#so happy to finally share this with you!!

[fushitoru]

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.” 

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly. 

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him. 

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid. 

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet. 

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?” 

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name. 

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles. 

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left. 

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

[bluukive]

!MDNI: JJK Men x birthdays

content - brief allusions of dad bods, explicit, what the jjk men receive on their birthday + what they give on yours, restraining, foodplay, teasing, submissive men yum, worship, exhibitionism, double penetration, roleplay, spanking, slight cuck!Nanami, somnophilia(?), it's all consensual I promise

an - for @chosos-lesbo ^^ had no idea how to incorporate dad bods into this properly so they're briefly mentioned here and there <3

Not proofread ALSO DON'T PUT FOOD NEAR YOUR PRIVATE AREAS THANKS

ᡣ𐭩 G. Satoru

recieves

LAP DANCE LAP DANCE LAP DANCE (+ strip tease hehe). You’re moving so, so sensually, flashing the skimpy lace that just happens to be the same colour as your man's eyes. Satoru’s got one hand palming his fattening length (like a real perv), a lazy but appreciative look in his eyes as you’re planting. It’s not long before he’s sprawled out so nicely for you, your hands on his heavyset thighs (which you swear have recently grown thicker). Satoru can feel you kissing down his chest, and your fingers gently raking through his happy trail (which you begged him not to remove), until you’re finally engulfing his cock into your mouth.

Alternatively, you’re bent over in bed. You can feel your face burning as he takes in the sight of your ass covered in frosting and sprinkles, and a candle nestled in your puckered hole (the thought makes me wince but I’m referencing a specific video with this and just had to include it)

gives

HE’S the one covered in whipped cream, strawberries, sprinkles. There’s a big FAT arrow drawn on his pubic bone, leading down to his cock. He contemplated sticking a candle in his pp hole I don’t think Satoru’s into sounding. There's also a cute pink bow tied around his dick, straining because of how fat his length is. It's stained with precum, the fabric dark and tempting you to unwrap him.

Satoru also makes you sit on his length when it's time to open gifts. I don't know why but it's so him. It starts off with you cockwarming him, your pussy occasionally clenching as you eye the various trinkets. In Satoru's eyes, the actual gift is the way his softening hips are rolling up into you the more presents you unwrap.

ᡣ𐭩 G. Suguru

receives

You're oiling him up. Full body massage with scented oils and your increasingly nude body on top of his. The feeling of your smaller hands gliding so lewdly all over his glistening body has him sporting an erection. He's noticed an increase in your sex drive due to the fact there's an added weight to his body. It's delicious when Suguru can both manhandle you the way he wants but also grows red with effort due to the fact that he's no longer as lithe as he used to be. But you wouldn't have it any other way.

gives

Dare I say both a collar and a leash. Suguru's always known how much you crave being on top. His idea of the perfect gift (outside of the various pieces of expensive jewellery and clothing) is giving up his control and offering his entire self for you to use on your special day. Suguru could easily push you away, even if the muscles in his body are softening the more time that passes. But he doesn't. He insists you pull at the rope attached to his collar and tug as you ride his face/cock.

I'd also pair this with a shrine/bed setup (?) that he made all by himself. It's a pretty thing, low lighting and candles, flowers and portraits of you set up in an organised manner around your shared bed. You're the centrepiece, the star of the show as he worships your entire body.

ᡣ𐭩 S. Ryomen

receives

Unlike Suguru who offers himself to you, you're the one offering yourself to your king. Sukuna's incredibly greedy, which has become incredibly obvious after the years of indulging in you. He's still massive, believe me. But those hulking muscles have both melted and increased in size. For your husband's birthday, you've given him a feast off of your own body. There's sticky honey drizzled all over your tits, which he greedily laps up. There's the finest wine bottled up beside you, which Sukuna happily pours all over your cunt before eating you out like a starved beast of a man.

gives

He fucks you on his throne. You're the only one allowed on there (apart from him, of course). If you want privacy, Sukuna will adhere to your request. If you want an audience, he's even happier to spread you out before them. You're locked in full nelson as the 'pests' below you keep their head down, taking in the sounds of your husbands twin cocks plapping away all snug and deep.

Double penetration was another request you had for your birthday. It meant your husband would spend more time prepping you, eating you out and burying his thick fingers knuckle-deep inside of you (in both holes) before stuffing you full.

ᡣ𐭩 N. Kento

recieves

Some good old roleplay, where you pretend to be his perverted assistant. You suck him off under the table in the privacy of his home office, slick noises and garbled mewls leaving your lips which were stretched around his length. You swear it's grown fatter since he became so preoccupied with work and your growing family. You slide onto his thigh also, lips inseparable as you feverishly try getting yourself off on his thigh. It's Nanami's birthday, not yours, so he's quick to correct your selfish behaviour with a belt wrapped around his heavy fist.

gives

An identical toy, completely resembling his cock. Nanami doesn't like it when you feel lonely whilst he's away. You've got complete freedom on your birthday to give your husband a show and play with the dildo. Yeah, it's not as good as the real thing, but this is how Nanami satiates the slight fantasy he has of seeing you pleasure yourself on something that wasn't him. It gives him a sense of superiority knowing that you could only truly feel good with only him.

ᡣ𐭩 T. Fushiguro

receives

A raunchy video. You've compiled all of your recorded encounters with Toji and sprinkled in some sessions where you're alone and needy without him. It'd be a waste not to watch it with him, so you do just that with both of you mutually touching each other. He's got one burly hand sliding not-so-discreetly into your underwear, whilst one of yours palms him through his boxers. Naturally, Toji suggests you recreate it. He's the birthday boy, after all, and you'd be a fool to deny the man who's been drunk off baby fever the chance to be called daddy.

gives

Wakes you up with his mouth. You said once that you wouldn't mind being woken up with a tongue flicking against your clit. Toji hadn't been able to rid himself of the thought and your birthday was the perfect opportunity to give his birthday girl exactly what she wanted. With two strong arms holding your thighs open, Toji's lapping feverishly and sucking your aching clit into his mouth. When you eventually awake and lift the blanket, you're met by the sight of your husband's cheeks hollowed, eyes so blatantly lidded as he grows more pussydrunk by the second.

[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.

[runninriot]

Truth or Dare

written for the @steddiemicrofic may challenge

prompt: delay | wc: 408 | rated: T | tags: POV Robin, Robin & Steve & Eddie friendship, someone's keeping secrets, (accidental) drunken confessions

   "Wait, what? Carol and Tommy?! When?"

Robin doesn't know why she's even surprised, but this game of truth or dare has really taken a turn.

   "It was just once! At a party. Before they started dating. It didn't mean anything,” Steve plays it down, and really, who's she to judge?

    Oh, but she does, taking advantage of her best friend entitlement.

   "Dingus, you’re a slut. Anyone ever told you that? I love you, but you're the worst."

She knows he’s not. Knows deep down he’s longing for the real thing. Real love, he deserves more than anyone. Still, he doesn’t object, just shrugs, and smiles his dopey, tipsy smile.

Next to her, Eddie snorts loudly, seemingly overcome by drunken giddiness.

   "What's it like to be the only person Steve hasn't made out with, Buckley?"

Robin's about to answer when she catches the shocked look Steve shoots their friend, whose face instantly turns a deep shade of red. There's something off about the way they stare at each other like two scared deer trying to have a silent conversation, they don't want her to be part of.

She doesn’t get it at first. Her brain’s lagging, unable to put two and two together until the words have finally, fully sunken in and delayed realisation hits her.

How did she not see it before?

   "You tryin’ to tell me something, Munson?”

   "I, uh, I mean-"

The poor guy's struggling hard and maybe, under different circumstances, she'd have mercy and let it go. But right now, curiosity wins.

   "Robin?" Steve interrupts. "Ask me again."

   "What?"

   "The game. I want another turn."

His demand throws her off but she complies anyway.

   "Alright, Steve. Truth or dare?"

Robin fully expects him to choose truth again, ready to confess what she thinks she's already figured out. But instead of talking, Steve shifts forward and grabs Eddie by his shirt, pulls him in and kisses him unprompted. Right on the mouth. And Eddie, with no hesitation whatsoever, kisses him back.

Like it's normal, familiar. Like they've done this many times before.

Because, undoubtedly, they have.

She can't even be mad at them for keeping this a secret, because the look they share when they part is so soft, so full of love, it melts her heart.

They’re so disgustingly cute together, it makes her sick with happiness.

   "Just so we’re clear, I still got dibs on the bed. Guess you'll both take the couch tonight."

[lovelyfawnxx]

@elriel-month : 𝖁𝖎𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖚𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊

A glimpse into Elain and Azriel’s happy future. Despite all their trials and tribulations, they’ve managed to carve out a space for themselves (and at least one more!) in Prythian; they’ve created their own happy ending, regardless of what others expected of them. Now Azriel can finally rest peacefully, knowing the love of his life and his child are safe in his arms, and Elain can rest peacefully knowing she was able to give him that.

We want to give our love and thanks to Pinky, who always puts so much love and skill into her commissions. Not only are you amazingly talented, but you are a dear friend of ours. Congratulations on just reaching 4k followers on IG! 🥹🩷

🎨 art by pinkykei.art

✨ commissioned by me and @landofthefaerie

likes, comments and shares appreciated!

please do not repost 💜

[concretejunglefm]

Will you wait me out?

Summary: You were once the best of friends—maybe a little bit more—and maybe, if life hadn’t gotten in the way, things could be different now, but instead, a decade after you once knew Noah, you see his face again and find yourself chasing ghosts in the form of old memories, before finally coming face to face with the past.

Part 1 here

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x f!reader.

CW: includes mentions of old feelings, soft reunions, fluffy moments, protected sex (p in v), fingering & oral (f receiving).

WC: 6.8k.

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

The first time Noah receives a postcard, the other guys laugh and admittedly, he does too. They’re no strangers to odd fan mail. Letters declaring undying love or detailing how much the band means to someone are typical, normal even, but a postcard that essentially mirrors his own words back to him? That’s a little strange. Most people use email these days, so a postcard feels out of place. Peculiar, even, especially one unsigned, and yet, the longer he stares at the handwriting scrawled across it, the more familiar it feels, though he can’t quite place it.

Weeks go by before a whole pile gets dumped in his lap. They’ve been on the road, touring on and off, and a quick trip back home to California gave them a chance to swing by their PO box—Davis, at least.

“More?” Noah asks.

Davis just shrugs with a quiet, “I guess so.”

More laughter erupts from the rest of the guys, followed by a comment from Jolly. “I think someone’s got an obsessed fan,” the Swede remarks.

Noah laughs in agreement, brushing it off, until he starts reading them. One by one, he flips through the postcards and it’s the details—small, intimate details—that start to hit him. Mentions of places, shared memories, little ideas he once spoke of, but only with one person in mind. That’s when the realization hits him, these aren’t just any old fan mail, they’re from you.

Admittedly, it’s a little insane to assume you’re out there, somewhere, sending him these postcards. Postcards that contain oddly specific details from conversations you once had.

He remembers when you confessed your fear of rollercoasters after a senior class trip was announced for Six Flags. You didn’t want people to think you were scared of the rides—even though you knew you were, and Noah had agreed, without hesitation, to stay back with you the entire trip. Later, you’d made a promise: you’d conquer the fear together, after graduation, but after that, you left.

You both made a lot of promises back then—some spoken, some not—but plenty of them stuck. With each read-through of the postcards, Noah still doesn’t know how to feel. Happy? Sad? Angry? Why reach out now, after all this time? You left, didn’t you?

Or maybe it was him.

The details from a decade ago have blurred at the edges, both of you swept up in teenage hormones and diverging dreams.

“It was her. I’m sure of it,” Davis tells him one night—referring to the girl who supposedly showed up at a show and left early, bumping into him on the way out.

“You’re sure?” Noah asks, skeptical, but maybe now, it’s his turn to go a little insane with the idea of finding you.

Searches across social media turned up almost nothing. Either you’d changed your name completely or disappeared off the grid. Either way, he drove himself halfway to madness trying to find you. A couple of LinkedIn profiles came close, but no pictures, no details concrete enough to know if they were really you.

It’s like chasing ghosts, searching for someone who’s been leaving a trail just for him to follow, only to vanish the moment he gets close. All it’s done is stir the memory of you that once lingered quietly in the back of his mind. Now, it’s no longer a fleeting thought, but something he carries every day, wondering when—or if, another postcard will arrive.

Gradually, your face becomes the one he looks for in the crowd. Every night. Hopeful that maybe, this time, he’ll spot you among the sea of strangers and each time the chords to Just Pretend begin, it’s like tearing open an old wound. When he wrote it, he thought he was past it, past you, past the unspoken weight of everything that once lingered between you, but now, it’s all come flooding back—resurrected. Everything he buried instead of confronting, all the what ifs echoing too loudly in his head.

