you had spoken for a while; there was something sacred in the silence. Then, slowly, he had begun to talk. His voice hushed but rich with warmth, like a confession kept safe just for you. He had spoken of his brother—Megumi—with rare fondness, describing a boy who sounded infinitely solemn and a little peculiar, who had learned to swordfight before he could write his name, and who kept a handkerchief folded perfectly even when there were ink-stains on his fingers.

You had laughed softly, and told him of Yuji—your brother, still all elbows and mischief. You had said, quietly, that Yuji would adore Megumi. That they’d probably drive everyone mad together.

It was absurd, really, how tender the night had been. It felt like a portrait of another life. One you one day will inhabit, though you cannot imagine what it would take to get there. And still, it had taken that kiss—his hand at your waist, your mouth pulled into his, the barely-there drag of his teeth against your lower lip—to remind you that this was no mere flirtation. That you would marry him. That eventually, you would become the Duchess. And last night had felt like the beginning of something. As if, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so terrible to belong to someone.

Then comes the sound of rapid footsteps, heels against polished floor. And the door slams open.

Your mother enters as though dragged by a hurricane, the breath stolen from her body. Her hair, normally sculpted into perfect coils, has broken free from its usual form: strands hanging limp against her cheeks, frizzing at the temples, the neatness of her person unraveling at the seams. Her lips are parted, trembling faintly as though she’s run across the lawn barefoot.

“Are you all right?” you ask, startled, rising from your seat. Your book slips off your lap and lands with a gentle thud against the rug.

She doesn’t answer you. Instead, she brandishes a sheet of newsprint as though it were a sword.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demands, her voice shaking. She stands directly in front of you, holding out the paper like a piece of damning evidence in a courtroom.

Your heart has begun to thrum. You frown, your fingers reaching out, and take it carefully from her grip.

The Veiled Quill.

This morning’s edition. Still smelling of ink and gossip. The front page is creased where she has clutched it, and you smooth it with nervous hands.

“What’s happened?” you murmur, but you already know. You feel the foreboding crawl in your stomach before your eyes finish reading the words.

Someone saw.

Someone had seen you go up the stairs last night. Someone had lingered long enough to watch you disappear into the balcony wing. Someone had noted the Duke—your Duke—following not long after. And someone, of course, had written it all down.

The implication is clear. That the two of you were alone, unchaperoned. That your reputation, still so fragile, is now hanging by a thread knotted by candlelight and breathless silence.

Your name is in print. His name is, too.

Your mother exhales sharply, as if she’s been holding her breath for hours. “Half the ton has read it already,” she hisses. “And the other half is whispering.”

You stare at the paper. The words blur slightly, though not from tears. From dread. From the creeping realization that something small—intimate, lovely—has now become public domain.

Everything divine about last night now feels vulgar under scrutiny. And the worst part is: it is still true. You did want him. You still do. You are still his, and he is yours. But somehow, it feels horrible.

The entire ton thinks you're a woman without honor.

Present, near Earl Geto's Residence.

The carriage rocks gently on its iron wheels, the sound of hooves rhythmically sharp against the early morning street. The sky outside is still fog-colored, like London always is, but inside the carriage, the tension is immediate—palpable, as if the walls themselves are waiting to collapse. Suguru climbs in with none of his usual grace. He is taut, mouth set in a grim line, knuckles white around a crumpled sheet of parchment.

“You can’t be serious,” he says, his voice low, roughened by restraint. Not a greeting. A condemnation. He doesn’t look at Satoru as he says it, just throws himself onto the opposite seat and shoves the gossip column in his friend’s direction with a force that makes the paper flutter like a wounded bird.

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sits back, eyes hidden behind the silver-rimmed spectacles he’s only recently started wearing, fiddling absently with the hem of his cuff. He has the air of someone trying desperately to appear composed. “What do you mean?” he asks, finally, almost innocently. But the damage is already in the air.

Suguru snaps the paper open with a tremor in his hands. He flips it toward him, finger jabbing a passage near the headline, the printed words smeared slightly from where his grip has bruised the ink. His lips twitch. He doesn’t yell, not quite. But his voice is strained, fraying. “What did you do?” he hisses. “How could you be so utterly stupid?”

Satoru squints at the print, then—absently, childishly—reaches for it, tugging the paper into his lap and bringing it close to his face. His fingers tremble ever so slightly as he reads. His silence is sudden, awful. A pause that says everything.

“I—I didn’t know someone saw us—” he begins, and it’s worse that he sounds surprised. That he sounds genuinely caught off guard.

Suguru makes a sharp sound—part disgust, part disbelief—and sits back, dragging a hand down his face like it physically pains him to keep talking.

“You said you were courting her, Satoru,” he says. The word is spit out, hollow and bitter. “That’s what this was supposed to be. A performance. You know, flowers. Letters. Public outings. The idea of affection without any of the reality. Nothing... nothing unchaperoned. Nothing that could damage her standing.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. His throat works around something unsaid. “She was upset,” he says, quietly. “Panicked. I followed her to calm her down. That’s all.”

“You were alone with her. God knows what else you did. You probably kissed her too,” Suguru bites.

It is not a question. It’s a weapon.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yes,” Satoru admits, and there’s something dangerous in how still he becomes. “We kissed.”

Suguru leans forward, hands braced against his knees, as if the rage needs physical anchoring. “You haven’t even asked for her hand yet,” he says, and now his voice cracks, subtle but sharp. “There may be an agreement, but that’s all it is for now—an arrangement. She isn’t your wife. She isn’t even your fiancée.”

Satoru opens his mouth, but Suguru keeps going, faster now, harder. “Do you even realize what this means? The entire ton is reading this column. They saw. They know. You were alone with her. No chaperone. No witnesses. That kind of thing destroys girls like her, Satoru. Women don’t have the kind of armor we were born into.”

He gestures to the crumpled newspaper. “Her name is now synonymous with scandal, and we both know she won’t be able to walk into a room without whispers trailing behind her like a veil. She’ll be branded. And for what? For you? For a kiss?”

Satoru’s nostrils flare. He crumples the paper further in his fist until the print disappears beneath the creases. “It wasn’t just a kiss,” he says, and now his voice is loud, defensive, wounded. “And I’m not marrying her for my own benefit.”

Suguru stares. It’s a long, cool look. “Then who? Her father?” His voice is clinical now, like a physician cutting a wound open to see if it festers. “Because I know what you did, Satoru. I know you spoke to the Ministry. I know you convinced the Crown not to retire him early. That was the deal, wasn’t it? You get the girl and your inheritance. He keeps his title. Everyone wins.”

“It’s not that,” Satoru says. This time, there’s no heat—only weariness. “It’s not like that.”

But Suguru’s already watching him with a different expression. One that is quieter, sharper. One that hurts.

“Don't tell me you're starting to like her,” he says, softly.

Satoru doesn’t answer.

He straightens in his seat, stiffening in the expensive fabric of his coat. His lips press into a line, and his gaze flicks toward the window, away from Suguru. Away from the pain. The city slips by slowly—stone buildings, gas lamps still lit, an old woman sweeping the front of a bakery. The paper in his hand droops, forgotten now, ink staining his palm.

He cannot say it aloud.

Because it would make it real. Because it would mean surrendering—finally—to something larger than the contract. Larger than legacy, or family, or profit.

He does like you.

And he doesn’t know how to undo that.

THE VEILED QUILL Volume II, Issue VIII Masquerade of Masks, Moonlight… and Mistakes

Dearest gentle readers,

It was a night of gleam and grandeur at the Marquess Ieiri’s masquerade ball—where silk whispered across marble, champagne flowed like secrets, and anonymity cloaked even the most polished of reputations. But as every seasoned guest knows, masks may hide a face, but never intent.

The night’s most divine spectacle? The breath-taking minuet shared between His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, Gojo Satoru, and his ever-graceful intended. Their performance was less a dance and more a declaration: of beauty, of power, of something else we couldn't see. Eyes followed them. Mouths whispered. And still, none could look away.

Yet not every lady glided so gracefully. Poor Lady Utahime (yes, that one) suffered a most theatrical stumble mid-reel—though it did result in the conveniently timed intervention of a certain eligible lord. Rumor has it she’s begun monogramming her handkerchiefs with his initials already. Ah, to fall... and fall fast.

But readers, let us not trip past the true indiscretion of the evening.

While the ballroom twirled in oblivion, a certain young lady—our darling future duchess-to-be—slipped quietly up the stairs, her departure masked only by the glitter of the chandeliers and the hum of a minuet. She thought no one saw her.

She was mistaken.

Because moments later, none other than the Duke of Six Eyes himself abandoned the ballroom and followed her. Straight to the balcony. Alone. Behind closed doors. With no chaperone in sight.

One might say it was a stolen moment under moonlight. Others might call it exactly what it is: a scandal of the highest order.

Whatever the truth, one thing is clear—whispers have already become war cries, and reputations don’t survive moonlight meetings without consequence. Let us hope wedding bells come before the ruin does.

Yours most deliciously, Phantom.

part two.

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cod-bin · 2 months ago

Note

okay babe i saw you were wanting requests and so here’s my shot! pls pls pls ignore it if this makes you uncomfy in any way tho

but hear me out: simon and/or johnny who’s incredibly sensitive during sex. like 5 minutes in at most and she writing away, moaning out “oh no’s” and “i cants” the second it’s more than her clit being rubbed or being fingered, instinctively backing away even though she does want it

basically just squirmy crybaby reader being manhandled

a/n: yesss girl I love this so much! I also went kinda crazy so enjoy lol. also off anon ily. I wrote this with simon cuz I think im better at writing with him because im practically in love with him ☺️

cw: smut, 18+ MDNI sub!reader/dom!simon, crybaby!reader

wc: 2.1k (😳 i did not realize it was this long)

You always come undone too fast.

It’s almost embarrassing, the way your body betrays you the second he even looks at you like that—hooded eyes, half-lidded and hungry, his voice sinking an octave as he murmurs your name like it’s already a promise. And now, on your back, flushed and slick with sweat and tears you don’t even remember starting to cry, you’re not even five minutes in and already—

You’re shaking.

“You’re doin’ it again,” Simon mutters, half against your skin. “Tryin’ to run from me.”

His voice is rough. Gentle, but undeniably teasing, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and he does. He always does. He’s got you pinned, one large palm firm at your hip to keep you in place while the other slips between your legs again, fingers already glistening from the mess he made of you earlier. His touch is lazy, unhurried, but too much all the same. You feel his fingertips drag up and down through your folds like he’s exploring, like he hasn’t memorized you by now.

Your breath catches. Your hips jump involuntarily, thighs trying to snap shut.

“Don’t—” you gasp, not knowing if you mean don’t stop or don’t touch. You want both. Neither. Everything.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mock concern draped in a low groan. “You’re already wrigglin’. Barely touched you and you’re soaked.”

