#Unpredictable Days Union

[luneratic]

More Days Union!

Unpredictable_Day

Dynamic_Day

Emotionless_Day

[mechalot]

ITS UNSTANGLE FUCKING DAY!!!

[burglesstuff]

Unpredictable_Day because I have no life and draw characters nobody knows for a living

[aidenwaites]

People truly don't get just how labor-intensive of a field filmmaking is, whether it's writing/pre-production or on-set actors and crew or post-production

[admiringlove]

a tempest gilded in ruin.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

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

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

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

↬ word count: 27k.

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

↬ navigation: part two coming soon, jjk masterlist.

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

My dearest gentle readers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One can only wonder… and watch.

With quill in hand and ears ever listening, Phantom.

Present, Highgrove House.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, your father has chosen for you.

Gojo Satoru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not when the betrayal cuts this deep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Present, Six Eyes Estate.

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

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

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

The title. The estate. The responsibility.

All of it a curse disguised as a crown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you’re only just realizing?”

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

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

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

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

Gojo lifts a brow.

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

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

Still, you cannot know the truth.

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

Present, Hyde Park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One week later, Highgrove House.

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

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

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

You picked blue for a reason. For him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But tonight, there is no escaping their eyes.

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

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, the whispers shift.

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

Your breath hitches as you follow her gaze.

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

Gojo Satoru.

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

And then, there are his eyes.

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

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

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

The sight of him is nearly unbearable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could not bear it any longer.

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

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

It should not bother you.

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

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

But you could not pretend anymore.

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

"You do that a lot."

The voice is smooth, low, almost amused.

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

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

You swallow. "Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

Every single thing about him is unreachably perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A moment passes. Then another.

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

His brows lift slightly. "Is what true?"

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

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

You blink. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so, you do.

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

She is watching. Waiting.

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

Because she knows.

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

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

A tap.

Light, but firm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The orchestra begins again. A minuet.

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

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

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

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

“I would,” you say softly.

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

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

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

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

Dearest gentle readers,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours in unwavering vigilance, Phantom.

Six Eyes Estate.

"Your Grace?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Late afternoon, Highgrove House.

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

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

It leaves you with an unsettling thought.

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

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

But it does not matter. Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Psst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I like to think of myself as opportunistic."

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

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

He grins wider. "You wound me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches. He steps forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he does not look back.

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

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

The next morning, Hyde Park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you not want it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fight back a smile. “And then?”

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

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

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

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

Friday, Highgrove House.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I take it you wanted to see me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miserable failure, indeed.

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

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

But then, your breath stills. You see it.

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

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

And now—now, he wears it.

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

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

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

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

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

The violins in your chest reach a fever pitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, finally, you nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next evening, Whites' Gentlemens' Club.

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

"You did what?" he asks.

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

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

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

Satoru scoffs. "It is not psychotic."

"It is," Suguru replies flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

Suguru does not laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Satoru stills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suguru exhales, slowly. "Gojo."

Satoru grins. "Geto."

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

Suguru, unyielding. Satoru, unrepentant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, just like that, he is gone.

One week later, Highgrove House.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight is Shoko’s masquerade ball.

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

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

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

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

You, however, were not.

And that, somehow, sat ill with you.

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

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

You reach for your quill instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They knew so very little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, you arrive.

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

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

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

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

You step forward, your heels clicking against the stone.

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

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

It doesn’t take you long to notice him.

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

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

He always does.

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

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

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

The distance between you shrinks like something inevitable.

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is not—”

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

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

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

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

Alone, and the words catch up to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cold air hits your skin like absolution.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, “Are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” you whisper. “Leave me be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now it’s mine.”

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

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

“No one is around,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, soft but certain. “I assure you.”

You want to say something else. You don’t. You can’t. Because now his hand is on your cheek, steadying you, and everything you’ve known of propriety and performance begins to fray at the seams.

“Say my name,” he murmurs, and it’s so soft, so unbearably soft, that for a moment, you pretend you didn’t hear it. As though silence will dissolve it. But he says it again, thumb tracing the fragile line of your jaw, as if he could etch the sound into your skin by touch alone.

You freeze.

He’s looking at you in that way he sometimes does. Like you are the only fixed thing in the room, like everything else is dissolving into fog and static except for the breath that leaves your lungs and the weight of your name in his mouth.

“G-Gojo,” you manage, and it slips out like a confession. Unsteady. Uncertain. The syllables awkward and formal on your tongue, like a glove worn inside out.

He lets out a low laugh—gentle, but not mocking. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

His hand stays at your jaw. Still moving, barely. Just enough that you feel the pad of his thumb stroking over your pulse, coaxing rather than restraining. Your instinct is to shake your head, and you do. A soft, futile gesture of denial that even you don’t believe. Because you’re still standing here. Still letting him touch you. Still breathing in the sharp, expensive scent of him like it’s something you need to stay upright.

He leans in closer than before. It makes your heart claw its way up your ribs. You can hear it, stupidly loud, like it wants out.

His forehead almost brushes yours. His breath, ratafia and mint-laced, ghosts over your skin. And you hate that it affects you so wholly. That it turns your spine to water. That it makes your knees consider giving in.

“Call me by my name, sweetheart,” he says again, quieter this time. That voice. Low, silken, exact. Not a demand. A request dressed in velvet. One that leaves no space for refusal.

You blink up at him—once, twice—long, deliberate lashes like shutters trying to close over something you don’t want to see. You wish the weight of your gaze could communicate everything you can’t say aloud. That it could beg him to stop without the indignity of a verbal plea.

But he does not stop. He watches you with that unbearable patience. That silent certainty.

“Satoru,” you whisper, the name pliant on your tongue. You barely recognize your own voice. It is reverent. Intimate. It tastes like a secret that belongs.

He exhales, visibly, and you see it—how the sound of his name in your mouth does something to him. His jaw flexes just slightly. His fingers tighten at your waist. He looks at you like he wants to ruin something delicate.

“You're only saying because if I forced you,” he says, after a pause. “Is that how it’s going to be, then?”

You blink, startled. “Excuse me?” Your voice pitches, halfway afront. “That’s rich, coming from you. When I had to ask you to send me flowers—”

But he kisses you before you finish.

There is no warning. No breath between words. Just the abrupt, dizzying heat of his mouth on yours. Firm and consuming and wholly unapologetic. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise and a challenge. One that makes your breath stutter in your chest and your body lean into him before you even realize you’ve moved.

It swallows whatever protest you were about to make.

Because suddenly, words are useless.

There is only him. And the feel of his lips pressing against yours like he has wanted to do it for months. Like he deserves to do it. Like you have already said yes.

The next morning is unremarkable. Pale light filters through the gauzy curtains and the air is thick with the perfume of yesterday’s roses, already starting to curl at the edges. You’re seated in the parlor, spine curved delicately over the book in your lap, the weight of the morning sun pressing down against your shoulder. There’s a fire lit, but it’s more for routine than warmth. The room smells faintly of cinders and lavender water, and the house is, for once, still.

You are trying to read. Or pretend to. Your thumb rests against a paragraph you haven’t comprehended. Your mind drifts, unwilling to be anchored. Last night plays over in your head like a quiet theatre performance, played in reverse and in candlelight.

After the kiss, you had stayed there with him. The two of you alone on the balcony, the cold night lapping at your skin through silk and velvet, but you hadn’t minded. Neither of you had spoken for a while; there was something sacred in the silence. Then, slowly, he had begun to talk. His voice hushed but rich with warmth, like a confession kept safe just for you. He had spoken of his brother—Megumi—with rare fondness, describing a boy who sounded infinitely solemn and a little peculiar, who had learned to swordfight before he could write his name, and who kept a handkerchief folded perfectly even when there were ink-stains on his fingers.

You had laughed softly, and told him of Yuji—your brother, still all elbows and mischief. You had said, quietly, that Yuji would adore Megumi. That they’d probably drive everyone mad together.

It was absurd, really, how tender the night had been. It felt like a portrait of another life. One you one day will inhabit, though you cannot imagine what it would take to get there. And still, it had taken that kiss—his hand at your waist, your mouth pulled into his, the barely-there drag of his teeth against your lower lip—to remind you that this was no mere flirtation. That you would marry him. That eventually, you would become the Duchess. And last night had felt like the beginning of something. As if, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so terrible to belong to someone.

Then comes the sound of rapid footsteps, heels against polished floor. And the door slams open.

Your mother enters as though dragged by a hurricane, the breath stolen from her body. Her hair, normally sculpted into perfect coils, has broken free from its usual form: strands hanging limp against her cheeks, frizzing at the temples, the neatness of her person unraveling at the seams. Her lips are parted, trembling faintly as though she’s run across the lawn barefoot.

“Are you all right?” you ask, startled, rising from your seat. Your book slips off your lap and lands with a gentle thud against the rug.

She doesn’t answer you. Instead, she brandishes a sheet of newsprint as though it were a sword.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demands, her voice shaking. She stands directly in front of you, holding out the paper like a piece of damning evidence in a courtroom.

Your heart has begun to thrum. You frown, your fingers reaching out, and take it carefully from her grip.

The Veiled Quill.

This morning’s edition. Still smelling of ink and gossip. The front page is creased where she has clutched it, and you smooth it with nervous hands.

“What’s happened?” you murmur, but you already know. You feel the foreboding crawl in your stomach before your eyes finish reading the words.

Someone saw.

Someone had seen you go up the stairs last night. Someone had lingered long enough to watch you disappear into the balcony wing. Someone had noted the Duke—your Duke—following not long after. And someone, of course, had written it all down.

The implication is clear. That the two of you were alone, unchaperoned. That your reputation, still so fragile, is now hanging by a thread knotted by candlelight and breathless silence.

Your name is in print. His name is, too.

Your mother exhales sharply, as if she’s been holding her breath for hours. “Half the ton has read it already,” she hisses. “And the other half is whispering.”

You stare at the paper. The words blur slightly, though not from tears. From dread. From the creeping realization that something small—intimate, lovely—has now become public domain.

Everything divine about last night now feels vulgar under scrutiny. And the worst part is: it is still true. You did want him. You still do. You are still his, and he is yours. But somehow, it feels horrible.

The entire ton thinks you're a woman without honor.

Present, near Earl Geto's Residence.

The carriage rocks gently on its iron wheels, the sound of hooves rhythmically sharp against the early morning street. The sky outside is still fog-colored, like London always is, but inside the carriage, the tension is immediate—palpable, as if the walls themselves are waiting to collapse. Suguru climbs in with none of his usual grace. He is taut, mouth set in a grim line, knuckles white around a crumpled sheet of parchment.

“You can’t be serious,” he says, his voice low, roughened by restraint. Not a greeting. A condemnation. He doesn’t look at Satoru as he says it, just throws himself onto the opposite seat and shoves the gossip column in his friend’s direction with a force that makes the paper flutter like a wounded bird.

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sits back, eyes hidden behind the silver-rimmed spectacles he’s only recently started wearing, fiddling absently with the hem of his cuff. He has the air of someone trying desperately to appear composed. “What do you mean?” he asks, finally, almost innocently. But the damage is already in the air.

Suguru snaps the paper open with a tremor in his hands. He flips it toward him, finger jabbing a passage near the headline, the printed words smeared slightly from where his grip has bruised the ink. His lips twitch. He doesn’t yell, not quite. But his voice is strained, fraying. “What did you do?” he hisses. “How could you be so utterly stupid?”

Satoru squints at the print, then—absently, childishly—reaches for it, tugging the paper into his lap and bringing it close to his face. His fingers tremble ever so slightly as he reads. His silence is sudden, awful. A pause that says everything.

“I—I didn’t know someone saw us—” he begins, and it’s worse that he sounds surprised. That he sounds genuinely caught off guard.

Suguru makes a sharp sound—part disgust, part disbelief—and sits back, dragging a hand down his face like it physically pains him to keep talking.

“You said you were courting her, Satoru,” he says. The word is spit out, hollow and bitter. “That’s what this was supposed to be. A performance. You know, flowers. Letters. Public outings. The idea of affection without any of the reality. Nothing... nothing unchaperoned. Nothing that could damage her standing.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. His throat works around something unsaid. “She was upset,” he says, quietly. “Panicked. I followed her to calm her down. That’s all.”

“You were alone with her. God knows what else you did. You probably kissed her too,” Suguru bites.

It is not a question. It’s a weapon.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yes,” Satoru admits, and there’s something dangerous in how still he becomes. “We kissed.”

Suguru leans forward, hands braced against his knees, as if the rage needs physical anchoring. “You haven’t even asked for her hand yet,” he says, and now his voice cracks, subtle but sharp. “There may be an agreement, but that’s all it is for now—an arrangement. She isn’t your wife. She isn’t even your fiancée.”

Satoru opens his mouth, but Suguru keeps going, faster now, harder. “Do you even realize what this means? The entire ton is reading this column. They saw. They know. You were alone with her. No chaperone. No witnesses. That kind of thing destroys girls like her, Satoru. Women don’t have the kind of armor we were born into.”

He gestures to the crumpled newspaper. “Her name is now synonymous with scandal, and we both know she won’t be able to walk into a room without whispers trailing behind her like a veil. She’ll be branded. And for what? For you? For a kiss?”

Satoru’s nostrils flare. He crumples the paper further in his fist until the print disappears beneath the creases. “It wasn’t just a kiss,” he says, and now his voice is loud, defensive, wounded. “And I’m not marrying her for my own benefit.”

Suguru stares. It’s a long, cool look. “Then who? Her father?” His voice is clinical now, like a physician cutting a wound open to see if it festers. “Because I know what you did, Satoru. I know you spoke to the Ministry. I know you convinced the Crown not to retire him early. That was the deal, wasn’t it? You get the girl and your inheritance. He keeps his title. Everyone wins.”

“It’s not that,” Satoru says. This time, there’s no heat—only weariness. “It’s not like that.”

But Suguru’s already watching him with a different expression. One that is quieter, sharper. One that hurts.

“Don't tell me you're starting to like her,” he says, softly.

Satoru doesn’t answer.

He straightens in his seat, stiffening in the expensive fabric of his coat. His lips press into a line, and his gaze flicks toward the window, away from Suguru. Away from the pain. The city slips by slowly—stone buildings, gas lamps still lit, an old woman sweeping the front of a bakery. The paper in his hand droops, forgotten now, ink staining his palm.

He cannot say it aloud.

Because it would make it real. Because it would mean surrendering—finally—to something larger than the contract. Larger than legacy, or family, or profit.

He does like you.

And he doesn’t know how to undo that.

THE VEILED QUILL Volume II, Issue VIII Masquerade of Masks, Moonlight… and Mistakes

Dearest gentle readers,

It was a night of gleam and grandeur at the Marquess Ieiri’s masquerade ball—where silk whispered across marble, champagne flowed like secrets, and anonymity cloaked even the most polished of reputations. But as every seasoned guest knows, masks may hide a face, but never intent.

The night’s most divine spectacle? The breath-taking minuet shared between His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, Gojo Satoru, and his ever-graceful intended. Their performance was less a dance and more a declaration: of beauty, of power, of something else we couldn't see. Eyes followed them. Mouths whispered. And still, none could look away.

Yet not every lady glided so gracefully. Poor Lady Utahime (yes, that one) suffered a most theatrical stumble mid-reel—though it did result in the conveniently timed intervention of a certain eligible lord. Rumor has it she’s begun monogramming her handkerchiefs with his initials already. Ah, to fall... and fall fast.

But readers, let us not trip past the true indiscretion of the evening.

While the ballroom twirled in oblivion, a certain young lady—our darling future duchess-to-be—slipped quietly up the stairs, her departure masked only by the glitter of the chandeliers and the hum of a minuet. She thought no one saw her.

She was mistaken.

Because moments later, none other than the Duke of Six Eyes himself abandoned the ballroom and followed her. Straight to the balcony. Alone. Behind closed doors. With no chaperone in sight.

One might say it was a stolen moment under moonlight. Others might call it exactly what it is: a scandal of the highest order.

Whatever the truth, one thing is clear—whispers have already become war cries, and reputations don’t survive moonlight meetings without consequence. Let us hope wedding bells come before the ruin does.

Yours most deliciously, Phantom.

part two coming soon! a/n. hi! tysm for reading, part two will be out in a week or two. i'm aware this took a very long time. it's also not proofread properly. so i'm sorry about that 😭🙏🏻 but hey, there shall be spice <3

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[astrocafecoffee]

Astro observation (part six ) - spouse edition 💗

🌟 FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY, ENJOY 🌟

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☞ Masterlist

Note: In the case of groom/ briede pc , if you are interested in men then check groom pc but if women then briede pc.