Between the relentless touring, the quiet obsession of chasing your ghost, and the burnout from overworking and writing new music, he’s slowly becoming a cliché. The performing monkey, doing what he’s told, when he’s told—wearing the familiar mask everyone’s grown to love: the sweet, shy frontman, but behind closed doors, he’s unraveling. People keep telling him to take a break, to slow down, to stop putting so much pressure on himself, but the truth is, it never sinks in. He doesn’t stop. Even when he pretends to.

Even now, sitting at the back of the bus, he’s scrolling through yet another batch of profiles—every possible variation of your name, your nickname, anything that might lead to you—and still, nothing. Every search turns up empty.

It’s like you really are a ghost.

When he hears your voice say your name for the first time in a decade, Noah has to convince himself he’s not hallucinating. He looks up and sees you. Your name rolls off his tongue with practiced ease, as if it had never left his lips.

Noah glances over at Matt, torn between slipping away and silently apologizing for holding everyone up, but then his gaze returns to you, and instinctively, his hand reaches out to grasp yours. It’s an unconscious motion—part disbelief, part grounding. You feel solid beneath his touch. Real. Warm. Your skin is softer than he remembers, and his hand feels larger now, enveloping yours with ease. You might’ve felt embarrassed by how clammy your palm is—if his weren’t just the same.

“Do you have to go?” Noah asks.

“Uh…” You hesitate, because no, you don’t have to go anywhere, but you didn’t exactly plan what to do if he actually wanted to see you.

“She can wait with me,” Davis offers, stepping out from behind the Bad Omens banner erected behind them. Your mouth opens—an apology on the tip of your tongue, or maybe an excuse, but before you can speak, Noah is already nodding.

“Yeah. Go hang with Davis. I won’t be much longer,” he tells you, guiding you around the edge of the table. His grip tightens slightly, reluctant to let go, and truthfully, you’re not ready to either.

When your eyes meet his, it’s there—the flood of things left unsaid, the echo of the hope and dreams you once shared as teenagers. Somehow, that spark still lingers. You feel it in his touch, in his gaze. He never stopped caring.

Behind him, Jolly leans toward Nicholas, whispering a question. Nicholas murmurs something back, both of them giving you the space to have this moment, even with fans still in line and crew buzzing around.

“I’ll be over…” you start, gesturing vaguely, your eyes unwilling to leave his face.

“Yeah…” Noah nods, his voice softer now, as he finally lets go of your hand and the weight of Davis’s hand on your shoulder pulls you back into the present.

You murmur an apology—you’re not even sure what for. For bumping into him at the concert? For showing up now? For holding up the meet and greet? Your thoughts are spinning, but Davis seems to sense it. Gently, he suggests stepping outside, offering a reprieve—a quiet place to gather yourself.

“So… postcards, huh?” Davis says, leaning beside you as your back meets the cool surface of the brick wall.

You take a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air in an effort to steady yourself. Tilting your head toward him, you shrug, heat rising to your cheeks as your gaze drops to the ground.

“You know he’s been going crazy over them ever since the first one.”

“Really?” you ask, your voice soft—unable to hide the flicker of hope in your tone, as if maybe this could fix everything, as if it could erase ten years of silence and missed chances.

Davis glances over at you, his tone gentle, free of judgment. “What made you do it?” He sounds genuinely curious. Not prying. Not skeptical. Just trying to understand.

You briefly consider telling Davis the truth—how it all started when you came across that magazine. How everything spiraled from there. It hadn’t been entirely intentional. More like some strange twist of fate. A coincidence, maybe, but somehow, everything that led you to this moment doesn’t feel like coincidence at all. It feels inevitable. Like the pull between you and Noah had always been there, quietly waiting, ready to snap you back into each other’s orbit.

You open your mouth to answer, but the fire exit creaks open, cutting you off.

Noah steps out and his eyes lock onto yours immediately, wide and disbelieving. For a second, he just stands there, stunned. Like seeing you again is something he still hasn’t convinced himself is real. He looks at you like you’re a dream he’s been chasing, one he’s terrified might vanish the moment he blinks.

You barely catch Davis slipping past you both, heading inside—too caught up in the sight of Noah slowly approaching.

“Is it really…”

You see Noah’s hands trembling as he reaches out for you, his palms gently cupping your face, cradling you as he gazes down in awe—like you’re some unholy treasure he’s unearthed. You swear you see the shimmer of tears in his eyes.

“It is,” you whisper, nodding softly as you look up at him. Your hands reach for him in return, your fingers threading through his now much shorter hair. “You cut your hair.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles—soft, gravelly—and it stirs a warmth inside you. You’ve missed his laugh. You’ve missed him, probably more than words could ever really convey.

You look at him like you’re trying to commit him to memory. Comparing the boy you once knew with the man standing in front of you now. He’s changed in subtle ways—beyond the haircut, beyond his features. There are more tattoos on his skin; he’s a walking piece of art, and yet, the way he looks at you—like he wants to kiss you, like he’s desperate to hold onto you and confirm this is real—that hasn’t changed.

“Are we going to stand here all day?” you tease, laughing softly, glancing around the alleyway behind the building he met you outside of, after you’d slipped out for some air.

Noah pulls back just enough to look around, but his hands never leave you. They slide from your face down the sides of your neck, resting on your shoulders before he wraps you in a full embrace—a big, warm bear hug that tucks you beneath his arm, snug against his chest.

“Only if you promise you’re coming with me,” he mumbles, his mouth pressed against the top of your head. You exhale a soft sigh, content with the idea that he still wants you close. You’re not sure you could’ve handled him sending you on your way—as if a five-minute reunion could ever be enough.

“Promise…” you whisper, but there’s a hollowness in your voice, a quiet ache as memories stir. You think back on all the promises you once made to each other. Part of you wonders if he hears it too—if he can sense the guilt, the shame, the weight of everything left unkept between you.

Room service becomes the meal for your reunion, as you order everything you can from the basic menu, enough to keep you both satisfied, because the idea of leaving the hotel room he’s invited you back to isn’t one either of you wants to consider. You’re both content to shut the world outside out.

Neither of you are tired, too buzzed on the adrenaline that finding one another has ignited. Despite the bags beneath Noah’s eyes, he fights any attempt sleep makes to take over him the later into the night you talk—catching up, reminiscing, just being in each other’s presence.

“Best international artist,” you tease, a grin stretched across your face. Noah ducks his head, bashful, hiding it in the crook of your neck, mumbling something almost unintelligible.

Your bodies fit close to one another—like two pieces of a puzzle. His leg slips between yours, keeping you drawn close as your arms wrap around one another, clinging as though letting go would cause the other to disappear. You’re back to being those two kids you once were—secretly in love and finding any excuse to stay close.

Some moments, it feels like no time has passed at all, and he’s still the same guy you once knew. Other times, you’re reminded of the lifetime that has passed—how he’s already lived multiple lifetimes in the past decade alone.

“So why LA?” you ask, curious for the answer. For a guy who often complained about LA, calling it a ‘piece of shit city’, he seems to have found himself a home there.

Noah tugs you a little closer, watching as your fingers trace the fresh tattoos on his arms—the ones you never stuck around to see. For a brief second, he contemplates telling you the truth. His eyes flick up to your face, searching yours for a moment until your own flicker back, causing his to flint away again.

“There wasn’t really anything left in Virginia for me anymore,” he shrugs, his voice a little cracked, a little pained. Suddenly, it stirs a whirl of guilt inside you.

You don’t blame yourself—not entirely. Your family kept you up to date with things that happened over the years. Sad news travels fast through a community, even one in a city that big, but you know the truth behind his words—home stopped being home when you were no longer there. You know this because that’s how everywhere since has felt for you. Every place you’ve been, every attempt to find somewhere to settle, there was always something missing—someone missing.

Now, you can’t help but worry that you’re too late.

Neither of you want the spell to break, but with the early signs of morning sunrise creeping in through the gaps in the curtains, the new day threatens to do precisely that. Noah has obligations, and you have… nothing. You’ve spent so long being a nomad that your responsibilities aren’t as set in stone as his, but you also have no plans going forward. You never thought about what would come after—when you both said your peace, whether that would be a goodbye or a reunion.

Before you can drown in the upcoming storm, it’s as though Noah detects your silent distress, throwing you a life preserver before you crash into the waves threatening to pull you under.

“You should stay.”

“What?” Not because you didn’t hear him, but because you can’t believe what he’s suggesting.

“Noah, I can’t just—”

“Stay? You can. We have a couple of shows left. You should come—since you walked out of the last one you were at.” He raises a brow at you, as though to say he knows all about that, but the grin on his face tells you he isn’t upset by your choice to walk out.

“Noah, I don’t…” you trail off, unsure whether it’s a good idea—not when you already feel the slow, growing dependency on him reemerging. You spent so much of your time together hanging onto him, onto his every word, looking at him like someone who hung the moon and stars—completely unaware he looked at you the same way, and now, you feel like you’re inserting yourself into a life you no longer belong to as being part of.

“Please?” He steps toward the bed, running his fingers through his ruffled hair. Even after not sleeping, he still manages to look good—the shadow of his facial hair is more prominent in the morning hours. He always had a baby face, but there’s an unmistakable shade of stubble. As he draws closer, you lift your hand to cradle his face, feeling the prickly sensation beneath your fingers.

“Just for the last two shows, and then you can continue on to whatever it is you had planned.”

You don’t know how to tell him you have nothing planned after this—that you’ve been traveling, walking through life feeling like a ghost, and finding him has brought some form of life back into you; that he’s revitalized you just by knowing he was out there.

“Okay…” you say softly, an unmistakable grin breaking out across his face—wide, prideful, like a kid who’s just been told he can have ice cream for dinner.

You stroke his cheek, your thumb tracing the outline of his lips, of his smile, wanting to commit it to memory, wanting to commit him even more to memory. Every second of this, of being with him—you don’t want to forget it.

It’s magnetic, like second nature, the way Noah’s hand instinctively reaches for yours as you sit together, walk together, spend your time with the band and crew—his friends. Each time he takes your hand in his own, you’re pulled back from the thoughts you’ve been ruminating on—the ‘what ifs,’ the things left unsaid all those years ago—because right now, he’s treating you like none of that matters. Like the time spent apart is a void easily filled and forgotten, no longer the ache that once resided in your chest.

You agree to stay for the show—the last two shows on the tour—with the strict instruction to sit in at the sound booth with Matt. You’re being babysat, Davis nearby looking like the guy who’s just kept on the payroll to hang out with his friends.

“So you’re the one Noah’s been pining after all this time?” Matt’s question takes you by surprise, mostly because you hadn’t anticipated Noah had been pining after anyone—let alone you.

“He’s not—”

“Come on, you haven’t seen him. Ever since he got that first postcard, he’s been mumbling about you, on his phone day and night, probably searching for you.”

Your cheeks heat a little, though you wonder if the tech should even be saying this—as his friend, especially—but Matt continues to rattle on, his focus on the soundboard in front of him, moving smoothly across it as though it’s second nature—by now, you suppose it is.

Towards the end of the set, Davis slips up behind you, gently urging, “Come with me. You can meet him backstage after the show.”

You feel like some kind of VIP getting special treatment, especially the moment you take your spot at the side of the stage, watching the final roar of Dethrone as Noah falls to his knees, looking both fearful and like a god. It’s hypnotic, though arguably the whole show has been, your eyes glued to him the entire time, onto the way he moves, the way he sings, everything coming together perfectly.

The moment he steps off the stage, you charge toward him, his arms quickly enveloping you and lifting you off the floor in one large swing. You throw your head back with a giggle, demanding he set you down, and when he does, you hover for a moment, your gaze fixed on him.

The urge to kiss him right now is palpable, the way his eyes sparkle, the feeling of his heart racing, and there’s a huge surge of pride blooming in your own chest. Last time, you’d been too preoccupied with your own thoughts and emotions to appreciate the performance, but now you’re seeing the grandmaster on stage—the performer you always knew Noah could be—albeit with a little confidence and a push.

“Ew, you’re all sweaty.” The tension between you breaks as your hands move down his chest, feeling the sweat soaking his tank top. Instead of being offended, he just scoops you back up, dipping his head and shaking it like a dog as he nestles against the side of your neck with a playful, “Yeah? Am I?”

You giggle, and he laughs, you attempting to pull away as his arms tighten like an anchor, holding you to him as he walks. It’s like you’re teenagers again, the familiarity of your former friendship resurfacing like no time has passed at all. You like it. You like the familiarity of him, how complete it makes you feel to be around him, even in these goofy moments.