He leans in, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, chest to chest as he nudges his nose against yours. “Still want me to stop?”

You shake your head instantly—panicked, breathless. “No, no—I want you, I do, I just—”

His fingers press into you, slow and deep.

You let out a broken little cry and arch helplessly, the world narrowing to the stretch of his knuckles, the way his hand fills you like it was made for it. Your nails claw into the sheets, or maybe his back—you can’t tell—your whole body trembling like a live wire.

Simon hums low in his throat. “There she is.”

You sob.

Not loud or dramatic—just one of those stuttering, overwhelmed little hiccups that slips out before you can hide it. Your legs twitch against the mattress. The heat in your belly is sharp, unbearable, cresting too fast. You squirm beneath him, trying to ease the pressure even though you don’t want him to stop.

“Simon—oh God—oh no, no, I can’t—” you cry, the words tumbling out between your choked little gasps. “It’s—it’s too much, I can’t—”

But you’re still clenching around his fingers like you’re begging for more.

“You always say that,” he whispers, a little cruel, a lot fond.

His other hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb swiping over your cheekbone where the tears have started to streak. You don’t even know when you started crying. It just happens—whenever he’s like this. Focused. Gentle but relentless. Worshipping your body even as he breaks it down.

“Every time I touch you, you start cryin’,” he says, and there’s something like awe in his voice, like it actually wrecks him. “Like your body doesn’t even know how to take it.”

You try to nod, try to answer, but he crooks his fingers just right and you go liquid, back arching with another desperate sob.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight, Christ.”

His cock is hard and heavy against your hip. You feel it, even now, even through the haze, and the thought of him inside you—not just his fingers but all of him—makes your breath stutter.

“I want you,” you whimper. “I do, I want it, just—just not yet, please, I can’t yet—”

Simon shushes you immediately.

“Hey, hey, I know,” he breathes, brushing your hair back from your damp face. “We’re not rushin’ anything, alright? You just breathe for me.”

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t retreat.

His fingers stay buried inside, moving in slow, controlled strokes, just enough to make your thighs tremble. His thumb finally brushes over your clit—just once—and your hips jerk again, a high-pitched ohfuck slipping from your lips.

Your legs instinctively try to close, to protect the overwhelming heat building between them, but he catches one with a hand under the knee and spreads you again, slow but unyielding.

“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs. “Let me see.”

“Simon—” you whine, nearly delirious.

He just looks at you then. Really looks. Like you’re something holy. Something broken open just for him.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he says. “All flushed and tearin’ up. Can’t even think straight, can you?”

You shake your head helplessly, lip wobbling.

He kisses you, finally, catching your bottom lip with his and biting it just enough to make you whimper. The kiss is messy. Deep. You’re still crying a little, but he swallows every sound you make like it’s something precious.

“Fuckin’ love it when you get like this,” he growls against your mouth. “You act like you’re shy, like you can’t take it—but your cunt tells me otherwise.”

“Simon—!”

You sob his name again, your whole body locked up with the incoming wave that’s barreling toward you. His fingers don’t stop. He keeps fucking you through it—slow, rhythmic, endless—and you’re nearly incoherent now, little gasps and whimpers spilling out with every breath.

And then you snap.

It hits all at once. Your back arches, your thighs quake, and you’re crying out so loudly you don’t even recognize your own voice. Your body writhes beneath him, trying to pull away even as your cunt clamps down like a vice.

“Thaaaat’s it,” Simon growls, pressing his mouth to your temple. “Cry it out, baby. That’s my girl.”

You’re still sobbing, still twitching through it, the aftershocks rattling your bones.

You don’t even realize he’s pulled his fingers out until you feel his hands slide up your body, anchoring your hips, holding you like you’re breakable and precious and his.

“You alright?” he murmurs, voice rough. “You with me?”

You nod, barely.

He kisses you again, slower this time. Mouth soft. Gentle.

And when you whisper, still shaking, “I still want you,” he presses his forehead to yours and groans like it’s killing him not to take you apart all over again.

“Then I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Nice and slow. Gonna take care of you, baby. You just cry for me as much as you need.”

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#☆sonya yaps☆#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #cod x reader #call of duty #simon riley x you #call of duty modern warfare #cod x y/n #simon riley cod #simon riley smut

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astrids-blog333 · 4 months ago

Text

All Eyes on Us

Ex!Lando Norris x Actress!Reader x Aaron Taylor Johnson

Summary: After a public and messy breakup with Lando Norris you attend the Oscars. You are seated next to the charming Aaron Taylor Johnson, fully aware of the paparazzi’s presence, but you no longer care.

Warnings: 16+ SUGGESTIVE content, mild angst with a happy ending, neglect, alcohol consumption, breakup (very public), media scrutiny, language, jealousy, she's an icon.

A/N: I combined two requests for this, one was for Lando where he was basically an idiot, and one was a very generic one for Aaron Taylor Johnson. Lando is basically the bad guy here (sorry Lando ily). Divider by @strangergraphics-archive

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 1.6k

Fame is utterly exhausting. Not the kind that comes with long hours on set or press tours across continents, that kind of fame you’ve mastered by now.

No, it’s the kind that finds its way into your personal life, the kind that controls your life, the kind that makes your relationship feel like a spectacle instead of something real.

You and Lando had been together for nearly three years, give or take. A golden couple, they called you. Hollywood’s sweetheart and Formula 1’s rising star. To the world, it was perfect. Behind closed doors? Maybe not so much.

You tried to tell him and explain how distant he’d become, how everything started feeling like a badly executed PR stunt rather than a real, loving, relationship.

Lando never wanted to hear it.

He’d always just brush it off, tell you that you were overthinking, that he was just very busy, that of course he loved you, but still, he was busy.

When you finally ended things, it wasn’t because of some grand betrayal or explosive fight, there was no cheating or crying. It was just a conversation that turned into an argument, that turned into silence, that turned into the realization that this wasn’t love anymore, it had become a simple habit.

He hadn’t wanted to let go. Maybe you hadn’t either. But you did, you had to.

And of course the world, the press, everyone had plenty to say about it.

The whole situation became a circus. Headlines and articles analysed every piece of your relationship, fans took sides, and social media exploded with ridiculous speculation.

Some called you heartless for leaving him, others accused him of neglecting you. In every interview, and every public appearance, someone asked you about Lando.

Two weeks later, the Oscars came, and of course you were going.

The minute you step onto the red carpet you can feel the cameras eating you alive. You know exactly what they’re looking for, any hint of heartbreak, some sign that you’re still reeling and hurting after Lando.

Well, too bad for them.

As you step into the grand ballroom, scanning the room for your seat, a staff member gestures you in the right direction. Your eyes follow their directions, only to land on none other than Aaron Taylor-Johnson, already seated beside your spot.

“You look like you were expecting someone else,” Aaron muses as you take your seat beside him.

You smirk, turning to face him. “No complaints. Just surprised.”

He leans back, studying you with that easy, knowing gaze. “Better me than, I don’t know, an ex?”

You smirk, “Much better.”

The chemistry is instant and so effortless. He flirts shamelessly, and you don’t stop him. Why would you? It feels good to be seen, to feel properly appreciated for the first time in months.

And when your name is called for Best Actress, Aaron is the first to stand, clapping as if he already knew you’d win.

The walk to the stage is a blur. The speech, too. But when you glance back at your seat and catch Aaron watching you, his chin resting on his hand, that unmistakable glint in his eye, you decide to have a little fun, to adlib, just a little.

“…And finally, to everyone who thought I’d be too distracted by my, admittedly, hectic personal life to focus on my career,” you say, letting the pause hang. “Guess you were wrong.”

The audience erupts in laughter and applause. You struggle to suppress your grin as you return to your seat.

Aaron, waiting for you, shakes his head with a slow clap. “Now, that was a moment.”

But the night isn’t over yet, because you and Aaron are presenting an award together.

When you arrive on stage, Aaron adjusts the mic, glancing at you before addressing the audience. “It’s always a pleasure standing beside such incredible talent.” He pauses, his gaze lingering. “Some of us know how to appreciate a winner.”

The room reacts instantly, people letting out cheers, and murmurs, some people simply laughing.

You shoot him a look, playing along. “And some of us know how to share the spotlight.”

“Or steal it entirely,” he counters, voice dripping with amusement. “Not that I mind.”

“Right." You shoot him a knowing look. "Tonight, we are here to celebrate the best of the best.”

Aaron stills beside you, then suddenly turns his attention back to the audience, mischief in his eyes.

“And of course, we know how important it is to celebrate talent, don’t we?” He glances at you before continuing. “Because, you know, nothing’s worse than when hard work and brilliance go underappreciated.”

Someone in the audience gasps, catching onto the implication. Your lips twitch, but you school your expression into something innocent.

“Oh, absolutely,” you agree, nodding. “It’s almost tragic, really.” You pause, then add, “Though, to be fair, some people just don’t recognize a good thing until it’s already gone.”

A mix of gasps, laughter, and scattered applause fills the room. Aaron bites down on a grin.

“Brutal,” he murmurs, just loud enough for the mic to pick up.

Aaron exhales, shaking his head. “And here I was, thinking I’d be the one causing trouble up here.”

You smirk. “I like to keep you on your toes.”

The moment stretches, cameras flash, capturing every smirk, every glance, every touch that lingers just a second too long. This was definitely going viral.

Finally, Aaron clears his throat, shaking his head as if pulling himself back to reality. “Right. The award.”

“Yes,” you agree, dragging your attention back to the envelope in your hands. “Before we get ourselves in trouble.”

“Bit late for that,” he mutters, winking at the camera.

The audience laughs as you open the envelope, reading out the winner’s name. But as the applause swells around you, Aaron leans in once more, his breath warm against your ear.

“Reckon we just became everyone’s new favourite scandal?”

You glance at him, deliberately brushing your fingers against his. “Oh, absolutely.”

Hours later, you step out of the afterparty, Aaron’s suit jacket draped over your shoulders. The night air is crisp, but his arm is warm beneath your fingers as you hold onto him.

The moment the paparazzi spot you together, flashes explode like fireworks.

You know what they’ll say. What they’ll assume.

But who cares? Let them.

Aaron seems completely unbothered, tilting his head down toward you as you walk toward the waiting car. “We could give them something real to talk about,” he teases.

You smirk. “Oh? And what do you suggest?”

He doesn’t answer. Just tugs you a little closer, manoeuvring his arm to wrap around your waist.

By the time you wake up the next morning, sunlight spilling through unfamiliar windows, your phone is vibrating, nonstop.

Aaron stirs beside you, groaning. “Either someone’s dying, or the internet’s having a meltdown. Your phone has been going off for the past 10 minutes.”

You grab your phone, unlocking it to see headline after headline.