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♥️ Groom/Briede sextile/trine Venus in natal chart- your fs could awaken undeniable magnetism within you , especially in social or romantic contexts. Your fs might bring out your most charismatic and charming self which will make you feel more attractive and drawing people to you, whether it's through your energy, your presence or your aura.

♥️ Groom/ Briede sextile/ trine Chiron in natal chart -

This is a unique love. It may feel like a journey of awakening and transformation. Your fs may encourage you to see love as an evolving process, not something static or confined to traditional views of romantic relationships. This could open your eyes to a new type of connection which is based on mutual healing, growth and a deeper understanding of love that is not only nurturing but also freeing.

♥️ I have seen individuals who have groom or briede opposite northnode in natal chart may face many hardships in loves before committing to their fs.

♥️ union in 6th house in your natal chart - a spiritual union with your fs. The ambience of your wedding day will be very magnetic. A spiritual union between two souls. I think you married them in the past lives too. (12th house union in derivative astrology).

♥️ Uranus opposite union asteroid in natal chart- could meet your fs through social media or after meeting them face to face you guys could connect with social media because of long distance. This placement could also indicate unpredictable relationship. People are confused how you guys meet or how this relationship works with your fs. Maybe a huge age gap, social status differences etc.

♥️ Briede opposite fama in natal chart - if you are popular/ or in the public eye in some way or if your spouse is a public figure then it can create some obstacles between your relationships. You could feel like people are constantly meddling between you guys and gossiping about you. You might want privacy but people are getting on your nerves. All the best guys 🥲.

♥️ Jupiter in 7th house in natal chart - everytime I feel so excited after seeing this placement in someone's chart. This is ideal placement for marriage and relationships. Jupiter is expansion. The relationship with your fs will be very comforting, nurturing, you will feel like this relationship changes you for better. You feel safe in their arms.

♥️ Europa in 11th house in groom/briede/juno pc - your fs could be very popular among their community or friends. In a bigger sense They could be a public figure/ social media influencer. If it's in leo then the chances of them being a famous personality is prominent.

♥️ if you have part of fortune conjunct groom in fama persona chart then there's high chance your fs might be a famous figure or even a celebrity.

♥️ Venus opposite descendant in groom pc/juno pc - your fs might feel a sense of tension between what they desire in a relationship and what they actually need for emotional balance. There could be dissatisfaction in commited partnerships if they feel they are not getting the romantic satisfaction they crave.

♥️ union conjunct Ceres in groom pc/juno pc - the initial meeting with your fs may feel like you've found someone who instinctively understands how to nurture and support you , possibly offering you a sense of emotional safety you haven't experienced before.

♥️ Groom opposite saturn in groom/ briede or juno pc - your fs might have a tendency to hold back emotionally, especially when it comes to showing affection or vulnerability. There might be a sense that they need to feel secure before fully opening up. They may appear more reserved or distant when you first meet, possibly taking time to fully commit or express their feelings. This could require patience and effort on both sides.

♥️ Asteroid spirit(37452) in Scorpio/ in 8th house/ in 12th house/ in Pisces in groom/ briede/ juno pc could mean your fs has ability to talk to spirits. They can feel spirits around them. Possibly they have interests in occult/ witchy things. Also spirits might talk to them in their dreams quite often.

♥️ Telephus (5264) in 3rd house/in Gemini of Groom/ Briede / juno pc could mean they could read others mind very well. They possess strong intuition.

♥️ if Telephus(5264) is in 12th house/in Pisces of Groom/ briede/ juno pc they this can indicate that you and your future spouse is already connected in the 5D realm. You might not aware of this very well but there's a constant telepathic connection is going on between you two.

♥️ Pintar( 33103) in 5th house/ in leo in groom / briede / juno pc could mean they are an excellent painter ( hobby or career). In general this could also mean they possess artistic qualities. If this conjunct sun then this could be their way of expressing themself.

♥️ Biblialexa (51895) in Gemini/ 3rd house in groom / briede / juno pc could mean they love to read books. Could be a bookworm lol. They could also be a writer. Check if 10th ruler conjunct this asteroid or if it's in 10th house then this could be their career as well. This could also indicate they could be some sort of teacher.

♥️ cook (3061) in 4th house/ 2nd house/ 6th house or in Virgo, Taurus, cancer in groom/ briede/ juno pc then this could mean they are very good cook. If this asteroid conjunct moon / mercury then the same meaning. They have a knack to try different cuisines.

♥️ moon opposite juno in groom/ briede/ juno pc could mean your fs is emotionally invested and nurturing but struggles with finding the balance between intimacy and commitment. There may be moments where he/she feels emotionally disconnected from his/her relationship expectations especially in long-term commitments. They need to work on this. But don't worry if they work on this your relationship will be fulfilling. Try to help them in this matter as well.

♥️ Uranus 5th house in groom/ briede/ juno pc could mean unexpected pregnancy or it could also be possible that you might become pregnant fast after marriage.

♥️ Venus conjunct Jupiter is one of the best aspect to have in your groom / briede/ juno pc. This indicates happy and fulfilling union. Your fs is that type of person who always see the best in others. This is very fortunate aspect.

♥️ makhaon (3063) in 6th house/in Virgo/conjunct 10th ruler in groom pc/ briede pc/ juno pc could mean your fs could work in healing/ medicine industry.

Or in general people comes to them for emotional support often. They are that friend when you need someones shoulder to cry they are always there for you. Also whatever work they do in a professional sense that can bring healing to others in some way.

♥️ makhaon (3063) in 12th house/ in Pisces in groom/ briede/ juno pc could mean they are into occult/ mysticism. They are into spiritual healing. Also they could be a great psychologist/ psychiatrist.

♥️ Asteroid Thalia(23) in leo / gemini/ Sagittarius or in 5th house or 3rd house in groom/ Briede/ juno pc then this could mean they are very witty, playful, possess comedian abilities and have a very good sense of humor. You will never feel bored with them. It will be like they are cracking jokes every minute and also they could be love to tease you alot.

♥️ Casanova(7328) conjunct union in groom / briede / juno pc could mean your fs will flirt with you alot upon the first metting. Hmm they have courage tho 🥲.

♥️ Casanova(7328)in 5th house/7th house or in Libra/gemini/leo / Aries in groom pc/ briede/ juno pc could mean they flirts with you alot every day. They are very bold, romantic and a passionate lover. They will tease you alot. If it conjunct Venus then it will be their love language.

Thanks for reading 💓

- PIKO 💖

[moonlight-joy]

The Queen’s Flame

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: Your marriage to Daemon Targaryen reshaped Westeros, bringing balance and stability to his fiery nature and securing his place as King. While Daemon commanded respect with dragonfire and ambition, you proved that strength lay in unyielding resolve, diplomacy, and loyalty. Together, you forged a reign that united the Targaryens and established a legacy of power, love, and stability, remembered as one of the most celebrated in the realm’s history.

Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen

Your marriage to Daemon Targaryen was a union that altered the course of Westeros forever. Daemon, the fiery and unpredictable Rogue Prince, had found in you not a dragonrider but a partner of unshakable resolve and intelligence. Where others bent to his will or recoiled from his tempestuous nature, you stood firm, becoming his equal and complement. Though you had no dragon of your own, your influence was undeniable, and together, you proved that strength could take many forms.

King Viserys, observing the balance you brought to Daemon’s life and rule, made a decision that shocked the realm. Against the expectations of the court, he reaffirmed Daemon as his heir, declaring that the line of succession would pass through Daemon and you. The announcement sent ripples through Westeros, and while some welcomed it, others bristled at the idea of the once-reckless prince taking the throne. Yet, your partnership with Daemon began to silence even the harshest critics, cementing your place as the future queen.

The day of the proclamation was one of grandeur and tension. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was filled with lords and ladies, their whispers echoing as they speculated on the King’s intentions. You stood beside Daemon, his hand resting at the small of your back, a subtle but powerful gesture of support. His violet eyes scanned the room, and a faint smirk played on his lips as though he found their unease amusing.

When Viserys rose from the Iron Throne, silence swept through the hall. His voice, steady and commanding, carried to every corner of the chamber. “The realm has faced its share of challenges,” he began, “and it is my duty as your king to ensure its stability for generations to come.” His gaze swept the gathered nobles before settling on you and Daemon. “My brother, Daemon Targaryen, has long been my chosen heir. Though some have doubted his worthiness, I have seen his loyalty, his strength, and his commitment to this realm. With his marriage to Lady Y/N, their union has brought wisdom, balance, and stability to House Targaryen.”

Daemon’s hand on your back tightened slightly, a silent acknowledgment of his pride in this moment. “Today,” Viserys continued, “I reaffirm my decision. Daemon Targaryen shall remain my heir, and his line will inherit the Iron Throne.”

The hall erupted into murmurs. Some lords exchanged wary glances, while others bowed their heads in reluctant acceptance. You stood tall, your composure unshaken. As the lords began pledging their fealty, Daemon leaned close to you, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “Let them whisper,” he said, his tone edged with amusement. “Soon, they will kneel.”

Though you lacked a dragon of your own, your presence at Daemon’s side was a power unto itself. In a realm where fire and blood commanded respect, you proved that strength could be found in diplomacy, intelligence, and unyielding resolve. Daemon often teased you about it. “How is it,” he asked one evening as you walked together along the battlements of the Red Keep, “that you, without a dragon, command more fear and respect than half the lords in Westeros?”

You smiled, brushing your fingers against his. “Perhaps it’s because I don’t need a dragon to remind them of my strength.”

He laughed, pulling you close. “And perhaps that’s why you’re the only one who can tame me.”

Your bond with Daemon became the foundation of a renewed Targaryen dynasty. While he ruled the skies with Caraxes, you ruled the court, weaving alliances and extinguishing rivalries with quiet precision. Together, you presented an image of unity and strength that silenced dissent and inspired loyalty. The smallfolk began to speak of your influence in reverent tones, calling you the “Queen of the Hearth,” a symbol of fire’s enduring warmth rather than its destructive force.

Even Rhaenyra, once her uncle’s closest confidante, struggled with the changes your presence brought. Though she respected you, the bond she had shared with Daemon had been replaced by your unshakable connection. During one rare moment of shared company, she raised her goblet with a faint smile. “It seems you’ve managed what none of us could,” she said, her tone half admiring, half begrudging. “You’ve turned my uncle into a man of reason.”

You returned her smile, sensing the truth behind her words. “He has always had the capacity for reason,” you replied lightly. “He just needed the right cause.”

Daemon smirked, raising his goblet. “Or the right woman.”

As the years passed, your partnership with Daemon became the cornerstone of House Targaryen’s stability. When King Viserys’ health began to decline, the court braced for Daemon’s ascension. By then, even the most reluctant lords had come to accept the inevitability of his rule—and with you by his side, the realm began to anticipate a golden age.

On the day of Viserys’ passing, the court gathered to witness Daemon’s coronation. Standing before the Iron Throne, his hand in yours, Daemon addressed the realm. “We are the blood of the dragon,” he declared, his voice resonating through the Great Hall. “And together, we will forge a future worthy of our ancestors.”

As the lords and ladies knelt before their new king and queen, Daemon turned to you, his violet eyes burning with the intensity that had drawn you to him from the start. “You are my crown, my love,” he murmured. “And with you, we will rule the world.”

Though you lacked dragonfire, you proved that strength was not born of fire alone but forged in love, loyalty, and resolve. Together, you and Daemon reshaped the fate of Westeros, your reign remembered as a time when the blood of the dragon burned bright and unbroken. Your legacy, built on unity and ambition, became one of the most celebrated in the realm’s history—a testament to the power of fire tempered by unyielding strength.

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[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

All in your head || Young President!Coriolanus Snow x reader

A/n: love this request!

Warnings: r is implied to be young, manipulative, controlling Coryo, if there’s anything else lmk

Wc: 564

Divider by @firefly-graphics

The grand hall was adorned with opulent decorations, an extravagant celebration befitting the fifth wedding anniversary of you and Coriolanus Snow. The air was filled with the scent of delicate flowers, and the soft murmur of the Capitol's elite mingled with the distant hum of the city beyond.

It was a spectacle of extravagance, but behind the façade of smiles and enchanting music, your marriage to Coriolanus was nothing more than a carefully constructed arrangement.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter to yourself, hands toying with your necklace as you hear a deep sigh beside you.

"Yeah well, you have no choice," he mumbled, adjusting his cuffs, preparing to step out onto the balcony for an interview broadcasted to all of Panem.

"Let's get this over and done with then," you huffed, smoothing down your dress with practiced grace before the doors opened, and you summoned a well-trained fake smile. Coriolanus, in keeping with the façade of a blissful marriage, rested his hand on your waist, his smile equally forced.

As the camera lights focused on the two of you, the citizens of the Capitol eagerly tuned in to the live interview. Caesar Flickerman, the charismatic host, beamed as he addressed the couple. “Ladies and gentlemen of Panem, we are honored to have Mr. and Mrs. Snow with us tonight!”

Applause erupted as you and Coriolanus exchanged a glance, a look perceived by others as one of love, though the reality was starkly different.

"Y/n, it felt like only yesterday we saw you graduating from the Academy, and now here you are, as gorgeous and powerful as ever as First Lady," Caesar complimented, leaving you slightly off-kilter-a reminder of the day you learned of your impending marriage to Coriolanus.

"Time flies, doesn't it?" You gracefully replied with a polite smile as Caesar chuckled. "Five years of marital bliss, how does it feel?" He directed his question to both of you this time.

You and Coriolanus exchanged a fleeting glance, a practiced smile plastered on both of your faces. "It's been an incredible journey," you replied, your voice measured.

"We've grown together and learned a lot about each other."

Caesar leaned in with a glint in his eye. "Speaking of growth, the citizens of Panem are curious— are there any plans for a little Snow on the horizon? Perhaps an heir to the Snow legacy?"

The questions about children were not new, but the pressure had been mounting over the years. Your father, a powerful figure in Panem, had orchestrated this union to solidify his influence, disregarding any consideration for your personal desires or compatibility.

The marriage had left you with an ache in your heart, and the absence of genuine connection with Coriolanus was palpable. Behind closed doors, conversations between the two of you were few and far between.

tense silence filled the spacious chambers, with occasional glances that spoke volumes but went unaddressed. The thought of children had become a looming cloud, casting shadows over your fragile union.

A polite chuckle escaped Coriolanus's lips, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of discomfort. "Ah, well, we're enjoying our time together for now. The future is unpredictable, but we're taking things one step at a time."

As the interviews continued, the speculation about Coriolanus's fertility surfaced. The whispers in the Capitol's high-society gatherings grew louder, comparing the size of your family to the apparent lack of progeny from the Snow lineage. It became a matter of public curiosity, and the pressure to produce an heir was now a heavy burden on Coriolanus.

Lounging out on one of the day beds, sunglasses perched on your nose, and a book in hand, you felt a figure towering over you. Your eyes move from the words on your page to the figure.

"We need to talk," he declared, his voice firm, as he offers you your robe to which your gratefully take and slip it on your body. The air hung heavy with anticipation as you reluctantly nodded. "Alright." You follow Coriolanus to his study where he closes, and locks the door behind you.

Raising an eyebrow at his odd behaviour he sits down with a loud sigh. You silently sit at one of the seats in front of his desk. Coriolanus took a deep breath, his gaze intense.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, waiting for him to clarify. “How do you propose we do that?” His eyes bore into yours as he spoke, his words carrying an unusual urgency. “Let’s have a child.”

The weight of his statement hung in the air, and you couldn’t hide the surprise etched across your face. “What?” you stammered.

Coriolanus’s jaw tensed, his resolve unyielding. “I said, let’s have a—” “I heard you,” you interrupted with a snap, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But you can’t just decide that on a whim. It’s not that simple.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I understand that, but the longer we wait, the more the rumors will grow. I can’t bear the scrutiny any longer. We need to put an end to this speculation, for both our sakes.”

The cold reality of the situation hit you—the marriage, the façade, and now the pressure to bear a child for the sake of appearances. You couldn’t deny the logic in his words, but the emotional chasm between you and Coriolanus seemed insurmountable.

“I can’t just bring a child into this world for the sake of quelling rumors,” you protested, your voice trembling with emotion. Coriolanus scoffed, “You can, and you will.” His harsh comment made you gulp, your mother’s words ringing in the back of your mind. “Obey your husband,” “Do what pleases him,” and so you did.

It didn’t take long for you to get pregnant. On your sixth wedding anniversary, this time, you held your nearly one-year-old son in your lap, about to announce that you were expecting again.

