#Frosty Depths

[herbalnature]

Gaze into the frosty depths of an Alaskan box canyon, where the blues are cooler than a winter's dream. It's like a secret world sculpted from ice whispers and chill-kissed shadows.

[tiercel42]

A long time ago I wrote a single verse (or possibly the chorus) to a country song, loosely based on a true event in my area. I am now offering it to the world.

There's a possum in the outhouse, There's a possum in the john I don't know what he wants from there But I wish that he were gone The whole dang place is shaking And it's tilted to the right Maybe I shouldn'tna thrown away That Ex-Lax Sunday night

I don't think the world wants it, but I'm punchy and it's Friday.

[triedpklove]

the fact that there’s MULTIPLE POPULAR gay retellings of the titanic is so funny to me

[dabisbratz]

PLAY DATE (CHERRY)— aizawa shouta x male reader

wc: ~6.5k

cw: dilf!aizawa, babysitter!reader, sexual tension, slow burn, spanking/impact play, finger-sucking, d/s undertones, daddy kink, praise, manhandling, age gap (21 yr old reader, 41 yr old aizawa), porn with plot, size difference/kink, spit/drool, degradation, rimming, hand holding, full nelson, creampie, breeding kink, light feminization

a/n: yes i was listenin to lana while writin this! howd u know?!

The click of a mouse. The sound of a scroll wheel grinding against plastic— rubbery and restricted. A family of five, four, three..family oriented individuals with more kids on their hands than time. It was late, even for you. Who scoured the internet until the sky’s inky black atmosphere was painted a pacific blue. From there, you’d tend to sleep into the late hours of the evening, beneath the comfort of a heavy weighted blanket, until your phone went off or a nightmare pulled you from your slumber.

Your dry, tired eyes trace the blurry words of your computer screen, the bright white light beaming through the depths of your continuously darkening bedroom. The room is almost radio silent— save for the occasional crunching of chips between your teeth and the fan of your laptop working overtime. The text is almost hard to read, shying away behind a hazy glare.

‘One kid—6 year old girl. One pet— black bombay cat.’

Sounds promising. The letters are arranged in a blunt manner, straight to the point and even somewhat intimidating, but the clear boundaries and requirements listed are fair enough.. Maybe even tilted in your favor. Your cursor wanders, ready to further inspect the profile presumed to belong to the parent who created the listing.

Shouta Aizawa, a middle-aged man with a salt and pepper beard, long hair to match, and a distinctive scar below his eye— which looks milky and clear. The other, however, is a deep pool of brown, warm like melted chocolate. His irises melt into his long lashes, which remain straight and strict, much like the demeanor he emits in the headshot photo. It must be reminiscent of his ID, as his career is listed just below his picture.

Owner of Eraserhead Industries.

Huh.

Chewing the fleshy insides of your cheeks, your eyes dart across the screen, hesitantly inching the cursor over the bright, bolded ‘message’ button. Sparks ignite in your stomach, blooming in the expanse of your tummy as you type out,

‘When can I start?’

You hear yourself squeal, pushing away your mouse with your fingertips and hiding behind the warmth of your palms before your computer chimes in response. The message stares back at you, perforating into you as you read it over and over, trying to imagine how this—practicably— rich man would sound. You settle for a deep voice, giggling to yourself as you read out the message.

‘The sooner the better.’

The man is much scarier in person, and your imitation of his voice was nowhere near accurate.

His voice is much deeper than you thought, gravelly and not nearly as riddled with giggles like you’d tacked on. In fact, it only seems to deepen as he nurses a mug of black coffee, just one large hand completely shielding the cup in its entirety. He’d ordered it, busying himself with the sheets of paper he had placed upon the polished table as you explained just how much whipped cream you’d wanted in your milkshake to the waitress.

He takes up most of the space on his side of the booth in the homely café, his layers discarded and shed along the plush seating. The man with dark eyes, Shouta Aizawa, is a natural born leader. The physical embodiment of sticks and stones, seemingly stronger than Zeus himself, he seems to have no faults.

But that’s not what you should be focusing on, not now, when you’re preoccupied with narrowed, umber eyes. They look at you with nothing but impenetrable suspicion, remarkably intimidating despite belonging to someone who looks incredibly angelic. Tufts of frosty hair, unruly and disheveled and divine. The sun dawns down on Musutafu, framing his locks in a makeshift halo. He looks like a fallen angel, of sorts.

“I don’t trust my kids with other kids,” He says, watching the dark amalgamation of caffeine swirl in his porcelain cup. Does he consider his cat to be his kid, too? “How old are you?”

You perk up, straightening your back as you push your straw in and out of your sickeningly sweet milkshake. Whipped cream clings to the plastic, sticky and bubbly with foam, “Twenty-one, sir.”

Aizawa makes a face at that, steely eyes drooping further with the pinch of his dark eyebrows. They slot perfectly, intricate wrinkles firming between them. Did you… fuck it up? You’d consider yourself an adult— comparable to law, anyway. And you can be mature, especially when it counts, so there shouldn’t really be a problem!

It’s evident he loves his kids, despite the hard exterior that he’s showing off there’s a fatherly glint to his eye. A protective overlay to his words. It’s admirable, if anything. You’d even call it charming, the way his eyes bore into you from the outside-in and pick you apart, if it wasn’t so damn scary being on the receiving end.

“Do you drink?”

“…No?”

“Do you plan to?”

More of an interrogation than anything, you take an awfully long time to reply as you use his suspension as an opportunity to savor your milkshake.

“No.”

You make sure to sound more confident this time.

His questions have been asked before, over text and in a manner not as… blunt as you hear it now. But it’s all down to perception, and you’d managed to wrongfully pin Shouta Aizawa as a care-free, laid back guy. Though, from the looks of it, he seems to live up to the ladder. And, upon closer inspection, it does nothing to tarnish his looks.

“Mm,” Is all he says, humming in acknowledgment as a check is placed his way. “You’re young.”

“Young enough to be your son?” You ask, mouth faster than your brain, and suddenly you can’t stop. Your lips curl upward, a smile gracing your lips as you giggle, “People probably think you’re my sugar daddy or somethin’.”

He doesn’t seem to completely respond to that, letting the comment fly into the air as he shifts. Heat somersaults into your face, heating your body up until you find yourself unable to hold eye contact. Nice going.

You wrap your lips around the plump cherry slowly sinking into your drink, twirling the stem between your teeth. It explodes in your mouth, sharp and sweet along the expanse of your tongue, a nice distraction.

Something alien flickers behind his eyes, “Tech savvy?”

“I— Yeah! I play video games,” You almost forget this is an interview, not a date. The thought makes your brain a little fuzzy, cotton forming in your mouth as you stumble over your answer. “Not— Y'know, never on the clock.”

Shouta looks much more vulnerable with his head turned, his veiny hand reaching into the pocket of his inky pants, pulling out an equally dark credit card. No way. His handwriting is illegible, but the swooning waitress deems it acceptable, thanking him for the tip with a high blush on her cheeks. There isn’t a single ring on his calloused fingers, so it’s almost shocking he doesn’t jump at the opportunity

“Good. Eri likes games.” It’s the most praise you’ve heard all night, and hearing it from the deep rumble of his throat makes it even better. Your gaze must linger, because his dark eyes are staring back into yours, almost looking right through you.

“Eri? Your daughter?”

“I don’t like sharing personal information online.”

You laugh nervously, filling your mouth with the melting drink before he can comment.

“I—Woah, sir… your home is… beautiful.” It’s not just flattery, you genuinely, sincerely mean it. You’ve seen it before, sure, through text and under much more professional scrutiny, but the camera doesn’t do it justice. His house aches with love, wrapped up in kisses and enveloped in a sweet, cinnamon-scented embrace.

There’s a heavy amount of childish memorabilia, like crayon drawings hung up on his stainless steel fridge, miscellaneous toys littering the floor, and a pair of tiny shoes resting next to your own. They look comically small, glittery and pink and utterly, indubitably, reminiscent of a six year old girl. Especially in comparison to the sleek, black sneakers Shouta slips off next to them. Utterly, indubitably, reminiscent of a forty-one year old man.

Aizawa makes his way through the living room while you marvel in astonishment, taking in the sights of his house. Surprisingly, despite his not-so-settle display of wealth, his home is the opposite. It’s the real thing, with lived-in floors and comfy furniture..lively and bright. Sure, his sofa is a muted gray, but the portraits and polaroids and children’s drawings make up for it.

You follow along, nearly tripping over some misplaced barbies and action figures as you quickly remove your shoes and stumble forward. Like a newborn fawn, unfamiliar to its own legs, you walk forward with a bashful smile.

It was almost easy for you to forget that he’s human, and not some strong-willed work-machine designed to finish tasks and take care of children.

But the way his joints pop when he shifts a certain way, the way sweat trickles down his forehead after a long day of working in a stuffy office, proves otherwise. It was then, you realize, that he is all flesh and bones. Not pen ink or an indestructible force.

“Eri’s… picky. Try exposing her to different foods every now and then, there’s a list of recipes she likes on the fridge.”

Shouta’s leaning against the marble of his open-island kitchen, socked feet melting into the cold tile. You half-expected his socks to be just as dark as his clothes, so it’s a pleasant surprise to see cartoonish cat faces littering the fabric.

Right—anyway. You nod, though it’s mainly reserved for yourself, as your eyes rake up the words stuck to his fridge. Freshly printed out, not an inch out of place, you wonder how many times he’s done this. The gears turn in your head, clicking and grinding until your lips part, a breathless expression keyed into your facial features. Wait.

“Does that mean—”

“I’ll text you the extra details. Eri’s bedroom is upstairs, but you should wait for her to show it to you when she’s ready.”

Your apartment is a flimsy excuse of a home, nowhere near as intricate and thoroughly loved as Shouta’s. Walking inside, you realize just that, there isn’t even a hint of glitter or gleam as you walk through the front door. Even though you have yet to meet her, Eri’s already brightened up your life. Your walls scream with loneliness, the sound bouncing off each corner until you’re tucking yourself into bed and curling up beneath the sheets.

And though you barely know him, you can’t help but want to follow the childish urge to open up the website you found Aizawa’s listing on to study his headshot.

Eri, you’ve come to learn, is a very smart kid. Perhaps too smart for her own good, too observant, and way too excited to express said observations. You sit taut on the gray sofa, leaning over a sheet of paper as you carefully color between the lines of the thick, inky, coloringbook outline. But Eri’s got her own leaflet, vigorously coloring something she has yet to allow you to look at.

You haven’t known her long enough for the leaves to brown, to fall off and make room for winter. You haven’t known her long enough to see the leaves return, the chilly air slowly descending into something softer, quieter. Warmer with summer’s welcome. But she grew to accept you rather quickly.

It started soon after your first meeting with Aizawa, and to your dismay, you hadn’t really seen much of him after that. Only small traces and fragments, like the religious filling of Present Meow’s food bowl or notes tacked onto the fridge.

Admittedly, you kinda miss him.

You’ve become quite engrossed in Eri’s choice in television, watching the cartoon with just as much excitement as the six your old. It even makes you laugh, hearty and dinkum.

“How do you feel about niku-dofu for dinner tonight, Er-bear?” She barely moves, her tongue held between the corner of her lips as she furrows her brows in concentration. Whatever she’s coloring is much more important than dinner, apparently.

With outstretched limbs, you stand, reaching for the sky as a yawn is pulled from your chest and your eyes grow heavy. Being dragged along by a six year old all day is exhausting. The hairstyling, the nail-painting, the hero-pretending…the dolls.

(Eri quite enjoyed acting out soap-opera levels of dramatic scenes with dolls. And, of course, you could only be the man in these scenarios.)

But you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’ve grown attached in the span of a few weeks.

“I’ll take that as a yes then!” You chirp, setting down your finished page with a sense of pride. Might even have to add a signature to it!

With Eri’s toys scattered along the floor, despite your constant advisory to clean them up, walking through the house has become quite the challenge. An obstacle course of sorts that Aizawa must’ve been a master at getting through.

Aizawa… With dark circles that cast shadows down his mature face. With stubble that’s cleanly shaved, not a single hair out of place.

Aizawa…With his long, dark hair that frames his face with thick bundles.

Aizawa… Who almost constantly looks disgruntled, faintly pink lips pulled into a tight line.

Him and his signature crisp, black button up that barely fights against his large chest and his matching pants that cling to his stupidly strong thighs.

It makes your brain a little fuzzy, the thought of his equally large biceps bulging in his shirt as he crosses his arms and stares down at you through the bridge of his nose. And his eyes— piercing and domineering staring straight into yours, lips curled as he berates you like some sort of misbehaving child.

(Which you’d spent a lot of time arguing with him about through sticky-notes…The fridge is powered evidence, covered in neon paper as you remind him you’re ‘not a kid!’ beneath his ‘not bad, kid’ post-it note.)

“Hey? Are you okay?” Eri’s small voice snaps you out of your haze, wide and virtuous red eyes blinking up at you. Clutching her drawing to her chest, she shifts her weight between each leg. Her small smile is gone, so you do your best to conjure up a frolicsome grin.

“Never felt better! Finally ready to show me what you’re working on?”

“Mhm,” She hums, reminiscent of her father.

Eri’s picture is nothing short of sweet. Advanced for her age, she’s drawn three figures that resemble the three of you— herself, Aizawa, you— sitting happily at the generously furnished dining table. On her lap sits Present Meow, a black ball of crayon-esque fur, who has small, wobbly hearts above his head. You all do, actually, some bigger than others (e.i: you quite literally have heart eyes that take up more than half your crayon face), but big nonetheless.

Is your crush on her father really that obvious?

“Oh, Eri, that’s—”

The front door trembles, the doorknob clicking and jingling as it welcomes silver keys. Before your eyes, Shouta’s welcoming himself in, strong right arm pushing the door open. His shoulders are draped in exhaustion, his gray scarf tangled around his neck as he shuts the door behind him.

Embarrassment wells up in your stomach, overflowing until you’re hiding Eri’s drawing behind your back. He doesn’t typically come home this early. Usually within the late hours of the night, into early morning, he can be seen rummaging through the fridge for a drink until he heads upstairs, straight to bed.

Instead, he’s stalking forward.

Did his steps always shake the house like this, or are you just imagining it? You must be, it must be your heart in your ears, because your face is flooding with warmth as he towers over you and peeks over your shoulder.

“What’s behind your back?” He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow, faintly smelling of cigarette smoke.

“What? Noth—”

“Look!” Eri snatches the drawing from your clammy hands and pushes it into Shouta’s abdomen. He hunches over, just slightly, before taking in the image.

“Jesus, kid,” He clicks his tongue with a tenderhearted sigh, looping his thumb around the waistband of his black slacks. “You’re somethin’ else...”

You’d have thought it was meant for Eri if his gaze didn’t flicker up to meet yours.

Dinner rolled around fast, and you’d found yourself nicking your finger on one of Shouta’s large, sharpened knives. Cutting up a small portion of potatoes shouldn’t have been so trivial, a pained gasp escaped your lips as you pinched the tiny wound. You wince, instinctively sucking on the skin of your mangled finger.

“I told you to be careful,” He took your hand in his, swallowing it whole with his palms, and went as far as to berate you, grumbling, “Watch yourself. Are you okay?”

Breathless as you watched him open a nearby drawer, he pulled out a kiddie bandaid, decorated with polka dots and even more cats. You held still, letting him wrap the bandage around your finger nice and tight. And then, only then, did he place a small kiss on top.

“There you go, all better.” It’s a passing comment, only pried from his lips because he was so used to saying it to Eri, and he didn’t seem to realize just how flustered it made you. So you coughed into your hand, secretly hoping the warmth permeating off his body would return to your skin.

Now, with dinner finished, Eri has no problem shoveling the food into her mouth. Must've been all the running around, gave her an appetite fit for a grown woman. It’s not like you have room to talk, you’ve almost choked on your side of miso soup a whopping three times. Shouta seems to be the only composed person at the table.

“You got a little,” Shouta points to the corner of his mouth, waving his willowy finger in a quick, circular motion. “Right…there.”

“Hm?” He watches your face contort, timid and self conscious. He can’t help but smile, just a small upward quirk to the corner of his lips, that slowly disappears as he leans in to wipe off a few grains of rice from the side of your mouth.

There he goes again, acting all domestic, as he raises the same finger to his own mouth. Your pupils blow wide, heat forming in your stomach as he sucks off the rice with disregard for how this might look to anyone besides a father.

Your eyes flicker to Eri, who’s too busy fighting off sleep with the handle of her silver spoon, her tiny head jerking and bobbing every so often, to notice the display.

“I guess—- guess it’s time for bed!” Your voice cracks embarrassingly loud as you stand, quick to stop in your tracks when Aizawa follows suit.

“I got it.”

Aizawa, you’ve learned, says that quite a lot. Despite his generous hourly pay and your obligation to take care of his child, he insists it’s best if he cleans after her. Too intimidated to argue, you simply nod, falling back onto his couch as he ventures back for forth— upstairs and back.

Each time he returns, he notices the droop in your eyes, the way they slowly fall with each step he takes. It’s late, he should be escorting you home, but he doesn’t want to disturb your well-earned sleep session.

As he sits to finally take a break, letting his joins snap and pop, you fall face-first into his shoulder, smashing your cheek against the firm skin.

Your lips pucker, pouty and almost fish-like. Your boyish face, soft and not yet worn down by the tiresome nature of time in itself, looks undeniably cute. Perfect for kissing and irrevocably inviting. Your eyes are shut, lashes resting against your cheeks. Time stops, minutes passing within hours, as Shouta takes in your essence and stares down at your innocent face. Stealing a kiss would just be… so…easy…

“Fix your face,” He says instead, clearing his throat and directing his gaze to the dimly lit, yellow-tinted lamp resting on the end table placed by his half of the sofa. “Or it’ll get stuck like that.”

“M’sorry.” You whisper, bashful as ever despite the slippery hands of sleep reaching back for you. Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?

It makes Aizawa want to retract his statement, press his thumb into the unobtrusive crease forming between your pretty eyebrows. But it leaves before it has time to arrive— to settle, as your body relaxes once more. He observes for a moment, the dip of the couch as you finally sink your weight into it, the debt collectors contracted with sleep finally having caught up with you.

Preserving himself through all these years, none being particularly good to him, he wonders if you’ve faced any similar endeavors. He’d hate to leave you alone, cold and barren as another side of his bed remains despicably untouched, only the ghost of what could have been keeping him company during this sleep-centric night. Your breaths are slow and steady, lips briefly parting to mumble something he can’t quite grasp. Shouta tries anyway, tucking his stubbly chin against his collarbone as he leans forward.

His face is dangerously close, a mere inch separating the gap between his lips and soft, supple skin. With your head nuzzled against his shoulder—broad and wide—your words dispel into the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Alongside a fine layer of drool, something he's all too used to, that slowly spreads the deeper you fall into undisturbed sleep. A heavy sleeper then, he presumes.

Shouta keeps you close, pressing your body against his as he loops his other arm behind your legs and hoists you up. He’s careful to avoid any furniture, holding you with an iron grip as he steps up the creaky stairs. His hair bounces with each step, curly and dark, flowing down his back and streaked with gray.

“..Zawa…” Nearly dropping you, his mismatched gaze locks onto your face. Blissed out and camouflaged with slumber, you stir in his arms. “Kiss me ‘lready.”

Aizawa clears his throat, neck constricting as it tightens around the air. It’s fine, just a baseless comment, he decides, as he slowly opens his bedroom door, careful of the noise. You don’t seem to move after that, dozing in his arms until he’s setting you down into his bed. He really hopes you don’t mind it— he doesn’t have a guest bedroom, after all.

It’s dark in his room, blackout curtains covering any sliver of radiance from outside streetlights. So he flicks on the lamp on his bedside table, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest as he lifts his arms overhead to remove his shirt. Something cold prods at his back, and before he can shed the clothing, Shouta redirects himself to look back at you.

Half asleep, your foot creeps under the comfortable fabric of his shirt. You must’ve discarded your socks in your sleep, because you’re rubbing your eyes with balled up fists as if you’d just woken up. Doesn’t stop you from speaking, vocal cords strained, “S’this the part where we cuddle?”

Aizawa watches you shimmy out of your pants, obviously groggy and irrational from having just opened your eyes, your warm skin slowly being exposed inch by inch. You must overheat in your sleep.

“No, it’s not,” He groans out, sucking in a sharp intake of air as he takes in the mural being painted in front of him. “Go back to sleep, kid.”

“Don’ wanna,” You mumble, much more awake as your eyes hone in on the skin of his back that he’s partially exposing. “And I’m not a kid.”

“Sound like one.” You hear him grovel under his breath, almost as if you were meant to hear it. Aizawa has quite the ability to be silent when he wants to, he can creep up on you without you ever noticing. So you suck your teeth, sitting up in his bed.

He expects you to respond with something witty, something he has to pretend he doesn’t find funny. But you don’t, instead staying uncharacteristically silent. Had it not been the dip in his mattress, he would have assumed you dissolved into thin air.

God, how you hope he won’t find you childish for this.

“Sir, I,” Shouta stiffens, his hair falling from behind his ear as he turns to fully face you. “Can I kiss you?”

“Can you..” He trails off, watching your bottom lip jut out. Plump and shiny, Aizawa resists the urge to sink his teeth into it. How soft would they feel? Would you cry into his mouth if he bit too hard? Anything in his hands becomes fragile, and he wants to know how far you can bend before you break. “Can you kiss me?”

He doesn’t give you time to respond, grabbing your ankle with his rough hands to drag you down into him. Your pretty eyes widen, large and unsuspecting as he crashes his lips against yours, feverish and desperate.

His tongue swipes over your lower lip and eagerly awaits yours, tasting faintly of cigarette smoke and cinnamon. Undeniably Shouta, you can’t help but whimper into his mouth, tangling your fingers into his disheveled hair. His mouth is warm and wet— almost searing hot, and you can’t help but choke on your own breaths. You sink into the kiss, floaty and dumbstruck by his urgency.

Like a starved man, he pushes you down on your back and tangles his big hands in the waistline of your boxers, tugging the elastic apart until it rips with a ‘snap!’. You’re exposed, legs instinctively closing to shield your half naked body.

“Aht-aht. Sit still,” Aizawa hand quickly latches around the base of your dick, sending shocks of electricity up your smaller (in comparison to his) body. You tug on his wrist, eyes burning with unshed tears as he stares down at you, predatory and famished. “When’s the last time you played with this pretty cock? Did you think of me?”

He doesn’t give you time to speak, instead spitting down onto your cock with a thick, shiny glob of spit. You can’t help but moan, watching it slide down and heat up through his fingers. His hand envelops you entirely, big and warm and squelching as he accentuates his words with particularly sharp pumps.

“Oh, sweetheart,” His voice sounds condescending and feignedly sweet, you swear you could cum just from hearing it. “S’been a while, huh? Yeah? S’why you’re leaking all over my hand?”

You feel yourself nod, quick and enthusiastic as you melt into his palm. Your legs turn into jello, numb against his warm sheets, as your toes curl and your back slowly inches off the mattress. Shouta’s eyes are lidded and heavy, drinking you in and burning you from the inside out. You keen, pulsating in his hand until the warmth is suddenly gone, and you’re blinking away frustrated tears.

“No—!”

“Greedy brat,” Shouta’s quick to shut you up, large hands sinking into the plush skin of your thighs as he spreads your legs open impossibly wide. “Fuck, got a greedy hole on you too.”

Your hole clenches in response, eager to have his attention. You can feel a trail of precum and spit soaking the area, warm and wet, not yet reminiscent of his cum. Soon enough, you hope, he’ll be filling you to the brim and then some. Your hands, somehow forgotten, scramble to unbutton his dress shirt.

Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, you gasp in retaliation to his big hand clutching your jaw with indescribable force and pressure. Trying to leave finger-shaped bruises. Your lips part, tongue pushed free from your squished cheeks as you blink up at him, eyes dancing between one milky-white iris and another, only chocolate brown.

“Go on, say it. Tell Daddy you’re a greedy boy with a greedy little hole,” He’s spitting into your mouth, a thin trail of saliva indirectly connecting his tongue to yours. “You can do it, sugar.”

Oh. Oxygen disconnects from your lungs, dumbly blinking up at him with a garbled moan. You can’t speak if you wanted to, not with his hand around your jaw like this, so you settle for swallowing down his spit with a feeble smile. All you can push out is a mangled ‘Daddy!’ but Aizawa seems to take that for an answer, groaning as he hikes your knees up to your chest, sighing when you squeal in response.

His big, warm body is pressed up against yours, much bigger and stronger, and it’s apparent in every movement he makes. He’s able to push you around, flip you over and push you down with barely a finger, and you’re sure his hand can cover the entirety of your face. You moan, wanton and sweet in his ears as he maneuvers your arms to keep your legs up.

“Gonna take real good care of you,” Shouta— Daddy sighs, hunched over and breathing dangerously close to your entrance. Almost like he’s talking to your hole instead of you, and you’d protest if it weren’t for the hot, wet stripe he’d just licked down from your perineum to your hole. Your body feels warm and tingly, legs twitching as his tongue prods and pokes deeper and deeper, slowly slipping inside. “Gonna let Daddy take care of you?”

He’s sure to make it messy, adding generous amounts of drool and spit along your sensitive hole, eating you out like he gets paid to do it. He makes you lay there and take it, holding your legs open like some cheap whore, settling between your thighs with feverish and hungry kisses. Making out with your hole, you watch with heavy eyes and a gaped mouth.

“Yeah, yeah..” You moan subconsciously, a constant stream leaving your pretty, parted lips. He takes the opportunity to fill your mouth with his fingers, long and scarred as his fingertips run along your pink tongue. His fingers taste vaguely of salt, and you can’t help but suck on them, eyes fluttering in content.

You barely catch it, a small kiss being placed on the curve of your jaw until he’s freeing his fingers from your mouth. He resists the urge to shove them down your throat, watch your eyes get glassy and wet as you gag on his fingers like you would his cock.

“Gotta get this cunt nice n’ ready. Watch me eat you out, boy,” His voice has dropped several octaves—if that’s even possible—thick and heavy and reverberating straight into your hole. It’s like he knows you by heart, even if this is your first time together, because he’s slotting his thick, scarred fingers in along with his tongue. “Such a pretty hole. Matches your face.”

Through the haze you’re still able to mumble out a quiet, “Thank you,” timid, small, and broken up between moans.

“Good boy, still remembering your manners,” He sounds just as breathless as you, pressing his fingertips against the special spot inside of you. Your body jolts, a shriek ripping from your throat as he puts pressure on it, bullies it with his fingers, and follows suit with his tongue. Too much. “Shh, I know. Try to stay quiet for me.”

For me. The implication has you whining, high in your throat and pitiful as you nod to no one in particular, wiggling in your boss’s hold. For me. The implication has you whining, high in your throat and pitiful as you nod to no one in particular, wiggling in your boss’s hold.

You want to be good, be the best boy you can be, but you just can’t help it. The complete opposite of what he’s told you to do, high off his fingers as your body clenches and your moans grow louder and louder, fingernails digging into the soft surface of the back of your knees. He just presses and presses and—

Stops. Abrupt and fleeting until his hand is back, but instead in the form of a harsh slap right across the back of your thighs. Your sit spots.

“Wh- mm-mm…! Waitwait..Daddy—!” You’re stunned, stuttering and stumbling over your words as you fail to recollect what just happened. You press your face into your knees, bunched up tight as tears spring in your eyes. “That hu—urts.”

The pout in your voice is evident, and Shouta can’t help but coo. Especially when your cock, lodged right between the thickness of your thighs, jumps and leaks more precum. His own throbs in his pants, leaking into his underwear and leaving him sticky. God, he can’t wait to feel your hole twitch around his dick.

“You’re a big boy. I know you can take it, you said it yourself, didn’t you?” And there it is again, the fog that casts over your brain as you can only think of being good. Good for Shouta. Good for your Daddy.

There’s a sharp smack right on top of your little hole, the entrance winking back in retaliation as you sob into your knees. The pain doesn’t last long, simmers down and is easily replaced by heat when his fingers rub soothing circles around your rim.

