#there are more in the game and I want to find them all

[pillbuggs]

the gutsby collection

after @gutsby 's recent disappearance, i decided to compile all of her fics that i could find, originally for my own reading purposes because i, too, loved her fics. in light of all of the distraught posts and comments that have followed, i have decided to create and post this list for easy access (through compiling already existing findable reblogs, i haven't copied, downloaded, or reposted anything, i'm just putting everything in one place). discovering that you're suddenly unable to reach a favorite blog or never got to finish a well written fic sucks, so i hope y'all are able to find what you're looking for here. if you have any fics of hers reblogged that i've missed feel free to send them my way so i can add them here.

please note these might only be expandable/readable on desktop.

Waiting Game: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Extras More Extras Even More Extras Another Extra

chapters 1-8 can also be found on her ao3 which is still up!

Make It Stick: Prequel Part 1 Part 2 More Old!Joel Even More Another

🌸 Seeing Pink: "Joel steals more of your innocence every day. Fortunately, you love to give as much as he loves to take."

📺 My Body, His Choice: "After a long day, Joel just needs some relief."

🌡️ Cabin Fever: "Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price."

💧 Brighter Times: "You've always been Joel's favorite. Always."

🚸 Love Tap: "Old habits die hard with your husband–touching you at inappropriate times is one of them."

📚 Wants and Needs: "Bills are high; your dad's boss wants to help. How you pay him stays between you and him–for now."

🍼 Cry, Baby: "Joel fucks you to the point of tears. That's all."

🧺 Who's Your Daddy?: "You get stuck in the washing machine. Thankfully, your stepdad is around to help you out."

🍑 Just Peachy: "Joel's got a jealous streak and a bold idea."

🍺 Cowboy Killers: "On a mission to find–and fight–your best friend's lying, cheating boyfriend at the bar, you end up throwing your drink in the wrong face and landing in a sticky situation with Joel Miller, who never plays fair."

💵 Easy to Please: "Months pass, and you can't make rent–again. You find another way to pay your sleazy landlord. Again."

🍍 If You Like Piña Coladas: "You secretly make Joel a profile on Hinge. Then he shows you exactly why he doesn't need one."

⚾️ Heavy Hitter: "A kick in the dick is a strange way to get a man's attention, but Coach Miller doesn't mind at all."

🎬 Too Close for Comfort: "You've been babysitting Sarah Miller forever. One day, you're surfing the web on her dad's computer, and you find some...unusual things in his search history."

🇺🇸 Bigger in Texas: "Joel won't fit."

[demie90s]

Come Here

Natasha Cloud x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Y’all just chillin’. At least you thought that.

Word Count: ~ 5.1k

Genre: Flirty slow-burn, teasing, discovery

Warnings: SMUT. Dom!Tasha. Sub!Reader. Sensual tension, queer questioning, Tasha bein’ too smooth.

(Written with Liberty Players. My bad. I linked Phoenix)

Second year in the league and you were vibin’. Cool with everybody, chill about everything. You weren’t the loudest on the Liberty, but you were the one people gravitated toward—laid-back, funny, a lil unpredictable. You didn’t talk much about your business, and you liked it that way. Let ‘em guess.

The internet? Always trying to figure you out.

“Are you gay?”

“You like girls?”

“Are you and so-and-so a thing?”

You never gave a straight answer. A shrug, a smile, maybe a slick lil “I like…vibes” and that was that. ’Cause why would you explain yourself to people who don’t even know your middle name?

Still—there was always something about Tasha.

Natasha Cloud was your vet, technically. A real one. Confident, grown, fine in that “I know exactly who I am” kind of way. People loved her. So did you. But not in a loud way. Just… in the way you always ended up standing next to her. Sitting beside her. Touching her without thinking.

You didn’t even notice half the time.

So y’all win a game. Good energy all around. It’s late, y’all in the hotel lobby area, a lil tipsy off post-game wine and adrenaline. She’s live on Instagram, talking to fans, still got her jersey half on like she didn’t just drop 15 points and coach a rookie through a panic attack.

You wander into the frame and slump against her side, head against her shoulder, hand casually resting on her thigh.

She smirks, glancing at you sideways. “Oh, so we cuddlin’ on live now?”

You blink like you just woke up. “Girl what?”

Chat blowing up instantly:

“WAIT HOLD ON”

“they always this close??”

“are they together?”

“Oh she is touchyyyy 😭😭”

“THE THIGH GRAB?? HELLO??”

You wave them off. “Y’all be reading too much.”

Someone asks again: “y/n you like girls?? 👀👀👀”

You shrug like always. Cool. Smooth. “I like… vibes.”

Tasha turns toward me slow, like she’s just now remembering I’m here, like she hasn’t been fully aware of my presence this entire time. Her voice drops, quiet enough that it cuts through the background noise like a secret not meant for the live.

“So if I kissed you right now,” she says, real calm, like we not in front of thousands of people, “would it be a vibe?”

She doesn’t even look at me at first. She says it with her chin tilted forward, her elbows still resting on her knees like she’s locked into the screen, like she’s talking at the chat—but then she glances back. Real slow. Over her shoulder. Straight at me.

I feel that look in my chest.

I’m leaned back, deep in the chair, my head pressed to the top cushion like I could melt into it. Legs stretched out, arm flopped behind her, fingers brushing the back of her jersey. My body’s loose but my heart skips anyway.

I’m not sleepy—just drained, heavy from the game, the come-down after the win. The kind of tired where your body still humming but your mind’s already floating.

I shift slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “You wouldn’t. But it comes out softer than I meant it. Less challenge, more dare.

She smirks at that, all slow and smug, her eyes dropping to my mouth like it’s a question she already answered. Then back up. “I think I would,” she says, sitting back a bit like she’s settling into the moment. “Just to find out.”

Her hand shifts at the same time—subtle, but I feel it. Sliding a little lower on my thigh. Not wild, not disrespectful, but intentional. Like she wants me to feel it, like she knows I felt it and she’s waiting for me to say something.

But I don’t. And neither does the live.

The chat has slowed down, like everyone’s collectively holding their breath. Tasha’s eyes are still locked on me. Mine flicker to the phone screen, to the little hearts floating up, to the comments flooding back in all caps, but I can’t read a single one. My focus is stitched to her—her mouth, her hands, her energy.

“You bold,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice casual, but my throat’s tight.

She leans a little closer. Not closing the space completely—just enough to feel the heat. “You scared?”

I scoff under my breath, even though yeah, maybe I am. Just a little. Because it is a vibe. That’s the problem.

“Nah,” I say. “What…why you being messy.”

She grins. “Only a little.”

The way she says it..it’s not just flirting anymore. It’s a promise.

She laughs low, like she got away with something, and turns back to the live like the moment didn’t just shift gravity.

I try to play it cool. My head still against the back of the chair, arm lazily hanging behind her, chest tight but my face chill. Like that didn’t just happen. Like she ain’t just test me with that look, that tone, that touch.

But she don’t let up.

Her hand slides up and down my thigh now—real slow, like she’s tracing a pattern. Absent-minded, but not really. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Then her other hand. Drifts behind her like she reaching for something—nah, she grabs my knee and starts squeezing it like I’m a damn stress ball.

I pop her hand without even thinking. “Girl, gone somewhere.”

She laughs again, unbothered. “Don’t act like you ain’t leanin’ all over me ten minutes ago.”

“I was tired,” I say, smirking. “That ain’t mean open season.”

Tasha shifts again, more into my space now, leaning back so her shoulder presses into my chest, like she tryna recline on me this time. Her hand comes up, fingers lightly dancing over the hem of my shorts.

I catch her wrist real easy. Not hard—just enough to let her know I peeped. “Touchy ass.”

She grins, eyes still on the comments flying up the screen. “They eatin’ this up.”

“Oh, I know they are,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “They delusional.”

She turns her head just enough to look up at me. “Are they?”

I blink. My grip loosens on her wrist, but I don’t move my hand. “Stop playin’.”

“I’m not.” She shrugs, eyes soft now but still teasing. “You don’t be stopping me either.”

I suck my teeth, trying not to smile. “You so annoying.”

She just hums, real pleased with herself, and lets her hand rest right back on my thigh like she never left. I pop it again. She laughs again.

I pull my phone out, pretending to scroll like I’m not still feeling her hand on my leg. Notifications lighting up like fireworks. Texts, DMs, screenshots already in my mentions. I see the live getting clipped in real time.

“She be actin’ brand new but LOOK at her,” one comment says.

“She lowkey folded,” another.

“Natasha Cloud bout to snatch her,” someone added with crying emojis.

I shake my head, smirking at the screen. “Y’all wild.”

Tasha glances at my phone over her shoulder, then back at the live. “They tryna be messy.”

“They always messy, you like they leader” I mumble, still scrolling. “I’m used to it.”

She watches me for a second. Real quiet. Real still. Then she picks up her phone and ends the live. Just like that. Click. Gone. Whole vibe shifts.

I look up, confused. “Damn, you ain’t even say bye—”

She sets her phone down and turns her whole body toward me, eyes locked. Serious now. No more smirking. No more teasing.

“So you gon’ let me show you or what?” she says. Calm. Direct.

I freeze for a second, blinkin’ like she just short-circuited my whole system. “Huh?”

She nods toward my phone. “You on there actin’ like you unfazed. Like this ain’t nothin’. But you feelin’ it, huh?” She leans in, slow but confident. “You want me to stop touchin’ you, you would’ve made me. You don’t want me to stop. You just don’t know what to do with it yet.”

I open my mouth—close it. Suddenly real aware of how warm my skin feels. How close she is.

“Tasha,” I say, voice quieter than I want it to be. “Don’t do that.”

She tilts her head. “Why not?”

“‘Cause I don’t know what you tryna prove.”

She smiles, soft but dangerous. “I ain’t tryna prove nothin’, baby. I just wanna show you.”

She slides my phone out my hand like it belongs to her now, sets it on the table next to hers. Her fingers brush mine, slow. Her other hand slides up my thigh again, same spot as earlier—but this time I don’t pop her.

I just look at her. And she knows.

“Say the word,” she murmurs, leaning close enough for her lips to graze my cheek. “Or I’ll go.”

But I don’t say go. I don’t say shit.

The team’s still kinda around, kinda not—scattered between the hotel lobby, the pool, kitchen, whatever. But it don’t matter. ‘Cause Tasha and I in our own little world. Always have been.

She’s been looking at me. Not glancing. Looking. Like dinner. Like seconds. Like dessert she ain’t supposed to have but gon’ eat anyway.

Ain’t even subtle. And I know that look.

“Stop starin’ at me like I’m the menu,” I mutter, still scrolling but smiling.

“I’m try’na see what the special is,” she fires back without missing a beat.

I nearly choke. “Aht aht—relax, mama. You tryna risk it all in front of the Gatorade cooler.”

She leans back, arms stretched out across the top of her chair like she owns the room. Her eyes dragging over me with that lazy, cocky smirk. “You the one sittin’ there all fine and glowy talkin’ about you tired.”

“I am tired.”

She leans in, voice low like a damn secret. “Let me wake you up then.” I blink. Now hold on.

This grown ass woman really talkin’ to me like that. Meanwhile, I’m still new to this. Technically still got my rookie softness even if I’m in year two. I talk like I’m chill. I act like I’m unbothered. But deep down…I’m very much botherable.

So I glance around. Ain’t nobody paying attention—except Kennedy, who clocked the whole exchange from across the room and shot me that little “mmhm, finally” smile like she been waiting on this episode to drop.

I lean toward Tasha just a little, trying to whisper but definitely cheesin’. “You tryna show me or somethin’? Like you… serious?”

She doesn’t even blink. “Girl, I’ve been waitin’ on the green light since preseason.”

Now I’m lookin’ at her like she crazy. “Oh so you was plottin’ this whole time?”

“Hell yeah.” She adjusts her seat, gets a lil closer. Her hand casually finds its way back to my thigh like we ain’t still half in public. “I knew you was a quick learner. But I also know one thing about you—you like a woman in control.”

I pause. My whole body heatin’ up and we not even touchin’ like that. She say that line like she’s narrating the beginning of a documentary called How I Took Her Soul on a Tuesday.

I let out a breath, cheeks hot. “Mm You ain’t never lied.”

I mean it too. I do like somebody grown. Somebody who knows what they doing. I ain’t tryna lead—baby, give me a lil direction and watch me follow it like a damn GPS.

Tasha tilts her head, studying me like she reading instructions. “So what’s up? You ready or you still tryna play cool?”

I look at her. I mean really look. My leg’s bouncing. My palms sweaty. And I’m grinning like I just got handed a backstage pass to heaven.

“You got it,” I say, and I barely get the words out before—BOOM.

She stands up and picks me up. Not even dramatic about it. Just scoops me up like I’m groceries. Like she do this all the time. Arms under my thighs, grip firm, face serious.

I gasp loud as hell. “OH—okay!”

She laughs once, deep and low in her chest. “You said I got it, right?”

“Yeah but damn!” I wrap my arms around her neck real quick, holding on. “You strong as hell, girl—this what you be doin’ in the off-season?” It be the small ones.

“Nah,” she says, walking us smooth out the room like the credits just started rolling. “This what I do when I know it’s finally go time.”

As she carries me past the team, I catch eyes doing synchronized double takes. Somebody claps once. I think I hear, “bout time!” in the distance.

But I’m in a daze. Still laughing. Still hanging on to her. My voice drops into her ear like a confession.

“You really bout to turn me out, huh?”

She smirks, kissing the side of my jaw. “Girl. You ain’t even gon’ recognize yourself tomorrow.”

I just laugh again, already breathless. “Then lead the way, Coach.”

Game time.

She don’t say a word when we step in her room—just locks the door, kicks off her slides, and walks over to her little Bluetooth speaker like this a ritual. Like she been planning this night since training camp. Like she got a playlist titled “rookie initiation” or some shit.

I’m still by the door, jacket halfway off, watching her like she suspicious.

“What you doin’?” I ask.

“Setting the mood,” she says over her shoulder, all calm like this a wine commercial. “You gone thank me in a minute.”

Before I can even roll my eyes, I hear it. The first few chords. That slow, warm, sensual-ass hum.

Sexual. Healing.

I drop my head back and groan instantly. “TASHA. Are we deadass right now?!”

She turns around with the dumbest grin on her face, like she just hit play on the Super Bowl. “Hell yeah. I’m takin’ my time, shit—I just got you.”

I cover my mouth trying not to laugh. “You are so unserious.”

“And you,” she steps closer, pulling my jacket off smooth, “are about to be very much in serious trouble.”

I snort, still grinning as she tosses my jacket on the chair and starts working on the drawstrings of my sweats like it’s nothing. Like we not in the middle of a slow jam from the ‘80s. Like this ain’t my first time and she not up here playing the damn original soundtrack to soul snatching.

“You really got Marvin Gaye on,” I mutter, even as I let her pull my shirt over my head. “You not even shy about this?”

She presses a kiss to my collarbone. “Why would I be shy? You know how long I been wantin’ this?”

I don’t even get the chance to answer before she kisses me for real—slow, deep, steady like she tryna write the rhythm of the song on my lips. And baby… I’m gigglin’. Straight up gigglin’ into her mouth, breath hitchin’ between laughs like I can’t believe she actually has me cheesin’ this hard while actively getting undressed.

“I hate you,” I say into her smile.

“You love me,” she whispers back, hands slipping under my waistband like she tryna test the waters with just her fingertips. “That’s why you still here.”

She’s right. I’m still here. Shirt gone. Pants unbuttoned. Knees weak and chest rising like I just ran sprints at practice.

But she’s not rushing.

She takes her time, guiding me back toward the bed, still dancing a little with the song, still doing too much. Grinning the whole time, like she got the cheat code and I’m just now realizing I’m the damn controller.

She moves behind me, wraps her arms around my waist, mouth pressed to my neck as she hums along to the chorus like it ain’t currently ruining my life.

“Feel that?” she whispers, her lips brushing right below my ear.

I shiver. “Tasha…”

“I got you,” she says. “You know I got you, right?”

I nod, small, barely audible. “Yeah.”

Then she starts. Slow kisses down my spine. Hands trailing like she memorizing a language, not even rushing to get between my legs. Just holding me, touching me, showing up in every little place I never realized needed her.

I laugh again—light, breathless. She pauses.

“What now?”

“Ion know,” I say, blushing. “You just… really doin’ it. Like… this what I thought it would feel like.”

She smiles into my skin, low and sure. “That’s ‘cause you was right.”

Her mouth is soft on mine, but her hands are already working—slow, steady, intentional. She got my pants off without me even realizing, like her touch was meant to be there. And she keeps whispering little things between kisses, stuff that ain’t even nasty but still make my knees weak.

“Just relax, baby,” she murmurs. “Let me get you right.”

We’re still standing for a second, caught in this warm, slow motion. My shirt’s gone, pants and panties a memory, and she’s just… holding me. Arms around my waist, mouth against my jaw. Gentle. But that heat is real.

“Come sit with me,” she says soft, leading me to the bed.

I follow, floaty. She sits first, legs spread, and guides me right between them. Her back hits the headboard, and I end up sitting in front of her, back against her chest, thighs open—body bare, nerves everywhere.

“You comfy?” she asks, voice like silk, arms sliding around my waist.

I nod slow, already leaning into her. “Mhm.”

Her hands are warm on my thighs, smoothing over skin like she tryna calm the butterflies. Her lips trail slow kisses down my shoulder, her breath brushing my ear.

“You breathing a little fast,” she says, teasing.

I let out a breathy laugh. “I feel everything.”

She smiles against my neck. “Good. That’s how I want it.”

Her hands start to drift lower, fingertips tracing between my legs with the lightest touch, and my whole body jerks. She pulls me closer, one hand pressing to my stomach to ground me, the other moving slow and careful—testing.

“Shh, I got you,” she whispers. “Let me hear you.”

And baby, I do not disappoint. A soft moan slips out of me, mixed with this lil giggle I can’t even help—like a laugh that got lost in pleasure.

Tasha hums, clearly pleased. “You always laugh when it feel good, huh?”

I nod, still squirming, voice shaky. “I—I can’t help it.”

She kisses the side of my neck, fingers stroking gently. “I like it. That’s how I know I’m doin’ it right.”

I whine, hands gripping the sheets now. My head’s tilted back against her shoulder, eyes closed, body trembling. And all she doing is touching me. Real slow. Real intimate. Just the pads of her fingers gliding through heat and slick, not even applying pressure yet—but it’s already got me clenching my thighs, chasing more.

She notices.

“Open up for me,” she whispers, nudging my thighs apart with her own.

I do it without thinking, already gone. And now she’s got the perfect view. Me, laid bare in her lap, body twitching, breath catching with every stroke.

“You so sensitive,” she says, voice deeper now. “That feel good?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, eyes fluttering. “Real good.”

“Mhm.” Her other hand comes up to cup my breast, thumb brushing slow over my nipple while the first keeps teasing. Still not rushing. Still just… working me.

I let out another soft whimper, a breathy “fuck,” followed by that same little moan-giggle she loves so much.

“There it go again,” she murmurs, smiling. “You sound so pretty when you laugh like that.”

I cover my face, overwhelmed. “Tasha—”

“Nah, don’t hide now,” she says, voice close to my ear, lips brushing it between words. “I want you to feel everything, baby. You trust me, right?”

I nod, shaky. “Yes.”

Her fingers slide in deeper now, slow and smooth, and I cry out. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just this sweet, broken sound like I never knew it could feel like this. And I didn’t. Not till her.

She starts to move her fingers, curling just enough to make me squirm, to make my hips roll back into her. Her voice stays right there with me—in it with me.

“Good girl,” she whispers. “That’s it. Just like that.”

She’s everywhere. Her breath, her hands, her calm. I’m melting in her lap, thighs shaking already and we just getting started.

My laugh turns into a moan again, and I swear I can feel her grin.

“You gon’ laugh all the way through this?”

I moan again, breathless. “Maybe.”

She kisses my temple, fingers moving slow but deeper now. “That’s fine. I’m’a make you cry too.”

The way she says it. Not as a threat. As a promise.

Through it all—she never stops talking.

“Yeah… there she go. That’s it. Give it all to me.”

I do. I’m trying not to, but I do. My body jumps under her, legs trembling, throat tight with a moan so ragged it sound like confession. I come so hard my hands fly to the sheets, one leg kicking a little like I’m short circuiting, and all I can say is her name. Over and over.

“Tasha—Tasha, please—”She don’t stop.

Just grips my thigh tighter when I try to close up, keeps rubbing slow deliberate circles that make my hips twitch. Her voice never changes. Still calm. Still steady. Like this all part of the plan.

“Nah, baby. Don’t run now. That was just one,” she whispers, lips brushing my jaw as I shake under her. “We just gettin’ started.”

I try to scoot up the bed—reflex, survival—but she pulls me right back down with one arm. The other hand? Back between my legs. Real slow. Real messy. Just rubbing it in.

“You actin’ like I didn’t just break you in. Let me finish it.”

I let out the softest laugh, breathless, overwhelmed. “Tasha—girl, I can’t even think.”

“You ain’t supposed to think. You supposed to feel me.”

I squirm, giggling and moaning at the same time, legs trying to clamp together again. And she snatches them right back open, throwing her leg over mine to pin me in place. She don’t look mad, just determined. Like this is her sport. Like I’m her court.

“You try to close these thighs again, I’m tellin’ you right now—I’m not lettin’ you sleep tonight.”

The way she says it she Deadass. Like she means that. Like she’s already cleared her schedule for the rest of the week.

I cover my face, teeth sinking into my bottom lip to keep quiet, but that just make her grin. She dips her head down, kisses my thigh, my stomach, then my mouth—messy and slow—and her fingers Still playing with me like she tryna see how many shades of undone I can get.

“You know what I like?” she whispers, voice hot against my mouth. “You got that sweet lil laugh. That cute ass smile. But you nasty too, huh?”

I blink at her, face flushed, lips parted.

“You a freak, huh baby? Giggling and coming like you ain’t been waiting on this.”

All I can do is nod. ‘Cause she’s right. I have been. And now she got me melting. Sweaty. Legs open. Voice gone. Hips jerkin’ every time her thumb hits that same spot—

She leans in, grips my chin between her fingers, tilts my head just enough to look into my eyes. Her mouth barely touches mine as she talks. “Say it.”

I can’t even hear myself, but the words fall out. “I’m a freak…”

She kisses me hard, deep. Groaning low into my mouth. Then she pulls back, her voice dropping into that possessive whisper again.

“I know. You mine now.”

Her hand moves lower, two fingers sliding in slick and smooth like my body been waiting for her. My back arches, a loud cry escaping before I can stop it.

“Aww, look at you,” she coos. “You tryna be quiet but your body tellin’ on you.”

I swear I can’t take it. My thighs trembling, hands searching for something to hold—her wrist, her shoulder, the sheets, my sanity. But she don’t give me a break. Just grips my throat gentle and firm, pressing me back down with control that make me whimper.

“You like when I talk to you like that, huh?”

“Yes,” I moan.

“You like being touched like you mine?”

“Yes.”

“You tryna tap out?”

I pause—honestly, I might need to. But then she smirks and kisses my shoulder, whispering right in my ear: “Don’t.”

That’s what does it. Again. Wetter. Louder. Deeper than the first.

I come apart in her hands, crying out, thighs shaking like I’m being reborn. She watches me—watches—like this a game tape she gon’ replay later. Her fingers still curling in slow, dragging out every last tremble until I’m damn near gasping.

Then she kisses my mouth, slow and greedy, still whispering, “That’s it. That’s it, baby. Look how good you doin’ for me. You takin’ it so well.”

I’m dizzy. Clingy. Floating.

“You okay?” she asks, voice warm again.

“Uh huh,” I breathe. “I just feel like a—”

“A hoochie mama?” she finishes, laughing.

I laugh too, face still buried in her. “Yes.”

She grins, rubbing my back, smug as hell. “Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.”

And then real low, right in my ear. “Now turn over. You ain’t done yet.”

I blink up at her, barely functioning, body limp and overheated, still wrapped around her like I’m tryna become a part of her skin. She strokes my back, kisses my jaw, soft little things that should feel like an ending—except she already told me:

I’m not done yet.

“Turn over,” she says again, quiet but real firm, real smooth. Like it’s a courtesy, not a request.

I lift my head slow, eyes wide. “Girl…”

She grins, all teeth. “You still talkin’?”

I blink again, dead serious. “I’m sensitive.”

She kisses my lips once, slow and full. “I know. That’s what’s gon’ make it real good.”

Like a damn fool, I turn over. Because my body don’t listen to me no more. My brain is all “survival,” but my hips? My hips are up, ass arched, thighs still trembling like I didn’t just get rocked into another dimension.

Tasha settles behind me, real calm. One hand running down my back, tracing the dip of my spine. The other Pressed flat to my lower back, holding me steady.

“You so wet,” she mutters, low like she talkin’ to herself. “I ain’t even touched you again yet.”

She spreads me open just a little, and I gasp, arms shaking under me. “Oh my God—”

“Mmhmm.” Her voice is smug now, but it’s focused. “That’s all me, huh?”

“Y-yeah,” I stammer, barely able to get the word out.

She leans forward, body draped over mine, her chest warm against my back. Her hand slides under, fingers brushing my mouth.

“Open,” she says, still soft.

I do. And when she slips her fingers in my mouth—just the same ones that were inside me—I damn near lose it. She don’t even move them, just lets them sit on my tongue like a reminder.

“You taste that?” she asks. I nod, moaning around her fingers.

“That’s mine. And I’m not done takin’ it.”

She slides them back out, kissing the side of my face, then sits back on her knees. Her hands grip my hips, pulling me back just slightly until I whimper. My thighs are shaking again and she ain’t even done anything yet.

“You ever been touched like this before?” she asks. I shake my head, biting the pillow.

She hums like she expected that. “Good.”

Then her fingers slide back in—slow and deep. From behind. It’s worse like this. I can’t see her. Can’t read her face. All I can do is feel. She moves her thumb to circle my clit, slow, firm pressure that got my whole body jerking with every pass.

I start whining again. That soft, breathy sound I’ve been trying to hide.

“Ohhh, that’s the one,” she laughs, leaning over me again, whispering in my ear. “That little whimper you do? That’s the sound I’m keepin’ for later.”

I moan into the pillow, legs twitching as she picks up the pace. Not rough. Just enough. Just enough to make me stay open, just enough to keep me there.

“Tasha,” I gasp. “Tasha I’m—fuck—”

“Don’t run,” she whispers, hand gripping the back of my neck now. “Don’t move. You gon’ give it to me again.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

Her hand slides to my chin, pulls my head up and turns it slightly so she can kiss me—backward, messy, tongues meeting between moans.

“You a good girl, right?” she whispers into my mouth.

“Yes…”

“Then be good and take it.”

I’m still trying to breathe, face buried in the pillow, body loose and slick with sweat, thighs twitching. And she’s behind me, watching it all like art.

Tasha runs her hand down the back of my thigh, trailing light touches like she ain’t just had me shaking. I glance back at her, still panting, trying to laugh through it.

She smirks, head tilting. “You lucky I ain’t bring it. Oh I would’ve worked you ass.”

I blink. “…Wait.”

She leans down, all slow, and kisses the curve of my ass, hand sliding up to grab a handful, spreading me gently.

“Baby,” she murmurs, mouth warm and close, “if I had it, you wouldn’t be walkin’. But don’t worry it only ya first time…plus I got something better.”

Then she lowers her head. Oh my God.

The first lick got my soul trying to evacuate. My hands fly to the sheets, back arching off the mattress instantly.

“Tasha—girl—what the f—”

She flattens her tongue and drags it slow, moaning against me like she been starvin’. Her arms hook under my thighs and pull me deeper into her mouth—close, close like she tryna eat through me.

She’s overly freaked’ out too—low groans, breath catching, hands gripping like she losing her mind. It’s not even cute. It’s crazy. Like she waited too long and now she feasting.

Her mouth is sloppy, tongue moving in circles, then flicking just right, and all I can do is whimper. Real soft. Real messy.

I try to scoot up the bed again—natural reflex, survival instincts, Jesus take the wheel—but she yanks me right back down.

“Stop.”

That’s all she says. Just stop. And she keeps going. And I start losing it.

I’m moaning into the pillow now, whining, hips lifting, legs shaking again even though I know I ain’t got another one in me.

“You gon’ come again,” she murmurs between licks, voice low and hungry. “Let it out, baby. Make that pretty sound for me.”

I whimper, one hand clawing the sheets, the other trying to reach back and stop her, but she just laughs against me.

“Don’t you pull away from me.”

“Tasha please—”

“Open up,” she says, voice sharp, hand gripping under my thigh to hold it open. “Don’t be shy now.”

My body folds. I’m grinding into her mouth now like I ain’t got no shame left. I feel her everywhere. She moves her tongue in slow circles, sucks gently, then moans again like I taste better the more I shake.

That’s what really get me. She’s eating me like she love it. Like she missed it. Like she don’t care how loud I am, how soaked she gets, how many times I try to run—she’s not letting up until I cry again.

