[fushitoru]

chapter 11: the geto manor a bridgerton au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺ dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, heir to a dukedom mr. satoru gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

genre/warnings ⸺ enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, suggestive, jealousy, misogyny, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly, all they do is bicker 💀, some historical inaccuracies, mentions of sex work

chapter summary ⸺ those who you hold to your heart begin questioning you about your intents and thoughts about gojo. you are not yet ready to answer them, yet you keep encountering the infamous man particularly in the ton's latest excursion (9.0k)

a/n ahhhh guys i have so many updates for you all (yap will be for after the chapter). i missed you all so much and i am SO SORRY for how long this update took. i swore to myself i would finish this series and i hope you haven't lost faith in me <3

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Dearest Gentle Reader,

Parties in the country are truly enjoyable—the ton all descend down to the plains and fields, and this weekend, it will be at the Getos’ estate. As we all know, the season’s diamond, along with her current favored match Duke Nanami, will be gracing the manor. One can only wonder if Duke Nanami’s sudden enthusiasm for the country air has anything to do with a certain Miss Itadori’s confirmed attendance.

Furthermore, Duke Nanami is not a man given to delay, and a country estate offers precisely the privacy…certain declarations require.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

It was a miracle that you got Sukuna to get into the family carriage without causing an exhibition of yourselves at the gallery. With the way you had ushered Sukuna—-praying he did not cause a tumult in the main hall—Choso and Yuji had recognized your forms coursing towards the exit quite easily, and made to follow you both.

However, as soon as you all had seated yourselves in the carriage: “Sister, what did I just see?”

You groan. It’s not easy to pacify your older brother once he’s set off—he easily sees through any words meant to calm. Sukuna is seated in front of you, appearing like a kettle with smoke blowing out of the orifices of his ears. Choso and Yuji exchange equally confused glances as you carefully answer, “Well, Brother, I had…felt a little wired and thought that a period of repose might do me and my nerves some good. And I…happened to encounter Lord Gojo—”

“What?!” comes from Choso and Yuji at once, while Sukuna exhales in anger.

His jaw is clenched, so much that you suppose it would make a fine knife. “And, pray tell, why did you stay there? Let me remind you that you seemed in no hurry to escape that…that bastard’s company—”

“Sukuna!” you cry out in outrage. “I know you abhor him so, but that does not mean you should lose propriety—”

“You’re defending him now? Sister, did it take a few words from him for you to forget all that he has done to you?”

“I’m not defending him.” You pinch your nose in frustration—you were quickly finding that the carriage was rather too small for such a heated exchange. “Rather, I am trying to tell you that Lord Gojo and I are now on amicable terms—”

“What?”

“Are you both incapable of uttering out more than a singular word?!” you snap towards your other brothers once more. “After he had taken the fall in my stead at the park, would it not be natural to reconsider his positions and thoughts? 

It was as if you had just suggested that he eat out of his own chamber pot, for Sukuna’s look to you was more than a blend of incredulity and fury. Harsh breaths escaped him, loud and jarring, and served as testament to how seriously he was understanding your assertions. He searched for words, failed multiple times, and then bit out a “I had thought you more intelligent than this.”

You snorted in fury. “For your sake, I am going to dismiss that from my mind, for I am very well endowed with the capacity to reason, thank you very much—-”

“You indubitably are not, seeing it only took a few pleasantries and flirtations from that sob for you to accede and disregard all that he has done to you—”

“And you are the one inflamed—irrationally so, for your kind knowledge—without even listening to what I have to articulate about the matter—”

“It does not matter what you say!” he calls loudly, so much so you see your other brothers flinch. You could sense an intervention from Choso coming, one commonplace in such disputes. “I will never express my consent for you to marry that man, nor will I permit this insensibility from you!”

“There was no mention of matrimony here, and the insensible one is you, not me, to be drawing such ridiculous determinations from my words!”

“I know what this leads towards, and there’s nothing not insensible from being benevolent and civil towards him—”

“I do not care what you have to say,” you sigh furiously. “It would do you good to remember that you not the lord of the house nor are you my mother—but you do seem to have an affinity for taking the role often–”

Your brother laughs, and each chuckle is filled with a chord of anger. “Oh, hoho. If you believe I am acting like Mother, maybe I should cease any hope for you, as well.” In his anger, he did not see the tinge of hurt flash across your face. “Perhaps I never should have come to your avail, if you are to act this insolent—” 

“Sukuna!” Choso interrupts him, harshly. “Mind your words!”

When your brother was experiencing a fit of anger, it was as if he was a bull gone berserk. If it was one individual angering him, waving the red flag, it would take another shade of vermillion to redirect his ire. Although he was quick in understanding people’s dispositions and, as he matured, learned to gain more tact with his words, he was still the same with his family: unable to cease charging after the nearest point until he felt the matter resolved. Only, rather than slow his momentum after his previous mark, he continued the fervor, or in a particularly heated exchange, upped the ante even more.

Today, Sukuna’s anger did not spare Choso. “Do not tell me to mind my words when I know how much minding you have done for our sister, Choso.” He practically spits out his name. “Staying idle, letting Mother have her way with her schemes with trying to get Sister married to a known rake—I truly have been grappling between deciding if you truly have just lost your mind or ceased to care about our sister—”

“Unlike you,” Choso’s words are calm but furious nonetheless. “I choose to trust our sister and give her the autonomy to decide what is best for her. It would make me no better than Mama,” Sukuna’s jaw clenches at the obvious statement thrown at him, ”to force her to abide by my bidding and follow only my thoughts, none of her own.”

“Surely you understand that there is a difference between trust, and guidance? Where were you when Sister had disappeared today, when she was no longer by His Grace’s side?”

In an uncommon manner, Yuji echoes his words. “Indeed, where were you, brother?”

Be rest assured that your brother is no true animal, he is a man. A man diverted easily by one thing: gossip. Thus, it was as if the red flag had vanished, and his head turned to shoot a look, one with guarded curiosity, towards the younger brother, and some of the foreboding you had been feeling throughout the heated exchange faded.  “Was he not with you?”

“No, rather…” Yuji’s brow is furrowed as he tries to recall the events, and his countenance lights up when the memory comes to the forefront of his mind. “I believe I saw him conversing with a lady—”

After the object of Sukuna’s fury had been diverted from you to Choso, you had become a spectator—with it, came the chance for you to calm your temper. All to say: you were truly about to enjoy Sukuna probing into Choso’s affairs, rather than yours with Gojo.

“And who was this fair lady you were so occupied with, Choso?”

A blush creeps its way up Choso’s neck.  “I—”

“I think her hair was of a fair, blonde color!” Yuji interrupts.

At this, Choso snaps, “I was simply aiming to refresh myself and head to the retiring room. Yuji is spinning tales filled with misrepresentations—”

Sukuna crosses his arms, a true image of ease while Choso the shade of a ripe rhubarb. “Ah, but there must be something to represent for him to recount your whereabouts with a certain lady—”

“Even so, I may have encountered many ladies. There is no need to single out any one.”

“Oh!” Sukuna widens his eyes in jest, nodding as if in understanding, and from Yuji comes, “Our brother is so fetching he has lost count of all the ladies that propose him!” This earns him a bark of laughter from Sukuna, while Choso groans in vexation.

The prospect of Choso courting a lady was indeed quite interesting—you were biding your time to comment on the matter, for you aimed to kindle the mischievous energy in the room. In the matters of gossip, you remained silent until you could contribute to the situation in a manner that would leave the victim sweating further.

Thus, while Yuji and Sukuna were riotously laughing, your voice interrupted them in a succinct manner, your tone innocent. “I wonder, if it was indeed true Yuji last saw Choso with a lady before he retired, what was the true manner in which you refreshed yourself, Choso?”

This opens another round of merriment, courtesy of your younger and middle brother, while Choso is left at a loss of words. As the wheels of your carriage take you further and further towards your manor, the teasing jabs of Sukuna and Yuji are enough to allow you to sit back, reflecting on the afternoon and what had happened.

He should be finishing the entries of the ledger for today.

On the matter of business, particularly that of his family, Gojo has been an excellent student. His focus never wavers—if you would ask him to do a task that required six hours of endless work and accounting, he would be able to do it with ease. Notwithstanding, in the recent past, it seems that his focus only gravitates towards a certain diary. He can’t help but grab it multiple times, size its contents endlessly, and then audibly groan in aggravation as he realizes he’s drifted off in his thoughts and the person who had penned the very words perturbing him.  

The action, almost like a vexing mannerism he had developed, lent time the ability to progress faster—it seemed that every time he wished to take a break from his work, his hand would drop his pen and instinctively wander towards the offending object situated on his desk. Furthermore, every time he opened the pages of the diary, he would be absolutely absorbed by the words he read there. In rather deficient and rushed handwriting it read:

March the 14th

Thoughts upon Mr. P. Cartwright’s recent pamphlet, On the Nature of Governance and Gentle Reform

I cannot but find fault in his suggestion that the land-owning class alone possess foresight enough to administer lasting peace. Is it not the case that lived experience—particularly that of women and tradespeople—might supply the very insights the gentry lack?

I am struck by the phrase: "The crown must not only wear gold, but bear the weight of silence between its people." I know not whether he meant it as metaphor or lament, but it lingered in my thoughts the remainder of the evening.

My brother scoffed at the piece, which only compels me further to engage with its ideas.

He reads it again.

Though he tells himself he ought to focus on the ledgers, on the minute accounting of the family’s trading affairs, it is this diary—your diary—that distracts and ensnares. And in this entry, all about some dry-sounding pamphlet and even drier politics, you somehow manage to sound precisely as you did that day in town: curious, self-possessed, maddeningly earnest.

It was a glimpse through the window of your thoughts and constitution then, and he had just tasted another just a few days ago, while looking at the painting. 

Perhaps, we are simply of different minds.

I meant to thank you. For what you did last time.

Gojo’s pride is a powerful entity. It is not easily tempered, nor does it submit itself readily to introspection. To admit a misstep—to confess even inwardly that one has been less than just—is no small undertaking.

And yet, there is a growing unease in him when he recalls how freely he had once spoken of you. With derision, perhaps not in tone, but certainly in implication. Called you simple. He had thought himself discerning, perhaps even clever, for observing what he believed to be your uncomplicated ways.

Now, he began to wonder whether it had been discernment at all—or merely impatience, a failure of character that prevented him from looking more deeply.

You had not been simple. Far from it. Rather, you had been precise—deliberate. A careful calculation, one that had fully accounted for the particular brand of foolishness Mr. Gojo so often exhibited. And yet, curiously, the knowledge did not leave him bitter at having been outwitted.

Instead, it stirred something else entirely: a reluctant admiration, tinged with curiosity. Should fortune ever permit their paths to cross again, he resolved, he would at least endeavour to be civil—perhaps even amiable—in short, something nearer to an acquaintance than an adversary.

These frequent excursions to the countryside, you found, were irritating you to no end. It seemed as if just yesterday you had traveled to Kent, and the ton was packing their carriages to visit yet another well-placed young man’s grand manor in the countryside. This came with less fanfare, of course, since your mama hadn’t chosen to scheme with Lord Geto’s mama this time to get you to the manor early. Reflecting on the memory, the affair was both a hassle and simply too theatrical.

After you had broken your fast, the instructions from your mama were clear: visit your room and make sure no essential item was left before you all headed to the Geto manor. Of course, you had wanted to exchange with her a retort along the lines of “if I had truly forgotten something behind for the short visit, I truly did not need it” but you knew voicing so was not wise. Instead, you idly traversed the staircase to your room to give it a half-hearted once over. 

Inside was Nobara, with a vexed look on her face. Once she noted your presence in the room, she became even more furious. “How would you have made do without your hair comb?” she reprimanded, and you searched for the offending object to find it was on your bed. “Would I have just used my bare fingers to arrange your hair?”

“That would have sufficed,” you respond airily, to which you get a vexed look that you do not notice, for you are too busy lazily glancing over the rest of your room for anything you may have missed. “Your hands are rather lovely and would serve as dainty hair combs.”

“Humph!” Nobara scoffed. “You would not find it so lovely if it was my fingers pulling your hair to rid it of its tangles.”

You could not help a bemused smile, the corners of your mouth pulling up almost of their own accord. “Perhaps not,” you replied, sitting down onto the bed in a most unladylike manner. Nobara clucked her tongue as you pick up the tortoise-shell comb and turn it over in your hands as if it were an object of intrigue. 

Nobara has moved to your wardrobe, eyeing it like an enemy on the battlefield. “I suppose you will not be needing your silk shawl,” she says, her back to you but her tone sharpened like a blade.  

“It is not that necessary,” you say, wondering if this trip will be as tiresome as you expect. “The weather in Kent has been quite warm lately, and I’m sure Geto manor will not be any different.”

“Then packing your parasol would be in due order,” she sighed, and you kept on idyllically examining your hair comb. The sounds of Nobara rummaging throughout your room to pack essential items and accessories disrupt the otherwise still silence.

Then, Nobara interrupts, as if voicing a thought revolving in her head. "Do you feel that he will be there?"

You felt a quiet dread settle upon you as the conversation turned. “Nobara, surely you must know he will be in attendance. Lord Geto and Mr. Gojo are scarcely to be seen apart, and by all accounts, they are possessed of a most affectionate friendship. I think it only natural for Mr. Gojo to accompany him.”

“But are you quite certain,” Nobara inquired, her brow slightly raised, “that you will be able to avoid speaking with him?”

You paused, considering. “It would, of course, be incumbent upon me, as a lady of some standing, to offer a civil word should circumstances demand it. Yet I cannot imagine why there should be such unease on the matter. After last week’s unfortunate events, I had thought that Mr. Gojo and I had come to some form of understanding—if not reconciliation, then at least a courteous truce.”

Nobara, who had been made thoroughly acquainted with the particulars of that encounter—and indeed with the quarrel that had followed with Mr. Sukuna—could not conceal her displeasure.

“Even if the two of you are capable of exchanging pleasantries, I would caution against complacency. But,” she added, softening somewhat, “I am not inclined to worry overmuch—for you are now being courted by Duke Nanami, and whatever once existed between yourself and Mr. Gojo must, by necessity, be consigned to the past.”

Though Nobara spoke with the clarity and firmness of truth, a faint restlessness stirred within you. It was not opposition, precisely—but neither was it agreement.

“We might still be friends,” you said, rather more hastily than intended. “It is hardly improper, I think. That he is not my suitor should not preclude a friendship—however much my brother may disapprove.”

“I suppose,” Nobara replied, though not without some reluctance. “And yet I must confess, your disposition towards him strikes me as altogether too yielding, considering the trials you have endured on his account. I cannot help but fear his attentions are less than sincere. He slandered you most grievously among his peers, and when confronted, displayed neither remorse nor explanation. Might it not be, rather, that he seeks to regain your favour—having discovered, too late, that he cannot so easily relinquish the diamond of the season?”

You pressed your lips together, unwilling to offer immediate assent. Nobara, as ever, spoke with reason—but still, you could not bring yourself to share in her conclusion. “If he were truly endeavouring to secure my affections,” you said at length, with measured caution, “I do not believe he would confine himself to mere civil discourse in a lonely corridor. No, I am more inclined to think he seeks only to establish a peace between us.”

But Nobara’s expression betrayed no such optimism. “If you are persuaded that his motives are sincere, then I shall not press you further. Yet you must consider the judgement of your brothers—”

The mention of them rekindled your irritation. The memory of your altercation with Sukuna still lingered, raw and recent, and before you could temper your response, the words escaped.

“My brothers are far too impassioned to hear a word of reason! They have constructed an entire narrative upon their own suspicions, and will not so much as allow me to speak in my own defence.” You sighed, a note of exasperation slipping into your voice. “It is utterly maddening, Nobara!”

Nobara looked at you with pity. "I understand your position, my dear, and Sukuna is very ill-tempered. But," and Nobara paused, as if wading through uncharted waters, "you must understand that you are their only sister, and, naturally, they are protective over you." 

You look down at your lap, silent, and she sighs. "I suppose the loss of the master of the house had truly led them to bear the responsibility of being the head of the house. Choso inherited the title, but Sukuna clearly feels the need to support him in the role." 

You suppose she had reason; after all, Sukuna would rather you become a spinster than get whisked off in some unhappy marriage, even if it would bring your family more power to be married to a duke-to-be like Lord Gojo. It will go unsaid these couple of days (you were still angry at him for undermining you so), but you truly do appreciate your brothers. Even Yuji, who was akin to a gluttonous beast and admired Lord Gojo.

The death of your father had not been easy and had affected your family in many different ways. While Choso had hardened into a man from the timid babe he once was, Sukuna had sought to grow more independent, furthering his education. Yuji was too young to remember your father, and your mama had remembered it all too well. It is what propelled her to make sure you secured a good match, for to her, lacking a husband truly crumbled the foundations of her stable life.

You and your mama have quarreled this season, but you cannot truly resent for her what she has done. After all, she had struggled but succeeded to keep her place in society in the wake of widowhood, all so you would not feel its weight when seeking a match. 

Being reminded of this struggle further serves to remind you how you truly have squandered your time this season. While you had gotten a hint of a proposal from Duke Nanami, you would have to admit you had bid your time in his presence being a bit absentminded than what was proper. This affair with Gojo had truly led you off course.

As if realizing your thoughts, Nobara softened. “I understand that you, as a young lady, feel the need to fulfill your duty and secure a husband. However, you must remember that you are exactly that—a young lady.” Her tone turns coy as she turns to you, bearing a simper on her face. “If you must endure the season, then why not do so with a touch of mischief? A harmless prank upon Mr. Gojo—or perhaps even a few artful flirtations—surely that would not be so very unreasonable?”

"Well...I suppose you have reason," you hesitantly reply. "However, would such antics not sully my reputation as the diamond?"

“Nonsense!” she cried, waving her hand with theatrical flair. “If there are young ladies of some notoriety who can contrive to spill punch upon their own bodices—or upon the gowns of others—to draw attention and yet suffer no loss of standing, I see no reason why you might not indulge in a few playful flirtations.”

Grudgingly, you agree. "I suppose. But," and you purse your lips, "I do not think any exchange I have with Gojo further will be of a flirtatious nature. I surmise that I have repulsed him with my nature, for him to break off our mamas' arrangement and intentions."

"No one can say definitively what the young lord is thinking," Nobara replies. She moves the final stack of clothes she had finished folding inside a container and claps her hands together. "But what I can say is that you must not bear such a load. It would be a pity if you underwent this season and got married without truly experiencing true drama. After all, what is being so young for?"

Her suggestion was as dangerous as it was alluring. You were well aware that such frivolities, however harmless they might seem in theory, could prove quite ruinous in execution. And yet, the notion of abandoning the constant vigilance, of engaging in conversation without carefully measuring every syllable—perhaps even indulging in a touch of mischief—held a singular appeal. “Nobara, should your counsel result in the tarnishing of my reputation—or worse, in a scolding from my hot-headed brother or Mama herself—I shall see to it that your tea is thoroughly despoiled next week.”

"You will do no such thing!"

The interior of the Gojo carriage was quiet, save for the occasional sounds of nature that filtered in through the ornate doors. 

Satoru stood in his seat, observing the landscapes that slid by and played with his cuffs. To his opposite sat his mother, who was similarly looking upon the vast grassy countryside that they encountered on their passage to Lord Geto's manor.

It was this exact situation that Satoru was dreading to find himself in. Ever since his...decision concerning you before the house party in Kent, he had been keenly avoiding conversing with one person: his mama. 

Such evasions had not been difficult to manage. Satoru’s calendar was never wanting for engagements, duties, and last-minute obligations with which to shield himself. But time, relentless as ever, had brought him here—boxed into a carriage, and worse, into silence. A silence that now pressed heavily upon him.

Satoru could not help but feel afraid.

At last, she said, "Satoru."

“Yes, Mother,” he replied too swiftly—and, to his mortification, at a pitch rather higher than was respectable. He coughed.

“There is a matter I have been meaning to discuss with you,” she said, turning her gaze not upon him but fully to the passing landscape, rendering her expression utterly inscrutable. “But it seems that every time I make the attempt, you have taken refuge in your study under the pretext of some important task or another.”

Satoru could feel the disapproval roiling off her in waves, and swallowed. "I was simply attending to my duties, mother. Surely you cannot find me at fault."

At length, a single word passed her lips—“Interesting.” It was not the word itself that unsettled him, but the tone, which held all the quiet condemnation of someone who had seen straight through him. A mother, after all, is rarely deceived.

Quiet blanketed the carriage once more, and his mother's face was still turned away from him. Satoru moved to wipe the sweat from his hands.

"I suppose you know what I am seeking to ask you."

He grimaced. "Why the greenery is quite nice outside?"

"No," she responded dryly. "Why you made that absolute blunder and humiliated me---"

"Humiliated is a bit much, isn't it?" Satoru remarked. "Maybe my inclinations did not match yours, but it was a mutual decision made between me and Miss Itadori!"

"Decisions can be rash! I know your nature, Satoru---I am your mother!" she admonished, finally facing him with unconcealed disapproval on her face. "I truly worry for you, for I do not think you understand the true nature of marriage---"

"I solely understand the nature of marriage that I feel is best for me---"

“Do not interrupt me,” she snapped, and he fell silent, though not without a glance of obvious irritation. She observed him a moment longer, then sighed—deeply, as if mourning the loss of something no one else could see.

“What a shame,” she said, the disappointment in her voice now tinged with regret. “The two of you already seemed as comfortable as a couple years married. I had thought your compatibility rather promising.”

Satoru exhaled, exasperated. “Mother, your idea of compatibility and my own are irreconcilable. I cannot be expected to suffer under principles I do not share. Simply put, I disagree.”

“Your principles, whatever they may be, are just that—your principles. They are underdeveloped, as expected of someone at your tender age and lack the fortitude found in those with experience. I have experienced love with your father and found myself in a quite agreeable marriage. You should share my principles!”

“However, I do not,” Satoru responds back, remaining unconvinced. “You are not the arbiter of what deems a marriage well and fine, nor are you in my position. To me, you are solely discussing so-called principles because of your pride and how it has felled when I did not accept the match you had meticulously arranged for me.”

Instead of anger flashing across her face at disrespect, Duchess Gojo instead held a muted expression, as if almost amused. Looking upon it, Satoru felt like a child once more who had to crane his neck to see his mother, the enormity in their age and experience creating such a divide. At last, she sighed. “Then so be it. Your life is yours to live, and your principles are your own to develop. I can only help but worry for you.” However, her expression turned sharp. “But I do not approve of the way you and Miss Itadori have completely cut ties. Do apologize, I cannot face her mother after your petulant actions.”

Satoru could protest further, but he had realized that he had been relieved of the many scoldings he was sure were going to fall onto him. Acquiescing, he bowed his head. “Whatever you say, Mother.”

Naturally, when the ton arrives, the Geto manor’s gardens are bustling with noble gentlemen and ladies resting idyllically under both the pavilions and their sunshades. Most of the youths are standing near the refreshments, eager to chance a conversation with potential matches, or, like you, resting with their families.

Shaded from the glaring heat of the sun, you sip your tea, sighing in contentment at its taste. No matter what your complaints were, you could not deny that the Geto Manor was beautiful and lavish. Attendants fluttered between the guests, offering any pastries or refreshments, and the gardens were plentiful in green grass and beautiful flowers. The architecture was truly a marvel to look at, and the manor great in size.

You jokingly thought that if your courtship with Duke Nanami were to fail, Lord Geto would not be a terrible second option.

“The view here is splendid, is it not my dear?” Your mother echoed your thoughts, taking a bit of pastry into her hands.

You watched as she bit into it, and the shade of a satisfied look crossed over her face. “I wholeheartedly agree, Mama. The weather, too, makes it a lovely day.”

You and your mama had not truly talked. With Sukuna’s overbearing presence—and tendency to intrude into conversation he did not like the topic of—you and your mama had been rendered silent, the much needed conversation between you two tabled. However, after such a long day of travels to the Geto Manor, it seemed that all your brothers were winded; currently, all three of them were slumbering or winding down in their respective rooms. Neither you or your mama protested in the slightest when they had expressed their inclinations.

Without the boys, lazing in the garden and observing others felt less overbearing, for it was lacking of Sukun’s perpetual, acute stare on you. In the silence, both of you observed the flurry of conversation around the both of you. 

Before you could converse on any unaddressed topic amongst the both of you, there came sounds of graceful steps behind you. “If it isn’t Miss Itadori!”

You turn, to face Duchess Gojo and both you and your mama stand up. Curtsying, you respond, “Your Grace.”

“How is the season, my dear?” She makes herself at home, pulling a chair, which confuses you. You would understand sharing a few words as courtesy with you and your mama, but after the whole affair at the Gojo house party, you would assume her no longer interested, or at the very least, that she would avert any possible conversations with you. Instead, she seems enthusiastic in seeking out your presence.

"It is all good and well, Your Grace," you bow your head and smile at her.

"Good, good," she sighs and then pointedly looks at you. "I do want to apologize, my dear, for what happened at Kent. It was a surprise to me and you, I assure you," she sighs, her lips pursed in disapproval at the memory.

Your smile is a bit strained, and you fear to look at your mama’s countenance. "No worries, Your Grace. Not all pairs are suitable matches, but I do wish well for Lord Gojo's future and that he succeeds in finding another match that suits him better."

You can't help but think that Duchess Gojo looks a bit dejected at your response. She smiles ruefully and lets out a sigh while picking up her teacup with her pinky. 

You all spend some time in silence, for, after all, what more do you have to converse upon? Even your mama and Duchess Gojo could not delve and gossip on your pairing with Gojo, for it was no longer a pairing. However, if you were to leave, Duchess Gojo and your mama could find steady company in other gossiping matters that surely circulated amongst each other. 

Tired with the uncomfortable environment, you quickly found a reprieve. "I find myself quite parched. If you'll excuse me---"

"No worries, my dear," Duchess Gojo waves her hand, and you cannot help but think her expression mischievous. "The boys are there, and they'll fetch one for you. Then, in the general direction of the refreshments, she calls out, "Would one of you dears please fetch Miss Itadori here some water?" 

The boys?

Slowly, you turn toward the refreshments table. There, amid crystal decanters and glinting glass, stood three towering, unmistakable figures: Duke Nanami, Lord Geto, and—most arrestingly—Lord Gojo.

They had only just arrived, it seemed. The typical flurry of debutantes and dowagers had not yet descended upon them, leaving the trio in a rare moment of unbothered conversation. At Duchess Gojo’s call, all three turned their heads. Two reached instinctively for a glass of water at once.

Your eyes found him instantly. Gojo’s hand hesitated mid-air, his fingers brushing the rim of the glass just as Duke Nanami's touched it too. For a moment, neither man yielded. Then Gojo, blinking as if suddenly aware of himself, withdrew his hand with a smile so swift and unreadable it might have passed unnoticed. Nanami took the glass.

It was an exchange so small that anyone else might have missed it. But you did not. And the inexplicable flutter in your chest made you glance away, determinedly occupying yourself with the steam curling from your tea.

Duke Nanami arrived a moment later, offering you the drink with a courteous nod. “My lady.”

"Why don't the three of you keep us some company?" Your mama invites him. 

"Of course." He then beckons Lord Gojo and Geto, and you cannot help but think Lord Gojo a bit too casual in agreeing to sit near you. Any exchange with him was bound to tread precarious ground—even if, lately, that ground had proven less treacherous than imagined.

“Did you all just arrive?” The way Duchess Gojo glanced over the three—and scarcely glanced at Gojo—made you wonder if any quarrels had erupted between the two.

"Yes." It is Lord Geto who replies, one leg over the other and reclined in his seat. You couldn't help but think him very relaxed for a host. To your side sits Duke Nanami, with Geto right next to him and Gojo exactly opposite from you. "However, Gojo here had taken his fine time getting ready.”

Gojo clears his throat, the sound soft but pointed, but not before shooting Lord Geto a glare, and the display reminds you of how deep their friendship ran. He turned back then, but had not fully done so before catching your eye.

There was a flicker of something—too fleeting to name—before he schooled his expression. “I simply wished to arrive at my most presentable. It would be terribly rude to do otherwise, would it not?”

“Indeed,” Duke Nanami dryly replied.

Now that Nanami was here, your mother turned to him with interest, watching him carefully. “I hope the passage here was not too tiring, Your Grace?”

“It was not. The route was quite scenic, and I enjoyed conversing with my mother,” Nanami responds.

Your mama smiles at him, satisfied. “It is very kind of you to be so caring towards your mother,” she sighs. “She must get lonely, at times, being a widow.”

He nods. Your gaze wanders from him, to the person sitting across from you; you startle to see Gojo’s eyes already on you. You both avert your eyes back to Nanami. “Mother is social, she makes do.”

“It must be so hard after the death of your father for you to handle the dukedom,” she coos. The promise of gleaning wealth—for you, but consequently for her—really candies her word and tone.

However, Nanami, ever the humble gentleman, bows his head. “I simply do the duty the title bestowed upon me requires.”

Your mama hums sweetly, as if in understanding. “Oh, but you must have even more affairs to handle after the great sum of land I heard you bought in the Americas.”

Silently, you gape at her. You understand her enthusiasm, for Nanami is the one courting you and the ton is abuzz with rumors of his proposal. However, you are uneasy about how guileless her words are. Duke Nanami, however, seems unfazed. “It was indeed a good deal.”

Then, another voice speaks up. “Indeed. Father had bought quite a lot of sum from it, as well, after I had advised him to.” You all turn, to find Gojo lazed back in his chair; you noticed, however, his leg was shaking minutely beneath the table. “Any deal in the Americas has great probability of being con work, but my insight had told me that it would not be such a bad idea for the land we invested in.”

Nanami agrees. “I had only bought it after Gojo had recommended it to me.”

You couldn’t help yourself. “How wise of you, Lord Gojo. Perhaps you should consider politics.” Once all the stares turned to you, you bit your tongue, vexed at yourself for speaking out.

Gojo, particularly, stared at you, until a barely-there smile began to play at his lips. “God forbid. I’ve enough headaches managing my father's estate. Though, should the House ever require a charming distraction, I’m happy to volunteer.”

You can’t bite back your smile anymore, either. “So long as the House is in need of charm and not actual solutions.”

Geto barks out a laugh, and Nanami hides his chuckle with a cough. You feel Gojo’s eyes on you, and Gojo replies, with a trace of amusement in his tone, “Ah, but charm is a solution. To many things.”

“Mostly to boredom,” Geto voices, watching the conversation with interest.

“And don’t we all suffer so,” Gojo dryly remarks.

Upon this exchange, your mother interrupts, turning her gaze to Nanami once more. “Still, I imagine such responsibilities weigh heavily,” she sighs, as if forlorn. “Perhaps it’s why so many in your station choose to settle down early, to share the burden.”

Once more, he has the perfect answer. “I would argue partnership brings clarity to duty, not escape from it.”

Your mama practically glowed. She turned to you as though Nanami had just recited scripture, and you gave her a small, warning look that she did not heed in the slightest.

"How beautifully put," she sighed. "And so true. I imagine a man of your station has no shortage of responsibilities. The dukedom, the estates, the tenants—"

"And Parliament," Nanami added, with his usual quiet precision. "Though I confess I find the agricultural matters most rewarding. There is something grounding in knowing your land well."

Your mama clasped her hands together as though he had composed a sonnet. "Oh, how admirable! Don't you think so, dear?"

"Very admirable," you agreed, because it was, and you doubt agriculture was a quarrelsome topic.

"I have recently taken an interest in crop rotation, actually," Nanami continued, speaking to your mama but including you with a courteous tilt of his head. "There are new methods coming from the Continent that I believe—"

"I've implemented those."

The table turned to Gojo.

He was sitting with one arm draped over the back of his chair, the picture of nonchalance, as though the words had simply wandered out of him without his permission. When the silence prompted him to continue, he gave a mild shrug.

"The four-field system. I introduced it on the northern estate last spring. Yields were up by a considerable margin." He examined his teacup with an air of studied disinterest. "I could send you my steward's notes, Nanami, if you'd like."

Nanami regarded him evenly. "That would be appreciated."

"Of course." Gojo took a sip of his tea. Then, as though it were an afterthought: "We've also begun drainage improvements on the eastern marshland. Father thought it a waste, but the surveyor's projections were rather compelling. I oversaw the plans myself."

"How industrious of you," Duchess Gojo remarked, in a tone that suggested she had never once seen her son oversee so much as a breakfast tray.

"I have hidden depths, Mother."

You pressed your lips together very hard.

Your mama, undeterred, steered the ship back to Nanami. "And your home in the country, Your Grace—I hear it is magnificent. How many rooms, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I have never counted them," Nanami admitted, with what you suspected was deliberate modesty.

"Forty-seven," Gojo supplied, as if plucking the number from thin air. Then, just as casually: "Ours has sixty-two, but who's counting?"

He caught your eye, and to his credit, had the decency to look only slightly pleased with himself. You raised a brow at him. He responded by raising his teacup, as though toasting you.

"Lord Gojo," you said, keeping your voice light, "I did not realize you took such careful inventory of your peers' homes."

"I take careful inventory of everything, Miss Itadori. It is a point of pride."

"Is it also a point of pride to announce it at tea?"

Geto made a sound into his cup that he poorly disguised as a cough.

"Only when the company is worth impressing."

"Then you must be terribly selective about your tea parties."

"Extremely. I attend only the finest."

"And yet you were late to this one."

"Fashionably," he corrected, raising a finger.

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"It is what I am calling it, and I am a lord, so it becomes fact."

"I don't think that is how facts work."

"And I don't think you should concern yourself with how lords work, Miss Itadori, and yet here we are." His eyes were bright, and the smile that played about his mouth was no longer the performative one he wore for ballrooms. It was smaller, more crooked, and entirely directed at you.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep your own smile from growing any wider, and somewhere between his absurdity and your inability to stop engaging with it, you became aware of the silence around you.

Your mama was staring. Not displeased, exactly, but certainly bewildered, as though she had opened a door expecting a broom closet and found a ballroom. Duchess Gojo had set down her teacup entirely and was watching the two of you with an expression of poorly concealed interest.

Nanami's face, as ever, revealed nothing. He sipped his tea with the composure of a man who had watched the weather change and found it unremarkable.

But beside him Geto's gaze slid toward Nanami. It was not a look anyone at the table could have caught, angled as it was, low and sidelong, carrying the particular weight of a question that could not be asked aloud.

Nanami did not turn his head. But after a moment, almost imperceptibly, he set his teacup down a fraction harder than necessary.

Geto looked away. The answer, it seemed, had been received.

"Well," your mama said, rallying herself with the determination of a general regrouping after an unexpected flank, "I do believe the orchestra is beginning the next set. How lovely."

"Indeed," Duchess Gojo murmured, though she was not looking at the orchestra at all.

The dining hall is blanketed in the warmth of candlelight and a tune is playing on the piano, accompanied with the sound of cutlery and low, soft conversations. This, paired with the cooler air seeping in from the night sky, sets up a comfortable atmosphere as you dine with your mother and brothers, who finally woke from their slumber or whatever else they were during their rest.

“The wine is quite good,” Choso murmurs. It is his second glass. You notice your brother seems a bit more anxious than usual, with his leg shaking anxiously; you presume it restlessness from sleeping an obscene amount in the day.

Sukuna snorts, ever derisive. “If you believe this to be good, you would go mad after tasting some of the drinks in the wineries in France.”

“A man goes to Europe once and never ceases to talk about it,” you murmur bitterly, but everyone on the table hears you; an uncomfortable silence fills the air.

The man in question interrupts, anger hardly concealed. “I, at the very least, am touring and exploring the world instead of endeavoring to fall into the arms of a man who has humiliated me.” Sukuna did not mince his words—-the both of you had not reconciled ever since leaving the art gallery. 

Pinching your brow, and procuring all the patience you had, you lowly bit out, “Must you be like this? Right now, when we are on a stay?”

He clenched his jaw. “I could ask that of you as well, Sister.”

“Oh, simmer down you two,” your mother impatiently scoffs, interrupting your squabble. The both of you, brother and sister, hmmphed, arms crossed identically. “We are not in our home. It would suit you both well to behave accordingly.”

Thus, silence fell as you all continued dining, save for the occasional sound of pleasure from Yuji at the victuals—the Geto Manor had fine chefs indeed. You almost started to believe the rest of the dinner would go easily, until your mother interrupted once more. “How do you perceive Duke Nanami’s attentions?”

Ah, she’s started to demand answers. “I suppose he is in due order to propose.” You make no mention of the fact that he already—in some sense—had.

She hums, the sound not exactly pleased but rather indicating that the news was moderately satisfactory. “And why do you suppose so?”

You pause. “He has spent quite some time with me at balls as of late, after Lord Gojo had broken off our courtship.”

At the mention of Gojo, there are varying reactions across the table: Sukuna comes to attention, and, consequently, so does Choso. Yuji continues feasting vulgarly, paying no attention to the conversation, while your mother asks, “I did mean to ask you, dear. Today, you and Lord Gojo seemed agreeable; is a match with Lord Gojo truly out of the question?”

A tense but loaded silence ensues and you feel your heart bumping faster, a strange feeling swelling up your throat. In the end, however, you cannot muster a response, to which Sukuna retaliates against. “Sister, you cannot be serious.”

“What? I had yet to answer Mama and still you come at me with such fervor! Patience is a virtu—”

“I’m tired of your antics!” Sukuna says, loudly, to which your mother sends him a pointed look, displeasure painted all over her countenance. He presses his lips together and, in a pained effort, takes a great sigh and continues in a lowered voice, “Lord Gojo has embarrassed you, Sister. It would do you well to forget that man. I do not know why, after I have re-iterated my opinion multiple times, you still yearn for that man in such a foolish manner.”

At this fortuitous time, Yuji decides to cease feeding on the meat and chimes in. “But, Brother, the lord is quite fit! I think you would find pleasure in sporting with him. I believe that, for once, Sister had made the right choice.”

“Fit,” Sukuna repeats through gritted teeth. “You would have our sister wed a man based on his physique?”

“Well, not, not quite—”

“Enough, Yuji. If I were you I would cease speaking immediately,” Choso sighs, though not unkindly. Your brother wilts, returning to his plate and cutting through a piece of lamb rather gloomily.

But the damage is done. Sukuna's gaze has not left you, and you feel it like a brand against the side of your face. You busy yourself with your wine glass, turning the stem between your fingers, but the silence stretches too thin, too taut, and it is Choso who breaks the silence.

“Sister,” Choso says, in a careful manner. His voice and its cadence seem to tread lightly, as if trying very hard not to be cruel. “You hesitated.”

“I beg your pardon?”

"When Mama asked if Lord Gojo was out of the question. You did not say yes." He is not accusatory in the way Sukuna is. 

“It is settled.”

“Then why did you not say so?”

The table, all of a sudden, feels smaller. The background noises, which were previously surrounding you comfortably, seem to be quieter than ever. You set your glass down,  one you did not even realize were taking a sip out of nervously. The wine dips and crests over the rim, staining the white tablecloth. “I apologize if my response did not come as swiftly as to your exacting standards.”

"Do not deflect," Sukuna cuts in, leaning forward, and you can see the restraint your mother's earlier reprimand bought him is now spent entirely. "He asks you a direct question and you dance around it as you always do. You are still thinking of him. Admit it."

“I am not—”

 "You are." Sukuna's voice drops, and the quietness of it is worse than his shouting. "I watched you today, at the gallery. The way you looked at him. The way you spoke to him—as though nothing had transpired between you, as though he had not cast you aside like some common—"

"Sukuna." Your mother's voice is iron now, a warning forged in steel.

He stops. But only just. His jaw works, teeth grinding behind closed lips, and his eyes—your eyes, your same eyes, the ones you share by blood—burn with a fury that you know, deep down, is born not of contempt but of something far more tender. He is angry because he loves you.

And you cannot even tell him he is wrong.

"Yuji is not entirely without sense," you say quietly, and you do not know why you say it. Perhaps it is spite. Perhaps it is exhaustion. Perhaps it is simply the truth, clawing its way out of you against your will. "Lord Gojo is not—he is not what you paint him to be. He was kind to me. Genuinely kind. And I do not think it unreasonable to—"

"To what?" Sukuna's composure shatters. He rises slightly from his seat, napkin falling from his lap, and your mother reaches for his arm but he shakes her off. "To go crawling back? To let him toy with you a second time? You are a daughter of this house. You are my sister. And I will not sit idle while you throw yourself at the feet of a man who has already proven he does not value you as he ought."

The words land like a slap. But they are not untrue.

Your throat tightens. The room blurs at its edges, and you realize with a swell of horror that your eyes are hot, that if you remain at this table a moment longer you will cry in front of all of them, and that is something your pride, battered and bruised as it is, will not survive.

You stand. Your chair scrapes against the floor with an ugly sound that cuts through the piano's melody.

"Sister—" Choso starts.

"I find I have lost my appetite," you say. Your voice is steady, but your hands are not. You press them flat against your skirts to still them. "If you will excuse me."

"Sit down," your mother says, but it is more tired than commanding, and you pretend not to hear.

"Sis, I didn't mean to—" Yuji begins, eyes wide and stricken with guilt, as though he understands that his well-meaning comment was the spark that set the powder alight.

"It is alright, Yuji. Enjoy your meal." You touch his shoulder as you pass and you do not look at Sukuna. 

You walk from the dining hall with your back straight and your chin raised, and it is only when you have turned the corner, when the warmth of candlelight gives way to the cooler dark of the corridor, that your composure fractures. You press your back against the wall, the stone cold through the fabric of your dress, and you breathe—once, twice—willing the sting behind your eyes to retreat.

From the dining hall, muffled but unmistakable, you hear your mother's voice: "Are you satisfied now?"

And Sukuna's reply, quieter than you have ever heard him: "She needed to hear it."

The smell of jasmine and dusty books wafts through the air as bookshelves surround you. It seems to be a recurring manner of yours to be going to your host’s libraries as you take a book from the shelves.

You wander through the shelves and, with the corner of your eye, notice a book Sukuna had mentioned once. Despite your current animosity at the man, you go and grab the copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho, the spine slightly cracked and weathered at the edges.

The dust simmers in the air, almost sparking through the moonlight peeking in. You settle down on a reading chair, with a candle lamp burning fragrantly. For the first time this evening, your shoulders loosen and you thumb the pages of the book.

Suddenly, you hear the shuffle of footsteps walking slowly towards your direction. You are much too wearied from the course of events of the evening, however, to be truly alarmed. Instead, you continue reading from The Mysteries of Udolpho in the hopes that the impending intruder passes you by. 

You turn a page. Emily is now alone in a castle she did not choose with people whose intention she cannot parse.

The sound gets closer and closer. It stops. Then a “Miss Itadori, I didn’t know you had such a palate for terror.”

You look up to see a somber yet teasing Lord Gojo standing at the edge of the bookshelf, half in moonlight and half in shadow, his cravat loosened just slightly—as though he, too, had been slowly shedding the evening.

prev. the art gallery | next. soon!

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n sooo....ahahah hi guyhs :3 being a uni student is so hard and had me busier than expected :( however i am j*bless this summer so i will be writing more and (hopefully) finishing the bridgerton series. i missed you all so much and i was really really missing writing and being a whole human being w hobbies. that being said i do have an exciting update!!!!

soooo i'm thinking of starting commissions/some paid membership stuff/a ko-fi. i am a broke college student and i think if anyone with a big heart (and wallet) would love to support me and my writing, i would soso appreciative.

i plan on offering "membership" tiers. i.e. those who join as members would get my writing 1-2 weeks to a month before it gets posted on here. i also plan on having exclusive content solely released to those who are members as well as more say on what i get to write next. let me know what you guys think! i don't plan on posting any differently on my main tho, just more perks for anyone who chooses to support me :3

that being said if u r broke i hear u so relatable i love u still. i will make sure you are not starved for content <3

ok anyways will be answering asks and posting more on what i'm writing / prioritizing on the feed. keep an eye for my ko-fi and thank you to ml mr.pati @herfudanshipati for beta-reading this chapter :333

choso in the carriage ride back

no more to say keep an eye on the updates. i missed you guys so much and am so excited to read the reblogs and comments and asks teeeheee

reblog and comment to lmk your thoughts!

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[swinginpastalamppsychic]

BEWARE OF GLIMMER!!!! ARTISTS AND FANFICTIONERS!!!!!

ITS AI!!!!!!!

You might think omg fun a choices based fanfic, the writer must have spent so much time on this! but NO IT IS GENERATIVE AI SLOP.

It requires a person to write a bit of story to get an idea then it just goes for it and generates a story around either the og “writer’s” prompts or the ones you make yourself. You can pick up on the inconsistencies right away. DO NOT FALL FOR IT!!!!!

It’s sickening to see. Ai is NOT fanfiction and it never will be!

I really wish there was a fanfic site out there that you could do this with akin to the games episode or choices but ,unfortunately, no luck as of now. And with generative ai on the rise we might never see the day we get a true, passionate, choose your own adventure fanfiction website. Unless it comes as a rebellious act against ai. (Which I am 100% down for)

The company behind glimmer claims to be ethical, they are NOT. If they truly believed in human creation and that ai could never replace the human writer, they would program a PROPER website that the user can program their own story on with preset choices MADE BY A PERSON WITH HOURS OF HARD WORK GOING INTO IT.

BEWARE OF GLIMMER.

It’s super sad to see how people on here on tumblr are actually posting their glimmer stories like it isn’t a crime against the artist.

[dearkeery]

reign me in | f. langdon

summary: Frank Langdon’s back in Pittsburgh ten months post-rehab, post-divorce, and post-moving into a one bedroom apartment with no wife, no kids, and more baggage. The pressure and anxiety coupled with his chronic back pain all happening on the eve of the fourth of July nearly causes him to relapse. A thing he knows could ultimately cost him his medical license and whatever semblance of a life he still had. Considering the magnitude of what he’s got to lose, he wills every strength he has left to resist the urge brought by his crippling addiction, one mocktail at a time.

alt. Frank distracts himself with a one-night stand aka the best sex of his life the night before he’s set to return to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, with no other than Michael Robinavitch’s sister.

pairing: divorced frank langdon x fem!doc / robinavitch!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI. sexual and suggestive themes, fluff, angst (if u squint ig), semi canon-compliant, frank langdon pov (reader pov is told via third person), YN referenced only once, divorced!mc, mentions of alcohol, addiction, drugs, rehab and relapse/drug-seeking behavior (to err on the side of caution), mentions of divorce, therapy, and NA meetings. reader is the same age-range as frank, maybe a year (or two) younger than him. to save yall from the mental gymnastics of technicalities and accuracy, i pictured reader is robby’s half sister from his father’s side, probably had her when he remarried after robby’s mother passed. so yay half!sibs <3

word count: 12.4k

note: oh well, down the langdon rabbit hole i go. the first fic i wrote for this blog and for the pitt! (teehee im excited) listen, i did the best research i can with respect to how addiction is being treated in the US, so pls pls pls bear with me. i made sure this was written without romanticizing langdon’s addiction or even addiction in general. i just want our malpractice prince to catch a break!

Sleep, his only companion for the last ten months, has eluded him. 

It was the eve of the fourth of July, the night before Frank Langdon is set to return to work. Yet here he was, wide awake and barely half a shell of the man he used to be when he left for rehab. 

He’d hoped to be fast asleep two hours ago, thinking he’d get at least eight hours to himself before he has to face the inevitable. But, just like how the events of the past ten months have unfolded, he should’ve known he’s likely lost even the most mundane of privileges life has to offer.

He laid on his bed nearly drowning in perspiration, completely devoid of sleep just because his back decided to be against it. He’d tried soothing circles on the middle of his back, tried home remedies his therapist had suggested, hell he’s trying to sleep the pain away for god’s sake. To no avail, lying on his back felt as if he was being lit on fire. 

Langdon stares at the ceiling for a good minute once he’s able to control his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He continues to do the mind numbing cycle of inhaling and exhaling just to keep himself out of the dangers of his mind. 

He does his usual calculation in his head. It had been ten months since he’s gotten help, since he’s gotten sober, since he’s gotten cleaned. Ten months of hard work since he was forced to get his shit together at the risk of losing the only thing he still had to hold on to: Emergency Medicine.

Benzodiazepines have already cost Langdon his life, his marriage and his wife. If he hadn’t gotten cleaned the minute he got into rehab, Langdon knows he’d likely have lost his children, too. 

Over the first two months being out of rehab, Langdon felt as if he’d been allowed to finally breathe. He was doing great—better than anyone had expected. Like pretty much everything else he’d accomplished, Langdon aced flushing the drugs out of his system. He’s certain he’d graduate top of the class had valedictorians been a thing at the rehabilitation center. 

Robby had told him he only needed thirty days. The same having been corroborated by Gloria and the Medical Board. Somehow, he still had an ounce of arrogance left coursing his veins that’s why he did six whole months. Six months of feeling like a prisoner surviving off of whatever bland food was scheduled for the day. Six months of practicing his 12 steps, studying every material than he ever did in med school. Six whole months of just being alone with himself, he thought he’d never get through it.  

Much to his surprise, (and Santos’ if only she’d known) Langdon had every love and support a recovering addict would need both in and out of that rehab facility. Family. Friends. He had little to no reason to be thinking what he’s thinking right now. 

When the surge of pain hits the lower oblique of his back, Langdon forces himself to picture Abby’s face telling him to come home despite being divorced. You don’t have to leave, Frank. That’s what she had told him when he decided to move out, luggages and a few boxes towed with him in his car. 

Considering his lack of a job at the time and his savings taking the brunt of not having a steady income, logic dictates for Langdon to stay and abuse more of the kindness of his ex-wife. After all, therapy and his remaining rehab commitments came at a pretty hefty price; his insurance would be laying paper thin flat if Gloria hadn’t let him return to work. Regardless, it’s safe to say Langdon has had enough of the word abuse. He knows full well not to subject Abby to any more of it. 