“Will you two get a room already?” Folio calls out, a cheeky grin stretched across his face.

Your eyes roll, opening your mouth to refute him, but Noah silences you as he turns his head, his arms still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you from behind.

“Just ’cause you’re jealous,” he retorts to Folio.

“Soooo jealous,” Folio chuckles, quickly moving out of the way when Noah reaches a huge paw in his direction, using Nicholas as his shield.

“Dick,” Noah grumbles, but there’s a sly grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

His attention falls back to you as he presses a faint kiss against the side of your head, proud as a peacock, as though he’s somehow defended your honor. In a way, it mirrors the times he did back in high school, when guys tried to make snide comments, they were quickly shut down whenever Noah barked in their direction. Granted, he was skinnier and a lot less threatening looking, but somehow he had enough presence to silence them and protect you.

Suddenly, you’re mortified by the fact that the notion of getting a room together—despite technically already having one in the form of his hotel room, sounds like a good idea. You can’t lie and say the idea of kissing him—and possibly more—hasn’t crossed your mind since you finally reunited.

Back at the hotel, you’re left to your own devices, and your own thoughts, as Noah takes a shower, washing off the sweat and the show. To your surprise, when he steps out of the bathroom, he’s wearing just a pair of boxer shorts, and your mouth goes dry at the sight of him shirtless, water still trailing down his tatted chest. You don’t know where to look, but Noah clearly has no shame—even when he tosses the towel in your direction, chuckling.

“For your drooling.”

You gasp, narrowing your gaze at him. “I was not drooling.”

“No, but you were gawking.” He teases, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he joins you.

“No, I wasn’t—I was just…” you stumble over your words, struggling to find an excuse while Noah hits you with a raised eyebrow—skeptical.

“You just look different, that’s all.”

“Good different?” he asks, his hand reaching out toward you as he strokes his fingers along the outer part of your thigh.

“Yeah… good different.” You smile softly, feeling goosebumps rise across your skin.

Noah pulls you onto his lap. You don’t know what prompts him, but you slip easily and seamlessly, fitting like two puzzle pieces all over again. His hands settle at your hips, fingers just skating the hem of your shirt, while your own hands fix their purchase on his shoulders, one hand slipping around the back of his neck, playing with the ends of his damp hair.

“I wanted to kiss you, you know. After the show.” You whisper your confession, a soft hot breath between you, your forehead pressed to his.

Noah doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch—just asks, “Why didn’t you?”

You shrug. Scared, you think to yourself, but the word doesn’t come. His fingers slide beneath the hem of your shirt, trailing softly along the dip of your back as he shifts around.

“I wanted to kiss you back in the alleyway after first seeing you again.” Noah’s confession makes you draw back slightly, your eyes searching his, as though they hold the answer to your next question.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to ruin things.”

You can attest to that, so many times you were afraid that kissing him, giving in to your desires back then, would’ve been the end of everything, and yet now, nothing feels more right.

“I want you to kiss me,” you offer, your fingers curling into the ends of his hair.

“Don’t say that. Not if you don’t—”

“I mean it, Noah. Please… kiss me.”

You inch closer, your forehead resting against his, his mouth so close to yours there’s barely an inch between you. His breath feels warm against your lips. He hasn’t even kissed you yet, and still, a shiver ripples through your body—the closeness of him setting you on edge, your senses heightened, your body thrumming, receptive to every movement, every touch.

When his mouth finally brushes against yours in a soft, tender kiss, something warm bursts low in your belly. His fingers tighten on your hips, drawing you in, holding you flush against him. You’re pulled forward by a magnetic force, your bodies fitting together so seamlessly it steals the breath from your lungs. It’s everything you ever imagined, and yet somehow more—more real, more consuming. Every second of anticipation feels worth it, every moment you fantasized about this.

It’s quick to descend into something hungrier—deeper, more need spilling through than either of you intended, but it’s you who pulls yourself closer, your hips pressing down against him as though trying to erase the space between you, needing more.

For a brief moment, you fear he might pull away, declare this a mistake, but then he’s following your lead, giving in, unleashing his own desire. Soft, breathy sounds spill into the kiss, and in a swift motion, he switches your positions, rolling you beneath him with practiced ease.

Layers are shed—mostly yours—and you feel the heat of his hands against your bare skin as they travel along your sides. His head dips to your chest, leaving fervent kisses, worshiping you with soft whispers against your skin as your fingers tangle in his hair. You’ve thought about this more times than you’d ever dare to confess, back when he was still in your life, and in the lonely nights since, when solo relief was your only comfort, but no fantasy you ever conjured comes close to this, to the way he makes your body burn and tremble with barely a touch.

“Noah…” His name slips from your lips like a prayer—soft, reverent, like it belongs there. Like you’re claiming him, just for yourself, and truthfully, you are.

You’ve wanted him for as long as you can remember.

When his mouth closes around the peak of one nipple, your back arches, a hissed moan escaping your parted lips. His other hand cups your other breast, caressing gently, taking his time, entirely focused on your pleasure—on the way your body responds to him, even as his own arousal presses hard against the front of his boxers, the thick heat of it nestled between your thighs. He’s so close that you know, just one shift of your hips could give you both the friction you’re aching for.

But he doesn’t give in.

Instead, he growls softly against your chest, dragging his hands down to grip your thighs, pinning you to the bed. “Stop. Do you have any idea how hard you’re making this?”

“I have a little idea,” you breathe, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips as you squirm beneath him, trying to lift your hips toward his.

You expect it to break the tension, his laughter, the way he pauses, but instead, it only fuels him. Slipping his hands beneath your thighs, he tugs you closer with ease, and you feel him sink between them, the unmistakable size and heat of him pressing firmly against your panties, making your breath hitch and your heart race.

“You really are a little minx,” he taunts, dipping his head to tease his mouth along the column of your throat, letting his teeth graze over the more delicate areas.

“And you’re a tease.”

That earns you a sharp bite, and you hiss in response, Noah making it abundantly clear he’s more than happy to mark you, to leave behind a reminder of himself etched into your skin. The thought only deepens the ache between your thighs.

“Tell me what it is you want,” he whispers against your neck, his lips brushing kisses over the same spot he bit into moments before.

“You.”

You say it without hesitation, confident and open. You’re done holding back, especially now, especially with your hands roaming over his broad shoulders, squeezing at his biceps, feeling the way he hovers above you like he owns the space between your bodies.

“You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this, how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, his lips trailing across your throat, along your jawline, and finally back to your mouth. You can’t even whine your impatience, only melt into a soft moan at his words.

“I’ve thought about you so many times. How it would feel to finally have you beneath me like this.”

“Then take me,” you breathe, gasping as his fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties.

“You’re not going to rush me, baby. Not when I’ve waited this long. I want to take my time with you—I want to savor every second of this.”

His mouth meets yours again in a heated, claiming kiss, and you moan into it, your body arching to meet his. Your hips lift instinctively as he eases your panties down, sliding them off completely with practiced, reverent care.

Every kiss is drawn out, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, his tongue exploring your mouth with deep, languid strokes. His touch follows suit, unhurried and deliberate, exploring every inch of your skin, and when his fingers finally slip inside you—thick and skilled—you feel just how soaked you truly are.

The moment he sinks his index and middle finger into you, you clench around him, your back arching in response. They’re longer, stronger, more purposeful than yours ever could be, curling just right, finding spots you didn’t even know existed, sending sparks through your core that make you feel like you’re seeing stars.

He’s gentle but thorough, driving you steadily higher with each stroke, each slow thrust. He whispers praise and filth in equal measure against your lips, your jawline, your ear, his mouth touching every bit of you he can reach as he begins to trail down your body.

He kisses his way lower, worshiping every inch as if your body is a map he never wants to stop exploring. By the time he settles between your thighs, his mouth replaces his fingers, latching onto your clit with aching precision.

You’ve had sex before. You’ve been fingered, eaten out, but nothing compares to this, to Noah. The way he devours you is almost reverent, as if the act itself is sacred. Each groan he releases vibrates against your clit, sending aftershocks through your entire body. His tongue moves slowly, purposefully, savoring your taste like he’s waited years for it.

Your thighs twitch and try to close around him, overwhelmed by the sensation, but his strong hand catches one and pins it down easily. Then, gently, he reaches up and grabs one of your hands, guiding it down to the top of his head. Your fingers thread into his damp hair instinctively. A moment later, he catches your other hand too, intertwining your fingers together as he continues working you over—anchoring you to him, body and soul.

It’s sensual—intimate in a whole new way. You feel him guiding you, lifting you into the pleasure that’s steadily blooming in your stomach, a heat that rips through you and erupts with a moan as your body trembles beneath him. He’s quick to hold you still, to keep a firm grip on you as you ride out your high, his name falling from your lips in the softest, weakest breath as you begin to come down.

“Are you back with me, baby?” he whispers.

Your eyes flutter open to find him hovering above you, his fingers stroking gently through your hair as he presses a soft kiss to your lips.

“That was… more?” you ask, your voice still shaky, eyes softening into a quiet plea as your hands slide down, tugging at the waistband of his boxers.

Noah can’t deny you, not when he’s painfully hard, straining against the fabric. He quickly shoves his boxers down, kicking them aside, and reaches for his wallet on the nightstand, pulling out a condom.

“Please don’t tell me that’s your lucky condom from when we were teenagers,” you say, raising a brow at him.

“What? No, it’s been replaced since then!”

You scoff, lightly swatting his chest. “Don’t make me think about you fucking other girls while we’re about to have sex!”

“I’m sorry, I’m still a virgin—is that what you wanted to hear?” he teases, tilting his head with a smirk.

“Yes, it is. Good boy.” You giggle, cupping his face and pulling him into another kiss, already addicted to how it feels to have him this close. “Let me,” you whisper against his lips, taking the condom from his hand.

With a tear of the wrapper, you slip the condom out and reach down between you, watching as you slowly roll it onto his cock. Your hand strokes along the length, feeling how it throbs beneath your touch.

“God, you’re so big…” you murmur under your breath, and his hand wraps around yours, helping to guide himself toward you.

“We’re gonna go nice and slow, okay?” he says softly, using his free hand to slip beneath your chin and tilt your face up to his. Your eyes lock onto his as you nod, not daring to look away. His fingers squeeze yours, silently asking for trust, and you respond in kind, gripping the shaft with him as he angles himself forward.

With a slow, deliberate press, he drags his cock along your soaked slit, drawing a soft sound from your throat. He begins to push forward, inch by inch, sinking into you, and you hold his gaze, lips parting as you adjust to the stretch.

“Do you feel that? Fuck… fuck, you’re so—” His words dissolve into a deep, guttural groan. His head drops back, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the way you clench around him as he continues to sink in.

The moment he bottoms out, your hands fall away and his fingers intertwine with yours once more. He lifts them to press a kiss to the back of your hand, while his other hand settles at your hip, holding you in place with a firm, grounding grip.

He draws his hips back slowly, his cock dragging against your walls, and you squirm beneath him, gasping and moaning at the intensity of each movement, especially with how sensitive you already are. Noah’s breath catches in his throat as his head drops to the crook of your neck, his hips finding a steady rhythm, chasing the slow, exquisite build of his own release.

When it comes to the heat blooming in your stomach, it feels like chasing after a train you’ve already missed—you can’t quite find your way back. Maybe it’s because your first orgasm has already passed, leaving you floating somewhere in the afterglow, but it doesn’t stop you from savouring the feeling of him inside you, the slow roll of his hips, the drag of his cock between your walls, the way you clench around him, pulling him deeper with every movement. Each thrust draws a soft sound of pleasure from his lips, and you drink them in like they’re meant for you alone.

Cradling the back of his head with your free hand, you pull him down into another kiss. Your mouths move in tandem—hot, slow, sensual—punctuated by soft whimpers and moans, a perfect echo of the rhythm between your bodies.

The air is filled with those quiet, reverent sounds: whispered names, gasps, and the faintest rustle of sheets as your bodies move together. His pace builds steadily, and you cling to him, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, as if keeping him close might somehow draw him even deeper.

“Fuck, you just feel so… I never could’ve imagined it,” he groans, thrusting deeper, and your breath hitches as the sensation stretches through you.

“Keep going, baby. It feels so good. You feel so good,” you croon in his ear, and you feel the way your words make him shiver against you.

There’s no denying your own climax isn’t building the same way—it’s not a sharp, roaring wave or a tightly coiled spring about to snap. It’s quieter than that, a soft hum of pleasure rippling beneath your skin. Not overwhelming, but still so good. Still everything.

“I can’t… I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Noah gasps, and you turn your head, pressing soft kisses along his jaw as your fingers stroke through his shorter locks. You’d briefly missed the longer hair, but now, you find yourself loving the slightly overgrown look, the way it feels between your fingers as you curl them into it, tugging gently, coaxing him closer to release.