I do.

Whole body goes limp. That ugly moan escapes, one I ain’t never made before. My thighs clamp around her head but she don’t care—just groans into me louder, dragging the orgasm out like she tryna ruin me on purpose.

When it’s over she don’t say nothing. She just comes up slow, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, kisses my cheek, and whispers

“Next time, im using the strap.”

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037

[femmesport]

Almost Something - Chapter One

warning: none an: AHHH here it is - please please please have grace i know this isn't all that good and unedited so also ignore that wc: 3.9k

Paige sat on the bus with her head leaned against the window and music floating around her. Her teammates were joking around buzzing with tired adrenaline after a particularly gratifying win. Across the aisle, Azzi Fudd laughed loudly at something an underclassman had whispered to her. It was the type of full body laugh that caused her to scrunch her face, close her eyes, and lean back.

This tiny moment should’ve been nothing. One of the hundreds of throw away moments that have been collected since they first played together. Instead, Azzi’s laugh found her way into Paige’s mind and settled like the most comforting blanket that wrapped around Paige too tightly. The weight of this insignificant moment caught in Paige’s throat and threatened to spill into the shift that Paige had come to notice.

Azzi and Paige were not just teammates. They were not just friends. Well, on paper they were. But Paige felt the weight of what they were settling its roots deep into her bones. This shift had been happening for a long time between shared hotel beds at away games, the lingering touches during hand shakes, and the way their gazes found each other when things got too loud.

Paige looked a moment longer. In that moment she tried searing the happiness she saw on Azzi into her mind. She wanted this version of Azzi to live forever. The version that laughed loosely and seemed relaxed without worrying about those around her. 

She sighed as she felt the bus coming to a stop outside their hotel. The rest of the team was quick to hurry back to their rooms as the adrenaline started to bleed into exhaustion. The team unloaded and just as quickly filed into the elevators back to their rooms they had for one more night. 

As the team dispersed to their respective rooms, Paige’s feet slowed down. She stopped at the edge of the door and allowed herself a moment before entering into the thick air that always seemed to be present when she shared a space with Azzi. 

Before she could stand outside the door too long, she opened up the door and went through the motions of getting ready for bed. She had felt exhaustion in every muscle in her body and let it be known as she lay on her bed with a groan.

“You okay?” Azzi asks softly from her spot on the bed nearest the window. Paige doesn’t even look at Azzi, but lets her gentle tone and undeniable warmth fill her body from across the room.

“‘M just sleepy” Paige mutters as she finds her way under the covers. It is silent for a moment, but just a moment.

Paige hears Azzi shuffling between the beds and finding her way to Paige’s. It is almost instinctual the way Paige shifts slightly to allow room for Azzi to join her under the covers of the bed. Azzi lays down and presses her body up against Paige’s. Paige wraps her arms around Azzi and pulls her tightly into her chest. Azzi melts into the embrace and tangles their legs while wrapping her arms around Paige’s middle.

“You played really well tonight” Azzi whispers into Paige’s chest and Paige squeezes gently in return.

“One player is only as good as the rest of her team” Paige responds gently leaning her chin onto the top of Azzi’s head.

“We are just so lucky to have you,” Azzi slowly offers, “I am so lucky to have you.” Azzi whispers out the last part but Paige hears it. She hears it and lets it settle into the night around them.

“Goodnight, Azzi” is all Paige whispers while wrapping her arms tighter around Azzi and letting the exhaustion take over.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Waking up wrapped in the soft embrace of a woman who you feel so strongly about should be a good thing, right? For Paige it was one of her more difficult moments. Waking up together had happened before. But this time was worse. Paige and Azzi would find themselves in each other’s arms under the shield of night time exhaustion. Usually Azzi would be gone about her day by the time Paige woke up.

Today, though, Paige woke up and found Azzi still asleep with her arms wrapped tightly around Paige’s middle. Her cheek was pressed onto Paige’s chest like it was the only thing that made sense with small huffs of breath meeting Paige’s arm. Their legs had become so tangled that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.

Azzi looked truly and honestly peaceful. She wasn’t carrying herself with the expectations of being perfect that she does during the day. All the parts of her that were poised and put together seemed relaxed and calm.

Paige couldn’t stop herself from softly brushing a curl out of Azzi’s face. Instead of flinching or ignoring the sensation, Azzi buried herself further in Paige’s chest with a sigh. 

“Azzi,” Paige said softly once she couldn’t ignore the sounds of her teammates growing outside in the hallway. Azzi huffed and tried hiding her face even more. Paige smiled at the girl tangled up with her and brushed her fingers up and down Azzi’s arm.

“Come on,” she whispers with a smile, not stopping from brushing her hand up and down Azzi’s arm, “they’ve given us a lot of grace, but we probably have five more minutes before KK decides texting is working and tries to break down the door.” 

“‘M too comfy. They can drag me out” Azzi puts and Paige laughs gently. Paige gives her just a moment before detangling their bodies.

Azzi stays still in the bed a few moments longer as Paige goes about the motions of getting ready and gathering their things. As soon as Paige has finished in the bathroom Azzi is in, following through while Paige settles on the chair in the corner of the room.

Paige is scrolling through her phone and responding to messages when Azzi steps out. It is unfair how she can make anything seem like runway material. Athletic shorts and an oversized UCONN hoodie might be a new low for ruining Paige. 

“You ready?” Paige asks while pocketing her phone. Azzi just hums before walking towards Paige. 

She stops when she is standing between Paige’s legs. She leans forward slightly and adjusts the collar on Paige’s quarter zip. Their faces are too close for comfort and Azzi only looks up and smiles at Paige whose face has gone tight without warning.

“And now you are” Azzi smiles before patting at Paige’s shoulders and stepping back.

Paige lets out a deep breath, smiles, and thanks her best friend in return. Paige tries to keep it a normal friendly smile, but she was sure that her eyes were giving her away. They always did.

Azzi, seeming to not notice, grabbed her bookbag and suitcase heading to the door with Paige following. They step into the hall and see a few of their teammates taking their things and heading towards the elevator. Paige’s eyes never trail too far from Azzi. She didn’t even mean to, but she always had her eyes on Azzi.

“I am not sure how she hasn’t felt you burning holes into the back of her head, but you need to chill with the staring” KK whispers from beside her and Paige looks in her direction not even bothering to deny staring.

“It wasn’t that bad, just a few moments” Paige responds and KK clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes at Paige clearly knowing that was not the case.

The elevator doors open and Azzi turns around to grab the room keys that Paige was holding onto. She was in charge of returning them to the training staff. Paige handed them over and then ignored the desire to wait for Azzi. She instead followed the rest of the group to the bus. KK seemed ready to pick up the conversation.

“I am really not trying to be rude, but what is actually going on” KK huffs out as she adds her suitcase to the pile of others that were being put under the bus. Paige follows and then joins her friend as they end up in line to the bus.

“I’m good,” Paige said, but she was blinking too fast and looking anywhere but KK’s eyes. “I’m always good.”

“Girl, I know you are not trying to lie to me right now” KK retorts as they climb onto the bus and claim their typical seats towards the back.

“I’m not lying, we really are fine” Paige groans out wanting this conversation to be done with.

“Okay, you guys might be, but you are clearly not” KK points out and Paige doesn’t have a response to that one, so she lets the comment sit around them.

“Paige, I am really not trying to meddle. It’s not my business. What is my business though is one of my girls struggling. I just want to help” KK whispers the last part and then decides that her piece was out and she should give Paige space. She moves up a few spots and Paige almost thinks she will get the row to herself.

The silence lasts for only a few moments before Azzi is on the bus and notices the open seat next to Paige. She smiles before claiming the spot and nudging Paige with her shoulder.

“Should I be scared that you are capable of scaring off multiple seat mates?” Azzi jokes and Paige just looks at her a moment in return before smiling.

“That depends, should I be scared that you have been booted from your seat” Paige jokes in return and Azzi just laughs before turning to face her body forward and leaning her head on Paige’s shoulder.

Paige’s breath caught lightly and before she could really think about what she was doing, she was leaning her shoulder down to offer more space for Azzi to really settle in and get comfortable. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She worried that if she did, she would shatter this moment. She lifted her head slightly and made eye contact with KK who just sighed before turning around.

The entirety of the bus ride back to Storrs from Syracuse Paige didn’t move. She didn’t reach into her bag to get out her headphones. She didn’t grab her computer or books to do her homework. She settled into the seat and found some highlight reels on her phone as well as game analysis articles of their most recent game.

At one point she considered taking a nap, but she knew she had a tendency to move in her sleep and was worried about jostling Azzi. So, for the entire five-hour bus ride, Paige settled into place and let Azzi get the rest she so clearly needed.

Azzi began to stir beside her, still curled against Paige's side. Her head remained on Paige’s shoulder, her body warm and heavy like a blanket Paige didn’t want to take off. For five hours, Paige had barely moved. She didn’t want to wake her. She didn’t want to lose this.

Azzi's fingers twitched as she scrolled through her phone. Then, without lifting her head, “So... I think I might have a date this weekend.” 

The words were soft. Careless. Excited. And they shattered Paige. Her stomach dropped so fast it stole her breath. She blinked once. Then again.

No.

“Really?” Paige heard herself say, voice tight. She cleared her throat. “That’s awesome.”

Azzi finally looked up at her, eyes bright. “Tyler. He’s in my econ class. I guess we’ve been flirting a little. He’s cute, you wanna to see a picture?”

Paige wanted to say no. She wanted to shake her head, pull away, bury her face in Azzi’s hoodie and pretend this wasn’t happening. But instead she smiled. Or tried to.

“Sure,” she said. Her voice was brittle glass.

Azzi turned her screen. A guy — generic, forgettable. Blonde hair, too confident smile, and eyes that didn’t know Azzi at all. Paige hated him instantly.

“Wow,” Paige said. She didn’t hear her own voice. “I’m so happy for you.”

Azzi beamed. “Thanks, P.”

Paige couldn’t look at her. She wrapped her arms around Azzi in a sudden hug, hiding her face in Azzi’s hair before her expression betrayed her. Azzi laughed, thinking it was just Paige being sentimental.

“I’m so happy for you,” Paige whispered again. But this time her voice cracked.

Azzi didn’t notice.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Paige sat on the couch in her dorm, phone in hand, thumb aimlessly scrolling. She wasn’t reading. She wasn’t seeing. Her body was still, but her mind? Her mind was back on the bus. Back to Azzi’s smile, back to the way she said “date” like it was no big deal.

Paige had replayed it too many times already. So... I think I might have a date this weekend. The words echoed in her skull like a taunt. She hated how they hit her. Hated how she couldn’t just be happy.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the couch.

“God,” she muttered.

The image of Tyler in all his boring glory floated into her brain again. She groaned. That guy? That guy was the one Azzi picked to date? Not that it mattered. It wasn’t about Tyler. It was about Azzi smiling up at someone else. Letting someone else in. Sharing the parts of her that used to be just for Paige.

Paige’s chest ached in a way that felt ridiculous, even to her. She was being pathetic. They were friends. That’s it. That’s all it had ever officially been. But no matter how many times she told herself that, her heart didn’t get the message. It still wanted her.

It wanted the girl who fell asleep in her arms, who whispered into her chest like it was the safest place in the world. It wanted the look Azzi gave her across crowded rooms, the quiet comfort, the heat in the silence between them.

Paige clenched her jaw and tossed her phone to the far end of the couch like it had personally betrayed her. She curled into herself, arms wrapped around her knees, and let the silence press in. It was heavy. And familiar.

You’re just her best friend.

That truth hit harder than it should.

“Alright, let’s go out” Amari breaks through her spiral as she sits down by Paige on the couch and pats her leg.

“I’m not feeling it” Paige mumbles and picks at a frayed piece of her sweats.

“Yeah, that really isn’t an option. You have been ignoring everyone and moping, we just want you to get your mind off of whatever has you so worked up” Amari explains growing gentler by the end.

“Did KK put you up to this?” Paige mumbles after a moment of silence. Amari just laughs and shoves her shoulder.

“No, anyone with eyes can see your true feelings and how much this is eating you alive. No one is down with the self-deprication” Amari smirks and Paige just playfully glares.

“You have twenty minutes to get ready before I drag you out in whatever clothes you are in” Amari stands up and heads to the kitchen.

Paige went to her room and got around. She threw on a white cropped tank with a cream colored set of cargo pants and an undone short sleeve button up. She threw her hair up in a slicked back bun and put on some chapstick. With a quick look in the mirror, she was grabbing her phone and heading out to the living room.

Amari was standing there with a smirk along with Caroline and Aubrey. Paige just shakes her head with a smile. The group exits the dorm without pause and an Uber is waiting for your group.

The ride to the bar was mostly filled with off-key singing and laughter. Paige felt her mood lifting and was actually looking forward to the evening. By the time they got to Ted’s, Paige was even singing along to some song she barely knew the name of let alone most of the words.

The girls got out of the Uber and hurried in to order drinks. The unspoken rule was that the last person to the bar rail would order the drinks. Unfortunately, tonight that person was Paige. She handed her card over to the bartender to start a tab for her friends who would most certainly take advantage of the tab.

When she finally had their drinks, she walked over to a small table off to the corner that her teammates tended to settle in. She handed out drinks to the girls who had begun getting Snapchat stories of their off-key singing. Paige smiles out at her friends.

“Alright, real talk, what is going on?” Caroline stared at Paige, “I know it is supposed to be a fun night, but how can I have fun if my people are not taken care of?” Amari and Aubrey also shift their focus to Paige who stares down at her drink moving the straw around quietly.

“I wish I could say there was something, but there really isn’t” Paige shrugs not meeting the eyes of her friends.

“There must be something. You have been moping and walking around with enough angst to rival Lana Del Rey” Caroline points out.

“Look, if you are scared to tell us something is or was going on with Azzi, we won’t judge” Amari offers and that does make Paige look up.

“Nothing has gone on with her. We are friends. I can think or feel whatever I want, but at the end of the day we are friends” Paige states before pausing, “plus, she has a date this weekend.” Paige takes a long drink with a wince. She feels her friends gazing at her sympathetically which is not what she wanted.

“I’m so sorry, Paige” Caroline softens and reaches out to rub her thumb across Paige’s hand.

“Man, that blows. I am so sorry” Aubrey offers in her direction and Amari just has a sympathetic look that makes Paige’s skin crawl.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Paige lightly pulls her hand back, “we’re friends. Friends are happy when their friends are going on dates and getting some.”

Paige winces at the way her voice cracks at the end and Amari merely snorts.

“Alright, new rules for tonight!” Caroline announces, “We are getting fucked up and not talking about anything related to any of our other teammates” she holds up her drinks and everyone clinks their glasses together.

Paige smiles at her friends. She was immensely grateful for their support and willingness to get her mind off of things she couldn’t quite put into words. 

After settling into their table for much longer than she would’ve liked, Amari pulled her friends over to the middle of the floor where college students were starting to fill in. The music has gotten louder since they arrived and they could feel the bass beneath their feet. 

Bodies were pressed up against each other and careless thoughts were thrown around by voices both too quiet and too loud to be heard. The environment was nauseating, overstimulating, and exactly what Paige needed. Paige didn’t even mind the constant pressure on her body as people bumped into her and her friends.

At some point, she noticed her friends starting to get fidgety. Thinking it was time for another round, Paige leans in to announce that she is getting drinks and Aubrey quickly reaches out to grab her wrist.

“Paige, we’re good” Amari quickly gets out and Paige shrugs it off with a smile. She turns around and her heart catches in her throat.

Across the room she saw Azzi with her arms around that guy's neck and his on her waist. She was smiling up at him and Paige was ready to be sick. Her heart dropped and she turned back around to her friend group with her face dropped. Her body had turned away quickly like the sight had burned her.

“P,” Caroline reaches out and Paige just forces a smile and shrugs slightly rolling her shoulders.

“No, no. I am good,” Paige smiles, “for real. I’m good. I am just going to go grab our drinks and I’ll be back.”

Paige turns away before anyone else can say anything. As she walks away she swears she hears her heart in her ears and feels her eyes glossing over. She felt like such an awful friend being upset. With a few deep breaths, she walks to the bar and orders another round.

The bar crowd blurred as she moved, one hand on the counter, the other clutching her phone like a lifeline. Someone slid up beside her, a girl with too much perfume and the wrong smile. Paige didn’t even blink.

“P!” Paige freezes recognizing that voice anywhere. She gives herself only a second before turning around to see Azzi with a smile so bright it only burnt what Paige was already feeling.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Paige says through a forced smile.

“Tyler wanted to go out and celebrate the win we had, so we decided to meet up even before our date” Azzi excitedly explains, pointing over her shoulder and stepping forward, “he is really nice, I think you’ll like him!”

Paige takes a step back which presses the bar railing into her back. She wanted to smile. To mean it. But all she could do was nod and hope her voice didn’t betray her.

Azzi invades Paige’s space and hugs her once before waving and running back to Tyler who had a grin so big on his face you would’ve thought he won the lottery. Paige wanted to punch him. Azzi was so much better than any lottery and she deserved the whole world delivered on a silver platter.

“Here you go” the bartender slides four glasses in her direction and quickly rushes off to other college students.

Unknowingly, Caroline had joined Paige and grabbed two drinks that were sitting out in front of her. Paige didn’t say anything, just nodded in her friends’ direction and turned away heading back through the crowd.

“Hey guys, I closed my tab and I think I am going to head out” Paige mumbles as she sets the drinks down on their table.

“Come on, P. We’re really worried” Caroline offers as she settles back with the group.

“I’m good. Just tired and not really feeling it” Paige gets out and the lump is back in her throat threatening to spill over and into that dangerous territory where her feelings are real and she has to acknowledge them.

Caroline just sighs but Aubrey nods understanding that she needed space. She reminded Paige to give them a call if she needed anything and then reluctantly let Paige leave.

Paige stepped out of the bar and let the cold chill of silence settle deep into her bones. Her dorm was a twenty minute walk from the bar, but she figured there was no better time to sort through her head and breathe without the weight of curious eyes.

She had left her heart on the dance floor with her best friend. Best friend. The title stung as she thought it. The words stabbed further into her chest creating a devastation so deep. Her eyes were heavy with unshed tears as she saw her best friend’s face again in her mind, her smile up at that guy.

The line between friendship had always been a fleeting narrow thing. Now, Paige realized, the line had completely dissolved.

an: alright here is the unedited beast that i cannot look at any more without wanting to be sick ahhh. i wanted to have a better first chapter, but i literally had no time to write or revisit this. it is painfully short, but i promise you will get more in the upcoming chapters!!

Please repost, like, and leave your feedback! Thank you!!! <33

-- tea ★’*•.¸♡

[erlann]

Sorry, I don't have any guides for these tools and didn't find any good one on the internet either. I made one myself for you this morning, super long and complete with screenshots and all, and then tumblr just... disappeared it... And I don't think I have the will to do it all over again with all the screenshots and explanations. I'll make a shorter one.

I'm assuming that you use Windows.

WizTree

The link to the installer is here. The wizard is straightforward.

You should run the disk cleanup utility as administrator first, so that you can rid of any unnecessary file (but please check that you don't have any important file in the recycle bin before having it emptied). You can just type up "disk cleanup" in the Windows search bar for it, then right-click instead of left-click, and select "run as administrator". You should definitely do this again every now and then btw.

When you open WizTree, what you want to look for is either big squares (single files that take up a lot of space, like movies or zip files) or many smaller squares all clumped together. The latter might be cache (Spotify, Telegram, all internet browsers, generate a lot of it. WizTree gives you the cue to open these programs and clean the cache from their respective settings), or some other thing (AMD Radeon for some reason likes to keep all past versions of its installer, even though only the most recent is useful). You might also notice some folders that are considerably bigger, for example all Adobe products are naturally chunky and so you might want to consider alternatives, like Photopea in lieu of Photoshop. Here I highlighted some examples on my laptop, files and folders which I would definitely check out first thing. And after deleting them, I would hit the "Scan" button again to refresh the graph.

It takes some effort to get used to the game the first time, but I think the immediate visual feedback of the colored blocks, the highlighting of the folder as you hover on it, the size proportion... They make WizTree a great tool. I also wish I could give you more precise information on what to look for exactly, but it really varies greatly from PC to PC, so I can't know for certain what might take up space on your machine.

Beware! Some big squares are best left untouched because they're Windows files: namely $MFT, hiberfil.sys, pagefile.sys, anything in "System Volume Information" or in "Recovery", and of course anything in the "Windows" folder.

If pagefile.sys is very big (say, bigger than 5 GB) and you're running out of storage space, you can reduce its size to something like 2 or 3 GB, following this guide.

Everything

Link to the installer here. This wizard is also pretty straightforward, you don't need to touch any of the default settings, just hit "next".

It takes just a few seconds to index all the files the first time you open it after turning your PC on, and then it's good to go. Instant search, system-wide, in milliseconds.

You should extend the "file path" column a bit so that you can clearly see *where* each result is located, and see if that's the file you were looking for or not.

Apart from the basic search, there are some useful options in the "Search" tab in the top row. Namely: case sensitive/insensitive search, including file paths in the search (e.g. if you want to look up a file called "Pamphlet" in folders called "Campus" instead of in folders called "Work". Then you would activate that option and search "pamphlet campus"), and including full words (e.g. if you know the file has the word "Boy" and you're not interested in files with "tomboy", "boyish", "flamboyant"). They're the top options in here (sorry that it's all in Italian, I'm a pizza pasta mandolino citizen):

In the lower part you can also see how you can filter the results based on whether it's an audio file, a zip file, an exe file, a folder etc. Neat, right?

any computer people wanna explain how the hell this works

it wont let me do shit bc i apparently have 81 gigs of apps clogging my c drive, but my largest app is 0.4gb?????? its not system applications either because system is its own segment of storage. wadda hell are you talking about

[cupcakegirl3]

dark!wandanat x maria x reader

“wanna play a game baby?”

i know places - chapter 9

ch8 | ch 10?

s: natasha being nice??? there must be a plot twist!!

wc: 3.4k

tw: dubcon, forest sex, prey/predator??(idk if it’s really that), threesome, stockholm syndrome, slapping, oral (on a strap), meandaddy!natasha, softishmommy!wanda, dark maria, spanking, choking, crying, smoking weed, knives, bondage, double penetration, triple penetration, manipulation, unhealthy relationship

minors do not interact!!

Natasha was being nice, too nice. It had been a good couple of weeks, Natasha and Wanda even had to leave for a couple of days for work. I assumed that’s why she was being so nice. 

She hadn’t hit me in days, wasn’t bending me over and using me with no restraint. No, she was gentle. 

We were still in bed, Wanda taking a shower and me and Natasha cuddled up. We were watching videos on her phone, my head resting on her chest. Her fingers were in my lips, playing with them and darting into my mouth every once in a while. 

She clicked off her phone with a sigh, “Princess?” She turned over to me, kissing my face. “You love me right?”

“More than anything.” I replied instantly, kissing the pads of her fingers. 

“Wear that white dress for me today. The one we just got you.” She kissed my lips. My head spun. “Get yourself pretty for me. Wear those little heels.” 

We both got out of bed eventually and after I cooked some breakfast for them I got changed. The dress they had just bought me was beautiful. It was satin, and actually went down to almost my knees. It had a square neckline with a small blue flower in the center of it. 

I did my hair nice and put on some light makeup. I wasn’t sure why she wanted me in heels but they were just kitten heels. Maybe finally they were taking me out of the house. 

I was giddy as I entered the living room, smiling from ear to ear. Neither of them were in there but the sliding glass door that led outside was open. 

Outside on the grass was a picnic set up. There was a small tray of snacks and both of them were already sitting on the blanket. They were both dressed nicely, but still casually. Just in jeans and nice shirts. 

“Hi baby.” Wanda called as I walked to them. I smiled at her and walked faster towards them. 

I sat down in between them, blushing from the kindness of all this. Natasha leaned forwards and kissed me, placing her hand on my thigh. 

Eventually, Wanda lit a joint. Then another, then another. I was so fucked, completely leaning into Natasha, unsure if I even could sit up. 

“Wanna play a game bunny?” Natasha asked, pulling the joint away from my lips and putting it out on the ground. 

I smiled from the high, nodding my head and looking up at her. 

“Such a good girl aren’t you?” She leaned down and kissed me, licking my lips after to tease. “Empty little head,” She kissed me again, “Do anything daddy told her.” 

I hummed in response, grabbing onto her to kiss her. She kissed me back, her hand coming to rest possessively on my neck. 

“Sit up for me baby.” She mumbled. 

I scrambled into position, a little light headed from the high. “Daddy.” I whined, my hands grabbing her shirt. “Love you.” 

“Run.” 

I giggled. “What?”

Natasha didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile. “Go run into the woods.” 

I glanced over my shoulder to Wanda, who just raised an eyebrow. 

Natasha grabbed my face, pulling me back. “I know you’re a little dumb, baby. We’re going to hunt you.” 

“H-hunt.”

“Winner gets to fuck you.” Natasha clarified. 

When I still didn’t move Natasha used her grip on my face to pull me closer. “You have 10 seconds to get off your ass or you’ll go in the basement for a week, you really didn’t like that last time.” She laughed. “If you can go thirty—fuck even ten minutes without us finding you, I’ll take you into town.” 

Is leaving the house worth it?

I can’t go back in the basement. I can’t go a week without them ever again. I’m nothing without them. 

“O-okay.” I whispered, nodding my head. 

I got onto my shaky feet, the weed making my head spin and my legs wobbly. I glanced to Wanda one last time. 

“You got a five minute head start.” She said quietly, her eyes racking up and down my body. 

“Ten, nine…”

I ran towards the dense woods, already beginning to trip over sticks and rocks. My adrenaline spiked enough to sober me up a little. I ran and ran until my legs ached and I had to stop. I had no idea how long it had been. 

Twigs snapped and leaves rustled around me, from animals or them I didn’t know. I took off again, not even sure if I was heading the same direction was before or just running straight into them. 

If I run far enough I can get away…

But what would I do without them?

My lungs burned and I had to stop. I hid behind a large oak tree, trying to quiet my panting. 

Then I heard a twig snap from right behind me.

I couldn’t help the small shriek that escaped my lips as I started running again. My heart was pounding so loud I couldn’t hear anything else. 

Then I tripped. Fuck these heels. I scrambled back up to my feet but was met with someone in front of me. 

Not Natasha or Wanda. 

I screamed, sprinting in the other direction only to be met with Natasha. I grabbed onto her. 

“Daddy, who—“

She just pushed me away. Causing me to almost fall over. But no. Two, unfamiliar hands caught me before I could. 

In an instant my arms were held behind my back and a knife was to my throat. The woman held me up to look at Natasha. 

“D-daddy?” I whispered, unable to move my hands to reach out to her. 

She just tsked, “Maria won, bunny. Rules are rules.” 

“No please!” I screamed. The tip of the blade pressing into my skin. 

“Not a mark Maria.” Natasha replied. 

The knife left my throat as she pushed me forward onto my knees. I tried to crawl closer to Natasha but my hair was grabbed and pulled back to Maria.

Her grip was brutal and made me cry out. She came down to my level, the knife still in her hand. “Your daddy over there can’t stop talking about you.” The knife crept down my face and chest to the top of my white dress. “She likes to brag, you know?” 

The knife quickly sliced my dress open. I tried not to let any noises escape, but the small shriek pushed past my lips. 

Where was Wanda? 

“Talked about how soft you were. Your nipples, your tummy. Fuck everything, it’s like I already know you.” 

She put the knife back where she had gotten it from, still locking eyes with me. “I’m Maria. Friend of theirs. Heard we were playing a little game today.” 

My lip quivered as she reached for my face. “We’re going to have some real fun today.” 

She pulled me back to stand up, yanking my dress off of me. I tried again to run but she pulled me back into her. “She told me you love a good fight.” She mumbled. 

Harsh rope was brought to my wrists behind my back. She tied it quickly and efficiently. Her hands left my wrists to touch the small of my back. The woods were quiet as she explored the back of me with her cold hands. 

“Daddy? Please? I don’t—“

Maria laughed behind me. “You told me you had trained her.” 

Natasha’s jaw tightened, her arms crossing over her chest. “I like a good fight.” 

“She doesn’t even like you.” 

“Shut your mouth!” Natasha yelled. 

“I-I love—love daddy.” I cried out, terrified as she put the knife back on my throat.

Maria groaned from behind me. Then a cloth was shoved into my mouth.

Natasha’s gaze made my skin crawl. 

Where was Wanda?!??

“Just as perfect as I thought.” Maria said into my ear, her hand pulling at my nipples. I whined, unable to help myself. 

“And just as slutty as I heard too.” She nibbled at my ear. 

Her fingers were brutal with my sensitive nipples, pinching them harshly until tears leaked from my eyes. 

“Fuck, crying already?” Natasha asked, walking closer to me. “Maria making you feel good?”

I shook my head no. Natasha quickly backhanded me for it. She grabbed my face, “Is daddy’s friend making you feel good?”