“Daddy,” Your voice comes out much sweeter and wet, letting out a small sniffle as you peek out to watch him place open-mouthed kisses against your hole. “Want you.”

“You have me, boy,” His heart melts, and a soft smile creeps up on his handsome face. His tie dangles as he shifts his weight, opening his bedside drawer to pull out a condom and cherry flavored lube. Ironic. “Now let me in, wanna make your pretty fuckhole cream around my cock.”

“Wait,” You rasp, watching him tear open the packaging with his teeth. You’re still breathless and shaky, but you’re trying your best. “Wanna feel you. Wanna feel you inside me.”

Aizawa’s deep groans are music to your ears, and your eyes threaten to roll back into your skull when he frees himself of his shirt and sheds his pants. His dickprint is big and thick, throbbing in the fabric and sticky with fresh precum. You want to taste it. His cock springs free as his briefs drop to the floor, slapping against his abdomen and weeping.

You watch him fuck his fist, pouring the slick lube down his cock and warming it up with his palm.

“Yeah? You want it? Gonna listen to Daddy so he can put his thick cock in that sloppy little hole? C’mere before I shoot into my fist.”

You nod so hard it hurts, squeezing your shaft to stop yourself from cumming to his words alone. Your cock twitches in your hand, hard and wet as Shouta walks forward to meet you at the edge of the bed and scoops you up into his arms like you’re weightless. It must be easy for him, seeing as he’s so much bigger than you in every way.

“Won’t fit—”

“Shh,” Like he knows what you’re going to say before you can utter it, Shouta lifts you into the air with ease, and you can feel his cock pressing against your puckered hole. “We’ll make it fit.”

Your back presses against his chest, upright as he loops his arms around the backs of your knees. You’re spread wide, and with Shouta’s strong grip, all you can do is sit there and take it. You can feel him twitch and throb from the inside-out, his cock gushing pre as you sink down onto his cock. Your eyes roll back, wanton moans and a chant of ‘DaddyDaddyDaddy’ filling the air as snaps his hips, barely letting you adjust.

His dick is stretching you open, thick and long, and pulsing and veiny as you feel it bulge in your tummy, pushing past your rim and filling you up.

“Thought about this for weeks,” Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly you’re too far gone to answer. “I—yeah, should’ve fucked you in that café.”

From the… Start?

Heat pools on your stomach, his cock punching your insides and kissing each sensitive ridge with every movement he makes. Your moans are unintelligible, barely even coherent, as he fucks into you, lifting you off his cock again, and again, and again. Cock-drunk while his dick rearranges your guts, drool slips from your mouth and down your chest.

You look pathetic and ruined.

“So cute like this, pretty baby. You make the dumbest little faces when you’re fucked stupid on Daddy’s cock, but still so damn cute.”

His cock drags in and out of your plushy walls, precum and lube making a creamy concoction along his shaft with each thrust. Your face is stained with tears and drool, mouth open wide as you pant and whine.

The knot in your stomach tightens, your hole beating around his cock as Aizawa moans, and you feel your body go numb as you shudder and convulse. You’re cumming, and your smaller hands squeeze his big ones as he uses you like a fucktoy, bouncing off his lap with tiny, “Mm, mm, mm’s.” Your hole grips him like a vice, swallowing his cock deeper and deeper until you feel warmth flooding your stomach, your balls tightening by the second.

“Da—addy please, m’cummin’, m’cummin’!”

“There you go, smart little boy,” Shouta groans loud in your ear, twitching in your tummy when you clamp down on his dick. He wants to fuck his cum into you, you deserve it. You deserve his cock, you deserve his load, you deserve to be stuffed full until you’ve milked his dick for all he’s got— all it’s worth. “Just keep bouncin’, so fuckin good at it, gush on my cock. What d’you say, baby? What d’you say to Daddy?”

You wish you could see him, the grit of his teeth as his thrusts turn sloppy and messy. But you know he can see you, staring down at the cum painting your chest as it squirts out your cock in thick, rapid ropes. Mixing with your tears and drool, you know you look like sex on legs, eyes void of everything but the need for cock.

“Thankyouthankyouthank—fu-huck,” His cock is jackhammering so deep you can barely breathe. “Thank you, Daddy!”

“Gonna make you just like Daddy, gonna make you one too,” It must send him over the edge, the sounds of your hole squelching as he scrambles your insides, because he’s quick to shoot a creamy, hot load of cum straight inside you. “Wanna be a big boy so bad? Then—fuuuck— take it like one.”

He gives a few last slow, deep thrusts inside so his cum really takes, carefully freeing your legs as you collapse onto him with a breathy moan.

“‘Zawa…”

“C’mere, brat,” You’re quick to whine, weakly pressing your face into the expanse of his large chest, all tears and snot and cum as he cradles your head between his large hand and his even larger chest. You feel protected in his arms, shrinking even smaller into his lap as your eyes slip closed and his cum leaks down your thighs. “You’re a good boy. My good boy.”

Shouta’s hand is ablaze when he brushes it along your forehead, soon after replacing it with a gentle kiss. He means it.

“Let Daddy take care of you.”

[vampsywrites]

III — i remember her hands, and the way the mountains looked.

Synopsis: In which the Sullys approach the mountain clan for sanctuary. The Olo'eykte agrees but proposes one condition: Toruk Makto's eldest son must be promised to her daughter. Surprisingly, instead of the solemn response one would expect, Neteyam agrees almost instantaneously.

Tags: Female! Mountain Na'vi! Reader, Arranged Marriage, Strangers to Lovers, Neteyam is whipped, A LOT of romantic tension

Word Count: 4.5k | AO3 LINK

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

In the early morning light, you took Neteyam to a secluded spot in the village, away from prying eyes. Aside from being Tsahìk, your expertise in climbing with ropes and harnesses was also well-known, and you had taken it upon yourself to teach him the ropes — quite literally.

As you began the lesson, your arms gently guided him, demonstrating the proper way to tie and secure the rope over his waist and thighs. 

"Tuck this into here," you instructed, your voice soothing yet firm. "This must be tight to ensure safety. Watch."

Neteyam looked on, watching intently but his attention was elsewhere. 

Instead of fully absorbing your instructions. his eyes remained fixated on every detail of your unique appearance. From the slope of your flat nose, the curve of your lips, and the thickness of your eyelashes that accentuated your big, milky eyes. Along with this was his strange fascination with your frosty blue skin, ample and adorned with delicate ivory specks.

"Are you listening?" you check.

"Yes," he affirmed but this was far from the truth. 

In Neteyam's defense, he was listening, just not in the way you might have wanted. From the moment you met, you had been a woman of few words — reserved, and enigmatic. However, now, as you took on the role of his karyu, his teacher, Neteyam saw an opportunity to experience a different, more personal side of you. And so, he wanted to etch the sound of your voice into his memory, to savor every word that left your lips. 

Your voice had a lilt that captivated him — calm yet firm, with a low and husky undertone that was enhanced by your distinct Iuva'rian accent. Every now and then, your words would subtly slip, and your village dialect would shine through, adding an intriguing layer of depth to your teaching.

The sound of you clearing your throat snapped him out of his deep thoughts, and the Omatikayan blinked blearily, shaking his head for a few seconds to refocus his attention. Dismissing his momentary distraction, you reached out and handed him the end of the rope.

"Attach the end of the rope to this tree," you instructed, pointing to a massive pine nearby. Neteyam moved to tie a secure anchor around the trunk, ensuring it would hold firm. You then took the other end of the rope and demonstrated how to loop it through his harness, which was fashioned from sturdy leather. To your relief, Neteyam paid proper attention this time and followed your instructions to the best of his ability.

"This harness will distribute your weight. Allowing you to use your hands and legs more freely," you explained, patting the leather. "It is your lifeline."

Stepping back, your eyes ran up and down his body, assessing everything. You noticed how he hadn't secured his harness properly, the rope left uncomfortably loose. With a huff of disapproval, you settled in front of him, your focused gaze fixed on his mistake. Your hands, soft yet purposeful, moved with practiced ease as you adjusted the harness, ensuring it was secure and would hold his weight properly. 

As your fingers brushed against his lower abdomen and thighs, a surge of static energy seemed to pass between you, and a shiver ran up Neteyam's spine from the unexpected sensation. The closeness between you, the shared proximity, made his heart race, and he found himself mesmerized by every move you made.

Tilting your head up, you caught his gaze, and a lopsided frown appeared on your lips. 

"You are looking at me with those eyes again," you chided.

"What eyes?" he murmured, still dazed and lost in his admiration of you.

"You must stop staring at me," you responded with a hint of a snarl, trying to bring his focus back to the lesson.

"Can't I stare at my future mate?" he grinned smugly, tail swinging by his feet languidly.

In response, you hissed and gave him a light slap on the side of his head. "Focus. Your form is bad. Fix it."

With an amused expression, Neteyam firmly gripped the side of the rock wall and adjusted his posture, heart set on impressing you and proving his worth.

"No," you tutted, stepping back to demonstrate the proper posture. You inhaled deeply, showcasing how to engage the core muscles and tighten the abdomen.

"Stronger," you instructed, tapping at your tensed stomach to emphasize the point.

He tried to emulate your actions, sucking in air and adjusting his form, but the task proved more arduous than he anticipated. Frustration flickered across your face, and Neteyam couldn't help but feel a pang of dissatisfaction, his ego taking a hit.

Again, you moved towards him, now pressing your front against his back. As your arms encircled him, a wave of searing heat surged through his body, leaving him breathless. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as your breath brushed against the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. 

Your hands, warm and gentle, traced the contours of his bare, muscled skin as you adjusted his arms and sides. The intimate touch sent his mind into a whirlwind of emotions, and he struggled to focus on anything other than the intoxicating proximity between you.

Finally, once his form was proper, you stepped away to view his posture, still unaware of the effect your touch had on him.

"Good," you hummed with approval. "Keep that form as we climb."

As you prepared him to start ascending, you placed a calming hand atop his chest, noticing how his heart pounded rapidly beneath your touch. Unaware of the true reason for his flustered state, you peered up at him, thinking he might be having second thoughts about the climb.

"You are scared?" you questioned, the slightest hint of concern in your voice.

"'M not scared," his words came out in a mumble as he tried to hide the truth. "Why would I be scared?"

Huffing softly, you made one last adjustment to his form, your hands gently pressing at his hard abdomen and slapping at any awkward limb placement, an effort to help him overcome whatever uncertainties he might be facing. 

"Listen. As you climb, I'll stay below to control the rope. If you slip or lose your grip, I'll hold the rope tight to catch you," your small hands brushed up his jawline, turning his head to face you. "Trust me as I trust you."

"Got it," Neteyam nodded and began his climb. He moved upward, his hands trembling as he gripped the coarse surface of the rock, his fingers struggling to find solid handholds. Each time he tried to place his foot on a protruding edge, it slipped, sending small pebbles cascading down the cliff face. 

He took a moment to assess the rock in front of him, his eyes scanning for the best path upward. After a few deep breaths to steady himself, he made a decision and reached out, testing a small crevice with his fingertips. It seemed secure enough, so he cautiously shifted his weight and pulled himself upward.

"Ngh!" Neteyam grunted, his biceps straining as he lifted himself higher up the rock wall. Despite his efforts, his initial progress was still awkward and uncoordinated. He swung his legs around, searching for footholds, but it seemed like every attempt led to more frustration. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and his face burned with both exertion and embarrassment as he struggled to find his rhythm.

He had thought it would be easy, considering how he climbed trees all the time back home, but the mountains presented a whole new challenge. They lacked branches or sturdy trunks to cling onto; instead, they were rough, wide, and open, demanding an entirely different set of skills.

"You are like a baby! You think too much!" you scolded, picking up on his indecision and observing the rigid strain in his back muscles. "Find the holdings in the rock!"

"I am trying," Neteyam replied, voice tinged with frustration. The rough terrain scratched at his skin, his arms strained as he struggled to find the right grip, and the weight of each step felt heavier with every passing moment. "It is not as easy as you say it is!"

"Look for the natural holds, the cracks, and the crevices," you advised, drawing from your own experiences scaling these heights. "Use your instincts, and trust your body. The mountain will guide you."

Neteyam nodded, but his struggles persisted, and it was evident that he was stiff, overthinking each and every step. If he continued on like this, the risk of a fall was high.

"Mawey. Take a moment to rest," you urged firmly. He obliged and halted his movements.

With the climb momentarily paused, Neteyam caught his breath and tilted his head back to take in the breathtaking view before him. The sight punched a gasp out from his chest—the vast fields stretching out like a painted canvas, the lush forests below, carpeting the landscape in vibrant greens, and the riders gracefully soaring on their ikrans high above. 

The soft caress of the gentle breeze kissed his cheeks, carrying along leaves and the scents of flora that adorned the mountain's slopes. As the wind brushed through his hair, Neteyam closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the peace and tranquility that settled over him. 

"Try again, Neteyam," you shouted up at him. "Let the rock guide you. Slow your pace and take your time; it's not a race."

Taking a deep breath, Neteyam attempted to ease his pace, allowing himself a moment to study the wall of stone before him. He faintly began to recognize the patterns and natural holds, the crevices, and folds that could be used to his advantage.

With newfound focus, he started to move more freely, trusting his instincts and allowing his body to flow with the terrain. His motions became less rigid, and he started to use the momentum of his body to propel himself upward, one confident movement at a time.

"That's it," you encouraged, an impressed smile gracing your face. "You are learning to climb. Let the mountain become an extension of yourself."

As Neteyam climbed higher, he discovered a sense of connection with the ancient stone, almost as if he and it were in sync. The initial clumsiness gave way to a familiarity he hadn't known he possessed. The wind played with his hair, and the distant calls of the mountain banshees echoed through the slopes above. Time seemed to slow as he focused solely on the present moment, the climb becoming an intimate conversation between him and the mountains.

Overlooking the village, you and Neteyam now stood at the high plateau, the world spread out below you like a vast canvas. The mountains had always been your personal sanctuary, a place where you found peace and strength, a respite away from the stress of your responsibilities. So, seeing Neteyam experience this awe-inspiring view for the first time brought a smile to your face.

You moved to sit by him, taking his hands in yours, and carefully tending to the scratches on his arms with a salve you always carried. The soothing ointment provided a gentle touch to his roughened skin, and he looked at you with a mix of gratitude and affection.

"It is rare for someone to pick things up so quickly. You are a very fast learner," you say, breaking the silence to praise him. "You also do not give up easily. You have a strong heart."

"Thank you," Neteyam replied, pride evident in his voice as he preened from your heartfelt compliments, a fanged grin stretching across his cheeks.

He then turned his attention back towards the view, his eyes sparkling with wonder and captivation as he beheld the breathtaking beauty spread out before him. 

"It is like nothing I've ever seen," Neteyam marveled, his voice thick with an accent native to the forests. "Back home the sky is usually hidden by tall trees. You'd have to climb up one if you want a glimpse."

Pausing your ministrations, you leaned toward him. "Tell me more," you urged, genuinely curious. "What is it like in the forest?"

A spark ignited in Neteyam's eyes as he delved into a passionate account of his experiences in his home village. He spoke with animated enthusiasm, painting vivid pictures of the lush greenery that adorned the landscape, each vibrant flora seemingly glowing with its own bioluminescent brilliance. The rivers and cascading waterfalls he described were a source of life, teeming with an abundance of fresh fish. 

With every word, he brought to life the swift direhorses, their graceful forms racing across the terrain, and the fearsome thanators, lean and agile stalking through the night. Mixed in with that joy, there was a longing in his voice, a yearning to experience it once more.

"Do you miss it?" you asked, cutting him off gently, your keen perception sensing the ache in his heart.

"Yes," he sighed wistfully, the weight of nostalgia evident in his chest. "I really do."

You offered a comforting presence, placing a hand over his shoulder in a gesture of solace. The two of you then moved to lay on the soft grass, resting side by side in the embrace of nature. A companionable silence settled between you, hearts connected over the memories of home and the beauty of the world you both cherished.

In the midst of this peaceful moment, a question that had lingered in your mind resurfaced.

"Neteyam?" you called out, turning on your side. His ears flicked in curiosity as he looked towards you, brows raised.

"The banshee you rode a few days ago... Was she yours?" you murmured softly.

"Yes," Neteyam confirmed, a fond smile touching his lips. "Do you want to meet her?"

You nodded eagerly, and he stood up, offering you a hand. You took it, his battle-hardened palm was rough against your skin but his touch had a comforting warmth to it. With a gentle tug, he effortlessly lifted you off the ground, dragging you toward the edge of the peak.

Emitting a powerful cry, Neteyam called for his ikran, the sound echoing through the air. Moments later, the sky came alive with the powerful flapping of wings, and she arrived with a resonating squawk. Her mighty form hovered before you, and you were left breathless by the sight of her robust wings enveloped in the light. 

As she landed gracefully before you, you couldn't help but be in awe of her presence. Her eyes, filled with intelligence and a hint of curiosity, locked onto yours, and it felt as though she could see into your very soul.

Neteyam approached his ikran with a calm and composed demeanor making tsaheylu.

"This is Seze," he introduced you to her. "I have been flying with her ever since I was thirteen."

Your excitement was palpable as you gazed upon the majestic banshee before you. Your hand reached out cautiously, not wanting to startle her, as you gently stroked her strong chest and neck. The sensation of her thick, supple skin beneath your fingers sent a thrill through your entire being.

"She is beautiful," you cooed, tail swishing behind you in joy. 

"Yes. Very beautiful." Neteyam's response was soft, and though he agreed with your sentiment, it was clear that his focus wasn't on Seze. Instead, his gaze was fixed on you, and you could feel the intensity of his stare as if he was trying to memorize every detail of your being. There was something in the way he looked at you, a certain depth of emotion that couldn't be easily put into words.

A warm and shy smile graced your lips as you turned away from Neteyam, now facing back toward the vast expanse of the open sky.

"I too will show you mine," you declared. With a sharp whistle, you called for your ikran to join the encounter. 

In response to your call, your spirit sister appeared in all her glory, gliding gracefully through the air before landing near you with an air of elegance. Beaming, you watched as her wings fluttered in excitement. It had been long since you last met up with her. Your duties as Tsahìk had kept you busy for a long, long while.

"This is Ayvit. She is my spirit sister," you proudly gestured to her. Reaching for your kuru, you gently made tsaheylu, cooing affectionately at your sweet girl.

"It is nice to meet her," Neteyam said warmly as he moved to run a hand up your ikran's snout. Ayvit let out a soft chirp as if acknowledging Neteyam and his banshee, and you couldn't help but smile at the interaction between them.

"I think she likes me," he remarked, observing the gentle way Ayvit tilted her head in his direction.

"Yes, you are very likable," you replied, timidly averting your gaze to the ground.

"I am?" Neteyam grinned, his expression filled with a mix of amusement and charm. It was evident that his confidence had grown during your time together, and that paired with your newfound ease around his presence further deepened your growing relationship.

With a shake of your head, you gently nudged at his head in a playful manner. Then, turning around, you reached into Ayvit's saddle, retrieving a riding visor from the compartment. As you lifted it up, it became evident that this visor was unlike anything Neteyam was accustomed to seeing back home.

Your riding visor had an exotic design, native to your clan. It was rounder and adorned with vibrant colors and shimmering gems, a striking contrast to the simpler styles he was used to. The woven headpiece was crafted in a soft lilac hue, complementing your skin's natural blue tone. 

After slipping off your headpiece that denoted your status as Tsahìk, you placed the visor atop your head, securing it around your ears. The moment seemed to mark a shift, as you felt a sense of liberation wash over you as if you were shedding the formalities to reveal a more unburdened and personal side of yourself to Neteyam.

With practiced ease, you moved towards Ayvit, a rush of anticipation surging through your veins. You climbed onto the saddle, feeling the smooth, cool leather beneath your fingertips. Quickly, you secured yourself, making sure the bindings were tight and fastened well.

"Come," you grinned at Neteyam, tail coiling as a glint of thrill danced in your eyes. "Let's ride!"

With a whoop of exhilaration, you urged Ayvit forward, and with a powerful thrust of her wings, she propelled herself off the mountain peak. Neteyam laughed as he swiftly mounted Seze and joined you in flight. 

As you and Neteyam soared through the vast open skies, the wind tousled at your hair and caressed your cheeks, carrying the scents of the wild. The beating of Ayvit's powerful wings resonated in perfect rhythm with Seze's. 

Peals of laughter slipped from your lips, blending with the rush of air around you. Gazing at Neteyam, you couldn't help but be captivated by the joy etched on his face. His eyes sparkled with excitement, and a radiant, handsome smile adorned his features. 

Together, you explored the breathtaking landscapes from above, the lush forests, the winding rivers, and the towering mountains painted in hues of orange and pink by the setting sun. Ayvit and Seze seemed to revel in the thrill of the flight, each spread of their wings carrying you higher and further, as if they, too, were caught up in the strengthening of your bond.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the hues of warm sunset in the sky washed away, now bathed in the tranquil colors of twilight. With Ayvit and Seze now keeping a steady pace, you and Neteyam glided side by side, enjoying the serene, dreamlike ambiance of the atmosphere.

"We have to return soon," you called out to Neteyam. The warrior looked to you in confusion.

Guiding Ayvit to fly closer to his side, you reminded him, "I promised your brothers and sisters I would teach them how to make a healing salve. They must be waiting."

Neteyam merely hummed in response, his gaze lingering on you with a tender smile. 

"Let them wait," he spoke softly. "I want to spend more time with you."

His words stirred a delightful flutter in your chest, and you couldn't help but feel a smile creep onto your face. With a subtle click of your tongue, you urged Ayvit to turn slightly, now flying a bit farther from him.

Shifting your gaze, you couldn't help but steal secret glances at Neteyam's figure, utterly mesmerized as he skillfully guided Seze through the night sky. 

Eywa... Had he always been this handsome?

His thick, braided hair, the color of dark ink, cascaded down his broad shoulders, catching the moonlight as it whipped through the crisp air. His strong, sharp jaw and cheek exuded a rugged masculinity that contrasted beautifully with the gentleness in his eyes. Those eyes, the color of rich gold and flecked with hues of deep burgundy were windows to a soul that carried the weight of the world. 

Neteyam was both beautiful and mighty.

And he was to be yours.

Late at night, your healing hut exuded a soothing atmosphere, filled with the soft glow of torchlight and the gentle radiance of bioluminescent plants which cast a gentle, ethereal glow that bathed the room in cool colors.

Tuktirey, with her wide, curious eyes, wandered around the room in awe. She was captivated by the sight of the glowing medicinal flora adorning the walls, and her small hands reached out to explore the many trinkets that adorned your hut. With childlike wonder, she immersed herself in the enchanting environment, discovering new wonders at every turn.

Meanwhile, you and the older Sully kids gathered around a table. Guiding them step-by-step, you taught them the art of crafting a simple healing salve, constantly emphasizing its importance for treating mild injuries.

"This is called ngamut," you patiently explained, the unfamiliar dialect causing some confusion among them as they struggled to pronounce the word.

"Gamut?" Neteyam attempted, his accent thick, making an earnest effort to mimic the foreign syllables.

Shaking your head, you repeated it once more, enunciating it more clearly, "Ngamut."

"Agamut?" Neteyam toyed with you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

In response, you huffed and affectionately flicked the side of his head. 

"Ngamuutt," you emphasized, drawing out the word to help him get the pronunciation right.

"Ngamuutt," he repeated, his smile growing wider, knowing he finally got it correct. With a nod of approval, you resumed stirring the paste, your skilled hands expertly mixing the ingredients.

“You two are already acting like a mated couple,” Lo'ak teased, lazily holding his bowl of paste in one hand. The medicine in the bowl, if you could even call it that, was a sad mess of lazily torn leaves and clumsily poured syrup, hardly resembling a proper healing salve.

"Leave them be," Kiri rolled her eyes, taking the monstrosity of a paste away from Lo'ak and attempting to salvage it. "I think it's good that they are getting along well."

"We really do," Neteyam agrees, his expression soft as he peered at you. He holds your stare for a moment before turning to his siblings.

"But I have to tell you—she is a very harsh teacher. It's either her way or die," he grins.

You couldn't help but smirk at his remark. "I told you I wasn't going to baby you," you retorted, playfully flicking a bit of the messy paste towards him.

Neteyam laughed, the sound like music to your ears. "I know, I know," he replied, his grin never fading. "But I have to admit, your teaching methods are effective."

"I am aware," you replied with a smug look before swiftly snapping back into your stern demeanor. "But this flattery will get you nowhere. Come now, let me see your paste."

As you leaned over to inspect the paste Neteyam had made, he unexpectedly turned his face toward you. The sudden movement caused his lips to brush against yours, and you both froze. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Both your eyes met—milky blues locking with golden browns—as you both silently drank in each other's features.

Faintly, you could feel Neteyam's hand brushing gently against your sides, and a shiver ran up your spine from the touch of his calloused fingers against your skin. The connection between you felt electric, a tingling sensation spreading through your body.

The daze was broken as Kiri cleared her throat, interrupting the moment. Both of you snapped out of your trance, but the lingering tension between you and him remained palpable, shimmering just beneath the surface. A touch of bashfulness colored your expressions, cheeks flushed from the shared vulnerability of that brief, intimate encounter. 

Lo'ak's smug expression didn't help, fangs poking out from his lips in a teasing grin. You shot him a half-hearted glare, hoping to deter any further teasing, but it only seemed to fuel him.

"Well," he chimed, "looks like you two had quite the moment there."

"Lo'ak, your paste is going to end up poisoning someone," you snapped, trying to deflect the attention from the romantic moment. "Fix it."

Lo'ak's mouth dropped in shock, an offended expression washing over him as he began to protest. Ignoring his complaints, you quickly regained your composure and shifted your focus back to the lesson at hand.

"Neteyam, your paste is watery," you pointed out. "Add more leaves and stir it slowly to thicken it up."

The warrior nodded, still looking a little flustered as he busied himself with the medication, trying his best to focus and ignore the lingering warmth from the almost kiss. 

Throughout the lesson, glances were exchanged, small smiles were shared, and the air seemed thick with your unspoken feelings. Kiri and Lo'ak could clearly notice the change, sharing knowing looks between themselves. Despite this, they chose to respect the unspoken bond forming between you and Neteyam, allowing you both the space to navigate this new territory.

As the night wore on, you finally deemed them capable enough, and the lesson was complete. The Sullys began to gather their things, expressing gratitude for your teaching and slowly making their way out of the hut. Neteyam, however, stayed back for a moment, his intense stare lingering on you. 

Before he left, he took a step closer, and with a tender touch, ran a hand up your cheek, his rough fingers gentle against your skin. The touch of him against you sent a pulse of warmth through your body, and you leaned into the warrior's touch, savoring the tender moment. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, syulang," he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of affection and anticipation.

"Tomorrow," you replied softly, caressing the back of his hand, feeling the steady beat of his heart pulsating through his veins.

As the Sully kids bid their final farewells and left your hut, you pressed your back against the woven door, trying to steady your racing heart. The soft glow of torchlight and bioluminescent plants bathed the room, mirroring the gentle pink glow that now enveloped your very being.

"I see him," you draw in a sharp breath, a hand clasping over your chest.

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

some romance is finally blooming ! it would be so bad if something happened to our couple, huh? also guys, i can't thank you enough for the comments! there are a lot of them from both my ao3 and tumblr so i get overwhelmed and don't know what to reply but just know that i appreciate it all so much! xoxoxo

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If you can't see your blog, that means I could tag you! :(

[contentloadinggg]

January Blues - Hozier

Author’s Note: Y’all I finally did it. We’re going to pretend it’s still January so this fits. But it’s finally here 🙏. Thanks to my bestie lunaritessane Who’s input made this fic a whole lot better. I love you💚. (Literally, like their beta reading was just delicious.)