Part of you wishes he could’ve come inside you, the thought sending a flutter of butterflies through your stomach. Maybe next time. You can’t help but consider the idea of there being a next time—even though there’s so much to think about, so much that could complicate things, but you won’t let yourself spiral into worry, not now. Not when you can feel him falling apart inside you.

Noah’s hips begin to buck faster, chasing the tight coil of heat winding through his stomach. He’s so close he can taste it, and you feel it too, the way his cock throbs inside you, just before he finally spills over. Your name falls from his lips in a ragged breath—half a moan, half a plea—his fingers tightening around yours, the other digging into your flesh, leaving marks you know you’ll find later, but you won’t mind, not one bit.

Even in the aftershocks of his orgasm, he trembles, his cock still twitching inside you as your walls clench around him—milking him, holding him there. You feel the warmth blooming in the condom, and the sudden awareness of what it might’ve felt like without it overwhelms you. The idea of him filling you up, dripping from you—it’s a fantasy you didn’t expect to crave this badly.

“Next time, I’m gonna fill you up nice and full,” he murmurs against your jaw, and you smirk, turning your head to brush your mouth against his.

“Is that a promise?” you whisper.

You know it is, feel it in the halfhearted kiss he gives you in return, tender and spent, still savoring every second of this moment.

Neither of you could recall when you’d fallen asleep, both wrapped in the warm afterglow, Noah’s arms tight around you, but when he wakes, it’s to the sight of you admiring him like he’s a piece of artwork, your fingers gently tracing over his tattoos, moving between the old ones you remember and the newer ones he’s collected.

“I can give you a tour if you want,” he murmurs, his voice gruff and heavy with sleep. It startles you, making you jump slightly within his hold.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You can look,” he chuckles, gesturing for you to continue. He stretches out a little, adjusting himself and tucking one arm behind his head to prop it up as he gazes down at you, still curled up against his side.

“You just have so many more now, it’s… wow,” you breathe, still amazed by how beautiful he is, how somehow, with every new piece of ink, he manages to look even more ethereal.

“Did this one hurt?” you ask, gently brushing your fingers over the tattoo on his neck—the apple, the snake, the hand.

“Like hell.”

You giggle at the irony, at the symbolism of Eve’s apple and all the religious undertones. “It’s beautiful,” you whisper, and a soft, tired smile spreads across his face, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Yeah…”

When you catch him staring, a familiar surge of butterflies rises in your stomach, but you can’t quiet the nagging voice at the back of your mind—the same one that stirred the moment you woke this morning, still wrapped in his arms, your bodies naked and pressed together like they belonged.

You try to fight the urge to ask, but the moment Noah cradles your cheek and you instinctively nuzzle into his palm, the question slips out.

“What is this, Noah? What are we doing?”

“What we’ve both clearly wanted for a long time,” he replies without hesitation. He says it with such certainty, like he knows—truly knows—that this is everything he’s ever wanted, and truthfully, it is. He’s spent so long thinking about you, wishing for you. Now that the moment is finally here, he doesn’t feel foolish for giving in to it.

“We’ll figure it out, baby. We always do, don’t we?”

You nod softly, your hand coming up to cradle his against your cheek, because he’s right. You’ve always figured things out—somehow, and he’s never let you down before.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke  @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens  @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @oobleoob @bluehairpunklol @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @swissy23 @i-love-the-smell-of-your-blood @kenjipepsi1 @birdie-in-arcadia @blackcherrywhiskey @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @pipidoll @heyyoplayer @iconic-taurus @flowery-mess @jesuisunchaton @bloody-spades @bluestdai

[orangesaek]

‘simping 101: get roasted & love will follow’ | pre-simp Haechan

summary: Haechan’s origin story? Got roasted so hard he fell in love AKA reminiscing how you entered his life, what happened during your relationship + uni + present

pairings: haechan x afab!reader (ft. 6DREAM)┊genre: fluff (with a sprinkle of comedy), simp haechan (yes, it’s a genre now), established relationship┊wc: 1.4k┊cw: minimal cursing/swearing

to new readers: I highly suggest u read the below stories first so u’ll understand the references better (if u haven’t yet!)

╰⪼ PART I - 'choose me' (wc: 0.8k)

╰⪼ PART II - 'choose me, PLEASE' (wc: 2.8k)

I feel like this 'haechan simp' thing just evolved into a mini-series 😂 but I'm happy & extremely grateful 💓 tysm my precious haechan-simp-loving readers xoxo

a/n: slightly proofread—literally wrote this at work w/ no coffee 🥲 might update the story later once my braincells recover

3 MONTHS AGO

“And now—”

You reached over and yanked Haechan’s hood down from his head.

“Dude, you’re not walking up there looking like a damn SoundCloud rapper.”

He scoffed. “I’m setting trends.”

“You’re setting my freaking blood pressure off.”

The dean’s voice boomed across the auditorium. 

“Lee Donghyuck. Summa Cum Laude.”

Cue dead silence. Followed by confused applause and sideways glances.

People clapped, sure, but it was that awkward ‘wait, what the heck?’ kind of clap you give when someone drops a bomb no one saw coming.

Students from other departments whispered, “Wait, him?”

Because to them, Haechan was the walking definition of ‘should’ve been a K-pop idol’.

Jaw-droppingly attractive, dangerously charming, and way too distracting for anyone trying to focus.

He was better known for dance covers in lecture halls and for being the loud, chaotic senior who gave more attention to the vending machine than his textbooks.

He wasn’t just famous on campus—he was also infamous for being completely and embarrassingly obsessed with the university’s notorious Tinder girl (you). 

No one expected the guy who could barely sit still in class to be the academic dark horse of the year. 

But the truth was, Haechan didn’t even need to try that hard—he was just freaking smart without breaking a sweat. The type to nap through finals and still wreck everyone’s GPA.

Now, with his name echoing through the auditorium and confused applause still rippling behind him, he walked across the stage in confidence.

You jumped up, screamed, and clapped like a proud (slightly crazy) soccer mom. 

“THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND!”

The entire row turned to stare.

“Sit your butt down,” Haechan mouthed from the stage but winked anyway, diploma in hand.

You beamed, eyes sparkling with pride.

Three months later, you now live together. For real. 

You weren’t just his girlfriend anymore—you were his roommate. Well, co-lessee if you wanted to be technical about it, but to Haechan, the moment you signed that lease was cosmic. Like fate flipping the script.

It still felt surreal.

One fridge, one bed, one Netflix account, and a shared chore chart (that he sometimes ignored).

You were snoring lightly with your face smooshed into his shoulder, dead asleep in pajamas, but somehow still looking ethereal.

Haechan lay on his side, warm from the shower, your arms draped around him like you were clutching something precious. He liked to think it was him.

He sighed and his eyes fluttered shut as he let himself fall into that rabbit hole again—the memory of how it all began.

──────

THE FIRST MEETING

“Jisung, why the heck are you bringing some stranger to our table?” Renjun asked, sipping his iced americano like a grumpy old professor.

NCT DREAM had gathered in the cafeteria for lunch.

“Y/N's not a stranger,” Jisung said all innocent. “She’s in my club.”

“The astrology club?” Jaemin raised a brow. “Didn’t you join by accident?”

Jisung blushed. “Not the point.”

“It kind of is,” Chenle chimed in, cackling.

“You thought it said astronomy. Quit lying.”

“It was an honest mistake!”

Haechan chuckled but stayed quiet. Truth was, he was curious. He had never seen your face for some reason.

Everyone knew your name—the infamous 'Tinder girl' of campus lore.

Some mocked you, some envied you, some were full-on crushing.

But Haechan? He didn’t give a flying fuck about gossip. He knew gossip had the nutritional value of a rice cracker: empty and usually flavored weird.

You did your thing. That was way more impressive than half the campus clowns.

What shocked him was that the girl Jisung dragged over was you—the pretty stranger he’d caught eye of a few times. The one he had put on his 'casual uni crush' mental list. You were the Tinder girlie.

And now you were walking right up to him, oozing confidence.

“Guys,” Jisung grinned. “This is Y/N.”

You lazily waved and plopped into the seat across from Haechan.

“Sup.”

“Sup,” Haechan replied, trying to play it cool despite his brain crashing five seconds ago.

You sat next to Jisung, unbothered, while Haechan stared like he’d just seen his entire future flash before his eyes.

You talked about aliens, ghosts, reincarnation, horoscopes—basically everything wild and weird.

Renjun tried to bring up science, and you shot him down as a ‘typical Aries’ (he was impressed, by the way).

You bounced from conspiracy theories to memes to your dream of buying a pig farm one day.

Haechan smirked. You were sharp, witty, beautiful, and seriously dangerous.

He didn’t stand a chance.

You had the whole table cracking up, but Haechan found himself trying way too hard to get your attention.

He cracked bad jokes. Made weird noises. Tried to juggle cheeseballs and hit Jeno in the face.

Finally, you gave him that look—that straight-faced, deadpan, iconic moment that haunted him ever since.

“Did you take something, or are you just naturally this annoying?”

And just like that, he fell in love.

From then on, he watched, waited, and suffered through your rants about crappy Tinder dates. But instead of mocking, he just listened—and it broke his heart.

Every. Damn. Time.

He vowed to never be the jerk who broke your heart if you gave him a chance. Just one.

Even after people made fun of him for being a simp. Even when you dated other guys. Even when he told himself to give up.

He never could.

He started paying attention to everything. 

He memorized your moods, dreams, food preferences, even your period schedule (mentally tracked, he wasn’t that creepy).

So when you asked him out first, he melted.

And when you said, “Can I be your girlfriend?” he panicked and blurted “I love you” because that was the truth and he meant it more than anything.

Now, here you were, wrapped up in each other. The soft rustle of sheets and vanilla body wash filled the air.

He was still wide awake. Today had been too special for sleep.

You’d celebrated your first anniversary. One whole year with you—chaotic, sarcastic, absolutely irresistible you.

Haechan, being the show-off he was, went all out. 

He pulled a mini “K-drama boyfriend” stunt. 

Rented a fancy restaurant and even paid for the whole thing like the chaebol he pretended to be in a past life.

The surprise on your face when the staff brought out the candlelit dessert and played that cheesy love song he secretly told them was “your song” (you didn’t even have one, but he just really liked that one Taeyeon ballad), was priceless.

You looked like a movie scene. No filter, no edits, just raw, real you—soft-eyed, beautiful, and most importantly, his.

He smiled as he unlocked his phone, your sleepy breath tickling his neck.

His lockscreen was that stolen photo from your first date—the one where you caught him and flipped him off, demanding he delete it. He didn’t.

His homescreen? A more recent stolen shot of you trying to look like a confused hamster but still somehow looked more beautiful than anyone had the right to be.

He scrolled through the photos from today, grinning at the selfies, the blurry laughing shots, the one of you trying to bite his hand when he stole a piece of meat from your plate.

His smile softened.

God, he loved you.

A cute couple selfie popped up and he let out a soft giggle.

“Should frame this,” he muttered. “Kitchen, living room, heck, even the bathroom.”

He glanced at your sleeping face again, your mouth was slightly open.

Still the prettiest.

Still the love of his life.

Still his.

He still thought you were the most beautiful person in the universe even when you drooled a little.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead softly, lips lingering.

“Future wife,” he whispered with a fond smirk. People always thought he was joking when he called you that, but he meant it. 

Because you were it for him. The quiet in his chaos. The one his soul just knew. 

Then, now, always.

You stirred.

“Mmm. Why’re you whispering creepy stuff?”

“Just being romantic.”

“More like suspicious.”

He laughed, pulled you close, and whispered again.

“I love you.”

You mumbled something like “love you too, weirdo”, then passed out again.

Haechan grinned like a man who had everything. 

Because he did.

And tomorrow, he’d pretend he didn’t cry a little from too much happiness tonight.

[kathaynesart]

How many years do you think Replica, as a comic, will last? I’ve seen some webcomics last for ten years even. Honestly, a tiny part of me thought this would disappear like so many others(not just ROTTMNT stories, but other original comics online, and understandly so, you go on to other interests or life gets in the way), but seeing Replica still going strong is really neat.

Thank you! Honestly I don't have an answer for that. At my current rate, probably another 3-4 years? Though my hope is I'll keep getting quicker.

Frankly I'm just as surprised as you that I'm still here. This was SUPPOSED to be a short comic that I had originally planned to finish in about 3 months with maybe 10 updates max. Now I'm working on Chapter 42 and nearing the end of Book 1 of my two Book series.