"From Heartbreak to Headlines: Actress Moves On in Style

Fast Love? Ex-Girlfriend of F1 Driver Steals the Spotlight with British Heartthrob

New Power Couple? Fans Obsess Over Their Sizzling On-Stage Banter

Is This the Rebound of the Year? Hollywood’s Newest Rumored Couple Has Everyone Talking"

And they keep coming, you giggle, scrolling through the endless speculation. “Well, they wasted no time.”

Aaron shifts closer, peering at the screen over your shoulder. “Damn. They could’ve at least picked better photos.”

You giggle, resting against him as you read through the absurd theories. But before you can enjoy it too much, your phone rings.

Lando.

The name flashes across the screen, and for a moment, you hesitate.

Aaron notices. “You gonna answer that?”

You inhale, then exhale. “Might as well.”

The second you pick up, Lando’s voice is sharp. “Are you serious?”

You sigh. “Good morning to you too.”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “You and—him? Really?”

Aaron, still beside you, smirks and mouths, Him? pointing at himself dramatically.

You press your lips together, suppressing a laugh. “Lando, why do you care?”

“Because—” He hesitates. “Because it’s been two weeks. And now you’re all over the news, acting like...like none of it meant anything.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please. I was done before we even broke up, and you know it.”

Lando exhales sharply, silent for a moment.

Then, Aaron leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “Want me to take this?” he whispers.

You grin. “Be my guest.”

Before Lando can argue, Aaron takes the phone from your hand. “Alright, mate,” he says smoothly, his voice all lazy amusement. “Let’s not do this, yeah?”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Aaron grinned, completely unbothered. “Not at all. But you know, if you called just to shout at her, I’d suggest finding something better to do with your time. We’re a little busy.” He winks at you.

Your jaw dropped as you smacked his arm, but he just winked at you, entirely enjoying himself.

Lando swore under his breath before hanging up.

Aaron tosses the phone onto the bed, smirking. “Well, that was fun.”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head. “You’re terrible.” He wraps an arm around you.

“Yeah, but you love it.” He grins, "Now, I have a really great idea of what we could be doing instead of thinking about Lando."

"What's that?"

He shifts, suddenly on top of you, running his hands down your sides.

"Well..."

#aaron taylor johnson x reader #angst with a happy ending #aaron taylor johnson #x reader #imagine #lando norris #lando x reader #lando x you #angst #atj x reader #aaron taylor johnson x you #atj #atj fic #aaron taylor johnson smut #actress!reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1

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paucubarsisimp · 1 month ago

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Hiii Idk if you write for kimi or write smau but I was wondering if you could do a poly fic with Kimi and Eli? Basically were reader is a singer and kimi falls in love with her and tells eli but eli tells him that he also likes her and idk you can come up with the rest

lover

pairing: poly!kimi antonelli x reader x eli babickova

summary: in which kimi and eli fall for a singer

warnings: swearing, use of y/n

a/n: i was going to make this longer but i couldn't add any more photos 😭

fc: gracie abrams + lucia ferrato + other girlies on pinterest!

yourusername posted

yourusername au revoir paris! you were magical 🪩🥂✨

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user1 MOTHER IS MOTHERING

user2 BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFEEEE

sabrinacarpenter luv you 💋

yourusername MWAHHH 💋💋 user3 best duo ever

user4 IM STILL SOBBING

user5 I LOVE YOU Y/NNNN

user6 the way she teared up when we started to cheer her name as she was leaving

user7 she's such a sweetheart

user8 goddess 🤩

f1wags posted

f1wags singer, y/n l/n spotted in the paddock today during the monaco gp!

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user1 omg ahh she likes f1 too??

user2 bfr shes probably one of those celebs that pretends to know about f1 when in reality they don't even know what a throttle is 😂😂 user3 thats not true! she's been watching f1 since she was little user4 plus she has a song in the new f1 movie

user5 she looks stunning

user6 did y'all see that she was hanging out with eli??

user7 yesss!!! they looked like they were having sm fun

user8 QUEEEEN

yourusername posted

yourusername met the prettiest girl today! babickovaeli

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babickovaeli i still can't get over the fact that the y/n l/n talked to me!

yourusername omg you're going to make me blush 🤭 we should meet up again soon :) babickovaeli definitely!! user1 haha eli is so real for that

user2 ahhh they're both so pretttyyyy

user3 omg eli i love your dress!!

kimi.antonelli 💕

user4 where is your hoodie from??

yourusername it's from brandname!!

carmenmundt gorgeous girls <33

yourusername ily carmen <33

kimi.antonelli posted

kimi.antonelli what a night! yourusername, babickovaeli

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yourusername it was so fun meeting you kimi!!

kimi.antonelli you too!!

olliebearman mate you're so lucky

kimi.antonelli i knowww i think me and eli almost passed out when she came on user1 😭😭

babickaovaeli she has the voice of an angel 🥹

yourusername aww ty eli <33

user2 HOW WAS IT KIMI? IM DYING TO GO

kimi.antonelli best night of my life. 10/10. would highly recommend.

user3 awww they're so cuteee

user4 y/n looks so happy!!

yourusername posted

yourusername lunch 🍓🍰🤍 kimi.antonelli, babickovaeli

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user1 is she like crashing their date?? 😭😭

user2 that's so weird

alexandrasaintmleux pretty ❤️

yourusername all youuu 🤭 🤭

kimi.antonelli had loads of fun 😘

user3 dafuq...

babickovaeli love you sm pretty <333

yourusername love you moreee bbyyy <333

user4 so prettyyy

user5 love you y/nnn

kimi.antonelli updated their story

caption look who it is yourusername

third person

y/n had fallen asleep halfway through the movie, curled up on the couch like she always did — blanket halfway on, hair in a loose mess, hand reaching out towards them even in her sleep. kimi had been the first to notice she was out cold. he nudged eli gently, then pointed.

“again,” he whispered, smiling a little.

eli looked over from where she was washing up mugs in the kitchen. “she looks so peaceful,” she whispered back.

kimi wandered over and pulled the blanket up over y/n’s legs, careful not to wake her. he stood there for a second too long, just looking.

eli noticed. she dried her hands slowly, her eyes soft.

“you’re so obvious,” she said gently, teasing without any bite.

kimi’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t deny it. he just sat down at the kitchen table and said, “you like her too.”

eli blinked, then walked over and sat beside him. her smile tugged a little crooked. “that obvious, huh?”

kimi didn’t look at her — he was still watching y/n, like something about her sleeping face was keeping him grounded.

“i keep trying not to,” he said. “not because i don’t want to. i do. it’s just… i love you. and this thing with us — it’s real. i didn’t want to mess it up.”

eli was quiet for a moment. then she reached across the table, took his hand.

“kimi,” she said. “i love you too. so much. and i love her.” she laughed a little under her breath. “i think i’ve been in love with her longer than i realized.”

kimi’s eyes flicked over to hers, wide and a little hopeful.

“really?”

she nodded. “yeah. she makes me feel like… like the best version of myself. i didn’t know love could feel that easy.”

kimi’s voice softened. “me too. she just… gets us. both of us.”

they sat there for a few moments, holding hands, hearts too full to speak.

“i think she already knows,” eli said eventually, glancing over at y/n again. “we’re not that subtle.”

kimi smiled, eyes still on y/n. “the way i look at her?”

“the way we look at her,” eli corrected, grinning.

then she stood and tiptoed over, kneeling next to the couch. gently, she brushed y/n’s hair back from her face. kimi came over and crouched beside her, the two of them looking at her like she was the softest thing in the whole world.

eli whispered, “we should probably wait until she’s awake to tell her.”

kimi chuckled quietly. “yeah. i want her to actually hear it when i say i’m in love with her.”

“me too.”

they stayed there, side by side, quietly holding onto each other — and holding space for the girl they both loved. not in halves. not in competition. just more.

messages

kimi <3

y/n will you please please come to canada?

eli 💕

pleaseee y/n

you

okay! i have a little break in between my next concert anyway

kimi

GRAZIEEE BELLAA

mercedesamgf1 posted

mercedesamgf1 p1 for george and first podium for kimi!

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georgerusell63 LET'S GO BABYYY

user1 yesss!! kimi!!

yourusername proud of you kimi ❤️

kimi.antonelli grazie principessa user2 erm okay.... user3 wtf kimi you have a gf user4 i mean can you blame him? it's y/n

user5 insane race!!

user6 yess the lando and oscar thing?? user7 my landoscar heart 💔

olliebearman ❤️

user8 BEARNELLI!!!

second person

the rain was steady outside, tapping quietly on the windows like a soft soundtrack just for you. inside, everything felt warm and slow — the candle flickering on the table, the smell of vanilla hanging in the air, and you curled up on the couch with eli’s hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

eli was leaning against you, her fingers playing with the edge of your blanket, and kimi was sitting on the floor nearby, watching the rain but sneaking glances at you both.

there was something in the way they looked at you — softer than usual, like they were holding something back.

eli finally shifted so she could meet your eyes, voice low and a little shy. “hey, y/n?”

you blinked awake and gave a small smile. “yeah?”

kimi scooted closer to the couch, his hand brushing against yours like he was checking if it was okay to hold on. you didn’t move away.

“we’ve been talking,” kimi said, sounding nervous but steady, “about how we feel. about you.”

eli nodded, biting her lip like she was trying not to grin too much. “it’s kind of scary to say, but we both love you.”

your heart did a weird little flip. you weren’t sure if you were more nervous or happy — maybe both.

kimi reached up and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “i love you, y/n. it’s been this way for a while now.”

eli squeezed your hand, her eyes bright. “me too. i love you so much.”

warmth spread through you, a quiet kind of happiness that made everything feel easier, lighter.

“you don’t have to say anything right now,” eli said softly, leaning in to kiss your temple, “we just wanted you to know.”

kimi kissed your forehead, slow and sure, like he was promising you something that didn’t need words.

your hands moved on their own, tracing their faces — one on kimi’s cheek, the other on eli’s jaw.