So, despite the ex-spouses signing their divorce papers away on amicable terms over a month after Langdon had returned home, he finally decided it was time for him to give Abby the space she ultimately deserved. 

The ache is like lightning jolting down his spine as soon as he sits up. 

“Jesus fucking christ.” 

He curses under his breath. Beads of sweat fashion his temple just as he feels the familiar sting in the corner of his eyes caused by his own bodily fluid. Now this would’ve been a good time to swallow some pills. 

Frank Langdon is in pain and alone in a low-lit bedroom with nothing but his darkest thoughts to accompany him. He needs to get his mind on something—anything that will keep him from wanting to seek what he knows he cannot have even if it means the pain he’s feeling goes away. 

Why? 

He also happens to know that that is simply not the truth. He has long accepted the fact that he’d turned to stealing drugs from his patients just to provide for the need Dr. Hagan had long denied him. Yes, doing the unimaginable could alleviate the pain for mere hours but it would also simultaneously make things much worse for Langdon than it already was. It won’t do him any good. He knows it.

He’s been ten months sober, ten months clean. Sure enough he could think of some harmless alternative. 

Once he’s gotten himself into some of the last decent clothing he still had before he has to do laundry, Langdon is out the door and into the cold Pittsburgh Friday night, walking with purpose. 

Purpose, that is, some speakeasy five blocks from his place. The very one he used to frequent before his abstinence to alcohol and quite literally all other things he could substitute his addiction with. So tonight, he’ll help himself to the liberalities he once enjoyed without having to fall through the cracks. After all, it’s the eve of Independence Day. He deserves to extend himself some grace without the added expense of actively choosing to lose his medical license and go to jail. 

“What can I do you for?” asked a bartender he wasn’t familiar with. It’s been a while since he set foot inside this place; it wouldn't be unusual to see a new face.  

Langdon catches the name on his nameplate by the time he sat down one of the barstools. Rob. 

Great. Just what he needed. 

He chooses the remote area of the bar, the one that’s least noticeable, where he feels he could be alone amidst the familiar noise of the select few who’s with him on this fateful Friday night.  

Across from him sat several bottles of what used to be Langdon’s roster for his drink of choice. Tequila back when he was in med school, malt whisky on nights Robby and Jack tagged along, and the ice cold beer that always went together with pills running down his throat. 

Oh, what he’d give to feel that burn again; the good kind of burn that makes him forget the one that’s actually making him suffer. He finds the need to caress his back momentarily just before he sits down. Still, Frank Langdon knew better. Stubbornly so. 

That’s why instead of naming alcohol brands that once took comfort swirling on his tongue, he says, “I’m in recovery. Do you have anything non-alcoholic?”

It doesn’t take a beat for Rob to nod in acknowledgement, seemingly trained exactly for this kind of situation. Perhaps, Langdon isn’t the first recovering addict who stumbled upon the very last place one should be ordering a non-alcoholic beverage. 

Rob gives him a thin list of options. Soda, juice, and Pittsburgh’s finest drink of choice—water. 

“I can make you a mocktail, if you’d like.” He suggests. 

“So long as it doesn’t have a single drop of alcohol in it, absolutely. Whatever’s easiest to make will do.” I just need to quench my thirst, he doesn’t say. 

Langdon doesn’t realize he’s staring at the ghost of where his wedding band used to rest in between his fingers by the time Rob had returned for his much awaited drink. 

“On the house. You look like you could use a break.” Rob tells him earnestly with a tight-lipped smile, and Langdon swears he almost wanted a hug. 

He isn’t used to this kind of treatment; being on the receiving end of everyone’s pity. God, he used to be the Frank Langdon, valedictorian of Yale MD class of 2021, heir apparent to his mentor as an Attending Physician at PTMC, and a stellar candidate for the ED Medical Education Fellowship. But no, the ugly truth is that he stopped being all those things long before Robby found out about the drugs, long before Abby got a whiff of his addiction. 

Because now? Now his identity—his entire being—is subsumed to nothing else but his addiction. It didn’t matter how good he was in med school, didn’t matter that he’d been a good husband and a father. It didn’t matter that he was a doctor and that he was fucking good at his job; at saving lives. That’s something that irked him for quite some time now. It was as if he’d gotten a giant tattoo on his forehead that associated him with benzodiazepines and addiction for the rest of his life. 

All the years it took him to build a name for himself were rendered moot and inconsequential just because he happened to have helped himself to a measly type of drug he could’ve easily gotten with a prescription in hand. 

Langdon doesn’t do anything about it because whose fault was it? He had no one to blame but himself. So maybe, had Rob known of the truth, he should’ve made Langdon pay because it’s sure as hell he doesn’t deserve that break. 

“I’ll have whatever he’s having.” 

That sentence seemed to have brought Langdon back to reality. 

Rob nods as he pays one look at Langdon whose interest had been piqued amidst his stoic disguise. He’s never one to be a trendsetter, that’s for sure. Who could’ve possibly wanted the same thing he did?

It doesn’t take a while for her drink to arrive. Virgin Mojito. Exactly like Langdon’s.

“I hope you don’t mind a copy cat.” She tells him, voice disinterested just like Langdon’s has been for the entire time he’d spent sitting by the bar. 

“Please, be my guest.” Langdon shakes his head in his sheer attempt at cordiality. “Just… don’t want any credit if you happen to hate it.”

“And if I don’t?” 

“Credit goes to Rob.”

She mouths a discernible “Ah.” and returns to her phone. 

He notices her scroll briefly just before she ends up typing for a beat. Maybe a long and well-thought message to a boyfriend? Or maybe to an ex-boyfriend still hung up on the breakup? Langdon speculates, finally having something remotely more fun to do than tend to his own wounds. Boyfriend? Why should that be the first thing to come to mind? He reprimands himself for being so dense. 

He sees her put the phone down the table with what seemed like a sigh of retreat. Langdon tears his eyes off her before he gets caught. He copes with the silence and seeks comfort in running his thumb on the rim of the glass. The mocktail was indeed a mockery of what Langdon actually had his eyes on. But to say the least, it was enough. He may have been playing make believe but it still did its job. 

“It can’t be that good.” She takes Langdon’s eyes away from nearly boring holes through the glass he was holding. It was only then that he’d realized what she meant. Skepticism coupled with the veil of sarcasm. 

Langdon’s gaze was piercing through the glass as if mere sight alone could turn water into wine. Great, now he wants to be Jesus Christ.

That gets a laugh out of him. The very first one he knows he didn’t make just to fill awkward silences that has always sneaked its way in the conversation whenever someone asks, Are you okay? How are you holding up? 

This was usually the time he’d come up with something smug to say. Something like don’t deny what you haven’t tried or something else entirely obnoxious and arrogant that carries with it the same effect of some other nice thing he could’ve said instead. He knows how to play his hand. That’s how he got Abby to marry him in the first place. 

Although now, he doesn’t think of any. He couldn’t even muster a smug smirk. Langdon was close to being beaten to a pulp by punches no man ever threw his way. Jesus, this is depressing. 

A grimace is discernible on her face by the time she takes her first sip. 

“Sorry.” Langdon finds the need to apologize. “Could’ve been better if it had a kick, no?” 

“I didn’t think it would be as virgin as a virgin could get.”  She remarks at the thought of being in a bar drinking a beverage that seemed to contain the least alcohol percentage in it. Worse, none at all.

“Hey, you were the copycat.” Langdon puts up his hands feigning defense, smiling genuinely for the first time in the last few hours of the third of July. 

“Right. No alcohol. Got it.” 

The quiet shared between two strangers at the bar goes in sync with the noise of tonight’s crowd, caging them in a bubble growing all the more pronounced as they get shunned away in the corner; the very one that only existed the minute they sat in their respective seats. 

Her phone buzzed, tearing her attention away from the man sitting several seats adjacent from hers. He sees her take one glance at the caller ID before letting it go to voicemail. She doesn’t want to talk to whoever’s been bothering her through that phone. At least that’s what it seemed. 

Despite her obvious woes, Langdon doesn’t pry. He’s always hated gossip even though he adored Princess and Perlah at work. He knows he’d be the talk of the town the second he enters the emergency doors. That was just one of the many things he didn’t look forward to about tomorrow. He returns his attention to his drink. Beads of condensation have long descended to the coaster as if to tell him that it’d been dying to be noticed; dying for him to drink.

He takes what was only his third sip of it.  

She pulls Langdon’s attention back to her when she asks, “Do you want some company?” 

It wasn’t that Langdon hadn’t thought about asking her if she wanted his company. He just happened to know better not to add another layer to his night. He was out because he wanted a pseudo-drug that could potentially trick his (still very aware) brain into thinking he’s getting the substance it thinks he needs.  

He should probably decline. 

I’m sorry. I’m just about to head out. Maybe next time. 

I’m sorry. I’m going through a divorce, I don’t think that would be a good idea. 

I’m sorry. I’m married. I have a wife, my kids are at home, and I still have a very stable job I need to get to first thing in the morning. 

With the many things weighing over his head, it couldn’t possibly be the best thing to allow this stranger to pick up more than his unusual drink of choice. 

Tonight was about liberalities; grace. Take it with both hands, Frank. 

Langdon exhales. 

“Sure.” 

He nods his head, motioning for her to transfer to the seat next to him. He sees her wide smile beaming from ear to ear the minute he concedes. 

The two of them share a shy chuckle the second she takes the seat, placing her drink right next to Langdon’s that was barely half empty. 

She extends her hand for a cordial hand shake, all smiles as she tells Langdon her name. 

Huh. Pretty. It suits her. He thinks to himself, shying away from noticing she didn’t just have a pretty name but that she’s beautiful up close, too. 

Stop. 

It doesn’t take a beat for him to accept, hands enveloping one another’s as if it wasn’t the first time. He tells her his name in turn, “Frank.”

“It really isn’t that bad, Frank.” She comments, taking the glass close to her mouth for another sip. She cringes as the sweet liquid overpowers her tastebuds, but nonetheless lies through gritted teeth, “See?” 

Frank absent mindedly mirrors her as he takes a sip off his own glass, soda and lime tasting better than it did last.

“You’re a bad liar. Has anyone ever told you that?” 

She counters with a hung smirk, “Oh, my brother would beg to disagree.” 

“Really? How many?” He finds the need to inquire. 

“Just the one.” She gives him an answer with nary a second guess. “Wouldn’t want another, to be honest. He’s already quite the handful.” 

That prompts the image of his daughter, Penny, saying the same thing about Tanner to come to Langdon’s mind. Once the same settles, he’s sure to feel that familiar warmth graze his chest for a short while. 

She glances at him as she stirs her drink. “What about you? Got any siblings? Or is your being an only child the reason you’re all alone on the eve of the fourth of July?” 

“Got a sister, just the one.” He borrows her words and that causes her to roll her eyes. 

“She a bad liar too?” She inquires. 

“No, she lies for a living.” He tells her, shining light on the fact that the better Langdon was kicking ass somewhere on the West Coast practicing California law. 

“Oh, she’s a lawyer then?” 

He nods approvingly, “You catch on quick, I like that.” 

Somewhere around mocktail no. 3, Langdon had completely forgotten about the pain in his back. What started as an excruciating pain that nearly caused him to reach for the next best thing he could substitute for a drug, mellowed to the kind that’s bearable for someone who’s been sober for ten months. 

Somewhere around mocktail no. 3, the drink Rob makes became more palatable. It wasn’t as sweet as the virgin mojito nor as bland as the virgin cuba libre that followed. This third drink just happened to taste better and it definitely made Langdon forget he still had to go home. 

Somewhere around mocktail no. 3 and the stories shared between strangers who’ve become a little less foreign to one another, Langdon realizes that perhaps it was a good idea he’d also been divorced. 

Over the course of three drinks Langdon had learned more about her. Her family, how she’s the youngest but her older brother has always regarded her to have the most wisdom in the family. She was born and raised in Pittsburgh but hasn’t been in the city in so long until she had to come back for some reason Langdon didn’t want to pry on. She doesn’t talk about it anyway, stopping mid-sentence when her monologue became a bit more personal for a stranger’s ear. She doesn’t tell him what she does for a living, so he doesn’t ask. He made it a point to never ask, completely content with learning whatever she allows. 

Langdon does make it known that he was divorced—that he was a father of two and once had a wife. He wasn’t planning to, originally, but somehow the truth just came out of him. “I’d just gotten divorced.” He’d told her, just as he follows up with the fact that, “I’m also a recovering drug-addict.”

His words should’ve landed on the table like a death sentence. Langdon had expected it to be so. He’d expected the kind of silence he’s gotten used to receiving for each time he reveals he’s someone ill, someone who needed help, someone whose mind was too weak he had to lean on fucking pills just to function in society. He expected her to leave, maybe thank him for her new-found aversion to virgin mojito just before she slid away her seat and headed for the door; gone and out of Langdon’s sight in under a minute. 

Only it’s 10:00 PM, and she’s still here. 

He couldn’t believe it. 

“You sure you want to stick around?”

He sees her raise a brow, “What made you ask that?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe the company of a known-addict has suddenly made things uncomfortable—a bit much for Friday night.” 

“Recovering addict.” She corrects him. She pushes past what he’d just told her, making it known whatever insecurities he’s holding out on his sleeves weren’t something out of the ordinary. 

“Would you take offense if I told you I kinda got the feeling you were in recovery the second I took my first sip?” 

Langdon doesn’t. “No, I’m pretty text-book. The signs would’ve been obvious after one drink, let alone three.”

She nods, acknowledging the notion but not necessarily agreeing with it. 

“Can I ask you something personal?” 

Langdon takes a sip, “Shoot.”

“If you’re in recovery, wouldn’t this be the last place you’d want to be in?” 

He doesn’t deny that, so he answers with a shrug. 

“I was having a hard time alone, at home. This was the next best thing.” 

“What? Alcohol?” 

He shakes his head profusely. 

“God, no. I did think of it for a hot minute, but I always knew I shouldn’t—wouldn't. Just needed to be somewhere familiar. Guess I wanted to see if something did change after six months of rehab.” He sighs, “I figured if I don’t, despite being in a place you’re allowed to, then maybe I changed.”

Her gaze softens, but Langdon misses it.

“That’s a big test to give yourself, don’t you think?” 

He scoffs a laugh. 

“Yeah, I guess. Could use a challenge once in a while.”

If only Langdon had told her about med school and the Pitt, maybe she’d understand where this side of him was coming from. He’s always been a competitive man. Competitive to a fault that he finds joy in beating his own records just to see if he was really worth the sweat.

She checks in on him, “You sure you’re okay with us being here?”

Absent-mindedly, devoid of any reason as to why, Langdon nudges his glass away from him. 

He gives her a tight-lipped smile. 

It’s late, he should probably head home. 

“I could use a little walk.” 

It doesn’t take long for Langdon to take care of the bill. After all, he’s been meaning to thank Rob for his generosity and for making the exact same drink he asked him for the lady who’s now walking out of the bar alongside him. 

“Where’d you want to go?” She asks once they’re out the door. 

Langdon thinks for a moment. He still doesn’t want to go home. So instead, he asks, “Where are you parked?” mindful of her convenience above all else, because unlike him, Langdon kind of got the feeling she was ready to end the night here. 

He misses that bit though. She wasn’t. 

He sees her nose scrunch just before she shyly admits, “By the street in front of my apartment.”

Langdon had to bite the insides of his cheek to refrain himself from smiling. He knows it was bad. He hasn’t smiled this much in over ten months post-rehab. 

She turns the tables, “You?” 

“I walked.” He reveals, pointing south. “I’m that way. My place is about five blocks from here.”

With relief beaming from her face, she grins. 

“Good. I’m that way too.”

“Really?” 

“Really.” She discloses, “You know PTMC?” 

Langdon was sure his heart almost fell out of his chest. 

He wishes she hadn’t picked up on the sudden change in his demeanor, so he masks it with a nod. It’d be too bizarre for him to deny such an obvious landmark. Besides, the Pitt was the sole reason why he chose to live at his complex in the first place. He just hopes she didn’t live that close to the north side of the city for them to cross paths at a time he’s wearing his scrubs.

They begin walking towards home. At least, that’s what they’re headed insofar as Langdon’s version of things were concerned. 

Their conversations come in bursts, faltering into a comfortable quietude just so anecdotes and trivias could shock it back to life; to one that’s warm—familiar. Langdon doesn’t find the need to keep up because she matches his pace for some reason. He tries not to make any jokes, at least the ones that used to make him sound like an asshole, but she laughs still even when he wasn’t trying. 

When another wave of silence settles in between them, she breaks it with something with a little more weight. 

“Truth is, I was more surprised to learn about your divorce. I wouldn’t have pegged you to be a divorcé.” She comments, “No offense.” 

“At 34? None taken,” Langdon breathes out a chuckle as he thinks of the fact that his marriage with Abby spiked American divorce rates to a whole other percent. Maybe he should’ve taken offense, but hey, some couples call it quits one week into marriage. At the very least, he’s thankful he got to have two wonderful kids out of his. 

He briefly paused as if to make a silent decision. Should he let her in? Or should he keep up with this facade he couldn’t understand how it came into being? He is being truthful. But why doesn’t it feel like it? 

Once his mouth falls agape to continue, he opens the metaphorical doors wide, hoping she’d walk in. 

“I thought the divorce would break me—that it’d be the one that sends me to the other side.” 

She does. 

“It wasn’t?”

What did? Langdon hopes she’d never ask otherwise he would have a hard time explaining that part of the story. He didn’t think he’d have it in him to tell her the awful truth. That he wasn’t just a drug-addict. He was a doctor that stole drugs from the people he was supposed to cure. That’s just glossing over the fact that he’d committed a fucking felony at the risk of losing innocent lives. That alone made him sick to his stomach, his old-buddy Benzos wouldn’t even compensate for the gut wrenching pain he’s feeling. 

Fuck, maybe he isn’t being truthful. 

When silence is the only thing that follows, Langdon sees the green light. 

He shakes his head, just as he spills some truth he was ready to confess.

“The divorce was the best thing I gave Abby.” Apart from the kids. But he likes to give his ex-wife the sole credit for that.

She hums, signalling for him to continue. 

“I tried to keep the drugs under control. I always took ‘em in my car, never at home. Not when she’s around, especially not around the kids. But the amazing and clever woman that she is, she picked up on the new habits and routine I apparently exhibited three months into my addiction. She didn’t say anything at first, said she wanted me to come clean on my terms, but I never did.” He pauses, reflecting on the past. “A lot of women would’ve taken the kids and left, but Abby stayed. She never missed a day visiting me at rehab. Letting me know all is well with the kids and at home. She never let me go in blind as opposed to how I did her over the last years of our marriage.” 

“You’ve mentioned she didn’t say anything at first?” 

She’s listening intently. 

Langdon confirms, “Yeah, at first. I was actually the one who figured out she knew. The day I went home to start my sabbatical I found a stash of rehab pamphlets in Pennsylvania. She even had a few from California, tucked deep in her closet. I figured she told my sister, I don’t know. I still don’t have the courage to ask either of them. Seeing the pamphlets didn’t just strike a nerve. It broke something in me I still couldn’t place—still couldn’t name,” He sighs upon recollection, “I realized I got the better end of the deal with our marriage. She, on the other hand, got all the worse of it. Once I saw my addiction consumed her in ways I never thought it would, it hit me; finally knocked some sense into me. The gun to our five-year marriage has been loaded for quite a while even before everything took a turn for the worse. I knew she wouldn’t have the heart to pull the trigger, that’s why I did. I was a dead weight she’s stubbornly held on to for as long as she could. I may have abused pills, but I will never abuse her.”

It was only after she’d let the silence sit longer for more than a beat that Langdon had realized he must’ve shared too much. He doesn’t say another word after that in spite of him wanting to defend himself. 

I promise I’m not all that bad. He wanted to tell her, but he knew he’d be lying. Perhaps, it’s better this way. It’d be better to scare her off—for Langdon to deal all his cards for her to decide if she wants to call his bluff. 

They walk a few more steps in silence, their pace falling in sync with one another’s. That’s when Langdon decides to reroute, turning away from home to buy himself more time. 

Liberalities and grace. 

He’s reaching for it with one hand. 

Finally, she speaks. 

“Is it weird that I feel proud of you?” 

That stops Langdon in his tracks. 

“What?” His voice comes out incredulous, that perhaps she was the one who’s actually lost her mind. 

“I just think you rob yourself of the credit you deserve.” She follows, shrugging as she adds, “I’ve been around people who didn’t deal with their stuff. People who pretended it wasn’t there. Believe me, it’s worse than your mocktails.” 

Langdon finds himself nodding slowly. Unsure if she meant to say it, thinking it must’ve come from a personal place—a slip of the tongue she didn’t realize she’d made.

“I hope you’re not reading into my reactions too much.”

“Am I that obvious?” He breathes out a cautious laugh. 

She hums in agreement. 

“You look like the gears in your head are spinning like crazy and you’re having a hard time keeping up with it.”

He’d been caught. 

“Alright then,” He prefaces, “What do you think of me now?” 

“Jury’s still out.” She shrugs with a grin, but tells him nothing but the truth. “Although, I do know it’s nothing short of the good impression you’ve made three mocktails ago.”

Langdon doesn’t say that he’s thankful. This reaction to him feels new despite it being so normal—so humane. He’d gotten used to looks of sympathy that more often than not seemed empty, like it was just a knee-jerk response people tend to make when they actually feel uncomfortable having to hear about the fact that he was struggling. 

Nevertheless, he does nod; acknowledging the sentiment. 

He candidly said, “You didn’t have to do that, by the way.” 

“What? Drink mocktails?” She’s fast to catch what he meant. 

Langdon hums, “Thank you, though. Appreciate it.” 

“I didn’t drink mocktails because of you—well yes, a little you, but it’s more than that, just so you know.” She tells him, letting Langdon breathe. He felt guilty thinking she stuck herself managing a recovering drug-addict when she could’ve had the fun she wanted for the night. 

“I was never a big drinker anyway. On occasion, yes.” She admits, “But between you and tonight, I didn’t think liquor would be a good idea.” 

Me? What about me and tonight? 

“If that’s the case, why were you at the bar?” 

“Unlike you brave soldier, I went there to distract myself.” She begins, “I… kinda have a big day tomorrow. Not that big anyway, but it’s significant.” She gestured with her hands as she talked as if to not make a big deal out of it, tucking more of her personal stuff beyond Langdon’s reach. 

Needless to say, he still makes a point to ask, “Life-altering kind of significant?” 

“Maybe? Honestly, I don’t know. I’m gonna find out tomorrow,” She shrugs, “Also… I was already contemplating getting out the door the minute I sat by the bar, then, I saw you looking like me—not necessarily lost, but stuck in a place you didn’t really want to be in.  That’s why I decided to stay.”

Oh. 

Langdon didn’t know what to say after that. 

Liberalities, grace, and his back pain. Those were the things that made Langdon step out of his apartment when he knew he should’ve been in bed resting for what awaits him tomorrow. He’d been hoping to find something—anything he could put his mind to so long as it meant not having to hold more of its weight. 

The pain, the guilt, the misery. Langdon has never had the time to be here in the now, because back then, the drugs were just in his car. He knew he could be elsewhere just after a few pills. The pain, the guilt, the misery. All of it, all of him—just gone. 

So, how is he supposed to deal with finding someone?

He remembers the first of his many tri-weekly NA meetings, courtesy of Robby’s “Second Chance.” Dating and Relationships in Recovery. That was the topic of discussion at the time. Someone, (whose name he’s had trouble remembering) had shared their experience in dating not too long after rehab. It’s not prohibited, but I can tell you from experience that it’s not a good idea. 

At the time, Langdon was still admittedly 20% in denial of having—needing to go to such meetings that he didn’t bother to ask why. He knows why. He’s a medically-trained professional, for pete’s sake. The obvious cross-addiction tagline dating and sex post-rehab no longer needed to be captioned for him to get what that meant. Still, he didn’t think much of it because he knew he wouldn’t have to. With his marriage being over, getting involved with someone new wasn’t even on the table, so much so that it barely made it there. 

Until now. 

He’d been sober for ten months, two months short of the minimum period recommended before recovering drug addicts could be romantically involved. He knew of the risks he’d inadvertently taken the second he got out of his apartment. If he’s about to deal with its consequences, then so be it. 

Does that mean he has to drag her down along with him?

He wouldn’t. Langdon has got to get a hold of himself. 

Pull away, Frank. 

The noise polluting his head makes him want to walk aimlessly, anchoring his feet to the ground as the pain of walking begins to graze through the soles of his shoes, boring into his skin and into the most vulnerable part of his body. 

His silence has become deafening that it took him to make four more turns before he realized a focal point in this exceptional eve of their nation’s birthday. 

You’re a bad liar. Has anyone ever told you that?

Langdon hadn’t met her brother, but perhaps he should’ve taken his (almost) word for it. He’d have to thank him some time, he knows it. 

My brother would beg to disagree. 

The image of her hung smirk was vivid in Langdon’s mind when she said it.  Hell, it was clearer than the Pittsburgh night sky, even he wouldn’t deny. The amount of walking he just did was at least twice as much as he'd made on his way to the bar, his back would’ve been killing him by now, but it’s not. (He thinks that it’s not.) 

That was all it took for him to finally catch on to what actually might be happening all throughout the stretch of their five-block walk. Talk about being counterproductive all you want, but he’d actually choose another detour than walk up his apartment alone. 

Shut it down. Put a stop to this. 

Pull away. Pull away. 

“You sure we’re close? I feel like we’ve been going in circles.” He inquires, feigning ignorance despite the fact that he’s made this turn thrice without her noticing. 

“Yeah, I’m this way.” She answers quite confidently, perhaps way too easy, just as she leads the way turning on a street Langdon knew like the back of his hand. His street. 

He sees the stop sign that was repaired just last week, the convenience store out on the corner he frequented for when he buys the kids snacks and candies for weekend visits. Langdon briefly checks his phone just to see if he’d missed anything since he did last. Bedtime reminder. It had been an hour since they left the bar. 

There’s a subtle frown building in between his brows, so he lets her walk a step ahead of him, just to see where her feet will take the both of them. His curiosity grows and grows with every step she makes, this time leading—no longer being guided by Langdon for the past hundred blocks. 

How long could she keep this up? 

When such steps do lead him to his apartment building, Langdon stops in his tracks, causing her to look over her shoulders, realizing that he was falling behind. 

“What?” With brows quirked and suspicious eyes, she inspects. “The night isn’t getting any younger, Frank.” 

Langdon looks up to his window, black-out curtains drawn just like how he left it. His movement causes her to do the same. 

He spills it, “This is me,” cocking his head towards the sliding doors of his apartment building. 

The intonation in his voice must’ve sent her the message Langdon had unknowingly given. 

“You said you were ‘round here?” He asks, not that there was still a point in prolonging this prelude. 

She’s been caught. 

She doesn’t back down. She wasn’t used to being caught in a lie. 

With a straight face, she answers in the affirmative. 

“Yes.” 

Lie.

Langdon comments, “You’re not as good a liar as you think you are.” 

The heel of her boot scrapes on the cold pavement as she takes a few steps towards Frank. The night is silent and they’re the only people standing on the sidewalk lit by a row of street lights. He still doesn’t realize, given that this wasn’t how he’d pictured spending his last night on pseudo-sabbatical, but Friday night had just taken a huge turn in his favor. 

“Fine,” She sighs, surrendering. “You got me.”

A grin tears at the corner of his lips once she retreats. 

Oh, this is wrong. 

“You could’ve just told me.” 

“Tell you what exactly?” 

Langdon shrugs, “That you didn’t want to leave the bar yet.” 

“Oh, I was ready to leave after the virgin cuba libre.” She says candidly, taking yet another step to close the gap in between them, “I just wasn’t ready to go home. Didn’t really want to.”

“Hence, the detour.” He meant to ask but the statement lands with finality, like it was definite.

“Uh-huh.” She nods, “Exactly.” 

Langdon makes the mistake of gazing upon her once she’s up close that he had to rest his hands on his hips to steady himself, placing them there as the circumstance suddenly became too real. 

He couldn’t fathom where to begin. His mind has already come up with the worst scenarios. Plural, yes. The closer he gets to the door of his apartment, the more reckless he thinks he’s being. If there was one thing ten months alone with himself has taught him, it’s the cruel truth that anything that’s got to do with him could easily mean a lot worse than what meets the eye. This night was no exception to that. 

For a second there, he struggles to find his words. 

So he reiterates, “You still could’ve told me.”

“If I did, would you have said yes?” 

Now that’s a tricky one. 

He answers with the truth, driving her point home. 

“Probably not.”

Langdon sees her mind slip through her expression as if to tell on her. It seemed as though what he’d just said was the exact response she’d been expecting. 

“I knew you wouldn't.” She said with confidence.

What does she want from him anyway? Could it be the same thing Langdon is refusing to acknowledge he’s thinking? If it was, Langdon isn’t quite sure he’s prepared to hear it. 

“I’m not sure what’s happening here.” Langdon confesses just as he lets out a sigh, “Even if I was, I don’t think I should be doing anything about it.” 

It’s true. He definitely shouldn’t. 

“I’m enjoying your company, Frank. That doesn’t require you to do anything.” She calmly states, tutting as she adds, “But hey, if you’d rather I left—” 

Langdon cuts her mid-sentence, answering a little too fast.

“No, please. I’m having a good time, too. With you.”

Uh-oh. 

He has to pull away. Still. 

She calls him out, “You’re overthinking this.”

“I…” He remains conflicted. “I don’t want to make a mistake. I feel like I’m not allowed—”

“To what? Be a normal person that needs other people and social interaction?” 

She has a point. 

Langdon avoids it. 

“That doesn’t matter. You know what I am.”

He earns a scoff from her just as she steps back. 

“A what? Drug-addict?” She says it as if she was the one supposed to take offense by what had been implied. “You are in recovery, Frank. Why do you say it like you’re some social pariah who deserves to be shunned away? To be allowed what?—nothing else besides therapy and rehab?” 

Langdon understands where she’s coming from, but he’s still finding it hard to believe he could be allowed the liberality of choosing. 

So, instead he says, “I’m just being careful.”

She nods in acknowledgement, but nonetheless reminds him, “You are more than your illness, Frank. You are more than your addiction.” She takes a step closer. “Life happens because you are it. Don’t make your addiction dictate how you’re supposed to live. Don’t treat it like it’s punishment for something that’s beyond your control.”

He disagrees with her, because it is a punishment. 

“I can control it.” Just like I controlled the substance I’d taken, the patients I’d stolen it from, the time, the place, and the drink I’d have it with. 

She doesn’t know how deep this pain goes for Langdon. He doesn’t want her to. Not when it’s beginning to make him believe he could really be allowed something more. 

“That’s because you choose to do better. And you’ve continued to do so for ten months.” She unknowingly pulls him out of the pit—his own pit. “You are responsible for your own sobriety. Yes, the support system should be accounted for, but all of your progress still happened because you made it so. You’ve got to allow yourself to live, Frank.” 

Langdon pauses and chooses to reflect. Was she right all along?

He’d been told by his therapist that it’s better to sit with the pain than seek some alternative to escape it. And tonight has been about him escaping. The decision of him leaving his apartment caused everything that followed to transpire. He could’ve chosen to sleep the pain away or busied himself with some other kind of remedy. But no, ten months post-rehab and here he was, thinking he’d gotten a lot better at sitting with his pain when he’s just been avoiding it one method at a time. 

He couldn’t think of a word to utter. The guilt has caught up with him. The very kind that creeps into his mind mere seconds before he downs a few pills of Benzodiazepines. Could it be true? Could she just be another method used to substitute the pain he so badly wants to escape? 

Langdon hopes he’s wrong. 

So, he begins to catalogue the entire night in his head. 

Backpain. Mocktails. Her. 

Has he been in pain the entire time he was with her? To an extent, yes. The pain was there, but it’s become bearable with her around. Is that a bad thing? Had Langdon been alone the entire night, would he be able to sit with such pain? Would he be able to ride it out like he’s used to? 

The relief he’d felt the second she sat beside him should’ve been enough for him to have gone home. Instead, he chose to bask in it—lean more of his weight towards it. Not to keep him distracted, but to be in the moment—to stay connected. With her or with himself? 

The walk shouldn’t have been much help either. Walking should’ve made his pain go all the way to the nines; up to the point where he could no longer stand. Instead, he chose to reroute four more times just to be with her longer than he needed to—longer for him to realize she was doing the same thing too. 

Frank, are you still in pain? 

God, this was not a good time to hate himself for dissociating at that NA meeting. He could’ve learned a thing or two on Dating and Sex in Recovery. Maybe then, he wouldn’t feel like shit for being so incapable of choosing. 

When it takes another beat for Langdon to speak his mind, she lets him in on hers. 

“I wanted to spend more time with you, Frank. I didn’t want to go home.” She declares, “Isn’t that beyond your control?”

Now she’s actively choosing this. 

She’s choosing Frank. 

Pull me in.

“How…” Langdon tries to piece out a coherent thought, “Why do you have so much faith in me?” 

She shrugs, “I just do.” 

He finds it incredible. 

“But we barely know each other.” 

“I’m trying not to give up on people as fast as I used to.” She tells him with candor, perhaps had she been more honest, she’d tell Frank why she’s back in Pittsburgh too.

“You do that a lot with strangers?” 

“Not really,” she refutes, “you’re an outlier.” 

Oh, Langdon wants to think he got lucky. 

“You can tell me what’s on your mind.” She isn’t asking nor is she commanding him to. She’s merely offering a hand to help him hold some of the weight of his indecision.  

“I don’t want to start this the wrong way.“ 

He finally says it. 

“And the wrong way being?” 

“Using tonight as an escape—for me not to feel.” He worries. “I don’t want this to be just another distraction.”

She nods, finding the notion fair and called for. 

“Do you think I’ve only been a distraction?” 

“I hope not.” He answers despite the obvious uncertainty. 

“Do you think I will be?” 

“I’m not sure.” Langdon clarifies, “But I’m ill. No longer on edge, but still ill. Who’s to say I won’t treat this as an alternative?”

He said it again. This. 

She knows he meant her.

This time, he sees her pull back. She’s weighing things now. The liability—the gravity of the situation involving the stranger she just met several hours ago. 

Langdon is prepared for her to want to leave. He’d been prepared long before they left the bar. In fact, a part of him wants her to leave; to keep her safe—away from all of this. That way he wouldn’t have to deal with the feeling as though he was in two places at once. Torn between self-reliance and self-control; incapacitated by his mind while it simultaneously keeps him afloat. 

Maybe I should go. Langdon knows it’s what she’s about to say next. 

He couldn’t be more wrong.

“Has there been a time tonight where you weren’t being truthful?” 

“No… no, of course not.” Langdon answers immediately, despite keeping the uglier ones beneath the surface. “I’ve only ever told you the truth about myself.”

Well, some of it.

He catches himself. He remembers the day Robby caught the drugs stashed in his locker. Robby had asked him if he’d been helping himself to some meds from the ED. He neither answered with a definitive yes nor a resounding no. He deflected as soon as he’d been caught red handed, choosing his flight response because he wasn’t in his own head. 

Now, he’s confronted by a question with the same tenor and he chooses to answer with the truth, regardless of how little. He hasn’t been this present in years. He no longer recognizes this pattern.

She doesn’t say a thing but nods, as if to make do with whatever Frank allows. 

“Alright,” She gives him a tight-lipped smile, “Why don’t I make you a deal?”

Langdon hums, letting her continue. 

“Anything that happens from here on out, you’ll be in control.”

“What?” Langdon thinks he misheard her. Anything. Is she being serious?

“Well, except for first degree felonies, of course. I’d want some hand on that.”

He calls her name. Unlike her, he’s being serious about this.

She exhales, easing on the jokes. “What I’m saying is, if you want me to leave, I’ll leave. If you let me stay, I’ll stay. I’ll do whichever way you’re comfortable with.”

“I’m not really comfortable making your decisions for you.” Langdon remains cautious. 

“Let’s just say, this is me allowing you to choose, Frank.” 

The way she says his name causes his guts to turn quite unexplainably, Langdon had to contain his own breathing. 

“What’s it gonna be?” 

A beat passes before he lands on an answer. 

“It’s getting late.” He says, seeing her shoulders drop instantly, just as he says, “We should probably head inside.”

Liberalities and grace. 

Langdon is beginning to think he’s allowed the same.

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Quiet settles the moment Langdon closes the door to his apartment. 

It wasn’t much, given the fact that it had only been three months since he moved in. He knew that. But seeing her take in the four corners of the world he so badly wanted to escape hours ago, makes him realize how bare it actually must have looked for someone—well, someone other than him, to say the least. 

There were no longer boxes lying around because he’d gotten through it all in just a month. He didn’t really have a lot to unpack. The things he brought with him were just the few things he could really call his own. Things that were neither Abby’s nor the children’s. He left home with only the stuff he still had from med school, boxes from his childhood that his ex-wife somehow saved from their annual christmas donations, and of course, a few Penguins and Steelers merch he knows Abby would get rid of the second he gets out the door. 

Langdon didn’t have much to himself other than a few plates, cutlery, and a bed he can call his own. The apartment may not have felt exactly like how his previous home did back when he had Abby to do all the decorating, but it was a start. A reminder that he had structure in his little life. Somehow.

“Drink? I have—” He cut himself mid-sentence as the realization hit him. He doesn’t have anything much to offer her as well so he settles with the next best thing. “—water.”

“Water works.” A tight-lipped smile grows thin across her lips; polite and unassuming. 

He wishes she didn’t expect him to have anything else other than what he’s allowed. After all, she was in a recovering addict’s home. It wouldn’t bode well for Langdon to have her see a beverage far remote than the one that’s been distilled and filtered. 

Langdon headed towards the kitchen, hyperaware of the fact that he wasn’t alone in his apartment. It took all his might to restrain himself from looking over his shoulder just to see what she’s up to. Observing, nosing around, or just standing still. Maybe she sneaked out and left, changed her mind at the last minute. Which, arguably, also works in Langdon’s favor now that he thinks about it. 

Only she’s still there when he does look back. 

He buys himself more time to think things through. What’s to happen now that they’re much more alone than they were a few hours ago? 

He wonders if she’s doubting everything that's been said out on the street. He wonders if it was still a good idea to get on with it. He hasn’t really been with anyone since the divorce. It just wasn’t something he had his mind on. But alas, fate has an odd way of taking a spin at things. And he knows he tempted it the minute he headed out the door for the first time on the eve of Independence day. 

The time it took to fill up the glass didn’t help Langdon to land on a sensible conclusion. The only thing he knows now is that she’s still standing exactly where he left her last. 

“Why don’t you take a seat?” He motions for her to follow. 

Before she does, she points onto one of the few picture frames he had on display by the accent table. “Your family?” 

It was a family photo taken on the Holiday of 2024 at the new house his parents bought for their retirement. Tanner was three and Penny had only turned a year old. Abby had just gotten promoted which came in handy for Langdon who was only in his third year of residency, still paying off student loans, tightening his belt up to the point of hurting himself. Let’s just say we know what happened after that. 

He hums, affirming the question with nary a word. 

He hands her the glass, which she takes with both hands. One hand just below Frank’s while the other brush atop his finger the moment she takes said glass away from his grasp. 

Langdon feels a familiar pull in his guts. It was only then that he realized it was the first time that they’d actually touched. It’s different from how he felt when their hands were just hovering around the air sitting in between them on their walk. 

He remembers feeling this way the first time he liked a girl back in middle school, when he felt it on his third date with Abby, and when she told him she was pregnant with their first child, Tanner. He tries to make sense of the feeling, folding metaphorical dog-ears in his mind to make sure he’s not searching for some kind of high he’d end up chasing. 

“Thanks.” She takes a sip the second she has it, not because she was that thirsty but because she just had to find something else to do other than stand so foreign in Frank’s home. 

Finally, she took a seat on his couch, while he backed into the kitchen counter. For a minute, Langdon just stood there, several feet away from her, waiting—wracking his brain of what’s supposed to come next. 

“You’re doing it again.” She blurts out. 

Langdon straightens his back. 

“Doing what?” 

“Thinking too much.” 

“Sorry.” He shyly apologized, “Can’t help it.” 

A beat passes before she speaks again. 

“I meant what I said earlier, I hope you know.” 

Langdon tilts his head, urging her to continue. 

“That you’re allowed to choose, and that you’re in control of tonight.”

The statement just floats and doesn’t land definitively. It was more of an invitation than a command. A hand reaching out rather than one pulling with control. This time, for Frank, it did feel like he had a choice. 

“Remember what I told you as to why I went to the bar?” 

She hums. 

“You said you were having a hard time.” 

The quiet is steady, different from the silence he’s used to when he knows he’s doing things for the sole purpose of taking. It wasn’t the kind of silence that sits with him seconds before he takes his pills. But, nevertheless this quiet was familiar. It wasn’t entirely new in the sense that Langdon felt as though he was rediscovering it. He’d recognized the stillness because it was the quiet that enveloped his brain minutes before his final Pathology exam. It was the quiet that rested within him as he watched Abby walk down the aisle. The kind of quiet that allows him to sit with himself. To feel. To be with his mind. Reminding him that there was once a time when quiet felt like this—before chaos and noise were the only things his mind could crave.

Langdon folds his arms to his chest, feeling more vulnerable than he’s ever been the entire night. 

“I don’t want you to be the next best thing.”

You. Her shoulders tense up as she heard it. It was brief and subtle, but just enough for Langdon to catch it. 

“I’m not going to be the next best thing.” 

She doesn’t say it as though it was some kind of assurance, like it was an attempt for her to convince him. She said it with clarity as if it wasn’t just a statement but a fact. Not a substitute, but just Frank’s reality. 

Langdon has to make a decision. Everything he’d told her should’ve already caused her to leave. But after three mocktails and what seemed like the longest walk he’d made in his life, she’s still here. 

She reaches out. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind.” 

He sighs, surrendering. 

“I’m thinking… how it’d be like to kiss you.”

Everything moved at a pace much slower than the kind he was accustomed to. He’d been so used to jumping from one end to another. Always moving, always away. But now, as she stood an inch before him, Langdon felt like staying. 

Her touch feels electric as her hand brushes against his skin. 

“You’re allowed to have me, Frank.” She affirms beyond a shadow of a doubt. “Whatever you decide, I’m here.”

Frank nods, with his eyes shut. She doesn’t say another word, merely content with using the warmth of her body to help ground him, stabilize him. This feeling isn’t new to Langdon, but it has been a while since he’d allowed himself to be within such a short (and almost inexistent) distance of something more than just what requires his survival. 

With a dragged tone in his voice, he speaks at a lower register. 

“I’m going to kiss you.”

A subtle grin spreads along her lips, but Langdon finds it inadequate. 

“I need to hear you say yes.” He declares, just as the heat of his breath lingers in the thin space parting their lips from one another’s. 

She takes a moment to say yes, pulling Frank closer by his forearms; the movement neither fueled by urgency nor rush. 

“You may kiss me.”

Langdon feared he’d be overwhelmed by the time he kissed her. He was afraid of encountering the chase; the moment that usually takes him out of himself. Had it been that way by the time his lips met hers, Frank knew it’d only be a matter of time for him to make her the next best thing. 

But, when he did kiss her, it was nothing like he expected. 

Her lips were soft and tasted like flavored-chapstick. He liked how her shoulders tensed up by the time his lips touched hers despite her awareness of what’s about to happen. It’s quite flattering for Frank to know he had that effect on her, no matter how little. 

The kiss didn’t feel rushed, nor did it feel inauthentic. Frank’s feet seemed anchored to the ground not by some force he couldn’t place because it was greater than his being. No, it wasn’t like that at all. He didn’t feel himself soar off his apartment floor, not even by an inch. 

All that he knew was that he’s anchored to the ground, here with her, because he simply chooses to be. No escaping, just complete and absolute surrender to what awaits him.

Once he pulls away, he checks in on her. 

“You okay?”

She nods fervently, as she gasps for air, forgetting that Langdon preferred expressed rather than implied consent. 

“Never better.” She bites her lip to stop herself from smiling like an idiot. “You?”

“Okay, too.” 

For the first time, Langdon didn’t want to feel better. For the first time, he was okay at being completely content with the normalcy of living life the way he’s supposed to. This time, he isn’t just aware—he knows he wasn’t aiming for better. For him, it was enough to be able to stand in this moment and meet her exactly where she was. 

Langdon leans in again, this time pulling her closer as humanly possible that the only thing parting them from one another were the fabric of their own clothes. 

By the time their tangling feet manage to get them on the bed, Langdon was sure he could kiss her all night even if that’s the only thing she’d allow him. He finds himself planting kisses on the side of her lips, down to her jaw, just as he tends to the skin exposed between her neck and clavicle. 

She gasps, the sensation beginning to cloud her better judgment. Before it turns into a blur, she pulls away, this time to check on Frank. 

Liberalities and grace. 

“You sure about this?”

Surrender, Frank Langdon.

“I am.”

Frank’s hands found comfort beneath the fabric of her shirt, enjoying the confirmation of what his touch seemed to do to her. She shifts towards wherever they travel, aching to have more of him all whilst he tries to keep up with her. 

Pride causes warmth to spread along his chest as he takes in how she looked beneath him. 

“We’ve got time, sweetheart.” He manages to say amidst their teeth clashing in between kisses. 

He feels her break a smirk. 

“I know.”

Langdon snakes an arm underneath her to pull her closer to the headboard, away from the edge of the bed. He’s more than aware of the risk he’d taken just by how sheer force could trigger the pain he’d been trying to get away from all night. When he feels it, he lets it stay there, putting a pin on his aching obliques if that meant sharing tonight with her. 

He coaxes out a giggle from her when he catches her off-guard with such fluid motion. Frank’s hand travels to her nape, secured in place, while the other supports the small of her back. He lays her on the bed with gentle ease, considering the actual effort it took for him to make it. He pulls away, pulling his shirt above his head whilst she does the same. 

Frank hovers on top of her as he dives in for yet another kiss. He gently cages her face with a hand large enough to cover her jaw and jugular. He presses on the vein with just enough pressure while he tends on the sensitive skin near her earlobe, earning a moan from her. 

He’d never wanted anyone this much. 

Langdon hasn’t been with a woman other than his ex-wife for more than a decade. He’d never even thought, let alone dreamt of it. He was so sure Abby was the love of his life. But this—her, he knows it isn’t something primal. It isn’t something he’d seek just to get through the night. Which seems so confusing as the fact that they were mere strangers who’ve only met per chance stands as an undisputed fact. How could he feel such an unexplainable connection with someone he knew for less than a day? If only he had a second to spare and ponder, maybe he can think of an answer as to why.

It doesn’t take long before they’re all over each other once more. This time, skin to skin against Frank’s cold white sheets with nary a sense of urgency nor necessity to rush things. 

For Frank, it felt as though he was falling into something more than just a structure he’s yet to fully comprehend. For her, there was nothing else she’d rather put her mind to but the guy whose last name she was yet to know. 

𓂃𓂁𓂃

“Hey… wake up, Frank.” she calls him softly, earning a tiresome groan off him. “Listen, I need to get to work but I hope to see you some other time, maybe?” 

Langdon opens his eyes at that. 

“It’s barely five in the morning. You can stay, I can take you.”

She chuckles, “You do realize the only thing I’m wearing is the last of your good shirts?” 

He murmurs, throwing a hand over her middle in an effort to stop her from leaving. 

“Come on… I left my number on the pad. Call me later?” 

Langdon reaches for her hand, their fingers instantly melting in an intertwine. Despite his obvious opposition to her leaving, he nods. “Dinner. Tonight. After work.” 

He knows she’s smiling despite his eyes being shut.

“Are you asking me or are you telling me?” 

“Telling.” Langdon declares with finality, causing a familiar warmth spread across her cheeks. She fails to stifle a beaming grin when he follows up and says, “I’ll call.”

She finds herself caressing Langdon’s arm with her free hand, drawing idle circles on his skin as if to soothe an answer out of him in her favor.  

“Only if you promise to let me go.” 

That makes him chuckle. He finally opens his eyes to gaze upon her, hair still disheveled from the events of last night. 

He no longer protests. 

“Alright, come on.” 

Before Langdon could pull himself off bed, she stops him with a hand resting firmly on his biceps, “No need to walk me out. Just sleep some more, mkay?” 

Just because he still feels the weight of sleep in his eyes, Langdon acquiesces, “Okay.”

Well, not quite.

“Frank, let go already!” She laughs the minute Langdon pulls her back to bed with his hand that seemed to have been glued shut with hers. 

“You haven’t answered.” He coos, hoping she’d agree to what he has sort of asked her seconds ago. 

He sees her grinning, “Yes. Dinner, tonight, after work.”

That confirmation finally made Langdon let go, tucking his hand instead underneath the pillow to get at least half an hour of sleep before he inevitably had to wake up for today’s shift. 

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Langdon only had her to thank for the extra two hours of sleep he was able to get before he inevitably had to leave his bed for work. He’s grateful because if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be able to endure the mind-numbing and tedious HR clearance procedure waiting for him the second he steps through the PTMC doors. 

He wasn’t worried about all the administrative matters he was subjected to in compliance with Gloria’s direct orders, nor about having to pee in a cup for the first time at his place of work. Hell, he wasn’t even worried about the pungent smell that covered the entire waiting area by the time Lupe had told him to sit down and wait for his clearance and recommendation letter. 

The tedious standard procedure for returning drug-addict employees in recovery wasn’t the one that caused the gnawing pressure bubbling in his guts. Rather, it was the man entering through the same doors he did just short of an hour ago, with his backpack slung over his shoulder, walking right past him despite the knowledge of his much awaited return. 

Lupe’s voice cuts through the all-too familiar chaos of the ER. 

“Frank?” 

