Home in three days. Do not wash!
Forever yours, Satoru
fanfic for @cherrys-wrld PUSSYWHIPPED event <3
part of Tales, Myths, Romances collection
pairings: Napoleon Bonaparte!Gojo x Josephine!Reader
content warnings: historical au, pussydrunk Gojo, fingering, oral (fem. rec.), Gojo is obsessed, manhandling, mentions of breeding, mentions of pregnancy, based on true romance
WC: 3.2k
a/n: funfact, Napoleon actually didn't write the "Home in three days" letter, but it's so iconic I decided to include it. Other letters in this fic are based on his real ones (you can read them online!), which he sent to his wife, Josephine. I tried to keep the events historically accurate! MWAH <3
divider by @cursed-carmine
art @/teaforgods
"My Empress," the gentle voice of your maid called your mind back, as you sat in the rose garden.
Pink petals folded under the pads of your fingers, sweetish fragrance tickling your nose as it clouded your thoughts for a sheer second. Your maid waited patiently, looking at your waist bent over the freshly bloomed roses. A present from your husband.
"Yes?" you asked, glancing back at your young girl. And before she could speak again, with eyes lost somewhere in the smile on your face, you noticed it. The letter. "Another one?"
She nodded, delivering you a small, folded paper. "It came just now."
Your fingers grasped the familiar texture. The same one you've caressed for the past few days. "Which one is it this week?"
"Fifth one, my Empress."
You sighted and sat down on the wooden bench to read another pleading of your husband.
My love, days go by, and my heart seems to tremble from the sheer lack of your presence. I wake up in the night, missing the sweet smell of your skin. Oh, how tormented am I! My dear love, what an extraordinary influence you have over me! It's been only three months without seeing your precious face, but I cannot stand it any longer!
My sweet darling, write to your husband more often.
Forever yours, Satoru
Your lips curved in a smile, eyes sparkled cheerfuly and it didn't go unnoticed, as your maid followed carefully every reaction appearing on your hearty face.
As, oh dear, her Empress and Emperor were such a lovely couple! Married just a few months ago, but it seemed as Emperor had been wrapped around his lady's sweet finger, following her dear step by step. Such a raw and passionate man he was, tormented by his wife, with or without her by his side, as even with her, he acted as a man tortured. And you, a sweet rose of France, loved him dearly, but took quite a pleasure in making your husband walk by your ankle like a dog. Because the gentleman who soon would control the whole of Europe had just one little weakness – you.
"My Empress, should you write back?" she asked politely, with her head dipped, glancing at your fingers clenched on the paper.
"He's in Italy, isn't he? How often must my husband write, for me to get letters almost every single day," you wondered out loud, already thinking about the one you'll get tomorrow.
All of them were sweet and dear, quite bold even, but always needy. You remembered the one from yesterday, and your cheeks suddenly flushed like cherries.
My love, I've received your two letters, but why so few? Are there days when you don't write to me? Oh my darling, your letters are the joy of my days and the blaze of my nights. Leave a little kiss for me next time, so I can see your sweet lips again! I'm hopeless and sorrowful without you. Since I left, my mind has been nothing but depressed. Join me soon in Italy, you'll love it here, my love. I'll buy you dresses and jewellery, build a mansion in Venice if you wish for it, but please come by and let us enjoy this time together.
I miss you dearly, and we shall reunite soon. A kiss on your heart, and one much lower down, much lower!
Forever yours, Satoru
Oh, how foul he was, but such passionate too, and you could almost feel his lips fondling your thighs and breasts. He was obsessed indeed, and you have wondered whether your husband was in good health, as no man should be that possessed by madness!
You didn't write every day, but should you? In fact, you liked him a bit frenzied, sore, begging for your attention. You replied to him once, just after his first letter, and it seemed he held onto it dearly, waiting desperately for the next one.
But it wasn't coming! And he was sour about that.
Thus, after not replying to him for a month, it seemed that the Emperor himself got quite mad!
My love, I write to you every day. Sometimes twice! Yet I see no letters of yours, do you still love me? I don't love you; on the contrary, I detest you! A cruel witch you are, unkind to your poor husband. What are you doing in those days when not thinking of me? Where does your heart go if not towards your husband? My love, do you enjoy tormenting me that much?
Forever yours, Satoru
And upon reading it with a sly smile, you decided to answer his begging.
My husband, I would answer you sooner, but each time I begin, another letter arrives! You write as if the world ends, but it's been only three months. I adore your passion, but heavens, you are exhausting!
Do you love to suffer, my dear? You're writing as if I deceived you! Stop sulking and come home soon.
Oh, how angry he was! For there was no trace of your lips nor smell of your sweetness, and your words he awaited were washed of any fondness. How cruel of you!
My darling, the day when you say "I love you less" will be the end of my life. My love for you is saddened, my heart enslaved, and my mind frightens me... will you ever stop loving me? I cannot go a day without loving you; I cannot even drink my tea without you tormenting my thoughts. Oh my darling, if your love will extinct, I'll throw myself under the guillotine!
Why must you be so mean to me? Shall I end my life for you to cherish me a bit more?!
Forever yours, Satoru
And as much as you loved to torture him, something panged in your chest upon imagining your poor husband maddened by the playfulness of yours.
So this time you've decided to write him a hearty one, with a cherry kiss left at the end, fragrance of your favourite perfumes sprinkled on creamy paper.
Your maid took it for delivery, and you waited impatiently for the next response from a man who would trade whole Europe just for the single glance of your lovely eyes!