“i love you both,” you said, voice barely above a whisper but steady. “more than i ever thought i could.”

eli smiled, that kind of smile that makes you want to laugh and cry all at once, and kissed your cheek softly.

kimi chuckled, leaning in to press a warm kiss just under your jaw.

you melted into them, your fingers weaving through their hair, your heart so full it felt like it might burst.

they wrapped you up in their arms — a messy, perfect hug — and you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

outside, the rain kept falling, soft and steady, like the world was quiet and waiting with you.

yourusername posted

yourusername lover girl era 🍓💖

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sabrinacarpenter so happy for you 🫶

yourusername tysm gorgeous ily <33

babickovaeli ❤️❤️

yourusername 🤭🤭

user1 OMG THATS SO KIMI

user2 AND THAT HAS TO BE ELI TOO

user3 AHHH THROUPLE ALERT??

user4 so pretty <3

user5 happy for you <33

user6 NOOOO MOTHER

user7 ONE CHANCE I BEG

y/nupdates posted

y/nupdates y/n spotted with two different people on what looks to be a date! throuple? 👀

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yourusername posted

yourusername i once believed love would be burning red, but it's golden ❤️❤️ kimi.antonelli babickovaeli

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kimi.antonelli ti amo amore mio

yourusername ti amo di più

babickovaeli i love you both ❤️

yourusername i love you more baby ❤️

user1 I KNEW IT HAHAHAH

user2 OMG I WAS RIGHTTT

user3 OMG THEY'RE SO CUTEEE AHHH

user4 kimi's picture 😭

kimi.antonelli posted

kimi.antonelli le mie ragazze babickovaeli yourusername

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yourusername kimiii ❤️❤️ baby i love you so much

kimi.antonelli i love you too mia principessa

babickovaeli ti amo kimi ❤️❤️

kimi.antonelli ti amo di più

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babickovaeli posted

babickovaeli my pretty girl <333

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yourusername i love you so much gorgeous ❤️❤️

babickovaeli i love you more ❤️❤️

kimi.antonelli i love you both ❤️

babickovaeli we love you so much ❤️❤️

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yourusername posted

yourusername lover is out now! <3

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taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @linnygirl09, @spidybaby, @dessashippr, @freyathehuntress lmk if you want to be added!

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 5 months ago

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begging on my knees, ripping my skin off for shiu kong ANYTHING <3 ily cinna LMAOO

Bullet for my Assassin

Tags: Shiu x fem!Reader, Toji x fem!Reader, mfm, why choose, kidnapping, murder, dead dove, dark romance plot, you're being used for ransom, Toji and Shiu are morally black in this one.

Synopsis: Your dad is a wealthy CEO of Japan, but he hates you because you were born a girl instead of a boy. Toji and Shiu kidnap you and hold you ransom for money. Things ensue???

An: Hiiiii nepo baby, i know you said shiu kong anything. I hope you don’t mind Toji making an appearance. Also, HAPPY (so very late; i'm so sorry.) BIRTHDAY!!! Look, i gotta be honest. I ran out of inspiration for this fic, so I'm posting it, hoping it will revitalize some of that inspiration for a part two. That being said, let me know if I should make a part two.

Being the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Japan was actually a death sentence. Since you didn’t have a dick between your legs, you’re obviously less than in the world of business.

Your dad pressured your mom into giving him children to inherit the company, but he didn’t want children. He wanted men to inherit the company. You were just a lowly girl!! How were you supposed to manage a company? Girls clearly didn’t know anything about finance or business. (can you smell my sarcasm)

Ruthless and cold, your father never showed you nor your mother an ounce of love. In fact, he had tried multiple avenues to try and prove that you weren’t his kid. Unfortunately for both of you, you share 23 of your dad’s chromosomes.

His anger was growing worse towards you as you got older and developed your own personality. Everything you did was wrong in his eyes. Even though the company was specifically suppose to go to his kid, your father had been toying with the idea of selling out just so you couldn’t ruin what he had built.

Not that you cared, you thought about how if you were the CEO, you’d burn the company to the ground just to spite his wishes. You’d love to see him turn over in his grave as he watched his baby burn because of his daughter.

You basically lived alone. Your mother had passed a couple of years ago due to strange circumstances, and your father never bothered to come home. There would be no point to socializing with the likes of you.

Your mother’s early death rocked you to your core. For your entire childhood, she was weary and exhausted. Your father directed his anger on her, and she couldn’t help but subconsciously put the blame on you. If only you were a boy.

She did a good job of not showing her true thoughts. She wasn’t a doting or nurturing, but she was there for you. She never raised a hand to you, never raised her voice with you, never called you mean names. That was all you could ask for whenever your dad was so vile towards you. While she wasn’t close with you, she was still your mom, and she was the closest thing to parental guidance that you had. Her death was the beginning of your lonely existence.

The mansion was like a prison for you. Since your dad was so prominent in social media, you had an image to uphold, and he didn’t want you ruining that image. So, he didn’t even give you the chance to interact with anyone outside of the house. The only way for you to escape his claws was to either get married or die, and getting married was impossible when you weren’t allowed to interact with anyone on the outside.

You preferred being alone. The empty quiet feelings was better than the anxiety you got when your father was home. He’d always start yelling at the waitstaff about something so minuscule. He harbored so much anger that the house practically turned sour when he came home.

What was the saying? If you grow up with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house. The thought of marrying someone like your dad made you want to gouge your eyes out with a butter knife. Being alone was the best option.

Besides, the waitstaff was nice. They cared for you… albeit from a distance, but they cared. It was known that you received the worst of your father’s anger, so they empathized with you.

The house was particularly quiet late one evening. It wasn’t the normal quiet that gave you a sense of peace. It was eerily quiet, giving you a sense of dread. The sounds of hushed talking and dishes clattering was the usual background noise in the house from the waitstaff, but there was nothing right now… as if it truly was just you in the house.

The alarms would’ve went off if someone entered. Not to mention there’s security posted around the perimeter… unless your father was the reason that it was so quiet… Surely, it was just him. Maybe he sent the waitstaff home for the day?

You carefully slipped out of bed, pulling a robe on over your silk pajamas. Being a CEO’s daughter wasn’t all bad. You received luxury items in exchange for feeling void of any real human connection and your dad’s hatred!

Briefly taking a moment to wonder if you were being one of those dumb characters from a scary movie, you quickly pushed those thoughts out of your head. Your life was more of a tragedy than a horror movie.

Slowly stepping out of your room, the click of your door latching filled the space, and you held your breath for just a moment. Nothing.

You soundlessly walked down the hall. Since you were on the second floor, there was a landing where you could look over the rails to see the bottom floor.

Nothing. No- is that a foot? Is someone lying on the ground. You leaned farther over the wooden railing to see. You were surely mistaken, right? Who was lying on the floor?

The feeling of a hand pressing down on the back of your head. Fingers entangled with your hair as the unknown man gripped you from behind. His other hand was steady on your hip. You were being dangled over the side of the railing by a stranger.

Immediately, you started to thrash against his hold, panicking as you did so. “Let me go!” You shouted, kicking your feet out from behind you to try to get away from him.

Turning your head as much as his hand would allow, you only caught the glimpse of a scar on the man’s lip. He shot you a grin before pushing your body closer to the edge, almost making you topple right over the railing.

“Yeah, princess? Want me to let you go?” His voice was husky, teasing almost. It had a raspy edge to it that sent shivers up your spine as you were now trying to push back against him to get away from the edge.

Your eyes were looking at the drop, wondering if it was better to just fall than to face whatever this man was going to do you. Somethings were worse than death…

You switched tactics, pulling away from him instead of trying to get away from the rail. You were going to topple right over it. A growl of frustration left his lips as he easily yanked you away from the railing. Your body collided with his brick wall of a warm chest.

Taking a chance to look up at him, you immediately regretted it. The perpetrator had black hair that came over his forehead and pretty green eyes that you could get lost in. His lips seemed to permanently house a cocky smirk, and fuck, he was built.

“You must have a death wish, brat.” He scowled at you as if he wasn’t the one who dangled you so close to the edge.

Not bothering to answer his taunts, you quickly started to fight against him, beating against his chest with your hands, trying to wriggle from his grasp. He was massive. You were sure that none of your blows were doing anything to him.

Without any difficulty, the hulk-sized man slung you over his shoulder, securing an arm around your frame. He didn’t even flinch or bat an eye each time you hit him. Your fists did little to his toned back.

Not able to fight your way out, you use your next best defense tool: your voice. “Let me go!” You shrieked as loud as possible. “Let me go! Somebody help!” Tears coated your eyes, and your voice went hoarse from yelling.

“Let me goo~ Somebody help mee~” The man mocked you in an obscene high-pitched tone with a laugh. He had done his homework. Even if you screamed, no one would be coming to save you right now.

Every staff member in the house was deceased, and thank god your dear old dad is so paranoid that he put his mansion in the literal middle of nowhere. There were no neighbors that’d hear you either.

You were completely and utterly alone with the man who was kidnapping you. A deep sense of dread and hopelessness filled your stomach, and you continued to cry — weakly begging for anyone to help you.

The man toned you out rather easily as he carried you down the massive flight of stairs. He used his free hand to flip open a burner phone, and he dialed a number before talking.

“The security system is still down?” His gruff, no-nonsense voice returned to him as if he wasn’t just making fun of you moments prior.

Even though you knew it was likely one of his associates on the phone, you screamed for help. Hot tears coated your cheeks as your voice strained.

A firm smack to your ass jolted you, and your voice caught in your throat. Did your kidnapper really just spank you for misbehaving?

“The girl isn’t hurt. She’s just being dramatic. I’m heading to the pickup spot.” He didn’t let the person on the other side answer before he clopped the flip phone shut, effectively ending the call.

“Gonna get me in trouble acting like that, girl.” The man tsked his tongue, and he continued to effortlessly carry you around to the back entrance of the house.

You finally caught a glimpse of your poor staff members. Your heart lurched in your chest. They had families and lives. Now, they were dead on your floor because of this man.

The man didn’t say another word as you cried. He kept his one arm firmly wrapped around you as he so casually carried you out of the house. The security system and the guards had already been dealt with.

Soon, you unceremoniously shoved into the back of a black tinted car. You struggled as much as you could, kicking and scratching. You even tried to bite the man as he tied your arms behind your back.

“Keep fighting. I’ll hogtie and gag your ass.” He threatened lowly, becoming sick of this game with you. He never quite understood why people fought so hard against him when he clearly held the upper hand. It was useless.

Letting out a small sob, you laid against the backseat of the car. The leather interior felt cold and ruthless as your tears fell from your eyes.

“Come on, Toji. We don’t have all day.” The driver reprimanded as if the man was simply buckling in a toddler and not kidnapping a grown woman.

You flinched from the sound of the driver’s voice. You had been so focused on fighting against the Toji guy that you didn’t even realize there was another man idly sitting in the front seat, puffing on a cigar.

Toji tied your ankles together, but he didn’t hogtie you thankfully. Without saying another word, he slammed the door shut before getting into the passenger side seat.

You felt your heart drop as the car started to move. You had an inkling… you’d never see that mansion again. You just knew it. Even though you hated the very frame that house sat on, you longed for the empty feeling of sitting inside. You’d take the void of living in a loveless home over being taken by two men.

Your stomach churned, and suddenly, you felt ill as you faced the grave circumstances. Bile raised in your throat, and your hands struggled against the ropes that Toji had bound you with. Panic set in. You were going to choke on your vomit while you laid face down in it.

“There she goes.” Toji muttered, tone laced with annoyance before he reached back and pulled your arm so your mouth was hanging over the back seat. You threw up safely into the floor.