He’s been called to return. It doesn’t matter if it’s temporary or that he’s been called as a substitute to some other physician away from work. He’s here now. The possibility of him coming back was a shot in the dark he’d only dream of back in rehab, back when his mind allows him to think of anything else other than needing to soldier through the pains of withdrawal. He did that without much assurance as to whether he’d ever be allowed back. Ten months, he’d spent days enduring physical and mental torture. Ten months clouded with doubt and uncertainty. Ten months, he’s here now. 

“Langdon?” 

Inhale. 

“Frank?”

Exhale. 

The third time Lupe calls his name, Langdon finally musters enough courage to walk up to the reception. 

With a nod, she slips an envelope towards Langdon, “You should be good to go now, hon.”

“Thanks, Lupe.” 

“Of course.”

He cowers beneath the shade of his Pittsburgh Penguins cap as he glances on to the envelope he’s now holding. It was the clearance letter from HR and the Physician’s Health Program. 

───────────────────────────

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL — ADDRESSEE ONLY

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Human Relations, Head Office TO: Frank Langdon, MD

IMPORTANT HEALTH CARE INFORMATION ENCLOSED

───────────────────────────

There must’ve been a look that sneaked on his face prompting Lupe to say, “Hey, go get ‘em.”

Langdon doesn’t need to read too much into that. Whatever his exterior might’ve looked, it couldn’t be any worse than what he's been dealing with inside. Regardless, he gives her a tight-lipped smile, grateful to know he wasn’t alienated by the first co-worker he met since, well… you know.

His hand was already pushing the door ajar when an all too familiar labored voice caught his attention. 

“Hey, Doc.”

Louie Cloverfield aka the patient whose prescription Langdon had successfully tampered with several times before the day Robby finally caught him red-handed. 

Despite his guilt, Frank manages to look at him.

“It’s been a while.”

Like he always does for the other times he’d been in and out of the ER, Louie grins, chuckling in spite of the pain he’s feeling. 

“I got a bad toothache today.” He informs Langdon.

A warm grin breaks, welcoming. “We’ll take care of that, Louie.”

Langdon’s first walk into the bull-pen was supposed to be just like the hundred times that came before it: the golden boy strutting into Central still tying the laces of his scrubs, already asking Dana for a cool case despite the clock barely ticking past 7:00 AM. 

Only, it wasn’t. 

He’s used to arriving at work feeling like he was coming home. The out flow of patients left by the night shift, the chaos of the morning in central juxtaposed to the morning outside of the building, never still—never quiet. Langdon is used to feeling as though he was being embraced as he charged into the belly of the beast, into the jungle he was free to be wild in; where he got to move, jump, fly, and think about nothing else but himself. 

He isn’t used to coming home to this. Seeing people old and new, running in different directions with purpose. Some towards the staff lounge to make coffee, some to stop and gossip. These were just some of the things he missed when he came to work high even before noon. It doesn’t look like a jungle. It doesn’t feel exciting. 

For the first time, Langdon sees the Pitt in a different light. Sober light.    

He still doesn’t know if that is a good thing. Maybe he’ll figure it out today. 

Robby’s voice is all that he could hear by the time he’s done changing into his scrubs. 

“Everyone, gather around—make some room, take space. We’re about to have our briefing.” He announces, voice commanding as he remembers. “Langdon, get your ass over here. No one’s gonna wait any longer.”

That ought to make him move. 

Robby’s eyes didn’t land on him when he managed to stand alongside Whitaker and some tall kid he figured to be someone new. 

MS? Intern? Could be either. 

He sees Jack Abbot standing unusually close to Mohan, who in turn had Mel stuck beside her like a magnet. Out by the corner was Santos, side-eyeing his existence. Javadi comes up to Whitaker, who’s an MD now by the way, still with a white mocha latte in hand she wasn’t able to finish. 

Langdon takes one last sweep over the huddle, just before his eyes land onto Robby. 

Onto her. 

What—“First of all, I’d like you to meet Dr. YN Robinavitch, she’d be joining our ship for the rest of her residency.” Robby begins, motioning towards her as she stands tall beside him despite their obvious height difference. 

Audible gasps followed such a declaration. Heads snapping on the side, murmuring, sizing the new kid in town. Probably thinking, Nice. Another nepo hire. 

Frank thinks he’s about to pass out. 

It doesn’t take a beat for Abbot to chime in. With a smirk he reveals, “Yes, as in Robby—Robinavitch. No, she’s not his wife nor is she his daughter.”

Langdon could only decipher what seemed like Robby throwing daggers at the night-shift attendant by the time he finishes the statement. 

Robby clears his throat, taking control. 

“Dr. Abbot’s correct. She is neither my wife nor my daughter, god forbid. But yes, she is family.”

Family. 

Oh my fucking god.

“It’s nice to know Javadi isn’t the only one inclined to join the family business ‘round here.” Santos managed to slide a snide comment but the ringing in Langdon’s ear had already grown louder for him to register anything else other than his own heart beating its way out of his chest, he thinks he’s about to have a STEMI. 

Mel hits the final nail on Langdon’s coffin once she asks a follow up question. 

“So… she’s your?” 

Robby seals Langdon’s fate with just a word.

“Sister.” 

“Fuck me.” 

Langdon hisses under his breath, unaware that his mouth moved faster than his brain could process new waves of information. 

Robby exchanges glances between her and Langdon, his tone laced with curiosity but doesn’t seem to suspect a thing. 

“You two know each other?” 

“No, we just met. Isn’t that right,” she pauses to look at Frank’s hospital badge, “Dr. Langdon?” 

She was rather quick to decline, dismissing the notion before it sat too long in the air. Had there been the slightest hint of panic rising in her throat, her brother Robby would be the last person to catch it. 

Fuck me. Langdon successfully thinks to himself. 

“Yeah, no—just today.” He concurred as he aimed for a handshake.  

She kept up with his gaze that’s long been pinned on her, bearing with it what seemed like hundreds of questions piled on Frank’s magnificent brain. She watched his throat move just as her eyes fell captive for his mouth, the very same mouth that he’s proven to be just as capable as the hand she was about to hold.

The warmth of Langdon’s hand wraps around hers as she accepts what was merely a formality being offered.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Robinavitch.” 

A smug smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, just as she says—“The pleasure is mine, Dr. Langdon.”

note: anyone up for a part two? (cos i am) next part will be reader’s pov. reblogs and comments are highly appreciated i would love a chat with yall ◡̈ ᥫ᭡

[sundrop-writes]

Jason put down the gauze and hesitated to reach for the tweezers. He knew that pulling the bullet out would be painful, but inevitable. It was a lot like the state of your relationship with him. Break it off, and find happiness elsewhere, or acknowledge this big thing swelling to fruition between the two of you. Have Jason fuck it up eventually. Painful, but inevitable.  “You shouldn’t have to be hurt like this.” Jason said quietly. “You shouldn’t have gotten hurt for my sake.” Words with a dangerous double meaning.  You looked up at him, pure pain knit across his face, and for a moment he looked up from the tweezers to you and he could hardly stand holding your gaze.  ‘It’s worth it.’ You wanted to say. ‘For you, I’d bear any pain.’  The words lived and died behind your eyes, and your tongue decided on something else entirely.  “It’s nothing.” You told him. You downplayed the pain, pretending that the injury was only a minor inconvenience for you. And in the grand scheme of life, it was. With time, the bullet wound would heal. Losing Jason would be something you’d never heal from. 

If asked, you would be hard pressed to explain your relationship with Jason Todd. The best way you could describe it would probably be... friends with benefits? 

But most of the time, the two of you weren’t even friends. You weren’t the type to hang out casually, or spend time alone together if it didn’t involve ripping each other’s clothes off. 

If you ever exchanged secrets or those precious bits of your most raw selves, it was by mistake. It was through sarcasm, or coming off the tired lips of someone who had just been exhausted by a few orgasms. The two of you knew each other well, quite literally inside and out. But you always made a deep, concerted effort to hold each other at arm’s length. And maybe that’s part of what all the snark and harsh words were for. 

Right from the moment you had first met Jason, you had found him to be so damn annoying, a shitstain on the earth - yet, someone you couldn’t stay away from. Was it just about sex? Was it truly hatred? Was it something more? Dare you say... love? You were both just Selfish Machines, after all.

(Series Length: 30,400 words so far. In progress.)

Series Playlist

Act I

Emergency Contact - Jason nearly dies at the hands of Deathstroke, and you are the only one who is there for him. (10,400 words.)

Act II

The Jaws of Life - Part One: Panic Room - While still figuring out the status of your relationship, you and Jason are separated on two different paths. And thanks to the Joker, it might stay that way for good. (19,900 words.)

The Jaws of Life - Part Two: Twin Size Mattress - One night, a mysterious man in a red helmet breaks into your apartment, and ghost or not, you are finally forced to reckon with your feelings for Jason head-on. (24,700 words est.) - COMING SOON

Act III

Death Of An Executioner - Trying his best to protect you, Jason is torn at a terrible crossroads. But will he lose you again before he can finally have you, or will he actually get his happy ending? - COMING SOON

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[f41ryb0nes]

stray cats & old dogs / personal support

Every affair starts more or less in the same way, and this one was no different. Leon never thought he'd be so weak, but he never thought Ada would betray him either, so he sent that late night text. You never thought you had it in you to be the other woman, but you’d never say no to him.

wc: 11.1k ⚭ based on this request

tags: re9!Leon Kennedy/cisfem!reader, smut, porn w plot, cheating/infidelity, creampie, stripping, riding, blowjobs, alcohol consumption, coworkers, unspecified age gap, the ring stays on, sry for the ada bashing that's my wife fr

a/n: I'm so beyond blown away by the notes on my last fic I decided not to sit on this draft for a week like I usually do hah. tysm :,) no words truly

All affairs happen more or less in the same way: 

A moment of weakness. A cry for help. A bad decision or three, and a failure to turn it around.

Tonight would be no different. 

A marital spat. A late-night text. Inviting Leon into your home when you knew what might go down. 

It began with his name popping up in your notifications as you scrolled mindlessly before bed. 

Leon: Don’t ever get married. 

You blinked and paused for a moment, then sat up as your fingers hovered over the keys. It was just shy of eleven at night. Quite a time to start a conversation like that. 

Sure, you’d become more than acquainted with each other at work over the past couple of years since you joined the DSO as a personnel support admin. Your job was mostly behind a desk, but it led you to meet many of the agents high up on the chain. And since you were tasked with coordinating their needs on missions, you often got to know them deeper than surface level. Agents had a lot to vent about, and you were apt to lend an ear. It was a running joke in your office that your job title should be spelled personal support instead.

Leon was no different, except that he was far more subtle. The things that weighed on his mind were always obscured under a thick layer of sarcasm and quips. Always hinted at. Never overtly stated. The discretion in what went unspoken was out of respect for the other party; he would never openly disparage someone unless he truly hated them, he was too much of a gentleman for that. 

But that meant he carried more burdens than he really had to, and the weight of it showed in his growing dark circles and the slowly diminishing spark in his eyes. 

You recognized it in him because you did the very same thing. Maybe in a different way, since he had far different things on his plate than you, but you could easily recognize when someone was taking on too much to their own detriment. 

So you started talking to him. Met his veiled complaints with your own sarcastic comebacks, a raising of your eyebrow and a smirk that let him know it was safe to laugh, that you didn’t take his words more seriously than you should. Made him feel safe to say a little more until you became something like friends. 

You eventually felt comfortable enough to ask if he was okay when you caught him grumbling over the coffee pot in the break room. That was when you first learned the secret he kept tucked away. It was nothing spectacular. In fact, it was incredibly mundane. A common situation, really. 

He’d leaned back against the break room countertop, rubbing his hands over his face. He sighed away his tension and watched the coffee drip as if he was deciding whether or not to open up to you. He must have decided he could trust you. 

“The misses and I got into it last night. And the night before that… and the night before that.” He crossed his arms as he drifted into thought, undoubtedly re-running the arguments in his head. “Just can’t seem to make the woman happy.”

The corners of his eyes creased as he smiled thinly at you, like he meant the last part to be more light-hearted than it came across. You breathed a minuscule laugh just to match his tone, and then the break room was a little too quiet. 

You gulped as you gazed at the silver ring adorning his third digit. Its dull shine in the fluorescent lights contrasted with his dark blue shirt where it rested on the brawny muscle of his bicep. 

This is when you heard the first warning shot in the recesses of your mind. He looked way too good in that moment, and the ring glimmered like gunmetal. 

You knew you were attracted to Leon, you’d realized it long ago. Since then you’d made a deliberate effort to get close to him. Now, he was somewhat reciprocating. It was innocent enough, certainly on his part— but the sweet churning of your gut clued you in to your own temptations. 

You shouldn’t press much further. His relationship wasn’t your responsibility and it’d be unwise to get involved. You shouldn’t position yourself as a woman who’d comfort him. A place to commiserate safely away from his wife. But then again, you already had. 

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” You tried to keep your tone easy. “Is it a ball-and-chain situation?” 

He chuckled. “Yeah, something like that.”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you watched him check the coffee and pour himself a cup. Steam rose from the mug as he walked slowly to the table you sat at, pulling out a chair and sitting down beside you. Not too close, but you still tightened your thighs to avoid him brushing against you. 

The way he leaned back, legs spread open, halfway turned to face you— it nearly made your face get as hot as his cup of joe. 

You should’ve left it there, but you didn’t. The tension in your stomach didn’t win the fight to let caution prevail. The silence was comfortable enough to sit in, but you chose not to.

“I know you keep things pretty close to your chest, but… if you need someone to talk to, I don’t mind. I can keep things classified. Obviously, hah.” 

He nodded slowly, and you watched with trepidation. Unsure if he’d accept your offer, knowing a good man like him wouldn’t. Knowing you wanted him to let you in a lot more than you should. 

He brought his mug to his lips and you saw him smile behind it. A real smile. He wasn’t looking at you, but there was warmth in his expression that you knew was just for you.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

He took a sip and you looked down at your hands on the table. You kept your smile soft on purpose, as if showing the way your chest squeezed at the private, genuine exchange would scare him off. 

That was the snowball that started the avalanche, in retrospect. Not once did you try to stop it. 

You subconsciously sought out private moments in the workplace. You never led with further questions about his marriage or anything else, you just gave him opportunities to speak freely. Many times he didn’t, but many times he did. 

That led you to learning a lot about each other. Where you went to school, his favorite restaurants in town, funny anecdotes about missions gone wrong and the absurdities of government work. He was interested in your perspective as the one who organized support, and you were interested in his tales of bravery on the field. 

And every now and then, he talked about his home life.

You learned his wife’s name. Ada. At first he danced around the topic of their issues, telling you about the good times as if to cover his bases. Vacations they’ve been on, a sweater she bought for him. Little facts sprinkled into casual conversation, never saying too much. Still, you understood that it was far more than he talked about her to anybody else.

Then, something must have happened. Things must have taken a turn for the worse. He looked a lot more tired for a number of weeks, and whenever you spoke, it felt like he didn’t have the energy for conversation. You thought it was probably work-related until he knocked on your office door. 

“Come in,” you called, not knowing who it was. You were surprised to see Leon shuffle in, closing the door behind him and collapsing onto a chair with a long, gravelly sigh. “Is… everything okay?”

“Far from it,” he started, shifting in his seat to sit slightly more upright. He propped his head up with a fist on his temple, elbow on the armrest, his dark grey button-up cuffed around his biceps. His face was half scrunched up as he massaged his head with his knuckles. “Does your offer to talk still stand?”

You clicked your pen closed and shut the manila folder in front of you to give him your full attention. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” You sat there and watched him, blinking a little as he didn’t say anything else. You pursed your lips as you waited, and then you decided to wager a guess. “Is that ring on your finger feeling heavy?”

His teeth showed in a weary smile, the only change to his features. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. Weighs a fucking ton.” 

You waited a little longer as he seemed to be deep in thought, eyes dancing behind their lids. You relaxed a little bit, giving him time to figure out what he needed to say. 

Eventually he sighed again, this time more airy and weak. He deflated forward against the front of your desk, threading his hands through the crown of his hair, pulling it out of his face and his eyes open, too. They were somewhere off in the distance, but he seemed more in the room. 

“Confidential, right?”

“You have my word.” You pantomimed a zipper across your lips and threw the key behind you. He looked from his periphery and then went back to watching the baseboards. You tensed a bit at his lack of response, realizing that for the first time, the conversation didn’t warrant a light-hearted facade.  

A beat passed, and then he got into it.

“Mine and Ada’s jobs don’t exactly… go well together. The agency was pissed when I married her, actually.”

You nodded even though you didn’t fully understand. “What does she do?”

“Basically what I do, but she’s a free agent. She takes contracts. Used to be from terrible fucking people, now they’re a little better. She’s been offered a contract that’s totally out of line, and she really wants to do it.” 

This is where he started ranting, speaking sharply through a hushed tone, emphasizing his words with a finger on your desk. 

“It’s dangerous, it’s risky, it’s morally wrong and she knows that. She knows the hell I’ll pay if word gets back to my command, and she’s set on doing it anyway. I don’t know what to fucking do.” 

Both of his hands were pulling at his scalp now. As you took in the information, your eyes widened in concern. Their issues were much greater than the commonplace gripes between everyday married couples, that was clear. 

You tried to make your voice as kind and non-judgmental as possible as you confirmed what he was saying.

“So… she used to work at odds with the DSO?” 

“Yeah.”

“And she’s doing it again?”

“Apparently.”

No wonder he was always so stressed about their relationship, and no wonder he seemed to carry it on his own. This was absolutely confidential. 

At least command is aware of her past, but something like that happening in the present would be devastating for him. For his career, his good name, and his overall well-being. Hell, it was already crushing the latter, that was written all over his face. 

“It’s like she doesn’t care about me at all,” he continued, his voice breaking just a touch. “She promised she left that behind her. I don’t know why I believed her. I don’t know why she wants a job more than she wants me.” 

The torment he felt was evident as his cool facade fell away. He was breathing heavier, his eyes were dilated, and he was seconds away from a thousand-yard stare. 

You understood now that his eyes were fixed on the wall because all he could see was his whole life crashing down. You were lucky your desk was in the way, or you’d be apt to reach out to hold him. There was a line between comfort and being in his arms, and it was one you shouldn’t cross. 

Although it was ultimately about his job, this was a personal conversation, not a professional one. Many agents had knocked on your door to complain about their personal lives before, but this was different. It was different because it was Leon. The unattainable man you yearned for despite his off-limits status, who you kept safely in your daydreams until now, as it suddenly became apparent that you no longer held the reins on your little office crush. 

That was the second warning shot. You cared too much about him. 

You should heed the alarm bells that went off that told you to direct him to a higher-up. That you should advise him to do the proper paperwork to get ahead of it, come what may. That you should focus on real solutions instead of the skin under his dress collar. 

But that’d still cause him a great deal of anguish, and you didn’t want that for him. You selfishly thought that he could get through it if you were just there for him enough. An irrational thought brought on by the fact that you wanted to be there for him. To be his trusted confidante, his shelter from the storm— his shelter from his wife.

A thick lump formed in your throat as you felt yourself lower into hot water. You could easily swim to shore before Leon ever became aware of it, and you’d be safe from entangling yourself in the consequences. But you didn’t want to run. You wanted desperately to be involved with him, come hell or high water. Your next words promised both. 

“Why are you still with her?” The hesitation in your voice was clear as you trekked through uncertain terrain, equal parts worried about offending him and knowing the treacherous door you were opening. “I mean, you could easily do better. Half the office is waiting for that ring to come off so they can jump your bones.” 

“That’s the big money question, isn’t it?” He chuckled a little, and then the sound fell flat as he began to explain.

“I love her,” he shrugged as if he confessed to a mortal weakness, one that wasn’t recent news. A fact and not a feeling. “I’m not sure if anyone reaches ten years of marriage totally unscathed. I’m far from perfect myself. Guess I’m convinced that makes her my match.”

His expression softened into melancholy, his icy eyes resembling a gloomy overcast sky. You softened for him in return. 

“Still… I’m sure you could find someone who cares about you. You deserve someone who does.”

He looked up and met your eyes for the first time that day. His face didn’t change much, but you felt them searching you for something. 

You knew what you’d said, and you fully meant what simmered in the subtext, but you hadn’t meant to be so see-through. Your heart skipped and you kept talking as if to obscure his sight. 

“If you even want to leave her, that is. I get it if you don’t, I’m sure it’s not that simple. Why does she want to do it so bad in the first place?”

He blinked and his thoughts were successfully diverted away from you. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw, took a long inhale, and then explained the best he could.

The conversation continued for half an hour or so, and talking seemed to take the weight off. You both steadily relaxed until you weren’t talking about Ada at all anymore. 

It branched off into casual conversation. The kind you’d have in the break room or passing each other in the halls, the kind that felt warm and easy, that left you both smiling and feeling light. 

In the pause after a laugh, Leon looked at his watch. 

“I better get ready to go home,” he said, standing up with a slight groan. 

You glanced at the clock. Shit. You clocked out in less than an hour. 

You looked back to see that he’d rounded your desk and was standing beside it with a tired and tender smile on his face. 

“Thanks for letting me talk. I know it’s not your problem, but I really do appreciate it. It’s not like there’s many people I can trust with something like that.” 

You nodded quickly, not knowing what to do with how his sincerity made you feel on top of everything else. 

“Anytime, seriously. I don’t mind. I’m glad you seem like you feel a bit better.” 

“I do.” He gazed dully at the door. “At least until I get home.”

He patted the desk and started to leave. You didn’t need to stand up, but you did, slowly following him out. Before he opened it, he turned back towards you with one last slight smile. He clasped his hand on your shoulder and squeezed it ever so lightly, and then he turned and walked away. 

It felt like he’d hesitated somewhat. Like he wanted to hug you but didn’t.You stood alone in your office with your heart fluttering in your chest, feeling the faint traces of warmth that remained in the fabric of your sleeve. 

Then a chill went down your spine and you rushed back to your desk in poorly-contained panic. You reopened the manila folder and tried to make quick work of the case file. The deadline was due today. You resigned yourself to a late night at work filled with paperwork and thoughts of him.

You spent the next month feeling the water rise as you wondered if you were insane. 

You thought he stood a little closer to you in group conversations now, but you could’ve been making that up. You could be reading too much into the smiles he’d shoot you from afar, too. When his visits to your office became more regular for complaining and chatting alike, you told yourself you were the only one who thought the air was suspiciously hard to breathe. 

There were things you were pretty sure you weren’t misinterpreting, though. The way he started hiding his left hand in his pocket when you came up to him. That he asked for your number and regularly texted you across the room— always during work hours, never after them. Another coworker commented on you becoming close and you politely said ‘I guess so!’, and you heard through the grapevine that he once sung your praises in a conversation you weren’t present for. 

All of these things could merely be friendly, and a kind rumor was still just a rumor. Either way, it stoked the flames until your little office crush bloomed into full-on desire.

It was becoming a problem for you. You felt like a schoolgirl the way you had to try so hard not to blush every time he talked to you or he said something nice, and you had to put way too much effort into not staring at the way business slacks and button-ups hugged his rippling musculature. 

The way you thought of him at night was a problem, too. With your hand between your thighs, you thought of him. Tried to summon the memories of his voice saying your name, the rumble of his laugh, how he groaned when he stood and how it’d sound in a different context. 

Then your thoughts were interrupted by the stone-cold reality: he was married. 

Even if he wasn’t, you were coworkers which would be inconvenient on its own. He was a touch too old for it to be completely unproblematic, too, even if the only problem would be the way people might whisper. 

But that wasn’t the only problem. He was married. He was sleeping next to his wife right now. Or he was sleeping on the couch, who knows, it wouldn’t make your thoughts less wrong. 

You wanted him desperately. Wanted to tug your fingers through his hair and inhale his cologne. Wanted to know what was hidden within the bulge that was ever-present in his tight slacks, making you pretty sure he was still sizable when he was soft. You wanted— needed— to find out what those muscles could do if he put them to work on you.

You resigned yourself to never making the first move, but it was fucking torture. Even if there was a chance he was attracted to you, the probability of him acting on it was slim to none. He was a good man. The very best there was. That was what made him so desirable in the first place. 

But if he ever did make a move..? You knew you’d never say no.

The worst part was that you didn’t even hate Ada. Maybe it was because he didn’t either in spite of everything; his resolve to see the good in people was incredibly infectious. He married her after all, so she must be something special. From the stories Leon told and pictures of her you saw, by all accounts, she was. Skilled and gorgeous and sharp, the kind of woman any man would remain miserable for. 

It wasn’t her fault Leon thought he could change her, and it wasn’t his fault for being fooled. And it wasn’t your fault he was married. His relationship wasn’t your responsibility. At least that’s what you told yourself. 

You were starting to catch on to the fact that you might be a bad person, but none of you three were saints, so the avalanche kept on falling. As time went on you fell deeper into immorality until it felt halfway normal. It perfectly set the scene for his late-night text to find you all too eager and willing.

Leon: Don’t ever get married. 

Your thumbs hovered over your phone screen as you deliberated your response. It was quite a weighted opener for 10:49pm. You kept it short, not knowing what else to say.

You: That bad?

You sat staring at the text thread for minutes after you sent it with your knees hugged to your chest. The screen dimmed from inactivity and you touched it to keep it awake. Every minute that went by, you got a little more concerned. 

It’d been less than ten minutes, but you double texted anyway. 

You: Are you okay?

Two more minutes went by and you set your phone face down beside you, rubbing your eyes to ease the strain from the bright blue light. Then, you heard it buzz. You grabbed it in an instant. 

Leon: I’ve been worse. Been a whole lot better too. You staying up late?

Your heart raced as you fumbled over the keys. It took multiple tries to spell everything right and you spent way too long deciding what order to put the words in, finding the perfect balance between open and casual.

You: Guess so, I’m still up. Just hanging out at home. You?

A lie, of course. You’d be asleep by now if his text hadn’t made you wide awake. He responded almost immediately.

Leon: Looking to be anywhere but mine. You strike me as someone who’d let a stray cat in.

You smiled at your phone and typed in your address. You held your breath, and before your better judgment could get through, you quickly pressed send. That was your first bad decision that night.

For a second you just stared at it and internalized what you’d done. He was actually coming over. Leon would be in your home. You’d be staying up late alone with a married man. One you just so happened to want to rail you through your mattress. 

You scrambled out from under your covers as the ‘oh shit’ of it all set in. You flipped on the lights and scanned your room. You grabbed a handful of laundry on the floor and shoved it into your hamper, rummaging through your dresser for a pair of lounge pants that weren’t too wrinkled or too nice. You changed your shirt and put on a bra, combing your hair with your fingers as you rushed to the living room, turning on the lamps and collecting stray dishes and coffee cups. 

When all the important tidying was done you paced around anxiously, nothing else to do but think. You didn’t know when he’d arrive or how worse for wear he’d be. You didn’t even know what you’d do when he got there. You assumed he was not in fact coming over for a warm body despite how you used your spare time to fuss over your appearance ‘just in case’. 

That led you to taking a good long look at yourself in the mirror. Were you really going to do something like that if he was? Is that the kind of person you are? 

A knocking on your door tabled the thought. 

You opened it slowly, then all at once, hiding the nerves behind the sweet smile you faked. The charade dropped to real concern when you saw the state he was in.

He walked into your apartment looking well beyond defeated. He was still in his white dress shirt though he would’ve left the office hours ago. It was damp on the shoulders from the drizzle outside, not enough to turn the white fabric translucent, but enough to wrinkle it. His tie hung loosely on his neck, dangling like a necklace that framed his undone buttons. Too many undone buttons.

“Hey, um, come in.” 

You stepped aside as he entered before you’d invited him in. It threw you off, but it’s not like you sent him your address to not welcome him inside. You closed the door behind you, face scrunching in puzzlement as you watched him drag his feet until he stood aimlessly in your home. Facing away from you, you heard him let out a deep sigh as he raked a hand through the rain that clung to his darkened hair. 

“You look like you’ve had a long day,” you said, hoping a gentle rib would get him to say something.

“You have no idea,” he grumbled. He pushed up his cuffed sleeves and turned to face you, perhaps feeling a fraction as restless and awkward as you did. 

It shouldn’t be awkward, really. Co-workers were allowed to go to each other’s homes on a Friday night, right? But it was your first time seeing each other off the clock, and it was here in your personal domain. That and the context was all too weighted.

Something just felt… off. You’d seen him tired, and this wasn’t that. Well, he was tired— exhausted, clearly. But it wasn’t just that.

“Can I get you something to drink? Water, maybe something stronger?”

“No, I’ve had enough tonight already. Water is good.”

Oh. He wasn’t sober. That explains it. You laughed under your breath at the fact that he’d shown up here half drunk. Never in a million years would you have anticipated that on top of it all. 

If inviting him over was your first bad decision of the night, your next move was the second.

“Maybe I’ll catch up while you get sober,” you said, pulling a bottle of wine from the pantry before reaching in the cabinet for two glasses. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Yeah,” he replied from behind you, watching your hands as they poured. “It’s your home, do what you like.”

You handed him his water and led him to your couch where he kicked off his loafers and sank in. You swirled the wine in the glass as you sat with your feet tucked under you, thankful you had something to keep your hands busy with as you watched him lounge on your furniture. 

“You wanna talk about it?” you started. Better to talk than keep staring, because your thoughts weren’t anywhere pure with how he wore dishevelment like sin.

“She left.”

He said it so matter of factly, no tone within it at all. Like he’d said it was raining outside or he had paperwork to do. You blinked. 

“What? As in, she left you?”

“No,” he said, half-laugh, half-scoff. “She went on the mission. She left about an hour ago, maybe two. ”

“Oh,” you mouthed, but no sound came out. As you wrapped your mind around it, your whole apartment seemed to fill with the weight of his perilous future. You swallowed thickly. 

“So… what does that mean for you now?”

He sipped his water and shrugged, setting the glass down on your coffee table, careful to find a coaster. 

“Not much I can do but wait. If she slips in and out without a trace, I’ll be fine. Anything less than perfect and I’m probably fucked. Unless she gets herself killed, and then… fuck, this is so awful.”

You felt a pang of guilt as he rubbed his hands over his face, clearly wiping away the image of her dying. You bit your lip and tried to figure out how to reassure him.

“You said she’s good at her job. If the Leon Kennedy thinks that, I’m sure she’ll come back in one piece.”

“I’m sure she will, too. That’s kind of what scares me. It’s not gonna be pretty... I’m gonna wish I was dead, I just know it.” 

He sunk further into the cushions, posture to the wind as he closed his eyes. With his head tilted back, every curve of his neck was on display, tendons and stubble aglow in the amber lamp light, leading up to his set jaw and down to his bare collarbones. He crossed his arms weakly over his stomach, the veins in his forearms protruding against his muscles, his thin blond arm hair glowing like a soft aura in the dim. His legs were parted, lap open, the cotton blend of his pants straining against his strong thighs. His hair fell off of his face, a sight you’d never quite seen, and you were close enough to take in every crease and pore. 

Good. He looked good. Way too good for the circumstances.

You nearly jumped as he continued, snapped out of your thoughts. You took a slow sip of wine as he talked, his eyes still shut. 

“You marry the wrong girl and one day she ruins your whole life. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I built. And I did it all for her. All to keep her happy and on the right side of the war. All up in smoke because she chose her ambitions over her husband.”  

Your eyes fell on his ring. It should’ve instilled some sense of shame, but it didn’t. Or maybe it did and that just turned you on, too. 

You had to get a grip. You had a bleeding heart on your couch and you were way more focused on his arm veins than being a good friend. 

You took another sip of your wine, this one being much longer; the way your heart was thumping, you felt violently sober. You tongued the dry tannins on your teeth, and then you set it down next to his.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered in earnest. “You really don’t deserve that.”

His head lolled to the side and he looked you in the eyes.

“What do I deserve in your eyes?”

You sputtered at the question, feeling caught for no good reason. You averted from his gaze, instead looking at your reflections in the blank TV screen. He was much easier to look at through a darkened mirror, you realized. But you also realized you didn’t look half bad sitting together. 

You muddled over his question in your spinning head and settled on the plain truth of it.

“You deserve someone who cares about you, obviously. Someone who doesn’t take you for granted, who cares about your happiness at least as much as you care about theirs. Not someone who makes you so upset you crawl on my doorstep like a kicked puppy.”

You untucked a foot to kick playfully at his thigh, and you finally coaxed out his smile. 

“Kicked puppy?” He grinned and swiped your foot away, hand lingering around your ankle just a touch too long. “You couldn’t be more wrong. I’m an old dog, babe.”

You scoffed, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks at the pet name. That’s all you let yourself believe it was, though it still felt good to hear the word roll off his tongue. 

“You’re not that old,” you countered, then immediately smacked your hands against your face as you heard it leave your lips. 

“Wowww,” he said, letting the vowel drag to tease you, smiling because he truly didn’t take it to heart. It was obvious that you didn’t mean it like that, but he had more fun making you squirm.

“Jesus, I’m an asshole, I’m so sorry, god.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. I’ll take not being ‘that’ old any day.”

You relaxed as you saw no offense taken in his face. If anything, he seemed to be doing better than he arrived, laughter being the best medicine and all that. You felt warm to know you provided it even at the cost of embarrassing yourself.

“Is middle-aged mutt a good compromise?” 

You rolled your eyes. “You’re too hot to be a mutt.”

His eyes shined at the slip of the tongue that revealed your subconscious thoughts. He grinned wider as you didn’t deny it. Your own eyes widened in shock as your tongue failed you yet again, mouth opening and closing again, entirely useless to help you recover. 

“Good to know,” he simply said.

He seemed content on reveling in the knowledge without rubbing it in, but that only made you squirm. He didn’t do anything to help it.

His hand was still laying gently over your ankle and his thumb began to circle softly around the bone. Both of your eyes rested there, taking in the touch and the fact that neither of you moved away.

“You know, I really do appreciate you. You don’t have to be so nice to me, but you always are.”

You hummed as he massaged the soft skin with more confidence. You felt the small amount of wine start to warm you from within.

“You were right, I have a soft spot for stray cats.”

“Just stray cats? Or are you into old dogs, too?”

Your eyes locked, and you saw that his had darkened. You may have finished sipping on your second bad decision, but Leon was already on his third that night alone. 

The first was the whiskey he drank when Ada left, and the second was texting you. The third was driving tipsy to your house and actually going inside. 

He could have gone anywhere tonight, could’ve stopped at any given parking lot and sobered up there instead, enough to turn around and remain safely separated from the feeling he’d fought for months. But he hadn’t. He was here. All that was left was sealing the deal.

You’d spent months cultivating the perfect environment for him to get too comfortable with you. Your charms worked on him too well, as subtle as they were. Paired with liquor and the wife away, it was all too easy to be impulsive.

In one smooth motion Leon pulled you by the ankle, and you were suddenly lying flat down on the couch, his broad arms caging you underneath him.

You were both breathing quickly as you froze there in shock; him at his own hubris, and you at what he’d done. You could feel how close he was, saw the gleam of madness in his eyes, and you knew that you weren’t dreaming.  

In the pause, Leon told himself he could still go home, and then a moment of weakness is all tonight would ever be. He could stop himself now and nothing regrettable would transpire. But this was a moment of weakness. And tonight, he was weaker than ever. 

Sure, he could find the strength to pry himself away if he really wanted to, but the fact was that he didn’t. He wasn’t under any illusions about that. He drove here with one thing in mind and now it was laying underneath him, ripe and ready for the taking. 

In the stillness, your feet got cold. The talk with yourself that you tabled in the mirror had to be confronted now.

In the beginning, all you wanted was to make Leon’s life easy, to offer a shoulder to cry on as a makeshift storm shelter. But now you were inches away from engaging in something dangerous. Something that would only add to his problems and give him more consequences to face. Another workplace secret that’d destroy him if word got around, another thing to fight with his wife about, something that’d obliterate his tarnished vows.

Maybe that just made it sweeter. That you’d share something with him that must be kept from all prying eyes, something only you two would know. A shared secret that’d only further implode his life, and the idea that he’d risk it all for you. 

His relationship wasn’t your responsibility. That’s what you still told yourself. You were a willing participant, but the choice was ultimately his.

“Leon, wait…” 

You wrapped your hands around his biceps so he wouldn’t shy away. You didn’t want him to stop, you just needed reassurance. The only guilt you couldn’t handle was feeling guilty towards him.  

From the way you kept him there he knew just the thought on your mind.

“My life is over anyway, baby. I just want you before it ends.” 

You looked at his lips, and the choice was made. He leaned down and sealed you in a kiss.

You melted into it, too wanton to be embarrassed at the fact that a kiss had made you moan high in the back of your throat. He settled down into your softness, lowering himself onto his forearms to glide his palm over your hair, and then to cup your jaw. Your nails dug into the fabric covering his arms and his loose tie dangled between your collarbones as your lips pressed together. 

With lips as soft and tender as his heart, he moved into you with no rush, savoring the kiss as his lips parted lightly. No tongue at first, just a touch more indecent than a peck as they trepidatiously searched for more. You gave him permission with the slightest touch of your tongue against his lower lip, and then your mouths opened enough for the kiss to deepen into heady desire. 

The taste of his lips and the smell of his skin melded together in one musky cloud, the only sensation around you as your eyes were closed in the kiss. The peppery traces of liquor and the steady balm of his skin, savory notes of earth and wood, a comforting masculine scent you hoped would linger in your home and in your mouth. 

You ran your hand up his shoulder and noticed he was shaking. You tilted your chin down to pull away from the kiss and looked down as your bodies. He was still only hovering over you and you caught his hips twitch forward in the air, and then retract again in an effort to hold back. He was trying not to touch you, you realized, and it took him a great deal of effort. Especially when you considered the size of his bulge as it strained against his zipper. 

You looked back up at him to see the need in his eyes, a desperate boyish look, like he’d spent his whole life deprived. You smiled cooly and wrapped your legs around his hips to pull him in.

He hissed as his groin met yours and you felt how tight his whole body was, every muscle tensed to hold himself back. You dug your heels into his backside and curled your hips to urge him to move against you, rewarded by the way he shuddered at the friction, eyes rolling back before he screwed his eyes shut in concentration. 

You kissed the corner of his mouth and mumbled against it, feeling his scratchy stubble against your pillowy lips. “It’s okay, Leon.”

“I know, I just don’t– fuck–” he was interrupted by his own firm grind against your center, “don’t want you to regret it tomorrow.”

You gulped as you considered the unspoken thoughts behind that. For a second, your awareness rested on the wedding band that was currently tangled in your hair. 

He was married. Whatever tonight was, it was certainly all you’d get. He couldn’t be yours. The silver ring advertised that he was already spoken for. Already claimed. You couldn’t have him, not really. 

But did you really need to have him in a way that was more than this? Or could you be content to have him in just one night of burning passion? 

You could, you decided. Because right now you’d rather die than not experience the full breadth of the man before you. 

You pulled him down by his tie in a needy, messy kiss, and your bad decisions became etched in stone. 

He found the confidence to grind against you with purpose, though he was still jittery and jerky as if he was tearing at the seams. Your tongues danced together until he focused his on the underside of your jaw, sucking the skin into his wet lips and nipping at your jugular. You sighed into it as your hands ran across his torso, usddenly all too aware of the stiff clothing in the way of his hot skin underneath. 

You keened into his hips as you worked at his tie, yanking the knot loose until it fell down to the floor. And then, you worked on his buttons, thankful so many were already undone. You watched with half-lidded eyes as more and more of his chest was revealed until you pulled to untuck it, reveling in the sight of his shirt billowing around him as it hung open. 

You glided your hands up the expanse of his torso, mouth parted at the feeling of his firm abs and pectorals, his aged skin softer than you’d expect. But then he sat back on his haunches and was just out of arms reach. 

You saw him begin to undress, but you stopped him. 

“Wait,” you said, lifting yourself up to sit. His hands rested on his collar as he looked to you in wait. You pushed him back until he was leaned back against the sofa. He looked confused until you got off of the couch and sank down to your knees. “Sit back, lemme take care of you.”

Bliss covered his expression as he did, parting his thighs as you settled in between them. His arms rested heavily at his sides as he let you take your time running your hands up his covered legs until your fingers worked at his belt. 

When you pulled down his zipper, your mouth watered at the mere sight of his bulge beneath his black boxer briefs. The shape of his cock was clearly visible, jumping as you ran your fingers along the length. You could even feel the long vein that ran up his shaft and his tip protruded against the silky fabric, a wet spot of pre-cum pooling at the peak. 

You hooked your fingers under the waistband and he lifted his hips to help you tug his briefs and dress pants down to his mid-thighs. You let out a shaky sigh as his cock sprang against his belly, intimidated by the size and salivating for it just the same. 

You took it in your hand and started pumping it slowly, smearing the clear and sticky pre around the head with a circling thumb. He caressed the side of your head with a hand, gently holding back your hair as he coaxed you towards it. 

“Always take such good care of me,” Leon muttered, gasping as you ran an introductory lick up his entire length. “Let me feel that pretty mouth of yours.” 

You set to work, his desire for it fueling your eagerness to please. You took the tip into your mouth, lips puckered around it as you swirled your tongue around, humming at the sweet taste of his pre. You pulled off with a pop and licked your lips before diving back with purpose. 

His hand tightened in your hair as you moved– not to force you down, just for something to hold on to. He choked as you began to bob your head, lips dragging as they took more and more each time, creating a beautiful friction in each inch your spit hadn’t yet coated. 

You braced your palms against his thighs as he reached the back of your throat, holding onto the waistband of his bottoms as you struggled to take more. He was thick and your mouth smarted at the edges as it struggled to stretch around him, a promise of how your cunt would feel soon after. You created a vacuum on the way up and flattened your tongue on the way down, letting him press harder into your throat as the blond hairs on his pelvis tickled the tip of your nose. 

He added his second hand to your head, his palms firmly on either side of your temples, his fingertips pressing into your scalp as he groaned and tried not to thrust. What a gentleman he was, trying not to gag you despite his instinct to fuck your face. 

Every gravelly, desperate rasp of his felt like a reward, a sign you were doing a good job. You opened your watery eyes and peeked up to see his chest rise and fall with heavy breaths from under his open dress shirt, and caught his lust-filled face as it looked down at you in awe, eyebrows drawing upwards as you caught him in filthy eye contact. If your mouth wasn’t toally occupied, you surely would’ve smiled.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you pressed all the way down on him, trying to relax your throat to take him into it. But there was no shot of that, certainly not at this angle, and not with his generous girth. Instead, what happened was miles more obscene. Wet crackles escaped from your throat and saliva pooled out the sides of your mouth as you struggled not to gag, the very back of your throat clenching and fluttering around him instead. 

His breath hitched over and over again as if he was the one who desperately needed air right now. He moaned thickly and tipped his head back, subconsciously pushing your head down firmly to keep it there. You stayed as long as you could, face bunched up impossibly tight as you fought to remain one second more, until you suddenly pulled off with a sharp gasp and sputtering coughs. 

His hands shook as they lingered around your face while you leaned back to wipe the excess spit from your chin, blinking away the tears that’d pricked in your eyes. 

“Holy shit,” he said, “where the hell did you learn to suck cock like that?” 

You laughed breathlessly at the flattery. You were no pro, at least you didn’t think so. You just wanted to make him feel good, and his praise was worth the effort it took to earn. You bit your lip and smiled at him as you recollected yourself, and then you rose to your feet.

You thumbed shyly at the waist of your pants. “Do you want to undress me, or would you rather watch me strip?”

He swallowed thickly as he watched you, evidently weighing his options in earnest. “Watch.”

You conjured every ounce of your confidence as you pushed your pants down, letting them fall to your ankles once they were past your knees and kicking them aside. Then you set on your top, finding the bravery to look him in the eyes before lifting it over your head. The sight made you blush and instantly look away, although it was seared into your mind, making you so turned on that it hurt.

He lounged cooly in front of you, raking you up and down with a slightly slack jaw as his fingertips swept up and down his shaft that lay heavy and erect in his lap. Disheveled and askew. The sight was hot enough to make every square inch of your skin burn where you stood. 

You weren’t able to think straight and your hands shook as they fumbled behind you at the clasp of your bra. You bit your lip in concentration until it gave way and let the straps fall down your arms until your breasts were exposed to him. And then, the final piece; you lowered your underwear until they joined the rest of your discarded clothes. 

You didn’t give him long to stare; you simply couldn’t bear to. Instead, you approached and perched yourself upon his lap, hands on his chest to brace him. 

He ran his hands up your thighs, to your hips, around the small of your waist, and settled on your breasts. His hands were calloused but gentle and reverent as they rubbed around them. His thumbs flicked across your nipples, sending a shiver down your spine that went straight to your wetting cunt.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he marveled at your form. 

Your hands flexed and your thighs trembled as you endured the teasing touches. You wanted to let him take his fill, have his way, however fast or slow. But god, it was killing you.

What killed you even more was the way his metal ring dragged across your skin with every touch. It was cool in contrast to the warm flush that flooded your body, impossible to ignore. You looked down to watch his hands and there it was, your distorted reflection staring back at you through the smooth polished finish. 

Before you even meant to, the sight of it made you whine. 

He followed your gaze down to his hands and stilled for a brief second. “I can take it off,” he said with a guilty pursing of his lips. 

You grabbed his wrists before they could move off of you, holding his hands on your breasts. You closed your eyes with shame at what you felt compelled to say. 

“It’s okay… keep it on.”

You didn’t need to see him to sense the dangerous flash in his eyes. 

“Oh yeah?” He kneaded your breasts firmly in his hands, the ring pressing into the pliant flesh. “You like knowing I’m taken? That turns you on?”

You squeezed your eyes shut and shuddered as he pinched your nipples tight, pussy fluttering around nothing. You nodded fast and shy. He hummed a low and husky laugh and his left hand traveled south. 

You gasped as he dragged the digit up and down the crease of your folds, parting them to feel your wetness. You twitched sharply as he flattened his fingers to glide flat against your core, the ring passing over your clit with every retraction. You watched it in shock at the true depth of your immoral desires. Every leaden glide coaxed you deeper into sin, and he led you there with amusement. 

He plunged his middle and ring finger inside and you were back to gripping his chest. Now it was you who had to try so hard not to buck into the movements. He plunged them slowly in and out, curling each time he got knuckle deep, studying your reactions to know when he found that perfect spot. 

“Look at you,” he purred. His own hips twitched up from the sight as he kept you straddled over him, not yet letting his hard cock meet your core. “Didn’t know you were so dirty, babe. Woulda done this a long time ago if I had.” 

You whined at the thought of it, walls clenching around his fingers, his ring cool at your entrance. Imagining yourself as his mistress, his dirty little secret, his person to unload his own perversions on. How unforgivable it’d be, and how hot it would be, too.

He pulled his fingers out. You watched them leave covered in a layer of cream that clung to the edges of his ring. You followed them until they entered his mouth, sucking off the taste, and then they entered yours.

You felt dizzy as they pressed inside, all the way to the knuckle, silver locked between your teeth. Your tart juices and his silky spit, the saltiness of his skin— all of it comingled sweetly on your tongue. 

“See how good you taste?”

You nodded around his fingers and panted through parted lips as he slowly pulled them out, moving instead to grab the base of his cock, smattering his pre around as he rubbed the tip between your folds. 

He notched against your entrance, but he didn’t push in. He held your hips with his free hand with a firm hold that told you not to sink down onto it. If the anticipation killed you, his words buried your needy body.

“You want my cock, sweetheart? Want to be fucked by a married man right here on the couch?”

You nodded and he lowered you ever so slightly, barely enough to even feel. “Yes,” you choked out as he kept you sitting there, so desperate to finally feel it you’d admit anything right now.

“You think you can?” 

He lowered you an inch, watching your soft cries as you felt his girth stretched you open for the very first time. He was struggling not to fuck you, that was plain, but he was nowhere near as undone as you were. You felt hardly in control of your own body anymore, driven by pure lust, and the way he gripped your hips to control your movements made you want to relinquish any and all control to him. 

“Yes, Leon, please,” you whined, trying in vain to swivel your hips and feel something more, but he wasn’t deep enough inside to feel him where you needed. 

“Oh, do you want to beg?”

He was goading you on now, finding too much cruel enjoyment in your display. 

“No, I just, fuck—” 

He’d put you in a double bind. You didn’t want to beg because that meant time spent talking instead of being fucked by him. And although you said no, the next words would be begging him anyways; begging him to move or begging not to beg, all roads led to how desperate you were for his cock. You buckled in your frustration and said what he wanted to hear, rushing them out in a slur.

“I need you, wanted you for so long. Please fuck me, Leon, just wanna make you feel good, want you to use me ‘til you’re done.”

His mocking smile dropped as he heard the words. They were debauched beyond what he’d ever expect from you. Knowing just how bad you wanted him, he had no reason to hold back.

You cried out as he slammed you down, thrusting his hips at the same time to make sure you felt every inch all at once. You fell forward onto him, your head in the crook of his neck, fists bunching up his dress shirt to hold it open and hold on. He wrapped his arms around you to keep you where you were as he hammered his cock into you with a punishing speed.

It felt better than anything you could’ve ever imagined. The dull ache where your tight hole stretched around him, his veins dragging along your velvet walls, his fat head nudging bluntly into your sweet spots over and over again. You felt the sticky cream that built up on the base of his cock as it smattered against your ass with every upthrust, caking beautifully in the short hairs where you connected, filthy and absurd in both sight and sound. 

You had front row seats to the melody of his grunts with your ear pressed against his neck. Your toes curled as he said your name like lyrics to the beat of each pound. 

“So fucking tight,” he grit through his teeth. He landed a smack on your ass as it bounced. “Haven’t had a pussy this good in ages, you’re just made for me to ruin.” 

You whined as he slowed down when he spoke, taking in the praise and the slick drag of his cock in and out of you. In the simmering speed you curled your hips to match his movements, and then he unwrapped his arms around you, holding onto your thighs instead.

You took the opportunity to upright yourself, shaking your hair from your face as you sat up, then held onto his shoulders as you rocked up and down. He groaned as he let you set the pace this time, eyes barely open to watch you ride him slow and steady.