[orieriee]

If LADS was a historical royalty manhwa .⋅˚₊‧ ⚜ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Your manhwa harem but with Love and Deepspace boy... What kind of male lead role would they be? 𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑

Disclaimer ‼️ This is just for fun and my own interpretation if the LADS boys are in a historical royalty manhwa or if they're in Bridgeton! Also possibly grammar errors, use she/her

Let me know if you want each of the boys' headcanons in a separate blog for a more detailed story!

INTRODUCTION ₊˚⊹♡:

Starting off with you, you are a notorious noble lady in Philos kingdom, particularly the daughter of the only earl in Philos kingdom. As you're coming of age for marriage, your father the Earl is determined to find you a suitable husband. His initial plan was to introduce you to the crown prince of Philos because you deserve the best of the best. However, you believe in true love instead of a union for duty and political purposes. While sorting through the finest candidates, you found out that there are many fine gentlemen in the kingdom, each with their own allure.

Which one will you choose?

Xavier 🌟

We're starting off with Xavier, he's of course, the crown prince of Philos Kingdom

He's the typical main male lead destined to be your fiancé

He may appear innocent on the surface , but he actually likes to poke fun at you

I imagine he's your childhood friend; the two of you played together a few times whenever the your father the Earl had work at the imperial palace

When you were children, Xavier said that he wanted to marry you one day

However, the two of you eventually lost contact as Xavier's schedule grew busier with his duties as crown prince and grew apart

Currently, the king and queen are sorting through the candidates for the crown princess

The king and queen had picked a princess from the neighboring kingdom but Xavier declined, saying that he already had someone in mind

So really, he was actually the mastermind all along (cue to the introduction), determined to make you his bride by secretly sending a marriage proposal to your estate

He even contacted your father first, not the other way around to arrange a meeting with you

Rafayel 🫧

He is said to be the enigmatic prince from the neighboring kingdom, who carries the bloodline of the Lemurian people

He is the son of a Lemurian princess, whose beauty and grace are reflected in Rafayel's face

He is also known for his artistic skills especially in painting and is famous among the greatest artists in the continent

He often holds charity events, raising funds from his paintings to those in need

Many noble ladies fangirls over him, as most of them thinks he's a romantic and very admirable

But he's actually quite shy when it comes to real romance and that's just all his facade

So the story goes like this, one day, you met him at a ball and he tried to get close to you because he wanted to get some information from you on some kind of Lemurian-related case

You two ended up working together to solve the case and he slowly fell in love with you instead

He revealed to you that he's actually the king of the Lemurian kingdom and he wants to take you back to his kingdom and asked you to be his bride

Now, you are his muse, and since then you exist in all of his art

Zayne ❄️

Zayne is the prodigious mage of the magic tower, because you know, foreseer? Tower of secret?

Zayne represents the typical Mage!Male lead

He's the youngest and one of the lead researchers of magic with huge contributions to the kingdom

Rumor has it he's actually of noble birth but that's for another story

Zayne is cold and distant because he's grown up hiding his true identity

And the thing with you is that, in his dreams, he kept seeing glimpses of his own future — and keeps seeing the same person by his side, but doesn’t know if it’s real or just a magical illusion

And ever since that day, somehow you keep crossing paths with him during important meetings or investigations

Magic can be unpredictable around strong emotions — and Zayne finds his powers reacting wildly when he's near you

He tries to do a research on it, and at first "rejects his fate", but every time he does, his magic is getting more unpredictable and out of control

In the end, he learns to embrace it — but the truth is, he had already fallen for you long before he ever understood it

Because the moment you first crossed paths, even before you appeared in his dreams, his heart had already chosen you

Sylus and Caleb under the cut!

Sylus 🐈‍⬛

Sylus is the archduke/duke renowned for his vast fortune and prosperous land in the north

He's just as famous — or infamous — for the rumors that surround him

He was rumored to be cruel, violent and ruthless by outsiders, but the people in the north think otherwise

People say he has a pet dragon that protects his land

With Sylus, I can definitely see enemies to lovers trope, the fierce and mean northern duke slowly falls in love with an unshaken noble lady

Well, it all happened when you decided to run away from home to avoid being in an arranged marriage to some stranger

After running away, your carriage broke and you stumbled upon the Duke's castle

And Sylus, cold-eyed and ruthless, has no intention of letting a suspicious trespasser go free, thinking you were a spy sent by the neighboring kingdom

But after some negotiations, Duke Sylus agrees to hide you — but only if you work for him

Basically you're just an adorable little scared kitten to him that he basically adopts you

In the end, he convinced your father to marry you to him instead (the people in his castle are overjoyed by the news that the castle will finally have a Duchess)

Caleb 🍎

Prepare for the angst because in LADS his story kinda has the forbidden trope, that makes him so Knight!Male Lead coded

The tension of forbidden love between of a noble lady and her knight, He struggles every day to maintain his self-control, never daring to step over the line drawn by your difference in social status

As your loyal personal knight, he's always there right by your side ever since you two were young

His duty is solely to protect you from harm... Not catch feelings for you

He would watch from the sidelines while the other princes approached you, jealous but unable to do anything expect for clenching his fists behind his back

Because protecting you also means protecting your happiness, even if it breaks his own heart

And yet, every stolen glance, every accidental brush of your hand against his armor, chips away at his carefully built walls

Every time you smile at someone else... At some... Princes and noblemen, it feels like a blade twisting deeper into his chest

Nails digging into his palms, forcing himself to stand still when every instinct screams at him to act — to claim you

But he remains silent

Because loving you was never part of his oath — and even if it costs him everything, he will not be the one to shatter your future for his own selfish heart

So, in conclusion:

🌟 Xavier as the Crown Prince

🫧 Rafayel as the king of Lemurian kingdom, disguised as a Prince from the neighboring kingdom traveling to Philos kingdom

❄️ Zayne, the prodigious mage of the kingdom

🐈‍⬛ Sylus of course is the rich Northern Duke

🍎 And Caleb is your loyal personal knight

[greggslife]

Here Are My Top 10 Favourite Ants

(Updated due to public outcry and political pressure.)

No. 10 - Yellow Crazy Ants

These guys are on a list of "one hundred of the world's worst invasive species" formulated by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), having invaded ecosystems from Hawaii to the Seychelles.

But don't hate just because they are awesome at establishing themselves in a new habitat due to their aggression toward other ant species, lack of aggression toward members of their own species, efficient recruitment, and large colony size. Respect the hustle!

No. 9 - Paraponera Clavata

Also known as the "bullet ant," "the one wounding deeply," or "24-hour ant", referring to the full day of pain that follows being stung.

This ant's sting currently ranks the highest of all insect stings on Justin O. Schmidt's informal sting pain index, at 4.0+. Some victims compared the pain to that of being shot, (hence the nickname,) with "waves of burning, throbbing, all-consuming pain that continues unabated for up to 24 hours."

Lymphadenopathy, edema, tachycardia, and fresh blood appearing in human victim feces are common symptoms from even a single sting.

Un-fuck-with-able.

No. 8 - Honeypot Ants

The name honeypot ant comes from the peculiar development of replete workers, whose abdomens become so swollen with food that they are used by the rest of the colony as living food storage. They are "drained" during famine, usually the wintertime, to sustain the colony, leaving them as "flaccid depletes."

Disgusting. 10/10

When a replete worker fills with food, a portion of her digestive tract swells and displaces other abdominal organs. It can expand about four to five times its normal linear dimension when they are fully engorged with food.

I can relate. I have eaten pasta in such quantities to displace my own organs many times.

No. 7 - Red Imported Fire Ants

Though South American in origin, the red imported fire ant has been accidentally introduced to many other parts of the world.

More than 14 million people are stung by them in the United States annually. Most victims experience intense burning and swelling, followed by the formation of sterile pustules, which may remain for several days. Up to 6% of people may suffer from anaphylaxis. More than 80 deaths have been recorded from red imported fire ant attacks.

These ants thrive in urban areas. Nests can be built under pavements and foundations. This means not only can they damage or destroy individual structures, but red imported fire ants can have an affect on broader infrastructure, damaging land, business and property values. In agriculture, they can damage crops and machinery, and threaten pastures. They also pose a threat to animals and livestock, capable of inflicting serious injury or death, especially on young, weak, or sick animals.

With annual damages estimated in the billions of dollars, these ants are considered the second worst thing to arrive on North American soil since 1492.

No. 6 - Black Garden Ants

When building their colony, these ants will structure it so as to inhibit the transmission of different contagions. Different communities within the colony are segregated by a limited number of connective nodes, allowing for greater protection of vulnerable hive members, such as larvae and pupae.

A trait I could only wish other species performed so well.

No. 5 - Pharaoh Ants

These ants utilize three types of pheromones. One is a long-lasting attractive chemical that is used to build a trail network. It remains detectable even if the ants do not use the trail for several days.

The second pheromone is also attractive, but will decay to imperceptible amounts in a matter of minutes without reapplication. This pheromone is useful in marking food sources as these are unpredictable and liable to change quickly, so not worth the longer-lasting pheremone.

The third pheromone is a repellant. If an individual finds an unprofitable area with little food or significant danger, it will release this repellant pheromone, which will warn others and cause them to look elsewhere. While positive pheromones indicating lucrative foraging sites are very common in social insects, the pharaoh ant's negative pheromone is highly unusual and pharaoh ants were the first species found to employ such a thing.

No. 4 - Argentine Ant

This species is like the Mr. Worldwide of ants. It has established itself in every continent except Antarctica (including many oceanic islands.)

It even has "supercolonies" that extend across hundreds or thousands of kilometers, first reported in California in 2000, then in Europe in 2002, Japan in 2009, and Australia in 2010.

Several subsequent studies used genetic, behavioral, and chemical analyses to show that supercolonies on separate continents actually represent a single global supercolony.

The researchers stated that the "enormous extent of this population is paralleled only by human society."

How can you not admire (and fear) the ambition and the achievement?

No. 3 - Leafcutter Ants

"Leafcutter ants" is a bit of an umbrella term, as it consists of over 45 ant species, but this gang is just so remarkable. Next to humans, leafcutter ants form some of the largest and most complex animal societies on Earth. They are known for their advanced agricultural practices. These ants are not merely foragers but skilled farmers, cultivating their own food by collecting specific kinds of leaf matter in order to produce specialized fungi in their nests.

No. 2 - Formica Fusca

These ants, (sometimes called silky ants or dusky ants,) are fast to learn, and only a single presentation of stimulus is enough for them to form a genuine long-term memory. This formed memory is also resistant to extinction.

Ants of this species can also detect volatile organic compounds emitted by cancer cells. After a 3-trial conditioning, they can differentiate cancer cell lines from healthy ones. They can also differentiate between at least two different cancerous cell lines.

A similar ability to detect human tumours has been shown in more recent studies.

No. 1 - Weaver Ants

An arboreal species, (i.e. they live in trees,) weaver ants are known for their unique nest building behaviour where workers construct nests by weaving together leaves using larval silk. Colonies can be extremely large consisting of more than a hundred nests spanning numerous trees.

How they sew the leaves together is a remarkable feat of cooperation. Typically, dozens of ants will need to form a chain to first bridge a gap between two leaves, then pull them together so another team can hold them in position whilst yet more ants sew the gap together with silk. But adult ants can't make silk, so they have to use larvae to do it, picking the larvae up and using them like little pots of glue to spin a mat of silk between the two leaves. Altogether, a hundred ants might be involved in the same task. This is a pretty remarkable piece of evolution and a testament to the power of cooperation!

[lilithrosexoxo]

Ch. 9 Clarity

It’s been 8 days since the start of Jinwoo's rut and your heat and your mother is starting to get worried. The handmaidens have been leaving food and water outside his door and after a few hours the dishes get placed out the door empty. No one has entered the room after two guards tried and ended up being flung through the castle walls. Poor guards were left with ruptured organs and broken bones just from the force. Ever since then people have avoided entering in fear of Jinwoo attacking. 

Jinwoo wakes with his mind finally feeling clear after days. It feels like a fog has been cleared and the sun is just starting to break through the clouds. He recounts the events that unfolded during his rut and groans. He’s definitely going to have to apologize to your family and the castle guards. Not Bazz though fuck that guy. He recalls him sitting in a puddle of his own piss and chuckles darkly. It was deserved that guy has been tap dancing on his last nerve since he claimed you as his, boundaries need to be set and if threats are necessary for him to realize you are off limits and his so be it. He looks down to see you laying on his chest sleeping peacefully and softly snoring. This is a sight and feeling he can definitely get used to. You look so peaceful in your sleep but he knows he needs to check to see what state you’re in. He’s been rough with you over the past few days and wants to make sure he didn’t hurt his perfect princess.

“Y/N, sweetheart how are you feeling?”, he says as he caresses your cheek.

You mumble sleepily as your eyes flutter open, thankfully he takes note that there’s no glow. It seems your heat ended when his rut did. He holds you close and presses soft kisses to your forehead.

Your body is sore from being positioned in ways you didn’t think possible. Bites and claw marks litter your skin and bruises have formed on your hips but, you note, no pain is coming from your neck. It seems Jinwoo was able to hold himself back from mating you and honestly a part of you is disappointed. You desperately wanted to mark each other and feel the bond between you two but you know that it’s for the best. Who knows how your father would react to returning to news of not only another attack, Astrid’s death, an impending war, but also a claim before a lunar union which is quite taboo. 

You smile up sheepishly at him recounting the past few days, “I’m feeling good Jin, how are you? You seem to have calmed down”, you say as you cup his cheek and look lovingly into his eyes.

He can’t believe you’re still looking at him that way with how rough he’s been. He knows he’s not easy to handle during his ruts and with you he was insatiable. He quite literally took the time to lick you from head to toe and he’s pretty sure he’s fucked you into the shape of his fingers at this point. He presses a kiss to your palm, “Never better but I feel quite embarrassed for how I acted in front of your family. I completely lost it and I vaguely also remember hurting a few of the castle guards. I tend to get quite… volatile during my ruts they can be… unpredictable. Being around you made me quite possessive. My alpha has never acted like that before with anyone”, he looks at you nervously and his eyes begin to search yours frantically. “Y/N I have to be honest with you, I usually have women service me during my ruts but they usually become scared and leave after a few hours. I have to ask, do you still want me as your mate?”, he looks down at the marks littering your body and is wracked with guilt, “I know I was rough and didn’t treat you with the care that you deserve but I promise I cherish you and what I feel for you is genuine. I-”

“Shhh”, you cut him off with a finger to his lips, “Jin the past few days have been amazing. Honestly I loved how passionate you were and how much you craved me. I’ve never felt so desired before and I know how much you care for me. I know we haven’t known each other long but the way you look at me Jin, no one has ever looked at me the way you do”, you say as you start to feel tears well up in your eyes. You just feel so overwhelmed with emotion all your life you’ve craved for someone to look at you like this. To desire you. To want you. To care about your wellbeing. To see him be so attentive to you now that his mind is clear has something swelling inside you that you’re scared to name. A four letter word is on the tip of your tongue? But it’s only been a couple of weeks of knowing each other. Is it because of the intimacy during his rut and your heat? But you two haven’t mated yet isn’t it too soon? While your thoughts are swirling through your mind tears stream down your cheeks.

“My sweet omega, it’s okay you don’t need to cry”, he says as you shut your eyes and he kisses your tears away, “You are the most important person in the world to me. You are both beautiful on the inside and out. Your soul radiates like none other. You are so kind and brave. I am truly the luckiest alpha in the world. You are my light, my flame, my heart. Ever since our eyes met I no longer existed without you. Please don’t cry unless it’s from pleasure”, he whispers as he plants a soft kiss on your lips. An electric current runs through where your lips connect and your eyes open, meeting his azure ones.

His words only make you cry harder, how can an alpha be so sweet to you. You struggle accepting his words after being alone for so long but you know he means every word. You smile and lean in for another kiss, your eyes fluttering close. It’s soft and gentle, a stark comparison to how you two have been ravishing each other the past few days. You feel him graze his tongue along your lower lip asking for permission to be let in. You open your lips and your tongues tangle and fuck does it feel good. You feel emotions swirling in your chest. It’s like he’s pouring all of the care and dedication he feels for you in the kiss and it makes your heart flutter. He moves on top of you and you moan at the feeling of his warm body on top of yours. So small against his large frame it has butterflies swirling in your stomach at the size difference. You feel his length throbbing against your center reminding you that you both fell asleep naked long abandoning your clothes at the start of his rut. He thrusts his length between your slippery folds and groans at the feeling realizing you’re absolutely soaked just from this kiss. Your scent permeates the air and causes his mouth to salivate. It takes all of his willpower to break away from the kiss as he stares down at you hungrily. You recognize the look on his face and gulp nervously. You’re not sure how much longer you can hold back before saying fuck it all and hop on top of him and ride him like it’s no tomorrow. To finally feel him inside of you knowing he’d feel so much better than the toys you use to satiate yourself during your heat, them never truly being enough to quench the burn in your soul. To sink your fangs into each other’s scent gland and officiate the bond between you two. Just thinking about it has you arching up and grinding your cunt against him making him groan. He sees your eyes beginning to glow and knows it’s up to him to stop this before you both give into the burning desire within you. He raises off of you causing you to let out a desperate whine at the loss of contact making him chuckle.