When I put it that way it all feels a little overwhelming, so I just take it day by day and always make sure to come at it from a place of fun. If I don't feel like drawing it that day, I don't draw it. I don't let the pressure get to me, and instead use it purely as a creative outlet. I wasn't drawing much for myself outside of work before Rise, and this story gives me the chance to do what I love most which is tell stories.

Being an older gal, this story really speaks to me as someone who was a goofy kid that had to grow up (but not old) while keeping a hopeful outlook even as things got tough. I love how I can share this real world experience in a way people of all ages can understand (plus I see a lot of myself and my irl best friends in these characters so it makes it really easy to write them).

Finally, a lot of it also has to do with this wonderful community and all the amazing people I've met who have supported and inspired me these past few years! All of your comments mean the world to me and I want to continue telling this story because so many of you have voiced your love for it. It just makes me happy to know that people enjoy the things I create. I can't promise I'll finish this big story... I never know what life might have in store for me, but I'm grateful to be along for the ride. Thank you!

[goldfades]

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 ☆ BUECKERS⁵ (ev's 6k celly!)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

CELLY MASTERLIST

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.6k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | dating paige means learning to share her — with fans, cameras, the league. you’re used to being in the background: her pregame text, her airport pickup, the face she looks for in the crowd. but when she finally has a bad game — one that leaves her jaw tight and chest guarded, you’re the one she lets fall apart.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst!! hurt to comfort, paige being a little mean, kinda stay at home vibe for reader but not really?? HAPPY ENDING!!

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yaya!! day 3 of celly, i hope yall are enjoying so far. here's the angsty, hurt to comfort paige fic yall were promised. also i feel like i needed to add that im not trying to hate on the wings at all, this fic is more about the emotional side of things than any real commentary on the team.

also obviously i have no idea what paige is actually feeling or going through (obviously LOL), this is all just fictional and for fun. just wanted to explore a softer, more personal side of what that transition might feel like for someone carrying that much pressure. no harm intended, just feelings & vibes & sapphic yearning <3

You meet her in a grocery store just off of campus, which feels fake even as it’s happening.

She’s in a hoodie too big for her, hood up, cart half-full of protein bars and Smartwater, reading the back of a box like it's a scouting report. You’re standing in front of the oat milk. That’s it. That’s the origin story.

She asks if the oat milk is good. You say it depends on what she’s doing with it. She raises an eyebrow and says, drinking it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world . You tell her it’s fine but the vanilla one is better. And when she reaches for it, your fingers graze. You don’t look away first.

It starts there — two people in the milk aisle, pretending they don’t know who the other is or maybe pretending it doesn’t matter.

It matters.

Now it’s almost two years later. You know which pair of socks she has to wear on game days, how she retapes her fingers during halftime even if the wrap is fine, the way she likes her smoothies: blended twice, don’t ask why and that when she’s tired she gets clingy but insists she’s not.

You also know how to stay out of the frame.

You're the person who picks up her dry cleaning, triple checks her call sheet, drives her to the airport at 5AM with a thermos of coffee you’ll never get thanked for. Not because she’s ungrateful, but because she doesn’t realize she needs to. She’s Paige Bueckers. She gives pieces of herself away all day — photos, autographs, interviews, sideline hugs for kids she’s never met and by the time she gets to you, there’s not always much left.

But she always finds your hand. That counts for something.

You get used to watching her light up arenas from the shadows. You like it, actually. The background is quiet. Safe. You can watch her without worrying about being watched back.

You know she’s yours even if everyone else thinks she belongs to the world. And lately, the world’s been getting greedy.

The apartment still smells like new paint.

Not strong, not offensive, just that faint, chalky scent that clings to the corners of the rooms, reminding you that the place isn’t quite lived-in yet. Boxes line the hallway in uneven stacks, some open, some sealed, all of them with your handwriting scrawled across the sides. Kitchen stuff. Shoes, maybe?? PAIGE DON’T TOUCH.

She did, obviously.

You find the proof in the form of an empty protein bar wrapper tucked into the top of a box marked winter clothes and you roll your eyes as you toss it in the trash.

It’s quiet in the apartment, which is rare lately. For the past few months, everything’s been loud. Not just the literal noise, although there’s been plenty of that: roaring student sections, confetti cannons, draft night applause that rang in your chest like a second heartbeat but the kind of loud that lives under your skin. Constant motion. Constant attention. Eyes on her, hands on her, reporters leaning too close with too many questions, and her answering all of it with that same polished smile that means I’m good, I’m fine, keep moving.

You know what it costs.

Winning the natty should’ve felt like a finish line but it only cracked open another beginning. Draft week came less than a week later. There was barely time to breathe, let alone plan a move to a new city, a new team, a new life. You booked the flights. You signed the lease. You made sure the sheets were washed before she got here.

You haven’t unpacked fully. Neither of you has had time.

Right now, she’s at shootaround — early preseason workouts, a light day, though deemed light by Paige Bueckers standards still means running through plays like it’s the Final Four. You’re not there. She asked if you wanted to come and you said no. She didn’t push. She never does.

You like seeing her on the court but today you needed the silence. Needed to breathe in a room that didn’t buzz with her future. Needed to sit in the kitchen she hasn’t cooked in yet and just be.

You wash two mugs, even though you only used one. You start putting away silverware and get distracted organizing the drawer — forks facing one way, spoons the other, knives stacked like soldiers. You don’t know how long you’re standing there when you hear the door unlock.

“Babe?”

Her voice is hoarse. You glance up, startled by the way your heart still flinches at the sound.

“In the kitchen,” you call back.

She appears a second later, already halfway out of her sneakers, gym bag sliding off her shoulder. Her hair’s tied up in a bun, messy, a few strands stuck to her forehead. She looks tired, which means she probably went too hard, again.

She smiles when she sees you. It’s not a big smile, barely there, really but it’s the one she only gives you. The one that softens all the edges.

“Hey,” she says.

You lift an eyebrow. “Don’t ‘hey’ me. You went for an hour and a half.”

“Sixty-five minutes,” she corrects, coming over to press a kiss to your cheek. Her hand finds your waist without thinking. “I’m being good.”

“You’re being reckless.”

“I’m being prepared.” She grins like she knows you’re already over it and you are. Mostly.

You turn into her, letting her rest her forehead against yours. Her skin is damp. You don’t mind. For a second, neither of you says anything.

“I missed you,” she murmurs.

You hum. “You saw me this morning.”

“Still.”

This is how it’s always been. Paige flies too close to the sun, and you make sure there’s a place for her to land. You’ve never tried to stop her. You just make sure the lights are on when she comes home.

She pulls away slowly, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to memorize it, even though she’s already got it memorized a hundred times over.

“I know I haven’t been around much lately,” she says, quieter.

You could say I know, or It’s okay, or You don’t have to explain.

But you don’t.

Instead, you say, “Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

She blinks, then smiles again — wider this time. “You love bossing me around.”

You shrug, moving toward the fridge. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

She sits. Watches you. You can feel her eyes on your back while you crack eggs into a pan and mumble about how she better not leave her sweaty socks on the kitchen chair again. She laughs.

For a second, the rest of it fades. The expectations, the cameras, the pressure. The whole world outside this apartment.

She’s here. And she’s yours.

The season starts badly.

Not technically — their opener is a loss, narrow but clean. The kind of win that looks okay in a box score even if you know, just by watching, that something’s off. Like the rhythm is a beat behind. Like Paige’s shot is just a little too flat. Like the whole team is waiting for someone else to wake them up.

After that, it’s four straight losses. One at home, three on the road. All of them ugly.

The headlines stay polite at first. Young team still finding chemistry. Bueckers adjusting to WNBA pace. But the subtext is everywhere. In the photos they run — Paige midair, Paige scowling, Paige with her hands on her knees. In the clips they replay: missed threes, turnovers, turnovers, turnovers. Even in the way the commentators say her name, like it used to mean something magical and now they’re not sure what it means anymore.

You try not to read the comments. You still do.

At home, she says she’s fine.

Fine when she’s up at 1:30 in the morning watching film with the volume so low you can barely hear it. Fine when she forgets to eat until noon. Fine when she gets back from practice with red-rimmed eyes and blames it on the wind even though it hasn’t been breezy in days.

You don’t press. Not directly.

You just hover. The way you always do. Fold her laundry. Wrap her knee even when she says it doesn’t hurt. Order in from her favorite Thai place and pretend you were craving it too. Make sure the lamp by her side of the bed is always turned on when she walks in.

You wait for her to let you in.

She doesn’t.

The apartment feels different now.

You don’t realize it until you’re halfway through cleaning out the fridge one day and it hits you: this is what distance feels like. Not loud. Not obvious. Just space. Gaps where the closeness used to live. Little things.

She doesn’t hum when she showers anymore. She texts you from the gym less. She doesn’t ask you to braid her hair before games. She doesn’t lose her phone and call out for you in a half-panic only to find it under a throw pillow. She just… moves quieter.

Sometimes she looks at you like she wants to say something. Like it’s sitting on her tongue, one syllable away from shattering the whole dam. But then she blinks and it’s gone, and she says something like “Did we run out of toothpaste?”

And you nod, and say “Yeah, I’ll grab some tomorrow” and pretend you weren’t holding your breath.

They lose again. Badly.

You watch from the tunnel, same place you always stand. You’ve watched her from this spot more times than you can count but this feels different. Wrong.

The buzzer sounds. 78–61. Another loss. Fifth in a row. You stand in the tunnel like always, heart clenched in that familiar way that used to mean nerves but now mostly means dread.

You watch her shake hands, high-five a couple fans who lean over the railing. The towel around her neck looks like a surrender flag. Her face is set, eyes sharp and far away. You recognize that look - it’s the one she wears when she’s trying not to feel anything. When the disappointment is too deep and too sharp to acknowledge in public.

She doesn’t look up at you.

Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t say your name like she usually does, even in passing maybe half a smile, quick reach for your hand if you’re close enough.

She walks straight past.

You wait for her anyway. You text her: I’m in the tunnel, I’ll be at the car.

No response.

She gets home almost an hour later. Drops her bag by the door and kicks her shoes off with more force than necessary. You’re curled up on the couch, pretending to watch a rerun of something, volume too low to actually follow.

You glance over. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter like she’s trying to miss on purpose. “God, what a night. I mean at least I only turned it over, what, six times? That’s practically an improvement.”

You pause. “Seven.”

“Oof.” She winces, exaggerated. “Even better.”

You don’t laugh.

She notices. She walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, stands there like it's a portal to another dimension.

“You hungry?” she asks. “I could burn some toast or reheat something and pretend I made it from scratch.”

“Paige.”

She doesn’t look over. “Or we could do popcorn and call it dinner. Real athlete shit.”

“Paige.”

That lands. She shuts the fridge, too loud and finally turns to face you.

“What?” she says. Light, teasing. Like she already knows what you’re about to say and wants to joke her way out of it. “Don’t tell me you’re mad at me for that disaster.”

You sit up. “I’m not mad at you for losing. I’m upset that you won’t talk to me.”

She blinks. “I am talking to you.”

“No, you’re deflecting. You’ve been doing it for days. You came home last night and made a joke about retiring to become a barista.”

“Hey, that’s a solid fallback plan.”

“Paige.”

She lifts her hands. “Okay. What do you want me to say? That I suck right now? That I’m letting everybody down? That I feel like I made a huge mistake coming here? Would that make you feel better?”

The words cut sharper than they should. Not because she means to hurt you -- Paige never means to hurt you but because you recognize the panic underneath them. The way her voice spikes, too high, too fast. The way she’s trying to outrun the truth before it catches up.

You step into the kitchen, across from her now. Arms folded. Quiet.

“I want you to be honest with me,” you say, low and even. “Not perfect. Not funny. Not brave. Just… honest.”

She leans back against the counter like it might hold her up better than you can. Her arms cross over her chest.

“I can’t do that right now,” she says.

You nod but it’s not agreement. More like acknowledgment.

“Okay.” You back away slowly. “Then I’m gonna go for a drive.”

She frowns. “What? Why?”

“Because if I stay, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.”

She doesn’t try to stop you. That hurts more than it should.

The silence stretches.

A day passes. Then another. The fight doesn’t explode: it simmers. You still talk, technically. You ask if she wants anything when you go to the store. She tells you she refilled your prescription when she picked up her own. You switch the laundry she started. She rewinds the show you missed.

But you don’t touch. You don’t look too long. And she doesn’t say your name like it’s a question anymore.

It feels like standing on a frozen lake, the ice too thin and the water too black and freezing underneath. And you're the only one hearing the cracks.

You find yourself spiraling in stupid ways.

You start overthinking texts that don’t need to be overthought. You stare at her Instagram comments longer than you should. You don’t mean to but you do. All the hearts, all the compliments, all the people who don’t know her but think they do. Who think they love her.