You shoved away his dress shirt and he took the hint to shrug his arms out of it, letting it fall behind his back. Seeing his whole chest bare urged you to go faster and faster until you were bouncing at a quick and continuous pace. Just fast enough not to need more, but not so fast that it was rough. Simply ardent and impure.

“How’s my cock feel, baby?”

Your pace momentarily faltered as you struggled to find the words. 

“Feels s’good, Leon. You’re so big, feels even better than I thought.”

“You think about it a lot?” 

You had no idea how he was able to string along a conversation at a time like this. He looked nearly as far-gone as you felt, and he was still somehow able to speak clearly despite his labored breaths.

“All the time,” you airily confessed.

He drew you in by the nape of your neck until your foreheads rested together. He bucked up into you again, one hand on your hip to keep you bouncing and ensure you moved in tandem. 

“I thought about you every goddamn day,” he rasped. “In the shower… in the car… even jerked off in my office a few times.” 

You whined as he laid out the scene, and he had to take over the pace as you increasingly clenched around him.

“Wanted to bend you over your desk so many times... fuck you so hard they’d hear it all the way in the east wing..."

His hand tightened in your hair and he kissed you wet and quick, thrusts quickening as his lips moved towards your neck. 

“Thought the ring would scare you off, you're such a sweet young thing. Look at you now, such a whore for me... I never woulda known...” 

You squealed as he took your nipple into his mouth, sucking the whole of the peak into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the bud. He let go with a soft pop, and then he fixed himself on the other, giving it the same attention. 

Your breasts bounced towards his face in response to each barreling thrust. He rested his head on your sternum to press flat-tongued licks against your nipples with every other ebb and flow, easily accessible as he spoke between hot laps. 

"You were just so eager to let me take out my frustrations on you, huh? That what you wanted this whole time? For me to use your tight cunt to feel good?”

He held you tight and wedged his left hand in between you, keeping you somewhat still so he could rub at your clit again. The faintest glint of silver from your peripheries sent your thighs tensing and heart racing. The smell of his hair clouded you in his intoxicating musk. Every inch of his taut musculature was a feast for your eyes as they flexed with his hammering hips, shining under a sheen of his sweat. His voice was becoming nothing but a strained string of conscience, and you knew that he was close.

“Wanted you so badly, too, I thought about it, ahh, all the damn time…”

Your muscles went rigid as the rough pads of his fingers flicked firmly against your clit. Your pleasure was quickly mounting and building in your gut, a tense spark in your center every time he landed deep inside. You clung to every word as you waited to fall apart in any second.

“Thought about it— shit— I even thought about you while I fucked her.”

The confession was just as devastating as the blinding force of your orgasm. You cried his name as the words scrambled in your mind, just as filthy and shocking as the way his cock became covered in slick, your own cum lubricating him to slam upwards with abandon. You bucked and wailed and curled against his body as he kept fucking you through it, his cock still lashing against your throbbing insides as they pulsed with the waves of pleasure. 

Every sound of his escaped between violently clenched teeth as he held onto your hips, using your weakening body like a toy to reach his end. 

“Fuck, fuck, let me cum inside you baby, let me stuff this tight cunt full, I’m gonna—”

“Do it, please,” you whined as you held onto him, now come down from your own high and wrapped in a buzzing euphoria as he kept going on and on. 

You weren’t thinking about the consequences. You were mostly sure it’d be fine, but still, the act was risky. Downright irresponsible. Impossibly erotic and reeling you towards consecutive orgasms. 

He grunted loud as he thrust deep and heavy, pressing you so far down onto him you saw stars in your wide eyes. He jerked roughly with each rope of his cum that pooled warmly against your cervix, and you felt every twitch of his emptying shaft against your walls. The way he held you on him, your cunt was flush against his navel and he was totally bottomed out, keeping you impossibly full of his cock and his cum.

You grinded down against the feeling and felt your clit rub against his body. You did it again to seek the friction, body shaking as your nerves were filled beyond capacity. His hold on your hips turned bruising as he rocked you back and forth in encouragement, despite the way he was struggling to keep it together as his cock grew sensitive inside you.

“That’s it, get off on my fucking cock. You like being pumped full of my cum that much? Should I start driving you to work, let you sit in your office with it dripping out of you every day?”

Bright electric sparks cracked and bloomed in your center as you came shaking around him. He winced as your walls gripped impossibly tight around his sensitive half-hard cock, milking it dry of every last drop like your cunt needed it to survive. Your voice trembled around your moans until you finally relaxed with a huff. He raised you off his lap with overstimulated hisses, and you moaned at the amount of cum that leaked out as you were emptied. 

The stain it’d leave on your couch and rug was a problem for later. Leon pulled you to lie on top of him and you let your weight fall on his chest, your breasts against his pecs, feeling the rise and fall of them as you both caught your breath. He rubbed your back soothingly and peppered your shoulder with kisses as you rested in the afterglow. 

This feeling was too good to let go of. He was so warm and sweet after fucking you with such raw passion, you felt encompassed by him completely, lost inside his soul. You’d become something new, something not totally separate from him. 

But then you felt his silver band drag cooly across your back, a cruel reminder of reality. He wasn’t yours. He probably never could be. 

You groaned and sat up, fixing your hair and rolling off of him to sit beside him instead. He looked over and rubbed your arm as you looked off in the distance. 

Steamy stolen nights might be all that you could have. A part of it broke your heart, and another part felt dirty, forever marred. But you still ached for the man beside you, and even through all these thoughts, you still wore a blissful smile.

You smiled at the soreness as you sat up to grab your clothes, tossing his briefs back at him with a smile. 

He stood to put them on and reached down for his pants, putting the clothing that was out of your reach in front of you while he was at it. He looked for his shirt for a moment before realizing it was wedged inside the couch. He grabbed it and shrugged it on.

“You kicking me out?” 

You looked up at your reflections in the TV, watching his silhouette stand over you as you put on your t-shirt and underwear, nothing more. You thought about it for a second. 

“Does that mean you’ll stay if I don’t?” 

He was about to fix his buttons, but he dropped his hands instead. You looked at him over your shoulder with the question in your eyes. 

“Yeah,” he sighed, realizing he still had nowhere better to be. No wife at home waiting up for him, no obligations in the morning. ”I can stay. Might be the only chance I get.” 

Your eyes downcast as you realized it, too. But then they landed on the puddle of cum that had soaked into your rug, and you couldn’t help but smile again. 

He spent the night and stayed for breakfast. You washed his clothes while you ate and chatted while they dried. It felt normal, but it felt new, like the air was alive with the secret you shared. 

Before long, he had to go. Then came the inevitable awkward goodbyes. 

“So… when does she get back?” 

The words felt odd in your dry mouth. He sighed as he put his shoes on by the door. 

“A few days, give or take. I’m not exactly sure. Depends on how it goes.” 

You nodded shallowly. There were a million questions on your mind, but that conversation would crack open too much truth about what you’d done. And there was really only one question you were desperate to hear answered.

“Would you mind picking me up for work on Monday?”

You saw the gears turn in his head until he blinked as he remembered.

“When do you usually leave in the morning?”

“Right around eight o’clock.”

His hand paused on the doorknob, and he smirked as he replied.

“Alright. I’ll be here at seven thirty.”

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

A Day I'll Never Forget

Pairing: 18+ | Leon Kennedy x Reader

Tags: slow burn, eventual smut, explicit language, dirty talk, established relationship, fluff, domestic moments, unrequited love (temporarily), reader falls first but Leon falls harder, one-liners, awkward dates, told over a frame of time (RE2 to RE9), Leon is kinda dense when it comes to your affections - at first

Summary: A look at the complicated romance between you and Leon. From your initial meeting, through your pining, your first date, and eventually marriage. All the times Leon never recognized your affections, until he finally did.

Word Count: 2.2k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“September 30th you said?” You had written the month down in the date section of the report you were filing. 

“Time sure is flying, isn’t it,” the officer in front of you replied, shuffling through papers on his desk, “it’s already 1998, we are about to enter the 21st century.” 

You hummed, acknowledging the officer’s awe concerning the upcoming century. It had been the talk of Racoon City as of late, how the city planned to celebrate was the biggest news of the decade. You, personally, could care less. At your age, the welcoming of a new year was hardly your biggest concern. 

In terms of the local police department, it seemed their festivities revolved around a new recruit. You were certainly no detective, but the string hanging from the ceiling harbored blue circles with yellow letters, indicating the person to arrive was named Leon. 

“New recruit?” You made conversation, now filling out the account section of the report, detailing what you had witnessed. 

“Yeah,” he smiled, “it will be nice to have a Rookie around here, them young ones are always so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Us old folks could use that energy.” 

The officer on your case didn’t seem that old. But, you didn’t bother to comment, solely aiming to be in and out of the establishment. The longer you remained, the higher the chance there was of getting innocent involved. You weren’t supposed to be there. You weren’t supposed to be relaying classified information. 

Your pen scratched the last sentence, then you signed your name, including your contact information. 

“Great,” the officer grabbed the sheet, giving it a look over before stashing it in a file drawer, “if you wouldn’t mind waiting by the entrance, we can get you in touch with the detective who will be handling your case.” 

You nodded, gripping your purse as you sat in a chair near the front desk. Your heel bobbed, knee shaking while nerves commandeered your being. Any colleague of yours could be onto you, currently on their way to reprimand your decision. 

A colleague wouldn’t reach you, neither would the detective on staff. 

A shout would ring out from the upper floors, feet stomping in quick repetitions as officers fled. A gunshot would penetrate the air, and instead of fleeing with others, you ran towards the commotion. 

There, you would meet blood and commotion, snarls from individuals you would have considered human. Their walk would be off kilter, crimson spilling from their mouths to drip from the curves of their chins. You wouldn’t panic, no, because this was what you had feared, what you had come to report. 

As a chemist, the misuse of any chemical or biological data was strictly prohibited. 

You had only seen the evidence when glancing at your mentor’s confidential reports. You hadn't meant to, but key words had stuck out like neon lights, ultimately revealing a bioweapon many would aim to capitalize. 

Your stomach had dropped, your mind whirring. 

Which was how you found yourself at the Racoon City Police Department. 

But all of it had been in vain, you were far too late. Judging by the sickening shade of skin upon the infected, nothing could be done. A discarded pair of scissors was your nearest option, and as you plunged the sharp point into the neck of a woman you had seen enter earlier, tears dripped down your cheeks. 

One jab wouldn’t be enough, you’d have to retreat then slam the blade back in, this time, deeper. 

It would be your first kill, and not your last. 

Chaos swarmed the building within minutes. You had trust in the system implemented, yet you would find out it had nothing in place for zombies. Which, in hindsight, made sense. Zombies were creatures you found in books, movies, and video games. If you were to call anyone and say zombies were running rampant down halls, they would laugh. 

The electricity failed first. Lights flickered before submerging the halls in darkness. Another screech echoed, this one emanating pain. Shots fired, growls from something otherworldly, pierced the turmoil. Panic seized your being, but you pushed through, navigating pitch black halls. 

You found a door, and jiggled the handle, finding it was unlocked. The room you would enter would be your safe haven - a supply room. You hid beneath a spare desk, tucking your knees to your chest. A ruby light was stationed where a wall met the ceiling, an emergency light. You would stare at it for what felt like hours, hands stiff on the floor. They were sticky, weighted with drying blood. 

Something told you not to exit the room. It was probably the seemingly endless gunshots. Voices commanded others, separation evident as those orders were far and few between. Then, it became eerily quiet, aside from the occasional grunt of an infected. 

The clock on the wall ticked. Your teeth gritted, molars compressing. The damn thing was too loud. But it would create more of a racket to drag a chair over and clamber to reach it. This, you realized, was where you would perish. 

If you didn’t do anything. 

When the clock struck ten you’d move - that was your decision. Fifteen minutes to collect yourself. 

You scanned the room, scouting for any item that might be of use. Boxes of papers, pens, and clipboards were prominent. An odd green plant was located atop a cabinet, potted and ripe with leaves. If the thing was to be displayed, this was not the room to do it. 

“Hello! Is anyone here?” 

A door slammed down the hall, alerting a few stragglers. A weapon discharged, a comforting sound. 

“Shit,” the man hissed, “damned things won’t die.” 

He sounded young, almost boyish. Upheaval followed, bodies falling to the ground after a few more bullets exited the chamber. The newcomer’s footsteps were calculated, his breathing shallow. The handle turned, and you winced as a flashlight blanketed your form. 

“Hey,” the man rushed forward, kneeling in front of you. The door shut behind him with a thump loud enough to prompt the others. If you were in any other situation, you would have considered his excitement somewhat adorable. “Are you okay?”

Blonde hair framed his forehead in a split making his bangs uneven. Beneath the strands, cobalt eyes were trained on you, pure, overflowing with compassion. His attire revealed he was an officer, one who belonged to this particular precinct. 

The banner from earlier flashed through your mind. 

“Leon?” You guessed. 

“Yeah,” his eyebrows pinched, “you know me?” 

You shook your head, “the others were expecting you.” 

“I know,” he sank further so his rear met his heels. Defeated, he appeared ashamed. “It’s my first day, and I’m late.” 

“Leon,” you stole his attention, “can you get us out of here?” 

“I can try.” 

He rose, allotting you the space to crawl out from beneath the desk. His gaze checked you over from top to bottom before confirming you were free of any injury. 

Or bite, you would later realize. 

Your first encounter with Leon was not worth writing home about. It was rather mundane, nothing noteworthy. Later questions would consist of a similar tone. 

“Are there other survivors?” He would inquire. 

“Not that I’m aware of,” was your honest answer. 

“Can you shoot?” 

“I’m a quick learner.” 

To hear his voice settled your nerves. Leon, at his young age and Rookie status, did not fulfill an image of a Knight in shining armor. He had his moments of uncertainty and doubt, sometimes naive in his optimism. Years down the road, you would regret not savoring this side of him, a side you would rarely ever see again. 

You rounded a corner, Leon’s flashlight causing you distress. You didn’t want to see what had been done, how others have been harmed. You belonged in a pristine lab, studying cures to diseases that caused suffering. 

Blood, gore, and the stench of decay slithered over your skin. That persistent sense of panic tightened your throat. 

A weight hauled into you, and you fell, your chin knocking hard against the floor. Your front teeth dug into your lip, the metallic taste of blood flooding your tastebuds. 

“Don’t move!” Leon shouted. 

Saliva dripped down your neck, breath harsh over your skin. Leon was confident in his aim, a bullet whizzing past your ear, the initial discharge sharp like the crack of a whip. The zombie who had barreled into you from behind rolled off your back, absent of a head. 

You attempted to scramble away only to falter. Excruciating pain spiraled up your calf, through your hip, the back of your neck - your body answering with a cry out. 

“Wait, not so fast,” Leon was by your side, helping you to rotate onto your back. He cursed beneath his breath, rummaging through a pouch at his hip. Gauze materialized in his palm, his jaw clenching as he analyzed your leg. 

“How bad is it?” You ventured

“It’s going to be okay,” he deflected, squishing the flashlight between his shoulder and cheek, wrapping your leg. “You were pushed on top of a broken chair leg . . . a piece of it - well, you know.” 

Before you could protest, strong arms were supporting you: one scooping beneath your legs, the other cradling your upper spine. He lifted you with ease. 

Survival instinct should have led him to leave you. At this point, you were nothing but a burden. There were no equations, tubes, or instruments where you could prove your worth. 

“We are going to leave together, got it?” 

Watching his profile, determination steeled his expression. It was as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. This might have been the moment you fell for him, subconsciously. Risking his life, he carried you to the entrance of the precinct. Each step he took was a double-edged sword. 

He was carrying you to potential safety. But, the more steps he took, the shorter your journey together became. 

Leon’s warmth seeped through his uniform, the tense muscles sustaining both of your bodies were rigid against you. He trembled slightly, you felt it in the hands that grasped different portions of your frame. And his scent, rich with sweat, was sweetened with a cologne popular among adults your age. 

You two had to be near, if not the same, age. 

Months after this incident, it would be revealed that in fact you two were merely a year apart. 

Leon would drop you off on a bench at the entrance. He would promise he’d right whatever wrongs took place. He would leave you there for hours, and you’d be rescued by government agents who rammed the front doors. 

Paramedics would assess your injury while you were wrapped in blankets. Once you were identified, you would be asked to comply with further questioning. 

You didn’t have a choice, really. And on your first date with Leon, you two would recognize for once the government had provided you with a positive outcome. 

But, your first date with Leon would be close to two decades away. 

So, in the moment, you despised the idea. 

It was during your questioning of recent events the government would offer you a position as a researcher to combat bio organic weapons. You wanted to help, to prevent the horrors you had witnessed in Racoon City. That, and a kernel of curiosity had begun to expand. If you played your cards right, there was a slim chance you’d encounter Leon again. 

You hadn’t had the opportunity to thank him. 

Through your new position, you’d discover Leon was recruited as an agent for the D.S.O. His missions had him engaging with the T-virus more often than not, which would become your area of expertise. You’d pass him in the halls, in the cafeteria, and brief him on certain intel. 

Your journey was one laden with obstacles, detours, and unknown roads. How you ended up as his wife still baffled you to this day. 

You stifled a laugh behind a hand.

“What’s so funny?” 

Leon sat at the kitchen island in your home, the stem of his spoon twirling between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Nothing,” you quipped, turning so your rear cushioned you as you reclined against the counter. 

“It’s not nothing, gorgeous,” he smirked. 

Leon and the rasp of his voice always had arousal blossoming between your hips. 

You walked on over to stand next to him, your slight limp due to the injury all those years ago never healing correctly. 

His arm slid around your waist, hauling you onto his lap. As he had aged, Leon maintained his physique, somehow gaining muscle despite all the wear and tear the government had put him through. Your husband was adamant he still spend the majority of his time in the gym. Matter of fact, the breakfast you had procured had an extra dose of protein in it, just for him. 

“Tell me,” he urged, “secrets have never done anyone good.” 

“Thinking back,” you whispered, “to the day we first met.” 

“September 30, 1998.” 

“It’s a day I’ll never forget.”

If anyone is interested - I am open to creating a taglist

[coralreefqueen-ao3]

A Day I'll Never Forget (Part 2)

Pairing: 18+ | Leon Kennedy x Reader

Tags: slow burn, eventual smut, explicit language, dirty talk, established relationship, fluff, domestic moments, unrequited love (temporarily), reader falls first but Leon falls harder, one-liners, awkward dates, told over a frame of time (RE2 to RE9), Leon is kinda dense when it comes to your affections - at first

Summary: A look at the complicated romance between you and Leon. From your initial meeting, through your pining, your first date, and eventually marriage. All the times Leon never recognized your affections, until he finally did.

Word Count: 3.7k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

A cobalt blue stare darted from one edge of the page to the other, consuming your words, analyzing the information in your report. 

The hardened edges of his jaw clenched, a dimple of skin hollowing as his molars ground against one another. You hadn’t been able to produce results the government found positive. Your data hadn’t failed, it was rather what you were finding only worsened their fears. 

“How is the leg?” Leon asked as he flipped to the next page. 

The timber of his voice rippled over your skin, flooding your senses, “fine, although the doctor says there is nothing more that can be done.” 

“Sorry,” his eyes refused to meet yours, “I should have prevented -” 

“Leon,” you laughed in disbelief. Rumor had it the man was overly responsible for those around him, constantly calculating what he could have done differently after times of peril. “An infected pushed me, it’s okay.” 

He stalled, gaze slowly sliding to yours before a smile graced the corner of his mouth, “if you say so.” 

“I actually wanted to thank you,” you blurted, “for that night, six years ago.” 

“Maybe when I get back.” 

Leon was about to leave for another mission, one that took him out of the country, particularly where he might have been required to speak Spanish. The details of his departure were muddled, considered top-secret, only to be discussed between Leon and his superiors. You knew because the higher-ups had requested you take lead on the samples Leon would collect, should he encounter anyone exhibiting signs of the virus.

They doubted Leon would, but every time someone suggested a mission would be smooth sailing, it always resulted in chaos. 

“Going alone?” You hedged. 

An entirely inappropriate question, looking back. Leon would ask you why you had asked such a question on your first anniversary. You would admit it was completely for selfish reasons, transparent with the envy you had felt towards Claire and Ada. 

“I’ll have a few cops escorting me,” he replied, finishing the report and placing it back on your desk. He towered over the piece of furniture, tactical gear attached to his body, some hidden beneath his leather jacket. 

The company who made said jacket should have considered him as the model - at least, in your humble opinion. 

“How do you know I’m leaving, anyways?” 

You explained, fiddling with the pen in front of you. The weight of his gaze never failed to make you nervous, giddy, and exhausted. At twenty-six you were experiencing a crush, a crush that had begun since the man had lifted you off the hallway floor of the Racoon City police department. 

You finished your commentary with an affectionate quip: "contrary to popular belief, Mr. Kennedy, you are not the only elite member of this team.” 

The lengths you would go to see him grin were extensive. Wit was your chosen weapon, sarcasm sneaking its way into your dialogue. Racoon City had changed him, the number of casualties high. A part of him took the blame, a need to see this battle to the end toughening his youthful features. 

It was a trait you both despised and adored. 

Throughout your time with him, you would learn it couldn’t be expelled. Even when he would eventually return to Racoon City, weathered from age, and laden with stubble, it’d still haunt him. 

The biggest difference was, by that time, he’d be coming home - to you. 

His mission to rescue this so-called baby eagle had him out of the office for quite some time. Not due to the duration of the mission itself, but travel, recuperation, and other miscellaneous tasks. Leon, to the best of your knowledge, was quite popular. 

So, when knuckles rasped against your office door a month later, it came as a pleasant surprise. 

“I hear the cafeteria makes the best sandwiches around,” Leon had invited, shoulder leaned against the doorframe. The slant of his body crowded the space, simply unable to be ignored. 

His last word had barely passed his lips before you were on your feet, shrugging your labcoat off and laying it over the back of your chair. If you had known the man would be stopping by your facility, you’d have worn something different, maybe more appealing. Because upon your body was what you had dubbed your comfy work attire: a loose shirt, jeans stained with an assortment of harmless chemicals, and scuffed shoes. 

The cafeteria was located about a ten minute walk away from your office. That meant passersby would witness you side-by-side with the notorious Leon S. Kennedy. It didn’t matter if it was you, anyone and everyone was curious about who engaged in conversation with the agent. 

At first, it crawled under your skin unpleasantly. But, the logical side of your brain supplied anyone as appealing as Leon would garner attention even if the man himself disregarded it. He invoked all five senses, whether someone favored the male sex or not. His appearance, his scent, the depth of his voice. You could only imagine the feel of his skin, and the taste of his mouth were just as equally enticing, if not more so. 

You would confirm such a fact on your third date, when Leon, in his thirties, would display an innocence you had once seen on his first day on the job as a Rookie. On your doorstep, after escorting you to the entrance of your humble home, he’d ask softly to kiss you. 

What would start off as a simple exploration would lead to the agent crowding you between his frame and the wall of your house, adjacent to the front door. A groan from him, and a delicate sigh from you would persuade the tip of his tongue to flick yours, attempting for more. 

“You’re home to me,” he’d mumble as angles switched and noses nuzzled, only to repeat “you’re home.” 

Leon would taste that night of remnants of pasta and wine, accompanied by an underlying, natural rich tone. It was intoxicating. The sensation of harsh stubble over your mouth, his strong jaw relaxing to allow you to slip your tongue past his lips. Your hands would traverse his shoulders, tangling in the strands of hair at the base of his scalp. They were much fluffier than you had previously conceived. 

His hands would cup your face, fingertips extending past your ears, thumbs caressing your cheekbones. 

But that was not the start of your journey. 

Early in your relationship, which would be defined as associative, you two would spend many evenings in the cafeteria. 

Your hips would collide, aiming to push the other out of the way, striving to pay before the other could. The cashier would often bite back a complaint, it was obvious in the way she scowled. It didn’t deter either of you. 

“Aren’t I boring compared to your other co-workers?” You had mustered the courage to ask after a few years. 

A new sense of intimacy had swelled between you two. It wasn’t uncommon for Leon to find you immediately after a mission, if it required he returned to headquarters before his allotted time for recovery. Otherwise, during a normal, mundane shift, he’d meet you for lunch. Late nights happened when a few employees remained, the cafeteria scarce of any onlookers. You two shared a certain peace with one another. Sometimes you talked, sometimes you brought your paperwork while he wrote a report - the scratch of his pen an ambience you found quite comforting. 

“What do you mean?” He returned with a question of his own. Barely thirty, he had begun to experiment with his facial hair, sporting a well-manicured goatee. 

In the center of the table sat a basket of fries, dipping sauces scattered. A smudge of ketchup discolored Leon’s sleeve, a product of when you two simultaneously reached for the same miniature plastic cup. He had explained it wasn’t the worst thing that had soiled his clothes, and continued on. 

“You’re used to badass partners, fast-paced action, and . . . danger,” you shrugged. What you really had wanted to say were words referencing women who could wield a gun or knife, and understand the art of combat. 

“I am,” he agreed, pinching a fry between his thumb and forefinger. The checkered paper housing the fries wrinkled and crunched with his movements. “That’s what makes you special.” 

You scoffed, but not in offense. It was theatric, a dramatic response that earned you a quiet chuckle and smiling, sapphire eyes. 

“I’m being serious,” he acted offended, dipping his fry before chucking it into his mouth. He tended to scour your joint baskets for burnt ends. His habits were catalogued in your mind, everything from unique quirks such as fry ends, to when his hand would glance at his gun if anything shifted around him. 

“I believe you.” 

It was his turn to scoff, and he leaned onto his elbows, all his attention honed in on you. “You’re the only one who gives me these . . . slow, peaceful moments.” 

“And you like them?” 

A janitor shuffled trays onto their cart, the kitchen staff turned off the lights in their area, and a few patrons disturbed the atmosphere with the scrape of their chairs against the sleek floor. None of those interruptions made you look away, his eyes flecked with admiration, pupils bloating the longer he stared. 

“Mr. Kennedy,” a security guard approached, “the president would like to speak with you.” 

Having never heard his answer, as you thought back on that moment now, it hindered your sleep. Your cheek was pressed to his bare shoulder, his chin propped on the top of your head. Deep in his sleep, each exhale displaced your hair. 

On your side, your leg was laid over his, the plaid pajama pants he had taken a liking to, supple against your calf. They had been a Christmas gift a few years prior, not for him, no, he had bought them for you. Your husband and his cheesy one-liners often led many to believe he was a dork in a handsome body. While part of that was true, he was wholeheartedly observant, his senses in tune with your needs. 

Which, you hadn’t known until he had adorned them, was seeing your husband shirtless in low-slung pajama pants. As you had kissed down his sternum, tongue mapping his abdomen, and teeth eventually tugging on his waistband, he had chuckled, smug and victorious. 

They were left on the living room floor that evening. 

“Keep thinking that hard, gorgeous, and steam will start leaking from your ears.” 

His voice, roughened by the gravel of sleep, frayed your nerves.

You adjusted as he revised his own position, pulling you closer as you two rolled to face one another. It brought your thigh to bracket his hip, your hand stroking the length of his bicep. His hand skimmed your spine beneath your camisole, nails a whisper over your skin. You enjoyed when his hand would spread and span your ribs, the chilled metal of his wedding band a delectable sensation. 

“I know the answer now,” you said, talking more to confirm it for yourself, “from all those years ago.” 

“Reminiscing again?” 

“Remember when I asked if you liked those slow, peaceful moments with me?” 

He pulled the blankets further up your bodies, the slide of fabric over skin the only sound. That, and the heater kicking in, forcing the walls behind the headboard to rumble. Leon preferred to have routine sounds within your house, silence was far too eerie, and prevented him from resting. 

“Yeah,” he acknowledged. 

“What would you have said back then?” 

“Something stupid,” he had transitioned to playing with the roots of your hair along your scalp, “I didn’t realize at the time you were what got me through each mission.” 

“Oh?” You poked his chest with your forefinger, teasing, “and when did you realize I was the center of your universe?” 

“Mrs. Kennedy,” Leon scolded, playful in tone, manipulating you onto your back with minimum pressure. As you had been in such an orientation hundreds of times before, your legs went to cradle both sides of his waist immediately. It never took much for the man to shape your body in whatever way he desired. “Are you making me tell you the story, again?” 

“I’m not making you do anything, Mr. Kennedy.” 

“I happen to disagree, respectfully, of course.” 

Your rebuttal came in the form of nibbling on his bottom lip when he lowered himself. It was as if he knew your next move, lacing your fingers together before pinning them above your head. The pillow caved beneath the weight of his grip, forearms flexing in your periphery. 

“Bite me again, I dare you, beautiful,” he challenged. 

“Tell me, please?” You approached with a different tactic, catering to whatever within him relented to your methods. 

There were a few reasons this story was your favorite. It reflected Leon’s genuine, past perplexity of your presence, and to tell a story meant the timber of his voice would have to be used for an extended period of time. You loved to hear him speak. The few sentences he provided would always leave you eager for more. 

“Begging isn’t your usual strategy,” he traced your jaw with his mouth, an incisor dragging sinfully over the ledge until he was stamping chaste kisses down your neck. “This isn’t my first rodeo, gorgeous.” 

“I’d hope not,” you arched, tilting your chin back. It bared your throat, summoning him to the column of your neck, where the bristles of his shadow would scratch erotically over your sensitive skin. 

He maintained it less, a new practice of his you weren’t entirely opposed to. Little flares of silver coincided with his native blonde, showcasing a gruff exterior you wanted to immerse yourself in. It provoked fantasies, new and unexplored, to amuse your imagination. 

You two had approached aging with two different mindsets. Leon, took it in stride, mentioning if you had seen what he did throughout his life, silver hair was the least of his worries. He had also thrown the word retirement into the mix. It wasn’t appearance that was your concern, you were curious how age would alter your health, attitude, and well, libido. 

Health had been kind to the both of you, all things considered. Exposed to chemicals and the T-virus your entire career, you had expected some sort of incurable disease to worm its way into your system. Leon had shared similar sentiments, and white there had been a few hiccups here and there, he had emerged almost unscathed. His bones ached at times, and nightmares occasionally robbed him of sleep. Images of his past, he would say. 

“You’re here with me, now,” was your routine response.

Throughout life, many would discuss how older individuals changed their views on topics that helped to define the core of a person. It ranged from politics and conspiracy theories, to comments made on the rising price of gasoline. Your fiftieth birthday felt as if it was the turning point, you had believed you would wake up a different person. Having crossed that threshold first, Leon joked, stating he would drag you to the dark side safely. 

Much like health, there had been no drastic changes in that department. Perhaps, the most prominent alteration was the time in which you crawled into bed - earlier, a book in hand, and glasses on the bridge of your nose. You would sit against the headboard, flipping pages while Leon rested his head on your thigh. 

The first time you had donned your glasses, your husband had wiggled his eyebrows, teasing he didn’t know he had married a “hot librarian” - his words, exactly. 

“Seems I need to find my library card,” he rolled so the back of his head was pillowed by the top of your thigh, his hands reaching to annoy your forearm, hoping you’d move your book. You did, placing it on the nightstand as you waited for the rest of his sentence. You had smacked him on the chest when he said, “because I’d like to check you out.” 

You hushed him with a finger to his lips, “libraries are quiet places, my love.” 

His lips split into a smile, eyes glazing over in a syrupy lacquer, indicating a shift you knew all too well. 

“Shall we see how long we can stay quiet?” 

It wouldn't be long, you discovered. Even with his hand shrouding your mouth, breaths humid against his palm, you cried out, albeit muffled. His grunts, harsh exhales, and verbal exertions warmed your ear, rousing more whines from your throat. 

“Fuck,” he had hissed, vaulting his hips into yours, with inexplicable, patient precision. When buried to the hilt, encased by your weeping cunt, he’d grind, heightening the pleasure for the both of you. “So good, gorgeous, so fucking good for me.” 

So, libido hadn’t proven to be an issue. Intimacy with Leon was unpredictable. There was only one consistency, and that was reassurance. No matter the words, position, or circumstance, Leon looked at you with undeniable certainty. Unpredictability came in the form of neither of you knowing how you would couple. Leon had argued that meant it was predictable. 

The day he had proposed, you had anticipated a rushed union the second you unlocked the door to your shared home. The weight of your engagement ring promised excitement, the thrill of a future together. Instead, Leon had undressed you slowly, mouthing at the skin he skillfully revealed. And as he did that, you did the same, until the both of you were naked, maneuvering to the couch. 

You rode him in a languid manner, each row of your hips was lithe, undulating like liquid. You embraced him with your arms, his head trapped to your sternum, large hands encompassing your lower back. No filthy vocabulary was utilized, soft words of affirmations were whispered: oaths, vows, and commitments. 

Such intimacy you had reserved for his return after a strenuous mission. You had entered the shower as a pair, your fingers raking through his hair with a copious amount of suds. The blood, gore, and remnants of the infected no longer affected you; it was your job to dig through their complex constitution daily. 

The plan was to handle his body with careful, gentle hands so as to not startle him. In your mind, from what he had recalled, you imagined missions filled with violent barrages against his body. Bruises littered his skin, scrapes lined his forearms, thighs, and sides. His trigger finger ached, overused and lacking any respite. 

“I need you,” Leon ground out, quiet underneath the spray of water, “be a good girl, and let me have you, please.” 

His rare but confident commands tore through your abdomen, compiling at your core. Your clit throbbed, his pending praise igniting a craving so fierce, your legs felt like jelly. He would be walking you through it, with commendation and calculated guidance, for the rest of the night. 

While Leon presented a front of a need beyond his control, if you refused, he wouldn’t push. Somehow, that stoked the fire in your belly, turning it into a raging inferno only a release would quell. 

“I’m all yours,” was your consent. 

“Fuck, you always give me what I need.” 

The tile behind you was slippery, your knees hooked over his elbows, his forehead fused to yours. With his hair slicked back from the water, his eyes held yours without any interference. Hair smattered his abdomen, from bellybutton down to his navel. If he swung his hips just right, the wiry strands would plow over your clit, adding stimulation that punched a moan from your chest. 

Once he set his mind to something, Leon delivered. 

As he did now, successfully distracting you from receiving his story. His hand had slid between you, thick fingers hauling through your crease, circling your entrance. He toyed, irises sharp in the lamplight. He sunk one finger to the base, and inched back, before adding a second on his next thrust. 

Your legs split, falling open to accommodate. 

“Leon,” you gasped, gripping his biceps, nails indenting his skin. His body, scarred, demonstrated years of combat and hardships. He wore them proudly, just as he did your scratches, often admiring them in the morning. 

“That is me,” he chuckled, wedging the heel of his palm over your clit. 

A retort grew on your tongue, but he coaxed a cry from you instead, curling his fingers to stroke a spot only he could find. 

“Naughty girl,” he tutted, “you were about to be snarky, huh.” 

And this was why you loved him, why you said yes when he proposed. Because it didn’t matter the situation, Leon never changed. Here he was, fingers penetrating and hand soaked, awarding you with his unique humor. 

“Close,” you encircled his wrist with your hand, hauling him further into you as your hips lifted. 

“Yeah? Is my gorgeous wife going to make a mess of my hand?” 

Your ears heated, the skin most likely burning a shade darker than your natural tone. He made you blush to this day, despite being well past what many called the honeymoon phase. What they didn’t realize was carnal excitement could be found in domesticity, comfort, and foundation. 

“That’s it, give it to me.” 

Your body bowed, knees snapping shut to trap his frame. Your cry dissolved into a breathless whine, pussy clenching tight around his fingers as he massaged your abused skin. Rivulets of sweat dripped down your sternum, trailing beneath your breast to soak into the sheets below. 

Panting, you watched, gaze locked onto Leon as he lifted his hand to his mouth, pushing his fingers past his lips as he licked the digits clean. 

“Still want that story?” He asked, falling onto the bed next to you. His cock laid over his navel, on top of the veins that crafted elegant bumps below his bellybutton. Flushed at the tip, his body yearned for a release. 

The story could wait, your fingertips tracing the crown of his length. The slit at the top drooled, a natural lubricant as you began to stroke. 

He didn’t last long, pent up from provoking your own release. 

It was when he laid there, sticky and satiated, he guided you to burrow against his side. 

“Remember where it started?” He quizzed. 

You nodded, snuggling in, eager to hear when he knew, when he realized you were who he wanted. 

You smiled, “the diner.”

Taglist: @anothergojostan , @thiskingdomwillendure , @needsumcomfypillowstosleep , @bladeswifesthings , @nshasy , @mylifedoesntexist , @ivyforeve , @pacifythes0ul , @maria--grey , @babygirl-panda19 , @chylchill , @darkfaries , @multifandomgirlie , @10hrs26mn , @itzmeme , @quemmysworld , @anahwrts , @ordelixx , @starlingnvrzz

[satorusdreamer]

Beneath the Shadows

Summary: Heartbreak was something Gojo experienced for the first time at age six, when his best friend disappeared without so much as a goodbye. Twenty years later he had to kill his other best friend with his bare hands. No matter how far he travels, shadows from the past keep clinging to him. Imagine his surprise when one day he can feel something beneath one of those shadows.

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Ten Shadows user!reader

Tags/Content Warnings: mdni/18+ only, alternating POVs, regret, denial, angst, hurt/comfort, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, rebuilding of trust, mentions of killing someone, a shit-ton of flashbacks, mutual masturbation, 69, unprotected P in V sex, breeding kink, creampies (obviously), pussydrunk Gojo, mating press, tummy bulging.

Word Count: 32.3k

A/N: dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune art by @/_3aem on x. I kinda got the timeline wrong, so I know technically Digimon wasn't a thing yet but details details. Yes I did proofread it, but because it's so big I'm sure I missed some things. Hopefully you guys enjoy because it took me way too long to write this one. 🤍

Leaning against the fence, Gojo’s looking at the kids train—though it’s more like the second-years beating up the first-years.

Snow softly falls from the sky, casting the world in a blanket of white. Little flakes are clinging to his blindfold, hair and attire. He could turn on Infinity, not deal with the cold, wet spots they leave behind, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to feel this—the nostalgic feeling.

It bubbles up somewhere behind his ribcage, that feeling of loneliness. It’s always worse in winter. The snow a cruel, harsh reminder of what happened twice, two decades apart.

The first one being when he was merely six years old, snowflakes never touching his fluffy snow-white hair. He’d been playing outside with you just the day before—you, his best friend, that first love that he didn’t know was love back then, mistaking it for the feeling of the two of you just being close to one another.

He didn’t have anyone else back then, completely hidden from the world because he was the Gojo heir who inherited the Six Eyes. Banished to a life behind locked doors, away from people who might’ve wanted to hurt him.

That is until he found you one day, at merely three years old. You were playing with dolls—ripping off their little limbs and beheading them, giggling at the sight of what you’d done.

When you noticed him, you extended one of your still intact dolls. Didn’t look at him like he was something forbidden to touch. Didn’t scurry away like most of the others in this place—both adults as children alike—just extended a doll because that seemed normal to do.

He didn’t know where your parents were, nor cared to know. He was but three years old himself, but banished to such a lonely life only months after he was born, this seemed normal for him.

So he sat with you and started to play with you. You kept ripping up your dolls, doodling on them with crayons you got from god knows where (there were obvious chunks missing out of the crayons, and he had no doubt you actually ate them), and generally being messy.

Gojo, however, took a completely different route. He brushed the hair of the little dolls with the provided brush. It kept tangling and tugging at the synthetic fibers that was the dolls hair. But he wanted her to look pretty again, so he kept huffing and puffing trying to smooth out the hair. His little tongue sticking out in concentration.

The contrast between the two of you was stark. You were all chaos while he was the calm itself. The dolls a perfect representation.

The playing together was moreso done separately but in close proximity — parallel play is what he found out when he was older, was a term that described it the most. It’s also something he sought after when he was a teenager. The feeling of being alone was absolutely suffocating for him, so he always wanted to be with someone, even if they were doing something else.

After he’d finally untangled the dolls’ hair, he felt something soft and gritty on his arm. Looking down you were drawing on him. Laying on your stomach, little feet swinging in the air, tongue poking out of your mouth—much like his had been doing just moments before.

He’d blinked down at you, his tiny brain not fully computing that you were touching him—well, technically the crayon was, but whatever.

You were in your own world, drawing… what even was that? You had a brown crayon in your hand—his caregiver had praised him to the sky when he was able to correctly identify his colors—and were drawing a circle with little lines around it.

“What’s that?” he’d asked, blue eyes wide. Genuine.

Blinking up at him, you smiled for the first time. Tiny teeth on full display. “‘s the sun, silly!” you’d giggled at him, as if it was funny that he didn’t know.

Gojo’s white brows furrowed together. Confusion written all over his face. “The sun is yellow.” You’d merely shrugged at that, as if it didn’t matter.

“Now it’s green,” you simply said, continuing doodling on his arm as if he was a blank canvas for you to put your art onto.

“It’s not green, it’s brown,” he pointed out, little finger pointing at the—very obvious—brown crayon in your fist. Yes your entire fist is around the crayon.

You’re scowling at him now, like you’re offended by the fact that you were wrong about the color — not about the fact that items are supposed to have set colors — and that he did know it.

“Nuhuh,” you shook your head at him. “Yuhuh,” he countered.

There was a silent stare-off. Then you sneezed. One of those open-mouthed not bringing your hand up to your face to shield it type of sneezes. Wiping your nose with your sleeve you looked at him once more before continuing to doodle on his arm. This time a brown flower.

Well, okay then. Gojo picked up one of the other crayons— a blue one that kind of looked like his eyes, though his eyes had multiple shades of blue swirling in them. Not that his little mind was able to grasp that just yet. He just knew that his eyes were blue and so was this crayon.

He started doodling on your arm, a little dog. (It did not look like a dog.) The room silent except for the heavy breathing of the two of you and the occasional sound of the crayon on skin.

That was, until his caregiver found him—and you—sitting there like that. The gasp that she let out startled the both of you, little crayons making a line on skin that ruined the doodles the two of you were making on each other.

Looking over with wide eyes, both you and Satoru are met with the woman that’s taking care of him—not that you know that—while he’s here at the estate. Her expression turns from shock to confusion to barely contained anger real quick.

Her eyes scanning the room—the ruined dolls, limbs strewn everywhere, the intact dolls, and lastly how both you and Gojo were covered in crayon marks.

She stomps over then, Gojo thinking she was there to drag him back. He did kind of sneak away after all. But instead of going to him, she goes straight to you.

Grabbing you by the arm, she hauls you up to your feet. “You cannot touch the Six Eyes, young lady,” she scolds you. Your eyes welling up with big, fat tears. It’s quite clear you had no idea who Gojo was.

As the lady tries to haul you out of the room—muttering something under her breath about unsupervised children—Gojo tried to stop her. Planting his tiny body in front of the door he crossed his arms. It took the caregiver by surprise.

“What is it, Gojo-sama?” she questions, hand still tightly gripping your arm so you don't run off. Gojo huffs at the sight. He had only known you for approximately fifteen minutes—though it felt like an eternity at that point—but he’d already told himself you were his friend.

“She’ll stay here,” he stubbornly says, his foot stomping onto the tatami floor once for emphasis. You’d looked up at him then, fat tears still streaming down your face, nose running. But your eyes were so hopeful then.

And that’s how the three years of friendship begun, just you offering up your dolls for a stranger.

The two of you were always seen together whenever Gojo didn’t have training. Out in the garden either looking at flowers or stomping into small puddles resulting in the two of you getting scolded for getting yourselves dirty.

He’d learned you weren’t someone from the Gojo clan, but rather from a different, smaller clan. The day the two of you met you were at one of the Gojo estates because your parents were negotiating, but to this day he still hasn’t found out what.

The first winter spent together felt like a fairytale. It was snowing outside, making the entire garden white. You’d giggled at him and told him it was as white as his hair! (Yes, you finally knew your colors. He’d beamed at you when you finally started differentiating them.)

And it did. Pulling you outside the two of you ran around in the garden, the snow crunching under tiny feet, leaving behind small footprints.

At one point you’d collapsed onto your bum, pants getting wet from the melting snow under it. Not that you cared. Breathing hard since you were laughing the entire time.

Gojo sat down next to you, knees pulled up to his chest, staring ahead of him. But when he turned back to you, you were laying on the ground, moving your arms and legs.

“What’re you doin?” he asked, because why would you flail around in the snow? Looking over at him you smiled, “making a snow angel. Mama told me how to.”

Gojo followed soon after—he always did. Wherever you went, he went. Whatever you did, he did. Not always in the same way you did, take the dolls for example, but it was always just being together.

That year he had a lot of firsts. Making his first friend, which became his best friend. Playing—with dolls, toy-cars, just drawing. And making his first snow angel.

Two winters later it was snowing once again. It was his sixth birthday, and at the time he claimed he was aaalll grown up now! (He wasn’t, but he liked to tease you because ‘grown ups are tall, dummy. And since I’m taller than you, that makes me a grown up.’)

The day was filled with sweets, cake, and, of course, making snow angels together. There wasn’t really a birthday party for him—only you, your parents and his caregiver were there—but that didn’t matter to him as long as you were by his side.

You’d given him a Digivice. Maybe not completely suited for a six-year-old but you were only six yourself. Smiling at him, one of your front teeth missing. And you’d never looked more beautiful, but that of course was only because you were his bestest friend—and only, but alas.

Digimon was something you’d introduced him to on one of the play-dates. It was a rare occasion, because he was over at your house. Normally the two of you were at the Gojo estate.

Going up to your room you just had to show him something so cool! It was an manga about little creatures. And oh boy, did Gojo immediately fall in love with Digimon. It’s not like he got to do these types of things back at the estate, for the estate was cold. Everything was focused on him training and keeping away from others.

So you’d gotten him a Digivice. ‘A pet!’ you’d told him when he looked at it quizzically. then you dug around in your own pocket and pulled out a similar looking one. ‘So we can match’ you grinned at him. He grinned right back, two of his own teeth missing.

And you explained to him that he had to keep the pet alive and all the other quirks your mom told you about the little virtual pet.

He’d been so happy. Going to sleep with a smile on his face and the little device tucked right against his chest. That smile, however, vanished the next day.

The two of you had a play-date scheduled, which, honestly, was a daily occurrence at this point. But you never showed up. No call. No letter. No nothing.

When his caregiver rang your mothers phone, it immediately went to voicemail. Though he had frowned and felt sad, he didn’t think anything of it, simply waving it off as a one-time occurrence.

But one day turned into two turned into three turned into weeks, until, eventually, it was months since the last time he saw you. Winter had turned into spring which gradually turned into summer, but he hadn’t seen you even once.

You’d simply… vanished from his life. From the earth, it seemed. He’d thrown a tantrum one evening, missing you greatly. And his caregiver had asked around to see if anyone knew something, but it’s like you simply packed up your life and left.

Your house sat abandoned, neighbors having heard nothing about where you moved to nor were given any other ways of contact.

The only thing Gojo still had from you were a few drawings of the two of you together and his Digivice. He never once let the little pet die. Nurturing it to keep it alive.

Blinking away the snow that have fallen on his lashes, he sees Yuji laughing about something while Nobara is scolding him. A small smile forms on Gojo’s face. At least his kids are happy, that’s all he could ask for.

Feeling around in his pocket, he finds the familiar plastic device. He’d never gotten rid of it; keeping a part of you close to him despite disappearing. It never fails to put a smile on his face.

Winter used to be his favorite season, but he hates it now. Having lost both his best friends in winter. The first one being you, of course. Just disappearing. The second. Well… he swallows once, his eyes flitting to the side of the school.

It’s been only a year. Just one. Where he had to kill his only other friend—best friend.

The thought weighs heavily on his mind. The way Geto’s body just sagged to the side after he… Gojo shakes his head once, he can’t afford to think about it again.

So yeah. Now winter is his least favorite season. He also doesn’t really like summer, because that’s when Riko lost her life to Toji. Just one bullet. One kid. Fated to him.

He should’ve seen it then—the change in Geto. The way he started talking about non-sorcerers after that. But he didn’t, not until it was too late.

Swallowing once, he looks back at the kids. A full-blown snowball fight is going on now. Nobara is targeting Yuji, who runs away with incredible speeds. Toge is cheating by telling Panda to stop. Maki pelts a snowball at Panda at light speed.

Gojo winces when he sees the way Panda’s body gets flung across the courtyard. And Megumi… well Megumi is sitting in the snow, both of his dogs summoned. The black one laying next to him, head on its paws, while the white one is rolling through the snow.

A small, almost indiscernible smile forms on Megumi’s face, though he would deny it if someone brought it up, of course.

Gojo smiles down at the sight. This is how it’s supposed to be, the kids having fun, letting them be kids. Something he didn’t really get after you were gone from his life.

Nobara throws a snowball at Yuji, who dodges. She’s yelling at him to just stand still, not that Yuji would. He’s having too much fun running in laps around her. The white Divine Dog runs after the snowball. An innocent little wolf thing.

It prances toward the treeline. The forest that spans most of the Jujutsu High school. There should be nothing there, the veil from Tengen supposed to reject curses. But right there, a little further into the forest, he sees it—cursed energy.

That doesn’t make sense, though. No one is there. He doesn’t see someone standing. But still, there’s cursed energy right there, in the ground. Blinking, he rubs his eyes once. Maybe the snow is fucking with his sight. Six Eyes malfunctioning or something.

But once he focuses his eyes, it’s still there. It almost looks like someone is in the shadows, looking at him. And as if they can sense his gaze, it darts away, further into the forest.

Pushing himself off the railing he was leaned against, he teleports himself into the forest. There are trees everywhere, ground not fully covered with snow. The branches on the trees blanketed with snow, making shadows everywhere.

Looking around, he sees it, about 200 meters away, someone is running away from him. Hood up, clothes fully black. He quickly closes in on the person, they aren’t that fast after all. (Or maybe it has to do with the fact that he is fast. Eh, whatever.)