Summary: Andrew is feeling down, you make him feel better. Gender neutral!reader. (3k words)

⚠️Warnings⚠️: Smut! Smut turned weirdly poetic sometimes?. Kinda Switch!Andrew, sub vibes at the beginning, soft dom vibes later. Descriptive descriptions of Andrew’s long dick. (I have a problem)

This is a work fiction and is not a reflection of who Hozier is.

Inspired by:

“Well you cured my January Blues, yeah, you made it all alright.”

Fic under the cut💙, 18+ only, you’ve been warned.

The further Ireland dipped into the depths of winter, the more Andrew’s mood dropped. Reflecting the rainy, washed-out climate outside the frosty windows of his house. It hardly even snowed this winter, just a cold rain that somehow made his mood worse. Logically, he knew it was likely that the lack of sun on his already pale skin was what had him wallowing. But alas, no amount of tea and books seemed to make him feel any better. So that’s why he’d given up by this point. Gaze zoned out past the pages of his novel and tea now cold on the coffee table. His mind clouded like the gathering storm outside.

“Andy?”

A gentle call of his name had Andrew startled. Usually he would’ve noticed your presence by the sound of your footsteps, but he’d been too far into his head to notice.

“Yes, darling?”

He asked, the tone of his voice reflecting yours in its quiet manner.

“I’m just wondering if you’re alright? I’ve called your name a few times and you haven’t answered.”

You replied. Despite keeping your voice light, he can tell by the slight frown and the furrow of your eyebrows you’re more concerned than you're letting on. Sighing deeply with resignation, he closes the book with a soft snap and sets it aside. 

“I’m just feeling… I’m not sure. Down, I suppose.”

He answers, voice tainted with melancholy. You look even more concerned. A part of him wishes he didn’t worry you over trivial things. But how could he ever resist your questioning of his well-being?

You walk over to him and sit down on the arm of the chair. Running a hand into the long curls of his hair to scratch at his scalp. He hums and closes his eyes, leaning back into your soothing touch.

“Anything I can do to help?’

You ask and he breathes out through his nose with a shake of his head.

“Not sure there’s much you can do, but… stay?”

Andrew replies, aware his tone sounds dangerously close to needy. But you only smile and nod. Sating any insecurities he has as you continue to massage his scalp. 

He hums contently once more, letting his head rest against your hand. The warm light of the room throws shadows over his face and the pale lines of his neck. Shrouding the valleys in darkness and the highlights with warmth. Turning the sharpness of his cheekbones all the more prominent if that's possible. 

Leaning down, you leave a few kisses over his cheekbones. The feeling of warm breath against his face forces a smile to his lips. He turns his head, capturing your lips against his. Your kiss is like a balm on his apathy, replacing it with passion. Your free hand cups the side of his face. Feeling the gentle scratch of facial hair against your palm that’s also felt on your chin. The feeling lures you closer. Pressing into the space between his and your bodies until you’re straddling one of his legs. Lost in the velvety sensation of lips and tongues against each other. You break it off first. Ignited with one simple idea. 

“Let me make you feel better, yeah?”

You prompt, in a lowered, raspier voice. He looks up at you with blown pupils, green irises dark. Shining hot in the orange light from the lamp. He breathes out. Like he can’t believe you’re real. And nods eagerly.

“Please… do what you’d like.”

His breathless agreement makes you smile and melt a bit, moving his head to get access to his throat. A soft sound leaves his mouth as you kiss over the thin skin. Breath hitching when your tongue follows along the groves of his veins. He’s so goddamn sensitive. He has to hold back a few noises, the heat of your breathing brushing over his neck. Goosebumps appear over his arms. He’s becoming more and more aware of your every move.

Andrew lets out a loud groan that he quickly cuts off in embarrassment. A response to the dragging of your teeth over the base of his neck where it meets his shoulder. The skin beneath your lips flushes a pink color. You snicker in response to the noise, and he huffs in irritation.

“It’s okay, I wanna hear you. I wanna know you’re enjoying it. You sound absolutely gorgeous, but that’s no surprise.”

You murmur to him, rubbing his side to subdue his unease. You know he’s listening because the muscles relax beneath your hand. He lets out another moan as you nibble, turning the skin a pale red.

It’s not long before you’ve scattered similar-looking bites over his neck. By the time you’re getting his sweater off Andrew is breathing a little heavier, sweat building on the back of his flushed neck. 

His chest stutters watching you sink to your knees in front of the armchair. Eyes hooded and darkened.

“Just lie back, baby, and I’ll cure all those blues.”

You direct, and he does as you say. His mouth is too dry to try and come up with a sassy reply to your somewhat cheesy line. Not like that would matter anyway. All thought disappears from his head when your mouth lands on his chest. Kissing, licking, sucking down his sternum. Your lips wrapping around one of his nipples has him debating whether or not to beg for mercy. Airless moans slip from his lips without time nor thought to stop them. 

“Fuckin’ Hell, darling. That’s so good.”

Andrew hisses, voice rough, Irish accent thickened, words a little slurred. His hands running into your hair. Using whatever is there to try and get a grip. Large palms grasping at the back of your skull. He can’t help but pull when you tug on his nipple, forcing a quiet moan from your lips.

“Shit, sorry.”

He apologizes in a way that would sound regretful if it wasn’t husky with arousal. You laugh in response to him jerking under your mouth when you suck softly. Your way of telling him it’s okay. 

After giving Andrew’s nipple a bit more attention, just to hear him whine a few more times. And then start slowly kissing down his stomach. Feeling every little twitch and breath beneath your mouth. 

“Darling, please, please, stop teasing.”

There it is, the pleads for mercy. He’s practically whimpering. His voice becomes tight. A struggle for control. You grant his wish, hands moving to his belt. There’s a large bulge beneath his jeans, straining against the fabric. God, that must be uncomfortable, you can feel the heat from here. 

Eventually, with a bit of moving around, you manage to pull his jeans and boxers off. Freeing his cock from the confines of his clothes. It arches up towards his stomach with a surprising stiffness, considering you haven’t even been touching him for that long. He’s decently above average in length. To the point it burns a little to take, but not ridiculously so. The tip is a deep red, swelled with a desperation to be touched. 

Andrew shoots a hand from your hair to the arm of the chair. Gripping it with a hiss when he feels the brush of your breath over the sensitive skin. His cock twitches, the two prominent veins along the bottom throbbing. You decide not to make him wait any longer. Wrapping a hand around the shaft. Andrew looks down at you with hungry eyes alight with reverence, studying your every move. 

“God- fucking, yes.”

Andrew gasps in pleasured relief, a moan quickly following when you start stroking the length of his shaft, giving every inch an equal amount of attention. Just barely touching the tip to tease him. To watch his cravings become unbearable. At first, he accepts the simple touch, relishing in finally having friction on his cock. However, it soon becomes too little and he starts rocking his hips into your hand, eager for more. Slender thighs flexing with the movement. Light shining over his jutting hip bones. He’s absolutely stunning from this angle, chest heaving as he squirms. A thin sheen of sweat glistening over the bridge of his nose and high cheekbones. A stark contrast to the darkness of his neatly trimmed beard. 

“Babe-”

Andrew starts, his words sounding more like a gasp of breath. 

“Fine, I’ll be nice.” 

You relent, not wanting to torture him too much. Dragging your hand over the weeping head, Andrew moans and sinks his fingernails into the arm of the chair. His other hand cupping the back of your neck, trying his best not to grip or pull. You circle your thumb around the very tip of his cock, over the most sensitive glands. Andrew practically whimpers because of it. Legs jerking, he throws his head back. Eyes squeezed shut. Showing off all those pink love bites you left over his throat.

“Yes, just like that. Keep going.”

Andrew manages in that sweet, unsteady voice. It’s like he can’t get enough air into his lungs, caught between moaning and whining. He thrusts his hips into your hand which moves up and down the entire length of his dick. A focused attention with a twist of your wrist over the head. Andrew isn’t the only one getting impatient. You’re interested in doing much more than just a handjob. 

So, when your impatience gets to be too much, you duck your head and take the tip of his cock into your mouth. Causing a high-pitched noise of surprise from the man above. There’s an even sharper noise as you press your tongue against the bottom and suck. Pulling precum from his eagerness. The tangy and sharp taste coating your tastebuds, sticking to your tongue. It fills your senses, nearly overwhelming the musky scent of Andrew’s arousal. 

“Let me see your eyes, please. Look at me.”

Andrew urges, his voice higher than normal. Looking up at him, his eyes meet yours. And he responds like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life. His lips parted, looking down at you with warmth in his eyes. His entire dick throbbing with your gaze on his. 

“God, you’re so gorgeous, sweetheart.”

He gasps out. His hand letting go of the armchair and brushing the hair away from your face. So he can see all of you properly. 

“So, so pretty down there.”

Andrew continues in a murmur, the pleasure of seeing you drives his ecstasy even higher. He gently moves slightly further into your mouth, hungry for more of the warm pleasure, more than what your hand is giving him. You welcome him, slowly working his cock deeper into your mouth. Jaw stretching to accommodate until it nearly aches. Your tongue cradles the underside. 

He moans lowly, running fingers over your scalp. The warm and wet feeling of your mouth wrapping around his cock causes his entire body to shiver. Pleasure bolting up his spine. He nearly becomes lightheaded with the rush of blood, cheeks flushing a bright red against the paleness of the rest of his skin. 

The more you take, the more difficult it is to breathe. Andrew stops you for a moment,  letting you take a breath. He caresses your jaw with the backs of his fingers, helping it relax out. 

“Just go slow, breathe through your nose.”

He speaks in a calmly commanding voice. Forcing you to stay in your moment of pause for a few seconds longer before letting you continue. You follow his introductions and breathe through your nose, taking measured breaths as you sink further. Until tears gather in your eyes when the tip of his cock brushes the back of your throat. Pushing at your gag reflex. 

A pleasured rumble sounds in Andrew’s chest. Vibrating back through your bones. He continues stroking your jaw, making sure you can take every inch.  

“That’s good. You’re doing so well, baby. Start moving if you want.”

Andrew says, trying his best to keep his composure so his desire doesn’t get the better of him. It nearly does when you start moving achingly slow up and down the length of his dick. Your mouth is so consumingly tempting, hot and wet and just perfect. Both a gift and a curse. Luring Andrew to near madness with how good it feels. He’s speechless, wordless. Stuck in this version of heaven. You’ve got him absolutely hooked. Even more so when you start to move faster. Suck harder. Letting saliva drip down your chin and glisten on your skin the way it does on his cock.  

“Fuck, I’ll never get enough of this. Your so skilled, so absolutely, fucking wonderful.”

He groans behind his clenched teeth. Resisting the urge to bury himself even deeper into your mouth. You struggle to move faster. Gagging on his cock when it hits your reflex. Andrew looks down at you, noticing your struggle. He gently pulls on your hair. Guiding you off his cock.

“It’s alright, let me help you, okay?”

He asks, but it’s less of a suggestion and more of a command if you want to keep going. You nod in agreement. 

“Yeah, okay.”

Andrew takes a careful hold of your hair, holding your head in place as he brings his hips closer to your mouth. The tip of his cock brushes your lips, it’s so red it’s almost purple. Eager and more than ready to slip back into your mouth.

“Ready?”

He asks one more time and you answer affirmatively again. He accepts this and nudges his dick slowly past your parted lips. Guiding himself back into the heat of your mouth. It’s wet, soft and very, very hot. He waits a moment for you to get used to it once more. Before starting to move. Using your hair to move you up and down. His hips rocking forwards into your mouth. His breath hitching as he feels your teeth gaze him. His thighs clasp either side of your head, knees almost on top of your shoulders.

“That’s it, let me help you. Just like this.”

Andrew praises in a tone that does nothing to conceal how good it feels. Carefully thrusting his cock in and out of your already sore throat. You’re so sweet, letting him do this. Willing to take apart every piece of him and put it back together. It’s something only you can do for him. Yet he’s sure you could do it for anyone. 

“God, that’s just right. You’re doing such a good job. You’re an angel.”

He manages, voice trembling. He rocks his hips faster. Guiding you to suck harder. Feeling every ridge moving back and forth across your tongue. The head is just barely nudging the back of your throat. Andrew is gasping, moaning above you like he’s never experienced something quite so amazing in his life. Something beyond any man’s wildest dreams.

His cock twitches in your mouth. His ecstasy reaching higher and higher. To the point his thighs are trembling, skin highlighted pink with exertion (is that how you spell it? idk). You look up at him. Admiring the way his features are painted with pleasure. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes squeezed shut. His long hair is messy and falling into his flushed face. There’s strands sticking to the sides of his face and neck with the thin sheen of sweat on his skin. Droplets slide down his collarbones and disappear into his sweater. 

He jerks his cock a little deeper on accident. Coming closer and closer to his finish. Causing you to gag. He opens his eyes with an apology on his lip. But you grasp his hips, pulling him closer. You shove down your gag reflex so you can take him all the way. Tears gathering on your waterline. He takes the hint with widened eyes of surprise and adoration. Carefully thrusting his cock into the depths of your throat, he groans loudly with pleasure. Both hands sinking into and grabbing on your hair. 

Your nose brushes his pelvis. The smell of musk filling your nose. An almost sweet, earthy scent coming from him. You make eye contact through blurry eyes. Andrew’s breath stutters, his legs tensing by the sides of your head. 

“Fuck- darling, so good. I’m gonna- shit. I’m gonna cum in your mouth. Do you want that? Do you want me to cum into your mouth?”

He asks, his words broken and stuttering. Almost failing at forming a sentence entirely. You nod the best you can. Tears and spit running down your face. He moans at your agreement. Somehow feeling hotter and even more aroused by it. 

Andrew thrusts his hips into your mouth. Pushing how much you can take as he chases his high. It’s not more than a minute of nearly reckless movements before he’s cumming into your mouth just as he said he would. His back arching into it as his legs shudder. He moans loudly from the bottom of his chest. His mouth hanging open. Head thrown back with his eyes rolled back into his skull. Shooting warm, thick cum into your mouth. The salty and bitter taste overwhelming your senses, but one you could taste over and over again. You groan around his cock. Causing his legs to jump as he feels the vibrations. 

He pants, remaining motionless in his recovery. His brain needed a moment to recover before piecing itself back together and pulling out of your mouth. There’s a lopsided, still half-gone smile on his face as he looks down at you. Humming happily as you swallow his cum. 

“You’re so amazing, baby.”

Andrew compliments breathlessly. Moving his hands to cup your cheeks and brush the tears away.

“I’m so, so proud of you. Come on, get off your knees.”

The tenderness of his voice is so beautiful. His actions even more so, helping you up off the floor. And positioning you on one of his thighs. 

“Are you okay? I wasn’t too rough with you?” 

He questions, his worries calming when you shake your head. Still recovering yourself.

“Good… can I return the favor?”

Thank you so much for reading my first fic 🫶, any constructive criticism is appreciated. I’m going to go do the school work I’ve been procrastinating over to do this instead now. Hopefully, the next fic won’t take over a month to write and I’ll be more active.

-Thad 💚

[blossom-hwa]

melody of the heart [1] | k.th

pairing: Taehyun x fem!reader genre:  fluff, a pinch of angst, regency era!au, nobility!au warnings: period typical misogyny word count: 17.8k notes: — this is for all the bridgerton girlies who have been going insane just like me <3 highly inspired by francesca/john's burgeoning romance from the first half, so hope you all enjoy! — some of the dialogue has been lifted from the show—I do not claim any credit for it. — this takes place in the same universe as my duke!yeonjun story, if you'll have me :) feel free to check that out as well! When your father calls you home from the continent to join the London season, for the first time in your life, you nearly throw a fit. You are not just the daughter of a viscount—you’ve made a name for yourself in England and abroad with your prodigious talent at the piano, having since childhood performed for royal courts far and wide. You have traveled far and beyond most other ladies of your rank, and to have your career halted all for the sake of marriage to a man who will likely force you to quit your craft is unthinkable. But all your life you have lived without raising a hand to your father, and so when the letter comes, you return home for the season, hoping and praying to make it through without stirring the waters.  Enter Taehyun Kang, Earl of Addiston—recently titled, in search of a wife, and as tired of the season already as you are. During a chance meeting at the season’s third ball you grow to know each other, and as time passes you grow to like each other, a mutual respect forming when you learn the depths of one another’s passions in the arts. In Taehyun you find a respite from the men who would clip your wings for the sake of finding a perfect wife. In you Taehyun finds a kindred spirit who would respect him for himself, and not the lands in his name. Together you navigate the grueling social activities of the London matchmaking project as acquaintances, then as friends, and maybe, just maybe— As lovers, too.  Part 1 >> Part 2

Series Masterlist | TXT Masterlist

As the white double doors begin creaking open, only one thought rings clear in the mess of your mind. 

I cannot be the diamond. 

Cannot. Will not. Your father wishes it, as does your governess and the entire unfamiliar extended family crowding your home for the season, but you can’t. Not least because you can’t handle the attention—just the idea of being presented to the queen makes you want the earth to swallow you whole—but also because the longer you can delay finding a husband, the longer you might still find a shred of freedom lingering on your fingertips. 

It's not fair. Late at night you lie in bed, staring at the dark ceiling as angry tears prick the corners of your eyes. Why is it that men should have the freedom to do as they wish, but women must be pushed into the confines of the household, meant to marry up just to add or promote a title for the family name? All you ever wanted to do was play the piano, and even though your father only saw your life’s passion as a way to make money, at least you could do it. You were good at it, too—you’ve played for the royal houses of Europe, met queens and kings and nobles of so many courts, and while you never quite loved being the spectacle of a child prodigy that your family painted you as, at least you were allowed to play. 

But now your father, who rarely contacted you since your mother died five years ago, suddenly breaks his frosty silence to demand that you come home, because the royal checks you’ve been receiving have now begun to dwindle and the only purpose you can now fulfill for your family is to become some rich gentleman’s meek wife. And to make matters worse, you won’t see a penny of the money you made yourself. It’s going to your dowry.

It won’t even be yours. 

What is most upsetting is that he’s not even entirely wrong. Not about the dowry—you’re still smarting over your hard-earned money being turned over to some nameless, faceless gentleman of the ton—but about your musical escapades on the continent. People were eager to watch a child prodigy perform. They cooed and smiled over you like the zoo attraction you were. But as you grew older, you also noticed the invitations dwindling, the interested courts growing smaller, the payments decreasing. All because you were a woman nearing marriageable age, and to be such a prodigy was no longer suitable for your gender. 

For all your usual mild-mannered shyness, this knowledge makes you want to break dishes against the wall. 

But since you’ve returned to England, you’ve kept your mouth shut as you are wont to do. You’re not the type to scream and rage when things don’t go your way. Silence comes more naturally to your lips than shouting and you find yourself nodding quietly to your father’s demands more often than not. Still, though, you can have this. You can have the fact that you will not be the diamond. 

You were worried about it at first. Your name is not unknown by the people of the ton and judging by what little you’ve heard of Lady Whistledown’s papers, your return has stirred some gossip around town. Enough gossip that people speculated the queen might crown you her diamond on the sole basis of your celebrity—and as self-centered as it is, you were anxious about that. But it turned out you actually didn’t have to worry, because as it turned out, you are terrible at being a debutante.

Everything about it hurts. The feathers on your head, the slim, constricting dress, the jewelry choking your neck and wrists and the pale, slippery gloves that slide against your fingers—you certainly don’t wear gloves when you play the piano. The headdress only accentuates your terrible balance and when your governess had you practice your walk for the first time, you’d tripped every other time you went down the hallway.

Which was not ideal, not for you or for your family. Because even though you don’t want to be the queen’s diamond, you also don’t want to be the one girl to trip on her face in front of dozens of people and the queen herself. Only instead of motivating you to be better, the thought of tripping kept making you more and more anxious to the point that you felt like you’d throw up each time you saw your debutante gown.

“Why don’t you treat it like a performance?” your governess had finally suggested, wringing her hands at your latest miserable attempt to walk down the hallway with those godawful feathers on your head. “As though you were to play for the queen.”

The thing is, you have performed for the queen. Not recently, given that you’ve been on the continent for a good many years and only returned a few months ago, but you did perform for her when you were much younger. But that’s—different. Somehow. Your governess and certainly your father might see both situations as the same, but for some reason the idea of parading down an aisle amid dozens of prying eyes, all the while wearing a tuft of white feathers on your head, is terrifying to you in a way that playing the piano for hundreds or more isn’t. 

It doesn’t make sense. Which is why you didn’t bother trying to explain to your governess why exactly her well-meaning advice wouldn’t work, just gave her half a smile and an empty nod as you prepared to try once more. And it had gotten better the more you practiced. Over time you got used to the swaying of the feathers above you, the tiny steps you must take to avoid the headpiece falling to the floor, and all the other millions of tiny things you never thought you’d have to pay attention to. Now, though, as the doors swing fully open, revealing the queen and her entourage at the end of the aisle, framed by every single eye in the room trained on you—

You freeze.

Time stretches and dilates all at once. Opulent ornaments blend with the walls, gold almost seeming to drip onto the white in a way that, to your spiraling mind, looks like blood. The sea of faces before you blurs into a mass and your heart is pounding, your breath coming out in shallow gasps that can’t be doing anything flattering for you in this stupidly tight gown. 

“Y/N.”

Your aunt hisses your name with her unfamiliar voice and suddenly the room comes back into focus. Too much focus. Now everything is too bright and too defined and the gold of the decorations seems to be blinding your eyes. You accidentally lock eyes with the queen at the end of the aisle and all you can feel is the need to throw up. 

But you can’t. 

Slowly, slowly, you take the first step. Then the next. Feathers sway and your head is starting to spin uncomfortably, but you keep your eyes trained on the end of the aisle, something akin to a smile (or at least a grimace) pasted upon your lips. 

You halt after what you think is the right number of steps, just a short distance in front of the queen. The same muscle memory that lets your fingers fly over piano keys helps you into your low curtsy, head dipping just enough to be respectful, not so much that the awful headdress tips over. Wait a moment, your governess’s voice echoes through your muddled mind. Count five seconds, then rise. 

Slowly, you stand, meeting the queen’s appraising eyes once more. Her expression doesn’t change. Relief prickles your chest—maybe she doesn’t recognize you, which means she won’t crown you the diamond for the sole purpose of your fame, or maybe she’s just disappointed and unimpressed—and that relief continues to spread as you stumble out of the room, dimly aware of your aunt following just behind you. 

“Well, you weren’t the diamond,” your aunt sighs. “But at least you didn’t fall. “

Yes, you think fervently as you accept a glass of water from a footman. And thank the heavens on both accounts. 

. . . . .

It’s only the second ball, and Taehyun is already not enjoying the season. 

Ugh. He slips into a darkened corridor and finally allows himself to take a deep breath, the sounds of the party muffled behind the walls. “How did you do this so easily?” he mutters to the phantom of his brother in his mind. 

Taemin’s casual grin smiles back at him from behind his mind’s eye and despite himself, Taehyun almost laughs. He knows the answer already. Taemin enjoys this—the socializing, the talking, all of it. His brother’s easy grace and pleasant manners are easily employed in the ballroom, where he can spread charm at will and revel in the attention he receives in reciprocation. It’s not that Taehyun can’t find his way around a conversation or take an easy turn around the dance floor. He can. It’s just that he doesn’t enjoy it the way Taemin does.

But even then, Taehyun still doesn’t understand how Taemin navigated the marriage mart so seamlessly. Surely he must have at some point grown fed up with the shiny veneer of the debutante season, the incessant pestering of the mamas when they found out the heir to one of London’s earldoms was newly seeking a wife. None of that seemed to bother Taemin that much, though. Two months he went through it with only the barest complaints, and by the third month he was happily married to a woman of a similar temperament. While they might not have been a love match at first, they were certainly an amicable and good one. 

Meanwhile, it’s been barely two weeks since the season started and Taehyun already wants it to be over.

He’s pushed it off enough, though. For three years he’s been allowed the excuse of first finishing his studies, then having to put the estate’s affairs in order—the news of the inheritance was rather abrupt, after all, and completely unexpected. He’s only related to the Addiston line distantly through his mother, not even his father—which is why he was able to inherit even as a second son—and they’d had no idea of the connection until the solicitor had shown up to their door with the news. But it’s been three years. With the weight of an estate on his unexperienced shoulders, the next logical step, to society, would be to find a capable wife to share the burden. His parents agree. So does his brother. 

And so does Taehyun. He just wishes the process of doing so wasn’t so…performative. So obviously meant for matches of rank instead of people. Taehyun knows that if he hadn’t gotten that chance inheritance, hardly anyone would look twice at him. He might be the son of an earl, but he’s only a second son, and the son of a second wife at that. While he’s certainly not at the bottom of the barrel of potential husbands, without his inheritance, he’d be garnering far fewer glances than he does now. 

Far fewer. 

In another better world, maybe it would be easier to find someone with whom he has a genuine connection without having to wade through all the social climbers in this one. Because that’s what he wants. A connection. Not someone who will simply look at his title and inheritance and pursue those instead of him.

But in this world, that might just be an elusive dream.

Taehyun sighs. It’s worse now that he lives alone and has grown used to his solitude. Sure, he has friends who come to barge in on him at different times of day—Kai and Beomgyu maintain little sense of decorum around him, in contrast to the Duke and Duchess of Hastings who, though good friends of his by now, do not come outside of calling hour without prior notice. They keep away the lonely spells in an estate that still doesn’t quite feel like his. But the silence isn’t unwelcome for a quieter person like he, and it remains a sharp contrast to the gaiety of the ton during the season. 

Which brings him back to here. Now. In some empty corridor of his host’s home, away from the staged smiles and bright lights of the ballroom. Somewhere he certainly shouldn’t be, but as long as he doesn’t get caught, Taehyun has little intention of returning to the fray until he can get his thoughts back in order. The muffled chatter of the party is still too loud here so he continues down the hallway, following the echoes of silence and…

Music?

He halts. Sure enough, now that he’s far enough from the noise of the ballroom, he can hear a soft, sweet melody coming from somewhere ahead of him. It’s haunting, lovely, and as he leans toward the sound he begins to recognize the notes of one of Beethoven’s sonatas. Part of the Tempest sonata, actually. One of the most difficult, and one of Taehyun’s personal favorites. 

Taehyun’s feet begin to move, the spell of the sonata carrying him to the end of the hallway. One of the doors has been opened just a crack and it’s easy to tell that’s where the secret pianist must be playing from, the melodies spinning into the air beyond the sliver of an open door.

Common sense tells him he should walk away. The musician seems to be alone—perhaps tired of the party, just like he—but nonetheless, that can’t spell good fortune for him, especially if they are a woman. Being caught alone with an unmarried debutante would only spell trouble for both of them, more her than he, and for her sake, at least, he can’t ruin her prospects just because he couldn’t turn away from her music. 

But something deeper keeps him rooted in place, breaths quiet and shallow, eyes half shut as he leans toward the door as much as he can without tripping over his feet. He enjoys fairy tales, though he is wont to admit it, loves stories of fantasy and magic, and he can’t help but compare these melodies to the spells he used to read about. For surely the pianist must be weaving a spell into the air, into every accent and crescendo, every passage of the sonata effortlessly magical to his ears. 

Taehyun loves music. He loves it almost as much as he loves literature. He took lessons and can play the piano as well as, if not better than many of his peers, but even he is nothing compared to the musician in that room. Nothing compared to the spell of their fingers dancing across the piano keys. 

Too soon, the music ends. And with its conclusion comes the realization that Taehyun needs to return to the party soon, or his absence will be noted—he’s already spent too much time away, if the two movements of the sonata he’s listened to are anything to go by. 

Taehyun forces himself to step away from the open door, from the lovely melodies and mysterious musician within. He doesn’t turn back even when a new piece begins, though soft notes follow him down the hall, all the way back to the party.

. . . . .

“Lady Taylor. Miss L/N.” The smile in front of you is sparkling in a way that leaves you dizzy. Or maybe that’s just the bright lights overhead. Either way, it is doing nothing to soothe the ache beginning to pulse between your temples. “I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced.”

No, you haven’t. You don’t recognize this face or its too-bright smile. “I don’t believe we have,” you return, curving your lips as much as you can. “To what do I owe the pleasure…?”