“I just got this car detailed.” The driver groaned as he took another puff from his cigar.

“It happens every time without fail. Ya should start puttin’ puppy pads back there or something.” Toji responded as his arm was still reached back, bracing your body.

“Yeah, because that’s not suspicious at all.” The driver responded with a sarcastic tone. It was clear that this wasn’t their first encounter with kidnapping someone. You didn’t even want to think about the implications of that.

Your adrenaline was dropping off, and while you knew you should try and stay awake — try to map out the turns the car made, you were exhausted after emptying your stomach contents into the floor.

Your head rested against the cool leather seats, and a moment later, you were out.

“It’s like fuckin’ clockwork.” Toji commented as he saw you dozing off in the backseat.

“Let me hogtie you and throw you into the back of a car, and we’ll see if you don’t throw up and pass out.” The driver grinned over at him.

“Kinky.” Was all the man responded with.

*** *** ***

The next time you awoke you were bound to a chair in a surprisingly well-lit room. It appeared to be a bedroom. Judging by the overly bland decor, you assumed this was an Airbnb or a hotel. There was no way they could’ve hauled your sleeping body into a hotel without being noticed, so it was definitely an Airbnb. Taking in your surroundings, you flinched as you finally caught a glimpse of the two men standing in your peripheral. They were silently watching you.

“So nice of you to join us, sleeping beauty.” Toji mocked with an easy grin, the scar on his lip flexing upwards. If he wasn’t your kidnapper, you would’ve classified him to be rather handsome in a very rugged sense. He just looked like the type of man who could get the job done.

“I thought we accidentally killed ya.” The driver who was now not driving remarked.

You had to be smarter with your words this time. There was no point in begging to be set free. They had already taken you to god knows where, killed your entire staff, and bound you to a chair. There was no going back for them.

“My dad has money. That’s what you’re after, right?” You bargained, taking a stab in the dark. This didn’t feel like human trafficking. This felt like a hostage, ransom situation. Little did they know, your dad probably wasn’t going to pay a single penny to get you back.

“Clever girl.” The driver grinned. He was also another handsome man with chestnut brown hair and a mustache. He seemed much more calmer than Toji, and he had a capable energy to him. You could tell that he was definitely the ringleader. Toji was simply the muscle behind the operation.

The driver took three slow, calculated steps towards you. He was still out of reach as he crouched down to be at your level. His eyes were dark brown as he carefully exam you.

“If you’re good, I’ll explain how this is gonna work.” The man said lowly. His voice was deeper than Toji’s but not as gravely or hardened. He had a voice fit for radio.

You slowly nodded, tears already sliding down your cheeks out of sheer fear.

“Good girl. Keep that same energy for the camera.” The man purred before you directed your attention to Toji. He was setting up a tripod with a nice Canon camera set up on it. He flicked the lights off, but it wouldn’t be too dark for anyone to see.

Your body started to react before you could even fully process what was going on. You rocked back and forth in your chair while crying, trying to fight against the restraints. Toji clicked the record button, and he pulled two black balaclavas out of his pocket. Throwing one at the other man and slipping one on for himself. Their identities besides their eyes were completely concealed.

The nameless man tied a piece of cloth that worked as a gag around your mouth, and you sobbed harder. This could go so many ways, and you didn’t want to consider all the possibilities. Your mind thinking up the most depraved acts.

Then, the nameless man held a voice distorter up to his mouth, like the ones that were used in horror films. Toji suddenly grabbed your hair tightly with his oversized fist, and he made you look directly into the camera.

The nameless man started the video off by addressing your dad by his full name. “We have your daughter.” He plainly stated, going silent so one of your muffled sobs could clearly he heard.

He went on a spill about the ransom and how it was going to work. They were demanding 10 million dollars to be paid in a week. It had to be paid in person by your dad, or they would mail him your body parts.

You choked out sobs and tried to scream. You were going to die. There was no way you were going to make it out of this situation alive.

Toji’s thumb ever so gently caressed the back of your head. He was still holding your hair tightly, making you look directly into the camera, but he was subtly rubbing small circled into your scalp as if he was trying to subtly soothe you.

Whatever his intent was, it wasn’t working. You strained against the rope and the gag. You cried and tried to beg your way out of this. Finally, the nameless man showed the camera a timer. It was set for 168 hours, and it was steadily dwindling down.

Then, he stopped the recording ominously. “Can’t believe we got that on the first try.” He muttered with a laugh before pulling off his balaclava. He then flicked back on the lights.

You looked at both of the men in a confused manner. They were both so calm and casual after recording a literal ransom video. It was eerie. You hated this feeling of distrust and uneasiness that settled into the pit of your stomach.

Toji ripped off his balaclava, and he promptly untied the gag before picking up the camera off the tripod and walking away.

“Alright doll, you did so good.” The nameless man praised as he crouched back down to be at your level. “I guess that means I gotta tell you how things are gonna work now, huh?”

A sheepish nod later, and he continues, "I'm Shiu, and you already know the other old fucker's name is Toji." He starts, gesturing to Toji who was lazily typing away at a computer with a death glare.

"We're not gonna hurt ya until you give us a reason to. You just gotta be good for us and do as we say, and this will be a breeze." Shiu's tone was steady and lighthearted as if he was talking about the itinerary to a vacation and not your kidnapping.

Tears clouded your vision. Your captors seemed to have thought of all the details but one. Your father couldn't give less of a fuck about you, and he likely wasn't going to pay a dime for your safe return.

"And when my dad doesn't pay you two, then what? You two kill me and mail my body off so you can move onto the next mogul's daughter?" You asked -- tone full of resentment.

"We're not amateurs, darlin'." Shiu grins at you, boldly using his thumb to wipe away a few stray tears from your cheeks. You're still bound, so you're at his whim right now. "Toji's workin' on releasing that video publicly. How could the wealthiest CEO of Japan get away with not paying to have his daughter back safely?"

You pursed your lips together, trying to think rationally. None of this felt real. Your heart stuttered in your chest. Would your dad pay to get you back if he risked ruining his reputation?

If he ruined his reputation, companies would pull their stocks and tank his company. It would be hard for him to form partnerships because other companies wouldn’t want to be associated with him. His perfectly curated baby would come crashing down.

He would have to pay to get you back.

Noticing the gears turning in your head, Shiu patted your hair gently with his oversized palm. “We also got a few other tricks up our sleeve. We didn’t do this on a spur of the moment decision, darling.”

They weren’t two petty criminals looking to make it big. These two men were the real deal. They had the knowledge and precision that it took to commit serious crimes. This probably wasn’t even their first ransom situation.

“Glad to know you plotted my kidnapping perfectly.” You muttered in a self-deprecating tone.

Shiu gave another chuckle as his hand stayed on your head. His touch was warm and unwavering. It had been years since someone showed you affection so casually.

“I’d say you’re in good hands, but…” He grinned at you, ruffling your hair before removing his hand. “You’re in capable hands.” He said before he slowly walked around behind you. “Be honest, darling. If I untie you, are you going to try to run?”

Your eyes lingered on the door of the Airbnb. Would you even make it far if you did run? Would it be worth being tied down for even longer? Your eyes wandered to Toji, who was sat strategically near the door. His gaze was still on the laptop, but you could tell that he could easily catch you if given the chance.

Shiu laughed as he could see the inner turmoil on your face. You really wore your emotions on your sleeve, not hiding that you were weighing the option of running. “You wanna see what’ll happen? Try it, princess.” He dared as his fingers worked to loosen the knots around your hands.

Your body was achy from the precarious position of being tied to the chair. You instinctively stretched, feeling your stiff muscles protest.

You looked back up at Shiu, registering that he was offering you to run. “Go ahead. Go.” He said as he nodded towards the door.

“If you make me run, I’m taking it out on your ass.” Toji grumbled from his position near the door. His green eyes were now glaring at you.

Against your better judgement, you ran. You had to run, even if it was clearly a setup. If you didn't try to get away, then someone would say that you wanted this to happen. You wanted to be kidnapped from your prison.

You barely made it to the door and swung it open before two strong arms wrapped around your midsection, hauling you up as if you weighed nothing.

"Fucking brat." Toji's voice rumbled in your ear as he lifted your body up, pressing your backside against his chest as he kicked the door shut.

Shiu chuckled as he made sure to lock it back. He really just enticed you to run to piss Toji off. He had to keep things interesting after all.

A grunt passed your lips as you were unceremoniously slung onto the plush bed in the room. You tried to kick and fight your way out of Toji's hold, but his hands expertly held you down and forced your arms above your head. You squeezed your eyes shut.

Here it comes... the part where you wish they would've just killed you...

The sound of metal jingling caught your attention, and you hesitantly opened your eyes to see Toji handcuffing you down to the headboard.

As soon as one of your wrists were cuffed and bound, Toji got up off of you. "Until you can learn how to behave and not be stupid." He muttered as he turned his back to you and went back to sit down.

Well, that wasn't what you were expecting.

"Technically-" You spoke up, looking between Toji and Shiu as they watched you with amused eyes. "I was behaving since he told me to run." You pointed out, nodding your head towards Shiu.

"And I told you what would happen if you did run. You're lucky I haven't bent you over my knee yet." Toji countered, crossing his arms over his chest with a lopsided grin.

"Yet-?"

"I haven't decided if I'm going to do it or not, but your smart mouth is pushing me, brat."

You swallow thickly, realizing what you were truly dealing with here. Your eyes leave Toji's figure, and you look up towards the handcuff chaining you to the bed.

You were kidnapped from one prison and brought to another, and yet, a strange voice in the back of your head is telling you that your kidnappers have better intentions with you than your own dad.

"Don't listen to him," Shiu's low voice rumbled, breaking your line of thought. "He's all bark and rarely any bite,"

"He killed all of my staff members," you retort, staring at Shiu with furrowed eyebrows. How could he act like Toji was anything less than a killing machine?

"Touché," was all Shiu responded with as he looked over at you with a relaxed grin.

Toji was back to lounging as he tilted his head back. His adams apple bobbing as he closed his eyes. He wasn't really going to sleep next to the door, was he?

Shiu had walked off out of sight, and you could hear him responding to a phone call.

Moving around on the bed, you figured you may as well get comfortable while you're trapped.

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danyasblogsblog · 7 months ago

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CULTURAL/FOREIGN READER COD MEN

warnings : too cute

- cod guys with a reader from another country!!!!!