Grabbing the person by the shoulder, he tugs them to a stop. They try to wriggle out of his grasp without succession.

“Y’know, unless there’s new faculty I’m not aware of, you are not supposed to be here,” he says, voice still playful, but underneath he’s already calculating the risks. Someone who snuck onto the Jujutsu High grounds without anyone knowing. Hell, if he didn’t have Six Eyes he probably wouldn’t have known there was someone there.

The person doesn’t speak, just tries to get away from his grasp. Tightening his hold on their arm he tugs them back. The stranger stumbles back with a squeak of surprise, arms flailing slightly. It’s then that the hood falls from their face slightly.

Gojo sucks in a breath, because there’s no way. This is just his mind playing tricks on him. It just isn’t possible. A name falls from his lips before his brain even processes it—yours.

It makes the person still, no longer tugging to get away, just standing there, still not looking at him.

Releasing your arm, Gojo takes a step back. He shakes his head. There’s no way. It just simply isn’t possible. He’d searched for you everywhere. Looked into registries, looked if your name or face was somewhere, anywhere.

But you were never admitted to Jujutsu High—neither Tokyo nor Kyoto. Though if you were in Tokyo he would’ve known, obviously. There was no trace of you in the sorcerer world. He’d one day strolled into the headquarters. No one stopped him physically, but there were shouts of confusion. Not that he cared.

Going through the database he sought for you, but it seemed like you never became a sorcerer. All of his searches leading to a dead end. And that’s exactly what he thought you were—dead. Though his heart never wanted to believe it, his mind constantly whispered at him that that was the only logical explanation.

So how are you here, twenty-two years later, standing in front of him?

Does that also mean you never searched for him? Everyone knew who he was, after all. His name a beacon in the sorcerer world. And even if you weren’t in it, you still knew his name. So why is it that you’re only here now, and not earlier—preferably years earlier.

There are so many thoughts running through his mind, but they get cut off when you whisper. “You weren’t supposed to see me.”

That gets a laugh out of him. Surprised. Bitter. Heartbroken. Angry. All these feelings tangling up inside of him to a point he doesn’t know how to differentiate them from one another.

“Weren’t supposed to see you, so what, you just—” he gestures with his hand wildly, “sneak up on people. Watch them from a distance and then leave again?”

You turn your face even further from him, to the point where he’s looking at the back of your head, half of your hair visible, the rest still covered by the hood that’s half up.

“Kinda,” you shrug at him, as if that isn’t weird. Creepy even. Because why would you just watch. God he missed you. Yearned for the moment you would just step back into his life. He would let you in without a second thought.

He remembers the way he would grip his Digivice in his hands at different stages in his life. Always wishing you could be there with him, like you were when the two of you were kids. He missed you in every stage of his life.

When he was a kid, lonely in the Gojo estate. He avoided the rooms the two of you frequently were in, the thought of you not being there with him hurt him too much. Despite that, he still peeked inside, just to see if you really weren’t there. Always clinging to a tiny bit of hope that he’d dreamed you leaving him. But the room always stayed empty.

When he was a teenager, he’d learned to accept that you simply were gone. That didn’t mean he didn’t look at empty places whenever he was with his friends—Geto, Shoko, Nanami and Haibara—just to imagine you were there with him. Laughing at the dumb jokes he made with Geto. Probably annoying the shit out of Nanami.

Because you were chaos. Beautifully destructive in the way only you seemed to be. And he knew that would push Nanami’s buttons.

You’d probably love Haibara in the way one does a little brother or sister. Naturally drawn to the innocent smiles of the guy, only to trip him up when he wasn’t looking. The way you sometimes did when Gojo did something you disliked.

But you were never there with them. In his mind you would always be six years old. A tiny thing compared to how tall he grew up to be. He really did look like an adult with the way he was towering over everyone.

And he’d tease you for your height, because surely you wouldn’t be taller than he was. You’d scowl at him, poke him in the chest. Probably eat all of his sweets just to spite him. He would let you, of course. He always shared his sweets with you when he was younger, even if they were the last ones.

He’d think about how you wouldn’t look at him like he was a god or a weapon, but simply just Gojo Satoru, the boy he was when he was with you. How you wouldn’t abandon him to shoulder all of the responsibilities of the Jujutsu world.

But that’s exactly what you did, didn’t you? You had abandoned him without even a second thought. Didn’t tell him anything, just simply vanished to the point he thought you were dead.

And now here you are, telling him you prefer to look at people from distances in a way that they didn’t even know they were being watched.

“You didn’t notice before—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Look at me when you talk to me,” he demands. Voice low. No longer playful. And he’s refraining himself from shouting at you. You didn’t notice before. So you have done it before.

He can see you take in a deep breath before turning around. And this time, Gojo can see your entire face. Can see the way you’ve grown from how you looked when you were younger. How the years have shaped you. Sculpted you into who you are right now.

It knocks the breath right out of him. All your baby fat is gone—obviously it is. Still, you look like you. The little kid he remembers.

“You just… didn’t notice before,” you swallow your words at the end. His blue eyes piercing yours, the same ones as when you were younger. It almost seems like he’s trying to stare through your soul.

There are so many questions running rampant in his head. How many times have you spied on him. Why were you just looking at him? Trying to sell information? When did it start? Does this mean you didn’t miss him? Why not just walk up to him?

And he thinks back to all the times he had the feeling that he was being watched. But by the time he turned around, nothing was there. Just now it looked like you were underneath the ground. In the shadows.

…In the shadows. Surely not.

He can feel all the cursed energy signatures from the kids on the field. Can feel the way they’re shaped, when they get used. And more importantly, he can feel one particular Cursed Energy signature. Megumi’s.

The one that uses shadows. The one that produces shikigami from shadows, that can store things in shadows, that can hide in shadows.

But that can’t be. Ten Shadows is a hereditary technique from the Zen’in clan. Neither your mom nor dad are from the clan, so surely it can’t be that.

Still, looking at you, he can see the way your CE flows. Can deduct the way your CT works. And his Eyes don’t lie to him, never have.

His jaw sets before he grabs you by the arm once more. Sees the way your brows furrow. You open your mouth—probably to ask what he’s doing—when Gojo teleports the two of you away.

The room he teleports to is familiar to him, unfortunately. Dimly lit by multiple candles and thousands of talismans spanning the walls of the room. He pushes you onto the chair without a second thought.

“Wait, Satoru what—”

“You have no right to call me that,” he speaks in a low voice. He hates how his heart rate picks up. How it makes his heart skip a beat.

You always called him that when the two of you were younger. Not Gojo. Not Gojo-sama. Just… Satoru. And it had made him happy back then, because you were the only one who called him by his name. Though it was always more of a ‘S’toru’, he didn’t mind.

Oh, and lets not forget when you started calling him ‘Toru just before his sixth birthday. It made his chest constrict in a way it hadn’t before. Made his cheeks warm up—though they did that often when you were around—which made him turn away from you.

Tying the ropes around your arms, he steps back slightly. The snowflakes are now fully melted, dampening the fabrics of his jacket and pants. Walking to the other chair in the room, he hears you struggling against the bindings.

“Seriously, what is this,” you ask now, a bit more agitated. Gojo just hums, pulling the black blindfold out of his pocket and putting it on. A deliberate act on his part.

When the two of you were kids you loved his eyes. Not in the way most people loved it.

You didn’t look at them like they represented power. No you rather just looked at them with the innocence of a kid who likes a color. ‘It’s like watercolor spilled into your eyes!’ you’d giggled at him then, watching the different shades of blue swirl around in his irises.

Always fascinated with his eyes, you, beautifully chaotic you, just grabbed his face and tilted his head in this and that way just so you could examine the colors. Like he was a mere toy you were playing with.

You loved his eyes the way you loved all of him, from the way his hair was white—though most people’s hair was white within the Gojo clan. Not that you cared, you only had eyes for him—to the way his eyes were impossible shades of blue and the way he smiled, even when he started losing some of his baby teeth.

Sitting down onto the chair, Gojo leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. He watched you squirm around a bit.

“Sa— Gojo why did you bring me here?” you ask once again.

He sighs then. “Why are you here?" he asks. And he wants to ask more, of course he does, but that’s not something that’s going to happen right now.

“I- what?” you falter, sitting completely still now.

“Why are you here?” he repeats. And you blink up at him, the same way you did when you were younger. It makes his heart hurt so incredibly much.

“Just wanted to see you,” you mumble, eyes casting off to the side.

The words echo around in his mind. Just wanted to see you; Just wanted to see me??? You had twenty-two years to do so. Gojo scoffs, “sure you did. Just tell the truth. Who sent you?”

Your head whips back to where he’s sitting. “Sent me? No one sent me, Gojo. Why would anyone send me here?”

“Well, why don’t you tell me. You just told me you spy on people from a distance,” he replies, voice growing agitated.

You bite your cheek, swallow once before looking up at him again. “Not a great way to start the conversation, huh?” you whisper.

It isn’t. Definitely isn’t. That is something people who get sent out on missions say. Stalk the person, prey on them, learn their patterns before striking.

Rubbing a hand over his face he stifles a groan. He should let someone else examine you. Knows he’s too close to you to properly do ‘his job’. But what would he even say?

‘Hey my childhood bestfriend was watching me from the shadows. What— ah yeah, guess I never told you guys about her. Anyway I haven’t spoken to her in two decades so it’s shady as fuck that she infiltrated the school.’

Yeah, no, not happening.

So instead he continues, despite the way his heart wants to crawl out of his ribcage. Present itself to you in the way it has yearned to these past few years. Spilling onto the concrete floor along with the feelings he’s held for you for so long.

“Then why are you here now,” he asks once again, in hopes you’d give him a different answer. One that satiates the voice in his mind, whispering that this is all a setup. To lure him in.

“I already told you, I wanted to see you,” you struggle a bit against the ropes binding you to the chair once again. There’s faint desperation creeping into your voice. The same way it did when you were younger. When Gojo accidentally broke something—it happens, the two of you were kids after all—but somehow you always got blamed. No matter how much you tried to convince that it was Satoru who broke it.

“Sure. Okay lets go with that,” he starts, voice full of doubt and mistrust, “why now? Why more than two decades later?”

He sees the way you swallow. Sees the way you can’t quite look him in the eye—well, blindfold. Same thing, really.

“I heard what happened last year,” you whisper. And his heart that was previously beating so fast fucking stops in its tracks. Last year.

Vivid images burn through his retinas before he can stop them. The thousands of curses. The curse users. The people who got wounded. His ‘kids’ almost all dying. The face Geto made before… yeah.

His jaw sets. Grinding his molars together to keep from snapping. To bark out what about last year made you finally want to show up after twenty years. Twenty years of loss, grief, heartbreak and all other sorts of feelings he’s had.

“Just wanted to see if you were doing okay.” you finish. And that, more than anything, pisses him off. If he was doing okay? No, he wasn’t doing ‘okay’, he was far from okay as could be. Both his best friends disappeared out of his life. He’s been lonely for most of it, even if there were people around him.

People could just never understand what he went through. What gets expected of him for simply being born with a trait that gets praised as if he’s a god. They often forget that he’s a human being, with human feelings—that get neglected to hell and back.

He’s no god. He, too, needs sleep like normal people. But alas, the higher-ups send him to missions one after another like he doesn’t need rest. Like he isn’t some guy that sometimes yearns to be understood.

But he does what they ask of him anyway. Goes to every single mission. Loses out on sleep. Loses out on the fact that he doesn’t really have an identity of his own anymore. It’s just molded to fit into the expectations that were placed upon him.

That, however, doesn’t mean he doesn’t try to have something of his own. In a way he adapted your chaotic little self into himself, just a little. It made it easier, not letting people see the side of him that made him feel vulnerable. Stripped down to his bare self, where he looks out over the Tokyo skyline and wishes that he wasn’t Gojo Satoru, even for just a few minutes.

So no, he isn’t doing okay. He hasn’t been. Not since you left. And yes, sure, he thought he was okay when he met Geto. But that, just like everything else in his life, didn’t last long.

Now he just drowns himself in sweets whenever possible. What was once a love for him, back when the two of you were just kids, is now a coping mechanism.

He’d read once, somewhere on a forum, that eating sweets constantly could be due to psychological factors rather than him just having a sweet-tooth. He’d skimmed it briefly, but he remembers enough that counts; The brain craving sweetness because it’s stressed. The fact that foods, especially sugary ones, temporarily raise serotonin and dopamine levels in the brain can make you addicted… or something like that anyway.

“I haven’t been okay,” it comes out harsher than he meant to, a crack starting to form in his composure. You flinch at the tone slightly, eyes downcast.

“Right, yeah no, of course not,” you mumble, still not meeting his eye. He can see the way your fingers are fiddling with each other behind your back, the same, tiny movement you always did when you were younger.

The silence hangs awkwardly in the air. He doesn’t quite know how to continue, and neither do you by the way you sometimes open and close your mouth.

“You know I didn’t want to leave, right?” you whisper, and it sounds true. He wants it to be true, so fucking badly. But how can he believe you when you never reached out even once. You knew he was alive, he is The Strongest after all. His death would be a grand thing within the Jujutsu world. But then again, were you even in that world?

“Then why did you?” he asks, keeping his voice steady to not show any inner turmoil. You look up again, the candles casting soft amber lighting on your face. And you look so earnestly.

“I- where do I even begin?” your hands are still fiddling behind you. And it must be torture, because he know, he knows how expressive you are with them.

Whenever you told stories, you didn’t just tell them with your voice, you used your hands. Like, a lot. Sometimes they added things to the story, visual cues almost, while other times they were just flailing around because you were so happy.

Satoru had to always dodge your hands—having been smacked with them on multiple occasions before he learned that lesson.

“At the start,” he replies. And you laugh at that. A self-deprecating little thing. Swallowing you open your mouth once more.

“The day after your birthday I got woken up by dad,” you begin, and the images immediately flood your mind. You’d clutched your little matching Digivice to your chest when you went to bed. A small smile gracing your face, because ‘Toru was so happy with his gift.'

The dream you had was you and Satoru running around inside the Digimon universe. Little creatures left and right. It was like you were transported into the manga. And god, the smile on Satoru’s face was priceless. His gap showing from where his first baby-tooth had fallen out.

The dream was full of colors and little creatures. Which is why you woke up with a gasp when your father had shaken you awake, voice panicked. He told you that you guys ‘had to go’. There was no further explanation, just him and your mom running around the house, collecting essential items.

You’d gotten out of bed, rubbing your eye with one palm while the other still clutched the Digivice. Your pajama pants had ridden up, one pant leg above your knee while the other was shoved somewhere half over your shin.

“He was in a rush, like pulling me out of bed and telling me to get in the car.”

“What’s going on?” you asked your parents, but neither really had an answer. All you were met with was ‘we just gotta go somewhere else for a little while, sweetie’ and you didn’t understand. Didn’t understand why your dad picked you up and almost sprinted to the car. Didn’t understand why only the essentials were being grabbed.

All you knew was that you had a play-date with Satoru later that day. “Okay. But we’ll be back in time for Satoru, right?”

Your parents had shared a glance between each other. One that you now know said how are we going to explain to her that she won’t get to see her best friend anymore?

“After that we drove off to an airport. Got onto a plane to some foreign country in Europe and completely left behind the life we had built here.”

You’d fallen asleep in the car, the gentle rocking of the car lulling you to sleep quite quick. When you woke up, you were in your dads arms. But more importantly, you weren’t in the car anymore. No you were somewhere crowded.

Suitcases everywhere, overhead speakers crackling to life. Some people panicking while others were sitting and staring ahead of them. There were tiny shops everywhere.

“I didn’t understand at the time,” you smile bitterly thinking back on how child you sat on a plane, looking out the window in awe. You’d whispered to your parents how you wished one day Satoru was able to see the world from above the clouds as well. “That I wouldn’t see you for the next twenty-two years.”

The silence hangs in the air after that. Heavy. Awkward. And you wish you could just sink back into the darkness. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back. It was selfish on your part. While it wasn’t your decision to move away, it was to enter his life again— though obviously this wasn’t your intention.

Gojo looks at you. Really looks. Looks at the way you’re picking at your cuticles behind your back. Arms still tied. At your eyes. At the way you didn’t look away even once. And he doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t know if he should trust you or not.

“So why did you guys leave?” he asks, because that’s something you haven’t told him. Though he could probably guess.

You pull your knees up to your chest. The position is awkward. Knees pulled up to your chest, arms bound behind you. But you don’t care. Biting on your lip you finally look away from his face.

“They found out I was a Zen’in, I guess,” you shrug, as if it’s something normal to say. As if it doesn’t go against everything he believed in since he was three years old.

He remembers your house. It was a normal house. Not one from the Zen’in clan. Your mother and father never saying anything about being a Zen’in, either. He remembers them, too. Your mother with gentle eyes and careful hands while your father was more strict, but never around enough to really know him.

Gojo’s eyes narrow behind his blindfold. “A Zen’in, huh?”

You nod your head. “Yeah, uh… Dad apparently isn’t my biological dad. It was one of the Zen’in clan members. Mom never told me the whole story, but I do know dad killed the guy. So… yeah, I dunno, guess they found us or something.”

That, honestly, doesn’t tell him a lot. But at the same time it explains almost everything. “So that’s why you inherited the technique.”

Your head snaps back toward his, eyes wide with panic. “What?” you whisper, voice trembling slightly. It makes him snort. How do you not realise he knew. “Whole hiding in the shadows was a thing, but in case you forgot, I’m the Six Eyes bearer.”

It’s not a gloat. He’s merely stating a fact. Making you realise what you’re actually dealing with. And before you can even open your mouth, he’s already behind you. Fiddling with the ropes infused with hundreds of talisman.

Maybe he’ll regret this decision, because he still isn’t sure if he can completely trust you, but guess that’s something he’ll find out soon enough.

Letting the ropes fall, he steps back. You immediately begin rolling your wrists, bring them up to your face with a slight scowl. They’re red from where the ropes were cutting into your skin. Huffing you begin rubbing them, soothing motions to get rid of the irritation.

“Well then. c’mon, show me,” Gojo taps his foot against the foot of your chair. A bit of impatience shining through. Because, yeah, he is curious as to what you can do. Swiveling in your chair you look up at him. “Show you what?”

“One of the Shikigami, duh, you have the dogs right? Every user has the dogs,” he says while bringing his hands behind his head. He walks back over to where his chair stands—right across from yours.

You grumble something under your breath, before lifting your hands in that all-too-familiar motion Megumi always makes. Two dogs form from the shadows. One black, the other white. Almost identical to Megumi’s.

The black one sits down, tongue lolling out of its maw. It doesn’t move, just sits there. Golden eyes trained on him, probably to assess if he’s a threat or not. (He isn’t… not really.)

The white one, however, is the one that shocks Gojo a bit more. It immediately runs a lap around your chair. Chaos all around. You snap your fingers once and point toward a spot next to your chair. The dog immediately trots over and just lets itself fall onto the ground.

Then it shifts it’s eyes toward Gojo, and he has to blink. Once. Twice. Because he’s staring right into blue eyes. That isn’t something he’s seen before. Not that he has much experience with Ten Shadows shikigami from the past— he only has Megumi as an example.

Megumi’s divine dogs both had yellow eyes. Your black one does, too. But the white one is… different. The blue eyes almost seem… seem like they have watercolor spilled into them . Like he’s staring at himself in dog form.

“You noticed, huh?” you mumble, hand coming down to card through its fur. The wolf lets out a happy little noise before it rolls onto its side, paws in the air, presenting its tummy toward you. It pulls out a small laugh from you.

And the sound almost makes him want to wrap his arms around you and laugh with you. Or cry. He’s not sure which of the two. He does know you seem less… chaotic like this. Toned down. You were loud as a kid— chaotic, not afraid to express yourself.

“They came to me two weeks after we moved,” your hands are still rubbing the wolfs belly. Its tail making soft swishing sounds on the ground, completely content with how you’re petting it. “The black one just… sat there, as if it was keeping watch. But this little one over here—” you nod toward the white wolf “—trotted up to me and licked my face.”

That gets a small huff out of Gojo, because he can already see it. You sitting on your bed, wide-eyed because you got two wolves in your house, and one just licked your face.

You always had a thing for animals when you were younger. Chasing after butterflies, petting dogs, feeding stray kittens. You once pulled him toward one of the Koi ponds in the Gojo estate, completely happy that they even had one. You sat there for hours on end, just playing with the Koi.

The wolf suddenly stills. Sniffs the air, its black nose twitching and glistening under the amber lighting and then rolls back over, paws underneath it now.

It pushes itself up, stretching, shaking its fur—before walking over to where Gojo is sitting. He stays there, looking into the blue eyes that almost reflect his.

The wolf tilts its head at him, as if it recognizes him. It shouldn’t be able to, since Gojo has never met them before, but something in his chest pulls as the wolf stalks forward, head dipping lower, eyes narrowing in on him.

Gojo instinctively strengthens his infinity. It was already on, it always is, but he has to keep it up with you around. Years of separation apparently do nothing to his heart, whispering to his cursed technique that you’re not dangerous.

The wolf sniffs once more, before it walks back toward you, stands in front of you like some sort of guard dog. And technically it is. But it is clear that right now you’re not commanding the dogs, this is their own free will.

It lowers itself slightly before baring its fangs, glinting in the soft candlelight like a threat. Next comes the growl, a low thing. It comes deep from its chest. Why it decided that Gojo is something to growl at is something he himself questions.

He can see the way you stiffen on your chair, eyes widening in pure disbelief. As if the wolf has never done that before, or maybe it has. Whatever it is, it doesn’t prepare his heart for what comes next.

“Toru stop that,” you scold the wolf. The growl dying out as if you blew out all the candles in the room. The only sound left is breathing and the soft whisper of fire in the air.

Not that Satoru can focus on that. All his mind can focus on is what you just said. Toru stop that. Toru, toru, toru— it loops in his head like a broken record. And it makes his stomach churn, because there is no way you called your shikigami after him.

Not after everything. The twenty-two years of silence; ten years of thinking you were dead. And here you are, with the Ten Shadows technique, telling him your dad isn’t your bio dad, and letting it slip that your shikigami is named after him.

“You named him?” his voice feels thin, like his vocal cords were stretched taut, a moment before snapping. And that’s all he wants to do—snap at you. Tell you you can not do this to him.

He remembers all the times he sat in the dark, looking at his Digivice, and hoping you were thinking about him as well. The soft, blue glow illuminating his face in the dark, casting soft shadows across his face.

He remembers wishing to something—anything—to bring you back to him. To bring back his best friend, because you were his joy. His chaos. His.

You look up from where you’re scolding the dog, who is now looking at you with puppy eyes, whining slightly. The black dog presses its wet, shiny nose into your side. Maybe to stop you from scolding its sibling, maybe to calm you down.

“Not exactly,” you say sheepishly. There’s a faint flush on your cheekbones, as if you’re embarrassed about it. “I uhh, well.. I used to cry at night thinking about you, whispering to myself that I would one day come back to you, and well… I used your name. Like. A lot. I guess the dog heard because every time I whispered your name—just not to forget it—he responded. Well… not to ‘Satoru’ but he would listen to ‘Toru’.”

the entire story makes his chest ache. Makes him realise that you really did not want to leave him behind. And maybe, just maybe, you really are here for him. Not because someone sent you, but because you wanted to be. Because you missed him.

It makes his chest flutter, ascending toward the sky, and it almost feels like he has to grab it and pull it back. It feels like a high after having a low for so long.

“That’s… unusual,” he voices, as if you don’t know that already. As if they aren’t your dogs. Your technique. You nod at him, just once.

“I don’t understand one thing though,” the little thought keeps nagging at the back of his mind, like a little demon whispering in his ear. Do not trust her. She’s not the same. “Why only now if you missed me so much?”

Your eyes change, too many emotions running through them for him to decipher all of them. But there’s one that’s bright and clear. Sadness.

Huffing out a self-deprecating laugh, you look away from him and start carding your fingers through both wolves mane, they lay their heads onto your lap, tails stilling, ears flat against their head. You mumble something under your breath. Something so soft, he can’t hear it.

“What was that?” he leans forward, tugs his blindfold up just a little, as if that can make him hear better. You mumble it again, a bit louder this time. While he still doesn’t catch all of it, he can make up most of it.

“Didn’t think you’d want me around.”

And that, more than anything, breaks his heart. You thought he didn’t want you around? Didn’t mourn his best friend leaving him all alone in that giant, mindless estate to grow up under the scrutiny of every gaze he received.

Of course he would want you around, keep you close to him, so close that you couldn’t leave him again. Couldn’t let his mind fester on all the nasty thoughts that run rampant through his mind once he’s alone—in his office, his apartment, on mission.

No he would keep you close. Pull you in, wanting to let his soul fuse with yours, to make sure you couldn’t leave him again. He’d set up his guest bedroom for you to stay in, just so he knows you’re there. Would talk to you about everything that went down from the moment you left.

He wants to lay his head in your lap, staring up at you while you tell your wild dreams to him the same way you used to—gesturing wildly, eyes bright and shining, carding your fingers through his hair absentmindedly.

Would finally bake sweets with you, the way you two promised to when you were younger. Set up a bakery; Is that still something you want to do?

He remembers it like it was yesterday. The two of you had stolen some sweets from the kitchen, cheeks full, laughs bubbling up in your throats while Satoru grabbed your hand with sticky, powdered fingers and began running.

You laughed at him, telling him to shhhhhh, your other hand coming up to your face, finger pressing over your lips, like you yourself weren’t full on giggling. It was the heist after all. The sweet, sweet promise of mochi was something the two of you couldn’t resist.

He’d overheard it from one of the estate maids, that there was an important meeting between clan-heads later that day. Not that he remembered that part, no his five-year-old self wasn’t quite interested in grown-up business.

His ears perked up when he heard about all the things that would get prepared for it. Most importantly, mochi. It was a delicacy you and Satoru enjoyed all too much, to a point where multiple grown-ups were scolding the two of you for eating so much, too much, of them in one sitting.

The sugar-high the two of you were on after that could only be described as destructive chaos. The maids looking on in horror as you and Satoru almost destroyed the playroom. So yeah, the two of you had been banned from eating sweets.

But when he heard the words self-made mochi fall from the servants lips, he instantly formed a thought in his head. One he was sure you also would enjoy.

So when you came over later that day, he told you about all the things he heard. That the chef would be making mochi along with other things. And the way your eyes lit up made it known to him that his plan was something you’d enjoy as well.

The two of you snuck into the giant kitchen, giggling, tiptoeing and telling the other to be quiet despite not being quiet themselves. And there, right on the counter, was a plate of what felt like a forbidden fruit.

Satoru and you looked around the kitchen once more before both grabbing multiple of the sweets, before stuffing your faces, cheeks bulging with how many the two of you ate at once. You’d pointed and laughed at him, garbling something incoherent.

He giggled as well, liking the way you looked so cute. Like you were a little hamster stuffing your cheeks with food before it burrows itself for the winter. Not that he would say that to you.

And then the two of you heard it—footsteps. They were coming down the corridor, slow and heavy. Not one of the caretakers, but it could very well be one of the chefs, coming to look for the sweets. The giggling instantly stopped. Looking at each other with wide eyes, Satoru grabbed your hand before pulling you with him.

Later, back in the playroom, when the sweets were finally fully eaten you’d flopped onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. Satoru was drawing on your arm again—just like he did the first time the two of you met.

You’d hummed then, head lolling to the side where he was sitting. Your hair falling like a curtain over your eyes. “Hey S’toru?” you asked. He’d hummed, tongue peeking slightly from between his lips while concentrating on the drawing.

“What if we became chefs when we’re older?” That certainly grabbed his attention, crayon stilling on your arm, his eyes finding yours. He thought it over a few times, becoming chefs means you could make aaaanything in the world!

So he quickly nodded his head, the idea sounding sweet in his mind. And you’d smiled at him, nose scrunching up slightly.

“And— and we could be like, chefs that only make sweets!” you exclaim, eyes lighting up at the idea. Because that’s something the both of you absolutely love. Having a sweet-tooth yourself, you always indulged into his cravings.

“I will buy us a house with a big kitchen,” Satoru adds, because that means the two of you could always be together. Not having time limits for playdates anymore, but rather making up your own time. Being able to be together wheneeeverrr he wanted?

That sounded like a dream come true to him. He can already imagine it, a big house with a big kitchen where the two of you are making sweets together, laughing. You’d probably get distracted, the kitchen messy, like a whirlwind went through it.

Blinking the memory away he looks at you. You’re still not looking at him, the flush on your cheeks now going down to your neck. “Of course I would still want you around,” he says, incredulous.

That’s when you finally look at him. Brows furrowing slightly, because you’re not sure if he really means that or if he just says that to be nice. Even though you know he doesn't have any reason to be nice to you. You left him behind twenty-two years ago.

“Really?” it’s barely above a whisper, your heart clinging onto that last small part of hope. Because you want to believe him, really you do, but it’s so hard when you’ve convinced yourself that he didn’t want you in his life. Didn’t need you.

When you were fourteen you begged your parents to go back to Japan. Asked them why you couldn’t just go to Jujutsu High, surely they wouldn’t kill a teenager. But they always told you that they couldn’t do that. Didn’t want to bet on the uncertainties that brought with them.

Because what if the Zen’in clan went after your father for killing a Zen’in. They’re revengeful people your mother had whispered one evening. What if they didn’t just go after your father, but after your entire family? What if, god forbid, they would drag you back to the Zen’in clan because you’d inherited the clans’ technique.

So they never went back to Japan, rather staying far, far away from that country. And it made your heart hurt so incredibly much. Because you just wanted to see Satoru, even if he didn’t want to have anything to do with you. You’d take the fact that you could just be close to him as a win.

That’s all you wanted, after all. Get your best friend back. Here, the place that’s now supposed to be home, you have no friends. Never bothered to make any. No one could replace that one boy that had hair like snow and eyes like sea glass.

So you spent your days in isolation, woke up, went to school, got home, did homework, went to sleep. And the cycle repeated. You of course had your dogs to keep you company. Didn’t mind that they drained your cursed energy—it’s not like you used it otherwise anyway.

That’s one thing your parents made very clear to you; under no circumstances would you ever become a sorcerer. While in Japan the sorcerer population was the highest, that didn’t mean that there weren’t any here. There were, just not as many.

That, however, didn’t mean you didn’t tame some more shikigami, even if you never used them. Just having them reassured you to no end. Because god forbid you came across a curse one day that was too high of a grade for your demon dogs to take out and you didn’t have anything else.

Yeah, no. So you tamed other Shikigami. You have almost all of them now, obviously aside from Mahoraga. But you don’t mind that too much, you wouldn’t be able to tame him anyway.

Once you were eighteen you were a legal adult. Moved out of your home, got a job, and started college. The thought of returning to Japan, alone, drifted through your mind more often than you were willing to admit.

But by the time you even had money to visit Japan, you were already twenty-two. And the thoughts started to plague you. What if he didn’t want to see you— or worse, didn’t remember who you were.

All this time you’d been hoping to reunite with your best friend, but what if said best friend didn’t even remember you. What if he would just walk right past you. He’s a busy man after all. Word travels, and even the name of Satoru Gojo was whispered here.

The Strongest. The Six Eyes bearer.

And suddenly you were afraid. What if he did remember you, but resented you for leaving him all those years ago. Condemned to an isolated life away from society just to keep him safe. One you yourself curated because you couldn’t bear the thought of spending your life with someone other than him.

It’s silly, it really is. Holding one to such high regard when the two of you were mere kids. Only knowing each other for 3 years. But you still remember the promises the two of you made. Broken. All of them.

“I pinky promise to never leave you behind.” “Pinky promise to become chefs.” “Pinky promise that you’ll always be my best friend!”

So you stayed. Never returned to Japan, even if you wanted to so badly. He was Satoru Gojo after all. You’re sure he has a good life, lots of people around him who cherish him, who didn’t go back on their promises.

Until that one fated night, just after Christmas. Word had somehow traveled in the sorcerer world that more than a thousand curses had been released. Something about a cult leader. And, of course, Gojo’s name falling from everyone's lips like they were praising him.

That’s when you decided to go to Japan, even if it was only for a month. But you didn’t have the necessary funds, so it had to postponed.

“Why wouldn’t I want you around?” he asks, genuinely confused. It makes you swallow, once, twice, before forcing the answer out. “I just thought you didn’t need me anymore. We were only kids back then—”

“So? That doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you almost every day for the past twenty-two years,” he cuts you off.

And it hits you with full force. The fact that he did want you around. That you could’ve came back six years ago. Could’ve searched for him.

“Oh…” you whisper. Because what else can you say? How can you tell the guy that just told you he thought of you almost every day since you left that you wanted to come back earlier. That you had the funds to do so, but thought better of it. Thought he didn’t want you around anymore, so you didn’t come back.

How do you tell someone that it was your own insecurities that held you back from seeing him again.

You don’t have time to think about that, because the white divine dog —Toru—whines and nuzzles more into your palm. His nose wet against the palm of your hand. The cold, wetness snaps you out of your thoughts and make you look down at the two dogs.

Toru was always chaos incarnate. He would steal snacks from counter tops, eat food like he didn’t eat curses for a living—well he was supposed to, anyway. But maybe that was just it. Since you didn’t fight curses, it had an appetite of its own. One that involved sugary snacks and sugar highs a few minutes later.

You’d gotten loads of noise complaints from your neighbors about the dogs being loud—which was quite unfair to the black dog, Kuroo, as you named her. Kuroo was calm, almost lazy. Her golden eyes full of scrutiny, narrowing in on her brother when he, once again, was running around the tiny apartment.

Toru had a habit of knocking things over with its tail when he was running around. You can’t count the countless of items he’d knocked over over the years of living with him. He always looked apologetic when he did so, though, so you couldn’t be too mad at him.

Especially not when he looked at you with those eyes. They weren’t just the classic puppy dog eyes every dog seemed to master. No it was the fact that they were so incredibly blue, it made you think of a certain someone back in Japan. Someone you never seemed to be able to get mad at, no matter what he did.

So each time you sighed, told Toru it was okay and petted his head. Toru, in turn, barked at you, tail wildly swishing on the ground. It always made Kuroo huff out a breath through her nose as if scrutinizing you for once again not scolding her brother.

So yes, Toru was loud and chaos incarnate—and maybe an incarnation of your best friend in shikigami form—while Kuroo was the calm herself. Just laying around, soaking up the sun in her black fur while watching Toru sneak food from you when you weren’t watching.

The noise complaints never stopped. But every time the landlord came over to look at the said dogs, there weren’t any. And you were damn lucky he wasn’t a window, because how else would you explain the dogs that couldn’t be seen by others.

The landlord had told the residents that put in complaints to stop because clearly there weren’t any dogs in your apartment. It caused quite a tiff with you and some of the building residents, because they swear they could sometimes hear dogs bark or run around in your apartment. And it’s true, they did do that, just not normal dogs.

They have been with you all your life, summoned wherever you could; mostly at home. Your mom, at first, said you shouldn’t do that. Back then she hadn’t explained why you even moved to a different country—hell, to a different continent. So you shook your head and told her that you wanted to keep the puppies.

Because they were puppies back then. Small…well, for the dogs that they are now, for your child self they were quite big—yipping in a high pitch that lowered over the years, and tiny paws. They were, quite honestly, adorable.

Your mother told you that you couldn’t afford to raise the puppies. They would need food, and drinks, and to be walked outside every day, multiple times a day, even when you wanted to sleep. Puppies were very high demanding things, after all.

All of that was true, to an extent. If they were real puppies, all those things would’ve applied to them, but they weren’t ‘real’. Shadow constructs were just that. Shadows. Even though they yipped, played and felt real, they weren’t.

Which meant that they didn’t need actual food. Didn’t need to go outside to do their business. Didn’t need to play—though Toru did love to play, running around your room, stealing socks, pants, toys; anything he could get his paws on.

And your six year old self felt pretty smug once you found that out. Almost gloating to her how you didn’t need to do all of that, since the puppies didn’t need it.

You felt less smug a day later, when the puppies disappeared. You had no idea how you called the dogs on in the first place—didn’t even know it was you who summoned the dogs in the first place—so you were confused as to where they had gone.

That’s when your father finally stepped in and told you about a few things of the sorcerer world. Not everything, but just enough so that you didn’t have any more questions. He told you about the dogs, why they were there, and why they were gone.

Six year old you looked up at him with big eyes while he carefully explained the shadow puppies to you and cursed energy. That was something you apparently needed to summon the shadow puppies, which ran out the longer you had them summoned.

It made you quite sad. The puppies did kind of distract you from the fact that your best friend was currently thousands of kilometers away, even if only for a day. But you were happy when you could summon the puppies again a few days later.

So they were always with you, just like how they’re with you now. Toru’s wet nose pressed against your palm and Kuroo simply having her head on your lap.

Satoru is still staring at you like he expects you to say something—anything, probably. You haven’t said anything after your little whispered ‘oh’. So maybe you should say something.

“I thought of you too,” you reply, and it sounds fucking cheesy. It makes you wanna clamp your mouth shut, try to go back in time and say something different. Because what is he gonna do with that information. Probably nothing.

You can’t see his eyes—still hidden by the blindfold—but you can almost feel how his eyes are narrowed. He lets out a sigh and stands up, long limbs stretching out before he jerks his head to the side. “Well, c’mon then.”

Without a word he starts walking to a door—was that always there? He doesn’t look back at you. Doesn’t try to confirm that you’re walking after him. Doesn’t say anything else. Just puts his hands in his pockets, opens the door, fluorescent lights spilling into the room in harsh light that contrasts the soft amber lighting from the candles—the ones that are snuffed out in an instant after the door opened—and walks out.

Standing up you walk after him, dismissing your dogs with a final pat to their head.

After stepping out into the hallway, you have to blink a few times to get your sight adjusted to the harsh lighting. The hallway is a stark contrast to the buildings you saw from the forest. Jujutsu High seemed to have traditional Japanese buildings.

The walls are slightly damp and it’s cold. A shiver running up your spine. The only sounds down here are the footsteps and the buzzing noise from the overhead lights. Rubbing your arms you walk a bit faster, not beside Gojo—you know you don’t deserve to walk beside him as an equal—but two steps behind him.

“Where are we going?” you finally ask him. Gojo doesn’t reply, just walks ahead, up some stairs and finally opens a shoji screen to the outside. Snow blankets as far as the eye can see. Tree tops are white, the black shingles are now nowhere to be seen, the stone paths are buried beneath a thick layer of the powdery substance.

Okay, outside. Maybe he’ll escort you off the property. Send you home. Tell you not to come back. The thought hurts more than you’re willing to admit. Sure, you never meant for him to see you in the first place, but after finally reconnecting you’d hoped he would maybe want to keep you around.

Gojo walks on top of the snow. His feet don’t sink into it. He doesn’t leave behind any boot prints. It’s almost as if he’s hovering over it. You, however, aren’t as lucky. The first step you take almost makes you fall over. Snow is almost up to your knee.

Hearing you yelp, Gojo finally turns around, and the sight almost makes him smile. You’re trying to wade through the thick blanket of snow, having to pull up your legs to sink into the snow yet again. The sight is almost comical.

A huff pulls from his chest when you nearly wipe out, which makes you look up at him. Wrong choice. Because of the sharp movement, you fall straight onto your butt. Wetness starting to seep through your winter coat.

Closing your eyes, you breathe through your nose. Count to three, before pushing yourself up with a pout. “Seriously, why do you get to float like a fairy while I have to—” grunting you take your first step forward again “—tire out my legs like this. Why is there even so much snow to begin with?!”

You’re irritated. almost your entire backside is wet. Snow that wasn’t melted yet is starting to melt. You feel cold, and wet, and sad, and guilty—but mostly mad that the fucker is just standing there, on top of the snow, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

And before you even realise what you’re doing, you bend down and grab a handful of snow. Throwing it at Gojo, it merely bounces off him. Fuck him and his Infinity.

Throwing your hands up in the air you let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh come on,” you whine, the last syllables dragging on. “Lemme at least hit you with some snow if you’re going to be like that.”

Before you can even blink he’s in front of you. With just a little tap to your shoulder you fall backwards, straight onto your ass. Blinking up into the sky, a face comes into view. One blue eye peeking out from under the blindfold, an amused smile on his lips, white strands cascading down. “Oops.”

You glare at him from the snow, still sitting on it. He knows your ass is getting cold—and probably wet—but oh well. And then you reach for his arm, and for a second, just one, he forgets to keep up his infinity. Your hand clamps down on his forearm before you yank him into the snow next to you.

His face is obstructed by white. And he hears you laughing from beside him. And it puts him right back to when the two of you were five years old, playing in the snow, making snow angels and getting into snowball fights. He also remembers you eating a handful of snow and getting scolded for it.

He huffs a breath through his nose before pushing himself up and wiping his face. You’re still laughing, rolling around in the snow, clutching your stomach—not watching him. Which is good. He grabs some snow and throws it straight at you.

It stops you right in your tracks, laughter dying out immediately, replaced by a gasp. “You did not,” you accuse him, voice mock-serious. He only shrugs his shoulders before he’s hit with some snow—straight in the face.

You gasp out. “Shit, sorry I didn’t mean— no. wait! wait!! no please!” you’re scrambling back, hands sinking into the snow while Satoru sloooowly stands up and stalks over to you, a giant heap of white in his hands. You put a hand up while still apologising, “No— Gojo wait! I’m sorry! I didn— oompff.”

You’re cut off when he lets the snow fall—straight onto your face and upper chest. You’re completely buried. It makes him laugh, doubling over. And for just a moment he forgets he is Satoru Gojo and is just ‘S’toru’.

The little fight continues for a while, snow gets thrown around. The two of you keep tripping over in the snow, though you do more so than him—curse him and his long long legs. Until you stop giggling and gasp, eyes wide. “Stop. Stop— wait, just a sec.”

You’re feeling around in your coat pockets and pull out a little device—your Digivice. It makes his heart lurch to his stomach. Did you really keep it all those years—hell, did you keep it on you this entire time? His hand brushes his own pocket, his own Digivice snug in it.

He sees your hand sink into the ground, before you pull it out again, empty-handed. “Didn’t want it getting wet,” you say while looking up at him.

There is a small silence between the two of you, before he clears his throat. “Right, yeah. Okay, well…” he trails off, it suddenly setting in that he isn’t five years old running around in the gardens of the Gojo estate with you, but rather twenty-eight with responsibilities. (Not that he takes any of those seriously, but he does remind himself that the two of you aren’t suddenly best friends again… right?)

He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go.” With that he turns around and starts walking again—this time only after he hears you trail behind him. The walk takes wayyyy too long, what normally would’ve been a fifteen minute walk took you almost thirty. The snow not only making it difficult to navigate through, but also slippery

Satoru can only hope that the kids are still training. It has been some time since he left them to chase after you, after all. Turning the corner he sees Maki absolutely overpower Nobara before they let go. Panda and Inumaki are nowhere in sight, only the three first-years and their upperclassman left.

Clapping his hands once he grabs the attention of the kids. “I’m backkk~” he sing-songs. Megumi mutters a ‘didn’t even know you were gone’ under his breath that Gojo decides to ignore, while Yuji waves. “And I brought a little something with me.”

Stepping aside with a flourish, you come into view to the students. They immediately furrow their brows. Yuji’s hand immediately shoots up “Gojo-sensei, who is that?” Clicking his fingers, Gojo makes finger guns toward the cotton-haired boy.

“Great question, Itadori. This, over here, is your new teacher!” He hooks his arm around your shoulder and tugs you into his side. You look over at him with wide eyes. “Wait— wait wait wait, what? Gojo you can’t just decide that?!”

He pays you no mind, just looking at the three first-years while Maki walks away. She mutters something under her breath, but doesn’t look back. Pushing you to the front slightly, he claps his hands. “So, who wants to spar with her first?”

“She’s wet,” Megumi deadpans, looking over your form. And you are— well it’s more damp now. “And freezing,” Nobara adds, noticing how much you’re shivering.

For just a moment Gojo considers that maybe he should’ve gotten you—and himself—a change of clothes after the snowball fight. Ehhh oh well. Nothing to be done about now. “So spar her faster so she can go warm up inside.”

With a sigh Megumi is the first to take up on the offer, calling on his Divine Dog Totality. You don’t notice though, turning toward Gojo with a frown. “You can’t make me spar with them, look at them! They are teena— eekkk,” the dog lunges at you. Your make a quick hand sign. Hundreds of gray rabbits being summoned at once.

It takes the students aback slightly, all of them eyeing the swarm. Gojo only crosses his arms.

“Dude, Megumi, I thought you summoned your dog,” Yuji says, still in disbelief at the sight of the rabbits. The Divine Dog merely claws its way through the swarm, destroying rabbits at light speed. “I did,” Megumi mutters back, brows furrowed.

Half of the rabbits are gone when you suddenly emerge from behind Megumi. Putting him in a headlock, both Nobara and Yuji turn around, eyes wide. All three of them freeze in place.

Pointing your finger at Satoru you continue, “Like I said, they’re teenagers, you can’t just let them fight me. That’s mean.”

And Satoru? Satoru just smiles at that. Because Yuji and Nobara are whispering to each other, not really discreetly, but you don’t notice because you’re checking over Megumi to see if you hurt him in any way while still scolding Gojo.

And it brings him right back to when you were telling him how to ‘correctly’ play with the dolls. (Which you were wrong about, so, so wrong.)

He walks over to where you and the kids are standing and puts an arm around you—half because he wants to and half because he doesn’t want you to escape, were you planning on it. Ruffling your hair, which is absolutely freezing, he realises, he chuckles.

“Well then, kids meet your new teacher. Now say goodbye while she goes take a long, hot bath and hopefully doesn’t get sick.” Not letting the kids even say goodbye, he teleports the two of you straight to his apartment.

It shocks you a bit, the teleportation making you feel… floaty? for a few seconds, the room spinning slightly, before your feet touch the ground.

When the room stops spinning, and your balance is back, you take note of where you’re standing. The apartment in front of you is huge. It’s a big, open floor plan. The living room has a big L shaped couch, with a wall-mounted flatscreen in front of it.

There are floor to ceiling windows, overlooking the downtown of Tokyo, the city underneath blinking to life like fireflies behind glass.

But that’s not what catches your eye, no, your eyes wander to the massive kitchen. It really does look too big to have for just one person. It brings you right back twenty years, where you said you would become a baker which only made sweets.

While you didn’t become a confectioner, you did learn how to make most sweets you ate when younger. The most important one being mochi, of course.

Though the first time you made a successful batch, you cried. At first they were happy tears, but they turned sad really fast after that, because it made you miss Satoru even more.

Back in your cramped apartment, you didn’t really have the luxury to bake, so this kitchen really brings out something in you, and you wonder if Satoru ever uses it.

Following your gaze, he chuckles slightly. “I don’t really use it,” he says, as if he read your mind. Looking back at him, he’s still looking at the kitchen with a small smile on his face. Nodding your head you look back at the kitchen, and suddenly wonder what your world would’ve looked like if you stayed in Japan when you were younger.

Would you be in the kitchen with him, singing your heart out and yapping about everything and anything while making food together? Well, it’s not like you can go back in time, so that’s a question you don’t dwell too long on.

Gojo puts a hand on your shoulder and steers you to the other side of the apartment—hell, it’s a whole ass penthouse. Rich boy, huh.

“Spare bedroom is over here, there’s a connected bathroom as well. Go take a shower, you’re absolutely freezing,” he’s already turning away from you, presumably to go to his own shower. He did let go of his Infinity during the snowball fight, resulting in him getting wet and cold as well.

Nodding your head you open the door, and freeze for a heartbeat. The bedroom is almost as big as your entire apartment combined. A massive King sized bed stands at the far wall, there are floor to ceiling windows even in this room, and two doors at each side of the room.

Other than the bed, curtains and a nightstand, the room is rather bare. Walking over to the left door you open it, only to find a walk-in closet. Yeah okay, definitely your entire apartment combined.

Walking back out, you open the other door to the bathroom, and that, too, is massive. It has both a bathtub and shower, and your eyes light up at the sight. God, how long has it been since you last had a bath? Too long, that is.

Turning on the faucet, you let the tub fill up, and just pray Satoru wouldn’t mind it too much. You aren’t quite sure what he has in store for you, but given the fact that he just decided that you would be a teacher, you suppose you won’t go home for quite some time.

Stepping into the bath, you’re instantly met with the hot water, skin tingling because you haven’t properly warmed up yet. Ignoring that, you let yourself submerge in the water, let your head lean back against the edge of the tub, and close your eyes.

Maybe it was a mistake coming back after so long, but it’s something you’ll definitely find out along the way.

In the other bathroom, Satoru is standing under the spray of the shower. His head leaning against the tiles of the wall, water cascading down his back and dripping from his hair over the bridge of his nose.

You’re really here. Not an imagination, not a dream, just… really here. And he isn’t sure what to make of it. And maybe he acted too fast, telling the kids you would be their second teacher.

Maybe he shouldn’t have introduced you to the kids, he’s supposed to keep them safe after all. But his heart tugs against his sternum when he thinks back on how you were looking Megumi over after the supposed ‘spar’.

That didn’t seem fake, or maybe you’re just really good at pretending to care. Well, whatever it is, he’ll find out in the next few weeks.

He’s going to keep you close. Keep you in the spare room. Keep you close to him while teaching (though… he doesn’t really teach, so maybe it is smart that he ‘recruited’ you as a second teacher.)

All he can hope is that he didn’t make a mistake keeping you here instead of putting you on the next flight back to wherever you came from.

The first thing Satoru notices when he wakes up is the sound of pans clattering and the low hum of the furnace being turned on. There’s slight humming coming from the kitchen. Utensils scraping against pots, and the faint smell of food wafting through the apartment.