“Mr. Haynesworth,” he says, angular eyes narrowing into what could be a pleasant expression if you weren’t so tired. “I noticed you were quite a fine dancer, and wanted to ask if you had a spot on your dance card that I could perhaps take.”

Without really meaning to, you glance at your aunt. She looks back, mostly impassive, but gives you a small nod. Yes, allow him. 

Your tongue tastes bitter even as you smile at Mr. Haynesworth. “Yes, I do. In fact, my next dance is free, should you like to dance the quadrille.” 

“An excellent choice,” he replies, and you have to try hard not to roll your eyes as he begins to sign his name on the card. What wouldn’t you give to be at home, in bed, purposely thinking about everything and anything but the season and your daughterly duty to find a husband? Lady Arina Park isn’t here to subtly nudge you in the direction of a music room and as far as you know, none of the Tillings play an instrument, so you can’t even snatch a quarter of an hour alone with your thoughts and music like you did at the last ball. Besides, your aunt would certainly scold you if she noticed you were gone, just like last time. 

It's not like it matters, though, because the orchestra music is fading, which means the next dance is about to begin, and you won’t be getting a chance to take a break. Mr. Haynesworth looks up from your card with a little smile and offers a hand. “Just in time,” he says genially. You do your best to feign enthusiasm as you take it. 

I hate this, you can’t help thinking, watching other couples take to the floor. You like to dance—honestly, you enjoy almost anything that has to do with music—but right here, right now, with all the eyes trying to discern who will win Her Majesty’s seasonal title of diamond of the first water (because of all the girls presented this season she still hasn’t picked one, and you harbor a nasty hope that she never will), it’s too much. The bright lights of the ballroom. The slippery silk of your gloves against your hands. Mr. Haynesworth’s pleasant smile as he asks you questions against the background of the orchestra’s new tune, each of them polite, noncommittal, and as meaningless as the last. 

“How are you finding the party tonight?”

I think the candles are trying to burn right through my eyes into my brain. “Quite lovely indeed.”

“How are you finding London in general? It must be a change from abroad, no?”

Boring. Stifling. Rainy. “It is very different, Mr. Haynesworth, though not unpleasant. I imagine that with time, I will grow used to it too.”

“So you do intend to find a husband this season, if you say you will be here for some time?”

If my father didn’t want me husband hunting, I wouldn’t be here. “Yes, that would be my intention.”

“I hope you will come to enjoy London then, Miss L/N. It is an old city, and it certainly has its charms.”

Of course. “Of course.”

He spins you under his arm and you come to face to face, his nice smile suddenly very close to your eyes. You almost stumble—muscle memory had been leading this dance as you tried to answer his questions through your growing headache, and in the midst of that you’d forgotten this part. “I read Whistledown,” he says, completely oblivious to the brief spike in your heart rate. 

Inwardly, you sigh. Ah, so you’re either going to ask me about piano, or ask me about the fact that the queen still has not chosen her diamond of the season.

“She says you are quite the pianist, Miss L/N.”

…You would have preferred questions about piano over the nonexistent diamond, it’s true, but what exactly are you supposed to say to that? “I have been playing since I was young.”

“A true prodigy, then. I wonder why the queen has not yet chosen a diamond, though there is clearly one right here.” Despite the compliment, his thin eyes suddenly seem too narrow, the planes of his face too sharp as he leans in ever so slightly. “I hear you spent quite some time with other royal courts during your…little tour. How were your travels?”

You nearly pause. Your head still hurts and between the dancing and conversation, your mind is being split onto two different tracks, so it takes you a moment to realize why Mr. Haynesworth’s words offended you.

Little tour.

You do not like how he said the words little tour.

It sounds like how your father talks about your performances abroad. It sounds like when your aunt tells you to stop practicing, it’s time for your French lesson. It sounds like when your cousin sticks her head into the music room and asks you to play more softly since it’s distracting from the conversation downstairs. 

Dismissal. Accidental or intentional, it doesn’t matter. It’s dismissal of you, your talent, your work, your passion.

Maybe you would have preferred questions about the nonexistent diamond instead.

“I enjoyed traveling and meeting new people during my tour, though it would have meant little without the music,” you reply, unable to rein in some of the bite to your words. “Music is my passion, Mr. Haynesworth, and the piano my medium. I’m afraid without either, my life would retain little meaning.” And for the first time that evening, it seems that the higher powers are on your side, because the tune of the quadrille is fading, which means the dance is ending. Keeping your current smile plastered firmly to your face, you sweep into a brief curtsy. “I must see to my aunt, Mr. Haynesworth, and so I take my leave. It was good to meet you.”

Lies, all lies, but it gets you off the dance floor without another word from him. Weaving blindly through the crowd, you follow the paths of fewest people until the chatter of the ballroom is just a faint buzz in your ears and blissful silence fills the air instead. 

A rush of air leaves your lips all at once and you put a hand to your chest, where your heart is beating just a little too uncomfortably fast. You’re outside the house, in the gardens, but in almost full view of the front of the home where carriages are lined up, their footmen at the ready. It would be lovely to just be alone, but in public that cannot be for fear of compromise, so you take solace in what little solitude you have now under the moon and stars.

You close your eyes for a long moment. You hadn’t realized earlier how hot the ballroom felt, but you certainly know it now as cool night air breezes across your face turned up to the sky. The stars twinkle overhead, comforting pinpricks of light so unlike the burning intensity of the candles and chandeliers within, and all at once you’re hit with the overwhelming thought that you absolutely do not want to go back inside. 

“I’m not going to survive this season,” you mutter, then quickly glance around—no one should have heard that, it sounds so whiney and childish. But in the moment it feels so true. And for two terrible seconds, you feel an overwhelming lump in your throat, a tightening in your chest—

No. You will not cry. Not here, not now. You bite back the tears, suddenly feeling so alone even in the solitude you sought. No one is on your side. Not your father, your own flesh and blood. Not the aunt who accompanied you here. Not even your governess, who is sweet and kind but ultimately bows to the whims of your father. Only your mother ever understood your calling to music and she’s dead, five years buried underground, and for all you have healed since that dark time, you still miss her. 

You miss her so, so much. 

One deep, shaky breath. Then another. Slowly, your heart rate calms into something that feels more normal, and you tilt your head back up to the sky, letting the midnight blue wash across your vision like a soft blanket. It comforts you enough that you almost don’t hear the footsteps against the stone path until they’re just a few feet away from you.

“Good evening,” a quiet, unfamiliar voice says. 

Conversation. Exactly what you wanted to avoid in the ballroom. Somehow, though, it doesn’t seem so daunting out here. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the sky. Maybe it’s the gentle quality of this man’s quiet voice that makes it seem like he seeks the same solace from the night that you do, and nothing more.

“Good evening,” you reply, not quite looking at him as you dip a small curtsy. “Forgive me. I was only—”

“In need of some quiet?” He turns around and between the dark hair and half smile and large eyes, your breath lodges in your throat. But any nervousness at this man’s handsome face fades away when you see the softness hidden in his expression, the gentle uncertainty caught between his broad shoulders. “I have been in search of it all night.”

For all your previous mood, this man’s small smile makes you want to smile too. And so you let your lips curve slightly, more than you thought you could without forcing it, and as you do they begin to curve more. “It seems we are of the same spirit,” you say, and the night seems to laugh quietly with you both. “Miss Y/N L/N, good sir.”

“Taehyun Kang, Earl of Addiston.” He bows slightly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

. . . . .

A comfortable silence has fallen, and Taehyun has little desire to disturb it, but your name keeps rolling around his head, a little too familiar for someone he’s only met today. There’s something about your face, too. He’s certain the two of you have never been introduced—he’s fairly sure he would have remembered your smile, which seems to complement the night sky perfectly—but at the same time…

Someone opens the door to the mansion and a few orchestral notes follow them outside. Orchestra. Music. 

Oh. 

“Might I ask…” he begins slowly. He almost wishes he could take back his words when you turn to him, but he’s already started, so he continues. “You are Miss Y/N L/N, the celebrated pianist?”

You lips part, like you didn’t expect the question. Embarrassment starts to crawl up his cheeks—it would be mortifying if you said no, even more so if you had no idea who he was talking about—but then you nod, surprise still coating your features. “Yes, my lord. I am.”

Oh. Oh. This is—maybe worse than if you’d said no. Because this means Taehyun is in the presence of someone famous, someone with celebrity, someone he admires and respects even though they’ve never met face to face before—

Calm down. “I saw one of your performances a few years ago,” he says, forcing his voice to remain level. You open your mouth to say something but Taehyun barrels on because if he doesn’t say it now he’ll never say it again. “I was in Germany to visit a friend. We went together. I, um—” and this is when he stutters, because of course it is—“I found your performance most impressive. Particularly Beethoven’s Appassionata. Your interpretation…it was perfect to me. There was a delicacy to it that made it uniquely beautiful.” He coughs and prays the night hides the warmth that has crept into his cheeks. “I suppose I just wanted to say that you are a very talented musician, and you must have worked very hard to come so far.” 

You look away, and in that moment Taehyun does fear that he said too much. He might have presumed a level of familiarity you weren’t comfortable with, or maybe you don’t appreciate being complimented in public, or maybe he just said the wrong thing—but then you look back at him, and even with only the moon and stars to light your face, it’s plain to see the smile curving across your lips, pleased and proud and limited only by the shyness and humility of your nature, evident as you give him a small curtsy again. “Thank you very much, my lord,” you say, and if your smile was complemented by the night before, now it sparkles at brightly as any of the stars. “It means…so much to me that you would say such a thing. Truly.”

Taehyun smiles. A little more shyly than he’d like, but no matter. “It is not a difficult thing to say these things,” he replies. “Your performance then was impeccable, as I’m sure it is now.” And now that the connection has been made, a memory from the second ball of the season suddenly returns, of a dark corridor and a beautiful sonata. Were you—? “If I may ask, were you the one playing the piano at the Kims’ ball just a week ago?” 

You blink. “You…heard that?”

All of a sudden Taehyun realizes the implications of his words—that he was at the ball, that he decided to leave to wander the dark corridors, that he heard you playing and not only didn’t hasten away at once but stayed to listen for long enough to make this connection. None of them paint him in the best light, and one of them is far worse than the others, if taken the wrong way. “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, and if his face wasn’t warm before, it certainly is now. “I happened upon it by accident. I was only trying to find some quiet away from the ball—” 

“Much as you were just now,” you interrupt, and Taehyun almost flushes even more before he sees the small, amused smile on your lips. 

“Yes,” he agrees sheepishly. “I heard music coming from one of the rooms and it was…beautiful. The Tempest is one of my favorite of Beethoven’s works. You played it wonderfully, and I couldn’t help but stay and listen for some time.” He bows his head. “I hope I have not been too forward or made you uncomfortable. If I have, I do apologize.”

“Do not apologize,” you say, a bashful hint returning to your own voice that Taehyun finds very endearing, especially when you duck your head slightly. “Please, my lord. I am only…deeply honored that you hold me in such high regard.”

Taehyun relaxes, his own smile growing wider. “Earning that regard was not difficult,” he says. “Even my friend, who has much less knowledge of music than I do, was fairly blown away, and almost inspired to take piano lessons because of you.”

You laugh. “You must jest, my lord.” 

“I do not,” he replies, laughing as well. “He is not here tonight, but perhaps someday you two will meet, and his praise will be even more effusive than mine.” 

“In that case, I eagerly await that day.” You look at him, a question in your eyes. “Might I ask, my lord—you mentioned that you have some knowledge of music? Are you a musician yourself?”

“Oh, I…dabble.” Taehyun laughs a little. “With the piano. I quite enjoy it, but I am nowhere near as good as you.”

“But you have a musician’s ear and heart,” you say, conviction in your tone, and Taehyun finds himself rooted under the strength of your gaze, under the stars, under the night sky. “You appreciate the art and the work that goes into it, which is more than I can say for most.”

Taehyun opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I suppose you are right.”

You duck your head a bit, shoulders suddenly hunching. “I apologize, if I was too forward—”

“Not at all!” he says quickly. “No, not at all. Forgive me, it has simply been a long night and my conversing skills are somewhat frayed at the moment. I appreciate your words, Miss L/N. Very much.”

For a moment, you seem to search his face, like you’re looking for something. Whatever it is, you seem to find it, and when you do, your shoulders thankfully relax. “I was only speaking what I felt to be the truth, my lord. And, for what it is worth…” You pause, your expression somewhat strange before it settles into a genuine smile. “This conversation is one of only a few that I have truly enjoyed tonight.”

He laughs, your quip unexpected but welcome. “It must have been a long night for you too, then?”

“You have no idea.” This time, you two laugh together. “Actually, I’m sure you do. There are only so many times you can be asked the same questions and give the same answers, or hear the same topics and remain sane.” You shake your head. “If the queen plans to choose a diamond this season, I wish she would just hurry up and do so. It seems to be all anyone can talk about nowadays.”

Taehyun raises an eyebrow. “She has not yet chosen one?”

“Apparently not.” You shrug. “My cousins say Lady Whistledown writes about it in every issue. I suppose it is a source of gossip, but…to be quite frank, I do not understand why the queen’s opinion on one woman reigns so supreme in the marriage mart. Should not the couple choose each other based on their own perceived merits, and not solely because the queen approves of one but not the other?” A short pause, and then your shoulders slump. “Though perhaps I only do not understand because I have been away for so long.”

“Well, I quite agree with you,” Taehyun says frankly. “I do agree that the queen’s approval would be a feather in anyone’s cap, but anyone who only sees the title of diamond and nothing else, I believe, would not make a happy marriage, even if the diamond agreed to the match. I don’t believe a title alone is any sort of solid foundation upon which to make a partnership.” 

You look up, meeting his eyes, and a moment of understanding seems to pass between the two of you. A smile that looks much like relief curves your lips. “I agree, my lord,” you say softly. “It is a relief to know that I am not the only one of these opinions.”

Taehyun came outside for fresh air, for a respite from the chaotic buzz of the party inside. He came outside for solitude. But though he found conversation instead, he finds himself feeling better than he perhaps would have, had he immediately gained the silence he sought. Your quiet, frank honesty is as refreshing to Taehyun as the night air itself and he realizes he would love to continue your conversation, if not for—

“Y/N!”

Both of you start at the sudden shout of your name from the mansion doors. An older woman comes striding out, a stranger to Taehyun but evidently more familiar to you. Not altogether welcome, though, it seems—your shoulders tense and immediately your gaze shutters somewhat as the woman draws closer. “Lady Taylor,” you say quietly, turning back to Taehyun with a smile significantly more strained than before. “My aunt, and my chaperone tonight.”

He nods once. “I see.”

“Y/N, I’ve been looking for you for half the night,” Lady Taylor scolds as soon as she is near enough, which does little to endear her to Taehyun after she interrupted his time with you. “Why do you insist on disappearing so?”

“My apologies, Aunt Taylor,” you say. Taehyun doesn’t miss the brief clench of your fingers at your sides. “I went to find some fresh air, and then found myself caught up in conversation with Lord Kang.” You gesture to him. “Lord Kang, please meet my aunt, Lady Taylor, Viscountess of Wentworth.”

Taehyun bows politely as your aunt curtsies. “A pleasure, my lady. I am Lord Kang, Earl of Addiston.”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly at the mention of his title, and he bites back a sigh. So she knows of his estate and inheritance, too. “Charmed, my lord,” is all she says, though, before turning back to you. “Please forgive my interruption. Y/N, you must come back inside. The ball is not yet over, and several gentlemen are still waiting to dance with you.”

You glance down at your dance card, then back up at him, your face twisted in apology. “I must do as my aunt says,” you say quietly. “Though it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

“And the same to you.” He smiles as easily as he can, and maybe he’s just hoping, but your smile seems to become a little less forced too. “It is getting late and I’m sure your dance card must be full, so I will not keep you further. However…” He inclines his head slightly, respectfully. “Perhaps if we meet again, I hope you will indulge me if I ask you to save a dance for me, so that we might continue our conversation where it left off?”

This time, he’s sure he’s not imagining the softening of your face and the return of some sparkle to your eyes. “I would be honored to, my lord,” you say, curtsying. “Have a good night.”

He bows. “I wish the same to you.”

. . . . .

The last few days since the Tillings’ ball have been dreary and wet, full of gray clouds and rain. Today, though, when you wake, the clouds have cleared to reveal the bright sun set against a shimmering blue sky. When your cousins come bursting into the music room to take you on a walk, you don’t even argue—the afternoon looks beautiful, and even you are itching to go outside. 

“You spend so much time cooped up in that little room,” your oldest cousin scolds when you meet everyone in the entryway, though there’s a smile on her face so you try not to take her words the wrong way. “You need some fresh air.”

You smile back as best as you can. “I appreciate the concern, Lilly, but worry not. I’m as eager to see the sun as you are.”

It is pleasant, feeling the sun on your skin after days of grey skies and intermittent rainfall pattering on your windows as you tried to practice. Truth be told, by yesterday you were feeling restless, too, so you can’t even blame the children of your family for wanting to run around as they do now, leaping happily under the blue sky. 

You stick to the back of the group, quietly watching Lilly and your other cousins try to corral their children under the watchful eye of Aunt Taylor. Jieun looks particularly frazzled as she tries to chase down her youngest and you take pity on her, scooping up the child the next time she runs past and giving her little forehead a small tap that makes her giggle. “Be careful,” you warn gently, handing her to a grateful Jieun. “Don’t get hurt, or your mother will worry, yes?”

It's not just your family. It seems as though the entirety of London has come out to enjoy the wonderful weather. The park is green and bright and almost seems to shimmer under the sun, and laughter and chatter fill the air with faint birdsong. You may enjoy spending your time cooped up in that little room, as your cousin says, but you are glad you came out today for the sun on your skin and the joy in the air.

“You are good with the children,” Lilly says beside your ear. You start—you hadn’t realized she was so close until she spoke. “Won’t it be wonderful when you have children of your own, and they can all play together?”

Please, Lilly. “Maybe.” 

“Sound more excited, will you?” she laughs. “You can’t mean to not have children. Or are you already married to your music?”

Your smile is wavering, but you heave it back up with the teeth-gritting reminder that she doesn’t mean it badly, she doesn’t mean it badly, she doesn’t mean it badly. “I’m not married to my music, insofar as I cannot marry an intangible thing,” you respond as dryly as you can. “I’m not sure even the priests at Gretna Green would agree to perform such a ceremony.”

“You know what I mean,” Lilly says, scooping up one of her children. Both of them seem to eye you in a way that makes you feel defensive. “When will you emerge from your music room, Y/N, to see the rest of the world around you?”

That’s not fair, you want to say. I have emerged from my music room. I just find that I don’t necessarily enjoy what—or who—awaits me outside.

Like the incessant demand that you marry and produce children for an unnamed man who will control you for the rest of your life. 

“I see the world as much as I like to,” is all you say instead, but Lilly has already been distracted by her toddler trying to wiggle out of her arms. You leave her to it, and drift behind everyone once more. 

It’s not that you don’t want to have children. It’s not even that you don’t want to get married. It’s just that you resent the fact that it is your only option. You don’t even think you’d mind marriage and children if you could still live with your music, but the way everyone else talks about it, it’s always one or the other. Give up marriage for the piano. Give up the piano for marriage.

Not that the first option is even a choice. 

You take a deep breath. Breathe in the fresh air, the scent of flowers and grass. The sky doesn’t seem as blue as before, nor does the sunshine feel as welcoming, but it’s still there, and it’s still pleasant enough. Lilly means well, and she doesn’t mean to be dismissive. You’re still unmarried and still not the diamond. The world isn’t ending.

Jieun’s youngest finds her way behind your skirts once more, giggling when you turn around to chase her down. A smile finds its way to your face that isn’t forced because she really is adorable, and her little laughs soften your expression when you swing her up and warn her again not to hurt herself.

“Miss L/N?”

You whirl around. As does the rest of your family. 

“…Lord Kang?”

There he is standing just a few feet away, looking as surprised to see you as you are to see him. “Miss L/N,” he says again, a smile spreading across his face. “I didn’t expect to see you, though I suppose you and your family are here to enjoy the weather as well?”

“Yes, we are.” You smile back, trying not to cringe when the toddler still in your arms tries to grab at your hair. Thankfully, Jieun appears to relieve you of her child in that moment, whispering hurried apologies into your ear as she whisks past. “My family thought it would be good for the children to see the sun.”

“And for you!” Lilly whirls into the conversation with a beatific smile and the outward countenance of nothing but an angel. You grit your teeth as she continues. “My cousin spends far too much time indoors at that piano of hers, she hardly sees the sunlight.”

Lord have mercy. 

“Well, I have heard she is quite accomplished at it,” Lord Kang replies easily, that smile never wavering on his face. “Something has clearly come of all those hours she has dedicated to practicing.” He turns to you with that lovely smile and those dark eyes, and while he was handsome under the night sky, it can’t compare to what he looks like now, under the sun. “It seems good fortune has brought us together before the next ball of the season, Miss L/N. Would you mind if I joined your walk, so that we might continue our conversation from the other night?”

Well. You blink once or twice, casting a glance at your aunt, who seems about as confused as you are. In the absence of her input, you choose to assent. “Of course, my lord. We would be honored.”

And so the walk continues, though Lilly and Jieun continue to shoot you confused and excited glances every so often. You ignore them as you best you can, which isn’t hard when Lord Kang is beside you. 

“It’s good to see you, my lord,” you say. “How have you been since the Tillings’ ball?”

“Well enough, though the rain has been somewhat dragging on my mood over the past few days.” He shrugs. “Such is London, though.”

“It is a bit dreadful to think of, if this is what it’s always like,” you say, only half joking. “More time for me to practice, I suppose, though I must admit I am very happy to see the sun.”

“And to be with your family?”

“…Of course,” you respond quickly, though you’re sure he can see exactly how you feel about the group you’re walking with, judging by his half smile. 

“I understand,” he says quietly. “It is not always easy when one’s kin doesn’t quite appreciate the depths of one’s interests.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “You have experience with it too, my lord?”

“With music, somewhat,” he admits. “But more so reading. My family is well-read, of course, but many of them cannot fathom that I would usually rather be in my library than socializing with the ton.”

“I would agree with your sentiment.” The two of you laugh. “What do you like to read?”

It takes a little prodding, but your question eventually launches Lord Kang into a spiel about classics, about authors old and new, novels and philosophy and literature of times so far in the past that you almost can’t fathom it. Truth be told, you don’t know much about what he speaks of—you enjoy reading, but your books of choice tend to be the popular novels of today, and while you recognize some of the classic titles he mentions you can’t say you particularly enjoyed them. But listening to him talk about them, hearing the passion behind his every word, is captivating in a way that you’d never have thought possible when speaking of Plato and Aristotle. And in the midst of this, he never makes you feel out of place or stupid. He answers each of your questions with enthusiastic verve no matter how basic they are, and by the time his friends are calling for him from the end of the park, you’re both so wrapped in your conversation that you almost don’t hear them. 

“I’m afraid I must go,” Lord Kang apologizes when you finally point out the two men making their way towards you. “I promised I would meet them later.” He suddenly looks a little shy, which is a more endearing expression than you’d have expected on his handsome face. “I hope I did not bore you with my talk. I know this subject is not the most interesting to everyone and I can get…carried away with it.”

“Not at all,” you respond immediately. “Truly, not at all. I love hearing about the interests that others have, and clearly this is a deep one of yours. I enjoyed our conversation immensely.” You draw a short breath. “In truth, it was…very good to speak with someone other than my family today.” Your smile, though not forced, feels considerably smaller than it was before. “I do not have many friends in the ton, as I was abroad for so long. Thank you for taking pity on a poor soul such as I, and speaking to me as one.”

Lord Kang steps forward and takes your hand gently, so gently. When he looks into your eyes it is as though he sees all of your soul and your breath catches at the warmth of his palm against yours. “It was never pity,” he says sincerely. “You are a wonderful person with whom to speak, and if I may presume, the beginnings of a very good friend. I look forward to the next time I may see you.” 

You fight to keep your voice steady against the rush of heat in your cheeks. “And I you, my lord. Have a wonderful evening.”

The setting sun perfectly frames his lovely smile. “Until next time, then.” 

The pressure of his lips against your skin lingers long after he has disappeared, long after you have returned home, and long after you have retired for the night.

. . . . .

Beomgyu pounces the moment they’re all seated at the club. “So who was that?”

Taehyun really should have expected this. Even with that knowledge, though, he still has to roll his eyes. “Who are you talking about?” he can’t resist asking. Beomgyu is annoying. He has to be annoying back, sometimes. 

“The girl you were with. The debutante.” Beomgyu grins, undeterred. “Who is she?”

Taehyun gives up. He’ll never win against Beomgyu. “Miss Y/N L/N,” he says, conceding defeat. “We met at the Tillings’ ball a few days ago.”

Kai’s eyes widen. “The pianist?” 

“That’s the one.” Taehyun grins. “I told her you were almost inspired to take lessons because of her.” Kai groans, and Taehyun’s smile only widens. “She was flattered.”

“And I bet she laughed,” Beomgyu adds. 

“She did.”

Kai just screams into his hands. 

“I don’t believe that you didn’t make a fool out of yourself either,” Beomgyu accuses amidst Kai’s muffled screaming. “You admired her at least as much as he did, probably more for your love of music. How much of an idiot did you look when you realized it was her?”

Taehyun is an honest man, but only to a point. “Not much at all.”

Beomgyu snorts, but that’s when their drinks arrive, so Taehyun thanks the higher powers for intervening before he was forced into revealing the truth of warm cheeks and night air. “And how goes you and your lady friend?” Taehyun asks before Beomgyu can pick up his line of questioning again. “Last I remember, she was threatening to slit your throat with your own letter opener. Have there been any recent developments?”

It’s Kai’s turn to laugh while Beomgyu scowls. “Oh, are there,” Kai snickers. “It’s only the most interesting thing in Whistledown right now, second only to the continued absence of a diamond in the field of this season’s debutantes.”

Taehyun raises an eyebrow. “It’s made it into Whistledown?”

“An entire paragraph on the row they had at the last party in the country, right before the season started.” Kai grins. “I know you aren’t a fan of the gossip papers, Taehyun, but you have to read this one. I’ll send you a copy tomorrow. I can only wonder why Whistledown decided to wait until this issue to write about it, though perhaps such a sensational story needed several weeks to perfect.” 

Beomgyu scowls even harder as Taehyun laughs. “I don’t know why that woman Whistledown can’t mind her own business,” he complains. “It was a private argument.”

“A private argument in the gardens outside the host’s home, loud enough that we heard it from inside,” Taehyun says dryly.

“Yes, well, she’s irritating,” Beomgyu snaps, taking a gulp of his drink like he needs it to clear his memory. “Why do you keep asking me about her? I don’t want to talk about it, she’s infuriating.”

“You sure talk about her a lot for someone who says he doesn’t want to talk about her,” Taehyun smirks. “Also, you’re the one who tried to embarrass me first.”

Beomgyu growls. “It’s just ridiculous that she’s still angry over something from when we were children!”

“I don’t know, Beomgyu.” Taehyun shakes his head, hiding a smile. “I was there, and that was a lot of cake. And it washer birthday.”

“Yes, well, she threw dirt at me after that!”

“It sounds to me like you’re still pretty hung up over something from when you were children, too.” Kai sips at his drink, eyes glittering amusedly over the glass. 

Beomgyu just glares at both of them. 

“Alright, we’ll stop.” Taehyun snickers. “At least until I read the copy that Kai’s going to give me.”

“Read all you want.” Beomgyu rolls your eyes. “It’s one paragraph. And from the look you were giving the L/N girl earlier, that’s not even going to be the most interesting part of the paper to you.”

Taehyun blinks. “What?”

“She’s been in the papers,” Kai says. “She’s famous, remember? Whistledown gave her a whole half paragraph when she returned to town and her father announced her debut.”