- this idea when i thought of it made me screamm i just think its so cute, idk if anyone’s done this before but i just think this idea is so adorable

- includes task force 141 (kyle ‘gaz’ garrick, johnny ‘soap’ mactavish, simon ‘ghost’ riley, john price), könig and keegan p. russ

gaz would ALWAYS be asking about your culture. the way your eyes light up telling him a fun fact about the history means everything to him. listening to your voice squeal and go high pitched when he mentions something you told him from another conversation you guys had makes him kick his feet and giggle. ‘oh my god, you remembered!!’ as if he could ever forget 😭😭ily gaz u little cutie pie

soap would be all about the food. asking you to make the recipes your grandma made you when you were a kid? check. begging you to cook him food from your childhood when he gets home from deployment? check. trying to learn how to make your cultural food so he can surprise you on your birthday with it? check. making a mess while trying to do that? check. you cant even be mad though. what a cutie

price would be researching about your culture so he could impress you/your family abroad. he would learn common phrases in your language, would learn about the traditions and the history of your country, etc. if he’s ever confused about something, he’ll ask you about it and listen to you talk about it for hours, a bit like how gaz would. he would also love to impress you with his knowledge.

ghost would be a lot like soap and gaz i think. he would always be asking about the history of how certain foods came to be, the enemies and allies of your country, how it was like growing up, etc just to hear you talk. he is definitely the listener in your guys’ relationship, contrasting to you, the yapper. he could basically hear you talk his ear off and he wouldnt care. would always be eternally grateful when you make him your nice, hot cultural food when he gets home from deployment.

könig would definitely want to visit your country. i lowk headcanon him as being a massive traveller. being from austria, he also understands feeling like an outsider in a new country, so if you ever wanna talk about the differences between your homeland and the country you live in now, he’d listen. i feel like you guys would have a date where he cooks you austrian food and you cook him your cultural food. omg thats so cute i should write something about that

keegan would absolutely encourage you to embrace your culture. i feel like when its your countries’ independence day, he’d go around telling the ghosts, ‘you know, it’s (countries names’) independence day’. would definitely, after a long day, appreciate your cultural cooking. i can imagine during your guys’ long term relationship, him asking ‘what about marriage in (countries’ name)’

#cod #cod x reader #cod men x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick cod #kyle garrick x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #captain john price x you #john price x reader #könig x reader #keegan russ x reader #keegan p russ x reader

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good-luck-babe-535 · 28 days ago

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Dirtbagging - Chapter 1

paige x azzi

Summary: Paige has been a seasoned climbing guide in Yosemite for 10 years, and its all she’s ever known. As fearless leader and a weathered climber, she has a hard time adjusting to a new face in town: Azzi Fudd. Fudd is known as one of the best climbers in the country, competing with team USA and winning gold medals in rock gyms. Besides her climbing life, 3 years into trying to be a normal UConn student, it becomes increasingly apparent that the world has become too heavy for her, so she decides to take a summer climbing guide job at Yosemite. No phone service paired with a mysterious older blonde roommate are sure to make her summer one for the books. What do you have to do to bag the girl and the peaks of your dreams?

masterlist

WC: 3.4k

Warning: Language, drinking, badly proofread, rookie writer

A/N: thank you to all the people who have showed so much love!! Just wanted to note if first person is not your thing, all chapters after this are written in 3rd. Ily and enjoy!!

The screeching breaks of the bus come to a halt on the side of the road, waiting just long enough for me to touch the hot asphalt as it left me in the desert dust. There is not much to show of a bus stop, just me an all my belongings littered in the bike lane of a one lane mountain road. I pull out my phone to check for any sign of life from my soon to be roommate, but I’m met with a huge SOS symbol at the top. Just a perfect way to start my time in El Portal, California.

Looking around, the community is made up of a singular gas station and a dozen houses scattered above on the hill. The only thing I know about my mysterious housemate is a name: Paige. I hope in a place this small they all know each other.

Knowing there is no hope of contacting anyone, I stroll over to the store, hoping I won’t have to talk to every soul in order to find this woman . When I walk in, I’m met with the smell of tourists that have been hiking all day, potent, and dusty. I’m sure that smell would soon sink into my skin to the point I won't be able to detect it. My eyes catch a girl who only appears a few years older that me with an NPS shirt on and a bag covered in climbing paraphernalia. I drag everything over to catch her before she disappears, desperate to find where I am supposed to be.

“Hey! I’m new this season. Looking for Paige, a climbing guide?” I ask with a bubbly smile, trying to make a good first impression. The climbing community is notoriously close knit, so I can’t afford to make a bad impression this early despite how tired and irritable I have become from a full 16 hours of travel.

“You must be Azzi! We have been waiting for you all day. I’m Riley” She beams with an outstretched hand, cracked skin with tape covering her fingertips, showing that she’s been climbing all day. “Let me check out real quick and I’ll take you up the hill to Paige’s. You need anything? Must be starving.”

Mulling over the thought of grabbing a bite, the anxiety of a stranger taking me to find my housemate takes over any hunger cues I should have. “I’m all good, ate earlier in Merced while waiting for the bus.”

“Suit yourself. Next time you’re hungry you need to grab one of these ice creams. A NorCal classic. Basically come back every year just for these.” Riley smirks as she pulls an ice cream sandwich that reads “Its Its” on the outside.

“I’ll save it for after a particularly excruciating day out climbing” I reply. Rarely did I ever get to eat something so delectable, always training and trying to become the best climber and athlete I could.

Riley checks out and leads me out the door. The noise of cars drifting by begins to fade as we head up the hill, and the sound of my breathing and Riley chewing through her ice cream fills the air.

“Paige lives just up at the top of the hill. Have you talked to her yet?” Riley mumbles with a mouthful of ice cream.

“Not yet. Haven’t heard much besides that I’m living with her” I reply flatly. I was only a little disappointed that Paige had not responded to any of the texts or emails asking about what I needed to bring, what the living arrangements were, or anything else. I wanted to prepare for what I was about the be met with, but I now understand why I never got any response back since I couldn’t even let her know I was here.

“Don’t worry you’re in for a treat. You’re lucky, Paige is the only guide with her own house. Which means you get your own room, unlike the rest of us. Paige’s house is kind of our meeting base, so expect that there will always be a party going on in the house” Riley says brightly.

A sense of dread falls over me, what have I just signed up for? A summer of constant human contact and interaction? What’s the point of moving to the middle of nowhere if where I was living was no different than my college dorm?

We approach the small grey house at the top of the street. It’s small, a little run down, and full of bikes and one red Toyota 4 Runner in the front filled with stickers, scratches and memories.

Without a knock, Riley opens the door where I’m greeted with the smells of sweat and warm beer, and the sound of at least 5 voices talking loudly over each other in the living room.

I set my belongings in the entry way and slip my shoes off. Which no one else appears to do in this place. Riley takes my wrist, gives me a soft smile, and pulls me through the hallway out into the main living area, which is where the life of the party is. Many of the climbers are sitting surrounded by a large paper map, writing things down and debating, which is perfect because they don’t even notice our presence.

Riley continues to scan the room, and pulls me out back onto the porch, which has a perfect view east into the canyon. There are two climbers lazily kicking back on a sofa, beer in hand. Riley leads me right in front of a blonde woman mid sip with her feet kicked up and her other hand behind her head. The other climber, a guy engrossed in his book to the point where he was completely unaware of his surroundings. The woman’s ice blues eyes drift up to us, and look as cold as she must make others feel, her apparent nonchalance making me grow more annoyed by the second.

“Paige! This is your new housemate, Azzi.” Riley exclaims, and pushes me right in front of Paige, intruding Paige’s line of sight which appeared to be watching nothing in particular in the distance. She slowly sits up, hand meeting her lap as she stares at me, and takes another slow sip. “Nice to meet you. Room’s on the south end of the house, have fun and feel free to do as you please.”

My previous ability to be bubbly and talkative seems to slip from me, as I just nod my head with a simple “Thanks”. Not quite the perfect meeting I had hoped for, but the overstimulation of people, booze, and noise everywhere was getting to me. How were these people expected to guide and save people’s lives when the were casually drinking on a Sunday night?

Riley stayed and plopped on the couch next to Paige and the guy with huge headphones on who hadn’t even bothered to look up. Riley laid back with a smile and a short, “Let me know if you need anything”, as she took Paige’s beer and took her own drag of the can. Finally being alone was music to my ears. I walked back through the sliding glass doors, drawing no eyes at all as I retrieved my belongings and headed to what I believed was my room. Upon opening the door, there was climbing gear scattered all over the floor, random pictures hung on the wall and clothes scattered on the bed.

I couldn’t help but be a little curious and let my eyes scan some of the photo wall, pictures of summits, big walls, and some more than friendly looking photos featuring the blonde and another woman. Before I could snap out of my curious snooping of my mysterious roommate, feet planted right behind me.

“One of the most basic skills is knowing how to figure out where north and south is. Looks like you got a lot to learn” the Blonde spoke with annoyance from behind me. “Rule number one, my room is off limits. Don’t come in here and borrow my gear or look for anything. Ask first.” She continues as she slips past me into her room and shuts the door on me without even meeting my gaze.

“Good talk” I murmur to myself and head in the other direction. What could possibly be so important in her room for her to be annoyed just from me confusing the doors? Maybe I wasn’t as lucky as Riley claimed, this woman seemed like an piece of work that I had no energy for at the moment.

After finding my actual room I face planted on the undressed mattress and sighed a breath of relief. Finally I was alone, for the first time all day.

I had come here expecting to find some peace and quiet from my regular day to day life. College has becoming increasingly overwhelming, classes conflicting with my climbing schedule, neither of them allowing any room to budge. Which is why when I told my therapist I was ready to quit it all, she had suggested finding a place I could still practice but be away from the pressure of being the climbing national team darling, Azzi Fudd. Social media had gotten out of hand, a new rumor each day. College parties were never safe, so I stopped doing any of the fun parts of college. Eat, sleep, breath climb and class non stop. Which had lead my to what most people would describe as a full on mental breakdown. Which in the eyes of the media and the climbing community was unacceptable. Azzi Fudd, daughter of two of the best climbers to ever grace the scene, could not stain the reputation her parents had been building for over 20 years.

I am not so sure that my therapist was right about this plan, but I had no choice but to follow her lead. I couldn’t deal with the public scrutiny of quitting climbing all together, so what better excuse then escaping the the spotlight saying I was “chasing bigger walls than in the gym” on my last instagram post before I forced myself to delete the app all together.

I began unpacking all of the belongings and tucking them in my small closet in my even smaller room. I unloaded my backpack full of all the outdoor gear I could ever want. Sorting and organizing by activity, ready for whatever my first adventure would be. I got lost in imagining finally getting to feel lost in the walls of Yosemite, feeling the sunshine on my face, feeling my hands grow more callused, feet more steady, and most of all hoping my mind could become stable for once.

—

I am jolted awake by a pounding on my door, Riley shouting, “Dinner Fudd! Don’t want to miss it, there are never leftovers!” I groan, dried spit and fatigue on my face, an impromptu evening nap was not on my to do list for the rest of my day. I open my bedroom door to the chatter of the group from before, all gathered around the kitchen island, bowls in tow filled with steaming chili that filled the air. Riley led me over to the island, and pulled me into the circle.