She forced me to nod, smiling when I did. Natasha leaned forwards, the blade left my neck and her lips replaced it. Her hands gripped my waist, pressing down on the bruises she had already made there. 

I sobbed as Natasha brought out her blade, she loved to cut. I flinched as she dragged it up my stomach to my face. “Such a beautiful girl for daddy.” She whispered. 

Natasha walked to the side of me, Maria moved to the other. Her knife pressed against my neck as she placed sloppy kisses to my jaw. The other set of hands continued to pinch and grope me. 

Suddenly Wanda emerged from behind the trees. 

“Poor thing is terrified.” 

I screamed past the gag, trying to fight my way to Wanda. Natasha’s sharp blade cut my skin as I thrashed. 

Wanda stepped towards me, sympathy written all over her beautiful face. Her eyes fell to my exposed body then back to my face. 

She set her soft hand on my cheek, examining the bruise that was probably growing already. “Oh baby, they’ve really done a number on you haven’t they?” 

I nodded, trying to plead with her. 

“You want some help, need mommy to protect you?”

I screamed again through my gag, nodding my head quickly as I felt Natasha rut her hips against me. 

She tilted her head, clicking her tongue. “Baby you know how mommy gets when you cry. It’s not my fault you look so cute. How could they resist you when you’re just so pathetic, princess.” 

My whole body started shaking again as she stroked my cheek with a smile. Wanda placed a light kiss to the tip of my nose before pulling back and falling to her knees in front of me. 

Maria held one of my legs up as Wanda’s hands raked up and down my thighs. “You’re soaked, bunny.” Her hands spread me completely bare, a sob escaped my throat. 

The sob cut into a moan as she licked my pussy, completely ignoring my clit. “Fuck.” She groaned, “I know Maria’s so jealous she isn’t tasting you right now.” 

“You’re an ass.” Maria grumbled, her breath hot against my neck. 

“Tastes so sweet.” 

The cold blade pressed against my nipple as Wanda kept teasing me. Maria pulled my head back, my head aching with pressure from her. 

I didn’t like that I couldn’t look at Wanda. I didn’t like this random woman holding and touching me. I didn’t like the blade threatening to cut me if I moved the slightest bit. 

She sucked in my exposed neck as I looked up at the sky, trying to distract myself. 

Wanda latched on to my clit suddenly, causing my hips to jerk again. “See bunny, you do want this.” Natasha whispered in my ear. 

Drool spilled out from the side of the gag as she sucked on my clit. She worked me up to my peak quickly, pulling her mouth back when she knew I was close. 

“My brave girl.” She cooed, her thumb rubbing in my clit. “So ready for our cocks hmm?” 

I shook my head no, but Natasha pulled the gag out of my mouth. 

“You’re going to fucking beg for it.” She growled into my ear, her knife cutting into my chin slightly. 

My breath caught in my throat but I still made the words out. “Please.” 

Maria laughed, “Please what?”

I whimpered but still said it, “Please fuck me.”  

Maria yanked me away from them, bringing me towards a tree. I was facing Wanda and Natasha as she shoved me against the tree.

“Don’t worry, they’ll go next.” Her boots kicked my legs further apart, making me lean more into the harsh bark of the tree. “Been thinking about this for months.” 

“Please don’t, I don’t even—“

She shushed me, her hand coming back around my throat. “I could get that knife out again, you know? Your owners wouldn’t have time to react.” 

“No!” I screamed, again trying to escape her grip. 

One of her hands pressed me into the tree by my back. The other undid her belt. 

“Just gonna undo it? You’re all bark and no bite Hill.” Natasha's voice rang out. 

I tried to peer my head around but I couldn't do enough. She moved her arm to grab my bound wrists, lifting them off my body. 

“You can blame your daddy for this one.” 

Her belt came down harshly on my ass, making me scream into the empty woods. “Fuck your ass is perfect.” 

The belt came down once again before I heard it hit the ground. I looked to Wanda and Natasha who were sitting side by side on a fallen tree. 

I opened my mouth to beg them when Maria pushed in the tip of her strap. She groaned, “Fuck Maximoff, your powers…” She trailed off. 

I couldn’t help the small, strained whine that left my lips when she pushed the tip in and out of me. Even just the tip was stretching me hard. 

Natasha’s eyes were locked with mine as was kissing Wanda. I stared at her as Maria pushed her cock into me further. Fuck it hurt, but Natasha knew what was best for me. 

Maria lost her restraint, fucking me hard into the tree. I couldn’t help the moans falling from my lips. The bark cut at my skin but her cock was hitting the spot inside of me that made me see stars. 

“Fuck look at her.” I heard Natasha say. I glanced over at them, Wanda now watching me too. “She’s such a slut.” 

Marias hand came down on my ass, her hand tightened around my throat. My eyes rolled to the back of my head. 

“D-daddy.” I cried out. 

Natasha laughed, “Don’t tell me you’re already gonna finish? Maria’s really that good?” 

“Tell them how good I fuck you.” Maria’s growled into my ear. 

I whined in response, her grip only tightening further. 

She slapped my ass again, “Fucking listen to me.” 

“Daddy!” I cried out again, my legs starting to shake. 

“Finish all over her cock. Show her who you really listen to.” 

I instantly finished all over her. My eyes rolled to the back of my head and my whole body leaned on the tree. 

Maria cut off my orgasm, throwing me onto the ground. I gasped, barely able to remain upright without my arms. Wanda was close to me in a second, kissing my head. 

“She’s mean isn’t she?” 

I nodded, pressing into her hoping this was all over. 

I should have known better. 

Red wisps laid the picnic blanket back on the ground. Wanda just kissed me instead of explaining. 

She pulled us both up to stand, walking me over to the blanket. 

Wanda laid down on the blanket, still fully clothed but her cock was pulled out of her pants. Her hands tugged me down. I tried to sink down slowly but Wanda didn’t let me. My brain practically melted out of my head as I rocked myself back and forth. 

I moaned leaning forwards onto her, capturing her lips in mine. I cried out as Natasha’s fingers found my other hole, cold with lube. 

Natasha was brutal, stretching me open quick and hard. “Let’s show Maria how you well your mommy and daddy fuck you.” 

I cried out as she pushed her cock into me. “N-no it’s—fuck— too-too much.” 

Fuck. 

She bottomed out, filling me so completely. Tears leaked out of my eyes, both at the pain and at the full feeling. Her fingernails scratched the welt on my ass. 

Wanda started moving first. Grabbing my hips and thrusting up into me. She cursed into my mouth then pushed me back up. Maria walked over and held me up by my hair. 

My mouth hung open, sobs and moans leaving my mouth as Natasha began fucking my ass. 

“Put her mouth to work.” Natasha groaned from behind me, slapping my ass. 

Maria slapped my face with her purple cock. I shut my mouth, pulling away from her but she wasn’t having it. She slapped me, just enough for a gasp to leave my lips. 

She shoved her cock into my mouth, pushing my face into her crotch. Tears ran down my face as she rammed her cock back into my throat. 

Natasha and Wanda fucked me with no restraint. Their thrusts both brutal and uncaring. Then one of their fingers came to circle my clit. 

In seconds I was falling to pieces, my body going limp as I came again. None of them let up at all. My gags and their moans filled the air. I cried more, as their fingers kept circling my clit. 

Maria pulled me off her cock and I immediately looked to Wanda. 

“M-mommy—fuck—it’s too—“

Wanda groaned in response, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Fuck baby. You were made for this. Can feel daddy’s cock—Fuck!” 

Natasha leaned forward, her cock pressed painfully inside of me. “You need this, princess. You need us. You’re nothing without us.” 

I came again, my head spinning. Finally, the fingers on my clit stopped but not their thrusts, no if anything they picked up the pace. 

Hot cum squirted on my face, I couldn’t even close my eyes in time. “Fuck she’s so dumb.” Maria groaned, stroking her cock to get it all out. 

“Get your phone out.” Natasha grunted from behind me, smacking my ass again. 

I couldn’t even try to resist, I couldn’t form a single coherent thought. Wanda’s hand came to my face, her fingers dragging through the cum before going back down to my clit. 

I wanted to say no, I tried to say no, but I couldn’t. I looked at Wanda, who was moaning, her face screwed in pleasure. I had to do it for her, I loved her. 

I love them…I love them…I love them 

Wanda’s hot cum shot into me, she moaned loudly and beautifully as her hips slowly stilled. Her fingers still worked on my clit, causing me to finally cum again. 

I couldn’t help the sobs I let out, my whole body hurt but it felt too good to stop also. 

Natasha finished last, like she typically did. She shoved her cock all the way into my ass and spilled her cum inside of me. 

It could have been seconds or hours when they both finally pulled out of me, softly turning me onto my back. I felt their cum spilling out of me and knew what was coming next. 

Natasha’s fingers shoved Wanda cum back inside of me, her thumb rubbing my clit. “One more.” She said, her voice strained still. 

I cried out, screaming to stop but they went dead at their ears. I looked up at the sky, full of trees and clouds. 

I could barely feel my body as I came again. Natasha slowly worked me through my orgasm, finally pulling out when I was finished. She kissed my oversensitive clit once again before pulling back up. 

“What do we tell our guests?” Natasha asked, a wicked smile on her face. 

“T-thank you.” My voice sounded foreign, my mind and body were still elsewhere. 

Wanda carried me back, holding me in the blanket she had brought out. She took me to my bathroom, where she cleaned every little cut gently before putting me into a nice warm bath. 

She sat behind me, washing my body and hair as I stared at the wall blankly. 

“Mommy and daddy love you.” She whispered, her fingers massaging my scalp. “So proud of you.” 

“P-proud?” I asked, turning my head to look at her. 

She kissed my lips, “Yes darling, doing whatever we tell you to do. So proud.” 

She rinsed the shampoo out of my hair, kissing me again. “After this you’ll take a nap. Then we’ll have a nice dinner, whatever you want.” 

I closed my eyes, leaning into her. “Mexican?” I asked. 

“Of course baby.” She began working the conditioner into my hair. “Arroz con pollo?” 

I nodded and she laughed, kissing my cheek. 

“I love you darling.”

“I love you too, mommy.” 

…….

update: my originally plan for this chapter led into chapter 10. from now on in this series, everything will just be oneshots and not continue to contribute to the story - plz send ideas/requests for this series- tysm for all the love and support

[admiringlove]

a tempest gilded in ruin - part two.

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: nsfw; alcohol; mentions of pregnancy; mentions of fencing; corruption kink lowkey; mirror sex; carriage sex; p in v; oral (fem receiving); fingering; angsty !!!! etc

↬ word count: 25.5k.

↬ note: part two to my brain child. @gojover ily forever and always :3

↬ navigation: part one, jjk masterlist.

Present, Highgrove House.

It has been three days.

Three long, cloistered days since the masquerade at the Marquess Ieiri’s estate—the night when the chandeliers glimmered like stars and the music was so lovely it almost made you forget the weight of your own name. Since the ball ended in silence, in whispers, in scandal. Since the paper came.

You sit at your writing desk, spine straight, hands still, the air around you thick with the scent of lavender oil your mother insisted be applied to calm your nerves. As if perfume could unwrite disgrace. The window is open, but the curtains are drawn, and a breeze stirs the edges of the paper resting in front of you like a ghost just beginning to wake.

You haven’t touched it since that morning. Haven’t dared to. You’ve just been staring. Staring at the crisp, expensive print of the Quill, like it's something foreign, alien, capable of betraying you simply by existing. You remember how it was delivered. Silver tray, linen gloves, a footman with eyes politely turned down, even though you knew he'd already read it. Everyone had.

Your mother hasn’t spoken to you in full sentences since. Her disapproval is quiet now, but no less punishing. It lives in her eyes. It lives in the hallway, because you are not to go out of your room. It lives in the drawing room, where she receives no guests. Where she smiles thinly through closed windows when carriages pass by.

Shoko and Utahime came yesterday. Loyal, warm, loud-mouthed girls who still believed this could be mended. They brought flowers and lemon cake, but your mother turned them away after tea, with all the calm and cruelty of a hostess shooing away the stench of something rotten. “She is resting,” she said. “She’s not to be disturbed.”

But you were listening from the stairs. You wanted to be disturbed.

You are a pariah now. A woman no longer whispered about in curiosity, but in caution. The type of girl mothers point out at parties so their daughters know what not to do. And it’s not even because of what you did—it’s because of how it looked. Because you left the ballroom. Because he followed. Because no one else was there to confirm anything, and so everyone assumes everything.

The Duke of Six Eyes. And you. On a balcony. Alone.

You lower your gaze to the article again. It lies open on your desk like a patient on the operating table. You know every sentence. Every phrase. You know the rhythm and the scorn, the barely-concealed venom beneath the lace of polite language. The words had come easily. Too easily.

Let us hope wedding bells come before the ruin does.

That line alone had traveled faster than any carriage. Mothers had gasped. Fathers had frowned. Daughters had clutched their fans, eyes alight with hungry joy. Because it wasn’t about you, not really. Not to them. It was about what you represented: the unraveling of someone prettier, smarter, better. You, the girl who had once worn the season like a crown. And now here you were, being eaten alive by your own myth.

You press your palms to your thighs. Try to breathe. Try to pretend you hadn’t written it. That someone else had.

But that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it? Because you did. And no one knows.

You try to console yourself with the notion that, perhaps, this is the better outcome. That in the grand scheme of things—reputation tarnished, invitations rescinded, your mother pacing the drawing room like a woman betrayed by fate—at least no one suspects you’re the Phantom. No one could imagine that the girl locked inside her home, disgraced and discarded, had ever penned those biting words, that she had whispered scandal into the ears of the ton with the sharpness of a dagger dressed in velvet.

This is the lesser evil, you tell yourself. Over and over.

And yet, it still pricks. The silence. Gojo’s silence. His absence. Three days have passed, and not a single letter. Not a flower, not a raven, not a knock on the door. You don’t even know what you would say if he did come. Whether you’d scream at him or fall to pieces in his arms. Whether you’d admit that you kissed him and then wrote about it in the third person, hoping to save yourself by damning the memory.

Your mother watches you like she’s watching the slow ruin of a once-favored gown, threads pulled loose by foolish fingers. She doesn't shout. She doesn't need to. Her silence is a punishment sharper than words.

And the only one who tries—truly tries—is Yuji. He comes in with arms full of pastries from the corner bakery and jokes that don’t land, and makes exaggerated attempts to dance with the footman until you almost laugh. Almost. But even he doesn't know what to do with your grief. You see it in his eyes. In the way he holds your hand a second longer than needed, as if to say he wished he knew how to fix this.

But he doesn’t. No one does. Because they don’t know what you've done. They don’t know who you really are.

That evening, the silver glints dull beneath the candlelight as you reach for your water glass. But the dining room is oppressively quiet. It has been like this for the past few days—each meal a silent, calculated exercise in civility. The clink of forks against porcelain. The hesitant lifting of soup spoons. The sharp, faint scratch of your father’s knife slicing through roast.

And then your mother clears her throat.

It is not a gentle clearing, not a casual sound to free her voice—it is sharp, intentional, a prompt. A summoning. She looks at your father, a subtle incline of her head, a tightness in her jaw. He sets his cutlery down with just a little too much force, and clears his own throat in response. Yuji pauses with his bread halfway to his mouth. You look between them, your stomach a knot. You know something is coming.

“We are hosting a fête at Hyde Park,” your father says finally. His voice is careful, practiced. “This coming weekend.”

You blink, looking at him. He does not meet your eyes—his gaze already returned to his plate, as though what he has said is trivial, administrative.

You glance at your mother. “What about the Duke?” you ask slowly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“The Duke and your father had a verbal agreement,” she replies with clipped precision, each word knotted with cold disdain. “After this ridiculous scandal, we must salvage what we can.”

Your mouth parts, your brows knit. “That’s not fair,” you say, voice shaking slightly now. “You and I both know it. The ton won’t believe anything unless we make it feel true. There must be appearances, affection, connection. Not just obligations. If we make it look romantic—”

Your mother slams her glass onto the table. Not hard enough to break, but hard enough to make you jump.

“But it isn’t romantic, is it?” she spits. “It isn’t real. I raised you better than this. Better than to slip away with a man in the dark, to a balcony, with no chaperone. God knows what the two of you did there.”

“We spoke,” you hiss. “That’s all. He... he listened to me. Which is more than I can say for either of you.”

The silence after is electric. Yuji shifts slightly in his seat, uncomfortable. Your father says nothing. Your mother stares at you like she doesn’t recognize you. Her voice, when she speaks again, is laced with something curdled and sharp.

“How dare you speak to your mother like that?” she says, rising to her feet. Her hands are trembling against the tablecloth. “You go to your chambers this instant.”

You stand, slowly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. You place your fork and knife down on the plate, too carefully, almost shaking. The china shudders beneath the weight. You turn, leaving the room without another word, your heart pounding in your throat.

You take the stairs two at a time, not because you're in a hurry, but because you can’t trust yourself to walk with dignity. Your fists clench at your sides. Your eyes blur. You refuse to let the tears fall here—not where they can see. The door slams behind you harder than intended, echoing like a slap across a cheek. You glance back just once—Yuji’s eyes meet yours from down the hallway. Not your parents’.

Never your parents’.

And then the room is quiet. Too quiet. The only sound is your breath, shallow and uneven, and the faint echo of your shame.

You’ve been lying still for hours now. The curtains are half drawn, and the sky beyond your chamber window is starless—an inky, unbroken dark. You don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, you keep your gaze fixed on the linden tree outside, where the swing sways gently in the night wind. You think of everything and nothing. You think of the column you finished earlier: a benign, delicately worded piece about the upcoming fête, a light-hearted nod to a young gentleman’s garden proposal. You wrote it slowly, methodically, because it was easier to write about someone else’s happiness than to wonder why your own had been so quiet these past days.

Because he hadn’t written. He hadn’t come. Gojo Satoru, who made entire rooms feel too bright with his presence, had gone completely silent.

You try not to dwell on it. Because if you do, you will spiral. You will remember the way his breath caught when he said your name. The way his hands trembled just slightly when they touched your waist. The way he said goodbye without saying goodbye at all.

So you don’t think. You simply lie there.

Until the sound comes.

A sharp, sudden thunk against the glass. Not loud, but just wrong enough to set your whole body on edge. You sit up too quickly, a jolt of alarm running down your spine. And then it comes again, more urgent this time. You push the blankets aside and cross the room barefoot, your dressing gown whispering across the floor behind you.

You ease the window open, the old hinges creaking like something wounded. And there, in the yard, under the silhouette of the linden tree, you see him.

Satoru. The Duke. His white hair glints faintly in the moonlight, and he is standing just where the tree splits, beside the swing your father had once ordered strung up when you were six. You remember tugging at his sleeve and saying you wanted to fly. Now, all you feel is the dizzying weight of having fallen.

He looks up, and when he lifts his hand, something in your chest unknots.

You lean out, voice hoarse from disuse. “What are you doing here?”

“Did you not get my letters?” he calls, brows drawn together, voice tight with something frantic and raw. You freeze. “What letters?”

His jaw clenches, and then he exhales a breath of near disbelief. “Dear God, how cruel is the Viscountess?”

A pause. A beat. And then, "Can you come down?"

You don’t answer. You nod, once, and pull the window closed.

You move on instinct, quietly opening your chamber door and making your way down the corridor. The house is still. The air is heavy. You step softly, your bare feet silent on the stairs, your heart anything but. You don't bother with shoes. You don't bother with a shawl. The only thing that matters is getting outside. Getting to him.

When you emerge from the side door into the courtyard, the world feels unnaturally quiet. You pass the swing, still moving slightly, as though it had been disturbed only moments ago. He turns the second he sees you, and his entire posture softens. The tension in his shoulders vanishes. He looks like he’s been holding his breath since the night of the masquerade.

And then, his voice. Gentle, almost boyish in its tenderness. “Are you alright?”

You stop a foot away from him. His eyes flicker over your face, searching for something. An answer, a wound, a sign. But the wound is deeper than that. So is the answer.

“Do you want me to lie or tell you the truth?” you ask quietly, the words barely breaking the hush of night. You don’t wait for an answer as you walk toward the swing. It creaks faintly as you settle onto it, the ropes groaning against the branch overhead. You don’t look back to see if he follows. You assume he won’t. You expect him to stay standing, half in moonlight, half in shadow, because that’s where he belongs—half-truths, half-promises, always somewhere in between.

But then you feel the shift. A weight beside you. The warmth of him, close but not quite touching.

“I’d never want you to lie to me, darling,” he says softly. That word again. Darling. As though nothing between you has unraveled. As though you are still exactly what you were before the Phantom—you—wrote that damned line. Before the ton decided you were a ruined woman.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead. Past the swing. Past the tree. Past the soft swell of earth where the grass folds in on itself. You do not trust yourself to meet his eyes. You do not trust yourself to remember how to breathe if you do. But you glance anyway.

He’s already looking at you, as if he never stopped. His eyes are patient. Not pleading. Not angry. Just quietly, achingly, there. You exhale, unsteady. “I was terrified,” you whisper. The admission is small, but it tastes enormous.

He doesn’t flinch. “Understandably so,” he says, voice gentle, like something carried in cupped hands. “I sent you four letters the first day.” A pause. “When you didn’t reply, I sent five more the next. And three after that. I thought... perhaps your mother confiscated them in case the Phantom could find out.”

“Twelve letters?” you ask, your voice catching on a smile that wants to live but can’t quite find room in your chest. “In three days?”

He shrugs, the motion elegant and deliberately careless. “Call me smitten.”

“Are you?”

That stops him. Or maybe it unmoors him. You’re not sure which. He turns his body slightly toward you, not all the way, but enough that the side of his leg brushes yours, barely, like an afterthought. His lashes dip with the breeze, and for a moment, it’s just breath between you. Breath and silence and everything you haven’t said.

“Aren’t I?” he says finally, low, certain.

You swallow. The words hang in the air like condensation, like something half-solid. You look away again, the weight of it too much. “How did you get into the courtyard?” you ask, if only to say something.

He hums, brushing his shoulder against yours, an answer without force. “It’s not hard to bribe a footman,” he says, almost smiling. “Especially when you’re a Duke.”

There’s a beat. Then you speak again, without looking at him. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I did,” he says. “Because if you asked me again—‘Are you?’—I would still say it. Again and again. Aren’t I?”

And this time, when you meet his eyes, you don’t look away.

You purse your lips, fingers knotting loosely in the folds of your dressing gown. The words leave your mouth more bitter than you mean them to. “My parents are throwing a fête at Hyde Park this weekend. We have five more days of suffering until the ton shifts its feeble attention from my ruined reputation to my mother’s tireless heroism. Apparently, she's saving me from becoming a harlot.”

The air stills between you. The kind of silence that thickens before it breaks.

Satoru smiles faintly, more rue than warmth, and then exhales, slow and shallow. “And what am I to do at this fête to make them believe I’m hopelessly taken with you?” His voice is gentle, but there's a tension running under it. The kind that suggests he’s speaking past the question, asking something much deeper.

You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “You're hopelessly taken with me?”

He flinches, barely, as if it wounds him. Feigns indignation a second later. “Darling,” he says, softly and steadily now, “a man wouldn’t write you twelve letters in three days, send flowers chosen for meanings he researched himself, or sneak into your courtyard under a watchful moon—during a scandal, no less—if he didn’t…”

He falters. Just long enough for the truth to slip past his guard. His voice softens again. “If he didn’t love you.”

You go still. The words hang there. Fragile and too large for the space they occupy. You blink once, slowly, trying to breathe through the tightness blooming in your chest. He doesn’t look away. His gaze holds steady, clear and unyielding.

“You...” You breathe, not quite able to finish the sentence. “You love me.”

There’s a half-second where something flickers in him, as if he hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud. He blinks, his lashes wet from the wind. And then he laughs. A dry, breathless thing. “I didn’t intend to say it like that. Quite anticlimactic, isn’t it?” His lips twitch into something resembling a smile, but it’s laced with nerves. “I imagine this is not what you pictured when you asked me for a proper courtship.”

You don’t speak. Not at first. You sit there, staring at him—at this man who is all contradictions, who carries titles and expectations and yet stumbles through love like a boy. And something inside you shifts, just slightly, just enough.

You reach out. Not with words, but with your hand, gentle against his sleeve. His eyes meet yours again, and this time, they’re wide with something vulnerable, something almost childlike.

“I didn’t want perfect,” you whisper. “Just honest.”

He watches you for a long moment before he speaks, his voice hushed with something brittle, like he’s afraid it will shatter the stillness between you. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for following you into the balcony that night.”

It’s said gently, but there’s an edge to it. Guilt tangled with longing, remorse tinged with hope. You turn to look at him, fully now, and for a beat, you don’t respond. You’re watching his profile, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch as though unsure of what to do with themselves. As though he wants to reach for you, but won’t unless you allow it.

And then, finally, you smile. It blooms slowly. Tentative at first, then warm, then utterly full. “It’s no matter,” you whisper, your voice thick in your throat. “I wouldn’t have known what it felt like… to kiss the man I love if you hadn’t followed me onto that balcony.”

There’s a silence so sharp it almost hurts. It draws itself tight between you. His head turns, slowly. His eyes widen. Not dramatically, but just enough for you to see the shift. The full weight of your words lands on him like a sudden gust of wind, catching him off balance. And you see it clearly: the disbelief, the hope, the fear that he has misheard. That he’s allowed himself to believe too much.

He stares at you, his breath visibly trembling as it escapes him. “I hope you know,” he says finally, voice hoarse, like it’s caught in his throat, “I stopped breathing for a moment when you said that.”

You laugh, softly, but it’s not mocking. It’s trembling at the edges. “I hope you know,” you say, drawing your knees up to your chest, hands curled at your ankles, “I couldn’t breathe either. Not when you said it first.”

And then, the tension dissolves. Not all at once. Not like a string snapping, but slowly, like a pressure valve being loosened. Like the breath you’ve both been holding for far too long is finally allowed to exhale.

He leans forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours, the tips of his fingers brushing against your knee. There’s no rush to kiss, no sudden swell of music. Just the knowledge that something sacred has passed between you. It's irrevocable. It's something neither of you dares name again too quickly, as if saying it once was enough, and more than enough.

The next afternoon, Gunter's Tea Shop in Berkeley Square, London.

“The Phantom released the article about the Viscount's fête this morning,” Utahime says, her voice low and tightly clipped. “At least that wretched wench didn’t say anything outrageous about you this time.”

You press your lips together and dip your spoon delicately into the small glass dish of rose ice cream, letting the cool pink mound dissolve slowly against your tongue. You nod, pretending to mull over her words when in truth, you are thinking only of the ink that stained your fingers when you wrote those vile words about yourself—how it refused to come off in the morning, how your name looked so sharp and elegant in print.

Two tables away, your mother laughs too brightly with Shoko’s and Utahime’s mothers, a hand fluttering to her chest like a pale moth. They sit beneath the sage green awning, teacups in hand, surrounded by other women in shades of cream and lemon, and the occasional gentleman in fitted coats who glances over with a kind of casual, habitual curiosity. You are used to it—the way they look at you. Not with desire, not anymore, but with expectation. As if waiting for a performance to begin again.

“I still can’t believe she praised you so thoroughly at the start of the season and then... that. Out of nowhere,” Shoko says, swirling her tea idly as she watches you with eyes that miss nothing. “At this point, I almost want to know who she is. Just so I can send her horse dung. Or spill milk through her letterbox.”

You nearly choke on the ice cream. The spoon clangs gently against the glass, and both girls look up, though neither seems overly concerned. You recover fast enough to avoid suspicion. The laugh you offer is thin. “I don’t think I’d want to know anything about her. The less I know, the better.”

“How utterly boring,” Utahime murmurs, plucking a raspberry from her plate and inspecting it before placing it in her mouth. “I’d send her a dozen letters lined with the purest vitriol. Maybe lace them with perfume and powdered rage. She also mentioned that bit about me slipping in the ballroom and Nanami catching me.” Her gaze flicks to you, narrowed. “That was hardly newsworthy.”

Shoko sets down her teacup with a small, decisive clink. “Any word from the Duke?”

You straighten slightly. “Yes,” you say, voice light but careful. “He appeared in the courtyard last night. Bribed the footman. He’s sent twelve letters in the last three days.”

“Twelve?” Utahime repeats, eyebrows raised.

You nod once, ice cream melting untouched now. “My mother apparently intercepted them.”

Shoko’s smile is slight but sharp. “Your mother is slowly becoming just as cruel as the Phantom.”

You swallow hard, as if you do not understand what she does not mean. The dark little crease folded into her words like a pressed flower between pages. But you do understand. And worse: it makes sense. In that terrifying, private way that truths only you know often do.

You lean forward, elbows lightly touching the edge of the linen-covered table. Your voice drops into something more fragile, more deliberate, and both girls respond the way they always do—Shoko arching a brow with amusement barely disguised as detachment, Utahime still too earnest to pretend she isn’t hanging on your every breath.

“There is… one more thing.”