“Don’t worry princess, we'll have all the time in the future to explore each other’s body even more but, right now I think we need to check in with your family’.

At that you groan you want nothing more than to stay in bed with Jinwoo so he can take care of the ache in your cunt.

“But aaalpha please”, you say as you spread your pussy lips and Jinwoo watches as your hole clenches around nothing pathetically begging to be filled. It takes all of his willpower to pull himself away from the sight and close your legs much to your disappointment.

“Y/N please I’m really trying to respect customs and stay on your father’s good side”, he says as he covers his nose trying to ignore your tantalizing scent of lavender and honey. “Now be a good girl and get dressed. I have some sweats and a shirt you can wear, it should be about time for breakfast let’s go join your family yeah? If you’re a good girl I promise to spend the night between your legs”, he says with a wink and that’s all the motivation you needed to hop out of bed. Rushing so much it causes you to trip over the blankets leaving Jinwoo to catch you before you faceplant on the floor causing him to chuckle. “Alright let’s go princess”.

xoxo

“Oh my goddess Y/N you’re alive!”, you hear Reign shout as he tackles you as you both enter the dining room with your hands intertwined. You hear sighs of relief echo throughout the room and Aldwin visibly relaxes. You feel guilt run through you, you never meant to worry your family once you realized Jinwoo’s condition, you just wanted to do everything possible to alleviate his struggle.

“Yes, I’m safe. Jin would never hurt me”, you explain, throwing a sweet smile his way.

Your mother gets up and holds your face in her hand turning your head from side to side examining your scent glands. She eyes Jinwoo, “It looks like you were able to hold yourself back. Good. I’m not sure how my husband would’ve taken a mating before the lunar union. To go against the goddess would be disruptive. Now tell me sweet girl, have you been deflowered?”.

“Mother!”, you shout as you hear snickers from the dining table from your siblings, except Ifrit and Shiva, those two little shits are laughing with tears streaming down their faces. Your face heats up in embarrassment as you look down knowing you’re the only virgin besides Reign in the room still after all these years.

“Now now Y/N a prime omega’s purity is precious please don’t be upset at me I simply. Sweetheart I simply need to know”, she says softly. You know she’s right, prime omega’s purity are offered to the lunar goddess before the union but still something eats away at you being so inexperienced at your age.

Jinwoo watches it all unfold and decides it's time for him to step in especially since this is all his fault. He steps up and kneels before your mother “Queen Ravencrest, she remains pure. We did not mate, we simply touched one another. I promise but we can confirm with a healer if you don’t believe my words to be true”.

Your mother eyes Jinwoo warily. He appears so calm compared to the last state she saw him in. She truly didn’t believe he had it in him to hold himself back. Her eyes flicker between you two and she sighs. “I trust you Alpha Sung, my husband however may differ”.

“Thank you Queen Ravencrest and I would like to formally apologize to all of you. I never wanted any of you to see me that way and I know it must’ve worried you all quite a bit but I promise I didn’t hurt Y/N”, he says his head hanging in shame.

“Apology accepted, you still held yourself back so all good okay?”, Aldwin says and you feel gratitude swell in your heart. There are nods around the table and Jinwoo sighs in relief.

“We know that you weren’t in control Alpha Sung. The fact that my daughter remains pure speaks to your care for her and your marriage. However, you must face my husband. You both will see him after breakfast”.

“Father has returned already? How has he swept through the kingdom so quickly!?”, you say, confusion clear on your face.

“Y/N it’s been 8 days”, Aldwin says with a chuckle.

“8 days!?”, by the goddess you hadn’t realized you’d been with Jin for so long. 

Jinwoo is also feeling quite shocked. Usually his ruts last 5 days at max. Was it because he finally found his mate? Or was it your heat? He feels awful keeping you trapped under him for so long when he was so rough but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the feeling of your body against his. Just thinking about it is causing him to throb in his slacks and his cheeks to flush. Shit control yourself Jinwoo.

“Yes Y/N, 8 days and you’re still a pathetic virgin that doesn’t know the feel of an alpha”, Elowen snickers.

Ouch that’s a low blow even for her you think. You cast your head down in shame and tears begin to well up in your eyes. You know you shouldn’t feel shame, rules are different for prime omegas but you craved Jinwoo so badly hell you still do. You’re the only one who hasn’t felt an alpha within them besides Reign since he’s still so young but you’re almost 30! You cover your face as you begin to sniffle. Jinwoo moves to stand glaring daggers at her until your mother stops him with her hand.

“Elowen just because your sister knows how to keep her legs closed and doesn’t bend over for every alpha in her vicinity doesn’t mean she’s pathetic, it's quite noble especially considering how difficult her heats have been all her life”, your mother says sticking up for you.

Elowen gasps and begins to stutter.

“Yeah Elowen you literally were getting bent over at someone else’s lunar union. You couldn’t even save yourself for your mate. That’s what’s truly pathetic”, Aldwin says, coming to your defense.

“Harlot”. “Strumpet”. Ifrit and Shiva speak at the same time.

“Whore”, Liza parrots off their energy.

“Elowen, I think being a princess doesn’t suit you. I think you would’ve been a perfect lady of the night unlike our precious Y/N”, Reign says, giving you a bright smile.

Jinwoo visibly relaxes at seeing your family come to your defense and lets out a hearty laugh. Seeing your family stick up for you makes you cry even harder.

“You guys…”, you say in between sniffles as you wipe away your tears.

“Oh sweetheart, there is nothing wrong with you and you will know an alpha’s love in time. We know there’s a lot going on but I’m still going to try to convince your father to not delay the lunar union”, your mother says as she hugs you tightly.

You melt in her arms as you nod your head, grateful for her and your family.

“Now that this is all settled let’s eat before you two face your father”, she says as you all take your seat.

After breakfast you and Jinwoo stand nervously against the doors of your father’s study. You see Jin gulp and interlace your fingers with his giving him a sweet smile and the courage to finally knock.

“Enter”, your father's voice booms.

You and Jin open the doors and step inside hand and hand.

[a-d-nox]

web of wyrd: best months for weddings and potential issues that could arise

ever wonder why may is such a popular month for marriage? why you rarely see people who marry in september staying together? the date you select for your special day matters according to the matrix! in honor of my best friend getting engaged, i will be a little more focused on love and romance posts than you typically would see from me. reminder the post is focused on the WEDDING EVENT MONTH (this is the highest outcome - but the energy can be out of balance which is why i am including negatives (which usually are part of the karmic tail)). in order to see future dates, use gollov's site and the "personal" calculator!

paid reading options: astrology menu & cartomancy menu

enjoy my work? help me continue creating by tipping on ko-fi or paypal. your support keeps the magic alive!

january (1 - the magician)

positive: couple is capable of making the life you really desire together come to fruition.

negative: might be an elopement that goes south (shotgun wedding or an annulment is needed). getting stood up at the altar vibes.

february (2 - the high priestess)

positive: having a very deep connection long term - that goes way beyond topical concepts.

negative: a big secret comes out and ruins the day and/or a scandal occurs.

march (3 - the empress)

positive: a very fruitful relationship, a loving partnership, likely to create a large family when the union occurs.

negative: MOB or MOG makes the wedding all about her and is overbearing about the event.

april (4 - the emperor)

positive: a very stable relationship where both partners are protective of one another

negative: FOB or FOG might be a buzz kill or has a tangible dislike of someone in their new married family.

may (5 - the hierophant)

positive: makes for a committed and traditional relationship.

negative: there are likely a few guests who are all on their own and/or there might be a few people how have known beef with one another. maybe the bride doesn't like one of the groomsmen or the groom doesn't like one of his bride's guests...

june (6 - the lover)

positive: having a marriage full of love and partnership; makes a soulmate tie.

negative: someone could interrupt the ceremony by opposing the officiant because they can't "forever hold their peace". otherwise, there might be doubt or drama surrounding the coupling.

july (7 - the chariot)

positive: might have had a lot of relationships obstacles to get to the point of marriage, but the determination to be together and stay together makes for a lasting/enduring relationship

negative: there could be a car accident or break down that slows down or ruins the day

august (8 - strength)

positive: resilience is what holds the coupling together along with understanding and compassion for one another

negative: a physical fight may occur among the wedding party or the guests.

september (9 - the hermit)

positive: this is likely to be a small/private ceremony. the couple is on a spiritual journey with one another and they know it.

negative: cold feet might occur regarding marriage - could be left at the altar. there is also a greater likelihood of divorce with this energy as the hermit is on a SOLO journey.

october (10 - the wheel of fortune)

positive: marriage is part of this couple's destiny, but so are the inevitable ups and downs within the relationship.

negative: something unpredictable is likely to occur/happen that can ruin the event itself.

november (11 - justice)

positive: there is likely a prenuptial agreement in place or this might be organized and arranged by the parents of the couple which speaks for the relationship long term...

negative: another high stakes month in terms of staying together - legal matters are part of this marriage (divorce is likely). or someone may have a legitimate reason to object the marriage.

december (12 - the hanged man)

positive: the couple is prepared to let go of the past and enter a life long marriage with an open mind.

negative: someone in the partnership is likely to feel trapped in the relationship - growing to resent one another is pretty common with this month given the theme.

have ideas for new content? please use my “suggest a post topic” button!

return to nox's guide to metaphysics

return to the masterlist of the web of wyrd

© a-d-nox 2024 all rights reserved

[burglesstuff]

The Pilot & The Mechanic

[muiitoloko]

If that’s okay for you if I may request

Colonel Brandon If that’s okay? Cause I read all your Alan rickman stories and I love them all so very much! ❤️❤️❤️ Thank you for writing those

Title: You are you

Summary: You are everything he needs, even if he doesn't realize it initially.

Pairing: Colonel Brandon × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Madness, Self-criticism, inferiority complex, unrequited love, anguish.

Author's notes: I've been wrestling with writer's block for a while, trying to figure out how to craft a one-shot with Brandon. Then, a spark of inspiration hit me while watching the Netflix series "Queen Charlotte." Drawing from her character and that of King George, I found the muse I needed to create this piece. I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for your support!

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

Colonel Brandon stood on the sprawling grounds of his estate, his thoughts consumed by the recent turn of events. Marianne had chosen John over him, and though he felt a pang of sadness and disappointment, he knew he had to respect her decision. Seeing her happy with another man brought him a bittersweet sense of contentment, knowing that she had found the love and happiness she deserved.

But as the days passed, Brandon couldn't shake the lingering emptiness in his heart. He knew he needed to move on, to find a wife who could give him children and heirs to carry on his legacy. And so, he reluctantly resumed his search for a suitable match, his heart no longer seeking love, but rather a practical solution to his need for a family.

It was during one of his social engagements that Brandon encountered you, the eldest daughter of the duke and duchess, a woman living in seclusion on their vast estate. He had heard whispers of your eccentricities, but he paid them little heed, his focus solely on finding a wife who could fulfill his need for heirs.

As Brandon got to know you better, he discovered the truth behind the rumors surrounding your behavior. Your parents, the duke and duchess, confessed to him the challenges you faced, the periods of aggression and madness that plagued you intermittently. Despite their wealth and connections, they had been unable to find a solution, leaving them resigned to your fate.

But Brandon was undeterred by the revelation, his pragmatic nature guiding him forward. He saw in you the potential for a suitable match, a woman who, despite her flaws, could provide him with the children he so desperately desired. And for your parents, you represented a burden they were eager to unburden themselves of, a means to secure your future and their peace of mind.

For Brandon, it seemed like the perfect compromise—a marriage born out of duty rather than love, but one that could fulfill both his and your parents' needs. And so, he approached you with a proposal, his demeanor calm and composed as he laid out his intentions with unwavering clarity.

As Colonel stood before you, awaiting your response to his proposal, you couldn't help but feel a whirlwind of emotions coursing through you. Despite your eccentricities and the challenges you faced, you couldn't deny the practicality of his offer. It was a solution that could benefit both parties involved, easing the burden on your parents while providing Colonel Brandon with the heirs he desired.

Lost in thought, you retreated to the comfort of your study, surrounded by shelves filled with notebooks containing your innermost thoughts and musings. Dressed in your usual attire of men's clothing, a reflection of your unconventional nature, you pondered the implications of Colonel Brandon's proposal.

As you delved deep into contemplation, the weight of your decision pressed heavily upon you. You knew that accepting Colonel Brandon's offer meant relinquishing any hope of a love-filled marriage, resigning yourself to a union of duty and practicality. Yet, the thought of bringing relief to your parents, sparing them the burden of dealing with your unpredictable episodes, tugged at your heartstrings.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of introspection, you made your decision. Stepping out of your study, you faced Colonel Brandon with a mixture of determination and resignation in your eyes.

"I accept your proposal," you announced, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging within you. "But under one condition." Colonel Brandon regarded you with curiosity, awaiting your terms with an air of patience and understanding.

"I ask for a cabin of my own on the estate's land," you continued, your gaze unwavering. "Far from the mansion, where I can retreat during my periods of madness. It is my only request."

Brandon considered your condition carefully, weighing the implications of your plea. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded in agreement, a hint of understanding softening his features.

"I see no harm in granting your request," he replied, his voice calm and reassuring. "In fact, it may prove to be beneficial for both of us. A space of your own, away from the confines of the mansion, where you can find solace during difficult times."

A sense of relief washed over you at his understanding, grateful for his willingness to accommodate your needs. With a silent nod of gratitude, you accepted his offer, knowing that it was the best course of action for both you and your family.

Brandon didn't see anything wrong with granting your request for a cabin of your own on the estate's land. In fact, he saw it as a practical solution to ensure both of your well-being. If you were to experience periods of madness, it would be best for you to have a space where you could retreat and find solace without causing disruption to the household.

So, Brandon accepted your condition without hesitation, understanding the importance of accommodating your needs. However, he didn't anticipate just how distant you would be after the wedding. Days turned into weeks, and Brandon found himself growing increasingly impatient with your absence from the main house.

Despite his frustration, Brandon respected your need for space and independence, trusting that you would come to him when you were ready. However, as the days stretched on without any sign of your presence, Brandon's patience began to wear thin.

One night, overcome with loneliness and longing for your company, Brandon made his way to the cabin where you spent most of your time. He approached the door with a sense of trepidation, unsure of what he would find on the other side.

As he entered the cabin unannounced, Brandon was greeted by the sight of you standing by a telescope, your eyes fixed on the starry night sky above. Books and notebooks were scattered around the room, evidence of your scholarly pursuits and intellectual curiosity.

You turned to him with a smile as he walked in, your expression one of genuine warmth and affection. Your nightgown billowed around you, your hair cascading in loose waves down your back, and Brandon couldn't help but think how beautiful you looked in that moment.

But despite the tenderness in your smile, Brandon couldn't shake the frustration that simmered beneath the surface. He had missed you, missed the sound of your voice and the touch of your hand, and he couldn't understand why you chose to spend so much time away from him.

"Good evening, Colonel," you greeted him politely, your tone casual and unaffected by his unexpected visit. "What brings you to my humble abode tonight?"

Brandon struggled to contain his frustration as he responded, his voice tinged with a hint of irritation. "I've come to see you, of course," he replied curtly, his eyes searching yours for any hint of emotion. "I've missed you, [Your Name]. It's been weeks since I last saw you, and I couldn't bear to spend another night alone in our bed."

Your smile faltered slightly at his words, a flash of guilt crossing your features when you met his gaze. You knew you had been neglecting him, consumed by your own thoughts and passions, but you hadn't realized just how much your absence had affected him. Pushing aside your feelings of guilt, you tried to divert the conversation, eager to steer clear of any discussion about your relationship.

"So, Colonel," you began, your voice light and cheerful as you gestured towards the telescope beside you. "Have you ever gazed upon the stars and wondered about the mysteries of the universe? It's truly fascinating how much we have yet to discover out there."

But Brandon wasn't so easily swayed by your attempt to change the subject. He could sense the underlying tension between you, the unspoken questions hanging in the air, and he knew they needed to be addressed.

"Indeed, the stars are a wonder to behold," Brandon replied diplomatically, his tone measured as he studied your expression. "But I believe there are matters closer to home that require our attention."

You paused at that, your smile fading as you met Brandon's earnest gaze. His words hung between you, heavy with unspoken implications, and you knew there was no avoiding the conversation any longer.