“Alright everyone! We have some fresh meat this year, this is Azzi Fudd! You might know her from the US climbing national team. She’s here for the summer to learn from us and train to be a full climbing guide!” Riley explains to the group of mostly men, all older, stronger, and slightly indifferent. The chatter continued as many of the climbers buzzed about “welcome” and “love your climbing style” and many other greetings coming my way. I was overwhelmed but finally glad to be seen and my name out in the air, not feeling as invisible as I did when I entered. The only voice that didn’t speak of the dozen in the group was the person who I had to be in the most proximity of. Her posture remained neutral, her face unreadable and she remained quite and in control. No matter her coolness, I could still feel her eyes flash over me, making the hair on the back of my neck stand and my cheeks feel flushed. Her quiet indifference making me nervous already.

It wasn’t long before a bowl of the hot meal was passed my was along with a beer shoved in my hand, despite me not asking for anything. I wasn’t sure I was ready to break the ice with my insane diet restrictions or extreme abstinence of drinking, so I dug into the bowl and popped the can open. The words of my therapist repeat in my head, “Try new things and release these extreme expectations of yourself. You’re goal is to learn to let go”. Perhaps a beer or two could help me let go a bit more.

Everyone around me continued their talking after my introduction, and I was happy to no longer be the center of attention. This was when I felt a tall strong figure wedge in next to me and Riley, shoulders so broad everyone needed to adjust to allow him in. Without thinking I looked up and smiled at him, remembering him from outside on the porch next to Paige. He had a strong build, a bit taller than my 5’11’ frame and had tanned skin, flowy brown hair that every surfer in California probably envied, and a sweet smile that was much friendlier than anyone else in the room. No longer boasting the big headphones and guidebook, he seemed way different than how I perceived him earlier.

“Hey new girl. I’m Ryder, Riley’s brother. We are so excited to have a pure climber of your caliber joining us. I’m sure we have a lot to learn from you” He greets with a sweet smile and an arm nudge in my direction. Feeling a bit of the warm sensation of the beer I hadn’t been aware I had downed, I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks and a smile light up my face. I outstretch my hand to him, feeling his tough hands on my relatively soft ones, swallowing them whole.

“Great to meet you Ryder, I am sure I have much more to learn from you this summer than vice versa”, I flatter him even though I know I am probably the most accomplished climber in the room. “What were you researching so intently earlier on the porch? Didn’t even look up when I walked in” I tease with a sickly sweet voice that I know I am putting on for the love of the positive attention I was finally getting.

“Well, every rookie climbing guide needs to have their test trip. I was making sure that I was picking a trip of your caliber” he explains, flattering me back and making my head big.

Our conversation must have been easier than I thought to follow, as Paige chimes in, “I hope you picked an easy one. This one couldn’t even tell left from right earlier, might not be as good of a climber as you think” Paige fires back, interrupting our easy banter and again making my heart beat faster not in a good way. Not from the thrill of sending a climb, or flirting with a cute guy. The anxiety I was so badly wanting to escape, the expectations the whole world put on me came flooding back. Whatever confidence I had gained from my empty beer can was gone, the pointed attack sobering me up.

“We will see about that. Have you watched her highlights? We have a real champion in the house. Unlike you”, he fires back, no remorse for his words that he uses to try and shield me from the older blonde.

“Competition climbing didn’t even exist for us when we were her age. You remember Ryder, like 10 years ago? Might need to recall your age real quick.”

“I would have expected you to do more research on your first housemate in years Paige. Don’t need to be so bitter that someone better than you and Marisol finally came into the group. Calm down” Ryder spits back, getting the whole groups attention. The expression on everyones face drops. For the first time I am realizing how many beer cans are scattered around the room, everyone red and multiple deep, but the expressions on their face unexpectedly sour from the last comment.

“Fuck you Ryder, everyone get out of my house. I need a break of you people for the night” Paige sneers, which sends everyone on a mission to clean up as fast as possible. You could see the respect that Paige demanded immediately turned everyone into a follower of her, even if the current leading technique was a bit heated and unfriendly. I can tell that the oldest leaders of the group were her and Ryder, and that this clash was not unexpected, but still uncomfortable for the group.

The clean up was done fast, and many of the climbers were already out the front door. Ryder slung his bag on his shoulder and came up to give me and unexpected embrace after only knowing each other for 30 minutes.

“Have fun with this one. Scream really loud if she tries to end you in the middle of the night” He jokes dryly.

“I’m just two houses down the hill, knock if you need anything. See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks for looking out for me tonight, see you later”, I mumble as the embrace had still shocked me and taken my by surprise. He lays one last charming smile on me, and retreat to the front door, the last one to leave.

His absence leaves just me and Paige across the counter from each other. The buzz of climbers was gone and the noise gave way to heavy breathing from Paige, who was obviously still worked from the tiff between her and Ryder. She was staring down at her hands that were tightly gripping the counter, her veins popping out of her arms showing the tension throughout her body. She finally looked up and made eye contact with me, her eyes locking into mine, making me flush from the intensity.

“Remember the first rule from earlier? Seems like we need to lay out some more ground rules. Rule number 2, guides shouldn’t date other guides. It gets messy and one of you will have to leave. And I promise you will always be on the chopping block since you have way less skill than anyone else here.”

I was not at all expecting her to jump to dating rules. What am I, 12? After seeing her interaction with Ryder, I did not want to speak up against her in fear of retaliation, but the small amount of liquid courage let some choice words slip from me.

“When we are here are you my boss? Seems like we’re off the clock now. Stay out of my personal life.” I fire back with unexpected courage, not wanting the blonde to have complete control over me.

“Fine. Don’t come crying to me when things sour between you and another climber. You can’t change shift for dumb reasons. Seems like two rules is enough for you to grasp for tonight, go to bed and see you tomorrow. First shift starts 5am, with me.” She explains flatly, removing her hands from the counter and turning her back on me to walk towards her room. I watch her back muscles ripple as she walks to her door. She’s about to push the door open when she pauses, a thought grazing her mind.

She turns around and continues, “Actually, one last rule for the night. What Ryder said about you being the best climber here? It’s not true. I know you win competitions on plastic jugs, but the climbs we do here are real. Real granite and real consequences, so don’t let his comment get to your head.”

I meet her eyes and nod my head once to agree, just to get her off my case.

“And you will never be the best climber here. You saw all the photos in my room? That’s Marisol. She was the best climber that was ever in this group. So don’t expect to ever fill those shoes” She finishes and finally steps into her room and closes the door, not expecting any response from me.

Washing over me were the images I saw in her room, many pictures in portaledges on the side of big walls in Yosemite or hugs on high Sierra peaks. Who is Marisol, and why does everyone have so much to say about her? Bold of Paige to assume that I couldn’t be the best climber in the group. I will have to prove her wrong.

a/n: not sure that anyone will ever read this but this community has truly given me some amazing reading experiences so just wanted to try for myself! always welcome to comments and feedback, I haven't written anything like this since hunger games fiction when I was like 8 so please go light on me and let me know what you think!! Anons welcome, would love to hear what you think!!

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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mifvyfilms · 1 month ago

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hai nagumo fluff pls ily im ur biggest fan

── .✦ NAGUMO YOICHI: a gentle hand .ᐟ

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ IN WHICH, you’re sick! but don’t panic, because he’s here to take care of you .

⊹ fluff, non-assassin au ᝰ nagumo x fem!reader

━━ IT HAD BEEN days since you'd seen any of your friends. you’d basically ghosted them, though unintentionally. the digital screen of your phone hurt your eyes too much to use.

a fever had taken ahold of you, and you didn’t know why. all you could manage to do was sleep and eat a little bit of food—even though you were barely able to stand and walk to the kitchen.

you felt awful.

it had been two days since your last shower, and you felt gross. your body was either shivering or sweating and you assumed your friends were worried, since you'd been out of contact for two days, letting their calls ring.

again, it wasn't intentional.

and who was worrying the most?

nagumo yoichi.

he was a close friend who would always check up on you—you figured the twenty missed calls you received in a row earlier today were from him. he was persistent like that.

your doorbell rang twice, followed by a knock. you were tired, gross, and nauseous, making it hard to stand. you wondered who was at the door so late at night. you leaned against the wall, letting it guide you to the front door.

through the glass of the door, you saw a familiar shadow. it was nagumo.

exhaling softly, you opened the door, and he greeted you with a bright smile. he then noticed your appearance. “are you sick or something? is that why you haven’t been answering my calls?”

you didn’t reply, your headache and eyes were hurting too much. he took your silence as a yes. “wait, i can run to the nearest store and get you some medicine.”

finally, you managed to speak, “it’s fine, nagumo. i can take care of myself.”

he didn’t accept your answer. “no, you can’t. you look terrible,” he said truthfully. it wasn’t an insult, just a hard truth about your condition. he then told you, “just wait here, i won’t be long. promise.”

he kept his promise, somewhat. you fell asleep on the floor beside your bed, unable to make it onto the mattress. the doorbell woke you from your light slumber. slowly, still clinging to the wall, you made your way to the front to unlock the door and let him in.

he held a plastic bag filled with medicine and snacks. “where’s your room?” he asked, entering your house, taking off his shoes, and locking the door behind him.

you were too dizzy to reply, hunched over with one hand on your forehead and the other on your stomach. you were hurting everywhere.

he saw your vulnerable state, and felt bad. he grabbed both your arms and moved them to the side, squatting in front of you. “hop on my back,” he politely ordered.

you climbed on his back and pointed toward your bedroom. you felt the plastic bag slung on his arm brush against your thighs. but you didn’t pay attention to it.

he kicked open your room door and gently settled you down on your bed. “let me take your temperature first.” he pulled out a thermometer.

“say ahh.”

you did not say ‘ahh.’

he took the thermometer out of your mouth and looked at the temperature. “you’re burning up. why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick sooner?” he gave you a worried look, but you simply shrugged and closed your eyes.

he sighed. “your hair is greasy. you should take a bath.”

your brows furrowed slightly. “i can’t bathe myself right now.”

“then i can help you—oh.” the realization hit him. he would have to see you without any clothes on for the first time. “maybe you can clean yourself up. go try, i’ll get your clothes and start the tub for you.”

“don’t drown yourself, n/n!” he shouted from the other side of the door, leaving it unlocked just in case. your silence made him anxious that you had already drowned. but you weren’t that stupid, right?

thirty minutes passed, and the slight sound of water moving stopped. he called your name, “y/n?”

no response.

he called again, “n/n!”

worried, he opened the door, one hand covering his eyes—though he was still peeking. he glanced over at you sinking down into the tub and dashed over. “y/n!”

he called your name, and you slowly opened your eyes. “don’t take a nap in the tub while you’re sick; you could’ve drowned!”