Their shoulders tilt inward. You close your eyes, just for a moment. It is not for dramatic effect—it is, rather, the only way you can steel yourself. Your breath catches in your throat like a ribbon being drawn tight.

“He said he loves me.”

The words are small, almost shy. But they land like an aria. Utahime gasps. Not shrill, not childish—but loud enough that three heads turn in unison. Your mother, resplendent in lavender silk, squints suspiciously in your direction. Shoko’s mother says something behind a teacup, and your mother forces a laugh. But the tightening at the corners of her mouth betrays her.

You shoot Utahime a withering look. Shoko, without glancing away from you, reaches beneath the table and delivers a sharp, practiced pinch.

Utahime’s mouth snaps shut. You exhale, a whisper escaping with the next revelation. “I said it back.”

For a moment, they both stare at you. Neither scoffing, neither doubting. Just quiet, giddy awe. As if they know the gravity of such a thing. As if they understand how rare it is to say it and mean it, to hear it and believe it.

Shoko leans back, amused. “You’ve grown into such a bold woman,” she says, mock-reverent, and lifts her teacup in a tiny, invisible toast. “'Hime, if you so much as squeak again, I will kick you hard enough to knock your stocking garters out of place.”

“I’m trying,” Utahime mutters through clenched teeth, reaching for her cake with something close to desperation. She stabs her fork into the raspberry cream and takes a resolute bite.

You laugh then—quiet, contained—but it feels real.

After half an hour, your mother begins her retreat, masked in the practiced grace of social obligation. She is making excuses artfully, to remove you from the crowd, from the warmth of laughter and companionship, from the subtle but undeniable attention you’ve begun to draw again. She murmurs something about needing to visit Hatchard’s—to collect your father’s volumes on parliamentary history, and, pointedly, to procure something poetic for you, as if that might remind you to behave like a girl worth writing sonnets about.

You smile at Shoko and Utahime. Not joyfully, not even convincingly, but enough to satisfy the performance of it, then bow your head politely to their mothers, whose eyes, you feel, have never quite left your figure.

Then you are in the carriage, and your mother’s voice, once syrupy and social, sharpens like a knife. “What were you doing in there?” she hisses, the words so bitter they practically blister. “Laughing? Gossiping? While I’m out here sewing together the scraps of your reputation?”

“We just talked,” you murmur, gaze fixed on the passing blur of shops and parasols outside. The glass is warm where the sun catches it. You imagine being anywhere but here. Your mother sighs, long and theatrical. And begins a tirade you’ve heard so many times the syllables barely register. Something about your fall from grace. Something about dignity and self-control. Something about how you were once the season’s prized possession, and now you are something dulled, tarnished, unworthy of the settings once offered to you.

But you are not listening. You are thinking of last night. Of the Duke. Of the wild, impossible thing he said with his hands still trembling and his breath uneven—I love you. And worse: how you said it back.

At Hatchard’s, she strides ahead, elegant and exacting, giving orders at the counter about your father’s precious editions. “Wait here,” she commands, not glancing back. You nod dutifully, already drifting away.

The shop is dimly lit toward the back, dust moats caught in the slant of early afternoon light. You move without thinking, fingers trailing across the worn spines—books of sermons, scandal, feminism, philosophy.

And then, a glint of silver. A figure that is lean, familiar, almost out of place among the cracked leather bindings. You freeze. And in that suspended breath between recognition and response, the quiet, heavy weight of anticipation settles into your bones.

“I had a footman stationed at the ice cream parlour while passing it en route to the palace this morning,” he says absently, eyes trailing the gilded spine of a Byron edition. “Saw you and the Viscountess by the window. Thought it wise to orchestrate a timely appearance. For her benefit, of course.”

You stifle a laugh, glance to your left and right to ensure no familiar eyes linger, and step closer. The air between you tightens—not scandalous, not improper, but something soft and secretive all the same. Your shoulders brush as the two of you face the towering mahogany shelves like confidants in quiet rebellion.

“One might say you’re an impertinent fellow of ill repute,” you murmur, turning your attention toward the philosophy section. Your fingers find a new bound Mary Wollstonecraft book—A Vindication of the Rights of Woman—and you lift it with care, your gaze lowered to its burgundy cover.

Behind you, he chuckles. “You’re alright?” he asks, voice gentler now. You nod, but it’s a brittle thing. “If you consider bearing witness to my mother’s theatrical lament on my fall from grace, how I was once a diamond of the season, and now I’m Icarus mid-plummet, then yes. Perfectly alright.”

“She’s rather fond of dramatics, isn’t she?” he says, turning to look at you fully now. His eyes flit to the book in your hands. “I never took you for a radical.”

“Everyone should be a radical, Your Grace,” you reply quietly, lifting your chin. “And if reading this makes me one, then I’m already behind on my studies.”

He smiles at that, something glinting in his expression. Half pride, half awe. “I see now why your mother despises when you act of your own volition.”

“And yet,” you say softly, “I’m still standing.”

A beat. And then: “I have a copy of all her writings. Wollstonecraft’s. If you’d like, I can send them over. Via footman, of course.”

You blink, startled by the offer. By how casually he makes it, as though sharing sacred texts were a simple thing. Your heart hitches. “You do?”

He nods, as if it costs him nothing to hand you entire revolutions.

And just when you are about to say yes, just when the softest edges of something warm begin to settle in your chest, you hear her voice.

“Your Grace.”

You turn, too fast. Eyes wide. Breath caught. Your mother appears from between the shelves like smoke rising from scorched silk—elegant, composed, but furious in the way only a woman with power over your life can be. Her eyes cut to Gojo with a diplomat’s charm, all surface and calculation. But when they land on you, the temperature drops. It is the kind of stare that sears beneath the skin.

“Viscountess.” Gojo inclines his head with just the right measure of politeness and ease. “I was merely informing your daughter that I’d be sending along a few books she seemed fond of. We appear to share taste in authors.”

You swallow hard. Too hard. The muscles in your throat tighten against the tension stretching in your chest. You feel yourself retreating inward while their voices float past you, muffled, distorted. Something about politics. Something about propriety. The sound of your own heartbeat begins to blur their words. You are still trying to breathe when Gojo’s shoulder brushes yours so gently it might have been imagined.

“I had something to ask of you, my lady,” he says then, and though he looks at you for a breath of a second, it is your mother he addresses. His voice is calm, almost careless. He is playing a long game, you realise.

“Yes, anything,” your mother replies, sweet as overripe fruit, while her fingers curl tighter around the parasol in her hand, as if she might strike you with it if no one were watching. Her smile holds.

Satoru’s gaze drifts back to her with diplomatic patience. “I wondered if we might take supper at my estate before the fête. I’ve been hoping to speak with the Viscount—your husband—but my schedule at the palace has kept me from paying a proper visit.”

There’s a pause. A tiny, ruptured silence in which you realise just how much this means. How calculated the ask is. How public, how binding.

Your mother blinks. Visibly thrown. She gathers herself in the space of two breaths. “I would need to ask, Your Grace. The fête requires all our attention at present.”

“Of course,” Gojo replies smoothly, tucking a hand into his coat pocket. “But do consider it. It would mean a great deal.”

You see the moment her mind shifts. When she begins to weigh the proposal for its implications, its potential, its danger. And then: “Very well. I shall speak to my husband.”

“Splendid,” he says, and offers that smile. That smile—the one that turns the tide of every ballroom he enters and has the heart of every woman in the ton.

Your mother turns to you then. Something clipped and polite leaves her mouth. Something about how it is late, how you must go. She takes your arm with the practiced grip of control masked as care. You nod, too stunned to protest, feet following without meaning to.

And just as the threshold nears, just as the scent of old paper and pipe tobacco begins to give way to carriage smoke and rain-slick cobblestone, you look back.

Satoru is still there, framed in the hush of mahogany shelves. He lifts the Wollstonecraft from your hands like a keepsake, not a book. Then, with maddening calm, he winks. And you leave, as your heart pounds like thunder beneath silk.

THE VEILED QUILL Volume II, Issue XII Walks and Whispers Between Pages

My dearest gentle readers,

Though the Season presses forward with its usual rhythm of dances, dinners, and decorum, this particular week has proved most diverting. And not for reasons your chaperones would approve.

Let us begin with a scene that could have been lifted from a sentimental novel: on Monday afternoon, none other than Mr. Nanami Kento—staid, solemn, and as serious as any eligible bachelor can be—was observed calling on Miss Iori Utahime at her family residence. Yes, calling. One might argue it was a simple gesture of civility, but we are not in the habit of reporting mere civility, are we? Are we to expect a courtship announcement soon? Or is this simply a case of a baron’s daughter charming a man of fewer words?

And on Tuesday, if you were fortunate enough to stroll through Hyde Park before the hour grew too warm, you might have spotted Mr. Geto Suguru—that ever-pensive gentleman with the air of a tortured poet—walking beside Lady Ieiri Shoko, daughter of the Marquess. The two were seen in hushed conversation, walking chaperoned by the lake. While neither party is a stranger to intellectual pursuits (and, one imagines, complex inner lives), this particular pairing has not gone unnoticed. Are we witnessing the quiet beginning of a romance?

But nothing—not even the potential entanglements of society’s sharpest minds—has caused quite so much ink to flow as the return of the Viscount’s daughter.

Yes, dear readers. She has reappeared.

After days spent in discreet withdrawal following that unspeakable scandal, the former darling of the ton was seen in the public eye once more, making her entrance not in ballrooms or drawing rooms, but at Gunter’s Tea Shop—a choice cunningly poetic. Seated beside the aforementioned Miss Utahime and Miss Shoko, the trio appeared shockingly at ease, laughing over rose-flavored confections and whispering secrets so thrilling that even this Phantom burns to know them. (What did they say between bites of raspberry cake? Were those secrets sweet, or devastatingly bitter?)

And yet, dear reader, this is not where the tale ends.

No sooner had the daughter of the Viscount re-emerged than she was whisked away by her mother—who, in a fit of theatrical duty, dragged her to Hatchard’s in Piccadilly under the guise of purchasing political readings for her husband and poetry for her daughter. But what poetry, I ask, could possibly compare to what transpired there?

For as fate would have it, His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, was already present there. Sources say his carriage arrived no sooner than fifteen minutes before the Viscountess took her daughter there.

That’s right. The Duke—elusive, dazzling, dangerous—was seen among the shelves just before the Viscountess arrived with her wayward charge. The two—our scandal-touched lady and His Grace—were together once again. And when she emerged? The very same lady who once held all of society's hearts in the palm of her glove? Dazed. Distant. As if touched by lightning or haunted by something only she, and perhaps the Duke, could name.

What occurred in those hushed book-lined corridors? What was said? What was felt? Did the Duke offer her consolation? Or temptation? Whatever the answer, one thing is certain: the Season just became far more interesting.

With ink-stained fingers and a heart attuned to secrets, Phantom.

You wear a cloak that night—midnight blue, hood drawn, hem grazing the stone like a hush. In your gloved hands rests the latest issue of The Veiled Quill, its contents still warm from ink. You'd just written it. The house is silent. Ladies of the ton are meant to be dreaming by now, tucked beneath canopies of silk and embroidered virtue. But you are wide awake, each step down the stairs as soundless as sin.

The courtyard is damp with moonlight. You move quickly, past the clipped boxwoods and sleeping roses, to the waiting carriage hidden behind the garden wall. No lanterns. No insignia. Just an old, nondescript cab driven by a footman who knows not to ask questions. You pay him enough for it, anyway.

London slips by in a blur of cobblestone and gaslight. Southwark lies across the Thames—far enough from Mayfair, far enough from the Crown's watchful eye. Far enough from genteel society that no one would even think that this is where your secrets lie. Its streets stink of sweat, smoke, and secrets. This is where your printing press lives. Nestled between a tavern and a forge, behind a crooked sign that never bears your name.

You hand over the last issue, neatly folded. The printer, a wiry man who smells of tobacco, presses a pouch of your earnings into your palm without a word. He knows better. You count the coins by feel, because ever since the scandal, your earnings had almost quadrupled.

By the time you return, dawn is still a rumor. You step out two streets down from your house, pulling your cloak tighter. Your hair is unpinned. Your cheeks bare. In your plain cotton dress, you look nothing like the daughter of a Viscount. And that is the point.

Men pass you in the misty dark—some weaving home from gaming halls, others from beds not theirs. They do not see you. Not really. At best, you are a maid. At worst, a curiosity. But never a danger. Never the storm behind the scandal sheets.

There is a narrow cobblestone street you turn onto, slick with the memory of rain and lined with oil-lanterns that flicker like half-breathed secrets. The hem of your cloak catches against your ankle as you walk, quickly, quietly, alone in the way only women can be when they are trying not to be noticed. You barely register the figure behind you until you feel the tap against your shoulder.

You flinch. And then you freeze. Because it is him. Lord Nigel Berbrooke. His eyes are glassy, his breath thick with drink. “Thought it was you,” he slurs, teeth yellowed under the dim gaslight.

You feel your spine go taut. Nigel Berbrooke is a man of deeply unpleasant reputation. Older than most eligible bachelors, and yet more infantile in his sense of entitlement. You remember the way he cornered women into dancing at Utahime’s ball, how he refused to take no for an answer. How he had asked you more than once that night. You had declined each time. You hadn't spoken of it. Not to your mother. Not to Utahime. You had wanted to preserve the memory of your first dance with Satoru, not tarnish it with Berbrooke's presence.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, m’lord,” you say, quick to adjust your voice into something meek. Small. Working-class. Your gaze darts, calculating. Escape routes, light, witnesses. The street is quiet. A carriage rattles past on the far side.

Berbrooke steps closer. You step back.

But his hand is fast. He grabs your arm—tight, unrelenting—and your body goes still. “The daughter of the Viscount,” he sneers, too loudly. “Out for a moonlit stroll, is it? Gone to meet your Duke?”

Your stomach lurches. You tug at your arm, but he doesn’t let go. He reeks of brandy and sweat, and something older, something rotted. Panic scratches its way up your throat. His grip tightens, and he begins to speak again. Vulgar things about balconies and what might have transpired there. Your vision blurs. Your breathing shortens.

You don’t think. You simply react. Your knee finds the soft of his stomach and drives upward. He wheezes, collapses forward with a grunt. You stumble back, barely registering the sharp stop of a carriage just ahead.

Two figures leap down. Moving fast. Familiar.

Satoru reaches you first. His hands are cupping your face before you realize it’s him. His touch is careful but firm, thumbs warm against your cheekbones. “I knew it was you,” he breathes, eyes wide with something that looks frighteningly close to fear. “What in God’s name are you doing out so late at night?”

You blink, still breathless, the panic clawing at your lungs as you try to make up a lie. “I went out for a walk,” you say, voice tight, fragile. “It felt... it felt suffocating at home.”

“You know better than to leave your courtyard,” he says, his voice softer now, but still edged with tension. “You could’ve sat on the swing. Cleared your head that way.”

Suguru steps past you, his eyes hardening as they fall on Berbrooke’s groaning form. “Are you hurt?” he asks, gentle.

You shake your head. “He just... grabbed me. Said things about me and—”

You look to Satoru. His jaw clenches. Suguru doesn’t ask for more.

“What were the two of you doing out?” you ask, trying to collect yourself, to change the subject.

“Club,” Satoru replies, almost too quickly. He glances at Suguru. “I’ll walk her home. Suguru, deal with this poor excuse of a man, will you? Wait for me in the carriage. I won't take long.”

Suguru nods, and gives you a look—one part reassurance, one part apology—as he moves to drag the lord out of sight.

Satoru slips his arm around yours, his pace slow, deliberate, every movement saturated with concern. “I keep finding new things about you,” he murmurs.

You glance at him. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all.” A smile flickers across his lips, crooked and soft. “I’m even more smitten.”

“You are,” you say, voice quieter now, the fear beginning to settle into a tremble. “Such a tease.”

“A tease you said you love, nonetheless,” he replies. Then, more seriously: “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Just shaken,” you murmur. “I thought the cotton dress would be enough. I thought he wouldn’t recognize me.”

Gojo’s eyes trail down the length of your cloak. “It’s the silk,” he says gently. “No maid would wear a silk cloak, my dear. Though you do play the part well. No one would have noticed, except Nigel Berbrooke. He's a lecherous man.”

You exhale. “Oh.”

His grip tightens on your arm. Warm, anchoring. You're nearing the back gate of your home. The iron is cool beneath your gloved fingertips as the courtyard stretches before you, bathed in the faint light of a gas lamp swaying gently in the night wind. You pause, cloak curling around your ankles, the weight of the evening pressing into your bones.

"I suppose this is it," you murmur, voice feathering out into the quiet.

Satoru stops beside you, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders drawn with restraint. You want to say something. Ask him what happened in Hatchard’s earlier. You want to bury your face in his chest and confess how your hands still tremble. But instead, you wait. Hoping. Maybe he’ll say something first. Maybe he'll linger.

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he says, and there’s something raw in the way his voice cuts through the hush.

“Like what?” you ask, blinking up at him.

His jaw clenches slightly. “Hurt.”

You force a smile, small and crooked. “I’ll be alright. I just... I can’t believe I hit him.”

At that, he laughs. A startled, quiet laugh that still feels like it shakes the stars loose overhead. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to muffle the sound, but his shoulders still tremble with it. You can’t help it—you laugh too, albeit breathlessly.

And then, silence. But not the cold kind. The kind that stretches softly between two people who’ve begun to understand each other. Satoru looks at you, eyes gentled. “You’re much, much more than just the Viscount’s daughter,” he says. “I hope you know that.”

You can’t speak. Not immediately. The words settle in your chest like warmth from a hearth after a long frost. So instead, you step forward. One breath, then another. And then your arms are around him—soft cotton sleeves brushing velvet lapels—your head pressed to his chest, where his heart is beating far too fast for someone so composed.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He holds you close. “Whatever for?”

“For being there,” you murmur. “For being here.”

Two days later, Highgrove House.

It is late in the evening when Gojo Satoru arrives.

Tomorrow is Saturday, and the garden fête is scheduled for Sunday afternoon. The house is still, lamps dimmed to a golden hush, and you are in the drawing room, seated beside the fire with Yuji at your side. One of the books His Grace had promised—the very same Mary Wollstonecraft, finely bound—had arrived just yesterday, and you'd been reading it aloud to your brother before a rustle in the doorway makes you both look up.

“His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, has arrived, miss,” the maid announces.

Yuji perks up instantly. “D’you think he’s brought his brother?”

“It’s do you, and he has,” you correct gently, closing the book and setting it on the low table between you. “And I don’t know. I hope so. You’d like him, I think. His name’s Megumi. He’s your age.”

“You told me,” Yuji says, already tugging at his coat to neaten it, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve. You smile at his eagerness.

“You look very handsome,” you assure him. “If I were a twelve-year-old boy, I’d absolutely want to be your friend.”

“That’s great consolation,” he says dryly, “coming from someone who’s good at fencing, horse riding and pall-mall.”

“Exactly,” you reply, rising and smoothing the folds of your skirt. From the hallway, you hear voices. Your father’s clipped, courteous tone, and the unmistakable lilt of Gojo’s. You take Yuji’s hand and step into the corridor.

Satoru stands tall in the foyer, the picture of composed elegance, all wintry hair and effortless charm. He is speaking to your parents with the easy grace of someone who has nothing to hide and everything under control. Beside him stands a boy, black-haired and blue-eyed, quieter in stature and presence, his gaze lowered to the polished floor. So unlike the Duke. And yet, unmistakably kin.

You glance down at Yuji, giving his hand a small encouraging squeeze. “Go on,” you whisper. “Introduce yourself. Maybe the two of you will be great friends.”

Yuji nods, swallowing his nerves before releasing your hand and stepping forward. You follow, casting a soft, searching smile in Satoru’s direction. He bows his head ever so slightly in return—calm, unreadable, collected. As if nothing has shifted. As if everything has unfolded precisely according to his own private design. As if the chaos of the past weeks has been nothing more than a prelude he anticipated all along.

And you, despite everything, trust him enough to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he’s right.

When the six of you settle into dinner and have only just finished the first course—an almond soup delicately spiced, accompanied by poached fish and its garnishes—you notice it. A shift. Subtle at first. The change in Satoru's tone when he turns to your father. It is not unkind, but it is unmistakably deliberate. His posture straightens, a certain stiffness entering his shoulders, and his voice loses its usual lightness.

You glance over just as you're breaking your bread roll, and catch it. The flicker in his eyes, the way he glances down at his lap, as if preparing for war rather than dinner. The maids move soundlessly between chairs, clearing plates with practiced ease. The air tightens.

"I must admit," Satoru says, tone formal but softened by a trace of humility, "I’ve come here this evening with something of an ulterior motive."

You still. Your mother lifts her wineglass to her lips, eyes narrowing faintly. Your father sets down his knife and fork, attention now fully focused. Across the table, Yuji and Megumi have taken to whispering, clearly fast friends already, blissfully unaware of the shift in atmosphere.

"Ulterior motive?" your father repeats, arching a brow. His voice is calm, but it rings like a bell in the stillness. "And what might that be?"

Gojo doesn't hesitate. "We'd spoken, briefly, of marriage. Informally, yes, but earnestly. I'm here tonight to make my intentions plain."

The servants begin to lay out the second course—roast venison, its juices glistening, followed by pigeon pie, soufflés, and a new round of gleaming cutlery. Yet no one reaches for a fork.

Satoru presses on as though the entire table has not gone silent. As though the air is not pulled taut between expectation and propriety.

"I believe," he says, carefully, clearly, proudly, "it is time we put an end to the whispers. The scandal, as it were. I've come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage."

You pause. The air in the dining room stills, despite the low clink of cutlery and the rustle of napkins. Your eyes move slowly. First to your father, then to your mother, and finally to the two boys at the other end of the table, who’ve gone entirely silent. Yuji’s eyes are round with awe, flicking between you and Satoru as if he’s accidentally wandered into a play. Megumi, more composed, simply watches his brother with a dark, unreadable gaze, then glances once at you.

Your father says nothing at first. He seems to weigh the moment in his head, brow furrowed—not out of anger, but as if turning something over in his mind. Something unsaid. Something unresolved. And then, finally, he speaks. “I don’t see why not,” he says, quiet but firm.

It should feel like relief, but it doesn’t. Gojo grins then, quick and boyish—triumphant in the way of someone who’s just executed a clever move on a chessboard—and turns to you as though to confirm the checkmate. You try to mirror it, to offer back the expression he wants, but all you can manage is a soft, uncertain smile. A twitch at the corner of your mouth. The tiniest scrunch of your nose. Confusion creeps up your spine.

Then Gojo continues, this time to your father. “My father knew the Archbishop of Canterbury personally,” he says, voice smooth, even, practiced. “We can arrange for the license swiftly. I could speak to him, if expedience is preferred, of course.”

“Lovely,” your mother says at once, almost too quickly. Her voice lilts upward, hopefully. And there it is: the shift in tone. As if she’s just remembered that marrying a Duke’s heir erases scandal, clears reputations, sets everything straight.

You say nothing. Because what is there to say? Gojo speaks again. “We shall have the license in a matter of days,” he announces, his tone tipping slightly toward command. “Preparations for the wedding can be made, I assume?”

He speaks with such certainty now, such composure, that you feel, absurdly, as though he’s rehearsed it. As if this evening were a script and he knows every beat, every line. You wonder if he’s always this calm when negotiating outcomes that affect other people’s lives. That affect your life.

It unnerves you. Not the proposal. Not the dinner. But the ease. The precision. The sheer confidence of it. You can’t decide whether to admire him or recoil.

You listen quietly as the dinner continues—soufflés arriving, plates cleared, wine glasses half-drunk. You play the part of the composed daughter, the future duchess, but your mind is elsewhere. Picking apart the pieces of him that you thought you knew. Wondering what else lies beneath that smile, that grace, that armor of polished charm.

And later, much later, once the servants have cleared the table and the doors to the parlor have been shut—you find yourself outside. The evening air is cool, soft, still edged with the scent of crushed lavender and stone warmed by day. The garden is dappled with dusk. You and Gojo stand near the courtyard, half in shadow, watching the boys—Yuji and Megumi—laughing as they take turns pushing one another on the swing.

They’re just children. Careless. Weightless. You, on the other hand, feel the full heft of everything that just transpired pressing like a hand to your spine.

“How is it,” you ask, voice low, “that you can so confidently, so easily, dictate what you want from others and receive it without resistance?”

Satoru’s brows knit, but not out of annoyance. It’s curiosity. He turns toward you, his eyes pale and searching in the twilight. The golden light of the garden lanterns flickers softly over the lines of his face. “What do you mean?” he says gently.

You glance up at him, then away, toward the swing where Yuji’s laughter is fading. The boys are slowing now—less shrill joy, more tired amusement. “It just felt like… you and my parents were speaking in a room I wasn’t in,” you murmur. “Like I was sitting beside you all and somehow still not quite present.”

He exhales. It’s soft, careful, as if he knows he’s treading somewhere delicate now. “Trust me, darling,” he says, “I was waiting for you to speak. For you to stop me, if you wanted to.”

You shake your head slowly. “It’s all right. I suppose I should’ve expected this. Mother will take the fête as an opportunity to make an announcement about the wedding.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks, quiet but not unkind. “To be married? To me? Does it not make you happy?”

“I am happy,” you say, lifting your eyes to meet his. “Delighted, even.” But your voice betrays you—too soft, too even, too polite. You glance back toward the children. “It’s just… I never thought it would happen this way. Not through scandal.”

He hums faintly, a note of regret in his tone. “If it’s any consolation,” he begins, “I’m sorry for following you into the balcon—”

“No,” you interrupt gently. “I don’t regret it.”

He grins, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve made that quite clear.”

The moment stretches, quiet and not entirely uncomfortable. Then he steps back a little, brushing down the front of his coat. “I should leave. The sun’s gone, and I’ve got appearances to keep with the Archbishop in the morning.” He glances sideways at you. “I wrote him this morning. About our… situation.”

You blink. “So you knew my parents would jump at the offer for the expedited license.”

“I did,” he confesses, a note of guilt tucked behind the smile. It’s not smug, not quite. Just certain. Just planned. You nod, slowly. The smile you offer isn’t warm. It’s the kind of smile one gives upon solving the last riddle in a long line of riddles. “That’s what I thought. I keep finding out more about you than I bargained for,” you murmur. “It’s terrifying, in a way.”

“I had the same feeling,” he says, lips curling, “when I saw you knee Nigel Berbrooke right in the corner of Grosvenor Square.”

You almost laugh. He calls to Megumi then, and the moment fades—replaced by the sound of feet on gravel, of the boys returning with flushed cheeks and wide grins.

“Can I visit my sister often once you’re married?” Yuji pipes up as the four of you enter the house. The light indoors feels warmer than before, too bright. Too staged.

Satoru laughs, ruffling Yuji’s hair. “You can visit Megumi and I, too. Whenever you like.”

Yuji beams, then turns to Gojo as though just remembering. “Did you know she plays chess? And that she's great at pall mall? Oh, did you know she can fence?”

Gojo lets out a laugh now. Loud, full-bodied. “Trust me,” he says, “she can do far more than just fence.”

And later, when the Duke and his brother have gone—when the house has quieted and the laughter of dinner has faded into memory—you find yourself in the parlor again. Yuji chatters beside you, dreaming aloud of the escapades he’ll have as the Duchess’s brother. You nod, smile where you should, tease him gently. You walk him to his bed, tuck him in, promise him summer rides and borrowed hounds and library keys. You press a kiss to his forehead and bid him goodnight.

Then you retreat to your room. You set pen to paper, intending to finish the article you began yesterday. You write a single line about the fête, then stare at it for too long. Eventually, you set the pen down. It’s late. The fire’s burned low.

You lie in bed, hands clasped over your stomach, and think of your parents’ expressions at dinner. Not startled. Not overwhelmed. Just... prepared. Just ready. As if they’d known all along. As if Gojo had handed them the lines to read.

It sits heavy in your chest.

You are delighted. You are engaged. You are on the cusp of a future some women would kill for. And still, you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, behind it all, a conversation occurred that did not include you. And it unsettles you.

Late afternoon of Sunday, Hyde Park.

It is astounding, what your mother can do when she sets her mind to something. This is not merely a fête champêtre. It is a declaration. A staking of territory. A performance, curated down to the last spun sugar petal and silk-draped pavilion. And it has Hyde Park—no, the entire season—in its palm.

Your family arrives half an hour before the invitations permit. It is early enough to watch the event take shape, late enough that the magic has already begun to settle. Enough for your mother's watchful eye to make sure everything is up to the mark. You step from the carriage, feet sinking just slightly into the trimmed grass, and it takes you a long moment before you can do anything other than simply stand. Breathe. Take it in.

The Parade Grounds have been transformed into a dreamscape. Tents and pavilions bloom across the green like ivory flowers, their silken walls rippling in the breeze. Musicians tune their violins on a raised dais in the centre, the light catching on the brass fittings of their flutes. Fortune-tellers settle into their tents with velvet-draped tables and cards worn to softness. Puppeteers test the wires of their painted marionettes, hands moving with the delicacy of surgeons. Pavilions with refreshments like champagne, ice-cream, sugared strawberries, and pies and cakes are blended into the lot of the rest like a beautiful painting.