But, surprisingly, you didn't receive any letter the next day, and another one too, thus a little frown has formed between your eyebrows, and your maid has been seeing you waiting by the window every single day. She hated to see her lovely Empress in such mania, with those sweet, pushed lips and arms crossed on her dear chest, as she walked back and forth in the rose garden.
Oh, how strange it was to not read his pouty tears daily! Was he dead indeed?
Your eyes were thus awaiting a delivery desperately, everyone in the palace on tenterhooks, seeing their young Empress so impatient!
Days were going by – two, four, six. Over two weeks passed, and then three, with no letter coming in, and the loveliest French rose withering slowly in the sweet gardens of her mansion. You walked all days sourly, with nothing to cheer you up. Even the company of your favourite ladies turned out to be poor, for a certain sadness always dripped from your gentle voice.
And then, after a month of torment, it finally came. Not just one letter, but two!
Your maid ran towards the garden hectically, with sweat dripping down her temple and eyes filled with cheerfulness. "My Empress," she screamed over the rose bushes. "My Empress, it's here!"
And your head sprang up, hips lifted from the bench, book long forgotten, as you took the letters from her trembling hands.
The first words written by your husband left you speechless.
My love, the coldness of your heart has melted, and nothing affected me more than your last letter. I shall accuse you of witchery, as my soul has been possessed solely by thoughts of you! The kiss of your lips I put to mine and wondered what it would be like to feel the softness of your skin. My love, oh my love! I cannot live like that any longer. I carry your portrait over my heart and imagine it beating together with yours. The letters take so long to deliver, and I'm getting older each day. What if I die on a battlefield without ever tasting you again? My poor heart, oh, my love, I yearn to kiss you once again and taste that sweetness on my tongue. My madness is strangling me, passion burns my soul, for I'm dying to be by your side!
Forever yours, Satoru
You coughed, cheeks burning feverishly till your maid asked, "My Empress, do you feel alright?" and you could best give her a nod, for the muscles of your throat clamped tight in embarrassment.
You've heard that your husband carries your portrait, as he said nothing has brought him more luck than having you by his side. A true lucky charm, as he loved to remark, with fondling your skin gently and leaving sweet traces upon your thighs.
You tucked the paper and opened the second letter. But, well, how shocked you were – you and the maid standing right over your shoulder – upon seeing just a single sentence! But as you read it, a sudden tremor moved your heart, and sweat dribbled down your neck.
Home in three days, do not wash!
Forever yours, Satoru
"Oh," you could only mutter, mind blank, eyes staring at the pinkish roses of your garden.
And then it suddenly hit.
"My Empress," your maid started, rubbing her fingers nervously. As she also saw the date written on the letter, and if she counted correctly, the Emperor should be–
"It's today," you mumbled quietly, as if to yourself. But your head moved her way, eyes bulging. "Shall he arrive tod–"
You didn't manage to finish it, however, as a sudden commotion in the mansion made you rise from the bench and walk frenzily through the rose bushes. The screams and horses, the agitation that could only accompany the arrival of one man.
Your husband!
The long garments moved together with the fast pace of your feet, breasts sitting plumply in a long, pinkish dress as it slouched off your shoulder slightly, not prissy at all, but rather vulgar for other men to see. Your hair pinned up, brows cressing gently as you walked inside the mansion, straight to the front gate.
But, couldn't you get to the main door as it opened suddenly, and no one but your maddened husband walked inside.
He stood tall, with broad shoulders, still dressed in his blue jacket with gold buttons and light trousers that hugged his legs loosely. The snowishness of his hair blinded you and (almost) weeping eyes looked your way as if lost in agony, with nothing but love lifting up the corners of his lips.
"My love," he grumbled with a strangled voice and opened arms. "I have been waiting for our reunion too long!"
You laughed cheekily, walking towards your husband at an unhurried pace. Arms wrapped around his neck gently, fingers playing with soft strands of his wet hair, as if he was running your way all day and all night, with nothing but sweat dripping down his spine. "My dear, why so early? Shouldn't you leave Italy in a month?"
His muscular arms snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest.
Oh, how you enjoyed the look of those crystal eyes, so open and truthful, burning with passion that was clearly eating him alive!
"I couldn't wait," he said, taking your hand and leading you quickly through the corridors of your mansion. "You're such a vile woman! Cruel, wicked, playing with your poor husband's heart like a child," he looked over his shoulder, a bit of playfulness shining in his eye as you giggled softly. You knew the route of the corridor, leading straight to your chamber. "There's nothing to laugh about, my love! I'll show you how much I longed for your touch."
And maybe he was right. You shouldn't laugh, indeed.
℘℘℘
He pushed you on bed the moment the heavy doors of your room closed behind, and almost ripped the undergarments off your drenched legs. His knees hit the floor as you opened your thighs, smooth and drenched, showing the sweetest, the juiciest meal he could ever dream of.
You glanced at him with this cheeky smile dancing on your plump lips and wicked eyes, knowing the impact you had on him. He was nothing more than a tormented man!
You watched him while leaning on your elbows – eyes following snowish hair reaching down, fingers pushing the dress up till your hips, trembling at the sheer thought of finally tasting the sweetness of your pussy after months of nothing but releasing himself to your picture.
He seated you right at the edge of the royal bed, with velvet skin blushing feverishly under his raw kisses and long fingers digging hard into the plush of your thighs.