And maybe they do, in that empty, worshipful, social-media way.

But they don’t fold her socks. They don’t know how her voice sounds when she’s half-asleep. They don’t press a cold washcloth to her forehead when she’s sick. They don’t know she triple-knots her laces and tucks the ends in because she’s paranoid about tripping. They don’t know she cries at commercials but hides it by blaming dust.

You do.

And it’s not jealousy, not really. It’s more like… fear. Like maybe all this silence is the beginning of her forgetting that she needs you.

And the worst part? You get it.

You know what she’s feeling even if she won’t say it. You know she’s disappointed, overwhelmed. You know she thinks showing you that will make her seem weak. You know it’s not about you.

But it still feels like it is.

You lie awake beside her that night, staring at the ceiling. You can hear her breathing, slow and even. Either asleep or pretending to be. You don't reach for her. Not this time.

And she doesn't reach for you.

The arena feels different tonight. Not louder. Not quieter. Just heavier. Like even the air is bracing for something it can’t name.

You’re in the tunnel again, where you always are. That same spot, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves, the lanyard around your neck sticking to your skin with the sweat you won’t admit to. You watch the players file in, coaches in tow, heads bowed slightly in that ritual of unspoken hope.

Paige doesn’t look at you when she runs out for warmups. Hasn’t, not since the fight.

Her face is unreadable under the lights, jaw set and mouth tight in that way that means she’s focused, or maybe pretending to be. You’ve seen that look a hundred times before. In college stadiums, back at UConn. But never like this. Never this brittle.

You watch her miss three shots in a row during shootaround. Not by much but by enough. No one else seems to notice or maybe they’ve gotten used to it. You haven’t.

When the game starts, you try to focus on it like you usually do. Not in a fan way but in a quiet way. You keep your eyes on her. Always on her. Not the scoreboard. Not the other players. Just Paige.

She’s off. Again. And this time it’s not the usual, not just missed shots or a slow start or teammates who don’t read her cuts. It’s everything. Her rhythm is gone. Her body’s tight. Her passes are rushed. Her confidence, usually such a steady undercurrent in the way she moves is nowhere to be found.

She fouls early. A dumb reach-in that she wouldn’t normally commit. Then another, chasing a fast break she had no hope of catching. By halftime, she’s on the bench, staring at the floor with a towel over her head and a stat line you know she won’t be able to look at later.

2 points. 1 assist. 4 turnovers.

The team is down by 15.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. You keep rubbing your thumb over your ring finger, a nervous habit you picked up somewhere along the way and never broke. You watch her jog into the tunnel at the half, shoulders tense, mouth pressed into a thin line.

She doesn’t look up.

The second half is worse.

The game slips away before the fourth quarter even starts. Paige goes scoreless the entire third then gets pulled halfway through the fourth when it becomes clear the coaches are calling it. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just walks to the bench, plops down, elbows on her knees, eyes ahead like she’s watching something only she can see.

By the time the buzzer sounds, the final score doesn’t matter.

They lose by 22.

You wait for her in the same spot you always do. Tunnel. Left side. Just past the security guard who now knows your name.

The team walks by slowly. A few nods, a couple brief waves from familiar faces. But Paige isn’t with them.

She comes last.

No towel. No eye contact. Just her, walking like every step hurts.

She sees you — she has to, you’re right in her line of sight but she walks past without a word.

You follow.

The car ride is silent.

She doesn’t play music. Doesn’t reach for your hand at the red light like she usually does. Just keeps her eyes on the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. She’s still in her jersey, sweats pulled over her shorts, hair damp from the shower and curled behind her ears.

You want to say something. Anything. But you’ve learned not to touch the wound while it’s still bleeding.

She unlocks the apartment, tosses her keys on the counter and moves straight to the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Closes it. Opens it again. Then just stands there with her hand on the handle, breathing like she’s trying to remember how.

You step inside, gently, quietly like someone trying not to startle a cornered animal.

“Paige,” you say.

She doesn’t move.

“Hey.” You reach out, touch her back lightly, right between the shoulder blades.

She flinches. Not from pain. From everything else.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

You don’t ask what she means.

Instead, you guide her hand off the fridge door and turn her to face you.

Her face crumples.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… slowly. Like a wall finally giving way after weeks of rain. Her mouth twitches. Her eyes glass over. Her breath catches in her throat.

“I’m trying so hard,” she says, barely audible. “I’m doing everything I can and it’s still not enough.”

You move closer, carefully, and she doesn’t pull away this time.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know you are.”

She shakes her head, eyes rimmed red. “I’m not who they thought I’d be.”

You feel that like a knife. Because you know what she means. Not just the media. Not just the fans. She means everyone. The people who waited for her. The ones who wanted her to be a savior.

“They all thought I’d come in and just… fix it. Like I was some kind of answer.”

You reach up, thumb brushing under her eye. “You were never supposed to fix it all, P.”

She exhales and it sounds like a sob even though there are no tears yet.

“You don’t get it,” she says. “I used to love this. I used to be good at this. And now all I do is mess up and get benched and watch them lose and try not to cry in front of the cameras. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I don’t even feel like me anymore.”

That last part cracks something in you. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? She’s not afraid of losing. She’s afraid of losing herself.

You don’t say anything right away. You just take her face in your hands and hold her like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

“I miss you,” you say.

She blinks. “I’m right here.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been somewhere else for weeks and I didn’t know how to reach you.” Your voice shakes a little. “But I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. You can fall apart with me. You have to fall apart with me. That’s the deal.”

And finally, finally, she breaks.

The tears come fast and silent, her body folding into yours like she’s collapsing under her own weight. You hold her through it, arms around her waist, her forehead pressed into your shoulder. You feel every tremble. Every shudder. Every breath she takes like she’s trying to relearn how.

“I don’t want to be strong right now,” she mumbles against your collarbone. “I’m so tired of being strong.”

“You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

So she lets go. And for the first time in weeks, so do you.

Later, when the storm inside her has quieted, when her eyes are puffy and red and her breathing has slowed to something human again, you lead her to the couch like you’ve done a hundred times before. Like it’s ritual.

She lets you.

Still silent. Still raw. But softer now, like the sharp edges have dulled. Her hand lingers in yours longer than it has in weeks. She curls into you without asking, tucks her knees up under her and presses her cheek to your chest like she did during last year at UConn, after that Final Four game where she swore she’d never play that badly again.

You’d found her in her dorm that night, still in her travel sweats, hoodie pulled up like armor. She hadn’t said anything, just climbed into your lap, quiet and bruised and seventeen kinds of exhausted.

You held her then like you’re holding her now. Careful, steady, for as long as she needed.

You grab the fuzzy blanket from the arm of the couch, the one she pretends she hates because it’s “obnoxiously pink” but always ends up buried under after tough nights. You drape it over the two of you, then kiss her hair once, gently, where it parts at her crown.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs after a long stretch of silence.

You shake your head. “Don’t be.”

“I’ve been such a dick.”

You smile faintly into her hair. “Maybe. But you’re my dick.”

That gets the tiniest huff of a laugh out of her, muffled against your collarbone. It’s the first real sound of her in days.

You reach for the remote and scroll mindlessly until you land on the dumb baking show you always used to put on after her bad games. She pretends to hate it: “They’re just cakes, babe, why are they all crying?” but you know it makes her feel safe. Like the world is a little slower and a little sweeter.

You set the volume low, just enough to fill the room with chatter and clinking bowls and the gentle pressure of lives that have nothing to do with yours.

“I forgot how good this show is,” she mumbles after a few minutes.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers drift through her hair, light and rhythmic. Her breathing evens out, one hand fisting lightly in your hoodie.

This is the version of her you’ve missed. Not perfect. Not polished. Just herself. Soft, sleepy, safe.

“You remember that night in Hartford,” you say eventually, voice quiet, “when you missed that game-winner and locked yourself in the locker room for an hour?”

She groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“You wouldn’t come out. I had to sneak in with that nasty gas station hot chocolate.”

She shifts a little, her smile pressing into your skin. “You bribed me.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

She hums. “Barely. I only opened the door ‘cause I thought you were gonna start sobbing outside it.”

You feign offense. “I was being dramatic for effect.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You let the silence settle again. It’s warm this time. Companionable.

“I used to think you only loved me when I was winning,” she says quietly, like it’s something she’s only just realized she believed.

You tilt your head down. “Do you still think that?”

She shrugs against you. “I don’t know. I think I forgot how to be loved when I wasn’t.”

You exhale slowly and tip her chin up with two fingers, just enough to see her face. Her eyes are tired, but clear.

“Paige,” you say, soft but sure, “you are loved when you lose. When you miss. When you fall apart. When you’re stubborn and snappy and full of doubt. There is no version of you I wouldn’t love.”

Her throat works around the lump there, eyes glistening again, but the tears don’t fall this time. She just nods.

Then she pulls you in and kisses you.

Not desperate. Not needy. Just real. Quiet and slow and full of apology and promise.

When she pulls back, she leans her forehead to yours.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For not walking away.”

You shake your head. “I’ll always be here. Even when you’re not ready. Even when you push. I’ll wait. That’s the job.”

She smiles again, and this time it reaches her eyes. It’s not big. Not flashy. But it’s real.

“You’re too good to me,” she says.

“Mm. Probably,” you tease, brushing your thumb across her cheek. “But I like the work.”

She laughs, and it bubbles out of her like it’s the first time she’s remembered how. The tension breaks. The ache loosens.

The couch holds you both.

Outside, Dallas hums on — noisier than it should be, traffic always loud and lights always spilling in through the windows. But the room you’re in is soft. Dim. Full of the kind of peace that only comes after a storm.

She nestles back into your chest, tugs the blanket up to her chin.

And you think; this is enough.

Not the win streak. Not the headlines. Not the perfect stat lines.

Just this.

Her body folded into yours. Her heart safe in your hands. Her breath warm on your neck. The worst of it behind you.

Finally, finally — home.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[incloudcity]

in the rain | lh43

requests are open

summary: luke surprises you with a cozy anniversary camping trip that turns unexpectedly magical when the rain rolls in.

You had a feeling Luke was up to something the second he told you to “pack comfy clothes, but not like too comfy, because you’ll still want to look cute.” Which, knowing Luke, could mean anything from dinner at a quiet restaurant to a spontaneous road trip into the woods. He was always full of surprises—your favorite kind of chaos.

He wouldn't tell you where you were going. Just grinned that annoyingly adorable grin and threw your weekend bag into the back of his car.

After about two hours of winding through tree-lined roads and humming along to your shared playlist, Luke finally pulled off onto a gravel path that led to a clearing tucked deep in the woods. A little lake shimmered through the trees, and a perfectly pitched tent sat near the water’s edge. Soft fairy lights were strung between two trees, glowing even though the sun was still hanging low in the sky.

“Luke…” you breathed, stepping out of the car and spinning slowly to take it all in.

He was already pulling your backpack from the trunk, looking overly proud of himself. “Happy anniversary, babe.”

Your heart felt like it grew three sizes.

“You did all this?”

“Yup. Even drove out two days ago to set everything up,” he said casually, then added with a sheepish smile, “Took me three tries to get the tent right, but don’t worry, it won’t fall over in the middle of the night. Probably.”

You couldn’t help it—you threw your arms around him and tackled him in a hug, nearly knocking him over. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

He held you there for a moment, swaying slightly. “You deserve perfect.”

You spent the afternoon sprawled out on the picnic blanket he’d laid out. You roasted marshmallows over the small firepit he built (“I Googled it. I’m basically a wilderness expert now.”), ate your favorite snacks, played cards, and lazily skipped rocks on the lake. Luke was completely in his element—laughing, teasing you, gently brushing your hair behind your ear whenever it got in your eyes.

As the sun started to dip lower, casting the lake in warm gold, you leaned against him and sighed contentedly. “This is the best anniversary I’ve ever had.”

“That was the plan.”

But as the sky began to turn a little pink, a cool wind started to roll in. You glanced up at the clouds now gathering above the trees, their fluffy edges darkening with an ominous gray hue.

“You don’t think it’s gonna rain, do you?” you asked.

“I checked the forecast—it said maybe light showers,” Luke said confidently. You raised an eyebrow.

Not five minutes later, the first drop hit your nose.

Luke stared up at the sky. “Okay, in my defense, weather apps lie.”

You both scrambled to grab what you could, tossing the rest of the snacks into the cooler and zipping up the tent. By the time everything was secured, a gentle drizzle was falling steadily through the trees.

You stood just under the tree line, hair damp, watching the raindrops ripple across the lake’s surface. Despite the rain, the air felt soft and quiet. The earthy smell of pine and rain surrounded you, and even though your hoodie was getting soaked, you found yourself smiling.