Lanterns, hundreds of them, are strung from poles and trees, not yet lit, but already trembling with anticipation. By dusk, they will burn like stars. It is beautiful. Not the fragile, private sort of beauty one tucks away—but a theatrical kind, curated to be admired. To be envied.

You walk slowly across the grounds, your gown catching slightly at the knees. It’s a soft pastel blue muslin, airy enough for a day on the lawn, but intricate where it counts—lace tracing the collar and hem, tiny pearl buttons running down your spine. Your mother insisted on this shade. Said it would make you stand out just enough: an echo of the sky, a suggestion of innocence, but unmistakably tailored for attention.

Lawn games are cordoned off by rope garlands—pall mall, lawn archery, and some whimsical game involving hoops and ribbons you don’t even recognize. Musicians drift between the setups like well-dressed ghosts, their instruments resting against their chests like lovers. There is movement everywhere—an elegant chaos. You think, briefly, that it all feels too perfect.

And then you remember the reason behind it. Your engagement will be announced today. To the Duke.

The thought rushes through you like wind. A thrill. A knot. You clasp your hands at your waist, feeling the fine tremble of anticipation settle under your skin. This will be the most talked-about event of the season. Perhaps the next, too. Of that, you are certain. And it is your name they will whisper behind fans. Your mother’s triumph. Your family’s rise.

Your story—beginning, here. In full view.

You hardly have time to name the miracle of it before the crowd begins to pour in. An endless stream of silk, laughter, and social ambition. Lords, barons, and the finely powdered elite of London arrive in carriages and on foot, their presence declaring the event the apex of the season. It is, you realize, too perfect to be anything but deliberate. Everyone has come.

The gentlemen drift toward the card pavilions like moths to candlelight, already leaning over hands of whist and hazard, murmuring their wagers beneath the pluck of lute strings. The ladies—lace-gloved and flushed—gather at the fortune-tellers’ tents, giggling as their futures are read in cryptic symbols and feathered cards. Children are spellbound before puppet stages and in pall mall, their laughter lifting into the air with the scent of sugared pastries and lemonade. The entire world has converged here, in Hyde Park, under your family’s name. All of London, is here.

“I cannot believe your mother did this in a week,” Shoko says beside you, one brow raised in something between disbelief and admiration. The three of you stand tucked beneath the awning of a lemonade stand near the musicians’ dais, where a lively tune hums beneath the swell of conversation. The lemon in your cup tastes like a dream—sweet and tart and fleeting.

“I can’t either,” you murmur, still wide-eyed, still unsure how to take it all in. “I almost wish I weren’t the host, just so I could wander and enjoy it properly. But I know she’ll come to collect me any moment now, drag me off to meet half the peerage.”

“How tragic,” Utahime says with a faux pout, raising her glass. You narrow your eyes at her, amused. You open your mouth, close it again. Then, a breath. The words come out quiet. “I have to tell you something. Before it's announced.”

Shoko stills. Utahime’s brow furrows slightly. You glance between them. There’s something in Shoko’s expression already, something knowing, even wicked. She sets her cup down delicately on a side table and folds her arms with too much casualness.

“I am engaged,” you say. “To the Duke.”

Silence. A moment suspended in air, stretched thin. Utahime blinks once, twice. Her mouth falls open slightly. Shoko only smiles.

“Congratulations,” she says at last. “You’re going to be the wealthiest duchess in London.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. “That’s not the point. I just—” You hesitate. “I don’t know. It might be the scandal, but I’ve had this pit in my stomach all evening. Something feels off.”

“Well,” Utahime says quietly, unusually tempered, “He did the decent thing. A scandal always weighs heavier on the woman, anyway.”

You nod slowly, lips pressed together. The moment passes, melts into something easier, something lighter. Conversation shifts, laughter returns. But not for long.

Your mother appears, glowing, and whisks you away. You catch only the briefest glances of the crowd, of your friends, of the festivities still in full swing. You’re passed from one conversation to another, introduced to a daisy chain of barons, counts, viscountesses—faces whose names blur at the edges. You're charming and gracious, just as you've been taught. But it drains you. Every compliment is a cut; every polite chuckle a rehearsed deflection.

It’s only after what feels like an hour and a half of curated smiling that you spot a glimmer of silver. Across the lawn, near the champagne pavilion, stands Satoru. He is unmistakable, even among the cluster of tall men and expensive coats. His hair catches the last remnants of sun like snow under candlelight. He’s surrounded by familiar faces—Suguru, Nanami, and others you recognize at once—but it’s him you focus on. Him, who hasn’t looked your way once.

You stay by your parents, trying not to show the fatigue that pools in your feet, in your jaw, in your chest. You imagine Yuji somewhere far off, shrieking with laughter as Megumi scowls at a lawn game or scampers after a puppet. It comforts you.

And then you quietly step away. Slipping between groups, down toward the edge of the fête where the pie and pastry tent waits. It’s quieter here, easier. The smell of spiced apples and butter fills the air, and you breathe in as if you haven’t tasted air in an hour.

“Look at you,” a voice drawls behind you. “Unchaperoned. Again.”

You smile, turning to him. “And look at you, following me while I’m unchaperoned. Again.”

Satoru steps toward you with that grin—the boyish, maddeningly pleased-with-himself one—and wraps his arms around you without hesitation. You let him. The tent is empty but for an older woman arranging pastries with tender focus, unconcerned with royalty or reputation.

“You look beautiful in blue,” he murmurs, his voice low near your ear.

“I wore it for that very reason,” you reply, unable to stop the smile blooming across your face.

Gojo glances around, his expression shifting. Still playful, but with a note of caution. His gaze sweeps the tent: the older woman arranging lemon and cherry tarts has her back turned, wholly immersed in her task, and the rest of the fête stretches just far enough to grant them a rare sliver of privacy.

Then, without fanfare, he leans in and brushes his lips against yours.

It’s not a dramatic kiss, not the kind poets string sonnets from, but it unravels you in its simplicity. Quick, secret, a punctuation mark rather than a full sentence. Still, you feel it. All the way down. It is the kind of kiss that feels like a promise kept. He pulls back just as easily as he leaned in, his expression unreadable for a moment. And then that grin returns, tugging at the corners of his mouth, softening him.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,” he says.

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. He takes your silence for what it is—something between stunned affection and aching anticipation—and presses one last glance to your hand before he slips back into the crowd.

Time moves oddly after that. It doesn’t speed up, exactly, but it begins to blur. You find your way back to the center of the parade grounds, the sky now fully dark above Hyde Park, where lanterns float like tiny stars strung between trees. The air is cooler, but the excitement thrumming in the crowd keeps it from chilling. You spot Shoko and Utahime near the ring toss stall and slip back into their orbit as naturally as if you’d never left.

You laugh, truly laugh, as Utahime flings her final ring and narrowly misses the wooden peg she’s aiming for. “You’re absolutely hopeless,” you tease, watching Shoko collect a small paper prize for herself—a folded fan painted with florals.

“I’ll have you know,” Utahime mutters, “I let Shoko win. She looked like she needed the morale.”

You're about to reply when something cuts through the air. The music stops. It dies not with a jarring crash but with a soft, deliberate diminuendo, as if the musicians were told to lay their instruments down slowly, one by one. Like a curtain falling at the end of an act.

You freeze.

All around you, people are turning. Faces lift. Heads angle toward the central dais where the string quartet had been playing only moments before. The effect is like a tide: all at once, the sea of conversation ebbs, leaving only a hush thick with expectation.

Your mother steps up onto the dais, flanked by your father. Their expressions are composed, practiced—faces made for portraiture and politics. Your father’s voice is the first to rise. You feel it before you hear it, the anticipation threading into your spine, a quiet and inevitable dread.

It’s time. The announcement is about to be made. And somehow, impossibly, you're not ready.

You search the crowd for him—your eyes scanning beyond the flushed cheeks and swirling silks, past the clamor of card tables and puppet shows, beyond the lords in powdered coats and the ladies in florals—as if you could summon steadiness in the shape of a man. And then, there he is.

Gojo stands at the edge of the dais, tall and immaculately composed in deep navy. The silver of his hair glints beneath the lanterns strung like stars between trees. His gaze is already on you. Of course it is. He nods once, slow and certain. And something inside you stills.

"It's happening," you whisper.

“Go,” Shoko murmurs, voice lower than the hush that’s fallen over the crowd. “Make the most of it. Go. Rid yourself of this ridiculous scandal and present yourself as the Duchess-to-be.”

You hesitate. You feel the weight of your name before it is ever spoken, the pressure of your title before it has been officially given. Then Utahime presses a warm hand to the small of your back for a gentle, grounding push.

You inhale, and then step forward.

Your feet move before your thoughts do, weaving through a sea of murmuring guests, muslin and satin brushing against your skirts as you pass. You are walking toward a future already being written by someone else’s hand. Toward a dais that gleams beneath lanternlight, toward a father whose face betrays nothing and a mother whose tears have been perfectly timed.

Gojo is waiting for you at the bottom step. He offers his arm. His fingers brush your glove as you take it. And then, together, you ascend. The dais is high enough that it feels like a reckoning. The musicians have fallen silent. The air is charged now—still, brittle, like glass waiting to break.

Your father clears his throat and raises his glass, his posture the kind that comes from years of hosting, of ruling from parlors and private dinners. “My lords, ladies, and honoured guests,” he begins, and his voice is practiced, warm, unshaken, “this spring has brought with it more than sunlight and blossoms. It has brought my household a most… unexpected delight.”

A ripple of polite laughter spreads, though it is laced with curiosity.

Your gaze flits across the lawn to the hundreds of faces, eyes fixed on you. You cannot see your brother or Megumi among them, but you imagine them somewhere near the puppet tents, unaware of the consequences of this moment. The nausea threatens you again, rising from somewhere deep and quiet, but Gojo is beside you, unmoved, hands clasped behind his back like he’s been born for this. When you look at him, he is already looking at you. And when he blinks reassuringly, it is like a balm.

“It is with great pride,” your father continues, “and no small measure of astonishment, that I announce the engagement of my daughter…”

He gestures to you. There is an audible swell of breath from the crowd.

“…to His Grace, Gojo Satoru, the Duke of Six Eyes.”

The lawn erupts. Gasps, applause, chatter—voices tangling with one another in a crescendo of disbelief and fascination. Your name flies from mouths like confetti. The match is a triumph. The scandal has been rewritten into something desirable. You are not ruined. You are beloved. You are desired. You are his.

Your mother dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, already performing the part of a sentimental parent, though you’ve never known her to cry unless there was an audience to receive it. Your father raises his glass higher, nodding with a smile that only barely touches his eyes. The musicians begin again, a stately waltz, and suddenly the fête transforms. This is no longer a party. It is a coronation.

And you? You are the Duchess-to-be.

THE VEILED QUILL Volume II, Issue XIII From Folly to Fête

My dearest gentle readers,

The Season wears on, and with each passing week, it becomes more evident that propriety is but a delicate veil—and some among us would do well to remember how sheer that veil truly is.

Let us begin, regretfully, with an incident that one wishes could be brushed away like errant crumbs from a silk tablecloth. On Wednesday evening, Lord Nigel Berbrooke—yes, that Berbrooke, of the unfortunate hairline and even more unfortunate manners—was seen in a most unbecoming state at the upper corner of Grosvenor Square. After an evening of drink at one of those gentleman’s clubs where very little gentleness is ever in practice, he was observed harassing a maid, poor thing, who was merely trying to see to her business without being cornered by a stumbling peer. One needn’t be a woman of high society to know: a title cannot soften a man's character, and all the coin in Mayfair cannot erase behaviour as coarse as gravel. A note to all mothers: do not let your daughters wed a man whose respectability is stitched only to his coat.

But enough of men whose presence is as welcome as last season’s hemline. Let us speak, instead, of something divine.

The fête champêtre held this past weekend by the Viscount and Viscountess at the Parade Grounds in Hyde Park was nothing short of legendary. There are events, and then there are moments—and this, dear reader, was a moment. A vision in silk tents and silkier rumours, with the sound of waltzes drifting between lanterns hung like moonlight on string. There was champagne that sparkled like diamonds, wines that warmed like affection, and refreshments more decadent than any secret whispered beneath a fan.

And if one may abandon objectivity for but a moment—this author must confess a particular fondness for the ring toss tucked beside the dais. A charming, utterly diverting little affair. And let us not forget the pastries at the far edge of the lawn. (This author certainly returned for seconds. Possibly thirds. Do not ask.)

Alas, there was no time for the fortune-tellers, whose tent brimmed with silks and mystery. A true shame. This Phantom had quite hoped to learn whether scandal or sentiment lies ahead. But let us speak of something more fateful than fortune.

For while the fête itself would have been enough to keep the ton buzzing for months, the Viscountess had one last waltz up her sleeve. Just as the final gold thread of sunlight gave way to evening’s velvet, a hush fell upon the crowd. The Viscount raised a glass. The musicians quieted. And in that breathless hush, it was announced: the engagement of His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, to none other than the daughter of the house.

Yes. That daughter. The same young lady who has danced, withdrawn, and returned to society in a swirl of rumours and restraint. Now, she is to be Duchess.

What a triumphant turn of events. What a coup. What a game.

For who among us suspected the Viscountess would answer scandal not with silence, but with spectacle? With beauty, with orchestration, with the most dazzling alliance of the season? And yet here we are, watching the curtain fall on speculation, and rise on certainty.

This author, who has watched the highs and lows of their courtship with an ink-stained heart and cautious hope, is glad—genuinely glad—to see the pair united at last. They stood atop the dais like two characters pulled from a sonnet, their expressions unreadable but their bond unmistakable.

Let the poets scribble, the gossips gasp, and the Season spin onward. This couple, it seems, has already found their story.

With admiration (and perhaps a little envy), Phantom.

The next three weeks unfold like a fever dream, equal parts lace and tyranny. Your mother, possessed by a singular vision, insists on a wedding ceremony “proper enough to make even royalty envious.” You recall her words precisely—how she said them with her mouth full of sugared plums and her eyes alight like a general waging war. “No only daughter of mine shall be married off intimately. We will be making it grand.”

And grand it becomes. Fittings upon fittings. Layers of silk and tulle, endless consultations with the modiste, who eyes your figure like a sculptor assessing marble. There is no time to think, let alone write. The quills remain mostly untouched, save for four rushed columns and some letters to Satoru you managed in a haze of candlelight and exhaustion. The rest of your hours are spent with your mother, overseeing seating arrangements, breakfast menus, guest lists, flower orders, and learning that hosting a ball as a future duchess is not a matter of preference, it is proof. Of stature. Of ability. Of survival.

You choose the fabric yourself, of course. Something ethereal. A blue so pale it becomes a rumour of white in the light. The modiste called it moonmilk. Said it would arrive the night before, perfectly pressed, wrapped in muslin, a ribbon pinned to its bodice like a secret.

The ceremony is to be held at St. George’s, Hanover Square. The breakfast will be at the Six Eyes Estate, arranged by Satoru himself. He wrote to you last three days ago. His letter is thoughtful, brief. “I do not expect a reply. I imagine you are being devoured by gowns and spectacle. I am being devoured by longing.”

And so the night before the wedding comes. You wear your softest ivory silk dress robes, the kind only meant for nights where sleep seems like a betrayal of time. In your hand is the cravat pin he gave you, small and gold, now dulled by touch and memory. You sit by the window. The box containing your wedding gown lies nearby, gaping open like a soft-mouthed promise. You reach in, touch the lace—like spun sugar, like breath. You look outside, to the swing in the courtyard. To your desk. Then you stand, move to the cabinet beneath, and pull it open.

There lie the quiet spoils of your secret: pouches of coins, neatly tied, the sum of months spent in disguise. The Phantom. Every ounce of ink-stained effort has led to this. And now, all of it must come with you. You do not know how. But it will. Your life—your dresses, your books, your horse, your fencing kit—is about to be moved piece by piece to a house that is not yet home.

You do not sleep. You cannot. Instead, you watch the sky tilt gently from night to dawn, the blue bleeding into gold. Your maid, Agatha, rushes in with the first light, surprised to find you already upright, silhouetted at the window like some lonely patron saint of anxiety. She mutters something about tea and biscuits. That your mother insists everything begin early. That the water is already being drawn for your bath—lavender, rose petals, and sandalwood steeping into warmth. That your hair must be washed and bound with care. In case the Phantom is watching, she says with a wink. In case she is to write about the Duchess-to-be.

And for a moment, you wonder if she knows. And if she does, whether she approves. You sip your tea in silence. And the city readies itself for the wedding of the season.

Hours later, seated before the mirror, you look like a bride but feel like a stranger to the word. Silks the color of moonlight—barely blue, more the shade of milk steeped in twilight—pool around you. Your hair is pinned with sapphires and a certain pin, your wrists with diamonds. It is all too fine, too formal, too far from the girl who once wrote under candlelight and tasted freedom in ink.

Your mother has finally allowed Utahime and Shoko to your side, though not without dramatic protest. They burst through the upstairs corridor like wind through opened windows, all breathless smiles and wide eyes. For a brief second, it makes you laugh. But the moment is fleeting, swept away by the inevitability of the hour.

Then the carriage. Your father sits across from you, his hands gloved, his posture formal. But his voice, when he speaks, is not.

“I hope you know,” he says, “this was my only way of ensuring you married well in your first season. You could have done it on your own, but I had my reasons.”

You look at him. And, for the first time in a while, you understand. “It’s alright,” you say quietly. “I like him. I truly do. I think... it ended up being for the best.”

He blinks at you, once, twice, and clears his throat. His gloved hands fold tighter. “It is time.”

When the church doors open, the world sharpens. You see nothing but him.

Not the rows of nobility, not the whispers fluttering through silk fans, not the parish priest waiting by the altar. Only him, at the far end of the aisle. In full military dress, medals gleaming at his chest, and two hairpins tucked boldly near his lapel—the ones he stole from you that he never gave back. You smile without thinking. And when he sees his cravat pin in your hair, he smiles too, just slightly. His lips curving up at the left corner, like a secret passed only between the two of you.

You walk the aisle like one moving through water. Slow, dreamlike, distant. The priest speaks: “Dearly beloved...”

And after that, you hear nothing. Only the sound of your heartbeat, and the shape of his name in your mind. Vows are said, rings exchanged—gold, warm when he slips it onto your finger. In the vestry, you sign your name alongside his. Beside you, your father and Suguru sign too, witnesses to the quietest revolution of your life.

You are wife. You are Duchess. And though your hand trembles slightly, your signature is steady.

The wedding breakfast is a pageant of civility and careful joy. You are gracious, poised, every inch the duchess society expects you to be. But behind your smile, there is a secret truth: you are still learning what this all means.

Later, finally, the carriage. Your husband beside you. Your new home ahead. And the rest of your life—undecided, unspoken, unwritten—waiting just beyond the window.

You do nothing of consequence during the day. You tour the estate on Satoru’s arm, your hand clasped in his when no one is looking. You kiss him—softly, quietly—beside doorframes and between corridors, in corners the help dare not turn. The library is your weakness, and he knows it. He shows you the shelves first—where he keeps his favorites, bound in blue cloth and smelling faintly of cedar—and then, a little alcove, tucked behind a narrow ladder. There lie your favorites, arranged as if he has known your mind long before he ever held your hand. You kiss him there, too. Longer, this time.

Dinner is simple, for once. Roast duck, rosemary bread, and spiced wine. You think you are content—until the letter arrives. Stamped with a seal you don’t recognize, handed over with hushed voices. “From the Palace,” he says, rising quickly. You blink, watching his silhouette disappear past the parlor door. He does not return for nearly an hour.

In his absence, you busy yourself. You learn the rhythms of the house. The butler, standoffish at first, warms when you mention fencing. The Duke, he admits, was once obsessed—used to practice at dawn in the old hall before lessons. You store that detail like treasure. The housekeeper is more reluctant, her replies tidy and measured. But when you ask about Satoru’s mother, her face softens. “She preferred the country,” she says. “He lived here with his father, mostly. Genius child, but too quiet for it.”

And then, unasked, unprovoked: “The previous Duchess passed of fever. His Grace was barely four.”

Your chest tightens. You imagine him, alone in this grand place of carved marble and echoing stairwells. Then you remember Megumi.

“But... Megumi is twelve,” you say slowly, at the threshold of your chambers. “That’s well after her passing.”

The housekeeper hesitates, then lowers her voice to a breath. “The late Duke’s by-blow. But hush, your Grace, he is the Duke’s brother in all but blood. He raised him. That is what matters.”

You nod, and say nothing more. The matter is closed. You retreat into the quiet hush of your bedchamber, where Agatha is already laying out your robe. The one familiar face you insisted accompany you to your new life. She buttons you in, her fingers deft and gentle. You glance out the window just in time to see the Duke’s carriage pulling into the courtyard.

When he walks in, he looks like something unravelling—gloves off, cufflinks half-undone. You nearly startle.

“Is something the matter?” you ask. He stills, then shrugs it off too casually. “No. Just a few papers. Palace bureaucracy. Nothing worth troubling you over.”

You walk toward him, slow and careful, undoing the other cuff for him. “I’ve never seen you anxious,” you murmur. “Not truly. You’ve always been so… composed. Charming. So utterly sure of yourself.”

He laughs quietly, remembering. “You saw me flustered the day you kicked Nigel Berbrooke into the street like a rogue from the Peninsula.”

You smirk, helping him out of his coat. “I was too preoccupied to notice, your Grace.”

He winces, theatrically. “Don’t call me that. Not now. Not here. I am just Satoru to you. No titles. No masks.”

Then he sighs, dragging the cravat from his throat and tossing it onto a table. He steps closer, the air between you thinning. “We're married now, and yet the most affection I’ve received are a few stolen kisses.”

“I...” you begin, but falter. There’s something about the way he says it. As if he’s genuinely uncertain. “That’s all I know how to do.”

His brow arches, amused and something softer. “That’s all you know how to do?” he echoes, voice lilting. He sinks into the armchair by the fire, pulling off his boots, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. You swallow as he rises again. He crosses the floor with quiet, unhurried steps. His hand comes to your face—not possessive, not urgent. Just reverent. His fingers trace your temple, brushing a loose curl behind your ear.

“The Viscountess surely is cruel,” he says lowly, “keeping you in the dark for so long.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, but the question dissolves. The warmth of his palm has scattered your thoughts. And then, with the gentlest tug at your robe, the satin slips to the floor. Only your gown remains. It feels like the beginning of something you’ve been circling for years.

He steps closer, slow as dusk. His breath brushes your forehead before his lips press to yours. They're warm, sure, almost trembling with restraint. You kiss back instinctively, but it feels as though you are chasing something he’s already running from. Still, he lets you catch him. Or perhaps he slows down just enough to be caught.

His mouth grazes the edge of your jaw, then your ear, then lower. A scattering of kisses down your throat, each one igniting something unfamiliar. You're not sure whether it's embarrassment or anticipation. He draws you backwards until your knees meet the edge of the bed, and when you stumble slightly, more from dizziness than misstep. He catches you, hands strong at your waist. You’re not hurt, but your heart races all the same.

"Tell me you've touched yourself, at least," he murmurs, voice husky. "That one doesn’t take anyone’s guidance."

You blink up at him, the question foreign, almost impolite. "Touched myself?"

Your brow furrows. Not in modesty, but confusion, honest and childlike. He exhales, not in disappointment, but awe. It’s tender, the way he kisses your forehead. As if to apologise for the question. As if to promise you'll never be left behind again.

"You haven’t?" he asks. You shake your head.

"I don't understand," you whisper.

He doesn’t mock you. He doesn’t smirk or tease. Instead, he helps you lie back, careful as ever, as if you’re made of glass. You feel something between anticipation and fright—like standing on the edge of something beautiful and vast, not knowing how deep the fall will be.

He trails kisses lower now. Along your collarbone, the hollow beneath your throat, and then to the swell just above your chest. Every press of his lips sends sparks under your skin, so much so that the first sound you let out—soft, breathy, involuntary—startles even him.

"It feels good?" he asks, and you nod quickly, eyes wide, glassy.

"I... I don’t know how, but yes."

"Shhh," he soothes, brushing his lips against yours, reverently slow. Then, his hand trails lower. Over your stomach. Down further. And when he finally reaches between your thighs, when his fingers just barely brush where you're most sensitive, your breath hitches. His touch is featherlight, and he speaks while his fingers ghost over your bare folds.

"This," he says, gaze locked with yours, voice low, "is what I meant."

And when your thighs part instinctively, as if your body has answered for you, he smiles. Half gentle, half rogue. As though you’ve just let him into a sacred place.

His finger slides upward, tracing a delicate path along your slit, and the soft sounds that escape you make your eyes widen in startled delight. The slickness of it all catches in your throat, and you search his gaze for something. He finds it easily, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes. His finger finds a sensitive bud, and the sudden touch makes you jump, thighs instinctively closing, but he holds them open with a firm weight that makes your heart twist.

His arm rests against your upper thigh, the hem of your dress riding far too high to be considered proper. You have never been like this before. Never felt such a wild, unfamiliar fire. And yet, it is as if this is exactly where you are meant to be. The pad of his finger moves with increasing urgency against your bud, setting every nerve alight. Your blood rushes fiercely to your cheeks and pools between your legs, your back arching of its own accord, desperate to draw nearer to him. Your breath hitches, and you gasp his name over and over. Like a hymn, or a whispered prayer.

He chuckles softly, knowingly. “This is how you learn to pleasure yourself,” he murmurs. “You touch where it feels good, especially between your legs. I imagine your breasts are sensitive, too, if you’ve never explored them like this. And you keep touching, keep seeking, until you come. Until you reach a crescendo—a pinnacle that frees your mind of doubt and untangles every knot in your body.”

You grasp his shoulders, gasps spilling from your lips as you reach the peak, just as he had described it.

“I know, darling. I know,” he murmurs teasingly, and with those words, every knot in your core unravels, every doubt in your mind dissolves, every weight in your body lifts. You feel as if you are floating, weightless and free. You don’t notice when his hand slips away until your eyes flutter open, coming down from your high, and find him standing at the edge of the bed, watching you with a look that promises delicious sin.

“Come closer,” he commands softly. You obey without hesitation, dropping to your knees at the bed’s edge. His hands cup your face with a tenderness that makes you feel fragile and cherished all at once. His fingers nimbly undo the hooks of your dress, the speed making your eyes widen in surprise. Then, with care, he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to it before sliding your arm through the sleeve. The other follows, and the dress slips from your frame as if it had never belonged there.

You swallow hard as his gaze roams over you—lingering on the swell of your breasts. He says nothing at first, only caresses your cheek. His eyes dark and intense, sending heat pooling deep within you, the same place he touched moments ago. Your lips part, and his expression shifts, expectant, waiting for your voice.

“I want you,” you confess, breath trembling. “I don’t know what it means to want you, but I do. All of you.”

A shaky breath escapes him. “You don’t know what you’re asking, but you still want it?”

You nod, and he chuckles softly before taking your hand and guiding it to his breeches. “Undo them for me.”

You blink, surprised. “You mean take them off?”

He grins playfully, and you comply. As you do, you notice the bulge pressing against the fabric—unmistakably urgent, almost uncomfortable. You touch it hesitantly, unsure what to expect, and he winces.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Keep going,” he urges, voice low and breathy. “I like it. Keep going.”

You peel away the last barrier of clothing, and he springs free—long, thick, veined. It’s more than you imagined, but you follow his lead, your hands exploring as he instructs. You stroke, you caress, obeying every whispered command, until his sounds mirror your own—moans, gasps, low grunts—until he shakes his head and pulls your hand away.

“L-lay back.”

In seconds, he is upon you, parting your thighs, pressing kisses to your lips and wherever he can reach. His hands find your breasts, and you return his hunger with equal fervor, cradling his face in your hands.

“More,” you plead, arching your back as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts. “I want more.”

He pauses, positioning himself above you, his gaze softening. “Are you sure? We can stop now, if you’d like—”

“I am sure,” you whisper. “I want you—”

Without hesitation, he enters you, and it feels unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your heart swells, your body overwhelms, and the gasps that escape feel as natural as breathing—terrifying and right all at once. He pulls back, then thrusts forward again, sending stars across your vision as your back arches involuntarily. He moves steadily, up and down, again and again, each motion a delicious torment. You cling to him, whispering his name between moans. His grunts grow louder, pace quickening, skin slapping against yours in a rhythm that sets your senses ablaze.

The crescendo builds again, the undoing you crave. Eyes closed, he cups your face, pressing his forehead to yours as his pace accelerates. Your faces nearly touch, lips parted but not meeting. He stares deep into your eyes, breath ragged, before murmuring, “F-for me, it happens the same way.”

“The pinnacle,” you gasp.

He nods, voice rough. “Unlike you, however,” he grunts, “When I come, I ejaculate.”