Taehyun resists the urge to hit himself over the head. If he’d been in the habit of reading the gossip papers, maybe he wouldn’t have been so damn blindsided when he spoke to you at the Tillings’ ball the first time. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“I always make sense,” Kai sniffs, pointedly ignoring both Taehyun and Beomgyu’s snorts. “But how is she, as a person and as a debutante? I’m quite curious as to the persona behind the world-famous pianist.”

Taehyun opens his mouth, then closes it. Takes a sip of his drink. How exactly should he describe you to people you haven’t even met? You’ve only spoken twice—does he even have the right to say anything? “She’s very sweet,” he eventually says. “A bit shy, I think. It’s interesting—she doesn’t seem to enjoy being in the spotlight, though she clearly enjoys piano and performance. But she’s very humble, and I think she’s a very bright young lady.”

“Not without her own sort of wit and charm, then?” 

Beomgyu’s looking at Taehyun in a way he isn’t quite sure what to make of, but he answers anyway. “Very much so. You would probably enjoy a conversation with her.” He smirks at Beomgyu over his glass. “She’d probably like you, against her better judgment.”

Beomgyu cackles. “Of course she would, I’m a joy to be around.”

“You’re certainly something to be around, though I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘joy,’” Kai intones, taking a sip of his drink. “Is she adjusting to London well? She was abroad for a good many years.”

A snippet of your conversation from earlier comes to Taehyun’s mind. Your admission that after spending so much time away from London, you don’t have many people with whom to have a simple conversation with, just as simple friends. “She seems to be fine,” Taehyun replies slowly. “Though she mentioned it was a bit difficult to make friends after so long abroad.” He can’t imagine how hard the season must be for you, with a family who doesn’t respect your passion and no one to really confide in. For all he teases Kai and Beomgyu, he can’t imagine navigating life without them.

“The Duchess of Hastings was in a similar situation before she married Yeonjun,” Beomgyu says, and he’s giving Taehyun that strange, discerning look that he couldn’t decipher before. “Why don’t you introduce the two? Her Grace also quite enjoys music, I think they would get along quite well.”

“Invite her to the Hastings’ gathering next week,” Kai adds. “Of course ask the duchess first, but I’m sure she’d be happy to extend the invite.”

That’s actually brilliant, and Taehyun is privately put out that he didn’t think of the idea first. The more he thinks of it, the more he’s certain that you and his cousin could be good friends. “Yes, I’ll do that,” he says, half-rising out of his chair. “I’ll write to the duchess as soon as I can.”

“Surely not now?” Kai raises an eyebrow at Taehyun’s half-standing position. “You still have the whole night, there’s no reason to leave your drink unfinished.”

Taehyun flushes and sits back down. Kai’s comment makes complete sense—why was he standing up so urgently, anyway? “Of course,” he says, taking a sip to hide his embarrassment even though it’s definitely not fooling anyone. “By the way, Kai, how are your family affairs going? Surely your uncle still isn’t trying to lay claim to any part of your inheritance.”

It’s an obvious ploy to distract from his own embarrassment but Kai thankfully takes the bait, immediately putting forth an impassioned spiel about his arguments with his uncle’s idiotic solicitor that would put any of Shakespeare’s soliloquies to shame. It’s easy enough to laugh along and commiserate with Kai’s troubles that Taehyun allows his mind to wander a little, to the thought of you and the duchess meeting, to the beautiful music that is sure to follow, to the smile that will hopefully adorn your lips when you meet another woman who appreciates music as much as you. 

“You’re smiling an awful lot, Taehyun,” Beomgyu says, bringing Taehyun’s attention back to the present. He’s smirking a little and so is Kai, but Taehyun for the life of him cannot understand why. “Did you find Kai’s story really that funny?”

“No, I’m sorry.” He sips his drink, gesturing for Kai to continue. “I just got a little lost in thought.”

Kai keeps talking, and Taehyun goes back to listening. In the back of his mind, though, he’s hearing soft melodies in the darkened corridor of a mansion, and seeing the night sky twinkling above. 

. . . . .

Maybe someday receiving callers will no longer make you feel like flying to pieces. 

Today, however, is not that day. 

Four gentlemen callers—one of them Mr. Haynesworth, with whom you almost couldn’t hide your displeasure at seeing. The other three were pleasant enough and mostly inoffensive, but by the time the fourth caller came, you were running out of ways to begin small talk and based on your aunt’s subtle glare in your direction, it had probably started to show. 

It’s somewhat amusing, if not also somewhat depressing, how bad you are at speaking with strangers. You’ve performed for royal courts and houses of nobility for years, but when it comes to carrying a conversation, you can only bumble your way through inane small talk for so long before you run out of the headspace for it. Though privately, you think that’s a little unfair—it seems only right that it would be the caller’s job to ensure the conversation kept going, since they were the one who made the call, so you shouldn’t have to put in all the effort. But based on every glare or sniff or cough your aunt sent in your direction whenever the conversation faltered, that apparently is not the case.

It’s over, though. At least you think it is—it’s nearly five and no one has showed up since the last caller left. And if it isover, that means you have no one to entertain for the rest of the day. Your governess has already promised to bring your dinner to your room, and you plan on locking yourself in your music room for the rest of the night after that.

It’s like a reward.

“The biscuits are almost gone,” Aunt Taylor says, standing up from the settee. “I will have a servant bring more.” She fixes you with a stern stare. “Don’t slouch. It is not quite five, and you may still receive another caller yet.” She then sweeps out of the room, and once she’s gone, you slump into the cushions a little more, ignoring your governess’s fretful eyes. 

As if anyone would come calling now, really. Ten minutes to five, which means hardly enough time to begin a conversation once the initial pleasantries were dished out even if someone arrived right at this second. You sink a little further into the couch. Aunt Taylor won’t be back for another couple of minutes at least. You can take at least that long to be comfortable. 

Sooner than you’d like, footsteps sound in the hall outside. You quickly pull yourself up, smoothing out your dress, and await the renewed presence of your aunt. 

Only it isn’t your aunt. You blink when a footman enters instead, a card held in his hand. “A caller, my lady,” he says, squinting at the card. “Lord Kang, Earl of Addiston.”

What?

Of course, it is then that your aunt decides to sweep back into the room. “Another caller?” she asks sharply as a trailing servant places a refilled plate of biscuits on the table. “Who?”

Thankfully, your governess has recovered from the surprise more quickly than you have. “A Lord Kang, my lady,” she says. “Earl of Addiston.”

Your aunt throws you a sharp glance. Inwardly, you wilt a little—she’ll be sure to interrogate you after this, asking you to recount every last detail of your and the earl’s conversation yesterday in the park even though you already told her everything you could remember last night during dinner—but for now she says nothing as she nods to the footman. “Bring him in, please.”

For some reason, when you stand, your heart begins to race. You force yourself to take slow, deep breaths. It may be Lord Kang, but he called with only five minutes—now less—left on the clock. Surely he can’t have much to say. 

Though, a little voice in the back of your mind says, you’d much rather talk to him than any of the four who came earlier today.

Footsteps sound lightly in the hall, thankfully keeping you from pursuing that train of thought down unsavory paths. But then Lord Kang appears in the doorway, looking as handsome and gentle and polite as he has every time you’ve spoken to him, and it’s all you can do to keep your voice steady as you welcome him to your home. 

“Lord Kang.” You curtsy, your smile widening in a way that comes more easily now than it has all day. “Welcome. I hope you have been well since we last spoke.”

“I have been, and it is a pleasure to see you all again,” he replies, bowing politely. His eyes meet yours and, in the sunlight streaming softly through the window, they almost seem to sparkle. “I apologize for calling so late in the hour, but I had some business I had to attend to before I delivered this to you.” He produces a small envelope from a pocket and extends it to you.

You look at your aunt, who seems equally bemused as you. “If I may ask, my lord, what is this?” you ask, feeling the smooth paper between your fingers. 

“My cousin, the Duchess of Hastings, is hosting a small party next weekend,” he says, either ignoring or not hearing the collective half-gasp in the room at the mention of the duchess. “She and the duke have just come in from the country for the season, and she is holding a gathering for some friends and family. I mentioned that I had met you, and she was quite excited to extend you an invite—she is also an avid enjoyer of music and wonderful pianist, so I am sure you two will get along very well.”

You feel a little lightheaded. Sure, you’ve performed for royalty, but you’ve never been on close terms with any of them. You were very clearly the entertainer and they the entertained, with very little chance to cross that line even if you were of a mind to. But now Lord Kang is offering you the chance to become acquainted to a duchess, just a step below royalty, and who loves music and is a pianist at that—

One corner of the envelope digs into your finger. Just a slight pain, but enough to remind you that this is real and not a dream.

A quick glance at your aunt earns you a subtle but very emphatic nod, so you look back to Lord Kang with a smile wider than it has been all day. “Please tell the duchess that I would be delighted to come,” you say. “Thank you for the invite, my lord. I do look forward to this event.”

“It is my pleasure.” Lord Kang smiles, and you don’t think it’s your imagination when you muse that it might be a little brighter than it was before. It’s certainly not your imagination when you briefly think you might like to look at that smile for a lot longer. But then the clock chimes and the smile falls, replaced by a sheepish expression. “Apologies again for calling so late, my lady.”

You shake your head. “It was no inconvenience at all.”

“Be that as it may, I will not keep you longer than the calling hour lasts,” he says, sweeping a bow. “Good day, Miss L/N, Lady Taylor. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

. . . . .

“Taehyun!”

Taehyun turns to the sound of his name, not bothering to hide the wide smile spreading across his face when he sees who called for him. “Your Grace,” he greets as his cousin comes closer, her eyes sparkling. “It’s good to see you.”

She waves a hand. “Dispense with the formalities,” she sniffs, and then they both laugh. “How have you been? Oh—remind me before you leave, but my footman will help bring some of the books I need to return to your carriage.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” he says sincerely. “I also brought some of my own books to recommend, as well as the ones you asked for. And I’ve been well, though I’ve learned that the season is rather more…daunting, than I would have expected.”

The duchess nods sympathetically. “I don’t honestly believe it’s fun for anyone,” she admits. “Except maybe the dancing. But there are plenty of young ladies this season who would be a good match for anyone, if Whistledown is to be believed. Speaking of.” Her gaze wanders to the entrance. “Is that her? The debutante you asked to invite?”

Taehyun turns around, catching sight of a familiar face, and smiles. “Yes, that is.”

You step into the room with a sort of trepidation that Taehyun sorely understands. In the moments before you see him, you look somewhat lost, your own eyes wide as you take in the whole room. Your expression seems a bit overwhelmed so Taehyun wastes no time in catching your eye, and when you recognize him something like relief seems to pass over your face. Somehow, you two meet in the middle of the fray and for one strange moment Taehyun finds himself almost breathless. “Lady Taylor. Miss L/N,” he greets, pressing a soft kiss to your gloved hand. “I’m so glad you were able to come. Please allow me to introduce you to Her Grace, the Duchess of Hastings.”

Lady Taylor curtsies, as do you. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” she says, her strong voice carrying just a hint of awe. “I am Lady Taylor, Viscountess of Wentworth, and this is my niece, Y/N L/N, daughter of the Viscount L/N.”

“It is wonderful to meet you both,” his cousin says, beaming widely. “And especially an honor to have met you, Miss L/N. You’ve caused quite a stir in town with your own fame here and abroad.”

Surprise flutters across your expression, replaced with a sort of embarrassed pride that Taehyun finds very endearing. “Your words do honor me, Your Grace,” you say, voice soft and shy, something of a far cry from the animation you displayed during the Tillings’ ball, or during your brief promenade in the park. You don’t look frightened, though, just somewhat in awe, so Taehyun brushes off his initial concern. “Particularly since the earl has mentioned that you are a lover of music, too. You give me high praise.”

Taehyun watches his cousin laugh and blush a little, and happiness bursts in a small bubble in his chest. She’s settled beautifully into her role as duchess and into her life with Yeonjun, but she’s still looking to widen her own circle of friends after spending so long abroad. The two of you begin to converse, your own shy face animating the more you speak, and with a smile and quick excuse, Taehyun ducks out of the conversation, heading toward the other end of the room. 

Yeonjun catches his eye first. “Taehyun!” he calls, beaming wide. 

“Your Grace,” Taehyun replies, settling into the circle that includes the duke, Beomgyu, Soobin, and Kai. “How have you all been?” 

Yeonjun pulls an exaggerated frown. “Hasn’t my wife told you to dispense with the pleasantries when we are among friends?” he asks, and Taehyun laughs because yes, she did exactly that. “Come, have a drink.”

Taehyun accepts the proffered glass and takes a sip. “You really pulled out all the stops for this,” he says approvingly, swirling the amber liquid inside. 

“What can I say?” Yeonjun shrugs airily. “My wife organized this. The least I could do is help make the event a success.”

“With expensive alcohol,” Soobin deadpans. 

“Exactly.”

Next to Taehyun, Beomgyu coughs very strangely. It almost sounds like he’s saying something like head over heels, actually. Then he yelps and Taehyun looks down just quickly enough to see Soobin’s foot pressing hard onto Beomgyu’s. 

Kai and Taehyun exchange glances. Taehyun has to look away to avoid bursting into laughter. 

“Don’t worry, Beomgyu.” Yeonjun beams beatifically over his own glass of expensive alcohol, sharp eyes glinting at his cousin. “Someday you’ll find a lady who will send you into fits of apoplexy with her beauty and wit, and on that day you’ll understand. Or maybe you’ve already found her.” He adopts a thinking expression. “Who was it that Whistledown mentioned? The lady from your childhood, Miss—”

Beomgyu lets out an incomprehensible noise somewhere between a screech and a snarl, and if they weren’t in Yeonjun’s own home, Taehyun thinks Beomgyu might have jumped the duke. As it stands, though, they begin bickering, which leaves Kai, Soobin, and himself to look at each other with raised eyebrows and exasperated smiles. 

“Let’s step away from the rabble,” Soobin suggests, and the three of them drift a short distance away. “I don’t understand how I’m related to them, sometimes.”

“Well, every family has its own set of strange relations,” Kai mutters. 

“You would know,” Taehyun says, and they all snort. 

“Do the inheritance squabbles still show no sign of ending?” Soobin asks curiously. “I would have thought by now that it’s become abundantly clear your uncle has no real claim to anything your grandfather left.”

Kai rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately not. But let us not speak of it now, please. Not in polite company,” he says, indicating the rest of the room. “Join me at the club sometime, and I will update you on all of it.”

“Of course,” Soobin says, dipping his head in apology. “How about you, Taehyun? How goes the season? I know you intended to find a wife by the end of it.”

Without really meaning to, Taehyun’s gaze wanders to the other end of the room, where you are still engaged in lively conversation with the duchess. “It is tiring in a way I did not really expect,” he replies. “Taemin didn’t complain much when he went through it, at least. But…” He pauses, wondering how much to tell. “I have met some very interesting young ladies.”

Kai snorts. Taehyun flashes him a short glare. “What?”

His friend doesn’t back down, just raises one mischievous eyebrow over his drink. “Well, I just think that I would say there’s one young lady that you find more interesting than all of the others.” 

Taehyun’s ears burn. He very purposely avoids looking in your direction again. 

“Well, do tell.” Soobin cocks his head, his own eyes glinting. “And don’t spare details.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Taehyun snaps, ignoring Kai’s snicker. “I’ve been speaking to Miss L/N, is all. The pianist,” he clarifies, and Soobin’s eyes widen in recognition. “She’s a very lovely young woman. Accomplished, not just with the piano, and very kind.”

“So lovely, actually, that he asked Her Grace to invite her today,” Kai adds. 

“Which one is she?” Soobin asks, ignoring Taehyun’s hiss of you suggested inviting her first! “Is she the lady speaking to the duchess now, with the rather dour-faced woman behind her?”

Taehyun sighs in defeat and nods. “Yes, she is.”

They all turn together, and almost at the same moment, the duchess turns in his direction as well. She catches his eye and immediately starts to head his way, bringing a small group with her. Kai glances at him with an eyebrow raised, but all Taehyun can do is shrug with similar confusion.

“Lord Kang,” she says as soon as they’re near enough to speak. “Mr. Huening. I understand that the two of you have seen Miss L/N perform before in Germany?”

They nod. “It was a most impressive performance,” Taehyun says earnestly. “A lovely program, played beautifully and wonderfully well.”

“Incredibly so,” Kai chimes in. “In fact, I was almost inspired to take music lessons because of it.”

You look supremely embarrassed, but the smile on your lips is still sparkling in your eyes in a way Taehyun hasn’t seen yet. “So you are the friend Lord Kang mentioned when we first met,” you say, and Taehyun has to laugh even as Kai flushes in embarrassment. “Oh—please do not be embarrassed, Mr. Huening. Your words do me a great honor, truly.”

“You are far too modest, my lady,” Taehyun replies, and while everyone’s attention turns to him, he keeps his eyes fixed on yours. “The praise is well earned, I hope you know that.”

“Which only means that the lady should honor our humble request,” Lord Jung says, a twinkle in his eye. “We were just asking that she take a turn on the pianoforte for us. A private performance, if you will, from one of the most accomplished musicians in our society. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for many of us, after all.”

A chorus of agreement sounds from your little group and begins to ripple outwards to the rest of the room as well. People begin to turn, expectation and excitement bright in their faces, but Taehyun glances at you only to find your expression somewhat frozen. 

All at once he remembers the dark night at the Tillings’ ball, the exhaustion clear in your face and your voice when you admitted you were searching for quiet, too. Are you tired now in the same way? He subtly inches a little closer to you and whispers lowly, “You do not have to if you do not wish to.”

You look up at him and your expression clears, eyes turning soft as you smile at him. “Worry not, my lord,” you reply. “I would love to perform. I was just momentarily overwhelmed—I wasn’t expecting quite so much enthusiasm. I do thank you for your concern, though.”

Taehyun smiles, shaking his head. “You are too modest,” he repeats. “The enthusiasm is only to be expected with a name such as yours. I am excited to hear what you play for us, too.”

You don’t have the chance to refute his praise because his cousin is taking your arm and leading you to the empty piano, the rest of the room excitedly whispering behind you. Taehyun watches you sit down at the keys, running your fingers over them with an almost reverent touch, your head bowed slightly over the sea of black and white as though in prayer.

And maybe it is a prayer, Taehyun thinks. Reverence paid to your love, music—like one paying thanks to their god. The thought is beautiful, and as you straighten slightly, positioning your hands at the instrument, he can’t help but admire you more. 

He doesn’t recognize the piece you play. It’s a lovely work, the quiet melody evocative of the night and dark while short, bright stanzas bring to mind the stars, and as your fingers waltz softly across the keys, Taehyun loses himself in the beauty of the music and the beauty of you. It is not that you weren’t beautiful before—far from it, actually—but seeing you in your element, with people who clearly appreciate your work and talent, is a spectacle Taehyun knows he will never tire of watching. It isn’t just the music. It’s the way you play it, the way you move with the melody—it’s the way you embody the music with your whole being that adds to the beauty of the moment, and the loveliness that is you. 

You finish the piece to silence, everyone’s collective breath hushed as you coax the last note from the piano strings. For a long moment, even after the final echoes of music have faded away, you remain bowed over the keys, eyes closed, hands suspended in the air before they drop softly to your lap. 

The first clap hardly breaks you from your reverie. Even as the applause grows, even as you curtsy to the shouts of Brava filling the room, you still seem like you are being pulled from the loveliest dream. Briefly, Taehyun wonders what it would be like to be in that dream with you—would it be like floating among the stars, letting their soft light wash over his body, or would it be like lying on a field of green grass at night, staring up at the moonlit sky?

You meet Taehyun’s eyes and in a moment you seem to jerk awake—your smile widens, your expression brightens, and he can’t help but do the same as you curtsy again and again. All the time his eyes never leave your face, his mind never leaving the beauty of your performance. 

Kai sidles up to his ear and snorts when Taehyun barely notices him. “You are going to court her, aren’t you?” he asks without preamble. 

“Yes.” Taehyun doesn’t even turn his eyes away from you to reply. “Yes, I am.”

. . . . .

At the start of the season, you’d hoped that the daily parade of balls, gatherings, promenades, and callers would die down a bit as the weeks went on. The season itself is six months, already half a year—you really thought there would be no way that the steady stream of events could continue for so long. 

This, apparently, is not the case. 

It’s been a month and there is no sign of the flow ebbing even slightly. Even when there aren’t massive balls that the entire ton is invited to, there are still the smaller gatherings—small parties, invites to dinner, promenades in the park—and even during the events where only the women are present, the talk always seems to turn to the season, to the debutantes, to engagements and marriage, and most of all, the fact that the queen has still not chosen a diamond. 

You’ve heard all manner of stupidity about this last topic of gossip, and it honestly annoys you more than anything else you’ve seen during the season. If the queen hasn’t chosen a diamond by now, you’d like to say, perhaps that means she simply does not plan to. But apparently the idea of a diamond being absent for the entire season is simply unthinkable to the mamas of the ton, and so after the separation of the sexes at every dinner party you attend, you’re forced to listen to them run the topic into the ground. 

The duchess’s gathering last weekend was a lovely respite from such talk. It was a much smaller gathering, mostly friends and family of the duchy who no longer have much of a stake in the season or who have lived long enough for them not to care. You were very lucky to have gotten an invitation to it at all. It was the first event you attended that you truly enjoyed from start to finish and you walked away from it with both a lingering happiness, a possible good friend in the duchess, and a promise of a call from the lord who invited you to the gathering in the first place. 

Even now, you can’t stop the rush of heat to your face when you remember his sincere compliments after your performance at the duchess’s. The way his large eyes sparkled so earnestly, his words sweet but respectful—it is true that you have only known him for a few weeks, but in that moment, you remember thinking that with every meeting your estimation of his character only seems to improve. And it isn’t just because he is effusive in paying you compliments for your performances. Lord Kang…he sees the person behind the performer, the hard work behind the talent. Of course it helps that he is somewhat of a musician himself—you’d love to hear him play sometime—but he clearly respects the work anyone puts into their own craft, from what you gathered in the conversations you shared with others at the party. 

Before you left, he had found you again and asked, somewhat shyly, if you enjoyed reading about music history or theory. When you responded yes to both, he told you he had several volumes on the subjects in his library, and would be happy to lend them to you if you wished. 

Aunt Taylor was not pleased by your stammering reply. Neither were you. But it was such a kind gesture that it took you aback for a good few moments, and by the time you had finally managed to convey that you would love that, you felt a true mess. Lord Kang didn’t seem perturbed by it at all, though. His smile only widened, and he said that then he would have to call sometime the next week, to see you and bring them to you. 

Your governess is certain he means to court you. So do your cousins, though Aunt Taylor has forbidden them from gossiping about it as it isn’t a sure thing yet. You aren’t quite as certain as they are, but deep inside, battling with the part of you that fears marriage and its shackles of responsibility, another part of you hopes that she is right.

The prospect of Lord Kang’s call is really what keeps you going through the seemingly endless nights of dinner parties and mindless chatter, small talk made with family friends you hardly remember and debutantes who either talk about topics you don’t know or care little about, or who look like they want to be there about as much as you do. You find a few kindred spirits among those who are bold enough to whisper their disdain aloud, though, and they make the time more worth it. 

Still, when the morning of Lord Kang’s call comes, you can’t help but feel as though a new light shines on the day. Cousin Lilly slyly remarks that you look more excited than usual as she removes her toddlers from the drawing room in anticipation of calling hour, and even Aunt Taylor’s hissed instructions to sit straight or you’ll turn a perfectly good suitor away doesn’t dampen your mood much as you settle into the couch, watching servants flit about with last minute preparations. 

Just a few minutes after the clock strikes three, a footman enters the room. “Lord Kang has come to call, my lady,” he says. 

You force yourself to breathe properly as your aunt tells him to bring Lord Kang in. For once, you thank the heavens for your aunt’s beady-eyed attention to detail. While her sharp critiques may sting more than they help when directed at you, it means that the room is clean and bright. Lord Kang should find himself most comfortable when he comes in. Or so you hope. 

Lord Kang enters the room with little fanfare, but with an abundance of quiet grace that, for all your earlier nervousness, immediately calms your nerves. After the initial greetings, he remarks on the careful décor of the room and pays compliment to your aunt, who actually looks briefly stunned before she accepts his praise. You’re smiling widely by the time he turns to you—maybe too widely for your aunt’s liking, but you can’t help it—and dare you say it? His eyes seem to sparkle a little more when he looks at you. 

“My lady,” he says, kissing your hand. “I trust you have been well since we last saw each other.”

“Quite so, and I hope I might say the same for you,” you reply. Honestly, you’re quite proud of yourself for keeping your voice so steady when your heart leapt so wildly the moment his lips touched your knuckles. 

“You may,” he says, eyes crinkling with a little mischief. “And as promised, I have brought you the books I mentioned when we spoke last time. I do hope you enjoy them.”

“I’m sure I will,” you say, taking the small stack of books with delight. Their worn covers speak of frequent and fond use, you note, scanning the titles embossed on their spines. “Oh!” you exclaim, sliding one of them out of the stack. “Oh, I’ve been wanting to read this for quite some time.” You beam up at Lord Kang. “Thank you so much, my lord.”

“It is my pleasure,” he replies, a lovely soft smile on his lips. “And, please, take your time reading them. Do not endeavor to return them sooner than you’d like—I’ve read them all, so you need not rush.”

“You are most kind,” you reply sincerely. “Oh, which reminds me.” Placing the books on a nearby table, you pick up a few sheets of music from the drawing room piano. “You mentioned last time that you had not heard the piece I played, and that you found it quite beautiful,” you say, extending the music to him. “I thought…I thought you might like to have the music. If you wanted to learn it yourself.”

Lord Kang takes a moment before he accepts the music from your hand, which makes you a little nervous—what if he doesn’t care for your gift? There’s no way it really compares to the volumes he’s lent you, you think miserably, but it’s all you could think of to give in return. But then he looks up from the black notes inked on the page, and that lovely smile of his has widened along with his bright eyes. “Thank you so much,” he breathes. “This is…the most perfect gift, my lady. I hope you will not mind me borrowing it for a time.”

“Oh, do not worry about returning it,” you say, smiling. “This is a new copy—I have my own for myself. This one is for you.”

“Well, in that case, I know what I will be doing when I return home,” Lord Kang replies, and the two of you laugh. “I can only hope to learn this piece half as well as you have.”

You laugh again, hiding a shy smile behind your hand. “Again, my lord, you flatter me too much.”

“No, I fear the world does not flatter you enough.” His words are so sincere, so earnest that you momentarily find yourself at a loss for words. And it’s then, of course, that you notice you’re both still standing. You haven’t even offered him a seat yet. 

“You really are too kind,” you reply, internally screaming. “Please my lord, do sit. We have some refreshments if you should like any, and our cook can prepare others if you are feeling particular.”

Lord Kang truly does have perfect manners, you note as you sit down together. He compliments the chef, your aunt, your governess, all so quickly and smoothly you barely have a moment to bat an eye. And then, when you’re floundering a little for a way to begin a conversation, he again takes the lead and engages you easily with a question about the composer of the music you gave him. 

It’s so easy to talk to him. Not just because he’s a wonderful conversationalist, which he is, but you feel comfortable around him in a way that you haven’t felt with any of the other suitors you’ve entertained over the past couple of weeks. Part of it is your shared interests, of course, but he listens to you with an attentive and respectful air that makes talking to him so much easier. It doesn’t feel fake, the way it does with some of the other men. It feels as though he really cares about you, your interests, and what makes you happy. 

And because of this, it’s not difficult to reciprocate in kind. As he mentioned during your promenade, Lord Kang clearly loves literature. When you ask about his library, his enthusiasm about the subject is infectious. At some point you land on the topic of an author that you both have read, one that he enjoyed and you didn’t, and it sparks a lively back-and-forth that has both of you laughing in the end. You’re nowhere near as well-read as he is, and in this conversation it unfortunately shows—his opinions on the author are deep and nuanced while you struggle to articulate what it is about the writing that made you dislike it so—but he remains patient and respectful, and despite your lack of knowledge, just like when you spoke during your promenade, you never feel out of place or embarrassed. 