"What do you mean, Colonel?" you asked, your voice tinged with apprehension as you braced yourself for his response.

Brandon took a step closer to you, his expression serious as he met your eyes with unwavering determination. "I married you for one reason, and one reason only: to have heirs," he said bluntly, his words cutting through the tension like a knife. "And how can we achieve that if the two of us barely see each other?"

You stopped at that, your gaze locking with his as you took in the gravity of his words. For a moment, you felt a pang of guilt at your own negligence, knowing that you had failed to uphold your end of the bargain. But then, a sense of determination washed over you as you realized what Brandon was implying.

Was he demanding that you fulfill your duty as a wife? Did he want... sex?

The thought made Brandon blush slightly, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment as he struggled to articulate his desires. But you weren't embarrassed; you were a 28-year-old woman, well aware of the implications of marital intimacy. Despite never having been intimate with a man before Brandon, you had spent enough time reading and learning from your already married sisters to understand the mechanics of such encounters.

And your first time with Brandon had been surprisingly pleasant. He had been kind and patient with you, guiding you through the experience with a gentle touch and reassuring words. In the aftermath, you had distanced yourself from him, convinced that it was for his own protection. But now, faced with his unspoken request, you realized that you couldn't continue to avoid him indefinitely.

With a resolute nod, you dropped the notebook in your hand and approached Brandon, closing the distance between you with determined steps. His eyes widened slightly in surprise as you reached out to touch his cheek, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw with a tender touch.

"Why not start today, then?" you suggested softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "After all, it is our duty as husband and wife to fulfill each other's needs, is it not?"

Brandon's blush deepened at your boldness, but he nodded in agreement, his eyes filled with a mixture of anticipation and embarrassment. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how to proceed.

You took the initiative, stepping closer to him until there was barely an inch of space between your bodies. Leaning in, you captured his lips in a gentle kiss, your heart racing with anticipation as you felt Brandon respond eagerly, his arms encircling you in a warm embrace.

And as you melted into his embrace, you knew that despite the unconventional nature of your marriage, you were determined to honor your side of the bargain. After all, you were both bound by duty and obligation, and it was time to fulfill the promises you had made to each other, no matter the cost.

As Brandon and you stood in the dimly lit cabin, the air thick with anticipation, he couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation mingled with desire. His heart still belonged to Marianne, his unrequited love for her a constant ache in his chest. But as he looked into your eyes, he saw more than just a means to an end; he saw a woman who deserved his respect and consideration, despite the circumstances of their marriage.

With gentle hands, Brandon began to undress you, his touch tender and reverent as he revealed your delicate form beneath the fabric. He couldn't help but admire the curve of your body, the softness of your skin, as he trailed kisses along your neck and collarbone, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You responded eagerly to his touch, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, urging him to explore every inch of your body. Brandon's heart raced with excitement as he felt your arousal building, his own desire growing with each soft moan that escaped your lips.

As Brandon guided you to the bed, he felt a surge of anticipation coursing through him, his body responding instinctively to the intimacy between you. He couldn't deny the pleasure he felt at being so close to you, the warmth of your skin against his own igniting a fire within him that he hadn't felt in years.

With practiced hands, Brandon explored your body with a gentle touch, his fingers tracing patterns of desire along your skin as he elicited soft gasps and moans from your lips. He marveled at the way you responded to his touch, the way your body arched and trembled beneath him, as if seeking more of his affection.

And when he finally entered you, it was with a reverence and tenderness that took your breath away. Brandon moved slowly, savoring each moment as he lost himself in the sensation of your bodies moving together in perfect harmony. He felt a sense of connection with you that he hadn't experienced in years, a bond forged in the heat of their shared passion.

But even as Brandon surrendered himself to the pleasure of their union, his thoughts strayed to Marianne, his beloved lost to him forever. He couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to make love to her, to hear her soft moans of pleasure as he brought her to the heights of ecstasy.

But Marianne didn't want him, that much was clear. Despite Brandon's unwavering love and devotion to her, she had chosen another, leaving him with a heart heavy with sorrow and longing. But Brandon was a man of honor, and he knew that he had to be content with what he had, which was you.

You, the woman whose mind was plagued by bouts of madness and unpredictability, yet whose heart was filled with kindness and compassion. And as Brandon lay beside you, his body still humming with the aftershocks of their lovemaking, he couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt wash over him. He knew that he should be focusing on fulfilling his duty as a husband, on siring heirs to carry on his legacy, but a part of him couldn't deny the pleasure he found in being with you.

But even as Brandon reveled in the intimacy between you, he couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that gnawed at him. He knew that his feelings for you were born out of necessity rather than passion, that he was simply using you to fulfill his own needs. And yet, a part of him couldn't help but enjoy the pleasure you brought him, the warmth of your body against his own.

As the days went by, Brandon found himself spending more and more time in your company, seeking solace and companionship in your presence. He tried to convince himself that it was all in service of their shared goal of starting a family, but deep down, he knew that he enjoyed being with you, in spite of everything.

He admired your resilience and admired your intelligence and creativity, seeing beyond the surface to the kind and compassionate woman beneath. You, in turn, found solace in Brandon's presence, grateful for his unwavering support and understanding. He treated you with kindness and respect, never once judging you for your eccentricities, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards him for accepting you as you were.

But as the saying goes, all good things are short-lived, and Brandon saw this firsthand when he witnessed one of your episodes of madness. One night, he woke up to the sound of whispers and found you in the bedroom, talking to yourself and drawing on the wall.

Brandon's heart clenched with concern as he approached you hesitantly, calling out your name in a gentle tone. But when you turned to him, your eyes unfocused and distant, he realized that you didn't recognize him.

"Are you Venus?" you questioned, your voice barely above a whisper as you regarded him with a mixture of awe and confusion.

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the realization dawning on him that you didn't recognize him as your husband. He took a step closer to you, his voice calm and reassuring as he reminded you of his true identity.

"No, my dear, I'm Colonel Christopher Brandon, your husband," he replied softly, his eyes pleading with you to see reason. "Please, come back to me."

But you shook your head stubbornly, dropping the chalk in your hand as you turned away from him, your mind set on a singular purpose. Ignoring Brandon's protests, you left the bedroom, navigating the dark hallways of the mansion with determined strides.

Brandon followed close behind you, his heart pounding with fear and anxiety as he called out to you, hoping to bring you back to your senses. But you paid him no heed, your mind consumed by delusions of Venus coming to take you away.

As you stepped out into the garden, your eyes fixed on the starry sky above, you spotted the bright gleam of Venus shining in the darkness. With a sense of urgency, you called out to the celestial body, your voice filled with longing and desperation.

"Venus, my love, please come get me," you pleaded, your voice echoing in the stillness of the night. "I'm ready to go with you."

Your screams alerted the mansion's employees, who came rushing outside to see what was causing the commotion. Brandon watched helplessly as you shed your nightgown, revealing your naked body to the world as you continued to call out for Venus.

Unable to stand idly by any longer, Brandon sprang into action, moving to cover you. But you pushed him away angrily, refusing to let anyone come between you and your imagined lover.

"Get away from me!" you cried, your voice tinged with frustration as you brushed him aside. "Venus will come for me, you'll see!"

Seeing that you were beyond reason, Brandon turned to the servants, instructing them to fetch a blanket to cover you. The maids obeyed without question, rushing to fulfill his command as Brandon's butler stepped forward to assist in calming you down.

But despite their efforts, you continued to scream and cry out for Venus, your mind lost to the grips of madness. It wasn't until Brandon made a bold declaration that you finally seemed to calm down, your eyes focusing on him with a newfound clarity.

"I am Venus," Brandon announced firmly, his voice filled with conviction as he met your gaze with unwavering determination.

For a moment, you stared at him in confusion, uncertainty flickering in your eyes. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, you seemed to accept his words, your body relaxing as you allowed the maids to cover you with a blanket.

Brandon wrapped the blanket around you protectively, his heart heavy with relief as he gazed down at you with a mix of sadness and concern. Taking your hand in his, he led you toward the cabin, his mind racing with thoughts of how best to care for you in the coming days.

As you walked beside him, your gaze fixed on him with newfound adoration and confusion, you couldn't help but question the reality of the situation. Was Brandon truly Venus, the god of love and desire, come to whisk you away to a world of eternal bliss? Or was he simply a mortal man, doing his best to care for you in your time of need?

"Are you really Venus?" you asked hesitantly, your voice tinged with uncertainty as you looked up at him for answers.

Brandon met your gaze with a gentle smile, his eyes filled with warmth and compassion as he squeezed your hand reassuringly. "Yes, my dear," he replied softly, his voice filled with tenderness. "I am Venus, and I'm here to take care of you."

And as you clung to him, expressing your belief that he was Venus and how you had waited so long for him to come for you, Brandon felt a pang of sadness tug at his heart. He did not like the hope he saw in your eyes, the desperate longing for happiness that seemed to radiate from your every word. While he was relieved that you finally seemed content, he could not help but feel conflicted about perpetuating the illusion that he was Venus.

Leading you gently to the cabin, Brandon guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you as you looked at him with such love and adoration, still addressing him as Venus. The realization that the duke and duchess hadn't mentioned this aspect of your condition left Brandon feeling unsettled. He had been led to believe that you were simply isolated in your cabin, dealing with your episodes of madness alone, but he hadn't expected this level of delusion.

Should he continue to play along with your delusions, maintaining the facade of being the god of love in order to keep you calm and prevent any further aggression? Or should he confront the reality of the situation, risking triggering another episode?

Sighing inwardly, Brandon decided to prioritize your well-being above all else. For now, it seemed best to go along with your belief that he was Venus, at least until he could figure out how to help you through this latest episode.

"Of course, my dear," Brandon replied softly, his voice filled with warmth and compassion as he took your hands in his. "I have waited for you just as eagerly. Now that we are together, I am here to take care of you, always."

Gently, Brandon helped you lay down on the bed, tucking the blankets around you to keep you warm. He listened quietly as you spoke, your words filled with a mixture of hope and desperation. You reached out to him, pleading for Venus to take you to the stars, to make you happy and relieve you of the burden you felt you were to others.

"Venus, my love, please take me away with you," you murmured, your voice soft and filled with longing. "I want to love you, and if you love me in return, I won't be a burden to anyone anymore."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the pain evident in your voice cutting him to the core. He wanted to reach out to you, to comfort you and reassure you that you were not a burden, but he knew that now was not the time for such revelations. Instead, he remained silent, his gaze filled with compassion and understanding as he listened to your pleas.

"I understand, my dear," Brandon said softly, his voice gentle as he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "Venus loves you deeply, and he would never see you as a burden. You bring light and joy to his world, and he cherishes every moment he spends with you."

Your eyes shone with tears as you looked up at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Despite the turmoil in your mind, you found solace in Brandon's words, finding comfort in the belief that Venus was there to guide you to happiness.

"Thank you, Venus," you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude as you closed your eyes, surrendering to the warmth of sleep. "I love you."

Brandon watched over you as you drifted off to sleep, his heart heavy with guilt and sorrow. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was deceiving you, allowing you to believe in a fantasy that could never be true. But for now, all he could do was be there for you, to offer you comfort and support in whatever form you needed.

And as Brandon lay down next to you, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the air. Despite his best efforts to reassure himself that everything would be alright, a sense of foreboding settled in the pit of his stomach, a silent prayer escaping his lips as he hoped you wouldn't have another episode of madness.

Closing his eyes, Brandon tried to push aside his worries, allowing exhaustion to finally overtake him as he drifted off into a fitful sleep. But even in slumber, his mind remained troubled, haunted by visions of you lost in the throes of delusion, calling out for a love that could never be.

The next morning, Brandon awoke to the soft light filtering through the windows of the cabin, his eyes lingering on your sleeping form beside him. For a moment, he allowed himself to revel in the tranquility of the moment, the gentle rise and fall of your chest a reassuring presence in the stillness of the room.

But as the events of the previous night came rushing back to him, Brandon's heart clenched with guilt and sorrow. He knew that he couldn't continue to ignore the reality of your condition, that he needed to take action to ensure your well-being and safety.

With a heavy sigh, Brandon rose from the bed, careful not to disturb your peaceful slumber. Quietly, he dressed himself, his movements slow and deliberate as he prepared to face the challenges that lay ahead.

Leaving you sleeping in the cabin, Brandon made his way to the main residence, his mind racing with thoughts of how to best care for you in the days to come. As he entered the familiar halls of the mansion, he was greeted by the sight of the butler, who had served his family faithfully for years.

Without preamble, Brandon approached the butler, his expression grave as he relayed the events of the previous night and his concerns about your condition. He instructed the butler to pass on the information to the other servants, emphasizing the importance of treating you with kindness and understanding.

But as Brandon spoke, he couldn't help but notice the disapproving look that crossed the butler's face, a hint of disdain lingering in his gaze. It was clear that the butler harbored reservations about you and your suitability as Brandon's wife, a fact that didn't sit well with Brandon.

"Is something the matter, Jenkins?" Brandon inquired, his voice tinged with a note of concern as he regarded the butler with furrowed brows.

The butler hesitated for a moment before responding, his tone hesitant yet tinged with thinly veiled disapproval. "Forgive me, sir, but I cannot help but express my concerns regarding your choice of wife," he admitted reluctantly, his eyes darting away from Brandon's gaze.

Brandon's jaw tightened at the butler's words, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to contain his frustration. He knew that the butler's opinion held weight among the household staff, and he couldn't afford to have any doubts cast upon your character or his decision to marry you.

"I understand your reservations, Jenkins, but I would appreciate it if you refrained from passing judgment on [Your Name]," Brandon replied evenly, his voice laced with a hint of steel. "She is my wife, and I expect her to be treated with the respect and dignity she deserves."

Jenkins bowed his head slightly, a contrite expression crossing his features as he acknowledged Brandon's reprimand. "Forgive me, sir," he murmured apologetically. "I spoke out of turn. It's just... I never imagined that you would choose to marry someone like her."

Brandon's jaw clenched at Jenkins's words, his anger flaring anew at the implication behind them. "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice tinged with indignation.

Jenkins hesitated for a moment before responding, his tone hesitant yet tinged with thinly veiled disapproval. "I had heard rumors about her, sir, but I never thought they were true until last night," he admitted reluctantly, his eyes darting away from Brandon's gaze. "I cannot fathom why you would willingly take on such an unnecessary burden, sir. It would have been far wiser for you to marry Miss Dashwood."

As the butler's words hung in the air, Brandon felt a surge of frustration bubbling within him. How dare Jenkins question his choice of wife, especially in such a callous manner? Suppressing his anger, Brandon took a deep breath, his voice measured as he addressed the butler once more.

"Jenkins, I understand that you may have reservations, but it is not your place to pass judgment on my decisions," Brandon stated firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I married [Your Name] out of necessity, not out of choice. Miss Dashwood made her feelings clear to me, and I must respect her decision. As for [Your Name], she may be a burden, but she is a necessary one. I need a wife to conceive children, and she is the one I have chosen for that purpose."

There was a heavy silence in the room as Brandon's words sank in, his gaze never wavering from Jenkins's face. He could see the butler's discomfort, the conflict evident in his expression as he struggled to come to terms with Brandon's assertion.

But before Jenkins could respond, Brandon felt a shift in the atmosphere behind him. Turning around, he was met with the sight of you standing in the doorway, dressed in men's clothes, your expression unreadable as you listened to the conversation unfolding before you.

For a moment, Brandon's heart clenched with guilt at the thought of you overhearing the disparaging remarks about you. He opened his mouth to call out to you, to explain himself and reassure you of his commitment, but you brushed him off tiredly, expressing your need to retreat to your cabin for a few days.

"If the servants could bring me something to eat, I would be grateful," you added, your tone weary as you turned away from him and made your way towards the cabin. You were tired—tired of the constant struggles with your own mind, tired of being a burden to those around you, and tired of the expectations placed upon you as Colonel Brandon's wife.

Brandon followed closely behind you, his brow furrowed with worry as he tried to catch up to you. "Please, let me explain," he pleaded, his voice filled with desperation. "I didn't mean for you to overhear that conversation. You're not a burden, [Your Name]. You're my wife, and I care about you deeply."

But you kept walking, your steps determined as you refused to meet his gaze. "It's okay, Colonel," you replied softly, your voice tinged with resignation. "We didn't marry for love, that much was always clear. You don't have to explain anything to me."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the weight of your resignation heavy on his shoulders. He reached out to you, his hand hovering over your shoulder, but you shrugged him off gently, your eyes filled with sadness.