“And what does that entail?” you ask breathlessly, as he pulls back slightly to look at you. Your blush deepens under his gaze as it drifts over your breasts and flushed cheeks while he continues his steady rhythm. He laughs softly—not mockingly, but warmly.

“It’s how a woman becomes pregnant. If I do it inside you.”

“O-oh,” you whisper, swallowing hard. He slows just a fraction, panting. “I’m close.”

“So am I,” you admit, feeling yourself unravel further, the knots in your stomach loosening, fraying at the edges. His pace slows, but the intensity only deepens. The sound of skin meeting skin grows louder, more urgent. You feel it—an overwhelming need to hold him, to keep him inside you forever.

And then it happens again. But this time, it feels warmer, fuller, more profound than when it was just his hand. You feel him twitch inside you, the two of you releasing in tandem. He moans your name, forehead pressed to yours, as if you are the very prayer he utters.

When he pulls away slightly, the two of you share a soft, breathless laugh.

In the weeks that follow, you move through the world as if through gauze—dutiful, poised, every smile measured. Your mother basks in the social currency of your title, gathering compliments like pearls on a string. You accompany her, watch the other mamas whisper and envy and flatter, all of them under the illusion that she orchestrated your fate with the Duke. You say nothing. You nod when appropriate. What use is truth to people so fluent in fiction?

You write, of course. The Phantom still breathes beneath your skin. Your newest column, delicate and saccharine, reads: This author has it on good authority that the Duchess looked divine on her wedding day. And that His Grace, upon seeing her, smiled so sweetly it might’ve given the ton a collective toothache.

The estate is yours now, or at least it behaves as if it is. The staff take to you with the kind of slow, sturdy fondness earned rather than assumed. You ask the butler for history, the housekeeper for stories. You learn the creaks of the halls, the way the morning light falls over the courtyard. You walk with purpose, like a woman trying to believe the ground beneath her belongs to her feet.

You try, once or twice, to speak to Megumi. He is polite, reserved, rarely reactive. It’s not coldness. It’s watchfulness, a kind of quiet calculation. And so, you wait. You plan the ball with your mother and the staff, ask about musicians, arrange the refreshments with an exactness that makes the housekeeper blink in approval.

It’s a Friday afternoon when you drift to the library, exhausted but restless. And there he is.

Megumi sits curled sideways on a sofa, a book open in one hand, long legs stretched comfortably along the cushions. He doesn’t notice you at first. You say nothing as you wander to the shelves and pull down a weighty volume—The Monk, by Lewis. You move toward the window, settle into the light like it’s a familiar friend.

You don’t miss the way his eyes flick to the cover.

“I didn’t know you liked Lewis,” he murmurs. His voice is dry but curious.

You raise a brow. “For that, you’d have to speak to me.”

He closes his book slowly. “What else do you read?”

“Wollstonecraft,” you say, glancing at him. “Radcliffe. And yes, I like Austen.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’ve heard all women do.”

“She writes brilliantly,” you reply. “If you've read her, you'd know. And it's not just women. She's better than half the men paraded through the canon.”

He grins then, truly grins. “You have taste.”

You let the smallest smile slip. “I have more than just taste, Megumi. Want to put that to the test?”

The sound of soft laughter at the door makes you turn.

Gojo leans against the frame, arms folded, an unreadable expression just beneath the familiar amusement on his lips. “I would advise against challenging my wife, Megumi. You’re not nearly clever enough to win.”

Megumi smirks. “She was just about to lose.”

Gojo steps into the room. He doesn’t touch you, but he stands close enough to be felt. “Don’t be so sure,” he says, eyes still on you. “She tends to surprise. And you, brother, are twelve.”

You feel his gaze linger a moment longer than necessary before he turns away, joking lightly with Megumi about the arrangement of the shelves and how the boy seems to have claimed a whole corner as his own. But even when he’s across the room, you still feel the weight of him.

That night, in your shared bedchamber, the laughter has long since faded.

You sit at your vanity, unpinning your hair slowly, the soft scrape of the comb the only sound in the room. Gojo enters quietly, not with the dramatic flourish he often employs, but with something more subdued. Thoughtful.

“You like Megumi,” he says after a beat, tone mild.

You glance at him in the mirror. “I do. He’s clever. Kind, even if he tries to hide it.”

Gojo’s eyes narrow slightly, though he doesn’t move. “He talked more with you than he did with me in the last few weeks.”

“Perhaps you should read Lewis,” you offer, tone light but not unkind.

He chuckles faintly, walking behind you. His hands rest on your shoulders, firm and warm. “Perhaps I should.”

For a moment, nothing is said. The air is thick with something you don’t yet name. His thumbs press into the muscle of your neck, a tender pressure. You close your eyes. You let him touch you.

You catch his reflection in the gilded mirror, and your breath catches sharply as your eyes meet his—Satoru. The name tastes like a secret on your tongue as you say it.

"Hm?" he murmurs, bending with a languid grace to press a kiss just where your shoulder curves into your neck. The sensation is exquisite, a sudden, exquisite ache blooming within you. Your eyes flutter half-shut, heavy with desire, and you turn to brush your lips against the sharp line of his jaw. He sheds his coat with careless urgency, the fabric falling away as if impatient to be discarded.

Before you can gather your thoughts, he has you pinned against the wall, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the heat radiating between you. His hands move with a fevered haste, peeling away your dress as if it were a mere barrier to the communion he craves. Your thighs part beneath his touch, trembling, and a soft moan escapes you as he sinks to his knees.

You watch, breath caught, as he lifts your dress with one hand, his gaze rising to meet yours. An unspoken claim, as if you are the axis upon which his world turns.

“Satoru?” Your voice is fragile, a whisper on the edge of surrender. But before you can brace yourself, his tongue finds you; hungry, desperate, as if he has wandered a desert for months and you are the oasis. It laps your cunt and circles your clit with a devotion that steals your breath and weakens your knees.

You arch, clutching the edge of the vanity to anchor yourself, one hand gripping the polished wood, the other tangling in the thick strands of his hair.

“Satoru,” you gasp, voice trembling, “Please... don’t stop. It feels too good. Too much.”

He smirks against you, the vibration of his satisfaction pressing into your skin. You feel the swell of his pride, the fierce possessiveness that makes him hold you by the hips as he remains kneeling before you, as though you are the very thing he has long been denied.

“I’m going to come,” you breathe out, voice trembling with a mixture of awe and surrender. “I didn’t know it could feel so... oh.”

You dissolve into him as his tongue slips deep into your cunt. He giggles low against your skin, the sound vibrating in you, and it nearly breaks you to remain upright. His voice, husky and intimate, murmurs into the depths of you, “You can’t just—”

“Can’t I?” he replies, pulling back with a slow, deliberate grace. Your dress, reluctant as if mourning its loss, slips down to its rightful place when he releases the hem, and you whimper softly. His smile is wicked, a devil’s promise as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. You hate the taste of yourself on his tongue. At how sweet it is, and it only stokes the fire, leaving you craving more.

You gaze at him, eyes glazed with a heady intoxication, and he brushes the stray drool from the corner of your mouth with a tender finger. “As much as I would adore keeping you awake until dawn,” he says, voice teasingly low, “I cannot exhaust you entirely in the first month. I fear you might grow weary of me.”

“I could never,” you whisper, breath still ragged, your chest rising and falling beyond the confines of your neckline. His eyes soften, just for a moment, before he pulls you close by the waist. You look up at him, heart pounding, as he says, “Here.”

He moves toward the vanity, a few deliberate steps, and pushes the stool aside. He guides you to stand before the mirror. You blink, catching your reflection—eyes meeting his through the glass once more. But now, you look undone. Less a lady of society, more a woman laid bare by desire. It is slightly unbecoming, wildly improper, yet you revel in it. You like seeing yourself this way, transformed by him. He sees it too, because his voice drops to a whisper, “You are something else. But you're mine. All mine.”

“You as well,” you retort, a mischievous spark lighting your gaze. “You are all mine, too.”

He chuckles, dark and amused. “Jealous, are you?”

You shake your head firmly. “No. Merely staking my claim, as befits a Duchess.”

His hands settle on your back, commandingly warm, fingers splayed across the expanse of your bare skin as he slowly undoes your dress. It falls away with surprising ease this time. He inhales sharply, a shaky breath betraying his restraint, before his hands roam to your nipples needily. The playfulness has vanished; now, he needs you with a raw intensity that leaves you breathless.

He sheds his breeches with haste and bends you forward. You gulp, shuddering as he enters you like this. You watch yourself in the mirror—your breasts bouncing with every thrust, his pupils dilating in rapture, his body making sounds that are equal parts grunt, moan, and whimper, all for you. It inflates your pride, a delicious arrogance, as if you hold dominion over him.

You yelp, breath catching as he pulls you back upright, continuing his relentless pursuit while standing. Your eyes widen in surprise, but hunger simmers beneath the shock. You pivot halfway, lips crashing against his with a feral hunger. His hands spread wide across your chest, gripping you with a fierce possessiveness that borders on pain—sharp, intoxicating, like the burn of port sliding down your throat, searing yet exquisite after a moment. Your half-lidded gaze and ragged moans confess everything; you are on the precipice of coming, and so is he.

“I can feel it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire. “Almost there, aren't you? You’re quite transparent, darling.”

“Shut up,” you grunt, a whimper escaping as his hand pinches your nipple with sudden, merciless insistence. Eyes closed, you surrender to the symphony of sensation—his hands on your breasts, his length buried deep within your cunt, his breath hot against your neck, his voice a low caress, his chest pressed firmly to your back. The more you dwell on it, the closer you spiral toward the edge.

He grunts into your ear, lips trailing kisses along the sensitive skin, and then it happens. The world narrows to the exquisite clenching of your body against him—against the veins of his cock, the tip pressing mercilessly against your cervix. Your core tightens, gripping him with a fierce, repeated rhythm as your entire frame trembles. And then, you feel him releasing inside you with a shuddering surrender.

You remain locked in that trembling embrace, panting, eyes drawn to the mirror where your reflection entwines with his. He holds you with a desperate tenderness, arms wrapped tight around your waist as his face buries itself in your hair. His breath is ragged against your neck, and your gaze softens.

For all his strength—Gojo Satoru, the man who devours you with such ferocity—there is fragility here. Though he has just claimed you utterly, there is something vulnerable in the way he closes his eyes and clings to you, as if you are the very air he needs to breathe.

And then it strikes you. The Gojo you know is a different creature entirely. Confident. Jovial. A master of wit and flirtation, as if life itself depended on his charm. Ever adorned with that infuriating smirk, so composed that every lady of the ton still whispers his name as London’s most coveted bachelor.

But tonight, you realize it with a shock. You do not know this man at all.

There is nothing particularly remarkable about the ball you host—not in the way society defines remarkable. It is exquisite, of course. Lit like a painting, gilded in every corner, with flowers perfuming the air and crystal glinting off every surface. But you’re tired of it. Tired of society and its pageantry, tired of the performance. Your mother goes on about appearances and honeymoons and duty. You nod, you smile, you dance. You watch Satoru disappear into his study with Suguru for ten minutes and return as if nothing happened. But you know better now. You can read him.

Later that night, while he checks in on Megumi, you sit in bed and think of all the things you have learned about him, and all the things you still haven’t. When he returns, you pretend to be asleep until he presses a kiss to your temple, tenderly quiet. You open your eyes and reach for him.

"You seemed upset when you came back," you murmur. He raises a brow. Waits.

"You left to speak with Suguru. In your office. Is everything alright?"

He blinks. “I didn’t expect you to notice. It’s nothing.”

"You’re the one who said you keep finding new things about me,” you whisper. “Why is it I feel I hardly know you at all?”

He exhales slowly. “It's nothing. A document won’t clear through. I’m looking for a way around it.”

"Can I help?" you ask. He shakes his head. “Not really.”

You card your fingers through his hair. “I’ve been exploring,” you say. He hums, eyes half-closed, waiting for you to continue.

"There are paintings in the drawing room. Your mother’s.”

“She was good,” he says, turning toward you fully now. “She painted. Played pianoforte. Taught me how to ride. To speak. To think. Refused to let a blasted governor near me. Said she wanted to know what I was becoming.”

“You must miss her.”

“Every fucking day,” he says simply. “As much as I hated my father, I loved her.”

You still. “You hated him?”

He stiffens. A beat of silence. Then, “Forget it. Tell me when Yuji’s coming next. I’d like to see him.”

That night, you don’t sleep. You rise before dawn and write, ink staining your hands as you sign your name as the Phantom once more. By sunrise, you’re dressed, prepared, and smiling again.

The months pass like breath. Days folding into one another with dizzying, golden repetition. You and Satoru move like clockwork: breakfast, duty, desire. He touches you constantly behind closed doors, between conversations, in the dark, and often in daylight. You let him. You welcome it. Sometimes it’s gentle, sometimes it’s rough, but always it’s worshipful. You start to wonder if it is his way of apologizing—for what, you don’t yet know.

You begin to bond with Megumi. He softens around you, especially when you bring books or speak of poets he’s only just begun to admire. Yuji visits often, and his presence feels like a memory of something easier. You tend to your duchess duties—entertaining the wives of foreign dignitaries, inspecting the kitchens, reading reports. You make appearances in town. You host teas. You smile.

But something hollows. Slowly, stealthily, as if dug by a spoon from the inside. There is a pit in your stomach that no wine or laughter can fill. Something unnamed. It stirs when you hear Suguru’s voice through the study door. When Satoru smiles just a little too easily. When silence settles between you after the pleasure is gone, and nothing is said at all.

You do not name the feeling, but it grows. Like a storm swelling in the distance. Like an ache you will eventually have to reckon with.

A few weeks later, with Satoru gone to the palace for some diplomatic affair, the house feels quieter than usual—emptier, though not lonelier. You’re curled on the parlor settee, half-lost in the novel he brought you, some token gesture to distract you from the silence blooming between you. Megumi is with his governor. There is no company to keep but the book in your lap and the ache that has been growing in your chest since before you could name it.

You're just about to turn the page when the butler enters and announces, “Lord Geto Suguru has arrived, Your Grace.” You blink, surprised. A smile curls faintly across your lips.

“Send him in,” you murmur, rising slightly.

He steps in moments later, breathless and urgent as though the world has ended, but his expression softens when he sees you. “Hi,” he says, almost sheepishly.

You smile wider, if only to push away the unrest in your chest. “Hi. Come to see my husband and not me, I presume?”

“Something like that,” he offers, bowing a little as he crosses the room to sit. “I don’t mind spending time with my old friend, though.”

“The old friend you haven’t written to since her wedding,” you tease, though your voice is light, practiced. “Seems you preferred me as a debutante.”

“Don’t say that,” he replies quickly, with genuine affection. “You know I never could. You’re like a sister to me.” A beat. “How have you been?”

You hesitate. The silence stretches, hangs. You could say everything. You could say nothing.

“I’m the same as I’ve always been,” you say instead, quiet. He narrows his eyes, then tilts his head, not fooled. “You’re angry with him.”

“No,” you say, too quickly. “Not at all.”

“You are,” he insists, gently. “Is this still about the contract?”

You pause. “Contract?”

“Yes, the one he and your father signed. The one to keep your father’s seat and to secure Satoru’s inheritance.” He says it like it’s common knowledge. “Though there’s a complication now—he’s been chasing down the notary ever since—wait.”

He stops. His eyes narrow again, before widening. “You didn’t know?”

You blink. “Keep my father’s seat at court...?” you echo, your voice louder than you mean it to be.

He sits upright, suddenly aware. “Satoru said he’d told you. Before the wedding—”

“Suguru,” you interrupt, your voice low but steel-threaded. “Explain. All of it.”

He looks at you then, and something in his face breaks. The guilt, the shame. He’s folding into it. And now you understand, how fools are made not by ignorance, but by trust.

“Satoru’s father was cruel,” he says slowly. “Raised him like a prisoner after his mother died. Tuberculosis, they said, though Satoru just called it wasting. His father never let him live, never let him feel. And in his will, he wrote that Satoru could only inherit at twenty-five if…”

“If?” Your voice is a whisper.

“If he marries. And sires an heir.”

There is a ringing in your ears. A coldness at the base of your neck. You feel the edges of your world tilting. “And my father?” you manage.

“Your father’s mistakes almost cost him the magistrate,” Suguru says, still not meeting your gaze. “Satoru saw it unravel. And so he... he made a deal.”

You exhale, slow and long. “He married me,” you say, voice flat. “Gave my father protection. Took a wife for an inheritance.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“I think you should leave,” you say quietly, rising from the lounge. “It was lovely having you, my lord.”

You do not watch him go. You sit back down only after you hear the door shut. You do not cry. Not yet. There is still too much to unravel before the grief can even begin. When Satoru returns that evening, the house is quiet. You’ve already retreated to your bedchambers, the light dimmed, the curtains drawn. You lie still beneath the covers, feigning the deep quiet of sleep. The housekeeper had passed along the lie without question—lightheadedness, perhaps exhaustion. A long day. Soup had been left on your nightstand. You hadn’t touched it.

He enters quietly. You feel the shift in the mattress, the creak of polished floorboards. Then the weight of his hand, gentle against your forehead, as though measuring something deeper than fever. His lips press to your crown with that practiced tenderness you once believed was instinct rather than performance. His hands rub soothing circles along your sides, warm through the thin linen. He murmurs something—your name, maybe. A prayer. A hush meant only for the sick and beloved.

You should soften. But instead you lie still, breathing steady. Pretending. And beneath the layers of blanket and silence, guilt blooms. You shouldn’t feel guilty. You remind yourself that.

Shouldn’t you be the one owed remorse?

Shouldn’t he have felt it when he let you fall in love with him under false pretenses? When he danced with you at that first ball—so attentive, so sweet—and didn’t think to mention the contract your father signed behind your back? When he smiled at your skirt in Utahime’s garden, saying he didn’t know how to speak to you, when in fact he knew precisely how to weave the web?

And wasn’t it too convenient, too perfect, that he followed you onto that balcony? That he kissed you? The thought clenches something hard inside your chest. You feel it rise like bile. You think: he knew. He must have known exactly what would happen, how quickly duty would follow affection. How clean the trap would spring shut.

You close your eyes tighter, swallowing thickly. His hand lingers on your waist, and all you can think is how expertly he has always known how to hold you.

The next few weeks are agony in silk and lace. Your mother insists on appearances. Says the London season has had its fill of your marital bliss, and it is now time to retreat—just the two of you—to Limitless Hall, the sprawling country estate that belongs to the title you now carry like a weight across your chest. A honeymoon, she calls it. A reward. A blessing. You nod and say yes, and wear the dresses she picks, and sign the letters addressed to "Her Grace," and you avoid your husband as best you can.

But even that is its own kind of torment.

Because pretending is a game you’ve grown good at, but never with him. It is hell to dodge his gaze. Hell to say you're tired when you're not. And it is hell—true, visceral hell—to lie beneath him and pretend it doesn’t make you feel everything when his mouth finds your breast, when his hips snap forward, when his voice rasps out your name like it’s the only prayer he's ever known. To bite your lip and not cry out when his breath fans your throat, when he worships your body like it belongs to him and you alone. When he says, hoarse and raw, “There is nothing I love more than being inside of you.”

It isn't the inheritance that hurts. Or the condition tied to it. You understand selfishness. Ambition. You understand needing to survive. What you cannot forgive—what burns through your chest like frostbitten fire—is that he didn’t tell you.

Because you loved him. Foolishly, fully. You still do. And that is the tragedy of it all. That love makes a fool of both of you. Because deep down, you understand: had you never written that column, you’d never have married so soon. Had you said nothing, done nothing, waited… maybe he would have told you. Maybe you’d have found out the truth slowly, from him, without contracts or obligations or shame.

Maybe, in another life, there would have been no trap. No balcony. No bargain sealed in ink and silence. So you pretend. You keep pretending.

You don’t flinch when he tells you he loves you. You smile when he calls you brilliant for suggesting Megumi stay with Yuji for when the two of you will retreat to the countryside. You laugh when he says he can’t wait to spend forever with you. And you don’t let your voice shake when he presses a kiss to your fingers, or when he draws you in close and murmurs that Limitless Hall will be perfect. That the two of you deserve this. That you’re his everything.

You don’t tell him that that—more than the lie, more than the contract—is what hurts most of all.

A week passes in silence and silk. A week of aching contradictions, of your body wrapped in his sheets, your limbs entangled with his, your mind aching with truths that he, at last, begins to share.

He tells you things he’s never told anyone. Of how he was raised at Limitless Hall while his father lingered in London, always out of reach. Of his mother’s slow unraveling, her health waning while his father watched—unmoved, preoccupied with bloodlines and legacy. Of Megumi’s mother, a woman his father ruined, cast aside, left to die bearing his child. Of the argument that fractured what little remained between them, of the promise Satoru made as his father lay dying: that Megumi would be his ward, his brother, his heir.

He apologizes quietly, without drama. Says he never meant to hurt you. That Megumi will remain first in line, and that he cannot change that. You only nod, and smile gently, placing a hand to his cheek. “I would have done the same,” you tell him, and you mean it. He calls you an angel and falls asleep beside you, breathing softly into your collarbone.

The next day, he returns home lighter, glowing. “It’s all done,” he says. “Everything here in London. We can begin the preparations.”

So, you do. You go home first—your old one. You speak with your mother and with Yuji, make arrangements for Megumi’s stay. Your mother acquiesces easily now. She rarely denies you anything since your rise in rank.

“But will it be alright, truly, if I stay here?” Megumi asks, just as you're about to leave. You kneel slightly, pressing your palm to his cheek with practiced ease. “You’ll be just as happy as I was, growing up with Yuji. I’ll write to you three times a week, and next time, perhaps the two of you can come with us.”

He shifts, frowning. “No, I meant—”

“You meant, is it alright to stay where only my brother knows you?” you finish, voice gentle. “Trust me. I’ll make sure of it. And if you have any trouble with my mother, well, I’ll handle her for you.”

You wink. He smiles. And just like that, you’re back at the estate, the soft click of carriage wheels forgotten by the time your footsteps echo along the polished floors. You’re in the corridor of the Duchess’s antechambers, gathering books, letters, and a few quills from your personal writing desk. A familiar silence blankets the space, until it’s broken.

You push open the door.

He’s standing there, framed by lamplight, a pouch of silver coins in one hand and something far worse in the other. A page. Thin, cream-inked, and damning. The look on his face is neither fury nor shock—it is betrayal in its purest form, so deep it roots itself in the set of his jaw, the stunned slack of his lips. “It’s you?” His voice is strained. “The Phantom is... my wife?”

Your eyes flick to the page in his hand, your stomach dropping, lungs collapsing into themselves.

“Satoru—”

“No.” His voice cracks, shakes, recoils. “No. I truly believed it could be anyone but you. I thought...” he laughs, brokenly, “I thought the way you looked that night. So betrayed. So wounded. Out by the swing, you were ruined, I thought. And it turns out, all of it—all of it was a lie? Was I a lie?”

Something hollows inside you. Slowly. Carefully. Then fills with heat. You freeze, just for a moment. The wind has gone from your body. But when you speak, it’s not with shame. It’s with a soft, terrifying calm. “And what of your deception, Your Grace?” Your voice is dangerously low. “Duke of Six Eyes. Gojo Satoru?”

He laughs, bitter now, clutching the piece of parchment in his hand tightly. “What lies?” he snaps. “I have done nothing but love you. Everything you asked, I did. You asked me to court you. I courted you. You asked me to write, I wrote. You wanted flowers. God, I sent you the damn flowers—”

“What I wanted was truth,” you cut in, your voice suddenly cold, slicing. “And what I received was a man who needed his inheritance. Who bargained for his bride like she was currency. Who shared a bed with her solely so he could sire an heir to secure his standing. ”

He stares. Breathing hard now. The coin pouch slips from his hand and crashes to the floor, the silver scattering like bones at your feet. As if there is nothing left to fight for.

“You made sure my father didn’t lose his judgeship. You made sure I was paraded around with you, easy to catch, easier still to wed. You calculated every word, the kiss, every flower.”

“I loved you,” he says again, and this time it sounds like a plea.

“No,” you stand your ground. “You needed me. And you never told me why.”

There is a ringing silence in the room, interrupted only by the scattered coins still rolling gently to stillness across the wooden floor. He’s staring at you, mouth parted, chest rising and falling as if words might yet come. But none do.

You wait. One second. Two. Five.

He does not move. He does not say anything. And somehow that is the thing that shatters you more than anything said between you tonight.

You turn. You do not speak. Your slippers are near-silent on the carpet, but the rustle of your skirts sounds deafening in the stillness. You walk out of the Duchess’s study as if walking out of a fever dream, your limbs trembling with the weight of all you’ve just learned—of all you’ve lost. There’s a hollowness blooming in your chest, tight and terrible, threatening to undo you right there in the hallway. He does not come after you.

You do not look back. Because if you do, and he is still standing there, you might fall to your knees. He does not come after you, he does not come after you, he does not come after you.

You do not ring for help. You do not tell anyone where you're going. You simply walk. Out the hall. Through the grand front doors of the Six Eyes estate. The butler calls after you faintly, confused, but you wave him off.

The night air bites at your skin. You don't care. Your hands shake as you call for the carriage and give your family’s address in a voice that barely sounds like your own.

And the worst part is that he does not chase you. He does not come after you. Not even once. And that is what makes it excruciatingly painful.

That night, when you walk into Highgrove House, your mother shrieks.

The way she gasps at your state—your half-undone hair, your expression, your silence—is almost theatrical. She rushes to you with a flurry of questions. Why you aren't packed, why you're not on your way to the countryside, why you look like you've been to hell and back.

You don’t answer. Not a word. In the parlor, Megumi and Yuji go still when they spot you. Yuji rises halfway from his seat, brows creased. Megumi looks at you like he's trying to figure out what happened, like he's trying to read something in your face. But there’s nothing. Not grief, not rage. Only absence. You walk right past them. Straight to the study. You close the door behind you. Lock it. You wait for the clink of the lock to register with the footsteps behind you and then silence. Just you and him.

Your father.

He sits at the desk, pen frozen above a page. You don’t look at him yet. Not immediately. You inhale. Once. Twice. Then you turn.

“When were you going to tell me?” Your voice is low. Controlled. Thick.

He blinks slowly. “I thought… I thought he would have told you. Before the wedding. That you knew.”

“You thought I knew?”

There’s no tremble in your voice now, just steel. “You didn’t think to ask me yourself? You didn’t think that your daughter deserved to know she was being sold off like property so you could keep your judgeship? What am I, a broodmare?”

“That is not the only reason—”

You laugh. Bitterly. “Oh no. Certainly not. You also thought he’d make a good match. Because, what? Because of his name? His estate? You thought I’d be content to be wanted for everything but who I am?”

“You said you were fine with it. In the carriage,” he says, desperate now. “You said you were—”

“I said I’d marry him,” you cut in, sharply. “Because I had no choice. Because I thought there was a chance it was love. Or something like it. I didn’t know there was a contract. A transaction.”

Your father exhales, heavy and old. “It was a good match. You’ve gone up in rank. You’re a Duchess. You have power. For a woman of your wit, your education, that’s no small thing.”

“But not because I chose it. That’s what matters,” you say, voice quieter now. More dangerous. “You should have told me. All of you should have.”

He pauses. Then, almost brokenly: “I’m sorry.”

You stare at him.

“I thought you were better than this. A better man. A good man,” you say. “But in the end, you’re just like the rest of them.”

You turn on your heel. The door clicks open. Your mother stands just beyond, hand hovering in the air as if she’d just been about to knock. She says nothing as you pass her. Yuji and Megumi rise, both watching you in a stunned kind of silence. You don’t look at them. Don’t give them anything.

You climb the stairs. You open the door to your old bedroom and shut it behind you. And this time, you don’t just close it—you slam it. Letting it echo. Letting it speak for you.

A week passes. Then another. You write a column about a ball you didn’t attend, inventing details about the color of the lady’s gown and the exact note the violinist missed. The gossip is cheap: some debutante without dowry, trying to entrap a second son before the season ends. It’s exactly what people want to read.

You remain at Highgrove House. The world believes you’ve gone to the countryside for your honeymoon. Only your family, and Shoko and Utahime, know the truth. No letters come from Gojo. Not one. He doesn’t appear at your doorstep, doesn’t write, doesn’t send a single flower or verse or scrap of himself.

“You must go back,” your mother insists one morning, as you come down for breakfast, hair pinned and face bare. You pick up your teacup, sip slowly, and then glance over at her. “Mother,” you say, voice thin but not without edge. “As the Duchess, I command you to stop urging me to return. And I would ask that you use my title, not my name. It is improper.”

She blinks. Her mouth opens, but then closes again. She says nothing more.

The days pass in muffled repetition. You read until your eyes ache, write until your wrist cramps, and in between you sulk in corners like a ghost that hasn’t made peace with the world. At night, after dinner, you sneak off to the courtyard with Megumi and Yuji to fence. You move fast and silent and precise, so that if anyone sees, it will be nothing more than a blur. You read aloud to them after. Tuck Megumi in. Pretend it doesn’t hurt to see your old life stretched out before you, still whole, without you in it.