"M-my Emperor," a pitched moan pushed through your lips, as you tilted your head back. Soft linen of your bedding dipped under your sprawled body, thighs opened wide, skin melting under his lips on the inner thighs. Wet lips going down down down, from the bend of your knee right till the drenched mound.
"Oh my kitty, how I've missed you," he mumbled, as if already drunk, lost, with his head diving deep into the rolls of your cunt, giving it a heavy and nasty smell. "My sweet pussy, mhmmm, I've dreamed about you every night."
"My Emperor, please stop calling her like that. You're so filthy," your strangled voice tried to scold him, but Gojo Satoru, the soon-to-be most powerful man in the whole continent, was deaf to your pleadings.
For there was nothing he dreamed of more than getting drunk on the honeyed saps of his pussy and the plushness of your thighs around his cheeks.
And the moment his tongue finally landed between your folds– SNAP!
The rest of his sanity finally cracked, and a long growl drove through his lips, going straight into your fluttering cunt. You pushed white strands sticking to his forehead, watching the gentle furrow between his handsome brows, eyes closed, tongue working you out – slurping, licking, pushing every nerve of your wet cunt. He pushed a finger in, scooping out more of your creamy cum, tasting you as if he came back starved, with juices dripping down his chin and tongue put flat to your clit.
"My Emperor, aren't you just desperate? Didn't they feed you there?" you giggled, rolling your hips together with a pace of his tongue, riding his face in a fever. "A-ah, slow down a bit, I'm not running anywhere!"
"Ngh, I told you not to wash–mmmmm, I love the smell of your sweat," he mumbled, already giving you a headache. Nasty, nasty man! "My sweet kitty, m-my pussy, thought about you every night, every day, nothing but thought of tasting you again, giving me a strength to fight– nghhh–"
"My Emperor, please, enough!" you cried, hips rolling up and down, thighs trembling as his second finger pushed inside. He caressed your clit with his tongue, smoochering it with kisses, sucking it wetly till his cheeks sucked in.
He growled again, tremors going straight into your cunt, the pads of his fingers finally finding the plush spot that made your toes curl.
"Oh my love, do you feel good? Does my Empress feel good? You're so sweet, god you taste so delicious." his muscular arm landed on your lower belly, pulling you closer to his warm breath. "She missed me so much, sucking my fingers in so desperately. My Empress, you may detest your husband, but she will never betray me!"
Your head lulled back, eyes crossed, when he sucked on your clit again, massaging the plush spot inside with his fingers. His fat fingers already filled you well, as your walls clamped on them tight, flapping everytime he bent them to that spot. Oh, he knew this was your favourite combo, making droplets of sweat form around your temple and thighs tremble in excitement, as you tried to lock them around his head.
"My dear, just s-shut up and m-make me cum," your voice was of the purest melody, tickling his ears with passion and lust, making his heavy cock leak through the pants even more, as he tried to release himself by rubbing against the bed's wooden leg.
The look on his face was enough to feel a sudden warmth in your belly. He looked absolutely defeated, lost like a child, with beefy arms hugging your thighs, pulling you closer and closer, till the hilt of his nose brushed your clit. His lips devouring you with slurpy noises, pure filth pushing through them every time he had a chance to open his mouth – wish I could lick your creamy cunt before every meal, and, I could fight a thousand wars if it meant to have her as my prize, or, next time don't wash for a week, no, two weeks, I wish to taste the purest flavour of my pussy.
You reprimanded him every time, with your syrupy moans and scoldings making him even harder, but at some point, even your throat gave up. You just couldn't win against him, and this tongue stuck to your cunt flat, working on your trembling clit till you finally, finally, felt the warmth spilling out.
Your back arched deliciously, thighs clamped around his head, fingers dug deep into his scalp, and you cried for the one last time. The pleasure was blinding, and even your pleadings couldn't stop your husband from drinking allll the juices dripping straight down his throat, with a quiet thank you thank you thank you, murmured straight to your hole. His throat bobbed, fingers trembled, as a moment later, a wet patch formed on his trousers.
His cheeks were wet, but it didn't stop him from rubbing them against your inner thighs, feeling the softness of your skin on his. You were ready to believe that his mind was possessed indeed, as his eyes looked almost like two little hearts, looking at you with a burning lust.
"My Empress, my love, oh how I love you," he climbed the bed, and you moved slightly back. Only then have you noticed the wetness on his trousers, so filthy and embarrassing, nevertheless warming you up once again.
How pathetic your husband was, truly miserable, with his lips smooching the curve of your breast gently, fingers working the dress out, almost ripping it off your body.
"My dear, aren't you tired? We have all night, you mustn't be so reckless–"
"I mustn't," he mumbled, fingers already scooping up your plump tits, rough pads fidling with hardened nipples. "But I must finally make an heir. That's what I've been thinking about for the past few months, my love" his crystal eyes glanced up, seeing a little tremble of your lips and quickened breath. Oh, how obsessed he was with his lovely Empress! "Do you not wish to bear my child? To have my seed, riiiight here," his lips travelled down, till he placed a gentle kiss on your belly's pouch. Finger digging deep, one hand hooking behind your thigh. "Say it, my love."
His voice was stern, but nevertheless begging, waiting for your answer. You liked to torment your husband indeed, but this time, under his heavy gaze and muscular arms, broad back bulging under his jacket and messy snowish hair, you could do nothing but nod you head.
He smirked, eyes curving like a moon, as he folded you easily like a paper doll.
synopsis : You’re a pop star, and the world is convinced you and Steve Rogers are the ultimate it couple. So when you headline a festival, everyone expects the final song to be about him, especially when you start walking through the crowd.