Walking out of his room, he scratches his stomach with one hand while trying to tame his bed hair with the other. Unruly tufts of white visible between the gap of his shirt and sweats.

The kitchen is a flurry of motion, the fridge being opened and closed constantly, the low rhythmic chop chop chop of someone cutting up ingredients on a chopping block. Sounds Satoru isn’t used to, considering he isn’t one to cook, nor has anyone over that does.

So when he walks into the kitchen, he freezes for a second. You’re there, chopping away, occasionally stirring the pot with a wooden ladle—he didn’t even know he owned one, let alone had enough food in the fridge to make something fulfilling—while humming under your breath.

But that isn’t what does him in—though it does slightly, he has dreamed of this many, many times before—no it’s the fact that your cursed energy feels off. It doesn’t feel like you, well rather, it feels like a copy of yours.

It doesn’t flow through you so much as it is you. Your shape is completely filled with cursed energy in a way that he’s never seen before. It’s unsettling, to say the least.

Calling out your name softly, you look up with a small smile on your face. “Goodmorning,” you hum, before resuming your task. The low sizzle of bacon in the pan snaps him out of his stupor.

He watches you for a beat longer. Watches the way you move—nothing out of the ordinary, though he only has yesterday to compare. Watches the way you hum under your breath. It looks correct, the gait, the motion, but there’s something off.

He can feel it in his soul. And his Six Eyes also tell something is wrong with your cursed energy. So he looks around the apartment, just because he can’t shake off this weird feeling of something being wrong.

And when his eyes go toward the hall of the guest room you were occupying, he can see it. Cursed Energy. It’s faint, but it doesn’t escape him.

Furrowing his brows he walks over to the door, steps cautious. Did you have someone over? Is there someone in your room that was supposed to take him out when he had his guard down?

Turning the knob, he opens the door. There in bed is you. Wait, what?

He looks back to the kitchen once more. Yep, definitely you, though that you feels off in a way. Looking back to the you in the bed, he lets his Six Eyes feed the information to him.

Your cursed energy flows like it’s supposed to, like it did yesterday. He can see the way it favors the side of the shadows, crawling back from where the light of the hallway hits the bedsheets in soft yellow light.

You’re asleep. Nose red and runny. Tossing and turning in your bed, sweat on your forehead, hairs plastered flat against your temples.

With a groan your lashes flutter open. Blinking a few times, you look over at the guy that’s standing in the doorway. “‘Mornin’,” you croak out, voice raw and nasally. You cough immediately after. That nasty, nasally type of cough.

Satoru just stands in the doorway for a few more seconds, words failing him in the first time since… well, last year, he supposes. When he finally speaks up, his voice is full of confusion. “You’re here…” he finally says, slowly, like he’s still trying to make sense of the world.

You hum, closing your eyes once more. Wiping some of the sweat from your brow, you cough once more. “Sure am, did you forget you took me home with you yesterday?” the words feel like sandpaper against your sore throat.

The lights spilling in from the hallway—though mostly blocked by the massive frame of Gojo—only hurt your eyes more. You want to tell him to at least close the door if he’s gonna talk to you like this, but then again, you’re a guest and it would be rude to tell him what to do in his house.

Hell, he probably doesn’t even appreciate it that you’re coughing and sweating all over his clean sheets.

“I- no, ‘was surprised, though,” he mumbles the last words under his breath before continuing, “What the hell is in my kitchen right now?”

You rack your brain, trying to find out what he’s talking about. In his kitchen? Did Toru come out without you calling him on again? He does that quite often, little brat that he is.

Then you finally remember. “Oh! ‘s a clone,” you say, as if it’s normal. As if having a literal shadow clone is just a normal Tuesday. Then again, for you it probably is. But Satoru isn’t you, so he stares at you for a few beats.

“A clone,” he starts slowly, “from your technique?” You laugh at that, then immediately cough again. “Yeah, what else would it be?”

Satoru stares at you for a few more seconds. Looks at the way you’re struggling to keep your eyes open, the sweat beating down your neck, the way you keep coughing.

And then he feels someone—or rather something—approach from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he’s met with you, or well, rather, your shadow clone.

She looks exactly like you, the same little frown between your brows you’ve had since you were little kids and were focusing on something. Hair, eyes, lips, nose—it’s all the same. It’s quite unsettling, honestly.

Your clone is carrying a tray—seriously, where do these things keep popping up from? he didn’t even know he had half the things ‘you’ were using for cooking—with a bowl of soup. Stepping aside, he lets the clone inside the bedroom.

It sits down next to you, and you go to sit in an more upright position. It’s like you don’t even register just how weird all of this is, your own shadow clone is feeding you soup.

“Wait- wait wait wait. Let me get this straight,” he finally manages to gather his thoughts again. “You can make shadow clones, and command them to do what you want?”

You take one more sip of your soup, slightly burning your tongue because you were too impatient to just blow on the hot liquid a few seconds longer, before finally answering Gojo. “Mhmm, well… it’s more like they’re semi-sentient. I just have to tell them how to make soup, and they can get the steps in themselves.”

Gojo’s mouth slowly falls open. That’s… really fucking cool actually, not that he’s gonna voice that, though. He’s still wary of you. If you can just conjure shadow clones from cursed energy, he might actually be fucked.

It makes this so, so much harder. Because that means you can catch him off-guard. Or well, try to catch him off-guard. He can still sense when people are behind him. Six Eyes never lie to him, so he’ll have to rely on them way more than normal, now.

He thinks bout the Ten Shadows technique, tries to recall if there was anything mentioned about shadow clones, but he comes up empty. Megumi hasn’t said anything either about trying to clone himself. And in a way, Satoru is happy about that.

“That’s fucking scary. Kinda cool, but definitely scary,” he finally says, eyeing the two of you. If he didn’t have Six eyes, he would definitely have thought that it was your twin you never told him about. Not like you told him much about yourself, anyway.

Being a Zen’in for one. Though, you also didn’t know about that, so he can’t really blame you for that. But your mother definitely could’ve told him. He was the clan head of the Gojo clan after all! Nevermind the fact that he was a mere six years old back then.

He would’ve protected you whenever needed, told the rest of the members to protect you and him. And he would try to protect you, as well.

You, the chaos to his normal, boring life. The one who kept him sane those three years you were with him. Kept him from doing the mindless, affectionless clan. God he hated it there after you left.

Everyone kept ushering him to do things. Train with those huge dudes who told him ‘again’ and ‘again’ and ‘again’ and not to cry, because he was a Gojo after all. Something you would’ve never told him.

You would’ve probably cried with him, if you were there. Not because you were hurt, or anything of the sorts—though your feelings did get hurt quite easily. So you were a crybaby, buuuuttt then again, you got over it fairly quickly as well. Swiping those small fingers under your eyes and declaring you were ‘all done’ and going back to doing whatever task you were doing previously—but because you didn’t like seeing Satoru sad.

It was something he noticed. He wasn’t sad often in your presence, you were the highlight to his days, after all. But on the rare occasions he was sad, you always immediately tried cheering him up. Tried to tell him everything would be all-right, because you were there!

And it felt like his sadness was suddenly cured—or you were being… well, you. And distracted him from being sad—in your presence once more. Gummy smile returning to his face, only for you to fling your body towards his, tackling him in a happy hug that was more limbs clashing together than a real hug.

Blinking, he looks at you once more. Your bowl of soup slowly getting more empty by the second. Then your eyes find his. “There’s food for you in the kitchen, by the way,” you’re still blowing on the spoon when you tell him.

Furrowing his brows, he pushes himself from the doorpost and makes his way over to the kitchen, where one plate of bacon and an omelette sits. There’s a small ketchup smiley drawn on it, making him smile in turn.

Only for it to be wiped off his face the second after. His eyes flit towards the open bedroom once more. Grabbing another bowl, he quickly fills it. Walking back to the bedroom, he goes to sit down next to you.

You eye his bowl of soup, furrowing your brows slightly. Turning your head away from him, you cough in your elbow, before speaking up. “Omelette not to your liking?”

Gojo hums around the spoonful of soup. “Not a big fan of eggs,” he says dismissively. You just hum and close your eyes once more. The sweat has finally stopped beading down your forehead, though you still feel fucking hot. (ehhhh slayyyy)

Dismissing your clone with a wave of your hand, you grab the tray and put it on the bedside table. There’s still soup in the bowl, but you feel like you’re going to throw up if you eat any more right now, so you’ll keep it for later. There’s always a chance to heat it up again.

Going to lay down again, you burrow yourself under the blanket. “Will sleep a bit more. Wake me if needed,” you slur out slightly, before sleep finally takes you under once again.

Gojo stays seated next to you. Spoon in his bowl, not touched after he’d taken the first sip of soup. Once he confirms you’re asleep—your breathing getting heavy, the occasional snore slipping past your lips, lashes fluttering against your cheekbones—does he move.

Leaning over you, careful not to wake you, he swaps the two bowls around. Eating the rest of your soup, he hums in content. It was very good soup, even though it was made by a clone—something he still can’t wrap his head around.

Sure, he knows you’re sick. He isn’t stupid, he knows you can’t fake it like this. So eating out of your bowl—though he had swapped the spoons around, he’s not that stupid—might not be the smartest plan. But he’d rather get sick than get poisoned or something.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? You came back in his life, really came back in his life, after twenty-two years. Half of those were spent thinking you were dead. And now here you are—still—twenty-two years later with a dog that’s named after him and even looks like him, and a shadow clone that can make food and probably do many, many other things.

Leaning back against the headrest, he rubs a hand over his face and sighs out through his nose. This really is going to be harder than he thought would be.

With that, he gets out of the bed and goes to the kitchen. Cleaning the counter while scowling slightly. This is why he hates cooking—well, it’s part of it. He hates the cooking itself as well, though he loves eating.

It’s just something he could never get the hang of. Every time he tried, his thoughts would wander back to a girl that would forever be six years old in his mind, telling him the two of you would live together, making food together, because the two of you liked sweets.

Promising to live off off sweets alone. A true kids dream, if he ever heard one. But still one that wormed its way back into his mind even after all the years you were gone.

With that, he always burned the food because he would zone out trying to picture you next to him being a tornado of chaos. Probably having sugar all over you, even if the recipe didn’t call for sugar. Or eating the ingredients before they went into the dish, leaving the both of you with too little to cook with.

Or he would be irrational with knives—Geto and Shoko having taken away knives waaayyy too often. Not that they could ever hurt him, but still. If he didn’t have Infinity, he would’ve lost all his fingers ten times over already.

So he never cooked, which also meant he never had to do the dishes, though he has a dishwasher, which he’s trying to figure out how to work right now. He mutters faint curses under his breath and things about ‘clones not being able to clean up after themselves’.

When he finally has the dishwasher loaded, he just… stares out over the living room. This really is his life now, huh? Him having to be on guard, even at home, moreso than usual. Normally he has Infinity to protect him against strangers, but you’re no stranger.

Well… his heart certainly doesn’t think so with the way his Infinity automatically gets lowered around you. He has to consciously put it up, because his technique, unfortunately, loses against his heart whispering that you’re no threat.

Yeah, this is going to take a long time before he can get used to this.

The next few days are spent at home. You’re still sick, so you let the clone do everything for you—cleaning, making food, and even doing the laundry. Gojo had asked why you wouldn’t just let him do those things, and with that he means people he hired to do the jobs.

He had to send away his cleaners after his place was spotless before they could even begin. Your clone having done everything already, so there was nothing left for them to do. He still paid them, of course.

And if it wasn’t your clone walking around the place, it would be your dogs. You’d asked him on the third day of you still being sick in bed. Something about letting the dogs ‘out’—when he asked what you meant with ‘out’ you meant out of the shadows because they were getting restless. Which confused him, because as far as he knew, Megumi never said anything about any of the Shikigami while they were not summoned.

He’d agreed. His apartment is big enough, after all. And it’s not like he used the space often. But he quickly came to regret that decision.

Toru is a heap of chaos that only reminds himself of you, only with his aesthetic. The white fur was something he was used to quite easily. But it were the eyes that still unsettled him.

Toru was just him in dog form. On one hand, it absolutely melted his heart, on the other hand it had sent a small pang through it. He thinks about how you probably only had Toru with you while hoping that you could have the actual human next to you that you named the dog after.

Kuroo was at least calm. Letting her body flop in front of the giant windows, soaking up the sun with her black fur, becoming a small furnace. She was judgemental as fuck, though. Always huffing through her nose when her brother did something stupid. Or when Satoru himself did something silly.

It had made him side-eye the dog a few times, checking to see if the dog really was huffing at him and not at her brother. And, yep, the dog was eyeing him again. Raising a brow at the dog, he murmurs a small ‘what?’ only for the dog to turn her back to him.

He’s not sure what he expected the dog to do, but it still sent a small spark of irritation through him when he got ignored by a dog, like helloooo??

Now you’re finally better, sitting next to him on the couch nursing a cup of tea, watching Toru play with one of the dog toys you grabbed from your shadow storage—yes that’s how you called it.

Satoru had laughed the first time you’d pulled out the toys, but the laughter quickly died out in his throat the more you kept pulling from what felt like infinite storage.

At first it was toys—squeaky toys, tug ropes, balls—but it quickly became dog beds, yes you heard that right, dog beds for shadow dogs. Shikigami. With dog beds. And not just one for each, noooo they had multiple.

“Seriously,” he had muttered, eyeing the dog beds that were in the living room now. He’d already spotted two in your room and another two in his home gym. Why they were there, he had no idea, but alas. You’d merely smiled at him, not even trying to defend yourself.

“He really is something,” you murmur, eyes still on the dog. “Sure is,” Gojo agreed, but with a bit more disdain in his voice. If you noticed, you don’t call him out on it, only sip on your tea once more.

“Soooo…” you begin, setting your cup down onto the table. Leaning back once more your eyes find Gojo’s. “What about the kids?”

Right, the kids. Satoru had to tell them he had to stay home to take care of something and that they shouldn’t expect him to be at the school often. Nobara had just walked off, Yuji had grinned and put his thumbs up. Megumi, however, side-eyed him. One that felt fully judgemental.

“She’s sick, isn’t she?” he had asked, not even naming you, but Satoru knew who he was talking about. He’d merely hummed, sticking his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the ball of his feet. “Maaaybe.”

Megumi had sighed, muttering something about snow and being soaked to the bone in those cold temperatures, but never asked anything further. Just started walking back to the dorms without so much as another glance toward Gojo.

You’d asked Gojo if he didn’t need to be with the kids after he came home not long after that, and he had merely grinned towards you. “Naaahhhh, they can take care of themselves,” he had drawled towards you. Luckily you were too sick to really question it, having gone to bed after that once again.

It kinda fucked with him, though. He had to be on his toes at all times. Whenever you slept, your oh so lovely shadow clone was awake, making food or cleaning up, and it made him paranoid as shit. Constantly checking over what it did, while also checking if you were still asleep.

It’s not like he could tell you to stop doing it—he had done that already, well more like asked… okay fine, he told you you didn’t have to do it, since it was draining your cursed energy. You had just smiled at him and told him it was fine, since you didn’t use it anyway.

When he insisted that you should just let it rest, you’d stubbornly told him that this was the least you could do for being here, in his house. That is something he didn’t miss (he absolutely did), your stubbornness.

He’d honestly forgotten all about how stubborn you used to be. How you could hold onto things without fail, puffing out your cheeks, crossing your arms over your chest, not once looking him the eye, lips forming a small pout.

Yeah, you weren’t just chaos, you were stubborn chaos, which made it so much worse. So he let it go, knowing you weren’t gonna give up on it.

So now he was walking behind a clone for days on end, watching its every move. He was just so so tired. And only when you finally started feeling better did you dismiss the clone, muttering something about doing the chores yourself.

Which, once again, he wanted to argue about. He truly didn’t need you to do all that—plus he still doesn’t trust you, but what can you do about it?

You’re still looking at him, the question hanging in the air. The kids, right. Humming, Gojo leans further back into the couch, which groans under his weight. “Well, Yuji and Nobara have been asking about you. Megumi hasn’t voiced anything, but I know he’s curious as well.”

“I mean, you did tell them I was gonna be their teacher and then I just didn’t show up for a whole week,” you comment, looking him in the eye.

Yeah, that’s something he is regretting telling them. He should’ve just asked Yaga for you to be an assistant at the school—his personal assistant, so he can keep his eye on you, of course. No other reason at all.

But he did tell them, unfortunately. Which means you have to come with him to the school and interact with the kids. The same kids he’s vowed to keep safe ever since the beginning of the school year started.

“Don’t you worry your pretty lil head about it,” he assures you, playing with his blindfold slightly. (slut)

Scowling you look away from him. Reaching over to grab your tea, you down the last of your drink before abruptly standing up, making Toru pause where he was playing with one of the toys. “Well then, I’ll get ready and we can visit the school, I guess.”

You’re already walking away before he can say anything. Staring at your retreating figure, he looks over at Kuroo. “Your mom always like that?” he sighs out, and Kuroo huffs once through her nose, and he swears she rolls her eyes with it a little.

Thirty minutes later the two of you arrive at Jujutsu High. You’d dismissed the dogs with a quick pat on their head, and a belly rub for Toru, before leaving the apartment with Gojo.

The school honestly looks deserted with how massive it is. There’s no student or faculty in sight, though that isn’t that weird, considering it’s snowing outside.

Satoru walks two steps in front of you, deliberately slowing down his pace to match yours, but just a little too quick for you to comfortably stay right beside him.

Snow crunches beneath your boots and white plumes of smoke form in front of your mouth with each exhale. Burrowing your face further into your scarf, you finally speak up. “What are we gonna do today anyways?”

Gojo just hums, eyes hidden by his blindfold once more, hands in pockets. “I want you to spar with Megumi, give him some more tips on the technique.”

Furrowing your brows, you try to recall which of the two is Megumi. When you dub the spiky, black haired boy as Megumi, you hum slightly. “Why him?”

That makes Satoru stop in his tracks, just slightly. “You didn’t see?” When he sees you furrow your brows, he lets out one long, deep sigh. “He also has the Ten Shadows technique. I thought you realised when Totality attacked you—well tried to.”

“That thing was a part of the Ten Shadows technique?” you ask, thinking back that the giant beast that tried to claw your throat out last week. It was massive, even bigger than Kuroo and Toru. “Mhmm, Is when your two lil Demon Dogs get merged.”

“You mean to tell me he lost one of his demon dogs?” Your voice is small, kind of like you’re fearing the answer. Satoru only nods his head once, and a shudder trails up your spine.

Poor guy, being only… fifteen? Sixteen? and losing your first companion like that. You cannot imagine living your life without Kuroo or Toru. God, you would bawl your eyes out if anything happened to either of the two.

In a way you’re glad you never became a sorcerer, because there would be a big chance you would lose one of the dogs if you weren’t careful.

You don’t have much time to think about it, because Satoru steps into one of the buildings, opening the door for you. Bowing slightly—something that feels foreign to you, considering back ‘home’ people didn’t do that, nor did you ever bow towards Gojo whenever the two of you were younger—you walk inside.

Taking off your shoes, you look around the building. You’re met with a spacious common room. Multiple couches are in the space, along with some chairs and a few beanbags. A tall bookshelf spans the entirety of the wall, filled with different manga's.

There are a few students lounging around, some familiar—Yuji with his pink hair and Nobara with her bob—and others not. Your eyes trailing over the students when— hold the fuck up, is that a panda?!

Sure enough the panda waves at you. Nodding your head, you turn towards Satoru with questions written all over your face. Chuckling he leans in closer to you, voice low enough for only you to be heard. “That’s Panda. He’s a cursed corpse. Sentient. Kinda like your shadow clone, but even smarter.”

Right. Okay, sure. Sentient cursed corpses, because why the fuck not, it’s not like sorcery was weird enough already, just add in more bullshit to the mix.

Yuji is already on his feet the moment he spots you and Satoru, a beaming smile on his face. “Hey! You’re finally better. Gojo-sensei told us you got sick, but like— I had soooo many questions before he whisked you away the last time.”

Blinking, you’re looking at the boy. Right, okay, that energy wasn’t there the last time, but then again it was snowing, Gojo had told them to spar you and you had sunk into the ground and put Megumi in a headlock withing three seconds flat.

He kind of reminds you of younger you. You’ve since lost that spark, but it does ignite something in you that makes you want to bounce on the balls of your feet. “Of course you can ask!”

Gojo watches you get tugged into the common room by Yuji, who is already firing off questions, one after another, before you can even try to answer him. Nobara is scolding him for being too excited, and the three third-years are watching you with wary glances.

Exhaling, he lets his shoulders drop a little. Although this isn’t what he wanted, it is nice to see you interact with his kids. With that he walks towards the room he knows a grumpy teenager is in.

Opening the door with a flourish, he throws a thumbs up. “How’s my favorite student?” he all but teases, making Megumi groan into his pillow.

“What do you want,” he scowls over at Gojo, not even trying to hide the disdain in his voice. That’s nothing new,though. Having spent years with the boy, Gojo knows that Megumi loves him. Deeeep deep down. But it’s there …somewhere.

“Your new teach is here, come say hi,” he grins before turning around and walking back to the common room.

Walking back into the common room can only be described as chaos. Yuji is backflipping (why?), Nobara is showing off her nails—the steel ones she uses for her technique, not the keratin ones that are on fingertips—while Panda is punching the air.

Inumaki and Maki are just sitting there watching the chaos unfold while you are trying to divide your attention to all three of the kids that are begging for your attention.

What happened between him going to Megumi’s room and coming back, he’ll probably never know, but he’s here now.

The chaos continues for a while. Every student shows you their technique when you ask, even the second years, though you had some trouble understanding Inumaki at first.

Megumi finally has joined everyone, going to sit down where he deems safest—next to Maki. It’s definitely deliberate on his part, considering Maki is the most calm in this entire group of chaos.

Then questions start flying towards you, about your age, what you did before this, how you did that thing with Megumi last week. Until the final dreaded question comes from no other than Nobara: “So, you haven’t told us your technique yet.”

Swallowing you look over at Gojo, who nods at you. Wringing your hands together you look at the eager expressions of the students, even Megumi seems to perk up a bit at that. You never had to tell anyone your technique—apart from Gojo—and it was drilled into you that you should never reveal it.

But then again, that was because your mother was afraid they would simply kill you if they found out. That’s not gonna happen, you think. Plus Gojo is right beside you, surely he would protect you if something went wrong?

“Ah it’s the Ten Shadows technique.” Silence. Utter and absolute silence fills the room. A few students are blinking, like they’re buffering in real time. “Yeah right,” Maki scoffs, “that’s a hereditary technique, and if you were a Zen’in with the clan’s technique I would’ve known.”

That makes you pause, just a little. “Are you a Zen’in, Maki?”

She only narrows her eyes at you, not confirming nor denying the question. The rest of the group is silent, looking between you and Megumi.

Sighing you summon your demon dogs. Toru immediately licks your hand, while Kuroo just sits in her place, watching every student with a scrutinizing gaze.

There’s a blur of motion when suddenly the tip of a spear is right between your eyes. Maki’s. “Gojo, explain.”

And he does, as best as he can. You fill in some of the gaps, about leaving the country, never becoming a sorcerer, just living a normal, boring life. Neither of you brings up the fact that you and Gojo have known each other since the age of three.

The tension slowly dwindles, Maki lowering her spear while still looking at you with narrowed eyes. Yuji is petting Toru throughout all of it, hands sinking into the fur while Toru wags his tail, making the occasional swish sound on the floor.

You show the kids some of the things that can be achieved with the Ten Shadows technique, starting with the fact that you can completely sink into the shadows, since Yuji asked how you teleported last week. It’s clear that Megumi is taking mental notes of everything you do.

The rest of the day is spent like that, just chatting, occasionally showing off—not just you, the kids do as well—and getting to know one another. It’s quite sweet honestly.

While you didn’t get to spar with Megumi, like Gojo originally wanted you to do, you did show him important things that would definitely help him if ever needed.

The next few days are spent with the kids, sparring, telling them how to better themselves, just watching over them. And then there was the fact that Yaga found out Satoru had ‘hired’ someone without even telling him, let alone consult with him.

You had to watch Gojo get scolded by the principal, and honestly it was funny as fuck. How does a thirty year old let himself get scolded like that? You almost wanted to tell him to stand the fuck up for himself. Embarrassing, really, but then again, that is the Gojo you know.

Though he wasn’t the one that got scolded when the two of you were younger, that one was you. So maybe this is just karma. Ehhh, that isn’t fair on Gojo, though. He always tried to stick up for you, trying to tell the maids it was him that did said thing, but they just brushed him off.

Still a funny sight, and something you’ll probably tease him about until the two of you are all wrinkly and gray.

After that you got introduced to some of the other staff. Nanami was apparently a year younger than Gojo, and definitely over his shit, throwing out a quick ‘good luck’ when he heard that you would spend most of your days with Gojo here at school—no people didn’t know you also ‘lived’ with Gojo.

The next was Shoko, the school’s …nurse? healer? You’re not sure, all you know is that you learned yet another thing about sorcery: RCT. Apparently some people can heal themselves? You knew your deer could heal you, but you didn’t know that some people could also do that.

And lastly there was Ijichi. Nervous guy, eyes constantly flitting everywhere but Gojo while wringing his hands together and bowing a good ninety degrees when he first saw you. He’s an assistant at the school, mostly there to chauffeur people around and put up veils.

Yuji, at one point, had popped up out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of Ijichi. But when he finally saw who it was, he instantly seemed calmer?

You’re not sure what happened between Gojo and Ijichi for him to be so nervous around the guy, but you’re sure to find out one day. Or maybe you’re the anomaly, standing so casually beside The Strongest, but then again Nanami and Shoko weren’t nervous. At all.

After that it was just training the kids, constantly. Gojo would stand off to the side, watching everything go down, and snickering every time the kids would win. Yeah, you’re absolutely shit at hand to hand, never having been taught how to, while these kids train for things like these.

Like right now, you’re sparring with Megumi, who’s absolutely getting one in on you. Gojo can only smile at the sight. You might not be good at hand to hand, but you gave so much valuable information to not only Megumi but also Gojo about the Ten Shadows technique that’s surely handy to know.

There’s a small smile on Gojo’s lips when he sees your feet get sweeped out from under you, only for you to sink into the shadows before your back hits the ground. It’s smart, really. You might not be an experienced fighter, but you’re smart. Adapting to everything that gets thrown your way.

He isn’t sure when Yuji and Nobara creeped up on him—too occupied by watching the spar that just doesn’t seem to end—but they’re absolutely grinning while eyeing each other.

“Soooo,” Nobara begins, only for Yuji to cut her off completely. “How long have you had a crush on the new teacher?” Nobara elbows him with a scowl and mutters something only Yuji can hear.

Gojo blinks a few times behind his blindfold. A crush? On you? No way, he’s just watching you to make sure you’re not up to something. The feelings he had for you when he was younger surely have dwindled by now.

Putting his hands in his pockets he looks down at the two menaces that are still eyeing him with sweet smiles that don’t match their eyes. Fucking gossip vultures is what they are. “I don’t have a thing for your new teacher.”

“Bullshit! You’re always watching her,” Nobara scowls while folding her arms in front of her chest. “It’s been weeks, Gojo-sensei, and you’re always watching her. Even with the blindfold on, we can feel your gaze on her, like a compass trying to find north.”

That… was a weird thing to say, especially coming from Yuji. Gojo’s eyes flick towards the mat once more, just to make sure you can’t hear the three of them. You and Megumi have sat down, all three demon dogs—Toru, Kuroo and Megumi’s black demon dog—playing with each other while you and Megumi are talking.

“Duhhh, I have to make sure the three of you don’t absolutely destroy her in the hand to hand spars,” he retorts. Nobara is already getting her phone out of her pocket, “But you even look at her outside of the spars— here, see! In this picture you’re looking at her even though she’s just talkin—”

The brat really has taken pictures of him without him noticing. He tunes the two of them out, because he already knows that they aren’t gonna stop until he ‘confesses’, which isn’t gonna happen because he isn’t into you.

So why do his cheeks feel so warm when even thinking about nursing a crush on you?

It’s been four months since you came back to Japan. Four months of being back in Satoru’s life. Four months of him constantly hovering behind you, like he’s afraid you’ll leave again if he isn’t watching. You’re not sure if he knows you know he’s checking in on you, but it’s quite sweet, honestly.

The two of you are sitting on the couch, two bowls of strawberry ice cream in front of you, with a plate of mochi on the table—Satoru’s idea, of course.

Gojo had put on a show to watch while eating, but you’re not quite focused on that. The bowl of ice cream forgotten in your lap while you’re hunched over your phone, thumbs flying over the screen to send messages back.

You’re just about to send the text message when an incoming call comes through.

Mom

Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Why now.

Satoru looks over, spoon in his mouth, eyebrow raised while he looks over at your phone. You’re about to decline the call when Satoru reaches over and clicks on the accept call button. Looking over with wide eyes, you mouth a ‘what are you doing?’, and he only shrugs.

It’s then that you hear your mother’s voice come through the line, calling out your name. “Hello, are you there?”

The bastard had put it on speaker as well. Scowling you look back at your phone. “I- yeah. Hi, mom,” you awkwardly say.

Your mom immediately starts berating you, asking you how you could go to Japan without letting anyone know, and for four months at that!

Shoulders pulled up to your ears, cheeks red, you keep opening and closing your mouth, but before you can even get a word out your mother is already speaking again.

“Seriously, Japan? I’ve told you so many times not to go back to that place. And now I have to find out through your work that you’ve been gone for four months already? You said you were going on a two week vacation, not move to another country!”

Right, you did say that. Back when you first got here in December, you’d told your mother that you would take a small vacation to the Maldives—not Japan and definitely not for four months. She’s probably worried sick.

Swallowing you finally speak up. “Things just… didn’t go according to plan—”

“Are you still in Japan in hopes to find that boy? God, how many times have I told you to get over the guy. You two were friends when you were kids. It’s been twenty-two years for goodness sake! He probably doesn’t even remember who you are.”

Well fucking ouch. And how are you going to tell her he’s sitting right beside you? Yes, that’s right, you haven’t even told her that you found Gojo, but then again, you also didn’t tell her you were in Japan out of all places.

She continues her berating. “On that topic, you should start living your life. I found someone for you, he’s sweet, and tall, and a true gentleman—and before you say anything, I don’t care that the only guy you’re willing to marry is Gojo Satoru, that excuse is getting real old.”

You’re spluttering out replies, but all Gojo can focus on is that one sentence. The only guy you’re willing to marry is Gojo Satoru. Only guy. Willing to marry. Gojo Satoru. You. Marry. Him. You want to marry him?

And by your reaction it’s clear that you did say that and it wasn’t something your mother made up on the spot. You’ve talked about wanting to marry him? Despite the two of you not having seen each other for more than two decades?

The information just refuses to compute in his head. Why would you want to marry him? Was it because of the name or wealth that came with it? The protection from the Zen’in clan, maybe? Or was it because you just really liked him when the two of you were younger?

But then again, you haven’t seen him in ages, surely you would’ve found someone else you liked during all of those years.

It just doesn’t make sense in his head.

It would be one thing to not make any new best friends, reserving that spot for him somehow, but it’s a whole other thing to tell your mother you didn’t want to marry anyone other than him.

And from the discussion that’s still going on beside him, it’s clear you’ve talked about him. A lot. And not just when you were younger—that part you did tell him, the fact that you cried over him and manifested a Shikigami that looked like him, the same way he cried over you for all of those years—but also when you were older.

He doesn’t know what to do with the information he just got handed on a silver platter. Sure, he could tease you for it, but that would still not help with his questions that are floating around in his head.

Fuck, you just keep throwing curveballs. From coming back in his life after twenty-two years to showing him that you inherited the Zen’in clan’s technique—and subsequently telling him you’re of Zen’in lineage—to the fact that you manifested a dog that looked identical to him.

Never in his life would he have thought that you coming back into his life would lead to all of this.

But one thing he can say for certain now—and even before, but the logical part of his brain was still on edge. Plus he wasn’t quite ready to forgive you just yet for being gone for so long, and even admitting to the fact that you could’ve came back earlier—is that you’re not here to take him out.

You really came here just to see him. Even if you didn’t know if he would let you back in his life. It was a gamble you took because you missed him the same way he has missed you for all of those years.

Fuck.

He hasn’t even noticed that you hung up the phone. It’s only when you turn to him with wide eyes that he finally looks at you again.

“You shouldn’t believe everything she said, like— yeah, sure I didn’t tell her I was going to Japan, but that’s only because I knew she wouldn’t approve. I tried to when I was a teenager, but she shot that idea down every time, because she was too scared to be recognized by some random Zen’in clan member—”

“You wanted to marry me, huh?” he smirks down at you, because honestly it is adorable, even if it doesn’t make sense.

Putting your hands out in front of you, you wave them around. “It’s not what you think—stop looking at me like that, yes I can feel the way you’re looking at me, Gojo, It doesn’t matter you have a blindfold on. It’s not like I told my mom ‘Heyyyy mom, just so you know, I won’t ever marry someone except for my childhood best friend’, it was just that she kept trying to set me up for dates that I didn’t want to go on.”

Raising his eyebrows he lets the silence sit for a few seconds, just to watch you squirm a little, let it sink in what you’ve just told him, because he’s a dick like that. “So the first thing you came up with is that you wouldn’t date because you wanted to marry me?”

“I- well… I mean,” you trail off before huffing a breath through your nose and crossing your arms over your chest, not daring to look him into the eyes. “You were, like, my only friend ever, so it was the only excuse I had.”

That sends a small pang through his chest. He was your only friend, ever? That’s actually incredibly sad. In a way it reminds him of himself, of all the years he had to stay at the Gojo estate where he was spoken to like an adult and treated like one.

It was incredibly lonely, even if he was constantly surrounded by people. But it wasn’t like they were there to just let him be a child, no. He had to train, to be on his best behaviour, had to learn so many things a child shouldn’t have to learn, only because he was born with the Six Eyes.

Luckily he had Shoko and Geto back when he started high school. They were always there for him, though they weren’t quite you, they were absolute crackheads in their own way. And he loved them for it.

After high school it went quite different, obviously. Losing Geto to his ideals and Shoko being more reserved in nature—sure he could still go to her, but she also changed. A lot. And he just doesn’t want to burden her even further.

So it’s been just him since the second year, too. And yes he can still annoy people—such as Ijichi, Yaga and Nanami—but he never got quite close to anyone, either.

So the fact that you didn’t have any friends either sends a small pang through his chest. Trying to alleviate the mood, he chuckles a bit, “What, like, people didn’t wanna be friends with you because you stole their food and drew on them?”

“No I just… I mean in the beginning I was missing you so incredibly much, I was constantly crying, not even trying to make new friends because, y’know, you were my friend and I had just lost you in a way. After that I kinda became the ‘transfer who cried the whole time’ so people avoided me.”

If he didn’t feel bad before, he certainly does now. He can’t imagine how hard it is to have your life completely turned upside down at the bright age of six, only to not have any friends either.

“Not that it really mattered back then, it’s not like I spoke the language, so even any attempts of having a friend flew out of the window. And after that I just, I dunno, didn’t want any friends, I guess.” You shrug your shoulders, trying to be nonchalant about all of it.

Well that’s fucking sad, isn’t it? Here you are, trauma dumping onto the one person who has offered you a place to stay while you’re in japan—sure he kinda roped you into it by immediately giving you a teachers position, but still—being generous even while he didn’t have to.

“But don’t worry about it, I’m completely fine this way!” you quickly add, hoping that he didn’t feel too sorry for you. That’s not something you want.

Looking down, you see that your ice cream has melted into a sad puddle of pink goo. Standing up, you can see Gojo startle a bit, you reach over to pluck his bowl right out of his lap. He was almost done eating it, so there isn’t much melted ice cream left in his bowl.

“Well, this looks fucking sad, I’ll clean these up!” You practically sprint toward the kitchen to get away from the awkward tension that’s in the air.

Setting the bowls down in the sink with a clank! you close your eyes for just a second. Of course this would happen right where he could hear. He probably thinks you’re a freak for even being like this.

The days after are awkward to say the least. You’ve noticed Gojo hovering less and less around you, often times choosing to actually just do things for himself, instead of watching you.

He hasn’t made any comments on your excessive cleaning, either. You’ve cleaned the kitchen three times in the past two days, and even when you were on your hands and knees, scrubbing the floor, did he only look at you for a second or two before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and going back to whatever he was doing before.

Whenever the two of you go to the school, he also doesn’t watch you spar anymore. He either gets to sparring with one of the students himself, or he bounces off to his office, telling you that he has some paperwork to catch up to.

While you don’t doubt he has paperwork—he definitely has, a lot of it too—he has told you he absolutely hates doing it. Most of the times he would just tell Ijichi to do it for him while he did other stuff. So it’s glaringly obvious that he’s avoiding you.

Gojo, in the meanwhile, can’t get over the conversation the two of you had a few days ago. He really has been your only friend all of your life, and here he was mad at you for abandoning him, and only thinking you were back in his life to off him.

In a way he feels fucking guilty for it. Not trusting you for four months, despite you never giving him any reason not to. The only thing you ever did was move away, but that wasn’t your decision, so why was he so mad at you?

Sure, you could’ve came back earlier—much earlier—but you had been doubting he even wanted you back in his life, which he can understand.

So he has been giving you some space for yourself. Stopped hovering around you constantly, watching your every move. Stopped doubting that you were in his life for bad reasons.

And apparently the students noticed as well, because not ten minutes after he went to sit down in his office chair, the door slams open. A very irritated Nobara and a more enthusiastic Yuji standing beside her in the threshold.

“So you finally realised that you’re in love with her or something?” Nobara asks, while stalking over to claim the only other seat in the office—a big, luxurious chair that swallows her whole.

Yuji calmly closes the door and walks over to where his classmate is sitting. “You’ve been kinda avoiding her these past few days, sensei.”

Seems like his personal business can’t stay personal with these two. He should’ve expected as much, honestly, from the moment they asked if he had a thing for you. Though they never asked him anything about it afterward, he’s sure they still watched him like a hawk.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he lets out a long, suffering sigh. Because what the fuck is he even supposed to say to that? They don’t even know that the two of you are childhood best friends, by his choice, really.

“I’m just trying to find her a birthday gift,” is what he says instead. Which definitely was the wrong thing to say, seeing the way Nobara’s eyes light up. Shit.

“You could’ve just said so, now move—” she plucks the iPad right out of his hands, screen lighting up on the last tab he had open. “—what the fuck, Gojo?”

That certainly attracts Yuji’s attention, looking down at the screen, he furrows his brows. “Why are you trying to buy Tamagotchi’s?”

“It’s a joke gift, you guys wouldn’t understand— gimme it back,” Nobara holds the iPad out of reach, tapping things into the tablet without once looking at Gojo.

“Well, whatever, if you want her to be turned off by your gift, go for it. As for a normal gift, what about this?” She turns the screen back toward Gojo. Looking it over, he sees two dog beds for a ridiculous price, not that he cares much about that, he has more money than he can ever spend, but still.

It’s thoughtful, to be completely honest, and not something he would’ve came up with himself. With the way there are multiple dog beds that are strewn all over his apartment, he would’ve never thought to get you new ones. But when he thinks about the beds, they are quite old, torn in some places, stuffing flat.

“Oh, oh! And maybe you could get like a small gift basket filled with sweets. She likes those right? She’s always snacking on something,” Yuji adds, bouncing slightly in place, faded rose tufts moving with the motion.

Yeah that does sound good. And something you would absolutely love, considering you still have the same sweet-tooth you had when you were younger.

“Okay, okay. I’ll get her that, now go back to whatever the two of you were doing before coming here to lecture me on gifts,” he shoos them out of the door. Just before he closes it, he can hear Nobara yell a ‘Don’t fuck this up’ over her shoulder.

Closing the door, he lets his head rest against it for a few seconds. Yeah, this is absolutely going to be either a fail or an absolute win, and he has no idea which of the two it’s gonna be.

Two weeks later, he's anxiously sitting at the dining table—somewhere he never sits—fiddling with the plastic wrap around the gift basket, the sound of it crinkling is the only sound filling the room other than the dogs their breathing and occasionally shifting.

Toru had been trying to play with him earlier, dropping a ball in front of his feet, only for Satoru to not even notice it. He’s so nervous—and for what? It’s just your birthday. Twenty-nine. No big deal. Not your ‘milestone’ thirty everyone keeps talking about.

So why is he so nervous right now?Maybe it has to do with the fact that this is the first time he’s spending your birthday with you since you turned five. Yes, you were there on his sixth birthday, but you were only five—almost six—back then.

He’s done breathing exercises. Him. Gojo Satoru. The Strongest. Had done breathing exercises because he was nervous to give gifts to his best friend… childhood best friend? just friends? Whatever.

He’s never, and I mean never, been this nervous before. He’s had to face death when he was merely sixteen years old. He had to kill his best friend when he was twenty-eight. But none of those made him as nervous as he is right now.

Bouncing his knee while sitting, trying to sit still until you finally woke up. He’s been sitting here since the bright and early hour of five a.m. Getting the gifts ready for you, but right now he’s regretting that decision, because it means having to wait god knows how long for you to wake up.

It’s ridiculous, really. Trying to keep calm while he still has to actually give you the gifts, and what if you don’t like them? What if you laugh at him? Or maybe scold him?

He’s spiraling, but luckily not for long because a wet nose presses itself against his palm. Looking down, he sees Toru staring at him with narrowed eyes. Scratching him behind the ear, Satoru tries to focus himself on the dog.

He rolls the ball into the living room, the dog prancing after it, nails making soft click click click sounds against the hardwood floors. Coming back, he drops the saliva soaked ball in Satoru’s awaiting hand.

With a grimace he throws the ball once more, wiping his hand on his sweats. The fabric darkening where he wipes off the drool. You’d think for shadow constructs that they wouldn’t have any saliva, but they do, apparently. Which is interesting, because they don’t really have any other ‘normal’ dog things.

They don’t need to eat nor drink—though you insist on feeding them occasionally and putting out water bowls that just… sit there and never get used—nor do they have to be walked. Sure they love to run around, Toru moreso than Kuroo, but that’s something they already do in the apartment.

Speaking of, the black dog stands up, stretching herself, hairs raising slightly. “Oooohhh, biiigg stretch,” the words leave his mouth before he even realises it.

He has to blink a few times when he realises he said that. It’s something you tell the dogs when they stretch out, acting as if they’re actual dogs and not just Shikigami.

Looks like you’re rubbing off on him.

When Satoru finally hears your door open fifteen minutes later, he sits up straight. You’re walking out, one hand in your hair, scratching your scalp slightly while still yawning.

“G’morning,” you mumble, walking directly to the kitchen. But Gojo doesn’t even hear it, because all he can focus on is your pajamas, if you can even call them that.

A tank top that has ridden up dangerously high, so much so it’s bunched around your ribs—something you seem completely unaware of—and the shorts. God, can he even call them shorts? Your ass is nearly hanging out of the thing.

There’s so much skin, which definitely doesn’t help when you bend over to grab a pan from the cupboards. His entire brain just… shuts off. It only seems to turn back on when the pan clanks! onto the furnace.

Clearing his throat he stands up. “Morning. I- you- fucking hell, happy birthday to you!” he almost fucking cheers. You look over at him, eyebrows furrowed, still fiddling with the knob to turn on the furnace. “That’s today?”

That makes him sweat just slightly. Did he remember the date wrong? Fuck, is today even your birthday? He’s sweating over here, trying to figure out if it really is your birthday, while you’re whispering under your breath.

Did you really forget your own birthday? Surely not. Then again, you don’t really celebrate it. Your parents send you a text and come over whenever they can with some gifts, but other than that, you don’t really pay any mind to it.

Patting your shorts, you’re trying to allocate your phone, whichhhh is probably still under your pillow. Giving up on trying to get the furnace to work, you run to the bedroom, trying to find your phone, hand wildly patting underneath your pillow.

When you finally find the thing, you swipe it open, only to be met with two texts from your parents. It is your birthday!

Going back inside, you see Gojo stand a bit awkwardly in the middle of the room. Kuroo brushes her head against your bare leg, the soft strands of her fur tickling you slightly.

“Thank you, Gojo,” you thank him, though it’s slightly awkward after running out of the room after he congratulated you.

“I got you presents.” Stepping to the side, you finally see that there are a few boxes on the table—one massive one, a smaller one, and a basket wrapped in plastic wrap. Blinking, you’re trying to process the fact that Gojo had bought you presents.

Is this why he has been avoiding you? When the two of you were children he was terrible at keeping secrets. Whispering all excitedly to you about what he had gotten you, only to clasp a hand over his mouth, eyes widening, when he finally realised he shouldn’t have told you your present.

It always made you laugh to see those blues widening significantly. You didn’t care much for surprises, as long as you knew the gift came from Gojo, it would be all right.

“You didn’t have to,” you say softly, still eyeing the gifts on the table. Gojo just grins and walks behind you, nudging you slightly. “Go on, open them.”

Looking back at him, he gives you a small encouraging nod. Walking forward, you start with the big gift. Opening it, you’re met with two new, luxurious dog beds. The quality feels like it’s expensive. They’re big enough for the dogs to comfortably sleep in, and the bedding itself is soft as fuck.

Gojo sees you carefully lift one of the beds, turning it this and that way, inspecting it, before putting it on the ground. Toru, of course, prances over and sniffs the bed once before tilting its head your way. When you nod, he lets himself flop onto the bed, white fur splaying out against the gray fabric.

A small smile graces your face. Grabbing the other dog bed, you lay it down for Kuroo, who is a bit more careful. She steps onto the bed, makes a small circle, before finally going to lay down. She doesn’t huff when doing so, which Gojo considers as a win.

Then you go to grab the gift basket. There are multiple snacks in there, along with a few things he’s seen you buy over the months you’ve been living here or have been mentioning. A small bracelet you saw during one of the missions with the kids. Perfume you always wished to have, but never had the money for. Some scrubs he sees you buy from time to time.

Smiling, you rip the plastic away. “This is so sweet, Gojo, thank you,” you smile all cute at him over your shoulder, before looking back down to the gifts. Opening the box with the bracelet, you fucking gasp.

“I can’t accept this, do you know how expensive that thing was?!” you turn around, box still open with the bracelet neatly laid out for you.

“Yes you can, c’mhere,” he murmurs, moving forward to pluck the box right out of your delicate fingers.

Grabbing the bracelet, he angles your wrist down a bit so he can put it on for you. The sunlight hitting the silver pendant just so that it glints. You touch the bracelet with reverent fingers. “Thank you,” you murmur, looking up at Gojo through your lashes.

His throat bobs when he swallows, looking down at you—having to keep his eyes from wandering lower, because he can look riiiight into your top from this angle—stepping back slightly. “You’re welcome.”

After a few more seconds of eye-contact, you sift through the basket again. All the sweets he got you were really what you liked, and not necessarily him. Fuck, it’s really thoughtful.

Opening a box of strawberry mochi, you hold one out for him to grab. His long fingers brushing yours in the process. “Sweets for breakfast?” it’s not like he cares much, shoving the sweet right into his mouth.

Laughing you take a bite for yourself. Dusting your fingers off, you grab some of the snacks and put them on the table. “Be right back.”

He sees you walk to your room, which makes him smile. Sure, you were chaos—and there are times where it shines through even nowadays—but if it’s one thing you did, it was cleaning up your gifts. Whenever you got a gift, you put it in its rightful place before continuing to open the rest of them.

It never made sense to his young mind, but then again, many things you did didn’t.

When you come back, you eye the small gift left on the table. Grabbing it you unbox it, only to be confused. In the box was a tiny egg-like device.

“You got me a Tamagotchi?” you ask him, turning the thing around around a few times to really confirm it is in fact a Tamagotchi. Gojo grins, putting his hands in the pockets of his sweats, rocking on his heels a little. “Mhmmm.”

“Why?” you ask, finally looking at him, and that grin on his face tells you he’s up to no good. “You remember when your mom called you?”

Of course you remember that, she had said some things you’d rather not have Gojo known, but alas, the damage was done already. Nodding your head he continues.

“Well, since you wanted to get married to me sooo bad, I just wanted to make your wish come true!” He pulls out a similar looking device from his pocket, dangling the little keychain from his finger, grin widening and eyes crinkling with the motion.

You stare at him for a few more seconds, completely dumbfounded. “Let me get this straight. You got me a Tamagotchi because you heard my mother say that I had told her that I would only ever marry you—so she would stop setting me up for blind dates—so our little Tamagotchi’s can get married?”

Gojo gins and nods his head, the hairs on his head bouncing with the motion. “Mhmmmm, I just wanted to make your dream come true.”

One second he’s grinning down at you, the next he gets a pillow to the face. When the fuck did you even get a pillow? And one from your bed nonetheless. Blinking disorientated, he looks at you for a few seconds. Then sees Kuroo sitting next to you, her tail wagging onto the ground.

Oh. Oh, it’s so on. A small chuckle escapes him, “Oh sweetheart, you have no idea what you’ve done.”

With that he moves towards you faster than you can even process. Wraps his arms around your waist and carries you to the couch. You keep hitting him with the pillow, over and over and over, squealing slightly while you kick your legs in his grip.

“Satoru Gojo, put me down right now!” you demand, still hitting him with the pillow.

“As you wish!” He all but throws you onto the couch. Bouncing slightly you blink up at him, questioning what he’s even gonna do, when you see his fingers start to creep towards your sides.

“Don’t you dare— Satoru I’m serious,” you warn him while pointing your finger at him.

He thinks it’s adorable, honestly; your little finger wagging in his face like that’s going to stop him from tickling you. It’s one of the weaknesses you’ve had since you were young. Ticklish as fuck, whereas Gojo could be tickled and he would not react. At all.

Your laughter echoes through the apartment, trying to squirm away from his fingers digging into your sides. Gojo chuckles at the fucking torture he’s putting you through, there are tears gathering in your eyes and your sides are starting to hurt.