It rains tonight. Heavy and thick, slapping against the windows like it’s angry too. You sit in the parlor long after the candles have burned low, watching the swing sway in the stormwind. You’ve thought of cutting it off more than once. But Yuji still uses it. That’s the only thing that stops you.

A throat clears behind you. You don’t turn. “Are you here to tell me to go back to the estate too?” you murmur.

“No,” your father says, and the familiar sound of pouring liquid follows. “That’s your mother’s job.”

He walks over with two glasses. Hands you one. Sits beside you. You eye the drink suspiciously, then take a sip. It burns too fast, too loud, too bitter. You cough, a little.

“That is as ghastly as my relationship with the Duke,” you mutter. Your father laughs. It’s soft, worn. When the sound fades, he speaks again, gently. “I should have told you from the beginning. But it isn’t easy to tell your daughter that her father’s about to lose his place in the world. That everything you built could vanish overnight. I still have the land, yes. But I am not just a lord. You know that.”

You keep your eyes on the window. “It’s alright,” you mumble.

“No. It isn’t,” he replies. “And you haven’t forgiven me.”

You say nothing. He continues. “But that’s alright, too. In time, perhaps you will. Or not. I’ll make my peace with either. I came to say one thing.”

You turn your head toward him, slowly.

“One day, when you’re older, when your hands tremble and your pride begins to rot inside your chest, you’ll make a decision that hurts someone you love. You’ll think you’re doing the right thing. Or the only thing. You’ll try to justify it, and you won’t be able to. And your child—your brilliant, furious child—will hate you for it.” He pauses, eyes on the fire now. “And in that moment, you’ll understand. That love is not made up of right choices, or even honest ones. It’s made up of people who come back. People who are willing to stand in the wreckage and ask to be forgiven.”

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

“If the Duke returns,” he says softly, “then don’t rob him of the chance to be that kind of person.”

He stands then, says he must rise early for the magistrate. Wishes you good night, tells you not to sit here too long, his voice worn and resigned. The door clicks shut behind him.

Still, you do not move. You remain there, in the armchair, staring through the misty glass at the swing swaying gently in the rain. Your body feels like it doesn’t belong to you anymore; your limbs weightless, your chest heavy. And then you stand. Quietly. Without thinking. You step out of your shoes, let the silk hem of your dress fall limp around your ankles, and walk barefoot to the door.

Your lady maid gasps behind you—“Your Grace!”—but the sound fades behind the groan of the door as it opens.

Rain meets you like an old grief. Cold, piercing, and relentless. It bites into your skin, soaks you in seconds, strips you of the pretense you’ve been wearing like armor.

You make your way to the swing. Sit down with a soft, defeated sigh. Water pools into the folds of your dress, clinging to your body like sorrow. You bow your head. Close your eyes. The rain is merciless, but it is real. Honest in a way nothing else has been for weeks.

Time passes. You don’t know how long. But then, the rain above you quiets. Only above you. The sky is still crying. But you are not. You open your eyes. An umbrella. And behind it, him. Satoru.

Soaked through, hair flattened to his forehead, water running down the sharp lines of his cheekbones. He’s holding the umbrella above your head like a vow, letting himself drown.

“Why are you here?” you ask, softly. Flatly.

“To take you back home. So we can go to Limitless Hall,” he says. As though it’s already decided. As though your heart will fall into step behind his voice like it always has.

“We aren’t,” you whisper. “I feel colder with the umbrella. Put it away.”

He pauses, watching you. And then, without argument, he folds it shut. The rain returns. Full. Immediate. Honest.

“Why are you really here?” you ask again, your voice nearly lost to the wind.

He swallows, once. “I couldn’t stand it,” he says. “The house without you. The silence. I know what I did. I know what I didn’t say. But I—” he falters, as if there are no words that will suffice, “—I couldn’t breathe without you.”

You turn away. “And what if I say no? What if I can’t forgive you?”

He nods, once. “Then I will wait. Until you can.”

A pause. And then, quietly, he says, “I didn’t come here to take you. I came here to ask.”

“Really?” you say, sharp and bitter, your voice cracking against the rain. “Because so far it just seems like you want me to play the perfect Duchess. Have me in your bed, give you heirs, secure your fortune.”

He flinches, visibly, as if you’ve struck him. Still, he moves closer. Rain slicks through his hair as he lowers himself beside you on the swing, the wood creaking beneath both your weight and the unbearable silence that stretches between.

Then, quietly, “You forget that you lied too.”

“I lied to protect myself,” you murmur, a tremor slipping into your voice. “I am the Phantom, yes, but I never lied about loving you. I never once lied about that.”

He turns, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Are you saying I didn’t? Love you?”

You look at him, truly look. At the water dripping from the tips of his lashes, at the shiver in his breath, at the hollow behind his ribs that you know, without being told, mirrors your own.

“Is that truly what you believe?” he asks, breathless now. “That I haven’t been in agony? That I haven’t been waking each morning and hating myself for not telling you sooner? You do not know the torment of every day that I live without you.”

Your throat tightens. The wind cuts through your soaked gown, and yet the ache inside is worse.

“Do you think I wasn’t in pain?” you say, staring ahead, blinking through the downpour. “Do you think I enjoyed being here, pretending? Every second without you is a second I spend pretending I know how to breathe. You are in every thought I have. Every breath. You are the reason I am sitting here, in this storm, not knowing what is to become of us. Of our marriage.”

He swallows. The sound of it feels louder than the rain.

“Then why won’t you come back?” he asks, voice low. “Why won’t you come home to me?”

Your gaze drops to your lap. Your fingers curl, trembling.

“Because you lied,” you whisper. “You stood in front of me, kissed me, promised me the world. And not once did you tell me that our marriage was a transaction. That I was a means to an end.”

Silence again. Then: “Say the word,” he breathes, “and I will give it all up. The title, the estate, my name. All of it. I will sign everything over to Megumi and we will go to Limitless Hall and be nothing more than husband and wife. No titles. No heirs. No obligation. Only us.”

You look at him. His voice shakes, but his eyes hold nothing but stillness. Steady. Certain. Blue like summer light through cathedral glass.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says. “And I am sorry. But I did not lie when I said I loved you. I do. I love you in every way a man can. I love you when I’m beside you. I love you when you’re not there. I love you when I hate myself.”

You inhale, a slow, stunned breath, as the thing inside you—whatever grief that curled around your spine like ivy—finally, finally cracks. Rain bespeckled gems upon his skin bring his beauty into every clearer definition, and you see it. You feel it.

“Satoru,” you murmur, voice too soft to hear. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have written what I did about us. I-I didn’t know what else to do.”

He shakes his head, already leaning in.

“I don’t care that you wrote it,” he whispers. “You could write a thousand more. I’d read every one of them, if it meant you were still mine.”

And then, slowly, reverently, he leans in and kisses you—rain-drenched and desperate, a kiss full of apologies and promises, a kiss that is not a fix but a beginning. You fall into it. Because there is nothing else left to do.

“Satoru—”

“N-no,” he interrupts, shaking his head with a desperate urgency, pulling you into a fierce kiss within the confines of the carriage. His hands tangle in your hair and slip beneath the damp fabric of your dress. “I need you. I miss you.”

Earlier, he had insisted on returning home at once, and you had found yourself unable to refuse. Now, you kiss him back with equal fervor as his fingers tug your sodden dress downward, exposing skin kissed by rain and longing. His lips trail fevered pecks along your collarbone, growing more reckless as he reaches the upper swell of your breasts. His hands grasp them boldly, and you gasp.

“What are you doing? The driver will hear us—”

“Let him,” he growls, voice thick with need. “I pay him well enough. I’ll give him more for his silence.”

“S-Satoru?” you breathe, eyes wide and shimmering. He whispers the words between heated kisses, as if uttering them might ease some ache deep within. “I love you. I burn for you. I am yours, forever and always. It is torture to be apart from you.”

He pulls you closer, settling you onto his lap with a soft yelp. Your hands cup his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the wet strands of hair clinging to his skin. His grip tightens on your hips as he kisses you hard, maddeningly, and you respond by trailing your fingers along his face. His hands slide down your sleeves, damp from the rain, and drag them lower until your breasts spill freely from the dress’s confines. A low moan escapes you as your lips find his jaw, his neck—devouring him piece by piece.

He undoes his breeches with swift urgency, then returns to your lips with a slow, tender kiss before withdrawing to bare himself fully. His hands lift your dress higher, already gathered at your thighs.

“Satoru,” you whisper, breathless, as he enters you. The sensation is full and warm, encompassing and right, as if every moment before this was merely a prelude. His hands cradle your face, compelling your gaze to meet his. His eyes are like ocean shores, sea foam dancing with every breath; warm sunlit currents with a depth that pull you under as he thrusts upward, kissing you senseless.

It is maddening. It steals your breath away. It feels so utterly right that you wonder if you have ever truly belonged anywhere else—here, in this carriage, scandalous and exposed, rain tapping a steady rhythm against the windows, while he claims you in every way possible.

You marvel at how blue can burn with such fierce heat until your gaze locks with his eyes. He is breathtaking, a living tempest of beauty and desire, and you cannot help but roll your hips with abandon as he thrusts into you with a desperation that threatens to shatter your restraint. Your moans spill freely, careless of the driver’s ears or any prying eyes. You gasp softly as his lips find the tender swell of your tits once more, then drift lower. You arch back willingly, offering him better access, and his mouth envelops your nipples, warm and insistent, as you ride him with fevered urgency. It feels like heaven incarnate.

He watches you with eyes glazed and wild, as if your naked form is the most bewildering sight he has ever beheld. You are soft beneath his touch, your breasts flushed and warm as his kisses trace the valley between them. There is a vulnerability in his gaze—a raw, unguarded longing that you cannot resist.

“I love you,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his as you move with fervor. “I love you so much.”

“I see that,” he murmurs, laughter soft and low, pinching your nipples with one hand while gripping your hips with the other. “I’m going to come, you know. You’ve kept yourself away for far too long. I can’t help it.”

“You can’t help it?” you tease, feeling the twitch of him deep inside you. The warmth floods every nerve, every thought, electrifying your senses. The ache of weeks apart has made this moment so tangible, so desperate. You murmur his name into his ear, nipping playfully, and he groans, pulling you closer. Your breasts press against his soaked coat, and his grip tightens in your hair. “Make me come. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

You gasp, breathless, as one of his hands slides lower, fingers seeking, until the pad of his thumb circles your clit. It is messy—pathetically messy and raw with need, but you live for it. You obey, bouncing wildly on him, rocking the carriage with your fervor as he spills his seed inside you. You watch him tremble, but you do not relent. You keep moving, keep riding, until your body spasms uncontrollably, your stomach fluttering with butterflies, your skin aflame, and your mind dissolving into a blissful haze.

The carriage rocks to a halt, the wheels hissing against wet gravel, but no one knocks. No one calls out. The drivers must have heard everything—how could they not?—but they say nothing.

You laugh, breathlessly aching, still straddling him in the cramped dark of the carriage. His hands are warm against your back, buttoning your gown again with a clumsy reverence, as if dressing you were an act of worship. The bodice sticks to your skin where his mouth had once been. His hair is mussed. His heartbeat still hammers beneath your palm like a war drum. It is steady, unrelenting, and devoted.

He touches your face with both hands now. Thumb at your cheekbone, fingers cradling the curve of your jaw as though you might dissolve between one blink and the next.

“What did you even do these last few weeks?” you ask, quietly, as your fingers draw idle patterns on his chest. It’s not teasing, not really. It’s the question of a woman who wants to know if he missed her with the same intensity that she missed him.

“I sulked,” he says, voice hoarsely low. His lips brush yours between syllables, like the words ache to leave him. “I reread every article you ever published. And I kept reading the newer ones you wrote and released while you were gone. I sat on the settee in the library where you used to read to Megumi. I tied a swing to the linden tree in the garden, so when you came back, it might feel a little like home. I cried. I sulked. I was unbearably miserable.”

You smile, forehead pressing gently to his. His breath is sweet with the sharpness of wine and desperation. He breathes you in like you’re something holy.

“I yearned for your presence,” he continues. “And now... now I have you on top of me, glowing. The world has found its axis again. Everything is where it should be.”

You scoff, but it’s soft, full of affection. “'The world has found its axis again'?”

He nods, brushing your damp hair back behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. “It has. Now that you're here.”

“Does that mean,” you murmur, lips ghosting across his cheek, “you’ll finally take me to Limitless Hall?”

“I’ll take you anywhere you want,” he says, without hesitation. “Anywhere you ask. Even if the world burns behind us, I will follow you. I’ll build you a home on its ashes.”

His fingers find your chin and tilt your face to meet his, eyes wild and clear. “I’m never letting you go anywhere again.”

“Never? Is that a promise, Your Grace?” you whisper. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just breathes the words into your mouth as he kisses you again—slow, reverent, trembling: “It’s not a promise. It’s a vow.”

THE VEILED QUILLVolume III, Issue I A Blooming of Secrets and Springtime Hearts

My dearest gentle readers,

Another Season begins. How swiftly the world turns. The countryside, with its dewy mornings and rose-laced winds, has offered this author a most peaceful respite. But even amidst the loveliest of meadows and the most fragrant of orchards, one finds that serenity can only satisfy for so long. For what is tranquility without a touch of scandal to season it? This author returns to Mayfair with ink at the ready and ears tuned sharply to the whispers behind every fan.

Why, none other than the Duchess of Six Eyes herself.

Yes, it is Her Grace who offers the first invitation, and society has been all aflutter since. After all, a woman who once moved through ballrooms as an enigma now stands at their helm. If she’s inherited even a hint of her mother’s celebrated flair for fête and flourish, this author wagers the night will be one to remember.

Of course, a new season brings with it new whispers. One can hardly ignore the epistolary bond blooming between Mr. Nanami Kento of Hastings and a certain marquess’s daughter. Just friendship, you ask? Perhaps. But a friendship that has weathered a year of travel, distance, and longing glances exchanged across ballrooms is hardly a trivial thing.

And speaking of matches: Nigel Berbrooke, last season’s most unlikely groom, is now a married man. His bride? A young lady of the ton whose courtship years were long and fruitless—until now. While this union may lack the sparkle of romance, it serves as a reminder that sometimes, settling is simply surviving.

But not all tales are so quiet.

Lady Shoko, Lady Utahime, and the Duchess herself were seen promenading in Hyde Park just this week, their laughter mingling with the scent of roses and rain. The trio, once heralded as the most promising of their debutante year, now stand together in something even more precious: enduring friendship. A lesson, perhaps, that womanhood is not forged in marriage but in who we choose to walk beside.

And now, dear reader, for the loveliest whisper of all. The Duchess of Six Eyes is with child.

There is no scandal in this news. No sharp turn or twist. Only something quietly radiant. A love that once began in shadows has softened, bloomed. Her Grace is said to be in excellent health, and the Duke—who has, at last, exchanged restless wanderings for a settled life at her side—is said to be utterly besotted.

For a couple who began as a tempest gilded in ruin, they have become the season’s finest portrait of devotion—steady, luminous, and achingly sincere. Their story is no longer one of survival, but of sanctuary. Of two hearts choosing, again and again, to remain entwined.

How rare it is to witness love unfold not in spectacle, but in steadiness. In letters tucked into breakfast trays, in gardens newly planted, in gentle hands resting on rounded bellies. In futures not demanded, but chosen.

Let us commence this season, then, with a bit of hope. For happy endings. For new beginnings. And for love, in all its quiet, remarkable forms.

With quill in hand and heart ever listening, Phantom.

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

[yothatshitgas]

The Dress | Part 2

Note: Work of fiction.

This is part two. Part one. I lowkey want to turn this into a whole series but thats just a commitment that I'm afraid my job wont give me time to do. So I'll stick to oneshots for now. __

“I get first shot,” Azzi said, flashing a grin full of challenge and charm as she strutted toward her spot near midcourt.

Paige didn’t argue. She just stepped aside, lips twitching with amusement as she watched Azzi settle in at the edge of the sideline logo. Azzi set her feet like she was lining up for a real game. Her shooting form was textbook perfection, even in a casual round of horse. The ball arced through the air with beautiful rotation and dropped through the basket - all net, no hesitation.

“Alright, your turn,” she said, casually stepping back with a smug glint in her eye.

Paige retrieved the ball, dribbled it twice and walked to the exact same spot. Her gaze locked in on Azzi the entire way. She didn’t break eye contact as she pulled up, raised the ball above her head and let it fly.

Azzi’s eyebrow lifted, “shot got better,” she said, a teasing tone in her voice, “guess rehab gave you time to fix that weird hitch in your release.”

Paige jogged after the ball and passed it back with a smirk, “jealousy isn’t a cute look on you, Az.”

Azzi caught it, already turning toward the wing, “I was hoping you’d miss,” she rolled her shoulders, “got some hard hitting questions I’ve been saving for years.”

“Oh yeah?” Paige followed, hands on her hips, “like what?”

“Well,” Azzi said with a shrug as she lined up a corner three, “you’d have to miss to find out.”

The ball left her hand in a high arc and dropped through the net again.

“I never miss,” Paige shot back, eyes narrowed playfully as she chased the ball down for her turn, “you, on the other hand, are looking real nervous.”

The game picked up intensity. Corner threes. No look bank shots. Over the backboard tosses. Behind the back layups. Both of them trying to outdo the other, digging deep into their bags like it was a championship skills challenge instead of a friendly shootaround. They were trash talking and laughing through the effort, but their focus was razor sharp. Neither was willing to give the other an inch.

The scoreboard of their silent game was stitch at zero.

Until Azzi paused near half court. She spun the ball in her hands, glanced once at Paige and squared up.

“Alright, lets see what you really got,” she said, and launched the ball.

It soared through the air in a perfect arc, Paige followed its path with wide eyes, heart thudding as it hit the glass then dropped through the net.

“Seriously?” She groaned.

Azzi just grinned.

Paige walked to the half court line, cradling the ball in her hands. She took a long breath, then dribbled once, bending her knees as she stared down the rim. The shot arced high, hanging in the air like it was deciding whether or not to give her grace. It clipped the front of the rim with a heavy bounce and veered sharply to the left. . 

Clang.

Azzi’s voice rang out, sickeningly sweet, “H.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s hear it. What is this hard hitting question you’ve been dying to ask?”

Azzi’s grin softened into something else entirely, something more careful. Paige recognized it, it was actually a look that she personally hated seeing on her. It meant Azzi was thinking too much, but then it changed again, her smile turned more honest. It had Paige feeling flustered, a slow heat crawling up her neck and to her cheeks. She looked away too fast, suddenly aware of how loud her heart felt in her chest.

Azzi stepped forward, closing the space between them like she had every right to. Her voice was quieter now, “Paige,” she said, treating the older girl’s name like a well kept secret, “how come you never asked me to come to UConn?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” she said, “answer or you get O.”

“Look, it’s not like I didn’t want to. But you were so set on UCLA, you talked about it like it was the only place that made sense. I didn’t want to get in the way of your dream,” Paige paused, swallowing down the hesitation tightening her throat, “I wanted you here. I did. I still do.”

“You really didn’t think I’d drop everything just to spend the next four years playing next to you?”

“You shouldn’t have to,” came the reply and without thinking, her hand reached out and found the other’s, “that’s what I’m trying to say. Why would I ask you to be a shadow when you could be great on your own?”

Azzi laughed softly, gaze flicking down to their intertwined hands before drifting back up, “you’re thinking too highly of yourself again, Bueckers,” there was that smirk, “what if I came here to steal your spotlight?”

A breath caught in her throat.

“God,” she murmured, lips twitching into a slow grin, “that’d be so hot.”

That response earned her a shove, a gentle one but it was playful. Azzi scoffed and pushed away, retreating a few steps before snatching the ball back up, “come on,” she called over her shoulder, “it’s getting late and I still gotta beat your ass.”

“Confidence looks real good on you, Fudd,” came the reply, “kinda into it.”

“Kinda?” Azzi repeated, raising a brow as she walked back toward her next shot.

A shrug, then a jog forward. That dumb, happy smile was back. The same one that hadn’t left since the first shot of the night, “fine,” the blonde relented, “very into it.”

The game resumed, and with it, the air between them shifted back into one that was competitive, playful but still laced with something that hadn’t quite settled just yet. 

After that first question, the rest stayed easy. Safer. Azzi kept her tone casual, her questions framed in the comfort of familiarity. She asked for updates, the kind that sounded routine but between the two of them, it carried more weight than either of them let on.

O - “How’s your mom?”

“Still thinks I don’t eat enough.”

R - “The knee?”

“Better. Stronger. Rehab was rough but sitting on the sideline was harder. I just wanted to play, the court was so close yet it felt so far.”

They moved through those topics like old friends slipping back into rhythm, passing the ball between them as naturally as the conversation. But, then came one that landed a bit different. A little too pointed to be casual.

S - “Did you ever date anyone?”

Paige blinked, caught off guard, “what?”

Azzi turned like she hadn’t just dropped a question that reached back through years of distance and silence, “you know, in those two years we weren’t talking, anyone serious?”

There wasn’t a clear depiction of jealousy in her voice. No. But there was a trace of pure curiosity, it was vulnerable almost. Like Azzi didn’t actually want the answer, but needed it anyway. As if knowing wouldn’t hurt as much as a continuous wonder.

“No,” she said after a moment. Simple.

“Why?”

Paige looked up, a slow smirk forming on her lips as she cradled the ball in one hand, “that’s another question, Az,” she said, dribbling once, “you’re gonna have to wait your turn.”

She stepped back to the top of the key and rose into her shot, the kind she’d taken a million times in every gym from Minnesota to Storrs. Her form was clean. Shoulder square. Release smooth. But the ball hit the rim, rolled indecisively for a moment, then dropped off the side.

Miss.

It bounced twice on the hardwood before Azzi jogged over and scooped it up, still grinning.

“I’m gonna start thinking you’re missing on purpose,” she teased, making her way to the same spot Paige had just vacated. She took the shot as if it was second nature and the ball sailed through the net without even grazing the rim.

She turned, victorious, “there, another try.”

Paige chuckled under her breath, catching the rebound as it bounced back in her direction. She walked to the top of the key again, shoulder rolling back with ease as she prepped for the shot. Only, she didn’t take it. Instead, Paige let the ball roll off her fingertips.

“Ask me,” she said.

Azzi blinked, surprised but she stepped forward, eyes locked on Paige’s and asked again, gently this time:

“Why not?”

“I’d never wanted anyone else more than I wanted this girl who lived thousands of miles away,” she said, “someone I only ever saw once a year, but she lived in my head like she’d moved in, rearranged the furniture and left her sneakers at the door,” Azzi’s breath caught slightly as Paige stepped closer, hands finding their way to her hips with familiarity, “when we agreed to focus on our stuff, I thought I was doing the right thing. Choosing the grind, the game. The future. But the longer we stayed apart, the louder it got. The voice telling me there was something I wanted just as much, maybe more than basketball.”

Azzi tilted her head, her voice barely audible now, “and what was that?”

Paige smiled, slow and shy, “yeah,” she murmured, brushing a thumb just above Azzi’s hipbone, “I wonder that too, Az.”

[blossomcola]

hi! i have a request if u don’t mind?

i need lara and megan CARNALLY it’s so embarrassing. especially after the gabriella mv. like how do u expect me NOT to thirst after seeing them in those SUITS????? SAPPHICS in suits nonetheless.

but anyway. that last fem reader x dani drabble was so hot OMG. it got me thinking. i’d like to imagine lara and megan tag-teaming someone (hypothetical 7th member? random hot girl from the club? mutual best friend? idk) they’ve had their eye on for a while. drawing her in, laying her down, whispering into her ear. lara being smooth and cool as always, weaseling herself between the girl’s legs - megan kneeling over the girl’s face and still somehow making her laugh without killing the mood, being the beautiful lovable goofball she is.

they make her cum over and over again, overstimulating her to the brink, switching positions, getting themselves off while they continuously fuck this girl’s brains out - treating this like one big game as their greedy fingers spread her nice and wide for their visual appeal. maybe there’s this one moment where it’s megan eating her out, and lara sitting right behind her, instead - coaxing her shaky legs open, whispering all sweet in her ear: “can you give us one more, pretty baby?”

pairing. dom!megara x sub!fem reader

content warnings. cunnilingus, face sitting, fingering, praise, scissoring.

knowing that megara often goes out to parties or events, either alone or accompanied by someone like emily, for example, i wouldn’t be surprised if something like this happens. they both have the vibe that they are going to a party to have fun and spend time together but without taking away the possibility of finding a third party for the fun of the night.

they together are a danger because it is a combination that makes you dizzy and feel multiple feelings at the same time. megan would be on one side, charismatic and cheerful as always, telling jokes or just common comments that sound funny coming from her lips — while lara would be a little less... subtle about her intentions. she’s a softer talker so she’d leave the talking part to megan, maybe occasionally giving you a compliment on your appearance and focusing on how the clothes fit your body perfectly, coming to rest a hand on your thigh and caressing your skin with her thumb in a way that makes it difficult for you to pay attention to megan’s words… of course you wouldn’t refuse when they offered you to go home with them!

they both definitely have restless hands. i can imagine that when you lie down on the mattress they don’t even let you think about the situation because they already have their hands on your body, making you practically whine since the touch of both has a great contrast to the other’s; of course lara loves being able to have these kinds of moments with a girl, but as much as she loves being passionate, she would consider making you enjoy the moment. so she would be a little slower and more sensual in her touching of you, leaving a trail of kisses all over your abdomen while her hands caress your thighs and massage the flesh between her fingers, slowly going down to your belly and trying to be slow just to make you squirm. it’s a shame megan can’t keep her hands for herself, and you realize it by the hand with which she shamelessly gropes your tits, it doesn’t take long for her to close her lips over one of your nipples and suck as if she were a baby.

lara being super gentle and putting your pleasure first, kneeling between your legs and leaning down until she was eye level with your dripping pussy, looking you straight in the eyes as she gives a slow lick along your slit that makes you moan beautifully for her. megan doesn’t want to be left out and knows what she has to do, sitting next to your head on the bed and stroking your hair to get your attention, asking if she can sit on your face like it’s the most common thing in the world, but that doesn’t mean you’d say no! she definitely loves how you whimper against her pussy as she uses your mouth to her liking while lara is between your legs eating you out in a way that makes your head spin, not wasting time making witty comments and jokes that only she laughs at because lara is busy and you can only babble — also at a certain point lara would choose to change technique, positioning herself between your legs and lowering herself until her pussy is pressed against yours, grinding against you and making pleasing megan a more than difficult task, especially when megan decides to slide a hand between your thighs and start playing with your clit.

since megan recently came out of the closet, we could say that maybe she doesn’t have the best experience with girls, so what better for her than for lara to teach her how to please one using your body as an example? things like guiding her to the moment megan is between your thighs, telling her what to do and how to touch you correctly, but this means that lara also has to give demonstrations to correct megan when she is wrong and not understanding her words! something like megan asking “so? am i doing it right?” when she’s fingering you or playing with you before she actually starts fucking you, only for lara to reply, “no, do it like this.” and not even giving megan time to move away because she joins in immediately, sliding two fingers inside you along with megan’s that were already inside and making you squirt instantly due to overstimulation — and this means there’s also a good chance they’ll both eat you out at the same time.

and letting megan practice with you is the best. lara leaning against the back of the bed, having you lying against her body and your back pressed against her chest, both of her hands holding the back of your knees and keeping them open for megan, who is between your legs devouring you and exploring. lara would give you soft and loving kisses on the curve of your neck and shoulder every time you started to sob and squirm, telling you to just hold on a little longer and that she’ll give you a nice reward if you can be a good girl for a little longer.

[thy1quitcentral]

K pop demon hunters

Huntrix vs Saja boys

X Honmoon!NB oc

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

.................💗...................

"leave us alone for a second boys" Jinu looked to the other demons.

"aw man" they all whined but went further down the alley way giving them space.

Honey pursed their lips, they shouldn't be talking to demons. At all, all they did was try to take them from the hunters, who have been caring for them for hundreds of years.

"it's.....good to see you again" Jinu smiled looking at honey with a genuine smile. Not a fake one and not a sinister one either.

"look at you" Honey spoke up and smiled weakly "you haven't changed at all huh star boy?" The deity observed him.

"why are you here?" Honey asked looking down the alley where the other boys waited quitely. Demons were probably up to no good at all, honey wasn't bound to let them get any souls.

"we were tired of down there......we escaped" Jinu explains. The other blinked in shock "I wasn't aware that you were able to do that" they admit, who could they be aware, keeping of the surface and keeping demons below was their job, not watching what they were up to in the demon world.

"I wanted to see you again Honey moon" Jinu hummed, lying through his teeth. The deity blinked and smiled softly at that "I did miss you.... unfortunately" they crossed their arms.

"oh ho ho we playing that game now?" Jinu laughs.