But you don’t stop in front of Steve, you stop in front of Bucky Barnes.
pairing : james/bucky barnes x reader , winter soldier x reader
content : popstar!reader, boyfriend!bucky, SLIGHT secret dating ??
warning/s : none fs, pure flufffff
word count : maybe around 5.8k oh no
The hotel suite sat on the top floor of a glass-walled tower overlooking the Coachella Valley, where the desert was already bleeding into gold and violet dusk. The floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living space, turning the entire room into a glowing box of sunset and distant festival haze.
Inside, everything looked expensive in a way that was almost too clean to feel real: cream linen couches, a marble coffee table cluttered with water bottles, VIP passes, and half-open packaging from last-minute wardrobe fixes. The faint thrum of bass from the festival outside pulsed through the glass like a heartbeat the entire city shared.
Before any of them even spoke, your presence was already everywhere in the room... not physically, but in the way every screen seemed to orbit around you. On Sam’s phone. On Natasha’s tablet. On the muted hotel TV looping entertainment news. Your face kept appearing in fragments: rehearsal clips, paparazzi shots, fan edits already dissecting your outfits for the night. It was always like this around you, even when you weren’t there.
You weren’t just performing at Coachella that night.
You were the headline.
You weren't just famous in the way most celebrities were famous. You were globally unavoidable. The kind of pop star whose songs didn’t just chart, they lived in public memory like landmarks. Every comeback broke streaming records. Every tour sold out in minutes that felt almost suspiciously fast. You were called the “princess of pop” by magazines that ran out of new ways to describe your consistency: flawless vocals, cinematic concepts, stage presence that made arenas feel intimate and personal even from the nosebleeds.
And then there was the other layer, the internet.
The one where your image became mythology. You were a sweetheart in interviews, soft-spoken when you wanted to be, laughing easily in a way that made people think they knew you. Fanboys adored you openly. Fan edits multiplied daily. Entire corners of TikTok treated your expressions like lore, slowing down your smiles like they were clues.
And somewhere in all of that, the Steve Rogers narrative had taken root and refused to die.
Bucky stood near the couch, one boot resting on the edge of the coffee table like he had forgotten furniture was not decorative. He wore a fitted black henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, dark tactical pants that somehow looked more casual than military now, and his hair was pulled back into the low bun you had texted him about earlier that day. It was neat. Intentional. And unfairly attractive in a way that made Sam visibly suffer the moment he saw it.
“You look like you fix motorcycles and ruin women emotionally,” Sam had said immediately.
Natasha was lounging on the arm of the couch in a black satin slip dress with a loose robe half-tied around her waist, red hair still damp like she’d rushed through getting ready just to avoid being early to anything. She held a champagne flute like she was already bored of the evening and waiting for something interesting to happen. Steve stood near the glass wall in a plain gray shirt and baseball cap he was doing absolutely nothing to hide behind, sunglasses hooked lazily in his hand. Sam was slouched in a chair, phone in hand, scrolling with the intensity of someone trying to argue with the internet.
Bucky’s phone lit up, your contact photo filling up the screen immediately.
His expression changed before he could stop it, softening instantly.
Sam noticed. “Oh no. That’s the face again.”
Natasha leaned slightly to look over his shoulder.
It was a mirror selfie. Backstage. You, already in your first outfit of the night. You wore a baby pink rhinestone corset, tiny white fur trim, glitter catching in the corners of your eyes like stardust. Your hair was pinned up messily, strands falling loose around your face. You looked like trouble disguised as perfection.
The message read:
first outfit <3 u ready? :)
put the bun back exactly how i showed you or i’m ignoring you tonight
Bucky exhaled through his nose, then typed: that a threat?
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
it’s a guarantee.
Then another message:
i can tell when you’re overthinking. stop it. just do the bun right.
Sam leaned forward. “She talks to you like you’re her emotional support soldier.”
Natasha didn’t look up. “That’s because he is.”
Steve finally turned from the window. “She’s very particular.”
Bucky muttered, “She’s bossy.”
Natasha’s mouth twitched. “You like it.”
Bucky didn’t answer.
Instead, he adjusted a loose strand near the bun automatically, like his body had already decided it was going to obey you whether he admitted it or not.
Then Bucky’s phone buzzed again.
send proof of bun.
He angled the camera and took a quick photo—bun tight, hair cleanly pulled back, black henley framing his shoulders under the warm hotel light.
Sent.
Three seconds later:
okay wow. don’t let anyone else look at you tonight :P
Sam groaned. “I hate this relationship.”
Natasha smiled into her glass. “No you don’t.”
Steve adjusted his cap again, glancing at the time. “We should head out soon. Traffic will be bad.”
Bucky barely had time to lock his phone before it started lighting up again, except this time it wasn’t you.
It was TikTok.
He didn’t even open it before Sam pointed. “Oh no. Don’t do that. That’s how you lose peace.”
Bucky ignored him and tapped anyway.
Immediately—
A video loaded.
A fan edit of you and Steve at last year’s gala, slow-motion, cinematic filter, soft piano music layered over it.
Text on screen says, "she looks at him like he’s home.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
Swipe.
“You cannot convince me Y/N isn’t dating Steve Rogers. look at this.”
The clip starts with you laughing at something Steve says during an interview, head tilted slightly toward him, crowd noise fading into romantic audio.
they’re literally endgame!
this is america’s royal couple idc
Swipe.