“you could’ve bathed me then,” you shrugged, and he remembered your current state.

a bright shade of red covered his face. “go get dressed, then i’ll dry your hair, give you medicine, and then you go to sleep!”

his words rushed out, and he immediately ran out. your headache was fading, and you managed to smile at his flushed self.

after you got dressed, nagumo sat you down at your vanity with a blow-dryer in his hands. he dried your hair for almost ten minutes—it would’ve been longer, but you were getting annoyed by the hot air on your skin.

he grabbed a bottle of pills you needed to take and handed you two. “you need help drinking water with that?” he asked, but you shook your head, swallowing the medicine with ease.

you sighed and wiped the excess water from your mouth. he led you back to your bed and helped you get comfy. “you feeling better now?” he questioned.

you nodded.

“see! now that someone is taking care of you, you’re recovering faster,” he said, covering your torso with your blanket.

you grabbed his hand once it was above your chest. “thank you, nagumo.”

“any time.”

#sakadays #sakadays x reader #sakadays x you #sakamoto days x reader #sakamoto days x you #fluff #sakamoto days #sakamoto days fluff #nagumo x you #sakamoto days nagumo #nagumo x reader #nagumo yoichi #yoichi nagumo #mifvyfilms

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iwaasfairy · 1 year ago

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[»»] Hello pretty girl! I have come to you finally with my Uncle Satoru thoughts.

Thinking about how you’re trying to stay away, trying to be happy with your boyfriend. Trying to force the spark between you two. But you have to think about Satoru every time you and your boyfriend have sex so you can cum. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen eachother. You try to ignore him because you know if he asked you, you’d give him everything you have.

a/n. beLoVEDDD thank you for the uncle gojo idea he mAkES ME CRAZY!!! He makes me a bit insane ♡♡ thank you for the support ily ily ily

tw. incest, uncle gojo, coercion, cheating

wc. 1.5k

gojo satoru x fem!reader

“Does that feel good?”

“Look at me. I want you to see me when I fuck you.”

The blond between your legs rubs his tongue in the way you like, swirls it around your puffy nub as two thick fingers slide back in and make your legs twitch, opening further. His hair tickles a little on the inside of your legs, and you hum into a moan that’s half-artificial, half-bodily when the sucking gets to that exact spot you want.

“So desperate. So whiny for your -”

Stop. You stare at a spot in the ceiling not to whine and moan, grip onto his soft hair as you bite your bottom lip, and fight the need. To mewl his name like a prayer the way your body wants. Uncle Satoru. Uncle Satoru. Uncle Satoru.

“Huh?” Kenji’s big eyes find yours blown out and searching, as you whither under his ministrations.

“Said, feels good.” You breathe back, and also shake your lower half left and right for attention. Attention your boyfriend’s more than willing to give as a sweet, encouraging smile slips onto his wet lips, slick dripping from his chin.

“Yeah?” He kisses the bundle of nerves and wraps a hand around your thigh to push it open further, nodding against your pussy. “Gonna get you there again tonight, babe. Don’t you worry.” Because that’s who you’ve become. A girl who can’t cum without thinking of a very specific set of hands on you, a specific shape pushing into your insides. You don’t tell Kenji that, of course.

It’s not his fault you’re ruined. Not his fault that you want the hair lighter, the voice smoother, more languid. That it’s different long fingers you really want tracing your folds and slipping down your throat.

“There you go, pretty girl. My favorite. Favorite fucking pussy in the world.”

Your body shakes as you imagine baby blue eyes staring back at you, smiling as he gets you to your limit. The fingers bounce against that soft, spongy spot and his tongue rubs hard and precise against your clit, and you grab your tits like uncle ‘toru does— the tight coil in your stomach finally snapping. “Agh, aghh- cu-mming. Fuck.” Satoru, satoru, uncle Satoru. You can’t stop yourself from mouthing his name, so you bite your hand to shut it up.

It will be fun, is what your boyfriend had convinced you of, cooking for you. It will be fun. But it hadn’t really been the cooking or the fun that had had you dragging your feet. The company, however, is something else entirely.

Cooking in your kitchen means uncle Satoru comes home to see you both cozied up in the small room, invites himself, is now perched against the cupboards with a second home-made mojito. Blue eyes basically staring through you as you do your very best to ignore the sensation. “You like cooking, Kenji?” He mumbles around his straw, catching you when you look at him from the corner of your eyes.

“When she’s the one eating, yeah.” It’s sweet. You feel bitter standing on the other side of the kitchen, trying not to look as longingly as you feel. Every time you catch his shape, all you can think of is his mouth on you, breathing down your neck as he pushes you up against the wall. The exact wall you’re leaning against, tasting his spit and swallowing it with a choked moan.

The way he ripped your underwear down your thighs like it was offensive to see you wearing anything, and patting the flushed, hot head of his cock against your pussy before pushing in. It’s shameful how easy you feel for him.

Your flesh and blood, pedestalled miles above.

His voice is tinted a little dark when he chuckles. “You two kids are adorable.”

This isn’t funny. None of this is fun to you. It sinks your gut, and has you crossing your arms over your chest. “Don’t do that. Don’t treat me like a child.” Satoru’s surprised you even speak at all, it seems, because long white lashes flutter as he rights himself a little more.

Something glimmers in his eyes as he rolls the straw either way between his lips with his tongue. Then he tutts his lips. “You and I both know I don’t treat you like a child, baby.” Baby. Even the way he says the word, full of subtext, makes the heat rise on your cheeks and has you looking away to instead focus on the layers of pasta your boyfriend is carefully placing between each layer of sauce. “You two act like a married couple, s’all.”

“Aren’t you interested in getting married, Gojo san?” Kenji politely asks over his shoulder, and entirely misses the way your uncle -the object of your affections- stares you down with a look that says all too much.

It gives you shivers. His eyes seem to peel your skeleton out from your skin, entirely exposed. “My family would love to see me married off to some other big important family and pop out a bunch of kids. And that’s exactly why I’m not gonna.”

You know he’s talking to you and not to the other blond at all, when he pushes from the cupboards to come to stand before you— towers you more like. And places his hand on your head to pet your hair, before biting his bottom lip as a line of deep thought appears between his brows. “I’ll only do what I’ve always done. Which is whatever I want.” You feel the difference in temperature when the touch moves away, and miss it too much.

A knock at your door later that day makes the hairs on your neck stand upright— until you watch him push inside with a look. Blank, unlike him. He traces random figures over the wood grain with a soft noise. “Nice kid.”

Your mouth corners quirk up without you having control over them. Even his presence makes you heat from your toes to your ears. It’s so unfair. “You don’t have to act like it’s the first time you’re meeting him every time he comes by.”

“You don’t bring him around that often. Feels like the first time.” You can’t say anything at that, only go back to tapping your fingers against the keyboard distracted. He walks in, and that distracts you too. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit too mean to me?”

“Satoru.”

“-Uncle Satoru,” he corrects, and ends up beside you with two big steps, to tilt your head back by your chin. He’s pouty now. There’s an order to the song and dance, and you’ve messed it up. He holds onto you. “I’ve missed you.”

“U-uncle ‘toru… we said- I thought we’d stop.”

He leans down to trace his fingers over your mouth, before tilting his head to the side. “Who said that?” With baby blues fixed on you, he draws you out from your chair with a single word. “Stand up, I want you to see something.”

It happens whether you like it or not. You end up standing with your toes to his and letting him loop your arms around him, as you longingly look up. Feel his breath dust over your face as he leans down enough to make you cross eyed.

“Y’love your uncle ‘toru? You love me, don’t you?” Your nodding gets interrupted because he kisses you on the lips, gently— then hands drop to your thighs to start sliding under your skirt without hesitation. “Then you should stop lying to the poor guy, don’t you think?”

You melt in his arms to watch him peel the panties from under you, and he snaps the elastic with a teasing smirk. Then he goes to lift you up so you’re hanging onto his shoulders and pressed against the wall. The seam of his pants rides against your cunt when he readjusts, and nudges your head aside to place mean kisses on your throat, biting as he goes. “It’s been so long, baby. You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted your little pussy squeezing around me.”

Your mouth drops open, and your fingers dig into his shoulders. You can feel yourself slicking up at just the thought of him, and let out a moan. The truth comes out whether you want it to or not. When Satoru looks at you, he can see it. Dips his head to push soft lips against you, tongue pushing inside your mouth to taste yours as he rolls his hips in a perfect arc to make you squirm. Your fingers trail through the shorter hair at his neck to hang on, as he smiles. “There’s my good girl. My favorite little niece. You won’t ever grow out of being my biggest fan, will you?”

Your voice hitches when feeling that hard, perfect cock swell against you in his pants. And your head goes cloudy. “Uncle Satoru. Uncle Satoru. Want you- wanna cum with you inside. Needed you so much. Please?”

IWAASFAIRY 2024

#tw.incest #tw.dark content #tw.cheating #gojo satoru smut #jjk smut #🍯honey.pot #💫ch.gojo #honey mail

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admiringlove · 1 month ago

Text

a tempest gilded in ruin - part two.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

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

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

↬ word count: 25.5k.

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

↬ navigation: part one, jjk masterlist.

Present, Highgrove House.

It has been three days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let us hope wedding bells come before the ruin does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then your mother clears her throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never your parents’.

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

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

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

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

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

Until the sound comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Twelve?” Utahime repeats, eyebrows raised.

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

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

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

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

“There is… one more thing.”

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

“He said he loves me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dearest gentle readers,

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

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

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

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

Yes, dear readers. She has reappeared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Berbrooke steps closer. You step back.

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

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

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

Two figures leap down. Moving fast. Familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhale. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

His jaw clenches slightly. “Hurt.”

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He holds you close. “Whatever for?”

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

Two days later, Highgrove House.

It is late in the evening when Gojo Satoru arrives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sits heavy in your chest.

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

Late afternoon of Sunday, Hyde Park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your story—beginning, here. In full view.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

"It's happening," you whisper.

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

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

You inhale, and then step forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dearest gentle readers,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't understand," you whisper.

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

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

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

"I... I don’t know how, but yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

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

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

“L-lay back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The pinnacle,” you gasp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You must miss her.”

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

You still. “You hated him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause. “Contract?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If?” Your voice is a whisper.

“If he marries. And sires an heir.”

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t—”

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

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

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

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

Shouldn’t you be the one owed remorse?

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

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

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

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

But even that is its own kind of torment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shifts, frowning. “No, I meant—”

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

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

You push open the door.

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

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

“Satoru—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wait. One second. Two. Five.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your father.

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

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

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

“You thought I knew?”

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

“That is not the only reason—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turn your head toward him, slowly.

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

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head, already leaning in.

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

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

“Satoru—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dearest gentle readers,

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

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

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

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

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

But not all tales are so quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

With quill in hand and heart ever listening, Phantom.

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