Luke came up behind you, arms sneaking around your waist. “Sorry about the weather. This wasn’t exactly part of the plan.”

You leaned your head back on his shoulder. “It’s okay. This is still kind of romantic.”

“You think so?”

You turned to face him, reaching up to push his wet curls out of his face. “Yeah. It’s like a movie scene. Except I’m freezing, and you look like a wet puppy.”

Luke made a dramatic gasp. “Excuse me, I am at least a handsome wet puppy.”

You laughed, and then, without warning, he tugged you gently by the hands into the clearing, where the rain was falling a little harder now.

“Luke!” you squealed, trying to resist, but your giggles gave you away.

“Dance with me,” he said, his voice soft but earnest, eyes crinkled in that way that made your heart do somersaults.

“There’s no music,” you whispered, breathless as he twirled you clumsily in the wet grass.

“There’s rain,” he replied simply.

And with that, you let go of everything—your hesitation, the cold, the fact that your socks were probably ruined. Luke swayed with you slowly, both of you dripping, laughing when one of you stepped wrong or slipped in the mud. It was ridiculous. It was messy.

It was perfect.

He pulled you closer, rain slipping down the curve of his jaw as he pressed his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I love you more,” you whispered, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck.

“Impossible,” he murmured, right before leaning in and kissing you.

The kiss was warm despite the chill in the air, slow and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your heart feel a little too big for your chest.

When you finally pulled away, both of you laughing again, Luke looked at you like you’d hung the stars just for him.

“Even if everything else today had gone wrong,” he said, brushing your damp hair away from your face, “this moment would’ve made it all worth it.”

You smiled, cheeks pink and heart full. “You’re such a sap.”

“For you? Always.”

Eventually, you both stumbled back to the tent, soaked to the bone but buzzing with happiness. Luke handed you a hoodie that was at least two sizes too big and wrapped you in a blanket while you curled up together inside, listening to the rain tap gently on the tent’s roof.

Outside, the world kept raining. But inside, all you could feel was warmth.

[snailmp3]

♡ a pair of hand-painted satoru & suguru teacups ♡

note: these are slip-cast bisque pieces; i purchased them from the studio as blank pieces and painted them before they were glazed and re-fired to create a lovely gloss finish. in-progress photos and me rambling below 👇

omg im so happy these are done!!! i know a few people have been patiently waiting for me to get these finished to see the final results, and im so so so happy to finally be able to share them ♡♡

i had a lot of fun putting together various imagery and references into these designs~ satoru's design came together much quicker than suguru's (i debated heavily on if i wanted to do rainbow dragon or not), and i went back and forth on a bunch of designs for the saucers (originally only satoru's was going to have hands reaching, while suguru's was going to be a mess of various curses) but i settled on the symmetrical asymmetric hands on both of them.

theres a lot of little details, and im very pleased with how it all came together ♡♡

thank you so much to everyone who's been following along and encouraging me with kind words! i really appreciate it (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ ♡

some in-progress pics below, so you can see the difference in colour before they were glazed & fired! ↓↓

[xshadowdelta]

DEBUT DAY

NMIXX Lily x Male Reader (1.7k Length)

After many efforts and sacrifices, you finally achieved your dream of becoming a K-pop idol. Years of training, singing lessons, dancing, and hard dieting had finally paid off.

Although your company was not well known in the scene, you had obtained quite respectable numbers in your debut, and you and your group teammates were very happy.

But this had only just begun. After the celebration for the release of your first music video and the amazing reception from the public, now it was time to perform at live events, radio interviews, variety shows, and weekly music shows, where you were now.

The presentation was a success, being able to go on stage with a real audience in front of you, the live performance, the technical team of the show, and the rest of the idols with their respective songs. Everything seemed like an unreal dream.

Now backstage, in the dressing room assigned to your group, which you had shared with NMIXX for the duration of the program.

Almost everyone had already disappeared from there, both your members and staff were already out minutes ago. You had been having a little too much fun recording a challenge for TikTok with a sunbaenim, although the good part was that now you had the whole dressing room to yourself.

Even so, you didn't want to make the others wait much longer and tried to change quickly, without even going into a bathroom or hiding behind a screen, because being alone, you thought it wasn't necessary.

You started to take off the outfit you had brought for the show. Without really knowing why, maybe because of the thrill and excitement of fulfilling a dream, maybe because of the stress of the debut, but for some reason when you took off your pants, you noticed that you were especially hard down there.

Your underwear was a bit sweaty due to the effort and nerves of the day, but luckily, you brought a new one to change completely. You left all your used clothes on the dressing room floor while you rummaged in a bag for your street clothes, a simple shirt and some comfortable jeans.

"Gasp." You heard a gasp from the doorway, startling you and making you jump a little on the spot from fright.

You turned to the door and saw Lily from NMIXX standing there, visibly surprised with her mouth half open and looking directly at you.

You panicked when you realized that you were totally naked and that your erection was in plain sight, in her sight since her eyes were focused on that part of your body.

You hurried to cover yourself with your shirt in a hasty and tremendously embarrassed manner, trying to apologize for the situation but only succeeding in a few awkward stammerings.

"I'm so sorry!" She apologized with a bow, her face flushed with embarrassment as well.

"I forgot my bag." She commented, running up to a coat rack where there was indeed a small bag and practically ripped it off of it, hurrying to walk back towards the dressing room exit.

A normal person would have run to put on their clothes at that very moment so as not to make the situation more uncomfortable, but you were frozen in shock.

"Can I..." Lily paused before turning the doorknob to open the door. Instead, she put the latch on to prevent it from opening from the outside and turned to look at you.

"Can I see it again?"

You were surprised by the question and hesitated. She clutched the strap of her bag in her hands, avoiding looking directly at you, shy.

You swallowed hard and pulled aside the shirt that was still acting as a barrier, leaving your cock in full view.

The girl rested her eyes on your member again, a new gasp came from her lips, biting her lower one and starting to take small steps towards your direction.

"Oh my god, it's so big." She muttered to herself without looking away.

That strange situation was making you both uncomfortable and somewhat horny, causing the size of your penis to continue to grow.

Hypnotized by your cock, Lily bent down, kneeling on the floor to get a closer look at it, inches away from her face. God, if any of the staff walked through that door right now, it would be the end of you.

"S-S-S-Sunbaenim, this is..."

"Can I touch it?" She asked suddenly, setting off all your internal alarms, but you didn't have the courage to deny.

Somewhat hesitantly and nervously, she touched your penis with her hand for the first time; she lifted it slightly to admire its length and was amazed.

In a matter of seconds her hand was stroking your length, slowly and clumsily, but in a way that made your penis and legs tremble, as if you were about to faint.

"Even with my two hands, I can't cover it completely." She said, absorbedly encircling your penis with both hands, squeezing it a little, drawing a grunt from you that brought her out of her reverie.

"OH, SORRY!" She apologized. "My brain wasn't even thinking about what I was doing."

"D-D-D-Don't worry...I liked it." You admitted it with your face flushed.

"That's a relief." She whispered, getting lost in your member again. "I've never seen one so big."

"Well, it's been a long, hard few days preparing for our debut. I haven't had time to unload." You excused yourself, scratching your head.

"I can help you!" She exclaimed excitedly.

"Would you do that for me, Lily sunbaenim?" you asked, to which she nodded energetically.

"A big cock like this deserves its reward."

If the conversation was weird, what followed was even weirder. You had fucking Lily from NMIXX masturbating your cock.

Lily's handjob was no longer clumsy and slow; the first impression had passed, and now her hand was moving with agility and steady movements around your penis that were making you really horny.

It seemed just as she said that her brain stopped working again, occupying all its memory in pleasuring your hard piece of meat. Her lustful eyes never wavered from your cock at any moment, watching every movement of pleasure and how it contracted against her touch.

Lily licked her own tongue across the palm of her hand, moistening it before wrapping it around your penis again, now applying the moisture to your entire length.

She didn't seem entirely satisfied, however, so she leaned forward, formed a ball of saliva at the corner of her lips, and dropped it directly against the skin of your member. Now her handjob was wet enough.

With her hand she rubbed all her saliva along you, causing shivers to run down your spine like electric shocks.

She wrapped her two hands around your penis again, picking up the pace. She pumped you, stretching and squeezing you, forcing you to let out a few moans.

She lifted your cock without stopping the masturbation, looked at your dangling testicles, and in an impulse plunged her face against them, causing you to take a step back.

"Sunbaenim?" you asked, confused and excited. The only answer you got was her rubbing her face against your scrotum.

She opened her mouth and sucked one of your balls for a few seconds, repeating the action with the other. You were getting dizzy with pleasure.

She licked your balls for a while longer, her hands never stopped jerking off. She pulled away once your balls were covered in saliva.

"I can feel how full they are; we must empty them, or it will be a problem." She said, looking into your eyes from below with a smile.

Her thumb touched your tip, making you shudder. All this play had made the pre-seminal fluid start to accumulate on your tip.

She licked your tip, tasting that fluid, opening her mouth to suck only that part of your cock, while the rest was still outside.

Still, the ecstasy was total. You felt Lily's tongue swirling in circles, cleaning the tip of your cock with pleasure. Then she continued to lick with her tongue from the tip to the base and back again, the reverse path culminating in a kiss on your tip.

Your cock throbbed, looking for release. Lily had worked you completely, and it was time to thank her as she deserved.

"I'm so close..." You muttered, clenching your teeth, resisting a little longer to keep her at your feet.

But she needed it now and had no thoughts of waiting much longer. She masturbated you faster than before, her hands moving up and down your skin, which was already beginning to redden from the rubbing.

She positioned herself right under your cock, opened her mouth, and stuck out her tongue. It was the signal that gave you a free hand to unload all your stress and anxiety from weeks of hard work.

You gave up against your own strength and let yourself go, noticing how a great river of semen crossed your entire system until it was expelled like a fountain through your cock.

Thick strands of fluid flowed out with the pressure of water emanating from a dam, flowing into Lily's face and mouth.

One, two, three, you lost count of the squirts she milked you because until she had squeezed every last drop out of you, her handjob didn't stop for a single moment.

You sighed in exhaustion, plopping down on a chair, your head looking up at the ceiling but your hands covering your face as your chest rose and fell endlessly.

When you came back to yourself, you saw how Lily's face was a complete mess, covered in huge white droplets from her hair, her glasses, her lips, and even her chin.

"Looks like you weren't lying." She said, crawling over to her bag looking for something to wipe herself with.

There was no response from you, because you were on the verge of fainting.

"Are you coming at Music Bank tomorrow?" she asked, now clean and on her feet. You could only nod your head.

"Well, meet me in the boys' bathroom after your presentation, I'll give you my best blowjob."

Your cock throbbed in reaction to those words, and she smiled goodbye and walked out of the dressing room, leaving you lying there not knowing what the hell had happened. Simply the best debut ever.

[wishfulsketching]

I finished all my commissions (for now) and am happy to tell ya, I've been drawing my (shared) OC's again! My friend has written a lot about them lately, so I was inspired to doodle

Long Min and Lu Zhen might be familiar to you

They meet some weirdo spirits at one point who successfully trick them...for a minute or two

I also finally designed one of the bad guys, a white fox spirit who really wants to hunt down and eat Lu Zhen

Of course it's not an easy task when Long Min is around

I designed and drew a lot more, but they're harder to give context to without explaining a million things, so I'll just post these

It's so nice to draw my babies

[takenbypeter]

Hello Little One

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

Words: 291

Request: @horrormovielover2000: How about Bob holding his newborn 👶 daughter after his wife gives birth to her?

A/N: This one was so fluffy and cute to write! Just pure happiness in this drabble.

Bob couldn’t believe the time was finally here. After those months of waiting, months of preparing for the newborn, hours of helping you get through the birth, all of that was leading up to this point. 

Bob watched, a permanent look of proudness and amazement on his face as he looked at you and your baby. He was just…filled with a pure amount of love at the sight. 

You, while mostly paying attention to the newborn could easily see his face from beside you. You copied his expression looking up at him who was enthralled by the little one. 

“You want to hold her?” You asked, voice soft. 

“Can I?” The question was so timid no doubt due to the raw moment. 

You couldn’t help but laugh at his words, “you’re the father, of course you can hold her,” his smile only grew at your words. Kneeling down, he leant over and picked her up off of your chest and held her just as you did. 

Bob’s eyes were glued to her fragile body. “Hi,” he whispered, naturally bobbing his own body up and down to comfort the child, “I’m Bob.”

You beamed at the sight in front of you, him, your new daughter. “You’re going to be a great father,” you said, causing him to turn his attention to you. His features softened, his lips still curved while his eyes were now glassy. You knew how much that meant to him. How much he worried about it. But you knew him and you both didn’t have anything to worry about. 