A compilation titled: “moments Y/N forgets she’s not in love with steve rogers”
It showed clips of you and Steve walking a red carpet side by side. Steve adjusting your microphone at an event. You touching his arm briefly during a charity appearance camera zooming in on shared smiles that were probably nothing and everything at once depending on who was watching
Bucky’s thumb paused for half a second longer than it should have.
Natasha noticed immediately. “Don’t do that thing.”
“What thing.”
“The thing where you let TikTok convince you reality is optional.”
He didn’t respond, just kept scrolling.
Another video loaded.
“Okay but be serious for a second,” a girl said into the camera, “Y/N and Steve are literally built like a romance novel. like she’s the princess of pop and he’s captain america, that’s insane storytelling.”
Cut to another clip: your interview answer about “admiring people who do the right thing no matter what.”
Bucky read the big bold text overlay flashing right in front of him: "SHE MEANT HIM."
Sam laughed from the chair. “They’re doing narrative analysis on her like it’s a thesis.”
Swipe. Another.
This one had a million likes already.
Steve smiling at you during a press event, and you smiling back. The caption: “if they’re not together what is this energy? mom and dad fr"
Bucky’s grip on the phone tightened slightly.
Swipe.
Another video immediately autoplayed.
A compilation of fan comments scrolling too fast to read fully, but the gist was clear: Steve and Y/N are perfect, Steve is so respectful, they’re both America’s image, this is what healthy looks like.
Bucky finally locked the phone for a second.
The screen went dark.
Silence in the room held for maybe two seconds.
Then it lit up again.
Your name.
Another message from you, like you could feel the shift through the silence.
i’m going on soon. don’t get weird about anything online. can't wait to see u after the show :)
Bucky stared at it.
Sam leaned forward slightly. “That’s… actually kind of unfairly calming.”
Natasha smiled faintly. “She knows him.”
Steve exhaled, almost relieved. “She really does.”
Bucky put his phone down this time, properly, like it had weight now.
“Let’s go,” he said again, quieter.
The roar of the crowd hit them before they even reached the VIP section. It wasn’t just noise, it was pressure, like the entire desert had turned into a single living thing that reacted to your name. Thousands upon thousands of people packed into the festival grounds beneath flashing lights and towering LED screens, the air itself vibrating with bass so heavy it felt like it was coming from inside the ribs. Giant spotlights swept across the audience in slow, cinematic arcs, catching waves of raised phones and glittering signs, while drones hovered above like silent eyes recording every second.
Your name illuminated the entire stage in pink and gold lettering: Y/N. It wasn’t just a title above a performer anymore, it looked like a monument. The stage design stretched wider than anything Bucky had seen in person before, all layered platforms and moving risers, with a long catwalk slicing straight into the crowd like a runway built to swallow distance. LED panels wrapped around everything in shifting visuals with soft pink hearts one moment, sharp metallic glitch effects the next, already cycling through aesthetics that matched your eras like chapters in a story.
The audience even screamed every time a crew member so much as stepped into view because they thought it might be you. Even shadows got mistaken for you. Even your absence felt like anticipation.
Bucky stayed close behind Natasha as security pushed them through a side corridor into the VIP barricaded area near the front. The closer they got, the more overwhelming it became—heat from bodies, the smell of desert dust mixed with perfume and sweat and smoke machines already testing their cues. The bass wasn’t just heard anymore; it physically pressed against his chest in rhythmic pulses that matched nothing but the scale of what he was about to watch.
People noticed them almost instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“Is that—?”
“The avengers! They're here!”
Phones lifted like a wave cresting all at once, screens glowing as they tilted upward. The reaction spread through the crowd in ripples, turning heads, pointing fingers, half-shouted guesses bouncing between strangers who suddenly had something else to look at while waiting for you to appear. Steve pulled his cap lower instinctively, shoulders tightening as cameras caught sight of him from every angle. Sam, on the other hand, grinned and gave a casual wave like he was at a neighborhood barbecue instead of standing in front of tens of thousands of screaming people, which only made the reaction louder.
Bucky kept his head down, moving with Natasha’s lead until they reached the side-stage viewing area. From here, everything opened up.
The catwalk stretched out like a glowing spine into the crowd, cutting through the sea of people and ending in a circular platform surrounded on all sides. Above it, suspended lighting rigs hovered like mechanical constellations, shifting colors in slow gradients that bathed the audience in pinks, reds, and deep electric blues. The main stage loomed behind it like a skyscraper of screens, layered with moving visuals. Your past music videos are playing in edited loops, clips of choreography, close-ups of your face slowed down into something almost unreal.
Bucky could feel the crowd more than he could see them from here. It wasn’t just cheering anymore, it was anticipation stretched to the breaking point. A thousand conversations all happening at once, all orbiting the same name, the same expectation.
And then he started hearing it.
“Steve Rogers is here too, right?”
“I swear I saw him backstage earlier—like at that charity thing with her—”
“He's definitely here for her, I wonder if she knows"
Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly at that, subtle but immediate, his attention shifting without him meaning to. Another cluster of fans nearby, phones angled toward the stage, voices rising over the bass.
“Now that he’s here it’s literally confirmed though.”
“Right? Like why would Captain America be at her show unless—”
“Unless it’s real. It HAS to be real.”
Bucky’s hand flexed once at his side, metal fingers twitching faintly before he forced them still. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on the empty stage as if looking anywhere else would make it worse. Natasha, walking just ahead of him, didn’t turn around, but her voice dropped slightly anyway, just enough for him to hear.