"I know I've always been a burden to everyone," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I always will be. But I'll fulfill my role in our agreement, Colonel. And I'll try not to be such a big burden to you."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the pain evident in your tone piercing him to the core. He wanted to reach out to you, to tell you that you were more than just a burden to him, but he knew that now was not the time for such declarations.

Instead, he watched helplessly as you disappeared into the cabin, the door closing softly behind you with a finality that left him feeling hollow inside. For a moment, he stood there in silence, his mind racing with thoughts of what could have been and what still might be.

But as the days turned into weeks, Brandon found himself growing increasingly restless in your absence. He missed you, deeply, your presence a balm to his weary soul in the midst of life's uncertainties. And so, despite his reservations, he found himself seeking you out, longing to be near you once more.

Every night, he would wait for you to come to him, the anticipation building with each passing hour until he could no longer bear the silence of the empty bed. And when you finally arrived, he would hold you close, cherishing every moment of your fleeting embrace before the morning light came to steal you away once more.

Today was another one of those nights, and you arrived at the agreed time, wasting no time in starting to undress your male clothes, as you always did every night, while Brandon waited for you in bed, watching you undress, revealing your body to him. The routine had become familiar, almost comforting, in its predictability.

As you climbed into bed with him, Brandon couldn't help but notice the exhaustion etched into your features. He longed to hold you close, to lose himself in the warmth of your embrace, but he knew that tonight was different. Tonight, he needed to talk to you, to address the elephant in the room that had been looming over their marriage for far too long.

"Are you alright, [Your Name]?" Brandon asked softly, his voice filled with concern as he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. "You seem tired."

You sighed wearily, the weight of the day's events settling heavily on your shoulders. "I'm fine, Colonel," you replied, forcing a smile despite the fatigue evident in your voice. "Just a little tired, that's all."

Brandon studied you intently, his gaze searching your face for any sign of hesitation or discomfort. He wanted you, desperately, but he could see the weariness in your eyes, the toll that their arrangement was taking on you.

"Perhaps we could talk before... before we... make babies," Brandon suggested tentatively, his words carefully chosen as he broached the delicate subject. "I know it wasn't what we originally agreed upon, but I can't help but feel like we should talk to get to know each other better."

You nodded in agreement, grateful for the opportunity to postpone the inevitable for a little while longer. Pulling the covers over yourself to protect yourself from the cold of the night, you settled into the bed beside Brandon, your mind racing with thoughts of what you were going to talk about.

Brandon turned to look at you, his expression softening with affection as he regarded you. "How did you... how did you start to like astronomy?" he asked, his tone gentle as he broached the topic of conversation.

You smiled at the question, a fondness evident in your eyes as you recalled your childhood fascination with the stars. "For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by astronomy," you confessed, your eyes sparkling with excitement. "I found a telescope in my grandfather's things when I was a child, and ever since then, I've been hooked. There's just something about gazing up at the night sky that fills me with wonder and awe."

Brandon nodded, captivated by the passion in your voice as you spoke. He admired your thirst for knowledge, your willingness to pursue your interests despite the constraints placed upon you by society. In that moment, he felt a surge of affection for you, a newfound appreciation for the depth of your character.

"It sounds like you had quite the adventurous childhood," Brandon remarked, his tone laced with admiration. "Your parents must have been quite liberal in letting you learn whatever you wanted."

You nodded in agreement, a smile playing at the corners of your lips as you recalled the support and encouragement you had received from your parents throughout the years. "Yes, they were," you replied, a hint of pride evident in your voice. "They always encouraged me to follow my passions, no matter where they led me."

Brandon's heart swelled with affection as he listened to you speak, the warmth of your words washing over him like a soothing balm. He liked how you lit up, the sparkle in your eyes when you talked about astronomy. He found himself captivated by the passion and enthusiasm in your voice, admiring the way you spoke with such fervor about something that brought you joy. It was a side of you he hadn't seen before, a glimpse into the depths of your soul that left him feeling strangely drawn to you.

But as the conversation shifted, Brandon hesitated, his brow furrowing with concern as he broached a more sensitive topic. "When did your... episodes of madness start?" he asked tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper as he searched your eyes for answers.

The heat in your eyes disappeared as the tiredness returned, and you fell silent, your gaze drifting away from his as you struggled to find the words to explain. It was a painful subject, one that you had long tried to bury deep within yourself, but you knew that Brandon deserved to know the truth.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come as you recounted the events that had changed your life forever. "It all started when I was 15," you began softly, your voice tinged with sadness. "I was out riding with my father and brothers when my horse was startled by a snake. I fell off and... I hit my head on a rock."

You paused, the memories flooding back with painful clarity as you struggled to compose yourself. "I don't remember much after that," you continued, your voice trembling slightly. "But my brothers told me that I was in a coma for five days before I woke up."

Brandon listened intently, his heart aching with sympathy as he imagined the pain and confusion you must have felt during that traumatic time. "And then?" he prompted gently, his voice barely above a whisper as he waited for you to continue.

You shook your head, a tear slipping down your cheek as you recalled the horrors that followed. "Things were normal for a few days," you admitted reluctantly. "But then... the first episode of madness began."

Brandon's heart clenched with sorrow at your words, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "What... what kind of treatments did you undergo?" he asked softly, his voice filled with apprehension as he braced himself for your response.

But you shook your head, the pain evident in your eyes as you diverted the conversation. "I... I don't think you want to know," you replied quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's not something I like to talk about."

Brandon's heart ached with frustration at your reluctance to share, but he knew that now was not the time to press you further. Instead, he reached out to you, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he leaned in to kiss you tenderly.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he murmured against your lips, his voice filled with reassurance. "But know that I'm here for you, [Your Name]. Whatever you need, whatever you're going through, I'm here."

You melted into his embrace, the warmth of his words washing over you like a soothing balm. In that moment, you felt a flicker of hope ignite within you, a glimmer of light in the darkness that surrounded you.

With a soft sigh of contentment, you pulled Brandon closer, your lips meeting his in a tender kiss as you whispered softly against his mouth. "Don't make me wait any longer, Colonel," you murmured, your voice filled with longing. "Let's just get this over with."

Brandon's heart skipped a beat at your words, his desire for you burning hotter than ever as he surrendered himself to the passion of your embrace. In that moment, there was only you and him, lost in the intensity of their shared desire as they sought solace in each other's arms.

Brandon pulled you closer, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he guided you onto his lap beneath the covers. You followed his lead, straddling him with your hands pressed against his chest, your lips meeting his in a hungry kiss that conveyed all the pent-up desire between you.

The kiss was intense, fueled by a longing that had been building between you for far too long. Your tongues danced together in a passionate tango, each movement sending waves of pleasure coursing through your bodies as you lost yourselves in the heat of the moment.

Finally breaking away from the kiss, you reached between your bodies, your hand wrapping around Brandon's hard length as you positioned yourself above him. With a breathy sigh, you guided him to your entrance, the anticipation of being filled by him sending shivers of excitement down your spine.

Brandon groaned softly as he felt you take him in hand, his desire for you reaching a fever pitch as he watched you sink down onto him. He was big and you weren't quite wet enough to receive him fully. But the sensation of being stretched by him was exhilarating, and you couldn't help but moan in pleasure as you sank down onto his cock.

As you sat down completely on him, a low, guttural moan escaped Brandon's lips, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he relished the feeling of being buried deep inside you. And when you moaned his name in a breathy whisper—Christopher—Brandon's heart skipped a beat, his desire for you reaching new heights at the sound of his name on your lips.

"God, [Your Name]," Brandon breathed, his voice thick with desire as he savored the sensation of you surrounding him. "You feel so good, so tight around me."

You whimpered in response, the pleasure of having him inside you overwhelming as you began to move your hips in a slow, steady rhythm. Each thrust sent waves of ecstasy coursing through your body, the pleasure building with each passing moment as you surrendered yourself to the intensity of your union.

Brandon matched your movements with his own, his hands guiding you as you rode him with increasing urgency. He could feel the tension building within you, the need for release growing more urgent by the second as you chased the elusive peak of pleasure together.

And as you continued bouncing on Brandon's dick, you experimented with new movements, gyrating your hips and watching the pleasure written all over his face. It was a sight that books and stories of your married sisters' experiences could never fully describe—the indescribable pleasure of seeing Brandon lost in ecstasy, his features contorted with pleasure as you rode him with abandon.

He was absolutely beautiful, his handsome face twisted in pleasure as he surrendered himself to the pleasure you were providing him. But despite his beauty and kindness, you pushed aside any thoughts of unworthiness, focusing only on the here and now with Brandon, on the pleasure you both felt.

Taking his hands that were on your waist, you guided them closer together, intertwining your fingers with his as you held his hands above his head. The feeling of his strong hands in yours only fueled your desire further, adding an element of intimacy to your passionate encounter.

And as you continued to ride him, lost in the sensation of being filled by him, you couldn't help but let out a torrent of praise and moans, your voice echoing through the room in a symphony of pleasure. And Brandon loved every moment of it, reveling in the sound of your moans and the sweet compliments you bestowed upon him.

"You feel so good, Christopher," you gasped, your voice filled with longing as you rocked your hips against his. "I never want this to end."

Brandon's heart swelled with pride at your words, his desire for you burning hotter than ever as he surrendered himself to the pleasure of your union. "You're amazing, [Your Name]," he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he watched you move above him.

You smiled at his words, your heart overflowing with love for him as you continued to ride him with increasing urgency. You let go of Brandon's hands, your fingers curling into his chest as you rode him harder, your movements fueled by a desperate need for release. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, the tension building with each passing moment as you chased the elusive peak of ecstasy.

Brandon watched you with rapt attention, his eyes filled with desire as he surrendered himself to the pleasure of your union. He groaned softly as he felt you tighten around him, the sensation driving him closer to the edge with each passing moment.

At the sight of you throwing your head back in ecstasy, Brandon felt his own climax approaching rapidly. With a guttural moan of pleasure, he let go of all restraint, surrendering himself completely to the overwhelming sensation of release. As you reached climax, your body shuddering with the intensity of your pleasure, Brandon held you close, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he supported your weight. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he rode out the waves of his orgasm with you.

And as he came deep inside you, filling you with his seed, you felt a surge of contentment wash over you, knowing that you had given him everything he desired. You melted into his embrace, your bodies entwined in a tangle of limbs as you basked in the afterglow of your passionate encounter.

As you both calmed down, Brandon pulled you to lie down next to him, his arms wrapped around you protectively as he held you close. You snuggled into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. But as Brandon fell asleep beside you, a wave of sadness washed over you, threatening to engulf you in its depths. You knew that your relationship with Brandon was built on a foundation of duty and obligation, not love. He had made it clear that you were here just to give him children, nothing more.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks, leaving you feeling empty and hollow inside. You didn't deserve him, you didn't deserve Brandon's love. He was kind and compassionate, everything you could ever want in a partner, but you knew that he would never love you the way you longed to be loved.

And as you stood up to get dressed, ignoring the sticky remnants of his cum running down your thighs, you couldn't help but feel a sense of despair wash over you. You cast one last look at Brandon's sleeping form, the ache in your heart growing more unbearable with each passing moment.

But as you turned away, tears streaming down your cheeks, you made a silent vow to yourself. You would bury your feelings deep within yourself, locking them away where no one could find them. You would continue to fulfill your duty as Brandon's wife, even if it meant sacrificing your own happiness in the process.

With a heavy heart, you slipped into your clothes and made your way back to your cabin, back to your books, and your stars. It was the only solace you had left, the only thing that could distract you from the pain of knowing that you would never have the love you so desperately craved.

Brandon woke up the next morning with a satisfied sigh, his body still tingling with the lingering sensations of their passionate encounter from the night before. He reached out instinctively, his arm seeking the warmth of your body as he pulled you close, his heart swelling with affection at the thought of waking up beside you.

But to his dismay, Brandon's hand met only empty space, his fingers brushing against the cool fabric of the pillow beneath him. Confusion clouded his mind for a moment as he blinked away the remnants of sleep, his eyes scanning the room in search of you.

And then, with a sinking feeling in his chest, Brandon realized the truth—you were gone. Once again, you had left him alone in the marital bed, slipping away in the darkness of the night without so much as a goodbye.

Disappointment washed over Brandon like a tidal wave, his heart heavy with the weight of your absence. He had hoped that last night's passionate encounter would bring you closer together, that it would be a step towards building a deeper connection between you.

But as he lay there in the empty bed, Brandon couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness that settled over him like a shroud. He longed for your presence, for the warmth of your body pressed against his, but he knew that you were gone, leaving him to face another day alone.

With a heavy sigh, Brandon turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with a sense of resignation. He was tired of this—tired of the constant cycle of intimacy followed by solitude, tired of feeling like he was always left wanting more.

Rubbing his face tiredly, Brandon knew that he couldn't continue like this. He had to talk to you, to address the underlying issues that were driving you apart. He couldn't keep ignoring the elephant in the room, pretending that everything was fine when it clearly wasn't.

And so, with a sense of determination, Brandon promised himself that he would broach the subject with you when you came over again that night. He couldn't let things continue like this, couldn't let the distance between you grow any further.

But for now, Brandon pushed aside his worries, forcing himself to focus on the tasks at hand. There were duties to attend to, responsibilities to fulfill, and he couldn't afford to let his personal struggles interfere with his professional life.

With a deep breath, Brandon pushed himself out of bed, steeling himself for the day ahead. He didn't know what the future held for him and you, but he knew that he couldn't keep living like this, trapped in a cycle of longing and disappointment.

Brandon longed for more than just stolen moments in the dead of night; he wanted to be with you, truly and completely, in every sense of the word. And so, he resolved to confront you, to lay bare his heart and soul in the hopes of finding solace in your arms once more.

And so, on that fateful night, as the hours stretched on without any sign of your arrival, Brandon found himself growing increasingly anxious. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that you needed him now more than ever.

With a sense of urgency, Brandon made his way to the cabin, his heart pounding in his chest as he prepared himself for what he might find inside. And when he entered, he was met with the sight of you lost in another one of your episodes, drawing intricate constellations on the wooden floor as you mumbled to yourself.

"[Your Name], it's me, Christopher," he called out softly, his voice filled with concern as he approached you cautiously. "Can you hear me? It's going to be alright, I'm here."

You looked at him and smiled, beckoning him closer. Brandon realized that you weren't in one of your manic episodes, at least it didn't seem like it. He approached cautiously, a mix of relief and confusion flooding his senses. "What are you doing?" he asked gently, his concern evident in his voice.

You glanced up at him, your eyes sparkling with genuine enthusiasm. "I'm drawing my favorite constellations," you replied, a hint of excitement in your tone. "The sky is beautiful tonight, don't you think?"

Brandon felt a surge of frustration bubbling within him, his worry dissipating into annoyance. "That's it?" he exclaimed, unable to contain his frustration any longer. "You didn't come to me because you were drawing constellations?"

You looked at him, confusion clouding your features as you processed his words. "I'm sorry," you murmured, your voice tinged with regret. "I didn't mean to dishonor our agreement, but I just... I lost track of time."

But your words only seemed to frustrate Brandon even more, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to comprehend your actions. "Is that all this is to you?" he demanded, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Just a deal?"

You looked at him, uncertainty flickering in your eyes as you struggled to find the right words. "How should I see it then?" you questioned, your voice barely above a whisper.

Brandon looked away, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. "Maybe... maybe I want something more," he admitted quietly, his voice filled with uncertainty. "I... I think I'm in love with you."

You interrupted him, shaking your head in disbelief as you backed away from him. "No," you whispered, your voice tinged with sadness. "You barely talk to me, Colonel. How could you possibly love me?"

But Brandon insisted, his gaze unwavering as he met your eyes with determination. "I see you, [Your Name]," he replied softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "I see you helping the servants when you're not alone in the cabin. I see how you light up when you talk about astronomy, how passionate you are about the stars. And those nighttime conversations we have... they mean more to me than you'll ever know."

You remained skeptical, your gaze fixed on him with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. "You can't love me," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you turned away from him. "It would be better if you extinguished that love now, before it consumes you. Fall in love with another woman, but not with me."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the pain evident in your voice cutting him to the core. "No," he protested, reaching out to you desperately. "I don't want to be in love with anyone else. I want to be with you, [Your Name]. Please, let me show you how much you mean to me."

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you were about to say. "I heard rumors that Marianne Dashwood will no longer marry John Willoughby," you explained, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "Maybe you can ask for an annulment of our marriage, claiming that I am crazy, so you are free to go after Marianne."

Brandon's eyes widened in surprise at your suggestion, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. "How do you know about Marianne?" he questioned, his tone laced with disbelief. "And why would you suggest such a thing?"