“Ah- okay okay, enough,” when he still doesn’t stop, you call in for drastic measures. “Kuroo, Toru, attack!”

The dogs immediately ‘attack’ Satoru—Toru biting on the fabric of his sweats, trying to get him away while Kuroo tries to, delicately, grab ahold of Satoru’s wrist to get his hand off you.

The tickling finally stops. Taking greedy gulps of air, Satoru slumping over you, pulling a small groan from your chest. “That’s cheating,” he whines. Then looks over at the dogs and whispers: ‘betrayal, after all I did for you guys’.

Nudging the tall, white-haired guy that’s still half sprawled over your torso like a corpse, you smile at him. “Thanks, for the gifts. And remembering.”

“Always.”

You open Satoru’s bedroom door without knocking. It’s something you really should start learning to do, because if you did, you probably wouldn’t be met with this sight.

You’re not sure what reaches your brain faster, the way Satoru is laid out on his bed, all naked. Fist pumping his ridiculously large cock, with a pretty pink tip and multiple veins running along the shaft. Pre cum is beading out of the head, which he smears down with each pump of his hand. His head is thrown back slightly, teeth sunken into his plush bottom lip, eyes hooded and focused on his phone.

Or the way his phone is cradled in his free hand, screen facing him, the light illuminating everything you can see. The speakers letting the pornographic moans echo through the space.

Satoru looks over at you, still frozen in the doorway, mouth open—not sure if it’s because you’re shocked or because you were on the verge of saying something and the words never made it out.

His hand never stops stroking. up and down, up and down, up and down, up and— stop looking at it. You shake yourself out of your stupor, feeling your cheeks heat up completely.

“Sorry!” you squeak out, ready to turn on your heel and go back to your own room. You feel so stupid.

Should’ve knocked. Should’ve closed the door the moment you saw what was happening. Should’ve just waited until next morning.

You’ve taken one step back when Satoru call out. “Wait. Stay, please?” his voice is breathy, a groan tears from his throat next when he thumbs over his own slit. Looking over your shoulder, you try to keep your eyes on his face.

The way his mouth is slightly parted, chest heaving with every ragged breath he takes. The flush on his face continues all the way down to said chest. Eyebrows furrowed slightly.

Swallowing you take another step back. leave leave leave, just leave. You must’ve heard him wrong. just. leave. Reaching for the door handle, you want to shut the door behind you. Once again Satoru speaks up, eyes still completely fixed on you. “Please?” he pleads.

Chewing on your lip you contemplate it for a second before you step into the room. It feels wrong. It is wrong. This is your friend—your best friend. You shouldn’t do this, having read too many stories about people losing their best friends after hooking up with them.

But… are you hooking up with him? Technically you’re watching him, not that that’s any better. Watch the way his hand slides up and down his shaft, occasionally squeezing at the base. Watch the way his pupils are blown wide with lust.

“Good girl,” Satoru breathes out, and your thighs clench on instinct. Fuck. Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought this would actually happen.

Without realising your hand finds your clit over your sleeping shorts, a small gasp leaving your lips at the contact. Then you freeze, eyes blown wide.

Were you really about to touch yourself while looking at how your best friend is jerking himself off? Fuck you’re a perv.

Gojo groans at the sight, throwing his head back slightly. His hips lift from the matrass, meeting his hands with desperate thrusts. “Fuck, touch yourself for me,” he almost whines the words out, pausing the porn video he was previously watching and throwing his phone somewhere on the bed. He pats the bed next, inviting you in.

Gulping you walk over, tentatively putting a knee on the matrass. Then your other, before you’re seated on the bed on your knees. Feet under your butt, hands laying limp in your lap. Gnawing on your lower lip, you look at Satoru.

From here you can clearly see his face, illuminated by the sliver of moonlight the curtains let through. You can see his eyes fully now. See the way there’s only a small, thin ring of blue left. Pupils completely blown out and focused on you.

His eyes travel from your own face down to your pajamas—a small tank top and shorts that shouldn’t even be able to be classified as shorts—eyes lingering on the way your nipples poke through the top. He licks his lips at the sight, fucking his fist a bit faster. More pre spilling out.

Fuck, how he wishes he could just wrap his lips around them. Teeth grazing the sensitive nubs—have you cry out in pleasure. Another groan leaves his throat.

“C’mon, sweetheart, touch yourself for me,” he repeats. Because god, the way you were about to do it from watching him jerk off, it turned him on so incredibly much more than the amateur porn he was watching on his phone.

He had a bad habit of searching up videos where the girl resembled you. It was the only way he could cum after you came back in his life—he realised that after trying to search for one of his favorite videos, and just couldn’t get hard. At all.

Until he stumbled upon a video where the girl vaguely resembled you. His dick instantly twitched at the sight, reminding him of how embarrassingly hard he got whenever you bent over to grab something from the floor, or the lower cupboards. Or when you’d come out of your room in sleepwear that really shouldn’t be called sleepwear.

Seeing you hesitate makes him speak up again. “Want me to beg? I’ll do it— please touch yourself—fffuckk—for me,” he squeezes his tip, before returning to pumping his shaft. And that snaps you out of it.

You shyly put your legs in front of you, thighs slightly parted. And Gojo can see the small, wet patch starting to form on the crotch of your short’s fabric. Next you shimmy out of them and— “Not wearing any panties? Dirty girl.”

It makes your skin heat up even more, because you never thought that not wearing any panties would lead to this. Putting your middle finger on your clit, you apply slight pressure. Gasping out, your hips lift slightly.

Your finger drops down to your soaked entrance next. You circle it with the pad of your finger, not once daring to dip inside, just circling it, catching your slick on your finger before bringing it back up to your clit.

Circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, you suck in a shaky breath, chest stuttering with it. Your thighs close slightly, before you force them open again. Looking over you can see Gojo’s eyes transfixed on your fingers.

You can feel your hole clench around nothing, more slick gushing out of you. And how you wish it were his fingers on you—on your clit, on your thighs, inside of you. Your free hand travels up to your breast, pinching your nipple through the fabric.

Whining out you throw your head back, before your fingers glide from your clit to your entrance. Sinking one finger in, you bite on your lower lip. Gojo groans at the sight of your finger disappearing into your tiny hole.

How he wishes it was his finger being hugged by your tight, wet, warm, walls. He wishes he could feel them clench on his digits, wish he could scissor you open—make you cry out at how much thicker and longer his fingers were compared to yours.

His hand matches your rhythm, the way you’re thrusting in and out. In and out, in and out, in and out. He can feel his lower stomach starting to contract. Abs tensing up. But he wants to wait for you to cum as well. Wants to cum at the same time.

“Add another finger,” he groans out. And you do just that, adding a second finger with a small gasp falling from your lips. It almost tips him over the edge. The two of you work in tandem, hands and fingers moving in the same speed. Hoping—wishing you could feel the other.

The room fills with sounds—ragged breaths, the shlick shlick shlick from both your fingers plunging into your wet pussy, and from Gojo’s hand pumping its shaft. The knot in your stomach tightening with the seconds, getting warmer and warmer.

The hand that was pinching and rolling your nipple between your fingers falls down to your pussy, circling your clit. “Close,” you gasp out. Gojo doesn’t reply, just moves his hand a bit faster, until finally white spurts of cum dribble down his hands.

You follow him seconds after, eyes rolling to the back of your skull. The knot in your stomach finally snapping, sending you into an blinding orgasm. Legs snapping shut, trapping both your hands between them and your pussy. Thighs trembling.

Coming down from your high, you look over at Satoru, who looks utterly blissed out. There’s cum on his hand, thighs, abs, and even some on the matrass. He’s giving himself a few more strokes, cum dribbling down from his slit with some after spurts.

Removing your fingers from your heat, you look around awkwardly. There’s cum dribbling down your fingers, but you don’t want to just wipe them off on Satoru’s duvet.

Before you can even scoot off the bed to go clean yourself up, Satoru is suddenly in front of you— still in his full, naked glory. Skin flushed and shiny with sweat, still dragging in breaths like he sprinted a full marathon.

You open your mouth to ask him what he’s doing, but the words die out instantly. Satoru wraps his lips around your fingers and suuuucks your juices right off them. His tongue swirling around them. His eyes rolling to the back of his skull while he hums around your digits. You slightly jerk your hand back, before he grabs your wrist to keep them in place.

Once he’s done cleaning your fingers, he licks a broad stripe from your fingers all the way down to your wrist, where slick is dripping down.

You can feel your eyes go wide, mouth parting slightly. The sight is ungodly—or rather godly. The pale moonlight shining on Satoru makes his stark white hair stand out even more, his skin pale skin illuminated by the white light.

Satoru’s eyes find yours—pupils still blown wide, a bit hazy—while he licks one last stripe up your palm, collecting the last of your sweetness. The sight makes you feel parched, swallowing nervously you bite on your lip, unsure of what to do.

Pulling his head from your hand, he winks at you while his tongue swipes over his lips. Your eyes flitting to them like a moth to a flame. And you wonder—not for the first time—what it’s like to feel them on yours. What it would feel like kissing your best friend.

“You taste so sweet,” he rasps out, pulling you from your thoughts. Staring at him with wide eyes you open your mouth to say something—probably something stupid—when he beats you to it. “‘Wonder what it’s like straight from the source.”

You gasp at that, thighs clenching. You feel your pussy throb for him, as if it has a little heartbeat of its own. A fresh wave of sweetness dribbling out at his words. Gojo’s eyes immediately are drawn toward the action, a slow grin forming on his face.

“Oh? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweets,” he’s smug. His pearly whites catching the moonlight, making him even more attractive. Fuck. Yes, you would like that. Have him buried between your legs, staring up at you while he makes you feel good. Have your hands grip his hair. Thighs wrapped around his head.

He sees you nod your head, a shy, quick little thing. Your whole face is burning up from your cheeks to the tips of your ears down your neck toward your chest. It makes him wonder if it continues all the way to your tits, still covered in that damn tank top.

That wouldn’t do now, would it?

Leaning back, he goes to lay down onto his back, still looking at you. “What- what are you doing?” you ask him, voice fully confused. And god, if it doesn’t do things to him.

“Want you to ride my face,” he replies, looking over at you before grabbing your thighs and moving them for you.

You’re straddling his chest, thighs bracketing him, pussy dripping. The sight is absolutely filthy—something he could only ever dream of since you got back into his life.

The only thing that would be better was if that damn top was finally gone. Your pebbled nipples taunting him through the fabric.

Running his hands up and down your thighs, feeling you shiver, he runs his hands up to your waist, fingers brushing the hem. “Off,” he orders.

Gulping you comply with him, pulling it over your head and throwing it somewhere across the room. Your tits bounce with the motion, finally freed of the constricting fabric. A low, guttural groan pulls from Gojo’s throat at the sight. God, aren’t you beautiful. Fully naked on top of him, eyes blown wide looking into his own.

Yeah, he could get used to this. His hands travel up to your breasts, giving them a quick squeeze that has you gasping out, before they travel down and hook onto your thighs once more. He pulls you to hover over his face, your puffy, glistening lips right above his own. His eyes zeroing in on it, unconsciously licking his lips at the sight.

You grab the headboard behind his head, lowering yourself slightly when he nods at you—not fully seated, still hovering, thighs straining slightly. Which is apparently the wrong choice when a firm slap lands on your ass.

“Sit.” There’s no room for debate, no room for you to even stammer out a reply when Satoru pulls you down completely. You arch when you feel his tongue swipe one broad stripe from your fluttering hole all the way to your clit. “F-fuck, Satoru,” you mewl out, grip tightening on the headboard.

Both his hands grip your hips, keeping you slightly in place, before he begins to fully lap at your cunt. He wraps his lips around your bundle of nerves and suuucksss. Your thighs tightening around his head with a small gasp.

Satoru groans out, pressing his tongue into you. Your warm walls clamping down on the muscle immediately. Wriggling his tongue around, he starts slowly tongue-fucking you. The act so filthy, you can’t help but keen out.

One hand leaves the headboard, tangling into his moonlit white hair. It shimmers slightly in the light, making it all that more alluring to grab onto.

His own hand travels up from your hip to the underside of your boobs. His thumb resting there for a moment before continuing upward, fingers finding your hardened peak. Twisting and pulling at it, his tongue leaves your entrance, finding your clit again. He suckles and laps at the nub while still stimulating your nipple.

Your hips grind down onto his face, smearing more of your slick over the lower part of his face. A firm slap to your behind has you gasping out and tightening your hold in his locks. “That’s it, fuck yourself on my tongue. ‘S alll yours,” he mutters into your cunt, blue eyes finding yours.

The vibrations have you moan out. Hips resuming their grind on his face, your other hand joins his hair keeping his face in place for you. Your clit grazes his nose and fuckkkkk. Whimpering you throw your head back.

Closing his eyes, he savors the way you use him. Savors the way you grind down on his face. Savors the way you grip his hair, cock stirring where it’s resting on his stomach, pre beading out slowly, head fully flushed. Savors your taste, a forbidden type of nectar he already knows he won’t get enough of.

His hands grip your ass, encouraging the slow, filthy grinds on his face. So into it, he doesn’t notice one of your hands left his hair until it touches his abs lightly. Opening his eyes he sees you above him; breasts moving with the motion, lip swollen from biting down on it, eyes hazed over.

Then he feels your hand wrap around his cock, giving it a firm tug and he hisses into your mound. The grinds of your hips returning, timing it with the way you’re slowly starting to move your hand on his cock. “Fuck, baby,” he rasps out, hips thrusting up to meet your fist. “Wait—fuck—turn around.”

You still above him before letting go of his shaft and positioning yourself above him once again. Leaning forward you wrap your hand around him again while his tongue finds your clit once more.

Sticking out your tongue, you lick up the pre that’s slowly running down his shaft. From the base allll the way up to his slit. Wrapping your lips around the flushed head, you slowly begin to bob your head, up and down, up and down, fisting what you can’t reach.

Cheeks hollowed out his tip reaches the back of your throat, making you gag. Gojo’s hips lift at the feeling, making you take more of him in. Your throat constricts around him.

Pulling off him, a strand of saliva connects the two of you. Your hips grinding back against his tongue that worms itself into your heat once more. Moaning you go back to your own demonstrations, tongue slowly swirling around his tip, flicking against his frenulum, having him keen out into your cunt.

Taking him down down down, all the way until your lips hit the base, pubes scratching your chin slightly. Breathing through your nose, you keep yourself down there for one, two, three heartbeats before pulling back up again.

Spit gathers at the bottom of his shaft, slowly dribbling down his balls. It’s incredibly messy, your hand getting slicker by the second, jerking him all the way from his base up to his head, swirling your thumb around the slit a few times.

At the same time you feel two thick digits enter you, your hips bucking back on them, pulling a small chuckle from Gojo. “Oh fuckkkk,” you moan out once they start to move inside of you, reaching much further than your own had just minutes earlier.

Temporarily forgetting about the heavy weight in your hand, you begin to grind back, hips moving on their own accord. Never would you have thought you would feel this good from just having fingers inside of you—scissoring you open.

Your eyes roll back when he hits a particular spot inside of you. “There- there, please Gojo,” you all but moan out when he curls his fingers inside of you, trying to find the spot again. Your hips jump a bit when he finds it again, and his arm tightens on your waist draaagging you back down onto his face.

“Where are you going, baby? Can’t even give my cock any attention and you’re trying to run from my fingers?” He all but pulls you down on his face again, having you seated on there, nose nudging his fingers while his buttery soft tongue circles your clit once more, giving it a playful nip while lifting his hips.

It’s then that you remember to go back to your demonstrations, cock heavy and throbbing in your hand. Cheeks hollowing out while the tip prods the back of your throat once more. Your other hand coming down to fondle with his balls, slick with a mix of saliva and pre.

You can feel that familiar pressure start to build up in your lower stomach, chasing that feeling, you begin to suck harder, throating him completely.

“Fuck- oh fuck fuck fuck, thaaat’s it, take it all down that pretty throat of yours, letting me fuck you,” Gojo starts babbling into your cunt, vibrations sending you nearly over the edge.

You force yourself down here, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth and chin with the effort. Your eyes starting to get all teary, and throat constricting around him.

You’re gushing around his fingers when they hit that spot inside of you once more, sending you over the edge, liquid spraying down his face—which he drinks up with greedy gulps, pulling his fingers out of you only to replace with his lips, catching everything he can.

Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you move your mouth back up until only the tip remains in your mouth, lips stretched around his girth.

And it sends him over the edge, too. Milky seed filling your mouth faster than you can swallow, dribbling down his shaft, in white streaks.

Pulling off him, you cough a few times, cheeks red, a few tears finally running down your cheeks.

Gojo finally removes his lips from your cunt with a pop!, slapping your clit lightly once. “Good girl, did so good for me, c’mhere.”

He turns you around, and his lips find yours, and you want to protest—try to—that there’s still cum on your lips, but it seems like he doesn’t mind—in fact, he’s lapping it all up, tongue tracing your lips.

Fuck, that’s hot.

Parting for air you look at him, look at the way his hair is all messed up from where your hands were tugging at it, the lower part of his face shiny with slick, lips pink and swollen and his eyes completely blown out.

Shifting slightly, you feel it then— “You’re hard again, already??” Gojo just grins, pearly whites catching the faint moonlight that’s bleeding through the curtains. “Can you blame me? Your pretty cunt is addicting, sweets.”

Your hips roll down onto it, once, twice, head catching your clit with each movement. Small gasps leaving your mouth every time it does.

Gojo’s hands move to your hips, not moving you in any way whatsoever, just holds onto them and lets you use him. Have your way with him the way you want to.

Then he turns the two of you around, the sudden movement making you gasp out. Eyes widening while you look up at him. Your hair splayed out on the pillow like a small halo, framing your face so prettily.

He moves his hips a few times, tip catching your entrance once, making you moan out. “You sure you want this?” he breathes out, staring at you. “Mhmmm, want you inside of me s’toru.”

Fuck, that does it for him. Wrapping his hand at the base, he glides his shaft through your puffy lips a few times, before finally starting to push in. The stretch is obscene, even after having him scissor you open. After two orgasms.

Pushing in slowly, he has to stop a few times, forehead dropping to your sternum, letting himself rest there a little. He’s not even all the way inside yet, but the way you keep clenching makes his hips stutter.

Your hands claw at his back, leaving behind angry red lines in their wake. It feels like you’re being split in half with how big he is. You had him in your hand, in your mouth, lips stretched around his girth, in your throat, but it still feels different.

“Are-are you all the way in yet?” you breathe out when he stills, soft strands tickling your throat while he peppers your skin with kisses. “Naaahhh, nowww—” He buries himself to the hilt, hips flush against yours. “—I am.”

Pulling them back, he thrusts forward again. Moans falling from your lips at the feeling. One of your legs wraps itself around his waist, pulling him in even further. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head with the new angle.

Your bracelet clinks softly with each thrust, pendant catching the moonlight. “You feel so good wrapped around my cock, letting me use you.” he groans out, leaning down to wrap his lip around your nipple.

Climax building, you can feel that familiar feeling tightening in your stomach. “Close,” you gasp out, fingers digging into his shoulders.

Without any warning, Satoru grabs both your thighs and presses them aaaalll the way downnn until they’re flushed against your chest. The new angle has you gasping out, his tip constantly hitting your cervix like this.

your hands claw at his arms, trying to find purchase onto something, and he hisses out at the small, red lines your nails leave behind, his grin returning tenfold. “Thaaat’s it, wifey, mark me up, show them I’m yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to ask him what he means when he thrusts in, reaching impossible depths no one has ever explored before, making you moan out instead. Your nails dig into his biceps, forming angry little crescents.

“F-fuck, S’toru, you’re so deep!” you whine, tears springing to your eyes when he finds that spongy spot inside of you, your walls clamping down on him.

He notices, of course he does, his eyes trained on where the two of you are connected and— oh! Following his gaze you can see your belly start to bulge every time he bottoms out, the sight ever so sinful.

“Pretty wife, taking me so good,” every word is accentuated with a thrust, hitting your spongy spot over and over again, making you keen out, the first tears starting to roll down the apple of your cheeks. And it’s like a switch turned on in his head.

Leaning forward, he plants his arms right next to your head, his chest caging you in completely, your thighs are stuck between your bodies, trembling and twitching with each trust.

Sticking his tongue out, he liiiicks up the tears that are collecting just at your jaw. Groaning he speeds up, the sinful sound of skin slapping together mixed with moans and groans fills the room completely.

Without so much as a warning, you come around him when he bottoms out once again, his happy trail grazing your clit so sinfully. Throwing your head back you keen out at the sensation, that knot finally snapping inside of you.

Gojo groans out at the sensation. “Coming for me already? Fuck, you look so pretty like this. So mine.” he growls, never once stopping his demonstrations. It makes you dizzy in the best way possible. He leaves open-mouthed kisses all over the column of your throat before he bites down.

The sensation has you gasping out, walls tightening around him once more. Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head, thrusts growing more sloppy with the second, teetering on his own release. “My wife, my pretty wife, you look so good, mine, mine, my pretty wife—”

He’s officially lost it. Not that you’re registering his words any longer, the overstimulation has you keeping out, trying to grab at whatever you can—his arms, shoulders, back, leaving behind marks you’ll have to look at the following morning.

Nodding your head at his babbling, you moan out when his hand snakes between your bodies, pressing down on the bulge of where his cock is buried inside of you. “Feel me there? Gonna fill you up so good, aaallll the way down here.”

You’re barely aware of the fact that you’re once again cumming, toes curling, tummy tingling at the feeling. But Gojo is, of course he is, he’s aware of everything you do. Aware of the tears that are streaming down your face, aware of the way your thighs are trembling under his chest, aware of your cunt trying to milk him for all he’s worth.

“Fffuuuck, yeahhhh you want that dont’cha? Wanna be filled up by me, pumped so full it’s spilling out hours later,” he groans out.

Nodding your head, you loop your arms around his neck. “Yes, yes, please! Please S’toru, wanna be filled. Cum inside of me, please,” you whimper out.

That does it, the next second he’s spilling inside your velvety walls, coating them white. His, his, allll his. Leaning forward, he connects his mouth with yours, tongue invading your mouth. It’s all teeth and tongue.

His thrusts come to a halt, last few drops of cum beading out of him inside of your walls. It driiips out with the amount he’s filling you with, creating a white ring around the base of his shaft, slowly dripping down your bodies—coating his balls, bedsheets and your ass in white.

Coming down, he can feel you play with his undercut, rubbing soothing circles with the other hand. You smile up at him, eyes red-rimmed from the tears, angry red blotches forming on your neck. You look so pretty like this; so his.

He can feel his cock stirring to life inside of you, and from your reaction, you can too, looking down at where the two of you are connected with wide eyes.

“What, thought we were done?” he grins down at you while he slowly rolls his hips into yours. “Told you I was gonna fill you up, ‘ya think I’ll stop after just one?”

Within a second he has flipped you around, his cock leaving your cunt for a second. You yelp, disoriented. Your cheek finds the pillow, arms holding yourself up while he has grabbed your hips. Ass up face down.

For a second he doesn’t do anything, just watches your hole flutter around nothing while his cum bubbles out of you. Then he slaps your ass before lining himself up once more, bottoming out in one swift thrust that knocks the wind out of your lungs.

The pace he sets is brutal; deep, harsh thrusts that make your whole body inch forward thrust by thrust. Luckily Gojo’s holding onto your hips though, pulling them back to meet his hips every time.

“‘Gonna fill all of your holes, have you leaking all day and night,” he grunts out, watching the way your ass ripples with every thrust, your other hole winking up at him.

Hunching over you, he kisses all over your shoulders before nosing the side of your face. Turning around, your mouth finds his once more.

His balls slap your clit over and over, each powerful thrust having you moan out into his mouth.

Disconnecting his mouth from yours, he leans back, quickening his pace. Looking down at you, seeing the way your hair caught the moonlight that’s slipping through the gap in the curtains, leaving a pale streak across your back.

It makes your skin shimmer slightly when it catches your flushed, sweaty skin. Catches the small marks he left behind, almost as if highlighting them for him.

With a particular thrust you whimper out, “There, there. S’toru, fuckk,” you mewl out, hips moving back to meet his thrusts. He focuses his thrusts to keep hitting that spongy spot inside of you, making him groan out when your slick walls tighten around him.

His hand leaves your hip, snaking up to your throat. Grabbing it he lifts your body, your back flush against his chest, his other hand snaking to the front, rubbing your clit. Your back arches, his hips smack smack smacking yours.

“Gonna make you a mommy, have you all round and full,” he’s babbling now, coaxing you through another climax. Your eyes rooollinggg to the back of your skull, drool escaping from your lips in a small, sinful line.

Satoru groans at the way your walls are spasming around him, creaming down his cock, leaving a small white ring around his base. Thighs shaking.

Your entire body is pliant now, melting into him, into the way his beefy arm is still wrapped around your neck, supporting your entire weight while he keeps trusting, not once letting his pace falter.

“You can do one more for me, can’t you,” he growls, and you’re barely aware of what he’s saying. But you nod your head, a small jerky motion. “Yeaaahhh you can. Knew you could, that’s my wifey.”

His hand snakes up to your breasts, kneading and pulling on the hardened buds. “Just imagine these swelling up with milk. Pretty tits leaking.”

He’s completely gone now, babbling to himself. You’re nodding along with whatever he’s saying, not that you’re hearing it. All you can focus on is the way the overstimulation is creeping in, letting you feel every single thing.

A few more thrusts have you thrown over the edge for the fifth time tonight, and it’s dizzying in the best way possible. Your cunt convulsing around him, clear liquid spraying down the bed, and it has his lashes flutter.

“Fuck- oh fuck. That’s it, milk me wifey. Mine, all mine,” he thrusts a few more times before stilling completely. Hot seed spills inside of you, coating your walls white one last time.

He lets the two of you fall forward, his body swallowing yours whole. Every ridge of his abs could be felt on your back, sticky with sweat.

His thumbs find your sides, small kisses on your shoulder. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, voice full of adoration.

You hum, all sleepy and boneless beneath him. Hissing when he finally pulls out, he watches the way his cum seeps from your swollen folds. Entranced by it, two of his fingers scoop it up and push it back inside.

Yelping, you jerk away from his fingers, pulling a small chuckle from his. “Sorry sorry,” He flips the two of you around, pulling your head onto his chest. He rubs a few circles on your shoulder. There’s a small, awkward silence between the two of you.

“Soooo, wanna talk about… that?” your voice is scratchy by the time it comes out. And he only sighs before kissing your temple, then your cheek, then presses a soft peck onto your lips, before finally sitting up. “Mhmmm, but first…”

He scoops you up in his arms, going to stand, and your body reacts to him, completely boneless and melting into him. Even if you wanted to move, you know it isn’t happening. “Where ‘r we going?”

“To the bathroom to get us cleaned up,” opening the door to the bathroom, he turns on the lights before setting you down onto the cold granite of the sink. The contrast between your hot, sweaty skin and the cold granite makes you moan out.

When his body warmth leaves yours—presumably to either turn on the shower or fill up the bath—you make a noise of protest, pulling a small chuckle from his chest.

He comes back not soon after, bath still filling up behind him. His big hands palm your sore thighs, pulling a groan from your mouth, letting your head fall forward against his chest.

“I feel sticky ‘n gross,” you mumble, words getting muffled by his skin. He kisses the top of your head, not once stopping his thumbs from rubbing circles into your thighs that are coated in both your cum. “I know, baby, the bath is almost ready.”

When the two of you finally step in—well he carried you over and lowers you into the water with him—you fully relax against him. He’s seated behind you, thighs bracketing yours, chest pressed against your back.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then he finally starts working on cleaning you up, small cloth in his hand, dipping between the apex of your thighs, carefully brushing against your skin.

You tense up slightly at the feeling, and he immediately stops, peeking over your shoulder at your face. “You okay?”

“Mhmm, s just sensitive,” you whisper back, trying to get your muscles to relax again. “So, wanna talk about what happened?”

Satoru doesn’t respond for a second, just continues cleaning your skin with reverent touches, completely focused on you, on your skin, trying to get you clean in the most gentle way possible—hell, you didn’t even know he could be this soft.

“Technically I didn’t say anything untrue,” he says, still not looking you in the eye. His touch is starting to get a bit more nervous now, like it’s sinking in what he’s said. “We have been married since we were five years old.”

Your head lolls against his shoulder, so you can look up at him. The words are still processing in your mind. Been his wife since the two of you were five? Did he hit his head? Or maybe he’s still so pussydrunk he’s babbling nonsense.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Satoru,” you ask the white haired man behind you—though he looks more like a boy with the way his bottom lip is jutted out and his eyes, that are finally looking back at you, practically sparkling with the way he’s giving you puppy dog eyes.

“You don’t remember the ring pop?” the way he says it, not quite hurt, but not teasing, either, makes you stop for a second. Then a small chuckle pulls from your chest that soon morphs into full blown laughter, the one that makes your sides hurt. “You- you mean the time you ‘proposed’ to me back when we were kids?”

The two of you were only five years old, playing around in the summer sun, chasing each other. There were a few birds that had been chirping, and you and Satoru had been playing for houuuurs on end already.

Sweat was beading down your flushed skin, the summer rays hot and heavy casting down upon the Gojo estate, where the two of you had been running around. At first the two of you had been inside, but then you’d gasped and told him the two of you could go swim!

Satoru obviously agreed with you, nevermind the fact that there wasn’t a pool in the estate—which, honestly, how does one have such a big estate and not have a pool, but alas—he thought the idea sounded so sweet in his mind.

His body was overheating inside, sweating through his tiny shirt. So the two of you went outside with no particular plan in mind other than ‘we’re going to swim’.

Only to be rudely stopped by his caregiver. She told the two of you couldn’t go swimming—and reminded Satoru he didn’t even know how to swim—and to go play in the garden. Sulking the two of you went to play in the garden.

Half an hour later, the two of you were sitting in the shade, gulping down the cold water the caregiver set out for the two of you, with some candy on the table as well. It was one of the few times the two of you got candy after being banned from eating it.

Among the candy, were two ring pops. Your eyes skimmed over the candy, favoring others that were laid out for you, but Satoru’s eyes were attracted to it, remembering something about people who gave each other rings were married. And being married means staying together forever and ever, and that sounded like such a sweet future with you.

Grabbing the ring pop, he slid it around your finger, and you looked quizzically at it before looking over at him. “What’s this, S’toru?”

“It means we’ll get married when we’re older!” He grinned, big and bright and completely boyish. And you had tilted your head at that. “Married?”

Satoru had nodded his head furiously. “Mhmmm, like… like… Oh! like your parents! It means we would live together and— and we can eat all the candy in the world!”

That was the grasp little Satoru had on marriage, and it wasn’t quite wrong, though it wasn’t quite right either, but alas, the two of you had gotten ‘married’ that day—technically it was the promise to get married, but details details.

A laugh pulls from your chest, rippling the water that was starting to cool down. “I do remember. You put a ring pop on my finger and declared we would get married when we got older so we could live together and eat all the sweets we wanted.”

Satoru’s pout turns into a smile, soft and private. Just for you. His fingers are tracing along your body, no longer cleaning you up, just touching.

“Mhmmm. And our Tamagotchi’s got married as well,” he murmurs down at you. And they did get married. At first you’d scowled at him when he ‘proposed’ the idea of them actually getting married, but soon enough you gave into him.

“Most people get down on one knee with an actual ring to propose, y’know. Plus they have been dating for a while before even thinking of marriage,” you tease him, eyes crinkling with how wide your smile is now.

“You want another proposal? Greedy lil thing, aren’t you,” his lips trail down to capture your own for a moment. Returning the kiss, you shift slightly between his legs, trying to get better access to him, only for him to groan out in your mouth.

Disconnecting his lips from yours, he’s breathing heavily, eyes lidded. “Guess we’re gonna have to go ring shopping soon, but first—” his fingers dip between your folds, having you gasp out, eyes widening slightly. “—we have something to celebrate.”

A/N: never, ever, let me make something this long again 😭 I know the jump from the birthday to the smut was quite drastic (yes there was supposed to be a small shock factor, but still), but I just couldn't make myself write more scenes in between. Like this story drained me in the best way possible 🙂‍↕️ Anyway, if you've made it this far, congratulations and thank you for reading 🫶🏼🤍

©CursedKisss do not copy, steal, plagiarize, or feed my works into AI. I will send Mahito after you if you do.

Tags: @dulceantojo

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The Pitt is baby's first fandom for so many people. Wdym I should hate Langdon, because he was stealing pills and treating patients high? I was 9 years old watching Dr House pop 3 stolen Vicodin with a half bottle of Whiskey and then treating the Black Plague. Who am I to judge?

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As a former humanities student, I feel it is my duty to reblog this one.

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Mamdani Shuts Down NYC's Disastrous AI Chatbot

New York City's new mayor is unplugging a disastrous government chatbot that encouraged small business owners to break the law.

And the funniest part?

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brat | track six

von dutch

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 5.4k

content: alcohol/drug use, angst

a/n: four months later... except so much stuff has happened in those four months for me that i can't even be sorry fr a bitch has been very busy

songs (not previously) mentioned: actually romantic by taylor swift, von dutch by charli xcx, everytime by britney spears

taglist is closed!

18+ please <3

[ one week after mean girls drop / NYFW day one ]

Vulture — CAN A GIRL BE TOO GOOD AT BEING BAD?

Teen Vogue — HOW TO LOOK EXPENSIVE WHILE BEEFING: YN AND SUGURU GETO, POST-MEAN GIRLS EDITION

i-D — WHO RUNS NEW YORK FASHION WEEK? SUGURU GETO, YN, SUKUNA RYOMEN, AND SATORU GOJO MAKE IT A SPECTACLE

the city slides by behind tinted glass.

you watch your reflection as a stylist reaches in from your left, snapping the last clips from your hair with deft fingers. a makeup artist leans in from the right. lipstick. blot. a final press to make it perfect.

an assistant you've never met sits across from you, phone held at chin height.

"the von dutch press line is packed," she says. "expect… uncomfortable questions."

it sounds like a forecast: rain likely. wind advisory. bring a jacket.

"suguru's car is right ahead of us. you'll enter together, like always."

like always.

you keep your face still. if this were like always, you wouldn't be in separate cars. the makeup artist blots your bottom lip again, gentler this time. the assistant glances up at you carefully, and you almost feel bad about how intimidated she looks.

"uh, the label wants you softer. play nice," she adds. and when your eyes snap to hers: "their words, not mine."

you almost laugh.

softer, after the bloodletting of the past three weeks. after the think pieces and diagnoses and the slow-motion pile-on that keeps building no matter how many times you refresh your timeline.

"and, um—trends are getting a little wild," she says, clearing her throat. "there's a lot of buzz about sukuna ryomen and mila hart and stuff, but you can skip it if you're asked. they're telling suguru the same."

your lips curl, just barely.

mila. suguru. sukuna. the label. the press. the public.

everyone has something to say.

you tap a glossy nail against the leather seat once, twice, and say nothing.

the car slows. outside presses closer, noise building on the other side of the glass from excited paparazzi and fashion week sidewalk dwellers.

the driver is still reaching for his seatbelt when your door swings open from the outside.

suguru.

he's there like he's always been, haloed in white flashes. the cameras are brutal after the safe darkness of the car, stuttering light across his face, his jacket, and the rings on his hand as he offers it to you.

it annoys you—the silent request to play along, in public, right now—but you place your hand in his anyway. you're hyper-aware of everything: curb height, the weight of your shoes, the warmth of his hand around yours. then you're standing side by side, and the world snaps into focus.

you fall into step with his hand at your lower back, exactly where it's always gone. the touch was familiar enough to ignore once, but it lands differently now. protectiveness, as always. possessiveness, misguidedly.

paparazzi surge forward, shouting your names over each other, voices blurring into a single demand. cameras tilt and clatter. someone yells for you to smile. someone else screams suguru's name like he might bless them with a glance.

neither of you does.

you continue straight ahead, expressions smoothed into that shared, impassive calm—the version of yourselves that gives them nothing to print.

inside, the roar drops into a dense buzz of overlapping press voices, equipment shuffling, and handlers steering attendees toward the press line, chirping about timing and placement.

they don't even pretend to warm you up.

the first question is already halfway out of someone's mouth when you're positioned under the lights. you shoot a reflexive glare at the handlers who've stepped back just far enough to look uninvolved.

"—about angel of my dreams—"

"—mean girls just dropped—"

"—and skin, obviously—"

you both wait for something audible. suguru's hand is still at your back, lighter now, almost cautious.

a reporter with a too-bright smile and a death grip on her mic angles forward.

"some fans say your chemistry with sukuna in your latest music video was on par with, if not more intense than, your chemistry with suguru." a beat, then the smile. "thoughts?"

you clock the bait.

"that's a wild thing to say with suguru standing right there," you reply, glancing sideways just enough to acknowledge him.

you're met with a ripple of surprised laughter, cameras tilting to catch his reaction. there's something faintly amused in the set of his mouth that tells you he still likes it when you're difficult on purpose.

"is that a no comment?" someone presses. you shrug lazily in response.

the next question comes just as audacious.

"mila hart’s first single under the label you all share, skin, was seen as a response to sympathy is a knife. suguru, you were credited on both tracks. what’s the story there?"

you expect him to skip it. it's unusual for him to say anything at all in these interviews, but he surprises you.

"skin wasn't written about anyone in particular." it's rehearsed enough to be safe. your eyes narrow.

"but i should've handled it differently."

the honesty is wrong for the space—too inward, like he forgot where he was for a second.

you're irritated. not at what he said, but where he chose to say it: under lights and lenses, when you don't want to fucking do this here.

a different voice cuts in.

"there’s a line in mean girls—'you say she's problematic and the way you say it, so fanatic'—was it an implication about mila?"

you smile slow. a wink for the cameras. "mean girls wasn’t written about anyone in particular."

they eat it up.

"and where do things stand between the two of you now?"

you don't even look at each other.

"we're good," you say at the same time.

an obvious lie, mirrored perfectly between you.

the handlers finally step in and herd you to your seats: front row, dead center.

assistants dressed in black dart backstage with garment bags folded over their arms. the press line breaks into editors, buyers, and celebrities settling into their assigned places. photographers crouch for outfit shots. suguru leans in to speak—then stills when a hand lands on his shoulder.

he closes his eyes and exhales. "i'll be right back. you need anything?"

he waits for the small shake of your head before he stands to join a cluster of industry faces, important and vaguely interchangeable. you're not even done crossing your legs when a streak of pink cuts through your peripheral vision.

sukuna doesn't bother with the side exit. he cuts straight through the center curtains and across the runway from backstage. you smile when you see him, caught off guard because you hadn't known he was walking tonight, and then a little wider when you realize where he's going.

he drops to a squat right in front of you like it's a locker room and not a fashion show, elbows resting on his knees so you're eye level.

"hey, trouble."

you squint at him, amused despite yourself.

"didn't think i'd see you here," he continues with a smirk.

"yes you did," you reply, and there's a grin attached because you both know what this is. suguru's ten feet away. sukuna wants him to catch it.

"you love to stir shit," you tell him.

he shrugs, unapologetic. "'course i do."

his hand settles loose around your ankle and his eyes sweep your face, slow and slightly indulgent. "you look good."

you laugh, shaking your head. "you're gonna get me in trouble."

he snorts. "you've been in trouble all month."

someone calls his name from backstage. he glances over his shoulder, then gives your ankle a single squeeze. you're grateful, you decide, that sukuna isn't angling for anything more than pissing off suguru.

then he's up and gone, ignoring everyone else as he disappears the way he came.

you still have a faint smile on your face when suguru slides back into his seat. he hands you a glass of champagne he lifted from a passing tray, jaw set just a touch too tight.

"what'd i miss?" he asks.

"nothing."

he looks at you. at the small grin you haven't bothered to hide.

"looked like something."

it amuses you, the way he can't help himself. the way he notices everything but now, suddenly, doesn't know what to do with it.

you shrug, eyes already shifting to the curtains as the lights start to dim. "don't worry about it."

the show moves as expected: applause, movement, music. then a coordinated rush toward the exits before anyone can linger too long.

the flashes are harsher and less coordinated on the way out, and you find yourself missing the order of the press line. people yell without waiting to be acknowledged, cameras crowd your face, hands reach where they shouldn't.

suguru steers you through, protective by instinct. you keep walking, spine straight, heels clicking faster than before.

someone shouts your name. another shouts his.

another voice cuts through, cruel and gleeful: "are you still mad he picked mila over you?"

the camera flashes quicken when you laugh, instinctive and bright, like it's really funny. like it didn't just slice you. you keep moving, pace just a bit too quick for someone who doesn't care.

you don't stop until you find the narrow pocket of quiet on the side of the building, hidden by a row of SUVs and a temporary barricade. your hands are shaking as you fish a cigarette from your bag. you fumble the lighter and miss the spark once. twice.

"fuck—"

before you can chuck it at the ground, suguru's taking it from you silently. he sparks it in one clean flick, steadying the flame with a hand cupped around it to block the wind. the gesture is automatic, one of a thousand other small rescues neither of you thinks to name anymore.

you inhale too deep. the smoke burns.

he just watches, his eyes somewhere past you.

the question left you exposed. the truth you'd been keeping under control isn't cooperating anymore. you see how it landed on him, too. he looks… guilty.

you exhale smoke. "you let it happen."

he looks away briefly. "i didn't write it," he says. "i didn't mix it. it was just an empty beat."

you nod once. "you could've told me."

"i know."

silence stretches. a hand scrubs down his face before he finally breathes out the rest of it. "i should've said no. i should've told you when they asked." a pause. "i fucked up."

your lip trembles before you can stop it. you bite down hard.

god, you're tired.

too tired to cut him open here. too tired to admit how bad you want it to stop hurting. too tired to confess your stupid, reckless wish for everything to return to some version of fine that never existed.

if you say more, you might beg for it.

you take another drag and let the smoke fill your lungs, then release it slow, pretending it clears some of the build-up in your chest.

"we don't have to keep talking about it," you say. and you hate the amount of relief that flickers across his face when you do.

[ instagram ]

@/balenciaga (slides) 📸 : you squatting in full balenciaga, le cagole bag slung over your shoulder as you look up at the camera / archived sketch of the original purse 💬 : first edition @/cultgeto — reposted @/gojos — reposted @/ryomensukuna — reposted

@/gojos (story) 📸 : selfie of him grinning with you blurred in the background, mid-argument with a PR person, gesturing animatedly 💬 : she’s sooo normal actually

@/nylonmag (slides) 📸 : suguru front row at issey miyake / sukuna walking for rick owens / you front row at grace ling / satoru (for some reason) walking for prada / mila second row at khaite 💬 : Brat extended universe (NYFW day three)

@/cultyn (post) 📸 : suguru taking your hand to help you out of your seat after jean paul gaultier 💬 : can’t sit with us @/cultgeto

@/papermagazine (slides) 📸 : satoru and suguru leaning over a dinner menu, mid-disagreement about what to order. suguru’s finger on the page, satoru talking with both hands / you and satoru popping a bottle at the schiaparelli afterparty, both laughing as champagne spills over the bar / sukuna with a drink in hand at the same party, leaning down to hear you talking 💬 : New York you will always be famous

[ Billboard Hot 100 ]

1. Angel of my dreams, YN → 4. Sympathy is a knife, YN ↑ 7. Skin, Mila Hart ↓ 8. Mean girls, YN ↓

[ twitter ]

@/luvyn: mila hart can sit second row forever she will never be mother

@/getoangel: who tf told sukuna to crouch at her feet like that at von dutch 😭 suguru looked READY

@/gojoupdate: yn and satoru running fashion week like their personal birthday party as usual

@/deuxmoi: new york fashion week’s most memorable moment so far wasn’t on the catwalk, it was thom browne’s front row: mila hart, sukuna ryomen, satoru gojo, yn, suguru geto. in that order. family dinner vibes?

@/ynsupremacy: the suguru/yn tension this week could power the east coast @/conedison pack it up

@/torupreme: everyone so focused on yn/suguru when we should REALLY be pushing satoru/suguru and yn/sukuna. walk with me

[ nyfw day 4 ]

mila drops actually romantic halfway through fashion week.

it's glossy and intentional. a careful misconstruction of everything you've put out since this storm started. where sympathy was self-aware, she flattens it into fixation. where mean girls was defiant, she softens it into flirtation. the whole thing carries a soft, patronizing thesis: this isn't rivalry, it's unrequited love.

you're in love with me, the song insists. thanks for the attention.

it climbs halfway up the charts on momentum and curiosity, then wobbles there. critics are polite but noncommittal. empty. underwritten. her fans argue louder than usual, insisting it's misunderstood. the industry starts to whisper the thing no one wants to say out loud.

maybe skin only worked because suguru touched it.

you watch it happen with a strange, distant calm. you find it kind of funny in the way things are funny when they don't feel real.

actually romantic comes and goes without you or suguru so much as mentioning it. the song does what it was written to do: publicly collapse the damage he caused into a joke. he knows that. you know he knows that.

it fades fast, and in that quiet failure, it hands the narrative back to you. if there was supposed to be a triangle, it never materializes. if there was supposed to be rivalry, it fizzles. the public shrugs and moves on, deciding that whatever exists between you and suguru must be bigger than a diss track that couldn't stick.

it's not said so much as it's felt: this is the real story.

fashion week blurs.

front rows, afterparties, and hotel lobbies all look the same by the fifth night. his hand steadies you when you stand. yours rests on his chest for cameras. what's fractured between you doesn't show. you move together easily, and it unsettles you. you both look flawless. they're the kind of images that will harden into narrative, circulating long after the context falls away.

still, most of the words between you are shallow. where to stand, who to look at, how to pose. and sometimes, when the cameras are behind you, your hands stay tangled a beat longer than they need to. or you both laugh at the same stupid joke, then cut it off at the same time.

satoru says it a day later on your way out of a runway show, probably desperate to break the tension that hums when you and suguru share space too long.

"you two should do a set," he says as he lights a cigarette. "surprise everyone."

suguru smirks, sidestepping it. you roll your eyes and keep walking. it gets filed away under shit that's not happening right now.

except later, when you're alone in your bed, it comes back.

your mind drifts back to lollapalooza. the heat, the way it felt to share a stage with him before everything went to shit. back when running into his arms in front of thousands of people felt unremarkable.

you wonder, idly, if he'd even consider it.

his text comes through that night.

suguru: you want to?

there isn't much to talk through. standing still hasn't helped. you both need an outlet that's not press lines and cameras. and pretending things are normal, even just for the week, has been far easier than admitting how far you've drifted.

the label hates it.

they talk about containment, timing, optics. underneath it all, you know they want the grit of sympathy and mean girls sanded down before the two of you turn it into something they can't redirect. they warn you again to play nice, as if that's ever stopped anything.

mila's the one who stoked the flames, but that never seems to matter.

but it's you and suguru, so the plans move fast anyway.

a warehouse with minimal staging, no VIP or velvet ropes. personnel who know how to keep their mouths shut. it's announced in a vague post that the show is less than a week out, and it still sells out in minutes.

and for the first time all month, it feels like the pressure has somewhere to go.

for the rest of the week, you send stems back and forth. you have half-serious fights over the setlist. there are little scraps of banter that almost feel like before, old habits settling into place, but with an edge neither of you has named. jokes land a millisecond off-beat and messages get left on delivered half an hour longer than they need to be.

you notice it in him more than he probably realizes. his jaw works more than usual and his fingers are restless. there's an edge in his voice when an assistant asks a question he's already answered. where he's usually the more patient one between you, he snaps at people and doesn't apologize. you tell yourself he's tired. it's been a long week.

still, you pull together a setlist in the margins of fashion week, typed into a shared note and constantly rearranged between shows, fittings, and parties. a few days out, you rush a run-through in a styling lounge while assistants whisper around you and someone steams fabrics in the corner. suguru's laptop is balanced on an armrest, volume set just loud enough for the two of you to hear.

"it doesn't work," he says. "it needs teeth. more fuck you."

you watch him and understand immediately. he's correcting. for him, the show is about drawing the line where he should've drawn it the first time.

it's about motion for you: staying in it and keeping the party alive. and, more quietly, staying close to him in the most distant way you know how.

you nod instead of naming all this, because you agree that it needs to say fuck you. and then the lyric exchanges get sticky.

why you lyin’, you won’t fuck unless he famous do that little dance, without it you’d be nameless

malice under banter, poking at bruises to see which ones still hurt while he cuts a beat that could probably work as a diss all on its own. you fire lines back and forth, smiling even as something acidic flickers underneath. when you add the loop—i'm your number one—it lands on him as much as it does on mila. he exhales a short laugh and keeps working.

the public's already on your side, so this isn't strategic. whatever mila was trying to do burned out all on its own. you've already won. this is about excess—about saying it just because you can.

he sends a chorus late that night.

i'm just living that life von dutch cult classic, but i still pop

the song gets done the next day, muscle memory taking over where trust used to live. you're both too good at this to pretend otherwise.

von dutch is born that way—between fittings and traffic and late phone calls—not because mila needs acknowledgement, but because the two of you still speak most fluently when you're being a little conceited together.

neither of you says out loud what it might mean that it comes so easily. or what it might cost.

[ setlist ]

— suguru's set — ----------------------- sympathy is a knife mean girls 360 club classics angel of my dreams i love it??? von dutch

[ setlist ]

@/cultgeto and @/cultyn (post) 📸 : a still of suguru’s tattooed hands over a mixing board, her voice on loop (i’m your number one).

[ Billboard Hot 100 ]

1. Sympathy is a knife, YN ↑ 2. Angel of my dreams, YN → 3. Mean girls, YN ↑ 10. Skin, Mila Hart ↓ 14. Actually Romantic, Mila Hart →

[ twitter ]

@/pop2muse: 3.5k capacity for their first show since lollapalooza they hate us omfg 😭

@/saintgeto: ticketmaster servers on fire rn because yn and suguru wanna roleplay as underground artists

@/midnightyn: von dutch runway was the first time we saw them together since lollapalooza one hundred years ago and now they're doing a show. if anyone even cared.