“Don’t spiral,” she said simply.
“I’m not spiraling,” Bucky muttered automatically.
“Sure,” she replied, dry.
Behind them, another fan voice carried, louder this time, almost excitedly convinced of itself.
“I’m telling you, this is like the official confirmation episode. Steve’s here, she’s performing, it’s literally going to happen on stage.”
That one hit a little differently, like it landed heavier than the rest.
Bucky looked down for half a second, then back up again, steadying himself without acknowledging it.
Steve, who had been quietly taking in the scale of everything with a more reserved expression, shifted slightly closer. He had heard enough by then, enough repetition of his name next to yours, enough certainty in strangers’ voices that didn’t match reality.
He glanced at Bucky briefly, then stepped in closer beside him as they stopped at the viewing rail.
“Hey,” Steve said quietly.
Bucky didn’t look at him. “It’s fine.”
Bucky looked at him then, sharp but controlled. Steve met it without flinching, tone steady, grounded in something calmer than the crowd.
“She’s performing,” Steve said. “That’s all this is right now. The internet is going to build stories no matter what happens in front of them.”
Steve glanced back toward the stage, then toward Bucky again. “Plus, you're the one she’s texting during all of this,” he said quietly.
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze returning to the empty stage where every light was now building toward your entrance.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment, quieter than before. “I know.”
And then the entire stadium lights shifted again, as if the desert itself had decided the waiting was over.
The stadium went black like someone had pulled the plug on the entire desert at once. No light, no movement, just a suspended silence that lasted half a heartbeat too long— long enough for eighty thousand people to hold their breath without realizing they were doing it. Then the screen above the stage flickered once, twice, and burst open in a wash of neon pink, yellow, and white strobe. Your name didn’t appear this time. It announced itself.
A single note hit first. It was low, distorted, almost like it was being dragged through glass. Then another layer stacked on top of it, brighter, faster, until the sound built into something unmistakable. The opening of your set. Your signature intro. The one every fan recognized instantly even before the visuals fully resolved. The desert lit up in pulses, synchronized like a heartbeat trying to catch up with itself.
And then you appeared.
Not immediately center stage, but elevated, on a platform that rose slowly through the floor like it had been waiting beneath the world the entire time. White light hit you from below first, turning you into a silhouette before the color fully caught up. Then everything snapped into focus: you in a structured, crystal-studded bodysuit that shimmered between soft pink and chrome under the lights, a matching sheer cape that moved like liquid behind you, hair styled in soft waves that framed your face like it had been painted there on purpose.
The crowd screamed.
The sound wasn’t just loud, it was physical. It rolled through the VIP section like a shockwave, vibrating through the barricades, through the stage, through Bucky’s chest before he even fully processed that you were there.
Natasha tilted her head slightly. “There she is!"
Sam let out a low whistle. “Yeah, okay. That’s insane.”
Steve didn’t say anything at first, just watched as the stage transformed around you—lights shifting into synchronized geometry, dancers appearing in layers behind you like they had been hidden in the architecture itself. Moving platforms rose and fell in time with the beat, and the entire stage felt less like a set and more like a living system built entirely around you.
Bucky wasn’t speaking either.
He just watched.
Because you didn’t stand still for even a second. You moved like the stage was reacting to you instead of the other way around, every step triggering a shift in light, every turn pulling the audience deeper into the performance. The camera screens flashed between close-ups and wide shots, cutting between your face and the sea of people losing their minds in real time.
Your voice came in clean, controlled, effortless over the production. It was bright and teasing, already fully in command of the crowd. You weren’t easing into it. You were owning it from the first second.
A few songs later, the set started building.
The visuals shifted. Pink turned into deeper reds. Glitter into sharp light beams. The choreography tightened. The energy changed... not slower, just sharper, like something was about to pivot.
The music kept rising, playful but charged now, that familiar teasing tension threading through the arrangement as dancers moved in formation behind you, creating shapes that looked almost like they were spelling something the crowd couldn’t read yet.
You paced toward the end of the catwalk, still singing, still smiling, completely unbothered by the scale of what you were doing to the audience.
Bucky’s grip tightened faintly at his side without him realizing it.
This was where the performance stopped being just performance and started becoming something else entirely.
The lighting softened.
The crowd screamed louder because they could tell what was coming even before it arrived.
“Coachella,” you said into the mic, and the desert answered instantly. The crowd erupted so loudly it felt like the ground itself shook in response, a wave of sound rolling through the VIP barricade and into the night sky.
You laughed softly, letting it breathe for half a second before lifting your gaze across the sea of lights.
“Before my final song I just wanted to ask something.”
The cheers grew louder immediately, scattered screams turning into a single rising roar.
You tilted your head, pacing slowly at the end of the catwalk like you were thinking out loud.
“Has anyone of you become obsessed with something?”
A beat.
“…or someone?”
The crowd exploded.
Even the Avengers section reacted. Sam let out an impressed “ohhh,” Natasha smirking into her drink, Steve raising his eyebrows slightly like he already knew where this was going. Bucky, though, just stared at you like the rest of the world had disappeared behind your voice. There was something soft in his expression now, something almost disbelievingly fond, like he still wasn’t used to the fact that this was his life.
“…cause I have.”
The scream that followed was deafening.
You smiled into it, unbothered, glowing under the lights.
“I wanna dedicate this song to someone…”
You paused, letting the anticipation build, eyes drifting across the stadium before landing right on the camera.
“You know who you are.”