You smiled sadly at him, the weight of your words heavy on your heart. "I heard Jenkins happily commenting on this with other employees," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "He seemed eager to see you away from me."

Brandon's expression darkened at the mention of Jenkins, his frustration mounting as he struggled to come to terms with the implications of your words. "Jenkins has no right to meddle in our affairs," he muttered, his voice tinged with anger. "And Marianne... Marianne is not the solution to our problems."

You looked at him, uncertainty flickering in your eyes as you processed his words. "But you love her, don't you?" you questioned softly, a hint of sadness in your tone.

Brandon's gaze softened as he met your eyes, his voice filled with sincerity. "I thought I did, once," he admitted quietly. "But that was before I met you."

You looked at him, disbelief written all over your face. "But how can that be?" you questioned, confusion evident in your voice. "I'm nothing like Marianne. I'm not beautiful, or charming, or witty."

Brandon reached out to you, gently cupping your face in his hands as he met your gaze with unwavering determination. "You may not be Marianne, but you are everything to me," he replied softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "You are kind, compassionate, and brave. And who says you're not beautiful? You are simply stunning."

You push Brandon's hand away, your heart heavy with disbelief and self-doubt. "You don't know what you're talking about," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just a crazy woman, Colonel. You shouldn't waste your time on me."

But Brandon refuses to back down, his eyes filled with sincerity as he reaches out to you once more. "It doesn't matter if you're crazy or not," he insists, his voice unwavering. "You're my wife, don't you see? I want you, all of you."

You shake your head in disbelief, unable to comprehend his words. "But why?" you question, your voice trembling with uncertainty. "Why would you want someone like me?"

Brandon's expression softens as he looks at you, his gaze filled with warmth and affection. "Because you're you," he replies simply, his voice filled with conviction. "You're kind, and compassionate, and brave. And I... I think I'm falling in love with you."

You stare at him in shock, unable to believe what you're hearing. "But Marianne..." you begin, your voice trailing off as you struggle to find the right words.

Brandon interrupts you gently, his voice filled with understanding. "Marianne sent me letters, asking me to visit her," he admits quietly. "But I refused, because... because of you. I want to explore this love, this connection that I feel with you. Marianne is not the solution to our problems. You are. Give me an occupation, [Your Name], or I shall run mad.”

Tears fill your eyes as you look at him, the weight of his words sinking in. "I don't deserve you," you whisper, your voice barely audible as you turn away from him.

But Brandon refuses to let you retreat into your self-doubt, reaching out to you and gently turning you back to face him. "It doesn't matter," he insists, his voice filled with determination. "It doesn't matter if you think you're not worthy of love. Because to me, you're everything."

You meet his gaze, your heart aching with longing and uncertainty. "But what if I have another episode?" you question hesitantly, your voice tinged with fear.

Brandon's expression softens, his hand reaching out to gently caress your cheek. "Then we'll face it together," he replies softly. "I'll be by your side, every step of the way. Because you're not alone, [Your Name]. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

You look away, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. The weight of Brandon's words hangs heavy in the air, his vulnerability laid bare before you. You want to say something, to reassure him of your feelings, but the words catch in your throat, choked by the fear and uncertainty that have plagued you for so long.

Brandon waits patiently for you to speak, his gaze searching yours for any sign of understanding. But when you remain silent, a defeated look crosses his features, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

"Maybe... maybe it's you who doesn't love me," he murmurs softly, his voice filled with a hint of desperation.

You feel a pang of guilt at his words, a surge of emotion welling up inside you as you struggle to find the courage to speak. But then, before you can stop yourself, the words spill from your lips in a rush of emotion.

"No, Christopher, it's not that," you interject, your voice trembling with emotion. "I love you. How could I not, after all the kindness you've shown me? There aren't enough stars in the sky to quantify how deeply I've fallen for you."

You pause, taking a shaky breath as you gather your thoughts. Weeks ago, when you overheard Brandon referring to you as a necessary burden, it had shattered your heart. You had never wanted to be seen as a burden to him, but your madness seemed to make it unavoidable.

"But I know that I can't make you happy," you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. "But Marianne... she's young and beautiful. She'll have a much better chance of giving you children and making you happy. And the employees will like her. It will be better that way. I will no longer be a burden to you."

Tears fill your eyes as you speak, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. You know that this is your destiny, to fade into the background, with only the stars for company.

Brandon listens to you in silence, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. When you finish speaking, he reaches out to you, gently wiping away your tears with his thumb.

"You are not a burden, [Your Name]," he whispers softly, his voice filled with conviction. "And I don't want anyone else. I want you, just as you are. Marianne may have her charms, but she's not you. And I love you."

You look up at him, disbelief written all over your face. "But why?" you question, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

Brandon smiles tenderly at you, his eyes filled with warmth and affection. "Because you're you," he replies simply, his voice filled with sincerity. "And that's all I need."

[admiringlove]

a tempest gilded in ruin: teaser.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

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

↬ warnings: none! (full warnings tba)

↬ teaser word count: 0.5k. | expected word count: 30k-ish.

↬ note: this work was specifically written for loml @gojofile, it's her birthday gift, so it'll be released on her special day, which is very soon 💌 art by @3-aem.

The following is the latest article from the gossip column, "The Veiled Quill". It is titled: A Tempest Gilded In Ruin. This copy was delivered to Highgrove House, the Viscount's residence.

My dearest gentle readers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One can only wonder… and watch.

With quill in hand and ears ever listening, Phantom.

a/n. taglist for this work is now open. you may send in an ask, or comment under this post to be added! it will be released soon. until then, see you <3

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[gingerteawrites]

BY THE HEARTH: JOLT

A/N: Hello again guys, here I come over a month later. I have been writing and re-writing this chapter for weeks on end, and had to force myself to just post this because you all don't deserve to wait so long. I sorry :(

While many things have been extremely hectic and difficult for me, I have some amazing news. I recently got admitted into medical school and will start in the fall of this year, and I am so very excited about that! I hope you enjoy this installment of BTH. Thank you to all the new readers for enjoying the story and for all those who have been here for a while for keeping up! Much love <3

Read previous part here

Content: Royalty!AU, Nanami x female reader, king Nanami, Princess Y/N, Widower Nanami, Toddler Yuuji, hurt, angst. Not beta read

Word count: ~6K words

Banner by: @cafekitsune

ACT XIII

Departing from the castle in the morning had been a surprisingly emotional experience. That place, once shrouded in darkness and fear had opened up to bear witness to unpredictable wonder and love. A home, found in the people who coloured your world.

Walking out of the main courtyard, the crisp autumn air ruffled the hem of your dress, carrying leaves tinted in profound reds and oranges across your view. You took in a deep breath, filling your lungs to the brim before turning to bid your goodbyes to the menagerie that had lined up outside for the occassion.

A humble entourage was to accompany you for the trip; only a senior maid you had often seen at Alma’s side, Riko, and a handful of knights led by Sir Haibara. Though it saddened you, Alma could not afford to leave the castle without her sharp eye for too long. The melancholy in her eyes as she waved goodbye to your departing coach more than tugged at your heartstrings.

“This is supposed to be a peaceful visit,” your husband’s voice drew your attention away from the window and back to his face. He sat across from you, back straight and shoulders wide, posture refined by years of royal education. “Taking a small group is a way of showing trust,” he explained, tone relaxed.

Yuuji clung to your side, listening to the words so very intently, ever attentive to his father’s teaching. He would grow up to be an observing and dutiful king himself.

“Diplomacy at its finest,” you nodded, resting your arm over Yuuji’s shoulder.

“What were the terms of this alliance with the Zenins? I have spent the past week researching more of the history of the kingdown, but the books went into surprisngly little detail about the conflict." All that did was feed your curiousity about the relationship between the Northern duchy and the royal family. And you had grown out of your fear of asking the king questions.

“My family is not without blame in the affair,” a sigh escaped his lips as he looked outside the window. “The Zenins have been the guardians of the Northern border since our ancestors first inhabited this land. No matter how callous they can be, they play a critical role in protecting the entire continent, and have been the guardians of a great responsibility and power.” he folded his hands over his chest, leaning his head against the coach wall. “Generations ago, my family sought out that power and rallied the houses of this region to attack the Northern lands. With the conflict stretched out over years and countless lives lost, they were forced into a treaty.” His eyes returned to yours, boring into them with a quiet intensity. “In sum, they are tied to a kingdom they most likely despise but still have to protect. Miserable, is it not?”

You frowned, nodding in agreement. Being forced into an unwilling union was not a foreign concept to you at all. But still, it had been so long. Had time truly done nothing to mend this tear?

The coach rocked gently, travelling on the smooth beaten path and lulling the child fast asleep in your lap. You had been at it for a couple days now, riding through the day and then stopping in small towns along the way to sleep.

And to be frank, the pace was hard on you. There was just so much entertainment that could found in admiring the new horizons. But you being bored and your back hurting was no excuse to cause delays, so you kept your grievances to yourself.

Two more days and we’ll be there. Two little days.

The king, on the other hand, appeared unendingly entertained by his reading. His deep eyes behind a pair of square lenses, fleeting through the words of the dense manuscripts he seemed to fly through.

You found yourself watching him rather than the passing scenery. How his long fingers traced some of the words. How sunlight streaming in from the window caught in his golden hair. How his lips parted slightly when he absently mumbled some of the words on his scripts.

He looked up for a second, catching your gaze.

“Bored, Y/N?” He folded the manuscript in his lap, taking his glasses off. Your heart couldn’t help but stutter at the sight.

“No, not at all,” you shook your head. “I was just watching you. You look very… in your element… I mean- focused like that,” You cringed internally at your slight stutter. You were nervous, giddy, shy and a whole lot of other mushy feelings directed towards the man sitting across from you.

He looked at you in stunned silence for a few moments, maybe realizing that the same torrent of emotions brewed in his heart. Understanding that you were as enamored with him as he was with you. He closed the papers in his lap.

“I…” Clearing his throat, Kento brought a hand to rub against his face, clearly flustered. “Thank you?” the words were low, muffled by his hand over his face.

The boyish innocence and shyness reared its head again. You couldn’t decide if you liked this side of him more than the strong, self-assured leader whom everyone knew and loved.

Soon the sun started to dip into the sky, and Yuuji awoke, spending the rest of the trip glued to the window. Asking his father about the different trees and passing animals, tugging at your dress to explain an interesting thought.

Through all the towns that you passed on your journey, the people of kingdom gathered along the roads to catch a glimpse of the royal family. In joy and in awe they greeted you, their warmth soothing your tired bones. You watched the scenery change gradually, towns becoming more sparse as you kept going up and up North. Closer to your destination.

By the time you had arrived in the Northern capital, it had been 5 days of travel. You were thoroughly exhausted and partially convinced that you had pulled something in your back. The roads during the last day of travel were especially bumpy, tossing you around in the coach to the point that you had to sit with Kento’s arm securely wrapped around your wait.

That was not half bad…

The Northern lands looked decidedly more rugged than the rest of the warm country. Maybeindicative of the cold welcome you would receive.

Unlike the previous towns, people did not celebrate your arrival with flower ornaments and ribbons. They simply milled about the city cobblestone paths, too concerned with their own lives and merely throwing a glance at your small entourage.

Your convoy pulled to a stop in front of the Zenin castle, a large estate secluded to the edge of the city with high walls that stood as an impenetrable barrier.

The drawbridge was slowly let down after a tense exchange between the royal knights and those standing guard at the wall, revealing a yard even more vast than what the outside let on.

Taking in your surroundings colored you equal parts impressed and wary about how millitarized the old gothic estate looked. Guards stood on the castle wall, and at every corner your eye could see, swords at their hip and spears in hand. Expression tense, hostile. Ready to attack.

“A fortress,” Nanami echoed your thoughts before the words could leave your mouth. He turned his head to you. “That was the first thing I thought when I first stepped here a decade ago.”

The Zenins were a proud family, not taking well to being forced into a subservient position to the king. In fact they abhorred their condition, and their most recent heir, Naoya Zenin, never missed a chance to display.

Kento had not seen the duke since he himself had last been required to attend the commemoration, not long before his ascension to the throne 10 years ago. Barely a tween, Naoya had already been an insufferable arse, irking the king in all the wrong ways. And reports of his uruly behavior always circled back to Kento, always making him second-guess his stance regarding how much freedom he afforded the Northern duchy.

“Duke Zenin is an interesting character,” Nanami began as the coach slowed, approaching the castle’s main entrance. “It’s best to avoid interactions with him. Please.” He despised the thought of Naoya setting his sights on you. In his eyes, you saw the traces of words left unsaid.

Please stay close. Please steer clear of danger.

The coach rolled to a stop, and the king stepped out first, followed by an unusually timid Yuuji—and you. As you turned, you faced the Zenin congregation, whose faces displayed as much enthusiasm as that of a sheet of bleached parchment.

Among them, one man stood out unmistakably as their leader—a dark-haired figure draped in a heavy emerald cape.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted Nanami, his tone so nonchalant it immediately irked you. Haughty.

“Duke Naoya,” Kento replied just as plainly, dipping his head in polite acknowledgment.

Yuuji stood by your side, back straight, posture practiced—but his fists clenched tightly at his sides. And not without reason. You and the child were being scrutinized with an intensity that made your skin crawl. Their curiosity was evident—this was the Northeners' first time laying eyes on the queen and the young prince. But instead of innocent looks, their eyes held something you couldn't quite place, yet still made you incredibly uncomfortable.

“And you…” Naoya’s gaze settled on you, and you forced a polite smile. He extended a hand, silently coaxing you to offer yours for a kiss. As his fingers lingered around yours, his eyes dragged slowly down the length of your body. A shiver of discomfort crept up your spine, and at your sides, both father and son frowned deeply.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet the queen,” he murmured. “We hope you have a pleasant stay here.”

His grip still hadn’t loosened when Nanami cleared his throat sharply, a concealed glare shadowing his expression.

“I would appreciate it if you could show us to our quarters. The journey has been especially exhausting for my wife and son,” he stated, his voice clipped, his gaze razor-sharp.

Naoya smirked, almost smug at having struck a nerve.

“Of course, of course,” he drawled, turning slightly to nod at a tall guard. “He will escort you and remain at your service for the duration of your stay.” He waved them off with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “Again, please enjoy your time with us.”

At last, you reached for Yuuji’s hand, and he latched onto yours immediately, fingers curling tight. His shoulders eased, if only slightly.

Haibara walked ahead alongside the assigned knight, his presence reassuring.

“Please stay close, Your Majesties,” the knight murmured, offering a kind smile.

But beneath his composed facade, you could see it. Just like you, the usually jovial knight was on edge.

The walk proceeded in tense silence. You had plenty to say, but you held your thoughts, waiting for a place with more privacy.

Yet, the feeling of being watched clung to you. As if the very walls of the castle had eyes.

Maybe it was the gargoyles perched atop the towering columns, their stone eyes seeming to follow you as you moved. Or maybe it was something else—something unseen but undeniably present. An eerie sense settled in your chest, creeping up your spine.

Cold halls. Dark stone. The interior was far more imposing than its exterior had let on. Guards stood at rigid attention in front of every door you passed, their expressions unreadable. The servants moved in ghostly silence, their steps soundless as they drifted through the corridors, never once sparing your small group a glance.

It was clear—they had been trained to be blind. See nothing. Hear nothing.

At last, the guard led you to the entrance of a smaller annex, bowing politely before introducing you to the servant assigned to assist you during your stay. Haibara, the senior maid (Misato, as you had come to know her) and Riko exchanged brief words with them before leading you inside.

Finally, surrounded by familiar company, the tension eased, just enough for you to notice the moment Yuuji let out a deep yawn. You ran your thumb gently across his knuckles.

“Let’s get you to bed now, Yuuji,” Kento announced, his gaze fixed on the two of you.

Had he looked this tired before?

Nanami had always had a great memory. He was one of those gifted people who could perfectly remember the way to a place after taking it just once, and memorize a passage just from a single read.

This talent was one of the only things that had earned praise from his late father. But excellent recollection aside, the annex looked uncanningly familiar. None of the decor had changed from a decade ago when he had first visited with his parents. He could almost hear his mother’s voice at the sight of the gothic painting that hung above the fireplace.

“How tacky,” she had scoffed under her breath, lips curled as she appraised her surroundings. “Not at all fitting for royalty.”

Soon after thoughts of his father flooded his mind, the pressure, the control. “You are 18 Kento,” he always said his name with such harshness. “No longer a child,” he scoffed. “When are you going to live up to this responsibility?You will perform your duty and marry, and that is not up to discussion!”

You rounded the corner into the small room, a warm smile on your face when you spotted him.

Nanami spotted you, allowing the tension that had been building in his shoulders to dissipate, reciprocating with a smile of his own.