“And you are going to be a great mother,” he commented as you shared a look together before both turning to the small girl again, letting her captivate your focus. 

[linkons-most-wanted]

Sylus is an Alpha (A/B/O this time)

@gingybimby this one's for you 😘

It's, uh, spicy in case that wasn't obvious

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alpha!sylus who practically goes into rut every time he smells your sweet cherry wine omega scent~

alpha!sylus who's the only one who can keep up with just how desperate and needy you get during your heats 🥵

alpha!sylus who takes his time sniffing and licking allll the way down

alpha!sylus who wants to taste how bad you want it before he gives you what you need

alpha!sylus who will make you wait, dripping, begging, his own knot throbbing at the neglect, just to prove he can--just to prove he's completely in control--not even that scent of yours can make him lose it (yet)

alpha!sylus who starts slow, teasing, getting you to beg even more

alpha!sylus with his breath shuddering as instinct finally takes over and there's no holding back now, just the relentless pounding that makes you cum over and over, but there's no relief from your heat yet

alpha!sylus who bites you early and often, right where your shoulder meets your neck, reminding you that you're his which makes all this teasing torment somehow bearable

alpha!sylus who lets you talk to other alphas because he likes the way they smell him on you, and the confidence you have that that smell means nobody else will touch you as you tease them

alpha!sylus who is revolted by the smells of all other omegas, and you pretend to dread how long his ruts last with nobody else to share them with, but you love it

alpha!sylus who frequently goes into nesting mode, collecting all sorts of things you both like, surrounding you with them, making sure you're cozy and happy and cared for

alpha!sylus who sometimes feels guilty for denying you a bigger pack because he can't share or tolerate the scent of other omegas, but you assure him you have everything you could ever want

alpha!sylus who will defend betas Luke and Kieran to the death, even when they go out and stir up trouble

alpha!sylus who will pull you into dark corners, utility closets, single-stall bathrooms, just to claim you again, to make sure his scent is fresh on you, to make sure you never have to wait long for that knot when you need it

alpha!sylus who cuddles around you with snuffly licks and kisses in the pillow nest of your bed, and you feel so safe and content in his embrace

alpha!sylus who loves it when you wrestle, fight back, see how long you can hold back before you're begging for it again

alpha!sylus blep

[p1eceandharmon1]

how they react after hurting you ┊ p1harmony (part 1)

fluff! (with a bit of angst!) ┊ gn!reader ┊ word count: 2406

ੈ♡˳ requested!

a/n: heyy, it's been so long TT. this was requested a while ago, i'm sorry it took this long :(( i've been very busy with work and school but now that all of that is over i'm so happy to be back. anywayss i hope you like this one <3

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➳ Keeho ┊ 윤기호

With your anniversary with Keeho just around the corner, you had been coming up with ideas about how you could celebrate it together. It was not your first anniversary as a couple, but the past few years, you haven’t been able to do anything special due to Keeho’s schedule. But this year, you were especially looking forward to it as it seemed like your boyfriend’s job wouldn’t keep you apart.

You couldn’t wait to bring the idea up to Keeho, already daydreaming about how you could spend that day without any distractions getting in the way. So, as usual, you were waiting for him to return home from the company, trying your best not to let your eyelids close due to sleepiness. The sound of the front door unlocking startled you a bit, but a smile quickly formed on your lips the moment you saw Keeho stepping in.

You noticed straight away the bags under his eyes, as he was making his way towards you. He greeted you with a quiet “hey” and a peck to your lips as he plopped down on the couch next to you. He rested his head back, closing his eyes and leaving out a deep breath. “How was your day?”, you asked as you ran your fingers through his hair, which you knew he loved. Keeho leaned into your touch, enjoying the sensation of your nails slightly scratching his scalp. “Exhausting. Good thing is that I don’t have to come back until Saturday, so I can stay home tomorrow”.

“You have a schedule on Saturday?”, Keeho looked up at you when he felt your hand stopping abruptly. “Yeah, why?”, he asked, obviously oblivious. “You said you were gonna be free on Saturday. It’s our anniversary”, you were clearly disappointed. “It was a last minute thing, I can’t do anything about it”, he said as if it was the simplest thing in the world. You scoffed and looked away.

“Come on, don’t tell me you’re mad now,” the tone of his voice changed into a sharper one, “you know my schedule can change any minute”. You could sense the argument approaching. “Of course I knew; it has been like this hundreds of times before. But still, I preferred to believe you would make an exception for a day as important as that”, your frustration grew word after word and you could feel your face heating up.

“How could you be so unfair? You knew what you were signing up for when we started dating. You knew work is one of my main priorities” his voice was still cold, so unfamiliar to you. “You’re not being very fair either when you’re completely neglecting your other priority, which is supposed to be our relationship”, you remarked with a shaky voice. “Well, maybe I shouldn’t have started this relationship in the first place if I knew you were going to be this inconsiderate”.

His words broke your heart in million pieces and you felt tears gathering up in your eyes, but you did your best to hold them back. You didn’t say anything at all; instead, you stood up and went to your shared bedroom, leaving Keeho with a serious expression on his face.

Hours passed and you were still in different rooms; you sitting on the bed trying your best to stop crying and Keeho going up and down the living room, too ashamed to go talk to you. He couldn’t believe he had the guts to say such harsh things to your face when he didn’t even mean it. Stress from the last few weeks made him take his anger out on the person who deserved it the least; you.

He finally built up the courage to knock on the bedroom door, his heart beating faster when he heard you telling him to come in from inside. A tight knot formed in his throat when he made his way closer to you in silence — neither of you was good at apologizing first, especially after an argument like that. He sat beside you on the bed and tried reaching for your hand. He could see the dried tears on your cheeks and the pain that still lingered on your eyes when you looked at him, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled you closer into the tightest hug ever and blurted out an apology with a shaky voice.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I swear I didn’t mean what I said. I’m such an idiot,” his voice was filled with honesty. “I know I don’t deserve it but I hope you can forgive me”.

You wrapped your arms around him, returning the hug, and you felt his body slightly relax. “You really hurt my feelings,” you whispered. “But of course I forgive you. I know you didn’t mean it”. He pulled away only to capture your lips into a sweet kiss filled with emotion. “I promise it won’t happen again”.

➳ Theo ┊ 최태양

Theo was in the midst of the promotions for the group’s new album, and that meant them attending multiple music broadcasts, radio programs, press conferences and interviews. You always tried to keep up with all the new content to support the boys from the shadows because, as you and Theo had already agreed, it was best to keep your relationship secret. Theo was the one who suggested this as all he wanted was to ensure your safety and privacy, and protect you at all costs from nosy reporters and crazy fans.

You were watching this interview that was airing live when, all of a sudden, the interviewer changed the course of the conversation towards a more personal field. “So, I’m sure many of your fans are very curious about your off-camera lives, right? May I ask you, is there anyone special in your lives? Theo, for example”. You watched as your boyfriend grabbed the mic to answer, not really sure about how he would respond. “Actually, no. There isn’t. My only passion right now is music and I wouldn’t change it for the world. In fact, I wouldn’t want to date anybody if that meant it would take time away from making music. I’m happier being single”, he replied calmly.

You would be lying if you said those words didn’t sting. You knew he was probably lying, that he couldn’t tell the truth, but the honesty in his voice kept ringing in your ears. Maybe he was just a really good liar, or maybe there were some truth in what he said. Questions and intrusive thoughts kept popping in your head, not leaving you alone throughout the entire day to the point you couldn’t concentrate one bit in your daily chores.

Finally, it was time for Theo to come back home, where you were waiting for him, doubts still running through your head. You heard him opening the front door and taking off his shoes at the entrance, before he went towards you to greet you with a kiss. He frowned when he felt your tense lips against his, and also when you avoided his gaze when you pulled apart.

 You prepared dinner and ate it together as always, but Theo noticed you were so much quieter than ever, only giving him short answers every now and then. He knew something was very off; you were always like this when something bothered you.

You stood up, grabbing the empty plates to put them in the kitchen sink, and he went behind you. “Is there something wrong, love?”, he tried testing the waters. Whenever you were angry or sad, his approach was always to ask you right away and encourage you to open up to him, as you tended to bottle up your feelings and that was the last thing he wanted. “No, I’m fine”, your voice sounded weaker than you intended.

You tried to get past him but he grabbed your arm, forcing you to face him. “I know you’re not,” he spoke softly. “I just need you to tell me what’s making you this upset”. You finally met his gaze and you couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I watched the interview from this morning,” you admitted, your cheeks suddenly feeling hot. “Would you really be happier if you were single?”.

At first, he looked at you with confusion, but when he knew what you were talking about, he engulfed you in a rib-breaking hug, shaking his head slightly as a little smile played on his lips. “Is that what all of this is about?” he asked with a playful tone. “You sounded very genuine”, you said as you rested your head on his shoulder. He brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, making you look at him directly in the eyes. “None of that was true, I promise,” he pecked the tip of your nose. “I just wanted to make sure no one suspected a thing, but I’m sorry it bothered you. The question was totally out of place; it took me off guard”.

He slid his hands down to your waist and you wrapped your arms around his neck. “It’s okay. I’m glad to know,” you said as you felt the knot in your stomach loosening. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I got insecure and I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry”. He shook his head. “Don’t say that. Don’t invalidate your feelings like that. You were hurt because of something I said and I am the one to blame. But I want you to know that I love you and that I can’t imagine a life without you by my side”.

You reached up to kiss his lips softly but passionately, feeling so much warmth from that confession. He wasn’t the type to express his love with words, and you were grateful he had reassured you of his feelings.

➳ Jiung ┊ 최지웅

It had been such a terrible and hectic day for Jiung at work. Nothing seemed to go as he planned, which made him frustrated, and he had a hard time focusing on his to-do tasks, so he had to stay longer to finish them. The only thing he could think about was getting home, changing into comfortable clothes, eating some dinner and go straight to bed.

You had been working all day as well and when you arrived to your place, Jiung wasn’t there yet. You left your coat and shoes at the entrance and made your way to the bedroom to get changed into your pajamas. There you were when you heard Jiung entering through the front door — just by the sound of his footsteps, you could tell he was exhausted. He came into the bedroom and gave you a tiny smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He didn’t say anything else but you didn’t want to push him too much when it was evident it hadn’t been a good day for him.

“You haven’t made dinner yet?”, he asked and you didn’t like his dry tone one bit. “I didn’t have time. I arrived just minutes before you”, you replied in shock. Jiung sighed and rolled his eyes. It was so rare in Jiung to give you an attitude like this, but you decided it was best to let it slide; you didn’t want to start an argument. You left him changing in the bedroom as you went into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of cups of instant ramen — it was the easiest and fastest thing to cook.

Jiung joined you and you started preparing dinner together. Looking at his movements, it was obvious that he was still agitated from work; it was almost as if he was in a rush to go to bed and just forget the day. You could understand, of course, because your day hadn’t been easy either, but his behavior was starting to get on your nerves. You put some water to boil for the ramen before turning to face him.

“Are you gonna talk about it?”, you asked, crossing your arms. “About what?”, his voice was low and his eyes never met yours. “You know what I’m talking about. I can tell something happened today at work. Don’t you wanna let it out instead of keeping it to yourself?”. “No”, his sharp reply was your last straw. “Look, Jiung. You’re tired and stressed, I get it. But that doesn’t give you the right to take it out on me, especially when all I want is to help you”.

Jiung didn’t say anything at all, nor even looked up at you. He just went past you to grab the boiling water, which made you even more frustrated and hurt. You had your hands wrapped around the ramen cups, securing them in place as Jiung poured the hot water. Unfortunately, his nervous state made him accidentally spill the boiling liquid directly on your hand.

You let go of the container immediately, hissing in pain as you felt your hand and fingers burning. It was like something in Jiung’s brain clicked and the expression on his face changed almost instantly. He let the water aside and grabbed your wrist firmly yet gently to drag you towards the sink, where he held your hand under the cool stream of water. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m so so sorry,” he kept apologizing. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry”.

“It’s okay, Jiung”, you tried to play it cool but you kept biting your bottom lip to keep the tears from falling due to the painful sensation coming from your hand. “No, it’s not. I’ve been such an asshole since I came home and now this. And all only because I had a bad day at work,” he admitted. You stayed silent, concentrating on the soothing feeling of the running water. “You didn’t deserve this at all. I hope you can forgive me”.

“I already told you, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it”, he still had a little frown on his face, proof of how guilty he felt. He grabbed your other hand, leading you to the living room and making you sit before taking some cream out of one of the drawers. He sat beside you and started applying the cream on your burnt skin with so much care. Once he was done, you both wrapped your arms around each other without hesitation and you felt him pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. Neither of you needed to say anything else.

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