The jumbotron cut to your face instantly. Close-up. Soft lighting. Glitter in your lashes. You smiled directly into it like you were speaking to one person in a stadium of thousands.
Bucky saw it on the screen and smiled without meaning to, small and quiet, like it slipped out of him before he could stop it.
Sam immediately leaned in. “Oh my god, she’s about to emotionally ruin you in 4K.”
Bucky didn’t look away from the screen. “Shut up.”
The beat dropped.
“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing / Oh yeah, you just get it”
The crowd screamed again, louder than before, immediately locking onto the energy shift. Cameras flashed everywhere. Somewhere in the audience someone yelled, “SHE’S SINGING THIS FOR STEVE!” and it spread fast.
Steve actually heard it this time.
He gave a small sideways glance toward Bucky, something calm and almost reassuring in it, like he wanted to cut through the noise before it built into something heavier.
Bucky met his eyes briefly.
A silent exchange.
Then Steve gave a faint nod, like ignore them, like it’s not what they think.
Bucky nodded back once, understanding without needing more.
“You make me wanna make you fall in love”
The crowd roared, lights shifting pink and gold across the stage as dancers moved in tight formation behind you. You didn’t miss a beat, voice steady, playful, teasing the entire stadium like it belonged to you.
Bucky’s gaze followed you instinctively, softer now, fully locked in. There was something almost unreal about watching you like this, and the fact that with thousands of people screaming your name, every light in the desert pointing toward you... your expression still felt personal in the way it always did when you texted him stupid things at 2 AM.
He didn’t even realize he was smiling again.
Sam noticed anyway. “Yeah, okay, he’s in love.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky said again, but there was no bite in it.
Steve’s attention flicked back toward the crowd as another wave of chatter rose near the barricade.
“Steve and Y/N are literally happening tonight, I swear—”
“That’s why he’s here, look at him—”
Steve exhaled quietly, then leaned just slightly closer to Bucky so only he could hear him.
“For the record,” Steve said, calm, steady, “I’m not confused about any of this.”
Bucky glanced at him.
Steve added, “And neither should you be.”
Bucky held his gaze for a second, then nodded once, slower this time.
The music pulsed forward.
“I know you want my touch for life”
The crowd erupted again, phones rising like a wave. Bucky watched you move across the catwalk, lights catching on your outfit, your smile sharp and bright as you played with the audience like it was second nature.
And despite everything, the noise, the theories, the constant wrong assumptions, there was something grounding in how clearly you were performing for this moment, not for the narrative being built around it.
Sam bumped Bucky’s shoulder lightly. “Hey. Eyes up. She’s literally doing her thing.”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. “Yeah. I see her.”
“...let you lock me down tonight”
The beat softened into something more teasing, more dangerous, the kind of rhythm that made the crowd lose their minds without fully understanding why.
Bucky felt it anyway. That pull. That focus. Like the entire show was narrowing in real time.
He didn’t notice the comments anymore. Not really. He keeps on watching you.
That was it.
“Can’t help myself, hormones are high / Give me more than just some butterflies”
Your eyes lowkey swept the VIP section.
Scanning.
A little slower this time.
Bucky straightened slightly without thinking, like he felt it before he understood it.
The crowd took it differently.
A ripple went through them instantly.
“Is she looking for Steve?!”
“She’s literally scanning for him—”
Sam groaned. “Oh my god, they’re narrating again.”
“Wanna try out some freaky positions?”
The crowd screamed so loudly it almost swallowed the next beat.
You suddenly ran forward toward the camera, playful, grinning like you were about to break the entire internet on purpose.
“Have you ever tried this one?”
You blew a kiss directly into the lens.
The screen cut instantly.
Steve.
Close-up on the jumbotron.
The crowd lost it completely. Even louder than before.
Sam wheezed. “OH NO—”
Steve blinked once, clearly caught off guard, then let out a short breath through his nose like he had accepted his fate.
Bucky heard it now—different pockets of the crowd reacting exactly how the internet had trained them to.
Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly before Sam immediately leaned in again.
“You okay man?”
Bucky didn’t respond.
Because you had already moved.
A quick glance, again, towards the VIP section.
Toward him.
Not long, but enough.
And then you turned back to the crowd and started walking.
“... you know I just might / let you lock me down tonight”
You moved toward the stairs now, still singing, still perfect, still fully in control of the entire stadium.
Bucky’s attention tracked you immediately.
You passed the barricade slowly as you sang, cameras following, security adjusting as you descended into the crowd-level walkway.
The audience went feral, reaching out, screaming your name as you moved closer and closer to the VIP section.
And then—
you walked past Steve.
Steve shifted slightly aside instinctively as you passed, more out of awareness than anything else.
And then you stopped...
Right in front of Bucky.
The sound didn’t drop, but it sharpened. The crowd saw it at the same time.
“No way—”
“WAIT—”
“OH MY GOD.”
You continued singing.
“Adore me… hold me and explore me…”
And you sang it directly to him. Eyes locked.
No crowd in your face anymore.
Just him.
Bucky froze for half a second, breath catching, expression softening immediately like he didn’t know how to function under that kind of attention.
Steve, just behind, stepped slightly closer behind Bucky, not pushing, just guiding the moment forward as the barricade tightened with security and movement.
“mark your territory, tell me I’m the only only only only one…”
The stadium erupted again, louder than anything before it.
Bucky didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Because you were looking at him like there was no one else in the world.
“...hold me and explore me”
Your voice softened slightly, still carrying, still perfect.
And then your hand lifted.