“You are so well-read, my lord,” you say at the end of your little debate. Your throat rasps a little from speaking so much but you hardly notice, you’re smiling so hard. “How did you come into possession of so many books, and how do you have the time to read them all?”

“Well, both my mother and father enjoy collecting books, so I grew up surrounded by them,” he replies. Of course, you think—such a love for literature must have been cultivated from a young age, just as your love for music. “I took it upon myself to read as many as I could when I was a child, and so when I went to school I quite enjoyed my classics lessons. Upon inheriting the earldom, I was pleased to learn that the estate came with a very large library that the previous lord had left.” At that, Lord Kang’s smile softens. “I’ve been spending all the free time that I can reading as much as possible. The late lord must have been collecting books for a very long time, though—sometimes I wonder if I will be able to finish them all before I pass on.”

You nod in sympathy. “I feel the same about all the sheet music I have collected over the years. I always want to add more to my repertoire, but there’s just so much in the world. I could certainly never hope to finish it all, though perhaps that is the beauty in it. The beauty in creation, I mean.” You glance at the music you gifted him, lying on the table beside you two. “I believe art is a tribute to humanity, to human emotion and empathy. People will be composing and writing throughout my life and long after my death, and to know that this beauty continues on even though I will not be there to share it…I think that is beautiful. It is a wonderful tradition, passed on through the ages, and I will always be honored to have been a part of it.”

A short silence falls after your declaration. Suddenly self-conscious, you look up to find Lord Kang’s eyes riveted to yours. “That is a lovely way of seeing things,” he says softly. “I had never thought about art before in such a manner.”

You duck your head, heat crawling up your cheeks. “Many perspectives exist when it comes to the philosophy of the arts, my lord. This is only mine.”

He cocks his head, meeting your eyes again. “And a lovely philosophy it is, my lady.”

Thankfully—or unthankfully, really—you’re saved from having to come up with a response by the entrance of your footman. “Another caller has arrived,” he says, glancing at you, then Lord Kang, then at your aunt. “Shall I send him in?”

You glance up at the clock. Already half an hour has passed, though to your mind it feels like only seconds have slipped away—certainly not thirty minutes, already ten minutes over what a normal call would be. Inwardly you curse the next caller for having come too soon—actually, for having come at all—because while you may not know him well, you’re quite certain Lord Kang’s impeccable manners will have him clearing out before the next caller comes in. 

To your chagrin, you’re right. Lord Kang quickly stands and you follow suit, still cursing the clock and the caller. “I will not intrude upon your next call, my lady,” he says, and maybe it is delusion but you fancy he sounds somewhat put out when he says this. “I have already taken too much of your time.”

“Not too much at all, my lord.” You curtsy to his short bow. “I did not realize so much time had passed, but I quite enjoyed our conversation. And thank you kindly for lending me your books. I will be sure to enjoy them.”

“Of course.” He inclines his head with an enchanting smile. “And I must thank you again for your kind gift, my lady. Perhaps by the next time we meet, I will have learned to play it.”

You grin. “I do hope so. It would be so lovely to hear you perform sometime.”

With that, Lord Kang makes his goodbyes, and you’re left to welcome the next caller. He is thankfully not Mr. Haynesworth, as you had privately been dreading, but really, you feel that any caller would have paled in comparison to Lord Kang. Lord Kim, whom you met at the last ball you attended, isn’t rude or vile or even awkward. He’s a gentleman, all things considered. But after the requisite greetings, he begins the call with an outright statement about his plans for the future, which leaves you half-floundering for a response after your previous lively conversation with Lord Kang. 

Lord Kim doesn’t share any of your interests. He barely feigns interest in your music, and though he doesn’t say it outright, you’re almost certain he would want you to give up the piano if you were to marry. Though that’s not even what bothers you the most, you realize only when he’s about to leave—it’s the fact that he didn’t even ask you about it. It’s the expectation that he seems to have that you would do what he says without question, without the respect of even considering your passions and interests when planning out the rest of your possible life together. 

Later that night you lie awake in your bed, staring at the dark ceiling as you run through the events of the day. In an ideal world, you ask yourself, if you were to be married, what would make it a perfect marriage?

No conflict. Perfect understanding of one another, and perfect respect. But really, those are impossible demands. You’re not sure any marriage would be perfect without conflict, anyway—such a relationship sounds awfully like a domineering husband and submissive wife, which you hope to fully steer clear of. 

But understanding and respect, even if not perfect, doesn’t seem like it should be so unattainable. Marriage, you think, should be a partnership. And a partnership implies a mutual respect for one another, no? And maybe the definition of respect varies from one person to another, but for you, it involves a consideration of your interests and how deeply they play a role in your life. Because for you, before now, almost your entire life was music. You can’t—won’t—give it up just to play a role in society. So is there anyone who might give you that respect?

The answer is obvious already. 

You sigh, rubbing a thumb over where Lord Kang kissed your hand earlier in greeting. He certainly seems to be the ideal, at least for you. Your mind returns to your avid conversation, and his complete attentiveness to you. 

Few people have listened to you like he did today. Your mother did before she died, and sometimes your governess does, but not many others. You need that, you realize. You need someone, or something, to hear you—it’s partly why you poured so much of yourself into the piano when your mother passed, because it felt like only the instrument could hear you and understand your pain, your grief. That is what you need in marriage. In partnership. 

And, you think, remembering large eyes and a soft, wide smile, there’s only one person you know who seems to fit this ideal. 

. . . . .

“You look like you’re having quite a lot of fun.”

Taehyun turns from where he’s been staring at the drink table for probably a little too long. “Yeonjun? I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

The duke picks up two glasses and hands one to him. “We weren’t certain if we were going to come either. The duchess decided last night that she wanted to get out of the house for some time, so here we are. ”

Taehyun nods. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the two of you out much since you returned to town.”

“It’s only been a couple of weeks since we returned,” Yeonjun defends. “There was and still is much to sort out, and unfortunately I have to return to the country next weekend to supervise the removal and fixing of some of the farmers’ equipment.” He sighs. “I hate responsibility.”

“It will all be fine, I’m sure,” Taehyun comforts. Yeonjun and his wife are two of the most capable people he knows; he’s certain they will be alright no matter what challenges they face. “Join us at the club tomorrow afternoon,” he offers. “Kai, Beomgyu, and Soobin will be there too.”

Yeonjun brightens immediately. “I will be there.” Then he squints his eyes into a mock frown. “Are you all now meeting without me? Is it because I’m old, and married, and jaded now?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Taehyun snickers into his drink as Yeonjun’s pout deepens exaggeratedly. “No, we just met up a few times when you were still in the country. You’ll be included in every invite now, I promise.” He pauses. “Though of course if you are busy, you are under no obligation to come.”

“Thank you very much.” Yeonjun grins, that eye smile that drove so many debutantes insane appearing on his face. “But enough about me. Now about you.” He fixes Taehyun with a stern eye. “I thought you were looking for a wife? You won’t have much luck with that, staring at this array of drinks.”

Taehyun makes a face. “I think many of these mamas want to find their daughters husbands more than I want to find myself a wife,” he mutters. 

Yeonjun nearly chokes into his drink. “That’s certainly one way to put the issue,” he coughs out, recovering. “Though I heard from Beomgyu that there is already a lady you have decided to court?”

“…Yes.” Taehyun narrows his eyes. “How did you know that? I only told Kai.”

“He says he heard it from Kai, so I think we know what happened there.” Yeonjun shrugs as Taehyun sighs. “Apparently you didn’t say it was a secret.”

He didn’t. But all the same… “He’ll be the death of me, someday,” Taehyun mutters. “But yes, I have someone in mind. Miss L/N. You met her a couple of weeks ago, at the gathering.” He pauses, then decides he may as well just be out with it. “I’ve been calling on her since.”

“That is wonderful to hear,” Yeonjun replies sincerely. “Is she here tonight?”

“She said she would be.” Taehyun glances around the room. “I specifically asked, because we keep seeming to miss each other at all the other balls. If I’m there, she isn’t, and if I’m not, she is.” They share a little laugh. “I haven’t been able to find her here since I arrived, though.” He gestures helplessly at the drink table. “Hence…”

Yeonjun makes a little ‘o’ of understanding. “I see. And you do not want to dance with any of the other debutantes?”

“I already have,” Taehyun says, glancing at the bustling dance floor. “I’m just…tired, I suppose.” He tries to smile. “You know how it is.”

He doesn’t, not really. In the year since Taehyun gotten to know the duke, he’s come to the conclusion that Yeonjun is like Taemin when it comes to things like this—ever social, ever happy to entertain and be entertained. But also like Taemin, he understands that Taehyun is different, and tires of these things much more easily than he does. “I understand,” Yeonjun replies sympathetically. A little glint enters his eye when he sees something just behind Taehyun. “If you’d like, I can cover you for a bit. So you can find some quiet.”

Taehyun casts a glance back. Sure enough, a small group of mamas and their daughters seem to be eyeing him and the duke. “That would be most appreciated,” he says gratefully. 

Within moments, Yeonjun has skillfully engaged the group of ladies in conversation and has also managed to snag a hapless Wooyoung into joining him, leaving Taehyun to slip past the throng. As the rooms grow less crowded and the corridors quieter, he takes a deep breath, reveling in the silence. 

Only it isn’t completely silent, even in this empty room. If Taehyun listens carefully, he can catch a hint of a melody that isn’t just the remnants of the orchestra fading in from a nearby corridor. 

Within moments, he’s heading down the corridor, a smile curving his lips as he searches for the source of the music. 

He finds the room with a little difficulty, following the sound of your performance down corridor after corridor. When he finally stumbles upon the slightly cracked open door, Taehyun is reminded of the second ball of the season, where he heard you that first time. He didn’t know it was you then, but he certainly knows it is you now. It helps that this is a piece he’s heard you play before—it’s a lovely Mozart sonata you performed when he called on you a few days ago—but your style is also so distinctive that even though Taehyun has only heard you play a handful of times, even not knowing the piece, he’s almost certain he would still know it was you. 

Taehyun smiles just beyond the room, leaning closer towards the open door. He won’t disturb you—even though he aims to court you, he would never trap you into a proposal by having someone catch the two of you alone together. He just wants to listen. And perhaps, when you’re finished, he’ll be able to catch you when you return back to the party, and you two can share a dance. 

It’s strange that in all the times you’ve met, the two of you have not yet danced together once. Taehyun aims to rectify that as soon as he can, if you will allow it. 

And allow it you will, he thinks. He’s certain he’s not the only one who has noticed how well you two get along. You must have felt it too, just as you must also have seen by now that he is quite interested in you.  And he’s almost sure that you are interested in him too, if your shy smiles and sweet words are anything to go by. 

Closing his eyes, he leans closer to the music. A brilliant sparkle of notes swirl under your fingers, the melody leaping with a joy that lingers in his ears and widens his smile. Cheerful and sweet, though there’s a noise that doesn’t sound right entering the piece. It’s strange—it sounds something like—

Footsteps?

Taehyun quickly ducks into a nearby empty room, praying no one saw him. The low conversation of the small group continues without interruption and he breathes a sigh of relief. They keep coming closer, though, and he thinks he can hear the voice of Lady Arina Park telling Her Majesty—she brought the queen?—that she must see the Gérard painting in this room, it’s quite famous and apparently not a fake—

Holding his breath, Taehyun watches them enter the room where you’re playing. But the music doesn’t stop, not just yet. He almost smiles—it’s not hard to believe you would be so lost in the melody that you wouldn’t notice a small group of people entering the room—but that smile freezes in place when the queen makes an exclamation and the music ends abruptly. 

Taehyun swallows. This might not be good. The queen can’t be pleased that you would avoid a ball to play the pianoforte—maybe he can help, just enter the room and act surprised to see everyone. He could easily claim he was curious about the music. 

He edges into the hallway just in time to hear you apologizing profusely. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I was only taking a small pause from the ball—”

“Because you delight in your endeavors.” Taehyun stops short when he hears the smile in Her Majesty’s voice. He should leave—from her tone, you are probably not in trouble, which means it’s better for him not to be here. He wouldn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping on Her Majesty. Still, though he can’t help but hear the queen’s words as he takes soundless steps down the hallway. “Someone who performs not for me, but for themselves. Brava.”

That, Taehyun can agree with. Yet while part of his heart leaps in happiness for you—it is, after all, no small feat to impress the queen—another part of him remembers your desire for quiet at the Tillings’ ball and wonders what the queen’s attention might mean for an introverted woman like you. 

You mumble something that he doesn’t quite catch. And as Taehyun steps down the corridor, he hears the queen speak again, pleasure clear in her tone. 

“A performance that sparkles,” she declares. “Just like a diamond.”

Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed this, and have a lovely day :) Note: part 2 will be posted in three days, on June 17 at 8pm EST :)

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞, 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞

You knew with absolute certainty that you meant a lot to both Bucky and Steve — to them as themselves, and to their marriage, but you did not truly understand the depth of their devotion to you, not until a frosty, chilled morning where they revealed just how much they truly adored you.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ༄ Fireman!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader x Fireman!Steve Rogers

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ༄ 1.4k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ༄ Fluff, spicy humour, implied spice

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ༄ Being spoiled by these two would be a dream come true. 😭

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 ༄ Only by RY X

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ༄ @stuckybingo ჻჻჻ 𝗚𝟮 — Firefighter AU ჻჻჻ 𝗝𝗔𝗡𝗨𝗔𝗥𝗬 𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗟𝗬 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡 — Garnet — Masterlist ༄ @rookthorne's Merry Buckmas — Masterlist

𝐁𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Wafts from Bucky and Steve’s coffees woke you slowly — earthy tones from Steve’s black brew to the sweetness of Bucky’s sugar overladen cup intermingled, dancing over your palette to entice you into the kitchen. 

That, however, didn’t mean you would hurry to leave the cocoon of blankets you were wrapped in. Not even when you heard quiet footsteps down the hall, or when the bedroom door creaked open to admit one of the two culprits. 

Their footsteps neared the edge of the bed, but you couldn’t discern just who it was, until, “Cherry, doll,” Steve cooed. “Time to get up, darlin’, Buck’s gettin’ restless. Took all a’me to keep him on the damned couch so he wouldn’t barrel in here and just pick you up—blankets an’ all.”

“No,” you grumbled, furrowing deeper into said blankets. “Not gettin’ up, Stevie.”

The mattress dipped as he sat down on the edge, right next to your hip. His warm hand rubbed up and down your back, and with a chuckle, he said, “I think you are, honey—we have a present for you.”

You blinked and peered over the mound of blankets to look into Steve’s bright eyes. “Present?”

“Present,” he repeated. The fabric of the covers rustled under his palm, and he cupped your ass over the plush material. “Get that cute butt up and you can see.”

“Ugh.”

The quiet atmosphere of the house was the first thing you noticed — not even a peep from Cap or Cleo, or even the hushed whispers of an excited Bucky to fill the air while you padded down the hallway. 

A steaming mug of your favourite, warm drink was waiting for you on the kitchen counter, and you picked it up with a grateful hum; the warmth of the colourful mug made your palms prickle from the heat while your fingers regained feeling. 

Bucky’s voice suddenly called from the living room, “Is that our Cherry?”

“Yeah,” you said around a yawn, and you made your way over to the pair of them who were relaxed on the couch. “Morning, boys.”

Steve smiled; Bucky positively beamed with enthusiasm, like you were the best sight he could have witnessed that chilled, festive morning. “Hey, pretty girl,” he said, confirming your thoughts and gesturing you over. “C’mere—wanna hold our girl.”

You carefully placed your drink down onto the coffee table and sat on Bucky’s lap. As soon as the back of your thighs touched the top of his, his hands shot straight to your waist and hip, guiding you to sit comfortably. The quietness of his hushed voice while he hummed along to the Christmas carol playing from the movie on the TV soothed you. 

“Hi,” you mumbled, curling into his chest. The faded fabric of his red henley was soft under your palm as you rested your hand over his heart. A soft kiss was placed on your forehead. The three of you settled into a comfortable silence. 

A low huff came from the direction of the room’s heater. You looked over and found Cap and Cleo cuddled under the endless soft, fluffy blankets that lined their bed. 

“How did you sleep, baby?” Bucky asked quietly. Under your hand, his chest rumbled from his gravelly voice.  

“Good—could still fall asleep now,” you replied, and a yawn snuck up on you. “But someone insisted I get out of bed this morning.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Steve said with a light laugh. 

Bucky’s hand squeezed your waist and his other arm moved to rest higher up, over your thighs. “It is, Cherry—don’t go givin’ Stevie a hard time.”

“Mm, I’ll be the judge of that,” you huffed. “Now shush, you’re warm and ‘m sleepy.” 

“Don’t go to sleep again,” Bucky warned, shaking you a little. “Stevie,” he said, and you felt his jaw move from the top of your head — he must have looked toward his husband. “Let’s do it, yeah? That way Cherry can get what she wants.”

“Yes,” you agreed, closing your eyes for effect. “What I want is to sleep against the warm, strong chest of my–”

“Ah, ah,” Steve interrupted, raising a brow at you, as though he knew you were going to say something that would set Bucky off — the bastard always knew, you cursed. “Alright,” he continued, twisting in his seat to reach for something that rested on the bottom shelf of the coffee table, and you watched keenly. “Now this is an early Christmas present—since we agreed neither of us could keep our mouths shut about it.”

A simple, small, black box rested in his offered palm. It was nondescript and plain; no way to decipher what may lie inside or where it came from. 

With only an ounce of hesitation, you leaned out of Bucky’s grip and took the offered mysterious present. It had little weight to it, but that truly meant nothing when it came to their cunning, crafty ideas — the possibilities were endless–

“You wanna open it up to see what it is,” Bucky said, his tone light and amused, “or are you gona keep bitin’ your lip and keep me thinkin’ of what I could do to make them even more–”

“For fuck’s sake,” Steve cut in, holding a finger up in reminisce of a scolding parent. “This is a soft, gentle moment—don’t ruin it by bein’ a horndog.”

“Whatever,” Bucky grumbled. Not one to be dissuaded, his face inched closer to your ear, and you giggled sweetly when his lips brushed against the sensitive skin behind and below your ear. “Don’t listen to him, kitten.”

“Enough!”

All three of you burst into laughter, and it was only when Cleo ventured from her bed to investigate the interesting package you held in your lap, did the three of you settle into occasional snorts of mirth. “Hey, baby girl,” you whispered, offering the puppy your hand to sniff, and scratch between her ears. “What d’you say? Should I open it?”

She yipped and wagged her tail — a universal sign of ‘yes’. 

“Okay, here we go.” The lid of the box slid from the base smoothly to reveal red tissue paper. Tones of umber, ruby red, and fire beneath your fingertips. “You boys spend big, did you?”

“Jus’ open it, Cherry,” Bucky insisted, a boyish grin on his lips. If you were not in his lap and he had room to move, you would have sworn that he would vibrate in place from sheer excitement. “C’mon—this is worse than watchin’ Clint try to cook at the station.”

“Alright, alright,” you soothed him, unable to help the pull of a wide smile. “But I’m telling him you said that.”

“Don’t care, jus’ open it.”

you sighed exasperatedly. “Fine.”  

The tissue paper came away with a quiet crinkle, and what lay beneath it made you gasp so harshly that it caught in your throat, making you cough. 

A thin, twinkling bracelet was nestled into the white, velvet padding. Red jewels and flashes of white diamonds glinted in the low light of the living room, and you could not for the life of you speak up, or vocalise behind small gasps and whimpers. 

Its beauty was unmatched in anything you had seen before. A larger red stone was set on the domed shell of a firefighter’s helmet, and along the brimmed edge around the helmet was inscribed a single word — Cherry. 

“Oh, my,” you managed, a barely audible exclamation that seemed to piteously show your shock and awe. 

The love and affection in both Bucky and Steve’s stares made your eyes well with tears, and Bucky spoke first. “They’re garnets—the gemstone of fire. We found this shop that made things with all kinds, and– Well, we had to get our Cherry somethin’ of us.”

“You’re our fire, our passion, Cherry,” Steve said quietly. “You’ve given us everythin’, all of what we have now is thanks to you.”

“Oh, hell,” you gasped wetly, choking on a sob. “Boys–” There was no way to speak before the torrential flood took over, and you mouthed wordlessly while clutching the box. 

Bucky pulled you impossibly closer, and Steve shuffled down the couch to sit so close he may as well have been in Bucky’s lap, as well — he lifted your legs and settled, then placed them over his before he leaned in close. 

“Here,” Steve said, gently grabbing the box from your hand. His fingertips were soft over the delicate skin of your wrist, and the bracelet rested comfortably in place. “There you go, honey.” 

You held them close after that, unwilling and unable to let either of them go — not even when you had a part of them already in your heart.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[peachesofteal]

John Price/female reader The Ocean anthology

The girl is here.

You’re tucked in a corner booth, rigid against old cedar slats, brown bottle and half peeled beer label crinkled between your fingers. The yellow track lighting casts a dubious shadow across your face, faint flicker of unease painted through your brow.

Your lips touch the rim. John’s stomach pitches.

You look up. He pretends you don’t. Perches on the stool, empty one of many, and waits for his usual. Rocks whiskey. Amber syrup, a cold burn.

One like he feels now, when he catches a local giving you a once, twice over.

You’re a grown woman. Grown women go to bars.

“Saw Aly made a friend the other day.” The bartender is lighthearted, but the comment doesn’t land, just floats aimlessly in the stale air, floundering.

“Yeah.” This is more than curiosity, this interest the town has expressed in you. More than good natured, or ill natured, interest. It’s sinister. It’s calculating. It makes him want to lock you away, hide you from the eyes of this place, the ones watching from the dark, the depths, the pale orange windows lining the street.

“The conservation effort pays for the ranger position, you know.” Mari clips at his left elbow. “Wouldn’t kill you to be nice to her.” It might.

She’s not wrong. He glances at your empty bottle and wandering eyes, and then with a sigh, orders one with a second pour for himself.

John doesn’t meander. He walks with purpose. It’s a learned technique from his past, straight and purposeful. A captain’s walk. Still proud, still able. Still carrying the echo of gunfire, shouts of dying men, well laid plans gone to waste.

He wants to walk right out the door, pull his hat down around his ears, tuck his chin and take himself home.

But then he’d be awake. Listening. Waiting for the sound of your door opening and closing, your feet heavy on the staircase.

Silent watching. Too afraid to go close. Unable to bring himself to gentle a wild thing, again. He’d dig his fingers into your flesh, rip apart these pieces singing to him, the ones carrying an unnatural tune, a siren song trying to drag him into frigid waters.

He’d dig and dig until he’s made a new home. Until he’s hollowed you out, turned you in on yourself. Until he’s lost where he ends and begins, lost the feeling of the most sacred pieces of his heart, the ones already slipping through his fingers.

He burns with a desire to consume you. Pick you apart. See what makes your wild heart tick. You’re like the sea, he already knows. A wild thing, in a wild place, with a wild passion. An interest so feral it’d kill you.

It might.

So when he appears at the end of the table, peace offering in hand, he doesn’t expect a smile or a gesture. He expects what he gets: a confused glance and then, a hot streak dancing in your eyes, willful as the tides. Amphitrite herself.

He hates you for it. Hates how much the burn has blossomed. Hates how you smile at him in the mornings, even though he’s only ever given you frosty, grim half smiles and frowns.

You’re willful. He’d bring you to heel, do to you what was done to him, bend body and soul, and then you’d never leave this place.

“Hi.”

“Can I sit?” He motions, and you chew the inside of your cheek before nodding.

“Please.”

“Can I ask you about the wolves?” No. Ask about anything, but the wolves.

“What about them?”

“Thought I heard them, the other night when I was out.” His spine snaps straight to attention, liquid fire sticking to his stomach like tar. It settles there, in this uncomfortable space he’s built out for you, for all the pieces he’s trying to jam up and away.

“Out where?” A sheepish look crosses your face.

“I went for a walk.”

“Thought I told you not to walk alone at night.” It’s a grand assumption, you being alone. Grand assumption that any one of these starved boys hasn’t picked you up already, hasn’t already tried to make you theirs, to pin you under their body in a bed and give you pieces of themselves.

“I wanted to look at the stars.” It’s a simple answer, but makes the blood hot under his coat. He wonders how much you like the word no, or if anyone has laid you across their knee and spanked you raw before. His hands itch just thinking about it.

He’d do it. He’d lick your tears afterwards too, brine fresh on his tongue. Sweeter than sugar. His crying girl, bent and broken beneath his palms.

There’s a buzzing in the back of his head, a whine. High pitched and unbearable, like the sound Aly’s cries. It’s PTSD, or hearing loss, or tinnitus, something lingering past retirement, sharp and lurking in wait.

“The pack comes close to town. Often.”

“How big?”

“Eleven. Used to be twelve but…” he peters off, hand rubbing down his face. Not too much. “If you’re ever out around the house, or town, and they get too close. You run. Don’t freeze. Run.” He must instill this in you. This chance at survival. Running will make you prey, certainly, but if you’re close enough to town, they’ll peel off.

They know better.

“And if I’m not around the house? Or town?”

“Don’t be.”

[theplotmage]

50 Worldbuilding Setting ideas for your fantasy book

Cities and Settlements

1. Capital City - The central hub of political power and culture in the realm.

2. Harbor Town - A bustling port city crucial for trade and naval activities.

3. Elf Village - A serene settlement hidden within a forest, home to elven inhabitants.

4. Dwarven Mines - An underground city where dwarves mine precious metals and gems.

5. Nomad Camp - A temporary settlement for wandering tribes and traders.

6. Market Square - The commercial heart of any major city, filled with vendors and artisans.

7. Sky City - A floating metropolis held aloft by magic or advanced technology.

Natural and Enchanted Locations

8. Mystic Forest - A dense, magical woodland filled with ancient trees and mythical creatures.

9. Enchanted Lake - A serene body of water with mystical properties.

10. Secret Cave - A hidden cavern that might contain treasure or danger.

11. Dark Swamp - A treacherous wetland often home to dark magic and creatures.

12. Forbidden Desert - A vast, arid expanse known for its harsh conditions and ancient secrets.

13. Floating Island - A landmass suspended in the sky, often home to unique flora and fauna.

14. Hidden Valley - A secluded, fertile valley protected from the outside world.

15. Charmed Meadows - Peaceful fields imbued with protective enchantments.

Magical and Supernatural Places

16. Wizard’s Tower - The abode of powerful sorcerers, filled with arcane knowledge.

17. Sacred Temple - A place of worship and spiritual significance, often protected by divine magic.

18. Haunted Castle - An ancient fortress inhabited by ghosts or malevolent spirits.

19. Necromancer’s Crypt - The lair of a dark sorcerer who practices necromancy.

20. Oracle’s Sanctuary - A holy site where oracles deliver prophecies and visions.

21. Magical Academy - An institution where young sorcerers learn the art of magic.

22. Alchemist’s Workshop - A place where alchemists experiment and create potions and elixirs.

23. Time Portal - A gateway to different eras, allowing travel through time.

Dangerous and Uncharted Areas

24. Ancient Ruins - The remnants of a once-great civilization, often hiding secrets or dangers.

25. Dragon’s Lair - The home of a fearsome dragon, filled with treasure and peril.

26. Cursed Forest - A dark, haunted woodland where malevolent forces dwell.

27. Battlefield - The site of a significant past conflict, often haunted by the spirits of the fallen.

28. Volcanic Wasteland - A desolate, fiery landscape wrought with volcanic activity.

29. Giant’s Keep - A massive fortress built and inhabited by giants.

30. Pirate Cove - A hidden inlet where pirates gather to plan their exploits.

31. Shadow Realm - A dark, parallel dimension filled with malevolent entities.

32. Frosty Tundra - A vast, icy wasteland where few dare to venture.

Cultural and Social Hubs

33. Royal Palace - The lavish residence of the ruling monarch and their court.

34. Thieves’ Guild - A secretive organization of thieves and rogues.

35. Warrior’s Training Grounds - A facility where soldiers and heroes train for battle.

36. Arena of Champions - A grand coliseum where warriors compete in combat.

37. Goblin Market - A chaotic and colorful marketplace run by goblins, offering exotic goods.

38. Hermit’s Hut - The secluded home of a wise hermit, often sought for advice.

39. Secret Hideout - A concealed refuge used by rebels or outlaws.

Mystical and Legendary Sites

40. Ethereal Gardens - Magical gardens with rare plants and enchanting beauty.

41. Celestial Observatory - A tower dedicated to studying the stars and celestial events.

42. Sanctuary of Lost Knowledge - A hidden library containing ancient and forbidden texts.

43. Sunken Ruins - The underwater remnants of a lost civilization.

44. Gryphon Nesting Grounds - A mountainous area where gryphons make their nests.

45. Spiral Staircase - An enigmatic, seemingly endless staircase leading to unknown depths.

46. Giant’s Keep - A colossal fortress built and inhabited by giants.

47. Protean Plains - A region where the landscape constantly changes, reshaped by powerful magic or ancient curses.

Adventurous and Explorative Spots

48. Treasure Hunter’s Camp - A gathering spot for explorers seeking lost relics.

49. Relic Seeker’s Cave - A cave rumored to contain powerful artifacts.

50. Explorer’s Outpost - A base for adventurers preparing for expeditions into unknown territories.

***

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[st4vk1nmybra1n]

Muse.