"hm?... game? What game?" Honey looked around stupidly but only giggled and broke their lil act.

Felt almost like old times, warm and friendly.

From afar

"damn, Jinu is good at that" Abby comments leaning on romance. Romance hummed "it's whatever, more souls for us if he gets rid of it quickly" he shrugged. "They are so cute, it's disgusting" Baby smiled brightly.

Mystery only watched and observed Jinus interaction. He definitely looked happy with honey, unlike other times in the demon realm.

That just looks like a mixture of pure failure if Jinu got too close.

***

The two wondered

Rumi was still out and not home, it worried Honey.

"hey what's with the frown?" Jinu asked, lifting Honeys chin up gently. "I'm only worrying for my Core voice" they explain but huffs "but I am not to tell you more" they crossed their arms and looked away.

Jinu rolled his eyes "you know you can tell me anything"

"noooo not really, as much as I knew you, you are a demon and I haven't known you in like 400 years? So nope" walking into the air and Jinha jumps from building to building to follow them.

"let me prove it to you, that I am here to follow the passion I once felt like a lost" jinu said in Ernest. "Give you a true connection that no hunter has ever bothered to form with you" Jinu whispers.

One pause and looked to Honey "music?' their eyes sparkled. They frowned "no....I have my core voice with me and we are making a beautiful process, all my past core voices were my dearest friends" they explain and smiled.

"and somewhat, you aren't golden" Jinu counters, that made Honey quiet.

Jinu smiled then glanced at honeys threads, purple to magenta, their eyes glowing that same color for a moment before turning blue.

Honey flinched at the sudden wave and yelps as he falls. The demon boy jumps down and catches Honey "woah what's wrong?"

"I don't know....I have to go" honey spoke urgently.

"wait but-"

Honey was gone.

The demon sighed softly and looked down. So close wasn't he?

******

Honey had gotten home, both Zoey and Mira making some food this time.

"honey!" Zoey gasped "did you find her?" Mira asked in worry. "No, she told me not to follow her" they held their arm and frowned softly.

"I will respect that"

Mira and Zoey frowned for a second "did you sense a disturbance? Your looking at little...purple" Mira spoke as she put her hand on their cheek and checked.

"I am fine, just need a lil lullaby to soothe me" Honey grinned softly. Mira chuckles softly "of course" she rolled her eyes.

"ooooo yes please, it's always so great to hear you sing Mira" Zoey bounced on her heels then took Honeys hand, pushing them into her pile of fluff.

Blankets and pillows placed all together.

Zoey soon joined and sat on Honeys lap. "Oh! Sorry!" She tensed up and got off, bowing slowly and smiled.

There it was again, ya try to make a connection with physical touch and the humans react how they were told to.

'never touch the Honmoon so casually'

They all danced to Mira's song.

"throw it BACK HONEY!" Zoey yelled out.

They all laugh, Honey smiled and felt shy all of a sudden but paused. "Rumi" they turn to the door. Both Zoey and Mira stood up straight, finishing up setting up the table.

Rumi walked in and looked up, seeing the food then her friends...then Honey.

She immediately felt guilty, she was angry....and she lost control. She didn't mean to hurt them.

Honey only smiled "come on the food will get cold.

******

The girls ate and the deity sat and kept them company.

"I'm really sorry about the show" Rumi sighed "hey it's okay....we can reschedule" Mira states. They had called Bobby but it sounded like he had his hands VERY full.

"that human needs a raise" Honey hummed in thought.

"I don't know if that'll be possible...my voice it's..... something is wrong" Rumi admits. Honeys looked at Rumi with concern

"why would you move the single up then Ru" Honey asked gently. "Because we were so close and this is important" Rumi looked at the other two.

"for you too" she turns to Honey. "You'll be your truest you and your destiny would be fulfilled, humans won't have to die anymore from demons. All the demons would be gone" the girl fixed her shoulder sleeve.

The deity pursed their lips and nods "I appreciate that Ru, but all human are fragile, you should've waited."

"but thats the thing, hunters are not meant to show their flaws or fears. Especially not in our Honmoons precences"

Mira and Zoey both joined in at hunters, they both roll their eyes and giggled

Honmoon rolled their eyes with a small huff and crossed their arms. They say up straight, all high and mighty to please their friends.

Rumi giggled gently.

"but yeah we have to fix it"

"definitely"

They conjured up ideas and settled with Zoey's idea.

Later that night

Rumi pursed her lips and looked at Honey "dance with me" she said softly, face pure with determination.

Honey blinked for a moment then nods they walked onto the balcony. Rumi to Honeys hands

Then began to sing, the song of the first, the song Honey was created with. To see, please let hurt voice shine, it had to

They swayed and spun, Honey glowed brightly as it progressed. Their moves perfectly harmonized but it was riddled with panic and desperation.

Honey yelps as they fall, Rumi didn't hit the note again.

"dammit!" Rumi exclaims and sat down and stared at the ground, feeling panicked even more. Honey looked to Rumi then puts their hand on her shoulder and leaned onto her in comfort.

Rumi sighed sadly and closed her eyes.

******

Late at night, Honey doesn't sleep, they didn't need to. They sat on the rail of their balcony. Rumi had gone to sleep so it was just them alone.

"Give you a true connection that no hunter has ever bothered to form with you"

Why did that stick to their mind?

They had connection, they had for many generations.

Rumi and Honey were so close to building it. Honey turned gold ever so slightly

They disappeared, no memories of the rest of the concert, they felt....gone.

Part of Honey

A very small part

Didn't want to turn gold

.................💓...................

[shizuturnspages]

So like how would our yandere fatui hubbys react to a reader who is also yandere fir them but like good at hiding it and then they find out

Two Can Play A Game

Synopsis: They’ve always believed you were the calm one. The delicate one. The reason they could justify their own obsession. But when the illusion cracks—when they uncover the depth of your own possessive devotion—they don’t recoil. They lean in. Because if you're just like them… then there’s no need to pretend at all anymore. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Capitano, Dottore, Pantalone, Pierro, Childe x Secret Yandere Reader

Capitano – Steel Attracts Steel

Capitano always treated you like something fragile. Loved you hard, yes—but carefully. Kept his brutality away from you, like shielding fire from a flame.

Until one night, during an assassination investigation, he finds one of your knives buried in the back of the corpse. Personalised hilt. Fatui-forged.

When confronted, you don’t even deny it. “They touched you,” you say flatly. “I told them not to.”

Capitano is silent for a long time. You brace for reprimand. But instead, he just steps closer. His gauntlet brushes your jaw.

“… You’ve been hiding this from me.”

“Would it have scared you?”

“No,” he says, voice gravel-deep. “It would’ve made me marry you faster.”

From then on, he no longer protects you from his world. You’re part of it now. Equal. Loved not in spite of your darkness—but because you match his.

Dottore – You Know Too Much

He finds your journal by accident—or maybe he planned to.

It’s clinical. Detailed. A list of people you’ve removed or ruined just for getting too close to him. Notes on which of his clones you think are too emotionally independent. A theory on how to extract loyalty through psychological dependence.

He laughs so hard he drops it.

“Darling,” he croons, spinning the journal in his hand like a prized artifact. “You manipulated one of my assistants into quitting?”

“They were getting too close. I don’t share.”

He stares at you like you’re a miracle.

Dottore thrives on brilliance, and the fact that you fooled him? That you were obsessing just as hard but under his radar?

You’ve never seen him more in love.

He lets you help with his experiments now. Not as an assistant. As an equal. As a fellow predator.

He calls you his “perfect mutation.”

Pantalone – The Lover Behind the Curtain

Pantalone always thought he was the one playing chess.

You were docile. Soft-spoken. All smiles and tea cups and passive agreement. Until he caught wind of a smear campaign against one of his economic rivals—one only you could’ve orchestrated, given the exact trade documents you had touched.

He lets you stew for three days before confronting you in his office.

You blink, feigning ignorance. But he only smiles and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“Darling,” he says softly, “you’re better at this than half my board members. Why hide it?”

“I didn’t want you to think I was… unbalanced.”

He laughs. Long. Soft.

“My love, you balance me.”

From then on, he hands you targets with a smirk and says, “For us.” And when he sees you quietly ruin people behind silk gloves and honeyed smiles? He watches like a man seeing a masterpiece in motion.

Pierro – The First and the Last

Pierro is slow to trust. Even slower to hope.

But when he discovers the bloody trail you left in Snezhnaya’s underbelly—former suitors, rival diplomats, jealous subordinates—he doesn’t confront you immediately. No, he watches you for weeks. Watches how effortlessly you slip between docility and ruthlessness.

And then one night, he brings you to his private study and lays a file in front of you.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “just come to me directly.”

You eye the file. “You're… not angry?”

“You want me safe. Kept. Yours.” He steps closer. “What kind of man would I be to punish loyalty that mirrors my own?”

He elevates you. You’re no longer just his partner—you become the blade in his other hand. And if you ever thought he was obsessed before?

Now he lets himself be.

Childe – Match Made in Mayhem

Childe catches you in the act—literally. Mid-threat, dagger in your sleeve, eyes hard and mouth flat as you tell a diplomat, “Get away from my fiancé. Or I’ll decorate this floor with your guts.”

You don’t notice him at first. But when you turn and spot him? He’s grinning like a lunatic.

“You love me that much?” he says.

“I always have,” you mutter. “I’m just better at hiding it.”

Childe immediately sweeps you into a kiss. He’s absolutely unhinged from that point forward.

“New rule,” he says. “You’re coming on every mission now. Ride or die, baby.”

He brags about you constantly. Calls you his better half while holding your bloodied dagger in his belt.

When enemies beg to be taken by the Harbinger instead of his partner, that’s when you know he’s truly in love.

[fervent-adoration]

I think we need some more villain f/o representation... so, let's have a

VILLAIN F/O ASK GAME!!

Made with romantic f/os in mind. Pro/darkship DNI, please and thank-you! Our viewpoints clash and I would appreciate you finding another ask game to reblog!

What is your favorite personality trait of your f/o? Why is it your favorite? And how does it affect their actions as a villain?

What is your f/o’s most unorthodox act to show love?

What made you fall for your f/o?

How does your f/o show you that they love you? How does it match up with your preferences? (This is basically asking about love languages with more specifics)

Are there any fun facts about your f/o that you want to share?

Why is your f/o a villain rather than a “hero”? How do they see themself in this regard?

Are you a “f/o apologist”, a “I can fix them”, a “I’ll pretend that this never happened”, or a “I could make them worse” sort of partner in regards to your f/o and their villainous actions?

What’s the worst thing that your f/o has done? How do you feel about that? Is it canon to your selfship lore?

What is your dynamic with your f/o? As many dynamic descriptions as you want here!

What role do you play within your f/o’s villainy? A peer? An onlooker? Perhaps the one to try to stop them? What’ve you got?

How does your f/o feel about PDA?

How does your f/o’s past affect the way they approach their relationship with you?

What kinds of dates does your f/o like to go on with you?

What does your f/o visualize for the future with you? How does this align with your view for the future?

How did you win your f/o’s heart? Was it easy? What’s their favorite thing about you, do you suppose?

What kinds of compliments does your f/o give? Why these ones? Do you like them?

Does your f/o encourage you to become actively better, or do they encourage more nefarious behaviors?

Is your f/o good at taking care of things? How are they in a domestic setting?

How does your f/o attempt to impress you? Does it work?

How would your f/o react if they found you upset?

How did your f/o first take to learning about you? Did they ask you questions outright? Observe you when the two of you were together? Word of mouth from others? Or even something else?

Will your f/o do anything for you? What is their limit, if anything?

Was your f/o scared of falling in love?

Free space! Tell us about your f/o in however much detail you wish, and tell us about your favorite aspects of your relationship with them. This is the infodump question.

Feel free to reblog and have people send specific asks, or just fill out all of the questions for yourself!

[cherrygarcia-07]

Hi Cherry! I just saw that your requests are open, and I was wondering, what are your Spencer headcannons? Like in a relationship but maybe also in general?

aaaah thank you so much for asking I love making up little spencer scenarios in my head !! apologies if these aren’t that interesting they’re just the thoughts off the top of my head but thank you for giving me an opportunity to ramble about him :3

in a relationship

(i’m a firm bisexual spencer believer so these are all gender neutral)

-he’s a big cuddler. i feel like that’s a generally excepted one in the community but like that man hangs on like a koala. there’s times when he’s overwhelmed and needs to be alone, but there’s more times when he just wants to be as physically close to his partner as possible and live in their skin . also he looooves to be the little spoon.

-speaking of, he’s kind of like a great dane with lap dog syndrome. he kind of forgets how big he is when he wants to lie on top of his partner or cuddle up into them. think how he always tries to curl up on the jet with his big long legs folded all awkwardly lol

-he’s not a huge pet name user, at least not at first. honestly, he loves to just use his partner’s name because it’s theirs and he loves them and how their name feels in his mouth. however the pet names he uses are classic ones, like honey or sweetheart (i’m a big sweetheart spencer enthusiast) and they often come out when his partner is upset/stressed and he’s calming them down. in my opinion he wouldn’t really use baby himself but he would melt when it’s used on him. i think he’d probably also come up with some cute nickname personal to his partner, something unique referencing some kind of inside joke or book they read together.

-if his partner doesn’t speak english as their first language you bet he is learning their native language as soon as possible. he loves the way they light up and speak with more confidence in their native language and he wants them to be able to do that freely. if you walked into his apartment you’d find stacks and stacks of books about their culture and their home country.

-he matches his ties and sometimes his mismatched socks to his partner’s outfit on date night. it’s something silly that makes the two of them happy, and he really just loves making the effort for them. he likes everybody he walks past to know that he’s theirs.

-biiiiig love letter writer/note leaver. literally words are his love language. he thinks it’s magic how they can have so much power, how many ways you can use them to say i love you in a million different ways. the letters he writes are like something out of an old timey romance novel, like they were literally written at his desk in the candlelight with ink and a quill. he also loves leaving little notes around for his partner with quotes from poems and literature. (he also doodles on them a lot)

-in relation to that this man is SO romantic but literally has no idea. he’s not even trying to be. he knows he’s not the type for grand gestures or big public displays like he sees in movies so he thinks he has no game but then he’ll turn around and hand his partner a poem he read and say some shit like “the line about the sunset reminded me of how beautiful you looked in the light of the refrigerator that time we danced in the kitchen.” (or something much more elaborate than that but i have no game myself to think of an example). he’s romantic in the small gestures, in the flowers he picks for them on the walk home because he thought they were pretty, in the way he holds his jacket over their head when it’s raining to protect them, in everything he does.

-he loves parallel play. his brain is always working overtime around other people so with his partner he loves that the two of them are so comfortable enough with one another to just sit and co exist and not worry about anything else. he’s just happy to be near them.

-he lets out his goofy side in his relationships. think his clint eastwood impression or the karaoke scene. his partner is always sitting through impressions of various characters from different things, or listening to him awkwardly singing along to his old records as he cleans or brews his coffee. he’ll tell them all the stupid puns and jokes he can think of even if he laughs at them harder than they do.

in general

-he gets along so well with old ladies. like they love him so much he’s practically an old lady in his heart. i think when not in work he craves something mundane or normal, so he joins a knitting club or a book club or something with a bunch of old ladies and he either joins in all their chatting or just sits back and listens to them gossip.

-speaking of… he is such a gossip. he will deny it til the end of the earth but he is. he can be trusted with secrets and he’ll never tell anything private or sworn to secrecy but sit him and garcia in a room together and everyone’s petty business is getting aired.

-on that note he lowkey loves reality tv. another thing he completely denies. he’ll say it’s boring or not appealing to him but if someone is watching it around him they’ll catch him lingering quietly in the background. if asked he’ll say he’s studying their behaviour or something like that but really he’s just kinda messy.

-loves jim henson. the muppets, labyrinth, everything. it’s just wacky and weird and wonderful which is everything he is but he’s also fascinated by puppetry and everything that goes into the craft and making the shows/movies and it’s something he loves to infodump about.

-on halloween he keeps candy by his front door for trick or treaters in the apartment building and he goes all out for them. he buys a mask or a simple costume for himself and maybe makes a silly monster noise when he opens the door to make them laugh, and of course after that he compliments all their costumes and tells them they look awesome. in my opinion he was never taken trick or treating as a kid and as a lover of halloween he wants to make it special for all the kids that stop by.

-like everything he owns is from vintage/antique stores, especially all his trinkets and oddities. a perfect afternoon for him is just strolling the stores with a cup of coffee in his hand. he always tries to find out the history of the items he’s buying from the owners and he feels especially attached if whatever it is has a little story behind it. they’re also just a great excuse for him to ramble. if someone is in his apartment and compliments something he gets to break out into his ‘it’s made of this kind of ceramic and it was made in this year and comes from this country’ and he just loves doing that so much.

-he has an old old teddy bear that he treasures. it was either his as a young boy or his mums when she was a kid. it’s worn, it’s weathered but that’s what makes it charming. he doesn’t play with it or anything but its comforting to have around. he props it up on his pillows every morning when he makes his bed, or sometimes sits it on the other side of the chess board when he’s playing by himself. he might talk to it a little occasionally, like narrating the chess game or apologising when he wakes up and finds it on the floor.

-he corrects staff at museums or exhibits and stuff if there’s any misinformation and they lowkey find him annoying for it but i think it’s endearing. he’s just passionate about the facts and that’s okay.

-loooooves rainy weather. not necessarily to be in it but just to sit at his window and watch with a book in his hands and a cup of coffee next to him. he finds it cosy and relaxing, like white noise for when his brain is going a thousand miles a minute.

-he keeps notebooks for everything. he has one where he writes about his pet fish, their names and personalities and anything cute or amusing they did that day. he makes up little stories for them, like if two of them are acting odd he’ll write that they’re bickering and speculate why. he also has a notebook full of book reviews and essays that he writes just for fun, because to him reading is only half the fun and the rest of it comes in the analysis.

sorry i went on for SOOOO long but I just love talking about this man so much he’s the love of my life😭 i hope this was enjoyable for you!!!

[azonewithu]

My eyes are my desdliest weapons. You eoukdnt want to mess with even if you had sll those wespons and i had none. Thats what many have said you should see my wall. It has every being in the known universes skull on it. I can remove a head with nothi f but my bate hands. But ill taje a k bar in the woods. Taje any wespons you want come find me. Then ill walk out of the woods with your head. Theres tv ir movie tough kid. Azriel stood up and massive black then multicoloured then jet black wings formed in a shadow just behind him than vanished. Black is not the absence of colour it like white is a combination of all the colours. Figire put how thst vould be true now youre talkn to me. Truth younpeople do not know the first tho g about it. Not from what i can tell. But you tell a decent story so why argue. Only ibtell a better one. Just me slone if you ask some people crush any of your ensembles. I just have the ace of spades on lock and this is spades not bid wiz. In spades spades is always trump with a few other small differences depending on which region youre playing it in. Ya dont wanna play bid wiz or spades agsinst me. Or any card games or sny game of chwnce. You wont girss whose honna win yhe gane. I eill. I told you everything that happens can be read before hand. Meaning things do not actually hsppen instantaneously but the outcome is foreshadowed just like a goid book. Its jist not always easy to read the signs. Beforevtherecwas anything else thete were the words. The words forshadowed the actusl existence of anything. These are all clues add them up what do you get? Its obvious what im trying to say. And its the cornerstone of life on earth itself. Me knowing this and being connected in a certain way to what im talki g about is the spurce of my deadly power. Youre starting to kearn. Yes i actually killed all thise people all of them. So ill just check kate you agsin and tell uou ine last time none of you are scsry or tough to Azriel. Surrender. Its not fuckn funny how you got those peoples houses put up in smoke. THEY did not desrrvevthst. You font wanna fuckn know ehat you deserve for yhst in return. Anyone eho tries to shiled people eho fuvked up with God ill hirt you worse. Tell then yo maje smends the heat is going up agsin. Im the bei g eho crushed ehoever uou call God. I feel your frsr id be dlscares to of domeone as desdly as i obviously sm. It foesnt natter about snyones money Kenna. At this point some of thrm are just staring out a window. Thetll hsppen more and more the longer they tske to realize yheyre beat bsdly by God. Snd they hot people eho fidnt start with je hurt and much worse. Its not wrong i kash out at you people its wrong you think s groip of assholes has sny trump cards playing death. The ace of soades slong with the king queen n jack ste sleays in my hand. Why? I stack yhe fuckn deck because i can.

JENNA ORTEGA as WEDNESDAY ADDAMS

Wednesday (2022 - ) I Season 2

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Poor God Kalim just watching as his fellow Major Gods get cast out for various crimes.

At least he has Cater, Lilia, Silver, and Jamil… Then Jamil gets his ass kicked out. Honestly I find it funny that he just doesn’t get kicked out.

[Referencing my pantheon AU!]

God!Crowley weeps about how could so many of his “little ones” (what he calls the gods below him) Fall… Where did he go wrong in mentoring them? (The truth: he doesn’t mentor them 🧍‍♂️)

I wanted “Falling” to be my pantheon AU’s interpretation on major bosses we face in the main story and events. This includes the OB boys and Halloween characters, as well as Grim (since this has been an OB we’ve anticipated since the start of the game). Originally, I had all of the characters Fall, but I realized the pantheon would be really empty if everyone was trapped in the human world. By splitting the cast up like this, the other gods become obstacles in this big game for influence and power, which I think is a much more interesting set-up. It also opens up the possibilities for current gods to Fall just as much as there is the potential for the Fallen to ascend.

Kalim’s too Nice to be kicked out I think god!Kalim probably gets up to some mischief, but hasn’t some anything that breaks divine laws (like coming for another god’s power or doing something so detrimental it harms the humans they’re supposed to be looking after). Kalim just standing there 🧍‍♂️ EXISTING… partying… as his fellow Major Gods drop like flies around him for various divine crimes. The image is simultaneously funny and sad.

I picture Kalim lifting his goblet to a room full of his fellow gods, only for each subsequent party he hosts to have fewer and fewer in the banquet hall with him. He still has friends around, of course—Cater, Lilia, Silver—but it doesn’t feel the same without everyone. Kalim attempts to keep smiling, but it’s hard to when he keeps losing friends century after century.

“You’d never leave me… Right?” he once asked of his dutiful attendant.

“Of course not,” Jamil had replied.

And yet the God of Celebration now has an empty spot at his side.

“Kalim?”

“Huh?”

He snaps back to reality. There is a long table stretching out before him, the head and the host. Ambrosia is piled onto plates, nectar filling each godly guest’s glasses. There are so many eyes staring expectantly at him.

“You were proposing a toast?” Lilia says encouragingly. “To the Fallen?”

“Oh—yeah. Sorry, I must’ve gotten lost in my thoughts.”

“Ehhh, it happens. No biggie!” Cater reassures him. “Sooo, the toast?”

The toast. Yes, the toast.

He scrambles for his goblet—a gaudy thing, entirely gold, with a rainbow of jewels encrusting the rim. Kalim holds the stem so tightly he fears he may snap it. His smile is not as fragile.

“To the Fallen,” Kalim announces, goblet raised. Just like old times, when his friends were all surrounding him. “May they prove themselves and find safe passage back to the Pantheon.”

“To the Fallen,” the guests echo.

[thissying]

Jimmy Broadbent in the Road to Succes Podcast, about Franz Hermann and Max in other categories

"There's very little people that can say that they have raced Max so much and got to see the inner workings of his personality as clearly as you. In a sim, which we all know means the world to him, as well as actually on track. You were on track with Franz Hermann at the Nürburgring! What was that whole experience like? Did you know before that happened?"

"Sat on the track at the same time is certainly correct but that's about it. We had an idea he was gonna be there. I had sort of a friend of a friend say to me: watch out for a Franz Hermann on this day. And I saw it… I saw a picture of the car there, the Verstappen.com Ferrari with Franz Hermann and a Dutch flag and I thought to myself: for fuck's sake, it's definitely gonna be him. And obviously it turns out his was him. And again, for Max, this is where I feel a bit sorry for the guy because he wanted to just turn up and go do some laps at the Ring in a GT3 car. And he did that. And for us as creators, this is the part about YouTube I hate but you kind of have to do it because that's the game, then I'd be like: now I have a short of him overtaking me whilst I was like 'bedding in my drive shaft, driving around at like 50% pace he overtook me, oh my god Max overtook me on YouTube.' And then my whole video is like: 'Max turned up to the Nürburgring' and stuff like that. And you have to do that. And it's kind of sad. Because the guy just wanted to be left alone, I think. And then as news started to break that he was there, more and more people started flocking down to the garage, it gets harder to move around the paddock. And I remember seeing… because one of our cameramen went down to get a shot of him basically, and seeing him just trying to get from his van, which is basically from this end of this van to the paddock or to the garage, not very far at all. He was getting mobbed. TV guys, everything. He just wanted to do some laps."

[…]

"I'm really looking forward - and I really hope this happens - that he'll just find what he wants in F1, leave and then just go and get to live his life. Because… I'm on no place to comment on what his upbringing was like. I don't know. You only hear stories about what it was like. But what is painfully obvious: all he's ever known is that sort of racing: karting into Formula into Formula 1, that's it, on these circuits and nowhere else. And I'm a massive racing fan. I wouldn't say F1 is my favourite racing, you know, I love endurance racing, I love the circuits, I love the prototypes, I love rallying, stuff like that. And I think he's kind of the same. Again, I don't know him personally."

[about the popularity of different racing categories] "Do you think it's coming for those other series? And do you think Max is actually potentially a part, if he does leave and goes to them, of making that a thing?"

"Yeah, I mean, wherever Max goes there'll be media. I mean, there have been some teams at the Ring saying they don't want Max to go there because it'll make everything a lot harder: the competition will go up which means that the top classes will be top heavy which means the bottom classes, which is the accessible part, will be sort of pushed out, etc. etc. That's the sort of pessimistic thinking there."

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

I hope y’all like my OC’s!! I picked them cuz at least one of them is related to Fossils (duh duh duhhh)

For those who dont have an account on the artfight but are still interested in my oc’s, I’ve provided the description that i gave them on their pages under the cut off :)

There came once two siblings, as the moon still and sun brighter, but all stars must die and in her eyes-- too soon. But children, they were, and with her plea to a deity, the young sister of the dead boy came; bring my sun back to me, for I cannot live without that warmth upon my skin and heart. I want my brother back, and I will do whatever you need. The deity told the girl of the illness that ransacked and ravaged that land in a prior 200 years to her present, something that should have never effected the youth of now, yet it came for him ever still. A residue of a war they never were to be apart of, or intended rather, for there now came yet another casualty. Oh what could the girl do, she wailed, and the deity took those tears to heart. In the anguish of those fallen tears, came her wish fulfilled-- The Spirit of Health was born. Even as this spirit, the girl could do little to nothing, her aid not helping this illness that crept and crawled upon his very bone, like vine upon a trellis. So, with another bout of pleas, she came to the god, who listened, and for a second time, granted that same wish in a different form-- The Spirit of Death was born. That too failed, even able to bend his life into the route she wanted, the river still flowed the same. That limbo she stuck him in, it was no life, so she, for a third and final try, lamented to the deity, who took a final pity upon them, for there could be no other aid to offer. The girl had a familiar, a grand bird of mighty wing, with the property to carry on through death, to bounce back and perch once more to her being. The girl and her savior plotted, creating a plan to be fulfilled before the first arrow came flying over the castle walls. To use the host, her own beast, as a conduit for the ceaseless, hungering rot that revenged her brother.  Feed it pieces, subject and inflict, a loveless pet in deed. That solution could not utterly cure. In 20 years time, her familiar's body would expel the illness and produce that desired ichor, however she would not be with the bird long enough for that desire to come and pass. A thankless act, that deities work,  for soon there came a plot upon them. The girl and her waxing sun, not they but a HE, a masculine force far beyond their doing. Her failure of courtship, an ex lover perhaps, he came all the same; it came time to hatch a plot. To usurp a kingdom, to kill a being far beyond the flesh and human bone, to end a deity that once held itself upon the little girl, now woman's heart; it came time to end all of that rot, and pain. A bird flies, a woman weeps, and the suggestions of a ruin stand still now.  There came no aid for that diety, no wishes granted, who was to listen to their plea but the ever roaring silence of an unwavering throne. Oh sun, oh moon, oh stars above, bear witness to blessings each. To find that cure, that fluttering hope— where is thy bird now, oh sister of mine. 🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺 Doc is a No Bullshit doctor who has the ability to heal all non-magical illnesses and wounds. She travels to find a cure to her brother's illness and her bird, whichever comes first for now. She took a graft of his skin when she left, she keeps it alive with her powers, and its her most treasured possession.

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Busk is an inventive musician who possesses the ability to control the dead. He really doesn't utilize his abilities all that much though and chooses instead to spend his time playing music, inventing instruments (of the musical or mass destruction varieties, and doing drugs. Often in sequence of each other. He used to have a pet cow that passed away and now he wears her skull on his head in connection to her. He does not dare to reanimate her body because that wouldn't be her, that would just be him controlling her remains.