“Hi,” he whispered into the air and you stepped more fully into the room, letting the warm hearth illuminate your face. It was pitch black outside, the nights in the north always seemed so. But you had changed into a white chemise nightgown, his eyes glued to the way the silky fabric rested softly against your skin, like a caress. He wanted to be the one to caress you.

“Hello Kento,” you replied, your smile turning timid. The way you said his name was so wonderful. Like your lips embraced the very letters before letting them out, so tender. So foreign.

He tried to turn to face you fully, but something tensed in his neck, causing him to close his eyes and grunt in pain.

“Are you okay?” you approached immediately, resting a hand on his shoulder, concern evident on your face. You were so close. He could smell your lilac perfume.

So close that your husband almost forgot what words to say next.

“Yeah… I am- just fine-” he replied dumbly, wanting to smack himself in the face. He was used to traveling on horseback for long distances, but being in carriage made him feel stiff all over.

In fact, Haibara had suggested the former, but there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to sit in the coach. Seeing the wonder in you and Yuuji’s face as you admired the scenery and the conversations being had made it all worth it.

Your light giggle broke through his thoughts, sliding your hand down his shoulder. “Would you like a massage?” You suggested, smiling up at him. “Yuuji loved the one I gave him before he fell asleep.”

He watched you for a moment, wanting to retort. He should have thought of that and offered the massage first, but the lingering warmth of your fingers on his body shortcircuited his brain.

How was he supposed to reject such an offer? He calmed his racing heart and nodded his agreement. “Thank you.”

Your fingers intwined with his and you pulled him gently to sit on the loveseat that directly faced the fire, providing enough warmth to keep the both of your from shivering in the frigid night air. You could hear the wind, or maybe something else howling from outside the window.

But the harshness had no place in here. Both of your hands found purchase at the junction of his neck and shoulders, pressing down softly and earning yourself a groan from the man.

“Did I hurt you?” you paused, slight concern in your voice.

“No,” he shook his head. “It’s wonderful,”

You kept at it for a few more moments, slowly working your way from his shoulders to his upper back, the king leaning forward to give you more space to work.

“I should be the one offering you the massage,” his voice was gruff, another groan escaping him when you pressed on a particularly sore spot of his back. “Carriage travel is dreadful,” he added.

“I definitely agree with the latter part,” you chuckled. “Yuuji seemed to take it really well though,” you commented, grateful for the conversation.

You were enjoying this a little too much. The way your hands perfectly molded against his taut muscles, his back feeling just so sturdy, his shoulders so broad.

You couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed within you as you spent a few more moments than were necessary touching every part of him. If Nanami had noticed, he did not complain, turning to putty under your touch.

“Children have this extraordinary ability to adapt to everything at the speed of light,” he added, looking back at you. “But my offer still stands. Let me help you after you are done with me,” The tone of his voice. It was not a question. But you did not dislike it. Instead, your heartbeat picked up.

You pulled your hands away and he turned towards you, offering his hand for you to take. When you did he circled you around the chair, and there you stood in front of him.

Kento sat you gently into his lap, making you almost taller than him in that position. He was trying so hard to keep his hands in chaste places, looking up at you with a feeling so raw it shook you. Like quiet worship, his gaze held an appreciation that only the most appraised pieces of art elicit.

He brought his right hand to the junction of your neck and shoulder like you had done for him, pression deft strong fingers in your skin.

You sighed, closing your eyes at the sensation. You had definitily undersestimated how stiff your body felt. Something melted in his heart, knowing he was bringing you that relief.

He continued his motions, softly massaging the muscles of your shoulder and then slipping down to your shoulder panes. Your body softened under his touch, leaning closer, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Let me take care of you, yeah?” you heard and felt the rumble of his voice, pressing closer to him. Chest to chest, arms resting against his abdomen. In the safety of the moment, you drifted into sleep. By the hearth, safe in his arms.

In the morning you awoke in a foreing bed, unsure of how and when you got there.

Soon after your eyes were open enough to register the faint sunlight rays in your room, Riko knocked on the door and let herself in, eager to help you get ready for the day.

You noted the girl’s diligence, a sharp contrast to the usual chattiness and slight ditziness. She helped you slip into a emerald wool houppelande, its long sleeves and thick material meant to protect you against the chill. While she placed ornaments around your head, you tried to brighten the mood.

“You are doing an amazing job with all of this by yourself, Riko,” you offered a soothing smile, “thank you.”

The girl looked at you wide-eyed, returning to adjusting the rouge on your cheeks with a blush tinting her own. “You need not thank me, your majesty,” her youthful voice was low with shyness “Alma entrusted this assignment to me, I will not falter.”

The words stuck with you. How did a girl so young have such determination? You turned to look at the mirror, looking into your own eyes.

I am here for a reason. I will not falter.

A week in the North had sounded like a serious diplomatic ordeal to you, but as you stood in the middle of your third garden party of the week, you came to realize that the nobles treated it more like a holiday; unwelcome for many, yes, but a break nonetheless. You couldn’t help but wonder though, who did they entrust their estates to with everyone here?

A whirlwind of children stole away your thoughts, laughing loudly as they ran across the grass. Noble parties were usually an affair of those who had already been initiated into society, but it looked like many had decided to being their children along for this assembly.

Your eye caught Yuuji timidly watching the group from his father’s side, the king conversing with the Shoko family. You beckoned him over with a wave when his eyes fell on you, and the child made quick work of finding your side. He rested a hand on your lap and you put your teacup down, smiling sweetly at him.

“How are you doing, Yuuji?” you ask, noting Shoko’s smile across from you. The scene was just tooth-rottingly sweet.

“I am alright, mama.” The boy replied, a bit confused by your question.

“Would you like to play?”

“With you?” his eyes sparkled immediately.

You had noticed he always did this: carried himself so properly in front of others, but melting when close by. He must have felt the weight of the crown already from his young age, but you wanted him to enjoy the little joys. And you knew Kento wanted nothing but for him to experience a real childhood.

“No, with them,” you pointed to the group of children now playing a game of hopscotch. The child's eyes brightened again before you saw him visibly hold himsself back, fiddling with his thumbs.

“But it’s not proper…” he mumbled, pouting softly.

Immediately your heart hurt. You titled his chin up to look into your eyes, mustering the most reassuring expression you could.

“It does not matter in this moment,” you looked over at Nanami, who you knew kept and eye on your exchange. “Your papa and I both want you to have fun, okay?” Your expression turned a bit mischievous. “Unless you do not want to join them?”

His lips parted with a protest, jumping in place. “Okay, okay, I’m going,” and just like that the boy dashed away, soon joining the little group and bantering with a chestnut-haired girl.

While the children played, you returned to watching the high-born crowd, noting how unsociable the Zenin women were. They almost appeared like dolls; perfectly groomed but so quiet, empty. As well as the repeated absence of Naoya and the other men from the Duchy. How rude were they to not bother entertaining their guests...

Regardless, you kept your mind focused on one thing. Figuring out the treason issue. And in your experience, the best way to do so was merely to keep an ear open. Unfortunately, all you heard at the events were nothing but scalding gossip and complaints about the long trip.

Ieiri and you were laughing over a particularly ridiculous story when your time was interrupted by someone clearing their throat. You looked up, your eyes meeting a crystal blue pair.

“Your majesty,” he knelt before you, offering a hand for a greeting. You gave yours politely, and the man kissed the back of it with his eyes never leaving yours. “It is such a pleasure to see each other again so soon,”

“Duke Gojo,” you nodded, pulling your hand away and securing it around the handle of your teacup.

“Oh none of that,” he stood, undeterred by your terse reply. “You can call me Satoru,” his eyes fleeted over to Shoko, offering a mischievous smile when the woman openly rolled her eyes, “Care for some more company?” he leaned down, already pulling a chair on the lawn to sit.

“I think the ladies find quite enough company in each other,” A hand rested on your shoulder, and a pleasant shiver went down your spine.

“Your majesty,” Gojo bowed his head, his smile only growing. “I must say, it is quite unusual to see you so…” he rubbed his chin in an exaggerated show of thinking. “Protective.” He soon erupted in a laugh. “I jest, of course. Who would I be to even dare criticize the king?”

Nanami was clearly annoyed, but just sighed deeply, leaning down to whisper close to your ear.

“May I talk to you for a minute?” Another shiver down your spine. You stood with a nod, excusing yourself from the table. But not missing the looks that you garnered as you walked away, Nanami’s hand secured around yours.

Much to your disappointment, your husband was simply offering a break from the conversation with Gojo. You looked down at your joint hands, hoping for perhaps more. But that would have to wait, because soon enough, he was whisked away by another responsibility.

On the fifth night of your sojourn there was a massive banquet thrown, the commemorative event that topped up your stay in the Zenin castle. You noticed all of the castle staff work frantically, finally breaking their eerie quiet to whisper rushed instructions and speed walk rather than float across the castle paths.

Riko grabbed a chest you had somehow not noticed among your belongings and pulled out a gorgeous burnt orange dress with golden leaf appliques that snaked across the sleeves and then over the chest. You were done up to the nines, taking Kento’s breath away as soon as you stepped out of your living quarters.

He stretched out an arm, and you walked towards him with a smile,

“Hi,” you smiled up at him, arm around his strong one.

“You look beautiful,” his eyes bore into yours, reciprocating your smile. You giggled, feeling that giddy rush again.

“You look beatiful,” Yuuji repeated at your feet, mirroring his father’s somber tone and making you laugh harder.

“You look regal as well, my little prince,” you offered your other hand for him to take, and he wrapped his fingers around yours.

Entering the ballroom was enough to gave you whiplash. The castle had been dark, gothic. And even throughout the events and parties organized during the week, things stayed muted with barely any frivolities.

But you guessed maybe they wanted to show out with the biggest event of all. The large reception hall was bursting with color. Wisteria bushes hanging from high ceilings, tables draped with opulent white fabric, gold embelishments spread out that sparkled in the chandelier light.

The rest of the assembly seemed as impressed with the assortments. Guests started to fill the room, walking around the hors-d’oeuvres tables in animated conversation.

The king, prince and you were directed to sit on thrones mounted on the tall dais that oversaw the room, next to the duke and his bethroted, a shy girl whom you had seen at one garden party and had talked to no one.

“Did you pick out the decorations?” You leaned close to her, asking the question with the kindest smile you could muster.

Her eyes widened, as if not expecting to be spoken to. She nodded slightly, still averting her gaze.

“It’s beautiful,” you offered, looking ahead in hopes of relieveing her discomfort. “You have an amazing eye for this. Could you show me how you pick them out some time?”

“O-Of course your majesty,” she spoke a little louder, and you offered her a last smile before turning to look at the assembly.

Though from the corner of your eye, you caught Naoya whisper harshly at her, unable to help the frown in your features when the poor girl folded more into herself.

The rest of the people continued to file in and the orchestral troupe stationed on a small platform to the right of the room began drawing out a slow tune.

Your eyes caught Mei Mei wearing a black dress with a feathered collar, her white hair styled in intricate braids. Haibara stationed near the entrance in his knight uniform. Ieiri wrapped in a midnight blue shawl who offered you a smile. And oh- this man again.

Tall, well-built, dark and brooding. His piercing green eyes held an unsettling quiet. You had seen him at every event, catching him watching, assessing. You turned to Kento.

“Who is that man? On the left, scarred lip?” You did not look at him again, somehow fearing that being caught watching the watcher would result in negative consequences.

“Toji Zenin,” Nanami breathed, bringing the back of your hand to your lips. “He’s somewhat of an outcast in his family. You need not be afraid of him,” the words were meant to be reassuring but you could not shake the feeling, the sensation of a pair of eyes on the back of you neck.

Finally the Duke stood to announce the beginning of the festivities, making a generic speech about unity, whose words you knew carried no sincerity. You all left your seats to go mingle with the rest of the crowd as the orchestra picked up and started playing a more festive tune.

Your little group was forced into a split, having to engage in the chore of entertaining guests even as guests yourselves.

Having a conversation with royalty was a priviledge whose luster did not seem to wane in a different land. The line for you was even longer now, given how open the king had been recently with his affections towards you.

As the conversations went by, it became apparent that you were being perceived as a political player. The aristocracy sure was quick to notice the ebbs and flow of power, and even quicker to position themselves as friend or foe.

Nanami sighed.

Soon after you started mingling, Naoya had retired to his quarters, leaving the assembly under the watch of the royal family.

How discorteous.

After a particularly tedious conversation with the old earl Yoshinobu whose insistence on tradition could tire even the most attentive of ears, Nanami closed his eyes for a second. He was tired, and itched to be in the company of his wife and child. His tolerance for formalities had somehow decreased even more in the span of the last few months. The longing for his family was now at the forefront of all his thoughts.

Almost naturally, his eyes drifted across the room in a sweeping searching for you.

He landed on your figure, still cordial as you engaged a lady whose name he could not bother remembering. Your shoulders and back were straight, but he could tell from the small falter in your smile that you were tired. Social battery exhausted but you pushed on.

He made a mental note to sweep you away and offer you another massage, something that had become part of your evening routines in the small quarters.

Now all left to do was to find his son.

But his eyes scanned and scanned the room to no avail. Suddenly he grew agitated, turning around with his full body. Yuuji never strayed too far. He understood how anxious it made his dad to be out of sight for too long.

His heart dropped.

Oh no

This trip had been the experience of a liteftime for the young prince Yuuji. Beyond being an amazing journey to a land he had never encountered before, he had had the chance to mesh with children his age.

In the child’s eyes, he had lived a very full life. Surrounded by his father’s great love, and more recently by your warmth. But jumping into the pool of adventures with other children brought along for the trip ignited a different sense of excitement in his heart.

He had especially taken to Nobara, the first daughter from a highly respected knight family, and child whose spunk far surpassed anyone he knew.

Mama and papa were so busy tonight, and as always the rest of the adults ignored him when he was not at their side.

His shoulders sagged slightly, walking towards the corner of the room where Haibara was stationed, knowing that his beloved uncle would at least entertain him while he waited for his parents to be done.

However, not even halfway there, a particularly energetic girl jumped into his path.

“Hi!” She beamed, hands resting on her waist.

“Hi!” Yuuji responded, waving rapidly though she stood but a couple feet away.

She hopped even closer, brown eyes wide and sparkling with mischief.

“Want to go outside? It’s sooooooooo boring in here,” she offered. Yuuji’s heart leaped at the prospect, but he refrained from showing his excitement, looking back in the direction of his father.

“Papa will get upset if I get away,” he shook his head.

“Ughh, he will be okay!” She spread her arms in an exaggerated motion. “Are you not bored?” She tilted her head. “I can sneak out really easily. I do it all the time at home!” She insisted, nodding along her words.

Yuuji chewed on the inside of his cheek, knowing in his heart that he should not, but feeling the pull of the temptation so strong.

“I will bring you back before they can notice,” she winked at him, and he immediately conceded.

“Okay!” His parents would be fine without him, right? Did you not encourage him to play earlier?

Nobara sure knew what she was talking about. Having grown up under constant supervision, she had learned how to evade the gaurds’ watch with astounding ease. Yuuji was already taking notes when they slipped out of the large banquet hall and into the quieter hallways, where flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows along the walls.

Before long, a game of tag broke out. The children darted through the halls, with stifled giggles until they heard the sound of maids heading their direction. Nobara yanked open the first door they found, and they ducked inside, holding their breath as footsteps passed.

When silence returned, they erupted into quiet laughter, high-fiving over their successful escape.

Just then, someone cleared their throat behind them, causing the two children to jump and turn sharply.

“You should not be here,” a boy’s voice announced.

He sat in the corner of the dimly lit office-like space with a book in his lap, dark spiked hair framing a deep frown. He could not have been much older than them, yet he regarded them with the same sternness as a disapproving adult.

“And who are you to say that?” Nobara boldly pointed at him, lips puckered in defiance.

“It does not matter who I am. You should go back to your adults,” he re-emphasized, standing up to face them.

“Where are your adults?” Yuuji inquired, tilting his head.

The boy frowned in return and Nobara grinned triumphantly.

“Aha! So you are hiding too. You can’t kick us out then!” She stuck her tongue out, chuckling to herself.

The boy grumbled under his breath, returning to his book with an even deeper frown.

Cautiously, Yuuji stepped forward, curious about what he was reading. But before he could ask, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed beyond the door—fast and deliberate, followed by hushed whispers. People were headed their direction.

All three children instinctively understood.

It was time to hide.

This was a hefty one, and in all honesty, I feel kind of iffy about the pacing towards the middle, but I felt the need to put it out regardless. Please let me know your thoughts!

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated (❁´◡`❁)

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