Pairing: Model!Gojo x sculpturist!reader

Wc: 7k!

Cont: fluff, (sort of) slowburn, friends to lovers, part two of my previous model!gojo x reader, can be read as a standalone fic! Ending alludes to a separate fic with geto x reader bcs i can't resist it..

author's note: Contains in-depth information about how I perceive both gojo and geto’s (and even reader's) way of expressing art. In depth talks about their upbringings and backgrounds, amateur’s take on art so please feel free to provide feedback!! Comments are very much appreciated! Overall just very long and detailed fic. Please enjoy <33

Geto Suguru wasn't a man who put himself out there for the world. Unlike his friend, Satoru, Suguru was more to himself. He wasn't reserved, per se. He just had a greater preference to keep his theatrics and jokes to his friend group. Don’t get him wrong, he loves annoying his friends as much as his best friend, but he preferred to keep that side of him as something mainly for his friends. Unless it slipped out in the moment, Suguru wasn't going to tease or get overly cheeky. That’s just how he was. Not that it mattered much, though. He wasn’t the famous one, that was Satoru! And really, he was happier this way. He was content with his life so far, and he didn’t have the desire to change that aspect.

Being Gojo Satoru’s bestest friend ever (Satoru’s words, not his) came with a little bit of attention, regardless of whether it was something you wanted. And when you’re as alluring as Suguru, it’s inevitable! He’d had multiple offers in commercials and photoshoots, as nobody seemed to be immune to his charm. Maybe Satoru was getting to his head, but Suguru likes to think he has his own good looks that people seek out. He was almost the opposite visual of his friend, funnily enough. While Satoru had short, snowy white hair, Suguru had long, black tresses. While Satoru had frosty lashes, and big, bright blue eyes, Suguru had slanted, smaller and darker eyes. Though when the sun hits, they seem to have a purple gleam to them. While Satoru had milky, pale and untouched skin, Suguru had tan skin, rough at the hands, piercings in his ears and on his lips, along with a few scattered, intricate tattoos over the skin on his arms and back, his entire frame littered all over with freckles and moles. While satoru’s build was tall, lanky yet still well muscled, suguru’s build was an inch or two shorter, but more muscled. Even despite such differences, the two paired well together, contrasting the other beautifully.

It was clear there weren't many similarities in their looks besides the fact that the media thirsted over the fact that the both of them were hot. Another common interest was teasing and annoying their friends together, though Suguru tended to tire out of the activity 10 minutes in, only to sabotage Satoru and start bullying him. Another thing the two could silently agree on was their appreciation of art. Art, a form of expression that captures the beauty and essence of the object of one’s affection or fascination. While the two had different preferences for the type of art they enjoyed, they could appreciate the other’s outlook, even sometimes gaining an interest in it.

Satoru admired the art of a physical muse, the art of presenting a face or a body in a manner that captivates the viewer. The idea of filmography, photography, drawing, painting, and sculpting statues being centered around a physical being was something that made him feel alive. The ways of capturing a creature in so many colors, so many emotions. It all appealed to him. The sensuality of a sculpture or a photograph shot at just the right angle that made it a phenomenal art piece is something that always stood out to him. Sensuality and sexuality was something that Satoru considered natural, it didn’t phase him or arouse him in most circumstances, it only ignited a sense of admiration and appreciation for art. Satoru was confident in his sexuality, he held the form of expression to high regards, often channeling the feeling whenever he modeled.

Suguru on the other hand, had an appreciation for art that presented in the form of something non-human, yet so humane. Capturing the beauty of scenic views in a painting, or in a photograph or drawing was what stood out most to him. To see the ways one could imagine the same exact thing. While colors were great, he preferred neutrality, minimal color. Even with the lack of bursting and animated pops of color, grasping an object in the palm of your hand and honing it in the way you envision is more satisfying than he’d like to admit. That was the main reason he owned a tattoo and piercing parlor, to be able to engrave his art in the form of ink onto someone else for them to share that sense of admiration. It brought him joy, more than anything. Aside from doing tattoos and piercings, he did photography on the side with Satoru as his main muse. Satoru had a look to him that was just enough to stand out perfectly in front of plain colors, making suguru’s photography easy on the eyes and minimal. Perfect enough to satisfy both their preferences.

It was an arrangement the two had since they were 16, starting soon after the two had become friends. Suguru seldom captured shots of his other friends too, but Satoru had an annoying tendency to actually boost Suguru’s inspiration to create art. The two would constantly inspire the other to work, continuously driving one another to be at their fullest potential. They were stubborn as hell too, always wanting their own way instead of what the other wanted. Though as always, they would come to a sort of compromise, creating a mesh between their two styles and medium. Though, Satoru preferred to be the object of someone's desire, wanting art to live on vicariously through his body, using it as a vessel to perform and present himself as someone's muse, a piece styled and perfected so tediously to how one envisioned him to be fitting, while Suguru had a knack for capturing said art.

Suguru came from quite a liberalized background, his parents being way more laid back and open minded than the average family in japan. For that sole reason, Suguru was able to express himself adequately and comfortably, and he was quite self aware and emotionally intelligent. Having such a freedom to think, and understanding the weight of that trust his parents bestowed upon him from giving him room for self expression made him even more conscious of the decisions he took and put time into. He was quite comfortable in his identity, and had no qualms against discussing topics that many may consider taboo. That's just how he was, what else could he say?

Now on the other end of the spectrum, Satoru was brought up very traditionally and conservatively. The Gojo family was a well known family amongst your everyday crowd. Derogatory and narrow-minded statements were shoved down Satoru's throat routinely, irritating him to no end. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that women weren't inferior, or that anybody who wasn't a "pure" japanese was a disgrace. Things like these were common knowledge to him by the age of 7, and he frankly couldn't care less about how the higher ups in his clan felt about women showing their ankles. Modesty and impurity were just, and anything else was blasphemous and an insult in the Gojo estate. Of course, Satoru didn't agree. So when he had met Geto Suguru, who had asked Satoru for a mini photoshoot, the white haired male agreed.

But what he didn't expect was to be handed a tight fit tank top. He wasn't uncomfortable by any means, just surprised. It was a pleasant surprise compared to the loose, traditional clothing he was forced to wear. Suguru was quite well versed in the latest of fashion trends, and Satoru was eager to learn more and change up his wardrobe in hopes of irritating the higher ups. Sooner or later, he got his first professional modeling gig. For the shoot, he wore white, loose cloth draped over his frame. Depicting him as angelic. That in itself was blasphemous, but the lack of coverage from the cloth would probably incite even more outrage amongst the elders of the Gojo clan. Belatedly, he'd realize just how happy he felt with the end result of his photoshoot. What once was an act of getting under the skin of his relatives, became an outlet of self expression that he never got to let out.

No sooner than later, Gojo Satoru had risen to fame, and was known as one of the most beautiful men out there, and he relished in the attention and the excitement he felt of being seen in such a light. The feeling of expensive silk garments draped over him, or the lack thereof, was exhilarating. Giving him the endorphins rush he craved constantly. The intricacy behind being styled with shawls and robes of fabric, or with minimal fabric, maybe something more daring like chains placed against his skin strategically, the glint of the metal against his skin only highlighting his milky skin. Sometimes in intricate, strappy belts or ropes around his frame. While daring and promiscuous, he was never opposed. He liked the idea of being presented to the world in many ways. He knew he looked good, anyway.

On the other hand, there was you; while not much of a model, you had a keen eye for arts like your two friends. You were a sculpturist; meticulously carving and molding out figures and statues with utmost dedication. You enjoyed working in the field, and it paid well enough. Sure, it was fun to paint and draw, but you much preferred sculpting. To bring a creation to life by creating a proper vessel in a three-dimensional form, was something else of its own.

You lived a life that seemed to be pretty ordinary, up in the beginning at least. Your parents weren't completely strict, they were pretty okay with most of your decisions. Alas, you grew up getting to indulge in your interests to a certain degree. That was only amplified when you'd made your friends in highschool. Having friends like Suguru, Satoru, Shoko, Nanami, Haibara and Utahime; it was nice. You guys were always close, pushing one another to do better than the last time. That's just how it was. You were close with Shoko and Satoru the most, finding yourself easily conversing with the two at all times. Not that you couldn't with the rest, but you just felt a click with the two.

And of course, overtime, that grew into something more with Satoru. It was like you were attached at the hip at times, running around the whole area surrounding your guys’ school to explore and find things to entertain yourself with. On some occasions, Suguru would join you. On those days, he and Satoru would look around for things to photograph, maybe use as a backdrop for their photography. On the days it was just you and Satoru, you both would wander around aimlessly, talking about anything and everything. Often, you'd talk about Satoru's shitty family, and his love and passion for beauty. You talked about your future and its possibilities, about what you wanted to do and what you saw yourself doing. Of course, it changed over the course of the years. Satoru had wanted to be seen by the world; perhaps as an actor. That stayed for a while, until he was cast for a modeling gig later on.

You had always been uncertain of your future, trying hard not to think about it too much, to avoid thinking way too much into the future. You preferred living in the present, alongside your friends. It was on one certain day during a sculpting class you had that you took often, where you were working on expressions. Making sculptures look realistic went hand in hand with learning the ins and outs of the body– understanding bodily anatomy was necessary for a detailed creation, and you were stubborn. When you started something, you needed to be good at it. Good enough to be proud of your work. And that took effort. So you dedicated hours and hours to sculpting. Working meticulously on your current piece, you thought deeply about how you wanted to do these features.

Carefully, you had sliced some clay from the face, smoothing it down to blend in seamlessly with the rest of the features. You carefully sculpted out the nose as well. Small, pointed with a soft slope going from the top to the tip. You carefully blurred out the lip lines, making a softer Cupid's bow. You defined the philtrum, carefully pressing into it. Then, you worked on sharpening the jawline, yet making it feel as human as it could be. After an hour or so of working on those details, you snap out of your trance with a sigh. You pull away, inhaling sharply at the work in front of you. Belatedly, you realized how similar it looked to your friend, Satoru. You were enchanted by it. You'd drawn and painted your friends before, but to create a human-like head so similar to one of your friends, like a statue signifying their importance to you– it was something you'd never thought to do.

When learning how to draw expressions and faces, you had to practice creating ethnic features and unique qualities, just to perfect the art of diversity. This was your first time creating a piece inspired by your friend. At least in the form of clay. And it was beautiful. You had dedicated hours and hours to this piece, and it was like you were short of breath as you saw this. It was unlike anything you'd envisioned before. That was the moment you had realized just how much you loved doing this. And as you sat alone in your class, having been the last to stay, you gazed upon your creation, your heartbeat accelerating just at the beautiful sight of it. Your friend was gorgeous, but creating this piece was like taking a piece of him from your memories, etching him upon the canvas that was the clay. In a way, you felt your love for said friend to grow more and more. The whole process felt more and more intimate, dedicating time to a statue of your friend. It wasn't just a regular drawing or painting, this was a piece of your heart, your blood, your sweat, and even your tears. The realization that you finally felt sure about what you wanted to do– it warmed your heart, your eyes growing cloudy with tears.

“Ah. You've finished. It's beautiful. This is your friend, is it not? Satoru, was it?” Your teacher had asked, to which you blinked, letting out a laugh and a nod as you wiped your eyes. It was. And the fact that it was recognizable not just to you but to other onlookers had made you feel accomplished. You sat there in silence, staring upon your work for half an hour after you'd finished, just taking it in. Eventually, you'd packed up your things and gone back home, still dazed from the burst of emotions it had caused you. But that was just the start of your obsession, and you only grew more and more dedicated to your craft. And eventually, you too had found what you'd wanted to do, just like your friend and your muse, Satoru.

The studio you worked in was spacious, quite empty, built reminiscent of an actual museum. You had a few occasional pieces around in the studio, consisting of statues of your friends and a few more abstract pieces here and there. Adding to the ambience of your work, it made for a peaceful environment and a great space. You seldom had visitors in the building, with the exception of your friends Suguru and Satoru, and Shoko on those days she wasn't busy. Occasionally you saw Nanami, Haibara, Utahime and even Megumi and his friends drop by. You were never opposed to visitors, finding it a pleasant change to the melodies you'd often be playing. You worked with music playing in the background, though you preferred to have it pretty quiet, just as background noise. Like tunes blasting in from a neighbor's house. It was a comforting sound, much better than risking your hearing with your song on full volume, as you worked. Not that you didn't blast music, no. You just preferred to keep it quiet as you worked.

Your sculptures consisted of random objects and trinkets for your friends and family, and some even for yourself. Some detailed china; though only for the sake of decor. Occasionally, you get commissions for your stuff to be displayed in lavish stores or museums. It was easy money for you! A good chunk of your work consisted of commissions from the upper class looking to have their lovers portrayed in the most romantic ways one could imagine– As a statue, reminiscent of times where artists would create a masterpiece of their muse. How romantic it is, indeed. But instead of the rich creating it themselves, they simply paid you to do the deed. And so you did! Not that you had qualms against doing so. You know the intentions behind the act itself is from a place of love and adoration, and if you can encapsulate the beauty of someone’s eternal love, then so be it. It almost felt like playing cupid, working your magic into each press of your fingers into the clay.

Sculpting can take days, weeks, and even months. But you preferred to take your time to perfect your creation. You found fascination in each piece you made. Sensual, thoughtful, innocent, small, cute, detailed. It didn't matter to you, you'd always find something interesting about each piece. You worked with a genuine care and devotion to each and every piece, finding yourself falling in love with them all to some extent. It was an intimate process through and through. To receive a request from someone willing to spend a fortune, just for a statue of someone they love so dearly. And so you built it up from the bones and flesh, encapsulating each detail with precision. And after weeks and maybe even months, seeing the fruit of your labor was a feeling like no other. It left you feeling many many emotions, being able to do something so special for others.

Just a day ago, you sat in your studio, surrounded by paints and a small sculpture. Just of a head, reaching to the shoulders. For practice, you reasoned. You'd been free from any commissions for just a few days, so you had decided to create a small sculpture. With your hands covered in wet clay, you had reached out, creating dips and dents in the face wherever you saw fit. Brows furrowed in concentration, you carefully and slowly reached forward, adding just a bit more clay to the cheekbones, huffing in satisfaction.

Now, with the sculpture dried and perfected, you sat and stared at it, pondering where you could go with it. Or well– you partially lied. You knew exactly where this was going, as you usually knew with all your pieces. This certain one had been created with a person already in mind, biting your thumb in concentration as you hummed, looking over your colors, then back at the sculpture. Carefully, you grabbed a few tones of colors, beginning to create the shade for the skin. Slowly but surely, you brought your creation into life, reviving it with color. High cheekbones dusted with a light flush, pale milky skin laid down against the canvas of the face. Bright, electric blue eyes, and platinum blonde, almost white hair. You meticulously shaded each and every part, deep in your focus.

As you start finishing up on the details a few hours later, adding more color to the plump lips, and carefully coating the sculpture’s lashes with white, you're slightly startled by the sound of a familiar voice. Very familiar. And as you leaned closer to add a few details, you looked into the one unveiled eye, feeling warmth spread through your heart, through your veins. The familiarity in the creation always left you feeling cozy and comforted.

“Hope you aren't too busy! Just felt like dropping by– oh hey, that's me, isn't it?” Crooned the voice of Gojo Satoru, the man your current sculpture was inspired by. You turn to face him, giving him a small smile and a nod.

“Yeah, it is.” You affirmed, wiping your face against the sleeve of your shirt, carefully avoiding the touch of your hands against your face and clothes.

“What's the occasion? Finally decided to dedicate your studio to me or what?” Satoru teased, sitting down beside you, to which you laughed.

“Not really. And do I need an occasion? I mean, you've got the perfect face to be my muse, why wouldn't I sculpt out something inspired by you.” You stated, as if it were the most obvious thing ever. Satoru looked upon you with raised brows, otherwise not speaking as he stared on. Not that he'd never heard such words. He had, quite a few times. But to hear it from you– and to see the dedication and admiration behind each detail, each carefully molded and dented feature of his face, it made him fall deeper and deeper into you. You had drawn white bandages wrapped around his head and over one of his eyes, the other carefully yet methodically uncovered, revealing the details behind his eyes.

In your other statue of him, you'd added his signature glasses. Most people keep his eyes uncovered when he models. Not that you covered his eyes up, no. You made sure to make his eyes equal to every other feature on his face. Sure, they were striking as ever to you and everyone else on this planet, but when you spend so much time around him, you realize how beautiful every part of him is. To you, each and every detail on his face is ethereal. And your work portrays that.

His eyes stood out always, but they were always accentuated in his shoots. But in your portraits of him, you made sure they stood out as they did when he sat on your bed, with the rest of his friends surrounding him. The way his eyes would stand out when he'd race with Suguru out on the fields in school, while you, shoko, nanami and haibara sat around, laughing lightly at the banter occurring between Suguru and him.

“You know, you really are something else,” Satoru mused as he snapped out his thoughts, glancing at the tower of paint that accumulated on your palette.

“You think so?” You cooed teasingly, nudging him slightly as you carefully began to clear up your space, letting the piece begin drying.

“Seriously, what's with you and this sudden sculpture of me? I mean, I'm not opposed to you.. sculpting me like I'm one of your french girls, but i thought you'd be busy creating pieces of young girls half naked for your rich clients that are way past their 60s.” He asked theatrically, dramatizing his words as he always did.

“I had free time. And I did it because I felt like it. You're just nice to sculpt, what can I say?” You answered back, tone cheeky yet sincere as you leaned your head against your palm, giving him a smile. He balked, scoffing with a laugh.

“You've got paint on your face now.” Satoru muttered out, tone laced in adoration. You blink, pulling away your hand to glance at the paint, gazing at it for a moment, letting out an ‘oh’. He chuckled once more, grabbing your water bottle from beside you, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket as he began to pour some water over it. He carefully closed the bottle, turning to you. He gently grasped your chin in his hand, the other hand bringing the handkerchief to your face, dabbing away the paint from your cheek and the side of your chin. He then takes your hands into his own, pouring some water over them, using the handkerchief to pat down the water and clean up the excess paint. Once finished, he tucked away the dirtied handkerchief, running a thumb over your cheek before pulling away.

“C’mon, let's go home. I'm tired, and it's late now. You still got the food from yesterday in your fridge, right? I'll just microwave that for us.” He urged, holding out his hand to you. You glanced up, blinking slightly before you broke out into a grin, grabbing his hand as you pulled yourself up, intentionally trying to pull him down in the process. Though it does nothing to falter him, and instead he gives you a playful glare, clicking his tongue.

“Did I mention I think your sculpture today was beautiful?” Satoru had started once you both had settled down on the couch in your apartment, watching tv as you enjoyed your leftovers.

“Yeah? Because it's you?” You had teased, grabbing another bite of the day old spaghetti.

“No. Because it's you. I mean– it's something you made. It's me. But made by you. Who couldn't find it beautiful?” He spoke softly, a fond smile playing on his lips. “Though it's also because I'm beautiful, yeah.” He added, grin becoming larger. You rolled your eyes lightheartedly, watching him shove a huge forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.

“What's with all this sappy stuff, huh?” You shook your head, grabbing your glass of water to take a sip.

“Maybe you just make me a sap.” Satoru spoke with concealed sincerity, glancing up to see your reaction. Your lips quirked up in the slightest, though you didn't say much.

“You just say that to all our friends, or what?” You asked, placing your finished plate of food onto the table. You grabbed a tissue, wiping your lips clean.

“Nah. Just you.” Satoru answered honestly, this time not bothering with veiling his words. You were special to him. All his friends were in their own ways, but the adoration he held for you was unmatched for anyone else.

“Wow. Am I supposed to be flattered?” You asked sarcastically, to which Satoru spluttered. He blinked, deciding that now was probably a good time to confess. He opens his mouth to start, clearing his throat.

“Hey..” he started slowly, the softness of his voice immediately sticking out to you. Before he can continue, you both are interrupted by a knock on the door, and the familiar voice of haibara.

You sigh, grabbing yours and his plates, yelling out a ‘coming!’ to your incoming visitors. You quickly placed the plates by the sink, rushing to the door to open it.

“There you are! We brought cookies!” Haibara greeted you with a quick hug, followed by Nanami, Shoko, and Suguru. “We visited your studio, but it seems you're not pulling an all-nighter today.” He added, waving as he spotted Satoru.

“Yeah. I don't have any pieces to work on right now.” You answered, locking the door behind you as you walked back into your lounge, taking your seat again as the group claimed their own spots on your couches.

“What brings you guys here?” You asked, carefully opening the box of cookies they brought along. You grab a classic chocolate chip cookie, sighing lightheartedly as you hold out the box to satoru, who had been glancing at the box eagerly. He grinned, grabbing the double chocolate chip cookie.

“I called Satoru earlier, he mentioned he was visiting you. So we decided to drop by your studio, guess you guys came back here.” Suguru explained, to which you nodded with a hum.

“Yeah. He dropped by as I was finishing off a piece. We came back home and just had some dinner and.. yeah.” You nodded, taking a bite out of the cookie as Suguru, observant as ever, raised a brow. It was clear there was more to the story, judging by Satoru's slight stiffness, and your slight concern. Perhaps they'd interrupted something.

“I thought you said you didn't have anything to work on?” Shoko asked, curious.

“None for my clients. But I got bored so I just decided to sculpt something of my own.” You explained, shrugging your shoulders. You glanced at Satoru, who had devoured his cookie, now glancing at you with a pleading gaze. You raised a brow, unimpressed. He blinked his lashes at you, to which you tilted your head at the box. He shook his head aggressively, eyes glaring at the chocolate chip cookie in your hands, watching you bite down on it. You groaned in exasperation, wordlessly handing it off to him. He cheered happily, taking a huge bite out of it.

“Oh, what did you make this time?” Nanami asked, showing genuine interest. He was kind and always interested in your works, asking you many questions regarding your pieces. He'd even bought you paints and equipment on your birthdays!

“Just a small sculpture. Head to shoulders. Based off of Satoru. It's currently drying, I'll show you guys tomorrow.” You grinned happily, taking pride at any opportunities to present your works to your friends. At this, both Shoko and Suguru shared a glance, as if having a silent agreement.

“I see.. interesting choice, I suppose..” Nanami mumbled, his expression of disdain evident. Satoru gasped in offense, placing his hand over his chest.

“I'm the best choice! Have you seen me?” Satoru retorted sassily, crossing his arms. You let out a laugh, glancing between the two. You turn to Satoru, admiring his every feature and etching it into your brain, just so you can make your next statue of him even better. You take note of the contours of his face. The curve of his small nose, the curl of his lashes, the natural pout of his plump lips, the set of high cheekbones dusted with the faintest of flush. His cheeks looked soft.

Abruptly, you lean forward, poking your finger against his cheek. He yelps, glancing at you in disbelief.

“What was that for?!” He asked, whining in pain. You let out a laugh, unable to hold back your laughter from how funny the whole situation was.

“I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist!” you gasped out between bouts of laughter, not realizing the way his whining stops as he admires you, eyes softening as a smile takes over his own face.

Suguru observed further, sighing internally. He wasn't oblivious to the two pining over each other, and it seemed the rest of the group wasn't either. Even Haibara could tell something was happening there! And that's a big deal. Suguru knew his best friend had felt this way for the longest way. It was obviously in the way he admired you, obvious in the way he sought you out in a crowd before anyone else. Obvious in the way he glanced at you after telling a joke or saying something he felt was smart. He and Satoru were good friends, yes, but even Suguru could recognize there was something more to Satoru's relationship with you. You both were a constant in each other's lives, with you being present for a lot of Satoru's shoots and interviews. You knew him like no other, and it showed in the way you sometimes chimed in to answer a question, or when you talked and boasted about Satoru. Satoru came over to your studio a lot to unwind, just sitting and watching you add the details to your masterpieces. He'd tried to pick up sculpting alongside you, but the struggle was much too real for him. He preferred to just have himself be the canvas of his art. That didn't change the way you two were so heavily involved in the other's life, it was like you couldn't function properly without the other at times. If only you two would just kiss and get it over with already!

And so you sat, with one leg crossed over the other, eyes focused on Satoru as he finished up a shoot of his.

“Just tilt your head up in the slightest.. perfect, and push your shoulders back.. there we go..” the photographer spoke, the constant click of the camera sounding out in the otherwise quiet room.

“And we're done! Good work as always, Gojo.” The photographer praised, to which Satoru nodded, glancing towards your direction. You got up from your seat, approaching him with a bottle of water. In an instant, he chugs the liquid down his throat, breathing heavy as he finishes.

“I've got a short interview, then let's head home, yeah?�� He murmurs, to which you nodded and grabbed the water bottle from his hand, patting his shoulder. They brought out a chair for him to sit on, the crew beginning a small interview for him during the shoot.

“So, how was your experience here, Gojo?” One person had asked, to which Satoru hummed, nodding his head as he thought about the question.

“It was nice, as always. The photographer and the whole crew were kind. Nothing special, it was okay.” He answered honestly, shrugging. “Any shoot is fun when my dearest friend is watching.” He added with a cheeky smile, to which you huffed.

“What he means is that he had a good time, and he's happy. If he were unhappy, he wouldn't even be sitting here right now. Consider that a win!” You added with a laugh, wanting to save his image of coming off too callous as always.

“It seems you're very close to your friend. Even closer than you are to Suguru Geto. What's that about?” The person asked, to which Satoru laughed out loud.

“What's that supposed to mean? I adore all my friends! This one's just the only one who seems to tolerate me the most. Suguru can be mean sometimes. I need a friend who'll join me when I'm joking around, Suguru just loves to humble me.” He answered, giving a wink towards the camera. The questions continued on, remaining pretty related to the shoot itself. Eventually, he finished up and began packing, his manager stopping him before he left to discuss tomorrow's schedule.

“So, what's on tomorrow's agenda?” You asked, to which Satoru sighed dramatically, grabbing your hand to drag you into the car.

“Don't even ask, honestly,” He sighed out, leaning back against the seat. He stretched out his arms, listening as you told the driver to drive to your studio. He opened his eyes, wordlessly raising a brow at you.

“Need to check on my sculpture, y’know?” You explained, to which he nodded, letting out a loud yawn as he let his head fall into your lap, grabbing your arm to place it over his closed eyes. You let your other hand run through his hair, combing through the locks, carefully brushing your fingers through it.

The drive wasn't very long, and you both quickly entered the space, Satoru's eyes flitting across the area to observe everything you'd ever created. He saw pieces of him and your friends, of dishes painted in careful designs and pots and other objects decorating the whole space. You quickly approached your most recent project, the one inspired by Satoru.

“It's dry.” You cheered, eyes carefully looking over the entire piece for anything out of place or incorrect. Once you finished, you let out a satisfied hum, placing the piece on one of the podiums to analyze it once more.