[ nyfw day 10 ]

someone should've bled the tension out of the room during soundcheck.

you haven't said a word to suguru all day. you barely looked at him when you waved hello on arrival, immediately setting your stuff down and finding somewhere else to be. now you're perched alone on the edge of the stage in satoru's tour merch hoodie, sleeves pulled over your hands, mic loose in your grip. your phone rests on your lap with song lyrics pulled up and he thinks you look self-sufficient, like you might not need him for this show at all.

you're singing other people's songs, stripped-down and quiet, softer than anything you've ever made together. more vulnerable, somehow, for not belonging to either of you at all.

and everytime i try to fly, i fall without my wings, i feel so small

suguru lowers himself to the concrete where the crowd will be in a few hours, back against a road case, laptop balanced on his knee and pretending to prep. he listens instead of looking at his screen, savoring the sight of you when you don't know he's watching.

the crew skirts both of you. cables get laid in wide arcs and levels get adjusted with hand signals instead of voices. everyone moves like they're working around a fault line.

soundcheck dissolves into logistics, and whatever was fragile about it gets reset with the stage and pulled out of suguru's hands as the doors open and the crowd rushes the barricade. the room fills fast, loud and impatient.

he steps away before it can get away from him.

the bathroom mirror is unforgiving under fluorescent light. his pupils are blown. he rolls his shoulders once as he ties his hair back, cuts three neat white lines and leans in without ceremony. they steady him the way he needs them to. the noise settles. everything snaps into focus.

the first hour of the show belongs to him.

the warehouse isn't big enough for the crowd or what he's asking of it. suguru leans into it, tightening screws until there's nowhere for the energy to go but up. on the surface he's measured: hair out of his face, focused, movements exact. a study in restraint against the chaos he's stirring.

sweat drips. the bass rattles the floor. the coke rides his bloodstream like a rail, keeping everything obedient.

except you.

you won't stay where he can see you. you're sipping something, dancing through the pit like you belong to it rather than the other way around. you're close and carefree with this crowd in a way that makes him nervous. he watches you drift along the barricade, holding hands, taking selfies, hugging fans who look like they might explode.

you still haven't looked at him.

all week it's been like this: close enough for photos, for a flawless track, but too far for anything unscripted.

the distance grates.

they scream for him. you laugh and jump with every drop, but it's not for him. the sight burns. this is how you've always worked—you burning, him steady—but tonight it feels less like balance and more like absence.

relief hits when it's finally your turn. at least you'll be back onstage. the nerves catch up to him at the opening notes of sympathy is a knife, once he realizes watching won't help.

the crowd screams at the song choice, but your voice cuts straight through. there's no easing into it, no softening the edges. you sing like you mean to get through it intact.

you don't.

halfway through, you drop to the floor.

suguru can't tell if you planned it or if your knees gave out, but it doesn't matter. the desperation in your voice is unmistakable, raw in a way he recognizes instantly and wishes no one else did. hearing it now feels like being gutted in a room full of witnesses.

this—the near-scream tearing at your throat—would've been impossible not long ago, until he fucked up and broke the seal. the rush that's been holding him together goes thin and useless. stimulants aren't enough for this.

you're still on your knees. one hand braced against the stage, the other locked around the mic. your voice wavers just enough to scare him.

his weight shifts instinctively. one foot moves forward before he catches himself. every part of him wants to get you offstage, to put you somewhere dark and quiet and let you fall apart without an audience. he locks his knees hard and swallows the urge.

why is all this sympathy a fucking knife? yeah, all this sympathy is just a lie

the words land like blows. he wants to prove—stupidly, desperately—that he could hold you steady through this if you'd just let him.

knowing he lost the right, and the illusion that he could've fixed this, is unbearable.

there's no time to sit in it. the cue for mean girls is already there, and he catches it just as you pull yourself up. pink strobes flood the room and he slides his shades on against them.

you duck under his booth. from above, he watches you pull a tiara from wherever you stashed it and set it on your head—the one from the mean girls single cover. it makes the corner of his mouth lift despite himself.

you don't come back out right away.

beneath the table, invisible from the floor, you brace a hand against the metal frame for balance with trembling fingers. you inhale like you're counting. it almost looks like you're hiding.

it passes quickly, but he noticed.

then you're moving again—up and out just as fast as you came, tiara scattering light as the crowd welcomes you back. a minute ago you were folded under the weight of your own song; now your chin is up, your spine straight, and he's watching armor click shut in real time.

he feels the pull of it low in his gut.

the room chants the words back at you loud enough to rattle the boards under his hands, louder than the speakers themselves. he kills the track for two bars just to let you hear it.

this one's for all my bad girls this one's for all my break-your-boyfriend's-heart girls

they're with you.

so is he, whether you want him there or not.

you grin as you sing calls him daddy while she's fingering a gold cross and his grip falters on the fader. he corrects it fast, but he's destabilized. you're singing about tearing shit apart and his mind is betraying him, imagining the wreckage you could make if you turned that heat on him instead of the room. he'd let you. even here, in front of all these people, if it meant you'd finally look at him. especially here

he should be mixing. keeping time.

instead, he's staring.

staring and feeling something twisted bloom in his chest. pride first, at how sharp you are, how completely you've taken over every room you've ever been in. hated and loved and feared and adored in the same breath.

and the cold thought underneath:

it's taking everything you have.

and you're doing it without him.

there's no room to sit with that, either. von dutch is the closer.

suguru cues the loop in slowly, dragging the transition out from mean girls until it becomes something unrecognizable. the lights drop, and the warehouse hushes. everyone holds their breath.

it's foreplay.

he lets it sit there—one more second, and another—until it's unbearable.

then your voice cuts through.

"new york, you begged for this one," you say, cool and clear. "let it be a reminder: if i ever write you a love song, you'll know."

it's okay to just admit that you're jealous of me yeah, i heard you talk about me, that's the word on the street

you hop down from the edge of the stage on the first bars. security reacts instantly, shifting to carve a path through the crowd you're already moving into. you don't slow down.

you're obsessing, just confess it, put your hands up it's obvious i'm your number one

hands reach out as you pass, voices shouting for you, but the path holds. you walk through the first verse and phones start going up, the room rushing with the audacity of it. they hear the lyrics for what they are: a final, pointed measure to scorch the earth behind you.

suguru, as much as he wants to scorch it with you, can't even think about that right now. his grip is tight on the edge of the table, eyes tracking security and crowd density and everything that could go wrong in a room of overexcited fans on party drugs.

i'm your number one, i'm your number one i'm your number one, yeah, it's so obvious

it's a spell. they chant it back at you.

suguru doesn't move. he's running the track, posture loose, pretending to focus. anyone with less experience would've fucked it up, because all his attention is on you and none is on the boards.

then you're turning.

one calculated step after another. the crowd clocks your trajectory before he does, screaming louder, closing in, surging toward the booth like they know it's not just performance anymore.

security tightens. suguru stares. you keep coming.

by the time you reach the booth again, he's convinced you can see straight through him. the light catches the glitter across your lids, the glint of something resolved behind your eyes.

he mouths the line back to you once, involuntarily.

i'm your number one.

your eyes narrow, but you don't break eye contact.

you didn't write it for inhim, not outwardly, but he feels the thread pulled taut between you and knows it for what it is: an invitation disguised as antagonism.

he knows you want him to fold.

he knows he will.

every repetition drives it deeper until the only thing left is a pure, shattering recognition.

you've always been his number one. he just never said it out loud.

the song peaks, the lights flare, and the crowd loses it completely. suguru barely hears any of it. he's already made himself a promise: he won't last the night without you in his hands if you'll let him close enough.

[ twitter ]

@/sojulia: she did sympathy on her knees suguru geto when i fucking catch you

@/gojostrackjacket: YES BABY CALL HER BROKE AND OBSESSED AGAIN

@/clubclassicradio: did anyone get the video of suguru mouthing "i’m your number one" back at her he’s SICK

@/ynbabyyy: bro was ready to risk it all right there onstage while she dragged that girl for two full songs he is not a serious man

@/satorulovr: yn and suguru’s names in writing credits together again all is right with the world

@/threesixty: say what u want about suguru and yn but they WILL close a set with a new song every time

@/suguintern: she walked through the crowd and was not afraid of their fans hurting her or harming her welcome back jesus

[kunareads]

taglist 4/4

@nebularaty @ifiwereabug @femmeandfatal @trybeingmysizeaimee @girlfromnowh3r3 @sunshytea @heliumshorns @feelya @mariealexa @superdonkeypatroleggs

@ilovemollyweasley @chocalycake @d4ytr1pp3r @hxnnibun @taniosito @hopefulpeachcolor @ashhlsstuff @irwinchester @lanwanjisass @r0sekill3rss

@kimkimoruo @chuu-19 @romantic-dreamz @s3xpistolss @nicerthanu @illuzminate @theviperess @kirishimasboobs @ehlaaa @kekenonner

@universillie @stormmie234 @coolcatcam809 @satoruwun @kyungjunnies @surgikull @betzy-chan @itsdragonius @moonyj13

@aldebrana @elysiania @luvleixo @cutehobii @iilluummiii

[feyrinnn]

silver springs

ex-fiancée!gojo x f!reader x rebound!choso

synopsis being the lead singer of a popular rock band was your dream, but now that you and the lead guitarist have broken up and the world isn't ready to know just yet, you're left seeking comfort from another bandmate.

content mdni!, fleetwood mac inspired au, yearning, angst, pining, longing, eventual fluff, jealousy, break ups, eventual smut, multiple povs, multiple endings

main masterlist ✧ ao3 ✧ playlist

chapter 1 little lies

chapter 2 the chain

chapter 3 say you love me

chapter 4 second hand news

chapter 5 rumours

interlude as long as you follow

chapter 6 everywhere

chapter 7 landslide

chapter 8 go your own way

chapter 9 walk a thin line

chapter 10 world turning

chapter 11 peacekeeper

chapter 12 gold dust woman

chapter 13 dreams

endings:

choso's route gojo's route bonus route

                                            Time cast a spell on you but you won't forget me                I know I could have loved you but you would not let me

[kunareads]

brat | track five

angel of my dreams / mean girls

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 7.7k

content: long ass chapter with no smut... / angst :D, some comfort i guess, sukuna (requires his own warning) / anxiety/panic, substance use

a/n: is anybody still here 😭 i kinda hate that this took FOREVER to get out but here we are i'm so deeply sorry. also, this chapter has a LOT of different elements so if the formatting doesn't make sense anywhere let me know pls <3

taglist is closed!

18+ please <3

Buzzfeed Music — IS YN JUST BITTER? WHY ‘SYMPATHY IS A KNIFE’ IS DIVIDING THE INTERNET

Elle — DIFFICULT, HYSTERICAL, AND PROBLEMATIC: THE LANGUAGE WE SAVE FOR WOMEN LIKE YN

Vulture — THE DANGEROUS WOMAN TROPE, STARRING YN

your apartment is too clean.

the dishwasher hums while you clean out the fridge, wipe down counters that don’t need it, fold laundry and put it away. functional things. little motions loud enough to drown out the headlines stacking up outside your walls.

your phone buzzes against the counter. once, twice, three times.

suguru has been calling twice a day since you recorded sympathy. sometimes more. he leaves messages you won’t listen to, sends texts you won’t open. checking in. call when you get a chance.

you could pick up. you could let him stumble through whatever half-formed apology he’s been circling or let him try to form excuses for things that don’t feel excusable. but you’re not sure if his guilt or his indifference would be worse. either way it’s another version of him you don’t know what to do with.

so you scrub at a glass that’s already spotless and let the buzzing die on its own.

the last time you actually answered anyone was three days ago, four minutes after sympathy dropped.

satoru: it’s good

yn: thanks

satoru: i mean it like fuck you good

you had taken too long to reply then, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

satoru: you ok?

yn: not sure

satoru: yeah didn’t think so

yn: i don’t think he cared like i don’t think it meant anything

your thumbs had hovered over the screen. that was the worst part. not the press or the fallout, but seeing his blank stare when you left the booth and knowing it hadn’t touched him at all.

satoru: you want me to say something that makes it worse or better?

yn: neither

satoru: okay did you eat?

yn: no

satoru: ok ordering now

yn: u don’t have to

satoru: shut up it’s for my own peace of mind

yn: love u :(

the next thing you remember is the noise.

people dissecting sympathy like a crime scene—if it’s about suguru or mila or both. whether you’re bitter or unstable or just pathetic. the conversations feel less like critique and more like diagnosis.

too reactive. too hysterical. too much.

you’re the problem.

you have to admit that it’s a little funny, how easy it is to take heat for giving everyone exactly what they swore they wanted from you. for years they’ve been asking for honesty, for a crack of vulnerability in the party-girl veneer. it turns out they only want it if it’s pretty. if it doesn’t cut.

but you can’t expect anyone to see the full picture. the point isn’t that you were angry, or even jealous. it’s what it felt like to watch your place get handed off without ceremony. mila’s not your competition, she’s your replacement.

and maybe they’re right. maybe you are bitter. maybe you are difficult. maybe that’s why suguru didn’t protect you from all this.

you stop checking. days have passed and you’ve seen enough. instead, you dig up something that’s been gathering dust in your files.

angel_shelved.wav

it was almost finished two years ago. a song about the machine and how it spits you back out shinier or broken. you and suguru shelved it because you couldn’t figure out what it was missing, and because it didn’t fit anywhere in your sound. it still doesn’t fit.

you alphabetize part of your bookshelf while the demo plays. it’s not subtle, the way the verses ache for a flip side that’s not there.

if i don’t win, i’m in the bin you say you never knew me but when i pop off, you sue me so sue me

you know what it needs now.

so you get to work. three days blur. takeout cartons stack up, your coffee machine works overtime, your voice goes raw from pushing it over and over. new lines slip in with and without permission—verses with suguru tucked between them, sharper than you mean them to be.

love when you call me a star you let me down in the dark want you and need you, you don’t care it’s not fair

you finish recording in your living room, mic balanced on a stack of books, headphones crooked on your head. the edges of the song finally snap into place, even if the mix isn’t perfect. suguru would’ve obsessed over it for two more days.

you don’t care. it’s done.

[ twitter ]

@/milasbabydoll: sympathy is a knife is so embarrassing sorry. imagine being that pressed publicly 😭 girl you lost let it go

@/babyyn: “i'm so apprehensive now” SUGURU GETO SHOW YOURSELF

@/pinksoles: idk why everybody’s so surprised she was literally bound to have a meltdown at some point. the girl is a time bomb

@/pop2museum: dude you can literally hear her heart breaking and people are like “why is she being weird” ????????

a week later, you’re on set.

the angel of my dreams video isn’t supposed to exist yet. you haven’t even sent the finished file to suguru. the label wants proof of life: something shiny to say look, they’re still working while the internet picks you apart. they don’t care what it is as long as your names are in the credits together.

so you choose angel. it’s finished, it’s stuck in your head, and it doubles as a quiet fuck you. they started this, let the suguru-mila-sympathy circus spin out unchecked, stood back while the storm built, and now they want you to fix it. no one asks about the lyrics, about the bite in your voice or the verses that sound plucked from a different era of you.

for half a second you wonder why they didn’t go straight to suguru like they always do. this would normally be his shoot. his direction, his notes, his presence in the frame. but you remind yourself: he’s not here.

sukuna is. at your suggestion.

face-tatted boxer-turned-model. he’s never stumbled, never asked for permission, never cared what anyone thinks of him—but it’s different from suguru’s quiet confidence. it’s more like defiance, or a challenge thrown down. he’s always circled too close and flirted too shamelessly to be serious. made sure you knew he’d take his shot the second suguru fell asleep at the wheel, though you’ve never been stupid enough to think his desire is about you. it’s about having. the thrill of taking. enough reason to keep him at arm’s length.

still, you think he’s perfect for this. painfully attractive and the opposite of an angel, which is the point. and good at being objectified. the label disagreed—they’d pushed for suguru, careful in that condescending way they get when they think you’re about to blow up. his name is on the song and he’s directed all your videos. you told them if they wanted him so bad, they should call him themselves. otherwise, fuck off.

it’s easier to call it a smart casting choice than to admit you like how much it might sting. if you have to bleed in public, suguru doesn’t get to walk away clean.

you walk onto set dressed like a saint: gauzy white dress, ballet flats, hair pinned back and collarbones gleaming under the rig lights. there’s innocence built into every angle: the flutter of your lashes, the sway of the skirt, the fabricated suggestion that you could be knocked over by a strong breeze.

sukuna clocks you immediately. his eyes drag slow, down then up, with a look on his face that says he can’t quite believe it’s you. you’re joking, he mutters, not quite under his breath. the hairstylist behind him snorts as she smooths one last strand.

the booth they sit you in looks stolen from an 1950s postcard—red vinyl, chrome trim, a pink milkshake set down in front of you. sukuna slides in opposite you like he owns the place, elbows planted on the table as he leans forward. the whole thing is so picture-perfect it tips into a parody of what the public knows of you both: you batting your lashes and singing into a straw, sukuna gazing at you like you’re the only girl in the world. it feels ridiculous.

you break after the first take, laughing. “don’t make it weird.”

“it is weird,” he says, grinning.

by afternoon, the halo’s gone. leather clings to your skin, red LEDs burn against walls and mirrors, and your lipstick is smeared from your own thumb. your halo swapped for something fallen.

the shoot is… fun, in the way standing too close to a fire is fun. hot, dangerous, a little thrilling if you don’t think too hard. sukuna is almost too easy to work with. between takes he falls into a stillness that you can only assume comes from years of boxing—waiting, watching in a way that makes it obvious he doesn’t miss a thing. he doesn’t roll his eyes when the director asks for a sixth take. he smiles every time you snap at a label exec.

“you’re meaner than the gossip says,” he observes at last, smirk tugging at his mouth like he doesn’t mind it.

you scoff. “and you’re nosier.”

from across the room, a director calls: “let’s get this next shot.”

the track slams back in, bass rattling the floor. the LEDs start strobing across chrome as the camera glides in. you both know the blocking: lean back, let him get close, stop just shy of contact.

when the camera flashy, i act so happy i’m in heaven when you’re looking at me

the cameras roll, and sukuna doesn’t stop where he’s supposed to. he pushes past his mark until your back hits the mirror. it’s rougher than blocked, his hand sliding lower on your hip, mouth pressing at your throat instead of hanging back like he knows he won’t get the chance again.

you laugh. sharp, surprised. it breaks out of you before you can catch it, too alive for the script.

“he’s off—” a PA hisses from the crew.

“keep it,” the director interrupts, eyes glued to the monitor.

the shoot is wrapped in two days, and you’re wired by the end. not safe, not cared for, but at least more alive than you’ve been in weeks. the label got their spectacle—heat, hunger, distraction for the press—but it only makes you think of suguru. how his stillness is never indifference but attention, how his presence steadies instead of scorches. sukuna is the opposite. sparks and smoke and nothing left when the lights cut. it jolts you awake, but it doesn’t keep you there. the comparison feels cruel, maybe unfair, but you can’t stop yourself. you’re alive, yes, but in the wrong way.

the proof is in the stills you receive that night. frame after frame of you, sukuna, the two of you together. glossy evidence of how undeniable the fire looked on camera. you tap through the thumbnails, caught between a prickle of unease and perverse satisfaction, and pick two to send to satoru. the first: you in white, haloed by backlight, almost believable as the virgin you were costumed to play. the second: your giggle against the wall, sukuna’s mouth at your throat and his hand squeezing your hip.

satoru: are u trying to kill me

yn: just doing my job <3

satoru: you look sexy tell sukuna to call discreetly if he needs help

yn: he’s fine. clothed and fed

satoru: i love whatever is wrong with u should i leak the red one or the white one

yn: red

[ instagram ]

@/deuxmoi 📸 : leaked photo of reader & sukuna on set, red lighting, her up against a wall with his lips on her neck, his hands on her hips, and her laughing. 💬 : leaked photo from the set of YN’s new music video for an unreleased single 👀🔥 comments: → MY CRACKSHIP I WON SO FUCKING BAD → i know sukuna showing all 32 rn → DOES ANYONE HAVE EYES ON SUGURU GETO → ok but what if we let suguru geto and sukuna ryomen fight in a boxing ring. would that be so terrible.

suguru stops calling when the photo leaks. the missed notifications that would stack up on your screen just… vanish. you tell yourself it’s fine—that he doesn’t need to and this is what you wanted—but every day without a notification to ignore feels more like proof. maybe sukuna was the last straw. maybe suguru decided you’re not worth the fight.

when mila’s name floats across your screen a couple afternoons later, you can’t help yourself. she’s guest of the week on a podcast you don’t like. lit in pink, iced matcha sweating in front of her, she looks like she’s been airbrushed into real life. you let it play while you dust already-dusted shelves and refold towels. it’s background noise at first, humming about her skincare routine, her “process,” who she wants to open for next year. you pour coffee and half-listen, bored and ready to turn it off.

i really don’t wanna put myself in a situation by naming names, and there’s absolutely no shade, but like… some people make art from love. and others make it from spite. they need the sympathy. it makes me a little sad.

you freeze. then you blink, certain you misheard, and walk over to your laptop to rewind ten seconds. captions on.

actually watching her face is worse. the soft tilt of her head, lashes lowered just so. there’s no bite, no names, nothing anyone could clip as evidence. just a floating implication. some people make art from love.

you hear you’re obsessed with me tucked between every word.

the host giggles, delighted at the soundbite. and then, like punctuation: my new single is out tomorrow, by the way.

your hand grips the edge of the kitchen island until grooves press into your skin. say it with your chest, bitch, you mutter to the empty apartment.

it’s not about popularity. it’s never been about people liking you, or not liking you, or calling you bitter or broken or insane. you never gave a fuck about any of that. it’s that mila knows exactly what she’s doing. painting herself as the doe-eyed muse while you’re cast as the unstable villain, again.

and suguru? silent, unscathed, right there in the middle of it. it feels like you blinked and woke up in an alternate universe. three weeks ago his presence was a given. laughing, creating, moving in a direction that, for once, you felt sure of. now nothing. now it’s mila.

and if they’re so close now, he had to know she was doing this podcast. had to know she’d say something like this. how the fuck could he not care enough to stop it? to at least warn you that it was coming? it’s not even anger yet, just the hollow shock of abandonment mid-stride.

your phone lights up on the counter.

satoru: mila’s so fucking boring it actually hurts me

you laugh, almost. then a call. suguru. you stare blankly, even though you’ve been waiting days for it. relief flares so fast it stings, followed by irritation. he probably saw the podcast. probably thinks you’re breaking.

you let it ring out. he’s right, kind of.

[ youtube ]

Call Her Daddy — Mila Hart: Love, Light, and Mean Girls Join Alex as she sits down with rising pop princess Mila Hart. Mila opens up about her journey from small-town girl to next-big-thing and how she’s staying “soft and brave” in a business that can be anything but. She talks about embracing vulnerability, why kindness is her superpower, and how she handles being compared to other women in the industry. Mila gets real about the toll of online hate, how she protects her peace when people call her “fake nice,” and why she chooses not to engage in public drama. She reflects on her creative process, her relationship with her growing fanbase, and what it means to take the “high road” even when others don’t. Mila also teases what’s next for her music… Enjoy! Comments: → SAY HER NAME 🤺 → lolll yn about to release something that makes this girl see god → yn is so talented but she makes it so hard to root for her. kindness and grace will beat jealousy and obsession every time. not to mention the example these girls are setting for our children! → weaponizing likability is terrifying mila hart you are SO weird

a tailor crouches at suguru’s ankle while a stylist holds swatches to his neck. he stares past all of it, phone burning a hole in his hand.

just let me know you’re okay. delete.

the hundredth version of the same text, maybe a little more desperate today. way more desperate than the first: ignore the headlines. they don’t know shit. he feels fucking useless thinking about it now.

he wanted to stop you from walking out of the studio that night. from breaking down in the booth and drying your own tears. but he didn’t trust himself to say the right thing, or to not make it worse. maybe for the first time in his life, suguru geto didn’t trust his own mouth.

so he didn’t even try.

the tailor straightens, tugging at the pants before stepping back. turn, please. he pivots toward the mirror. a mood board is taped up: references, sketches, your photo next to his. a package deal. proof that he fucked up posted on the wall like a taunt.

he’s been trying since sympathy with calls that ring until they don’t, texts that don’t even get a read receipt, voicemails he hates himself for leaving. he checks your location more than he’d like to admit. you’re at your apartment right now. the other night you were three blocks from his and he almost texted just come upstairs.

it might be easier this way, because what would he even say? that all this was nothing? that he somehow didn’t notice what was happening until it was too late? he can see your face already, flat and unimpressed.

a jacket lands on his shoulders. he rolls them back, lets the fabric settle.

this started way before the photos or the blind items. the morning after talk talk was cut with satoru—after the track and everything else—his phone lit up with a request: give mila hart a beat for her next single. she’d been freshly picked off another label, her team eager to “freshen” her sound.

nothing unusual. he gives beats and stems and input all the time. usually no noise follows.

that’s the lie he likes best: he didn’t mention it because there was nothing to mention. nothing worth disturbing the peace with. and he’d just finally cracked something open in you. there was no way in hell he was about to risk it with this.

he buttons the jacket, staring at his reflection. unbuttons it. the stylist murmurs approval while scribbling notes.

mila had asked to come to the lollapalooza afterparty the same day you and suguru headlined. for fun. she didn’t even have a set. he said fine, figuring it was about networking and being seen. didn’t tell you because it was just another name added to another guest list.

what he doesn’t admit is that he didn’t want to watch your eyes narrow when he mentioned inviting the new girl. didn’t want to snuff out the brightness that set seemed to bring out of you—the real kind, not the guarded version he’s used to. you laughing too loud and leaning all the way into him and the way you looked at him. open and easy in a way he doesn’t get often, maybe ever. he couldn’t bring himself to stake it yet.

and yeah, mila had been overly friendly. he’d filed it under industry personality and let it slide.

you flew home the next day anyway. and when the rumors spun into headlines about whether he was replacing you, he sent one text and nothing else. he really did think you’d reach for him when you were ready, the way you always have. he thought pressing would only make it worse, so he left you alone.

the jacket is swapped for a vest, leaving his arms bare, ink and muscle exposed. it’s the kind of thing you love on him.

he was high and bored when he knocked mila’s beat out in two hours. bubblegum synths, light and empty to match her brand. he sent it out with a note to leave his name off and forgot about it immediately.

until she showed up at the studio two days later uninvited. just to talk through it. claimed her engineer wasn’t available. she sat too close, overstayed to the point he had no choice but to walk her out. he remembers the paparazzi flash at the exit and her laugh as he held the door open. he doesn’t remember the joke.

it wasn’t anything. it wasn’t. she was just there, and he was just irritated and missing you, waiting her out until he could leave. a nuisance at worst.

but the photo she posted an hour later made it something. her hand on his arm in the studio, his smile loosened at the wrong second. a story told without his permission.

he sees it now for what it was: a setup. and it makes him sick to know that you would’ve clocked it immediately. you’d have known exactly what mila was angling for, and you’d never believe he didn’t see it too. you’d think he didn’t stop it because he didn’t want it to stop. because he wanted it. wanted her.

a pair of loafers is offered and he waves them off. “let’s try boots.” the leather cracks when he steps into them, heavier than they look.

he hasn’t even heard mila’s song. he doesn’t know what it’s called and doesn’t really give a shit, but now he’s pissed. at himself, first: for giving her the opening and not shutting it down sooner. at the label too, maybe irrationally, for putting the possibility in front of her at all. and at every pathetic journalist and loser on the internet for chewing through sympathy. he knows what it cost you, watching you unravel in that booth, and they’re tearing you apart for it. he can’t stand it.

he’s been in conference calls every day since, telling anyone with a signature line that he doesn’t like her, he wants nothing to do with her again, to cut his name from hers completely. every conversation ends the same: producer credits attached to masters, ISRC locked, we’ll look into it. a polite brick wall. the damage is already done where it counts anyway: where you’ve seen it. he doesn’t see how it could get worse.

after a dozen pointless meetings with them and endless silence from you, he cracked. he asked satoru how you were doing. if you were okay. casual, or trying to sound that way.

satoru had only shrugged, mouth tugging sideways. said you’d wrapped the angel video. smirked when he added, with sukuna. it’s hot.

the knot started then, tight and ugly, right in the middle of his chest. he tugs at his collar now thinking about it, as if loosening fabric would give him more room to breathe.

of course the label scrambled. of course they went to you, not him—not when he’s pushing back this hard, making himself a problem in every interaction. it should’ve been his shoot. would’ve been, if he hadn’t fucked everything up.

the song choice surprises him almost as much as the casting. angel of my dreams. it doesn’t fit with your recent releases. he’d nearly forgotten it existed. you’d started it together years ago, before the silence and the fractures, back when you’d make him sit through ten versions of a single line and refused to record unless he was in the room. sukuna stepping into that frame feels like a fucking joke.

sukuna, who’s never met a line he wouldn’t cross. sukuna, who circles like a predator, waiting for suguru to drop the ball.

suguru doesn’t care if it sounds bitter—he is bitter. but he can’t blame you for it. he left the space open, and sukuna only did what anyone would’ve done: stepped in.

the photo leaked a day later.

you dressed in black, washed in red light. sukuna’s lips on your neck. and you’re laughing.

he fucking hates it. hates that it’s sukuna and not him. hates how good the chemistry looks, how convincing it is. hates that some part of him wants to watch the full video anyway, just to know what else the camera caught.

he knows that laugh. knows what it takes to pull it out of you, what it sounds like up close. he knows your body, the way you move when you’re trying to hide and when you’re not.

and sukuna doesn’t. sukuna doesn’t know you like that. he can’t.

suguru’s been frozen for two whole days since then. he keeps meaning to text, to call, to do something, but the photo sits between him and every word. and yeah, he knows it’s staged and blocked within an inch of its life. but still—what if that laugh was real? what if the choice was already made?

coward.

he’s guided to a chair where two hairstylists fuss through options. he humors them, nods like he’s thinking it over, knowing he’ll go half-up like he always does. his phone lights up on the table in front of him.

he swipes and mila’s face fills the screen in pink and white, sweetness spun so thick he swears he can taste sugar through glass. part of the rollout for her single, he guesses.

some people make art from love. others make it from spite. they need the sympathy.

he doesn’t need to hear the rest to know who she means. doesn’t need to replay it to know how it’ll land with you. salt pressed into an open wound.

his jaw tightens. he wants to curse her out, wants to smash the screen. instead, he texts.

don’t talk about her again. send.

she’s worth ten of you. delete.

opens his thread with you. i didn’t mean for— delete. calls you. it rings out. he puts the phone face-down on the table like the gesture alone might stop it from poisoning the room.

[ twitter ]

@/bratisland: i fear suguru geto has entered his dumb bitch era

@/satorusthirdline: why do i feel like satoru is gonna have to parent trap them back together

@/ynwifeposting: idc what anyone says suguru geto is the reason we have crash and move me and for that he deserves community service at most

mila’s single drops the next night.

skin.

soft keys, dreamy synths, bitchiness lacquered over in benevolence. it almost sounds like one of your songs, if someone bleached it twice and filed the edges flat until there was nothing sharp to catch onto.

i’m happy and you hate it and i’m not asking you to let it go but you’ve been telling your side so i’ll be telling mine

your throat goes dry.

and then—

don’t drive yourself insane it won’t always be this way

your stomach flips. you wonder if you are insane. if you’ve been making all this shit up in your head. it’s like she reached straight into your brain and pulled out the one thing you’ve been trying not to think.

you pull the song up on genius, typing fast, eyes narrow. you have to be sure. have to see the words written down, make sure she’s saying what you think she is.

Genius Q&A

Q: What have the artists said about the song? A: Mila Hart (via Instagram Stories): “This song wasn’t written about any one person. It’s about growing through noise, learning to let go of things that never belonged to you in the first place. I’m proud of what we made, and I’m even prouder that we didn’t name names. If the shoe fits, I can’t help that. 💖”

Q: Who produced Skin? A: Skin was produced by Suguru Geto and Mila Hart, marking the first official collaboration between the two. Geto’s involvement with Hart continues to draw criticism from YN’s fanbase, as many view it as a betrayal — especially given the public fallout and emotional subtext surrounding YN and Geto’s Sympathy is a Knife.

and there it is, plain as daylight.

produced by suguru geto.

the ringing in your ears spikes so hard you nearly drop the phone.

it’s like a trapdoor opening beneath you. rifling through someone’s things and finding something terrible. betrayal, yes, but something worse than that. the fact that he heard this and signed off on it. that mila got his support.

she has receipts. she has him.

this is what he was building with her when the whispers started. when blind items became headlines that became think pieces. before sympathy even existed. he made her a diss track and then sat across from you in the studio listening while you bled into a mic.

and suddenly you know you’re not insane. the nasty feeling you’ve been sitting with wasn’t overreaction, it was proof.

proof that mila is calculated. proof she’s been aiming for you. proof that suguru didn’t just drift—he participated.

why?

your phone buzzes.

suguru: call me back

nausea rises, and you stare at the words until they blur.

suguru: i’m coming over

he’s at your door before you’ve decided what you’ll say to him. the doormen let him up like they always do, but even then you don’t open the door all the way. just enough to see him through the gap.

he looks almost familiar. strands falling loose from where his hair’s pulled back, eyes bloodshot, the smell of smoke clinging to him. the polish is gone. no posture, no planning.

“please,” he mutters. it’s the first time you’ve heard his voice in too long.

you let him in, walking backward, and stop just past the entryway.

“you knew i’d see it,” you say.

“i told them not to put my name on it. i didn’t know she was gonna—”

“use it to come for me?”

“i didn’t hear the vocals. i didn’t even know what it was called.”

you blink, then narrow your eyes. is he serious? is he stupid? “you didn’t think maybe you should?”

“it wasn’t important. it was just supposed to be a beat.”

“just a beat?” you echo, disbelief threaded through the syllables. he obviously doesn’t see the problem, so you drag him back to where this started. “like it was just a party?”

you watch him process. it’s not the guilty freeze of someone caught so much as the hunted pause of someone searching for the right answer.

“you didn’t think i’d notice her clinging to you?” you push.

“it wasn’t—” he stops, swallows. “it wasn’t like that.”

“i was happy that night,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “really happy. i thought we might be—” you laugh, not because it’s funny but because it’s absurd. the whole thing feels fucking absurd. “you know, you could’ve warned me about all this.”

“i called you a hundred times,” he replies, growing incredulous. “you wouldn’t talk to me.”

“you didn’t try hard enough,” you say, voice climbing. it’s childish and petty, you know it. but it feels true enough.

“you think i wanted this?” his voice rises. “you think i sat in the studio thinking, yeah, i hope this hurts her? i hope she fucking hates me?”

you say nothing. because no, you don’t think that. but it still hurts.

“i was trying to keep it clean. i thought i could keep everything from going to shit.” he drags a hand down his face and continues: “i didn’t have a choice—”

“you always have a choice, suguru. you just didn’t care enough to make a good one.”

he flinches. you see it—a tiny, human thing—but you can’t stop now. won’t.

“i guess it worked out for you, though,” you say, voice flat. “both of us trending at the same time with your name all over it.”

his eyes narrow. “don’t—”

“no?” you tilt your head. “you don’t like how that feels?”

“don’t fucking say that to me. you don’t even believe that.”

“you’d let me think it anyway.” you shrug. “you let me think a lot of things. that i mattered to you. that we mattered. that you wanted—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. don’t give him that, you warn yourself.

“god,” you huff. “you should go.”

he shifts like he might say something. like he might fix it, or take accountability, or something. you’re not ready for that, so you cut it off before he can start.

“it’s the middle of the night and we have, like, a million things next week and i haven’t even sent my styling picks.” the mundanity feels stupid until you think about the fact that you’d usually send them together.

when you speak again, your voice is smaller. “can we please just… see each other next week?” it’s easier than saying i’m not ready for this to blow all the way up right now.

he looks like he wants to push back, all the way up until the door shuts in his face.

he understands something awful then: the softness he loves so much isn’t something he can fight for anymore. not by omission, not with explanations, not by force.

he’s watched it bleed out of you over time, worn thin by years of industry, by scrutiny and pressure and too many people with their hands in the frame. he hadn’t even realized how bad he wanted it back until you gave it freely.

and he wasted it.

he starved it by keeping his mouth shut when it mattered and letting you carry all the weight alone.

what he knows now is simple: he’ll never get it back. not the way it was.

and he’ll never stop reaching for it anyway.

inside the apartment, you light a cigarette and lean out the window, quarter-full wine bottle balanced on the sill beside you. the smoke tastes stale in your throat, the wine sour in your mouth, and none of it makes you feel better.

you take another drag anyway. stub it out. finish the rest of the bottle in three swallows.

the silence after feels unbearable. you get up to find your phone, put on music, turn the volume up until it rattles the glass. tequila in hand, you curl back into the ledge, knees pulled tight to your chest.

scrolling doesn’t help. it never helps. suguru’s name, mila’s voice, sukuna’s face all blown up in memes and edits that rack up comments faster than you can blink. all tied to you. you lock the phone.

your fingers itch for something else to do, so you roll a joint. it burns too quick, gone before you even feel it, so you roll another one.

you think about skin. the lyrics, the cadence, way they cut deeper because his beat is under them. a page of your notebook gets filled with slashes of ink, ugly handwriting that doesn’t follow the lines. not even lyrics, just the words you want out of your chest: parasite, replaceable, bitch.

and through all of it, suguru won’t shut the fuck up in your head. it wasn’t like that. it wasn’t important. you wouldn’t talk to me.

your jaw locks tight. your limbs buzz. the liquor burns in your stomach, your chest pinched, your breath short. panic climbs up your throat until it feels like you’re choking on nothing.

you fumble for your phone again, typing with one eye closed because the letters won’t stop moving.

yn: storu can’t breathe

📍 location: dropped pin

satoru: omw

eleven minutes later, there’s a knock. you fumble with the chain twice before it comes loose. the door swings wider than you mean it to, your shoulder clipping the frame. satoru fills the space, two bags hooked in one hand. he doesn’t comment on your mess—hair wild, eyes red, smoke clinging to your clothes. just looks at you for a second too long, like maybe he already knows what set you off.

“move,” he says gently, and he’s in before you can process.

the bags rustle as he sets them down to unpack. food, gatorade, candy, video games. you’re hovering awkwardly until he pulls a stool out from beneath the counter and steers you onto it. he twists the cap off a cold bottle before pressing it into your palm, waiting patiently for you to take a sip before he continues.

you try to play him in mario kart, but your fingers are too slow, focus gone. he doesn’t call you on it. he lets you win a couple rounds instead, grinning like a kid when you accuse him of going easy.

“this place is ridiculously clean,” he says on his way back from the kitchen with two glasses of water. “hiding something?”

you shrug, head tipped back against the couch cushions.

silence stretches. there’s only the game music and the hum of the fridge until you blurt, “she’s pretty, right?”

his answer comes flat and immediate. “mid-tier. good at press, though.”

you snort. he smiles.

the controllers end up abandoned on the rug. he puts on selling sunset instead, glossy voices filling the room while you throw vicious little critiques about outfits and hair. every time you reach for your phone he plucks it away without looking, tucking the blanket for you or sliding a cookie into your hand.

two hours slip by like that. your head in his lap, the low glow of the TV, the steadiness of him holding you together without asking for anything in return. between episodes, he speaks: “i have studio time tomorrow. wanna come?”

you nod, eyes already falling shut.

[ instagram ]

@/milahearts (post) 📸 : the skin single cover. mila in a pink tank top and sparkly headband smiling into the camera. soft focus, natural makeup, wet hair. 💬 : skin is yours now 💖  thank you for letting me be vulnerable and brave at the same time. i loved making this song! #newmusic @/cultgeto comments: -> she’s so above it all 💞 -> suguru blink twice if you’re in danger -> meanwhile yn is somewhere sharpening knives lmao

@/cultyn (story) 📸 : photo of the skyline from her window, smoke curling into the photo 💬 : all’s fair 🎵 : sorry not sorry by pool kids

@/gojos (story) 📸 : half-eaten dumpling box and two gatorade bottles on a glass coffee table. his switch open to mario kart. her feet in fuzzy socks in frame 💬 : blue shell / blue gatorade supremacy 🎵 : video games by lana del rey

you wake up alone in your bed, head heavier than you’d like but not as bad as you deserve. for a second, your chest seizes—satoru left.

then you pad into the living room and find him curled under a heavy throw blanket, long legs dangling off the couch, one arm flung over his face. out cold.

the knot in your chest unravels almost painfully.

you get ready while he sleeps—wash your face, brush your teeth, pull on clean clothes. you don’t touch your phone yet.

he stirs at the sound of coffee mugs clinking, stretching slow and catlike, blinking toward the kitchen.

“morning,” he says around a yawn, eyes still half-shut. then he blinks at you properly and grins. “you look terrible.”

he giggles at his own comment, bright and unbothered, and the sound makes you smile.

the studio is different from suguru’s. less lived-in. you sit on a couch while he fiddles with wires, recording layer after layer over a track that already sounds done to you. he keeps asking what you think, and you give little notes: lower here, softer there. he actually listens, which is maybe the nicest part.

while he works, you finally open your phone.

the verdict is unanimous.

skin is a win. a quiet triumph of emotional maturity. a masterclass in taking the high road.

your name sits beside hers in every mention, but not as an equal. you’re a cautionary tale now. problematic. hedonistic. obsessed. the mean girl who couldn’t take the hint. the one who tears things apart for her own amusement, apparently.

defending yourself publicly doesn’t even cross your mind. you can’t. mila’s image may as well be bulletproof. pretty, poised, perfect. you can’t even look at her sideways without getting crucified.

so you write while satoru records, notebook balanced on the arm of the couch.

this one’s for all my mean girls this one’s for all my bad girls this one’s for all my break-your-boyfriend’s-heart girls for all my tearing-shit-apart-girls

by the time he drops onto the couch beside you, you’ve filled two pages. he scrolls through his own phone and lets out a low whistle.

“babe,” he chuckles. “they hate you.”

“that’s fine.” you flip the notebook toward him so he can see. “they’ll hate me more tomorrow.”

he scans the pages, grin splitting wide. “oh, you’re gonna make her cry.”

satoru’s not a producer, but he’s an enabler, and the two of you have done this long enough to know how to stitch a song together.

it doesn’t take long. a beat that’s already sitting in his files gets stripped down, piano layered over at his insistence. lyrics spill easily, half from what you’ve just written and half from his own gleeful additions.

yeah, she’s in her mid-twenties, real intelligent and you hate the fact she’s new york city’s darling you said she’s problematic, and the way you say it’s so fanatic think she already knows that you’re obsessed

the session goes off the rails fast. coke sliced into neat lines on the desk, laughter edged in animosity. you pace the booth, biting your nails between takes, dancing and jumping around as you sing the chorus. satoru leans back in the chair, perfectly competent, perfectly amused, every so often tossing out direction.

“again,” he says. “more murder-y.”

“murder-y?”

“you know what i mean.”

he doesn’t calm you down how he did last night. just fans the flames, fiercely loyal in the way he’s always been: if the world is going to hate you anyway, he’ll help you make sure it’s worth their time.

[ instagram ]

@/gojos (post) 📸 : reader against a glittered baby pink background wearing a tiara, mascara smudged, satoru’s hand lighting her cigarette. 💬 : mean girls make hits 💋

@/cultyn (post) 📸 : screenshots of bad reviews/headlines: Did YN Go Too Far?; Why ‘Mean Girls’ is Dangerous, Not Empowering; YN’s downward spiral continues in messy surprise track 💬 : so why does it slap?

[ twitter ]

@/PopCrave: ‼️ Mila Hart has unfollowed YN 14 minutes after ‘Mean Girls’ surprise drop. Here’s what we know ⬇️  [screenshots of unfollow + single cover]

@/gojogirlboss: the single cover being a parody of mila’s 🤣 yn and satoru should not be allowed within 100 feet of each other

@/ynball: when i said i needed yn to go evil this is EXACTLY what i meant

@/midwestmom: this yn girl is the reason i don’t let my daughter on tiktok

@/gojowatch: satoru and yn aren’t even producers btw this is literally the power of friendship

[ youtube ]

YN — Angel of my dreams (Official Video) Starring YN & Sukuna Ryomen Duration: 3:51 The video starts with a bare-faced YN at a diner, innocent and dressed in white, singing the first verse across the booth while Sukuna watches, tender and mesmerized. Halfway through, the lighting shifts. Another YN enters in heels and latex, singing the hook as she crosses to the far end of the diner. Sukuna follows immediately. By the final frame, he’s gripping her hips in a red-lit hallway, lips on her neck, as the first version of YN sings the chorus alone. Comments: -> sukuna not even acting btw he’s in heat -> omfg they were calling my girl an autotune warrior she had to remind yall!!! -> ok but this video is exactly why mila wins. yn is too busy being messy and provocative -> suguru somewhere punching the air rn 🤣

[kunareads]

taglist (4/4)

@nebularaty @ifiwereabug @femmeandfatal @trybeingmysizeaimee @girlfromnowh3r3 @sunshytea @heliumshorns @feelya @mariealexa @superdonkeypatroleggs

@ilovemollyweasley @chocalycake @d4ytr1pp3r @hxnnibun @taniosito @hopefulpeachcolor @ashhlsstuff @irwinchester @lanwanjisass @r0sekill3rss

@kimkimoruo @chuu-19 @romantic-dreamz @s3xpistolss @nicerthanu @illuzminate @theviperess @kirishimasboobs @ehlaaa @kekenonner

@universillie @stormmie234 @coolcatcam809 @satoruwun @kyungjunnies @surgikull @betzy-chan @itsdragonius @moonyj13

@aldebrana @elysiania @luvleixo @cutehobii @iilluummiii

[frankiesprettygf]

absolute cinema

[mottlemoth]

Please reblog this if fanfiction has been beneficial to your mental health.

[221b-hound]

Both reading it and writing it.

[chaoticdumbassrogue]

Me: I told you I write fanfiction, right?

My therapist: yes. I’m proud of you for finding a creative outlet that allows you to explore your emotions and allow you to recognize how you feel through the characters that you write.

Me: 😭cool👍🏼

[admiringlove]

a tempest gilded in ruin.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

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

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

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

↬ word count: 27k.

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

↬ navigation: part two, jjk masterlist.

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

My dearest gentle readers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One can only wonder… and watch.

With quill in hand and ears ever listening, Phantom.

Present, Highgrove House.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, your father has chosen for you.

Gojo Satoru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not when the betrayal cuts this deep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Present, Six Eyes Estate.

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

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

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

The title. The estate. The responsibility.

All of it a curse disguised as a crown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you’re only just realizing?”

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

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

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

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

Gojo lifts a brow.

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

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

Still, you cannot know the truth.

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

Present, Hyde Park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One week later, Highgrove House.

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

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

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

You picked blue for a reason. For him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But tonight, there is no escaping their eyes.

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

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, the whispers shift.

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

Your breath hitches as you follow her gaze.

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

Gojo Satoru.

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

And then, there are his eyes.

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

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

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

The sight of him is nearly unbearable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could not bear it any longer.

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

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

It should not bother you.

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

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

But you could not pretend anymore.

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

"You do that a lot."

The voice is smooth, low, almost amused.

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

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

You swallow. "Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

Every single thing about him is unreachably perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A moment passes. Then another.

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

His brows lift slightly. "Is what true?"

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

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

You blink. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so, you do.

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

She is watching. Waiting.

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

Because she knows.

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

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

A tap.

Light, but firm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The orchestra begins again. A minuet.

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

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

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

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

“I would,” you say softly.

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

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

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

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

Dearest gentle readers,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours in unwavering vigilance, Phantom.

Six Eyes Estate.

"Your Grace?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Late afternoon, Highgrove House.

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

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

It leaves you with an unsettling thought.

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

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

But it does not matter. Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Psst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I like to think of myself as opportunistic."

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

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

He grins wider. "You wound me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches. He steps forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he does not look back.

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

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

The next morning, Hyde Park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you not want it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fight back a smile. “And then?”

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

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

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

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

Friday, Highgrove House.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I take it you wanted to see me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miserable failure, indeed.

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

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

But then, your breath stills. You see it.

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

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

And now—now, he wears it.

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

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

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

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

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

The violins in your chest reach a fever pitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, finally, you nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next evening, Whites' Gentlemens' Club.

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

"You did what?" he asks.

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

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

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

Satoru scoffs. "It is not psychotic."

"It is," Suguru replies flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

Suguru does not laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Satoru stills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suguru exhales, slowly. "Gojo."

Satoru grins. "Geto."

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

Suguru, unyielding. Satoru, unrepentant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, just like that, he is gone.

One week later, Highgrove House.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight is Shoko’s masquerade ball.

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

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

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

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

You, however, were not.

And that, somehow, sat ill with you.

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

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

You reach for your quill instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They knew so very little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, you arrive.

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

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

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

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

You step forward, your heels clicking against the stone.

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

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

It doesn’t take you long to notice him.

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

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

He always does.

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

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

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

The distance between you shrinks like something inevitable.

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is not—”

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

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

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

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

Alone, and the words catch up to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cold air hits your skin like absolution.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, “Are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” you whisper. “Leave me be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now it’s mine.”

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he kisses you before you finish.

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

It swallows whatever protest you were about to make.

Because suddenly, words are useless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Veiled Quill.

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

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

Someone saw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Present, near Earl Geto's Residence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is not a question. It’s a weapon.

There’s a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Satoru doesn’t answer.

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

He cannot say it aloud.

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

He does like you.

And he doesn’t know how to undo that.

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

Dearest gentle readers,

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

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

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

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

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

She was mistaken.

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

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

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

Yours most deliciously, Phantom.

part two.

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