“Looks good, right?” You asked Satoru, eyes glancing up at him. He nodded wordlessly, eyes glancing back at the sculpture. It looked identical to him, but somehow, it felt even more gorgeous than how he looked, if that was even possible.

“Looks even better than how I look. How'd you manage that?” He asked, to which you laughed, nudging his side.

“What can I say? I just know you.” You answered fondly, gazing up at him. He looked back with a smile on his lips, eyes softening with adoration.

“Yeah. I guess you do.” He answered softly, eyes becoming more and more dazed as he took you in. You stared back, breaking eye contact as you leaned against him, sighing wistfully.

“You know, the whole reason I even started sculpting full time was because of you.” You spoke, to which Satoru looked at you with raised brows, having not heard this information before.

“It was during one of my classes. I just subconsciously started molding the clay to fit your features. I sat there for the longest time, just creating your features from each and every memory of you I had. And by the time I finished, I couldn't believe it. That was the first time I had fallen in love with sculpting.” ‘and you,’ you wished to add. Satoru remained silent, his breath catching in his throat at your words.

“It was the first piece I actually felt really proud of, and I stared at it for hours, just taking in the fact that I'd created something so beautiful. It was like I'd taken something from my heart and created a vessel for it. And that was when I'd realized that this was what I wanted to do. To this day, I still think back to that day. Hell, I even cried that day.” You laughed lightheartedly, shaking your head. “I realized so much that day, and I have you to thank for that. It's like you just constantly inspire me, Satoru. You really are my muse, you know?” You added, tone soft as you glanced up at him, meeting his eyes once more

Satoru remained speechless, in awe of the confession you'd just made. To hear those words from your mouth felt like you'd just poured out your heart to him. He swallowed shakily, letting out a deep breath.

“I'm in love with you,” He spoke out, tone completely serious and sincere. You blinked, eyes widening.

“What?” You asked, mouth opening. It's not that you didn't expect something like this. It was kind of obvious you two had something more, you just never got to addressing it. So to have him announce this out of the blue, it shocked you.

“I'm in love with you. I always have been. You know this.” He repeated, not taking back his words as he reached out, grabbing your shoulders. You blinked, letting out a laugh.

“Is this seriously how you're going to tell me?” You asked him fondly, to which he blinked, suddenly feeling a little sheepish. Nonetheless, he nodded, cheeks flushing.

“I'm serious. I mean it. I can't keep it in anymore. Not after what you've just said. I couldn't waste another opportunity,” he murmured, raising his right hand to cup your cheek, his left hand grasping your neck. You glanced up, raising a brow cheekily.

“Done beating around the bush?” You teased him, to which he let out a breathy chuckle, leaning his forehead against yours.

“You didn't say it back.” He mumbled, eyes still looking into yours with the love he'd festered over the years. You let out a small laugh, eyes crinkling.

“I'm in love with you, Satoru.” You spoke sincerely, your arms coming up around his neck. He smiled brightly, letting out a sigh of relief.

“You're way too precious to me. You always have been.” He confessed quietly, leaning down to finally press his lips against yours, thumb brushing soothingly against your cheek. You kissed back with the same constancy as his, arms tightening around his neck. He kissed you slowly, passionately, with devotion he had yet to show for anything besides his art. Carefully, almost regretfully, he pulled back, eyes peeling open softly, his breath feathering over your lips.

“God, I love you so much. I can't believe I waited this long to kiss you.” He whined ever so slightly, voice laced with a playful undertone. You let out a laugh, leaning up to peck him once more.

“Just be glad you did it.” You mumbled, lashes fluttering as you looked up at him. He nodded, smiling brightly as he brought you into a tight embrace, pressing kisses into your hair.

“I love you,” he repeated for the umpteenth time, to which you let out another laugh. You nuzzled deeper into his neck, hugging him tightly.

“I love you, Satoru.” You echoed, placing a kiss to his neck. He sighed once more, beginning to sway you in his embrace.

“Let's go home?” He asked, glancing down at you. You looked back up, giving him a nod.

“Yeah. Let's go home, Satoru.” You answered with a smile, pressing your lips against his cheek, watching the skin flush pink as he grinned, grabbing your hand in his, pulling you out of the studio, hand remaining in yours as you locked up the door. You turned back to face him, watching him stand there, the glow of the setting sun casting upon him. Looking as beautiful as always, Satoru smiled back at you, the look of fondness and adoration evident in his face. Already, you know exactly what your next piece will be. You just hope you can do justice to your depiction of your lover in the sunlight. For once, it seemed you truly understood those who dedicated entire careers to their beloved. For once, you played cupid in your own life, professing a love so deep that it knew no bounds. How strange it truly was to have a muse.

“Does this mean you both are together now?” Suguru had asked the next day, watching Satoru cling to you and pepper kisses all over your skin that he could see.

“Obviously!” Satoru cheered out loud, grinning as he swayed you in his embrace. You let out a lighthearted sigh, patting his arms that snaked around you.

“Took you long enough.” Shoko mused, words mumbled due to the cigarette resting between her lips. Satoru blatantly ignored the comment, nuzzling further into your neck from his place behind you.

“At least I'm not alone and miserable like you!” Satoru stuck his tongue out at Shoko, to which Suguru let out a small laugh.

It was true. As we already know by now, Suguru Geto was indeed not a man who put himself out there for the world. He was polite to the people around him and the people who came to get tattoos, but that was as far as most of his acquaintanceships went. He wasn't opposed to finding someone or loving someone, he just hadn't found anyone of intrigue.

Is what he thought– at least until a while ago. But even a man like Suguru would eventually find infatuation with someone. And that someone was starting to become a regular in his life. It seems that's how most love stories start, or at least how it started between his friends. As he looks down at his knuckles, he realizes that maybe, maybe it's time to accept his own feelings for a special someone…

[ladydelena]

Can I just say, the fact that the high lords don’t all wear generic crowns in their colors, but it actually ties to their courts makes me happy?and they probably all have quite a few different themed ones?

Tamlin with his burnished gold laurel leaf crown at the wedding that was a courtly version of the calanmai crown he probably dawns each year? And his tithe crown is so suited to more strict moments with its representation of wealth and stability?

Tarquin with his silver cresting waves and blue gemstones for a casual night out on the town? As asymmetrically stunning as the very waters he connects his court to, the blues of the stones glinting with white and green and the depths of the very ocean hidden by the brash, crashing beauty created by the surface?

Helions spiked gold crown as vicious and pointed yet beautiful and picturesque as the suns rays? As warm in color as his skin yet simple and statement making in it power just like helion himself- not needing much adornment to radiate the strength, beauty and deadly power and wicked intelligence he holds?

Rhys has a raven feather crown which makes me wonder if previous highlords of night weren’t just serpentile like the creatures of the hewn city but dark winged and raven featured in some way? (And Feyres crown - complimentary to Rhys isn’t just a newly made item, it existed in tandem with his for previous ladies of night I’m assuming so it ties to the court that way as well?)

Autumn court with its mixture of Medieval English and conqueror era Spanish style in my head? With traditional red and green stones highlighted the most and silver and gold alike, crosses and points to their headwear? Very formal and structured, not just to denote their position, but to reinforce tradition, wealth, class structures, very inline with what I’d assume of the autumn courts viciousness mentioned in the books? Beautiful but vicious.

Winter court with near white shining metals, carved glass and crystal bases for ice diamonds; blue, gray, & frosty fogged stones? Dark blues and wicked gnarled features representing barren branches and shards of ice????

Dawn court with its sweeping elegance and love of beautiful embellishments and pension for color? The people are noted to be largely from Xian as noted by SJM and I always imagine dawn court to be a beautiful mix of Indian and Chinese culture, and the jewelry reflects it, beautifully Intrically carved warm toned metals that depict stories or symbolism entertwined with the culture? Stoned used abundantly yet they’re never garish? They only enhance and bring out the beauty of the crowns and reflect the cultures within the court itself?

(Like I’d love to dive deeper into it and maybe make or paint the crowns one day but that’s a different story)

That’s it that’s the post grammar be darned.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Cuddling ✧

Plot: A comforting moment between Cloud and you after an exhausting mission.

The hazy tendrils of weariness tugged heavily at your eyelids as you finally allowed yourself to relax into the threadbare mattress.

Joints still thrumming with a dull ache from the day's grueling mission, you exhaled a deep, contented sigh nonetheless.

Here, nestled amidst the modest shelter of your shared quarters, the chaos of battle faded into a distant memory - at least temporarily.

At your side, the solid warmth of Cloud's form radiated pure comfort and solace. He lay on his side facing you, those vivid blue eyes you adored already slipped shut in the first blissful throes of much-needed slumber.

One arm draped possessively over your waist, palm splaying against the dip of your back as he instinctively tucked himself closer.

His tousled spikeswayed with each slow, even exhale fanning across your collarbone.

It always amazed you how someone as formidable as Cloud Strife - AVALANCHE's most elite mercenary who routinely stared down bioengineered horrors without flinching - could appear so disarmingly boyish and vulnerable when he surrendered to sleep's embrace.

The harsh lines etched into his features by years of combat and deprivation eased, leaving his expression bizarrely serene and youthful.

Unable to resist indulging that private fixation, you lightly trailed your fingertips along the stark angles of his jaw, mapping each rugged contour.

From the aquiline slope of his nose to the faint cleft carving that perpetually intense look between his brows. Every stroke drank in the textures of taut, weathered skin over finely sculpted bone and sinew as intimately familiar yet endlessly captivating.

You traced higher along his hairline, earning a sleepy mumble from Cloud as the gentle caresses ghosted over the sensitive nape before coasting up into his mess of sunny spikes.

A barely audible rumble, deep and masculine, vibrated against your chest - not quite a purr, but certainly contented nonetheless.

One azure eye cracked open to regard you through thick lashes, radiating equal parts drowsy indulgence and curiosity.

"Sorry," you whispered without stilling your ministrations, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

The last thing you wanted was to rouse Cloud if he'd managed to find that elusive serenity amidst the violence and turmoil constantly shadowing you both.

"Go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you."

With impressive effort, he mustered a lethargic shake of his head, still resting heavily atop your sternum.

"It's alright..." Cloud rasped, voice roughened by fatigue and thickly slurred as he nuzzled closer to your touch. "Keep goin'..."

A helpless swell of pure affection flooded your chest as you studied the man in your arms with ardent tenderness.

So powerful and courageous, commanding entire squads of dedicated warriors into hellish combat zones without ever batting an eye.

Yet it was these fleeting, unguarded moments stripped bare of his usual frosty stoicism that truly captivated you.

This was the real Cloud Strife - not the unflinching legend or ruthless juggernaut lauded and feared across the ranks of AVALANCHE.

Just a man baring his soul and all its myriad flaws and vulnerability for your eyes alone away from the puppeteering manipulations of Shinra and its cronies.

Even if he didn't vocalize those delicate emotions often, allowing you to soothe and shelter him in the sanctuary of your battered sanctuary spoke volumes.

The man you loved. Scars, shattered past, and all.

With a quiet hum of indulgence, you resumed languidly raking your nails along his sculpted scalp in lazy, soothing patterns.

Cloud melted bonelessly at your side with a ragged sigh, eyes slipping shut once more as the tension seeped from his muscles.

Plush lips parted on a final exhale before his breathing evened out, easing him back into the tranquil depths of slumber without conscious thought.

Admiring the finally serene picture he painted, you allowed yourself to savor the simple delight of observing your warrior finally at peace.

Who knew how many more reprieves like this lurked on the ever-darkening horizon before the next onslaught of nightmares and demons came howling?

No, right now you would cherish this quiet intimacy and the wholly trusting soul beside you.

With a last, lingering caress ghosting through those wild blond spikes, you settled more fully into the coverlet's tattered embrace and willed your own eyes to drift shut.

The final dregs of consciousness slipped away to the sound of Cloud's deep, steady breaths lulling you into blessed oblivion at long last.

[bladedweaponsandswishycoats]

I bound a book!

Hello, I just bound this, which is I guess basically my second proper bookbinding project that I have fully finished. Also my first time binding a fic that I wrote myself, so the entire process from writing through typesetting and binding was my project.

Book information:

Title fonts - Frosty, Body font - IM Fell English, bound in octavo format with a square back bradel binding. Cover graphic printed onto book cloth with an inkjet printer. Edge painting underlayer with J. Herbin Émeraude de Chivor and sprinkled with Golden high flow acrylic in Iridescent Gold Deep (Fine), and Windsor & Newton ink in silver. Endpapers are paste paper I got at Codex this year. Book cloth is something from Book Craft Supply, though I am not sure what because I got it in a mix of samples in a kit. Anyway, I am really happy with how it turned out!

The fic: Mountain's Depths which I wrote for the Rare Kinks Buffet Prompt Fest 2024.

More pics below cut:

wrap-around cover image, before casing in:

x

[justabrunettewhowrites-stuff]

'As Icy As A Winter Wonderland'

Clarisse La Rue x Unclaimed!Fem!Demigod!Reader

A/N:Rq'd by one of my friends - specific rq so the color focuses on what she requested <3

Reader is new at CHB and has heterochromia - blue eyes with central heterochromia.Short fic!

In the heart of Camp Half-Blood, where demigods found solace and camaraderie, a new presence stirred the air. Unclaimed yet, with eyes that held the frosty allure of a winter's dawn,you stood at the edge of the training grounds,observing the seasoned campers in their element.

Clarisse La Rue, the fierce and fiery daughter of Ares, was in the midst of a sparring session. Her piercing gaze swept across the crowd until it collided with your captivating eyes. A momentary pause ensued, as if the fates themselves had intertwined, and in that instant, something unspoken sparked between you.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the camp.Clarisse, never one to shy away from her feelings, approached you with a determined stride. Her eyes met yours, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze as the intensity of your gaze met the fire in hers. Without hesitation,Clarisse broke away from her training and approached you.The shadows danced in her determined eyes as she spoke, a hint of vulnerability beneath her tough exterior. "Never seen eyes like yours before. What's your deal, newbie?"

Your gaze met hers, a blend of icy blue, with a mesmerizing blend that came in a circle around your pupil - the same gorgeous chocoloate brown, revealing the intricate tapestry of your lineage,one which gave your gaze an otherworldly depth, like the frost-kissed surface of a winter pond. In that moment, Clarisse felt a magnetic pull, a connection she couldn't quite explain. "Just waiting to be claimed, I guess."

Clarisse's lips curved into a half-smile, a rare sight from the battle-hardened demigod. "Well, aren't you a mystery? Keep those eyes sharp, new kid. This place has its secrets."

As she spoke, a rare vulnerability crossed her face. "You're different, and I don't say that lightly. We're not all rainbows and sunshine here, but something about you... it's intriguing."

As the night unfolded, you found yourself drawn into the fabric of camp life, where the shared stories of heroism and heartbreak echoed through the bonfire-lit air. Clarisse lingered nearby, occasionally stealing glances, and it became evident that an unspoken connection had woven its way into the tapestry of fate.

In the quiet moments, beneath the celestial canopy, Clarisse confessed, "Your eyes tell a story, and I'm damn curious to unravel it. We'll see who claims you,but for now?You're not walking away from me that easily."

For the first time, Clarisse - whose heart was guarded like a fortress, felt a crack in her defenses. The winter wonderland within your eyes seemed to cast a spell, thawing the frost around her heart...

[deliciousangelfestival]

Secret Sorrows || Bodyguard AU

Summary: Former special ops, Bucky, seeks solace in a cold refuge to escape his past. However, his haunted history catches up, unraveling mysteries that persist relentlessly.

Words Count: 2,253

Warning: Death character.

Series Masterlist

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing within the mystery theme. I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

In Antarctica's vast, frozen expanse, where researchers braved the harshest conditions, Bucky, a former military man seeking solitude in the icy isolation, served as the stern yet vigilant security presence.

One frosty day, Bucky diligently checked the storage temperatures, surrounded by the frigid air that mirrored the chill in his own heart. 

As he focused on his task, he was approached by Chef Jack, who had recently returned from the mainland to visit his grandchildren.

Bundled in layers against the biting cold, Chef Jack grinned at Bucky. "You're a charming man, Bucky. Why are you still single? The female scientists who work here have been flirting with you.”

Bucky, his breath visible in the freezing air, chuckled softly. "I just haven't found the one."

Chef Jack, his eyes reflecting the wisdom of age, patted Bucky on the shoulder. "I see. Still can't forget the former? I understand."

Bucky's gaze dropped to the snowy ground and fell into a heavy silence. He nodded subtly, not wanting to delve into the painful memories beneath the icy surface of his stoic demeanor.

In a sudden turn of events, Bucky received an emergency alert: "We need backup."

Without hesitation, he swiftly responded over the radio, "On my way," and rushed towards his waiting car.

Emergencies were a rare occurrence in this remote location, and deaths resulting from foul play were even more uncommon. 

Upon arrival at the scene, Bucky was met with a chilling sight – two in orange swimming suits, eerily floating in the icy waters. 

Drowning was the cause, an unusual and unsettling occurrence in this frozen realm. The onlooking tourists, shaken and fearful, murmured amongst themselves.

The atmosphere was tense as one tourist anxiously mentioned, "They have a kid, right? Where is their son?"

Bucky, now profoundly concerned, hadn't even seen the faces of the victims yet. His focus shifted to the potential tragedy of a child being left alone in such extreme conditions. 

Ignoring the bitter cold, he resolved to search for any sign of the missing child, determined to navigate through the frigid wilderness in a race against time.

Bucky, determined to find the missing child, declared, "I'm going to find their kid."

Meanwhile, young Ethan, feeling out of place in the freezing Antarctic surroundings, had been running away from the group. He voiced his displeasure about being on the tour, unable to comprehend why his parents insisted on such a cold adventure.

"Why did Mom and Dad want to come here? And who was that scary man looking at me?”

As Ethan blew on his cold hands, a sudden shadow engulfed him, casting a momentary relief from the harsh Antarctic winds. 

Looking up, he found himself face to face with a tall man, his piercing blue eyes reflecting genuine concern.

"Hey buddy. My name is Bucky. I'm here to get you safe," Bucky reassured him.

Still shivering from the cold and the frightful encounter, Ethan stammered, "Sa-save me."

Sensing the depth of the child's fear, Bucky draped a warm blanket over him and gently scooped him into his protective arms. Ethan, seeking comfort, curled up against Bucky, his small frame shivering against the chill.

"I want my grandma," Ethan mumbled, his voice barely audible over the Antarctic wind.

With a reassuring tone, Bucky responded, "You will, buddy," holding the frightened child close.

Bucky, carrying the shivering Ethan to his car, couldn't escape the grim reality as he passed the body bag containing the deceased. 

In an impulse, he took a brief, painful glance before it closed – a glimpse that nearly brought him to his knees. The face inside, now concealed, triggered a rush of memories from his past, a haunting connection he hadn't expected.

Iris Aston. His first love. 

The weight of the revelation hit Bucky hard, but he refocused on the scared child in his arms. The realization struck him – Ethan was Iris's son. 

As he gently placed the child on the office couch, Bucky's mind raced, processing the unexpected intersection of his past and the present.

Bucky tried to steady himself by pouring a cup of hot chocolate for Ethan. "What's your name, buddy?" he asked, his voice revealing the underlying shock.

"Ethan Van Alen," came the soft reply, intensifying Bucky's internal turmoil. After separating from Iris, he had heard about her marrying into an old-money family – the Van Alens.

Bucky, grappling with the revelation, inquired about Ethan's aunt, hoping for some grounding in this unexpected twist. "Is your grandma here too?"

Ethan shook his head, his eyes reflecting fear and uncertainty. "No, she's not.”

"I'm sure she will come here as soon as possible," he assured.

As Bucky received a call from his concerned colleagues requesting assistance, Ethan, overcome with fear, clung desperately to Bucky's leg. "No. Don't leave me," he pleaded, his small frame trembling with anxiety.

Bucky's colleagues, now understanding the gravity of the situation, exchanged somber glances. The shocking reality dawned on Bucky as he realized that the couple who had tragically perished was none other than Ethan's parents.

Sensitive to the child's distress, Bucky, without hesitation, scooped Ethan into his arms, providing the solace the orphaned boy desperately sought. Now cradled in the safety of Bucky's strong arms, Ethan felt a sense of reassurance that had eluded him before.

Bucky entered the empty storage room where Iris's lifeless body was being kept. As he gazed upon her, memories flooded back – of a time when they were inseparable, studying together at the military academy. 

Their connection ran deep, but Iris had abruptly left, and her icy rejection had marked the last encounter.

He could still hear her words, cutting through him like a bitter wind, "Who do you think you are? Don't touch me!" A painful reminder of the social gap between them, a gap that fate had widened.

Looking down at Iris now, her once bright smile extinguished, Bucky couldn't shake the heartbreak that lingered from their past.

His colleagues reported no visible signs of trauma on Iris's body, adding a layer of mystery to her sudden demise. Seeking answers, Bucky turned to the only witness – young Ethan.

Ethan joined the conversation, his voice shaky but determined. "After my dad and mom drank something, they walked funny and fell into the water. And... and..."

Bucky, offering a reassuring presence, prompted, "What happened next, Ethan?”

The boy hesitated before continuing, "A scary man looked at me and walked towards me. That's why I ran." 

Bucky's colleagues updated him, saying, "The tour guide has called the family. They already sent someone."

Still in Bucky's comforting presence, Ethan inquired with hope, “Grandma is coming?"

Bucky gently patted the kid on the back, assuring him, "Yes."

Finding solace in the knowledge that his grandma was on the way, Ethan felt a wave of relief wash over him. 

Bucky thought, never underestimate the power of money, expecting the relatives to arrive by ship. However, a large plane unexpectedly landed. Bucky, still carrying Ethan, and others anxiously awaited the arrival of the guests.

As the plane's door opened, Bucky, from a distance, couldn't discern who was stepping out. Restlessness overcame Ethan, and he wanted to get down. "Grandma," he exclaimed when he saw a familiar figure.

But Ethan abruptly halted in his tracks. The unexpected figure approaching him wasn't his grandma but his aunt. A surge of fear gripped him. He had always been scared of her.

Bucky, equally taken aback, felt a shockwave of disbelief. He had witnessed her lifeless form in the cold storage room, and now she stood before him – alive, breathing. 

How come Iris came back to live?

Is he seeing a ghost? Or a zombie?

Unable to conceal his astonishment, he stammered, "Iris?”

Ethan suddenly chimed in, "That's my mother's name. This person is my aunt. Her name is Y/N.”

Y/N's reply was devoid of emotion as she spoke in a cold, matter-of-fact tone, "I'm her twin sister." 

Twin sister? Iris has a twin sister? She never mentioned this to him. Bucky was shocked by this revelation

Y/N's demeanor showed no signs of sadness or grief. "I'm here to collect their bodies and bring Ethan back home."

Offering his condolences, Bucky expressed, "My name is Bucky. I'm sorry for what happened to your sister. It sounds crazy, but I knew your sister from the military academy."

Y/N's response was detached, "I see. Could you show my assistant which documents to sign so we could leave?" 

Her request held no trace of emotion, contrasting sharply with the heartfelt sentiments Bucky had just conveyed.

Taken aback by the stark difference between Y/N and Iris, Bucky found himself grappling with the realization that, despite their identical faces, their personalities were worlds apart. 

As the simple yet somber process unfolded, the body bags were carefully loaded onto the plane. Before departing, Ethan looked at Bucky, a silent exchange containing layers of unspoken emotions. 

Ethan glanced at Bucky, hope flickering in his eyes; he asked, "Can brother come with us?"

Y/N, who was busy with her phone, responded, "If he wants too."

Struggling to fully comprehend the stark differences between Y/N and Iris, Bucky leaned down to Ethan and softly said, "I hope we meet again someday." 

The words hung in the air, a wistful expression of the unexpected bond formed amidst the cold Antarctic challenges.

Absorbing the sentiment, Ethan offered a slow nod, the weight of recent events etched across his young face. 

Y/N didn't spare Bucky a glance as she entered the plane, her demeanor as cold as the Antarctic winds. 

Today, Bucky encountering his first love only to find her lifeless, meeting her son, and discovering the existence of her twin sister.

Despite Y/N's demeanor, icy as the landscape around them, Bucky couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity. It wasn't just the shared face with Iris; there was an unspoken connection, an elusive something more that lingered in the air. 

Bucky had a bunch of questions swirling in his head. He couldn't determine why Iris never told him about her twin sister. Even though he wanted answers, he hesitated to ask.

He wished he could talk more to Y/N.

The Van Alen and Aston household seemed full of secrets. The news about the company heir's death hit the headlines, and it got crazier when someone tried to kidnap Ethan, the heir's son.

Something felt off to Bucky. First, Iris died, and now there's a danger to Ethan. Y/N, who looked like Iris, came to mind. He worried someone might go after Y/N, too.

Not willing to let harm come to them, Bucky packed up and left Antarctica, arriving in a warm New York. He headed to the Van Alen residence, seeing many cars and guests offering condolences.

Thinking he couldn't get in, Bucky was surprised there was no security. But then he learned that Ethan had gone missing – a kidnap attempt had just happened. Ethan is missing from his room.

As Bucky approached the Van Alen residence, he noticed the branch of a nearby tree shaking. Looking up, he sighed, realizing it was Ethan.

"Ethan?" Bucky called out.

"Bro? Bucky? Is that you?" Ethan responded from the tree.

"What are you doing?" Bucky inquired.

Ethan explained, frustration in his voice, "I hate everyone. No one talks to me!"

Feeling a pang of sympathy for the grieving child, Bucky opened his arms, saying, "Come down. Everyone is worried about you."

Reluctantly, Ethan descended from the tree, landing in Bucky's protective embrace. As they stood together, security personnel, witnessing the scene, moved forward, intending to detain Bucky.

Before they could intervene, Ethan intervened, proclaiming, "No. He's my bodyguard." The unexpected declaration left the security team momentarily puzzled, but Ethan's insistence shielded Bucky from further scrutiny. 

"You've created unnecessary chaos," Y/N stated, appearing with five people behind her, resembling assistants and bodyguards. 

Bucky couldn't help but think that Y/N, Ethan's aunt, was too cold. She didn't even make an effort to coax her own nephew.

In a burst of emotion, Ethan exclaimed, "Nobody cares for me. Everyone wishes I was gone so Aunt has everything!"

Bucky, taken aback by Ethan's outburst, never expected him to yell like this. Y/N remained silent, eventually sighing, "Be grateful you're still breathing."

Ethan flinched and cried in Bucky's arms, expressing, "Huuu, nobody in this house loves me.”

Bucky tried to comfort the distressed child, saying, "I will talk to your aunt." 

Bucky followed Y/N, expressing concern that Ethan was grieving and suggesting she should be with her nephew during this challenging time.

Y/N's bodyguard attempted to push Bucky away, but she raised her left hand, signaling him to stop.

At that moment, Bucky noticed a small tattoo on Y/N's left fourth finger. His eyes widened as he recognized the same tattoo he and Iris had gotten together back in the day. 

How was it possible that Y/N also had the same tattoo?

Y/N calmly remarked, "Seeing you so eager to protect Ethan, I'll hire you as his bodyguard. He's the reason you're here, right?"

Bucky didn't argue, though his motive extended beyond protecting Ethan; he was also there to find Iris's killer and the person behind the attempt to kidnap Ethan.

Y/N continued, "I'll take that as a yes. My assistant will draw up the contract."

Surprised by her trust, Bucky questioned, "You trust me?"

Y/N replied, "Your effort in coming here to protect Ethan is enough to judge that you're sincere." Bucky was taken aback by her astute judgment. Y/N was not as ignorant as he had initially thought.

Before Bucky could delve further, Y/N declared, "That's good. I need a trusted person to protect Ethan because that kid's life is more important than mine." Bucky sensed a hint of self-pity in her words. 

Before leaving, Y/N added, "Back then, Iris trusted you. I hope I can feel the same. Don't disappoint me, Barnes." Her words hint at a sense of expectation and reliance on Bucky's capabilities.

As he pondered asking her about it, Y/N departed with her entourage, leaving Bucky with lingering questions and a newfound role as Ethan's protector.

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