Pressed gently to his chest.
The crowd absolutely detonated.
Bucky inhaled sharply, eyes flickering for just a second like he felt everything at once.
“tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one…”
Your hand slid down his chest slowly as you finished the line, deliberate and controlled, the entire stadium screaming like it was witnessing something irreversible.
Sam made a sound like he had given up on life entirely. “OH MY GOD.”
Steve let out a quiet, almost amused breath behind them, like he couldn’t believe the internet was about to implode this hard.
And you—
You just smiled at Bucky like it was easy.
Then you stepped back and let go.
Turned.
And ran back toward the stage.
Still singing.
Still owning every second of the chaos you had just created.
You were already moving back toward the stage as the moment at the barricade dissolved into chaos behind you, security guiding the flow but never touching you. The bass never let up, carrying you forward like you were still fully inside the choreography even off-center. Fans reached out as you passed, screaming your name into the desert night, phones shaking as they tried to keep up with you.
“I know you want my touch for life”
Your voice stayed steady as you stepped up toward the stage, the camera catching you mid-motion, glitter flashing under the lights as you glanced once toward VIP before turning back.
Bucky hadn’t moved. Just watched you like everything else had gone quiet around him.
Sam leaned slightly. “She’s really just acting like that didn’t happen.”
Natasha hummed. “It did. Just not for her.”
Steve stayed quiet now, eyes on you, expression softer than before.
You reached the stage again, lights snapping back into full intensity as dancers fell into place behind you.
“If you love me right, then who knows?”
The crowd roared instantly, the energy snapping back into full performance mode.
"I might let you make me Juno"
You moved across the stage with ease, smiling like you never left.
Bucky’s gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking now.
Sam muttered, “Yeah, she’s enjoying this way too much.”
Bucky didn’t answer.
Because you were still looking his way sometimes.
"Let you lock me down tonight"
The lights shifted warmer, fireworks beginning to glow faintly in the distance as the crowd built toward the end.
Bucky exhaled slowly, shoulders easing without him noticing.
“One of me is cute, but two though?”
The crowd screamed the lyric back at you, phones rising higher.
“Give it to me, baby”
You pointed out over them, playful, effortless, in control of every second.
And then—
“You make me wanna make you fall in love!"
The Avengers Tower common floor was doing its usual post-viral-event routine: pretending everything was normal while the TV on the wall refused to stop replaying Coachella like it had become permanent programming. Your performance looped again in glossy slow motion. The pink-gold lights, the barricade moment, that frozen frame of Bucky with your hand on his chest played while a scrolling headline insisted beneath it:
FANS STILL DEBATE BUCKY BARNES VS STEVE ROGERS AFTER COACHELLA MOMENT.
On the coffee table, someone’s phone was just running TikToks on its own at this point.
Yelena sat curled up on the couch with a bowl of cereal, watching like it was live sports. “She is very dramatic walker,” she said flatly as another slowed edit of you crossing the stage played again.
Alexei nodded seriously from the armchair, scrolling. “No, no. This is artistic movement. Very precise. Like ballet, but with internet consequences.”
Yelena glanced at him. “You are enjoying this too much.”
“I enjoy truth,” Alexei said, immediately liking a zoomed-in edit of your hand on Bucky’s chest set to cinematic music.
Natasha stood in the kitchen making tea like none of this qualified as emergency behavior. Steam curled up as she finally said, “You two are going to give yourselves headaches.”
Then—
the elevator dinged.
Bucky stepped out and stopped immediately upon seeing the TV.
His face. Your hand. Crowd screaming.
Frozen in the worst possible angle for someone trying to have a normal morning.
Yelena lifted her cereal bowl slightly. “Oh good. The internet’s boyfriend is here.”
Alexei waved. “Hello, prince charming.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He just walked toward the glass wall instead, like distance could somehow reset reality.
Outside, the city below the tower entrance was already packed. Fans. Cameras. Press vans. All clustered tightly like the building had become a landmark overnight. Phones pointed upward. Waiting.
Natasha watched him over her mug. “So, what did her publicist say about this?”
“I don't know, haven't checked,” Bucky said immediately.
Yelena tilted her head. “You are staring very hard at outside people.”
“I’m observing.”
Alexei leaned forward. “They are observing you back. Very intense social ecosystem.”
Before Bucky could respond, the TV switched to live footage.
LIVE: Y/N L/N ARRIVING AT AVENGERS TOWER
Yelena sat up instantly. “Oh. She is early.”
On screen, your SUV door opened. The crowd outside surged like it had been waiting for that exact moment all morning.
Bucky turned fully now. Watching despite himself.
You stepped out calmly. Sunglasses on. Hair loose. Outfit too put-together for 7 AM and paparazzi chaos. Security formed instantly, but microphones still pushed forward.
“Y/N! IS THIS ABOUT BUCKY BARNES?”
"ARE YOU HERE FOR STEVE ROGERS?”
"WHY BUCKY?”
You paused, then said, very calmly, “I forgot my coffee upstairs.”
Silence.
Then chaos exploded.
Yelena pointed at the screen. “That is worst answer. I respect it.”
Before anyone could recover, you added casually, “Also, I’m here for Bucky.”
That did it. The crowd detonated again in real time.
And then another clip cut in on someone’s phone at the coffee table, this one already going viral: a girl in front of a messy bedroom setup, speaking like she was delivering sworn testimony.
“I knew y’all got the wrong guy when I saw her wearing Bucky’s hoodie months ago at that Starbucks,” she said, pointing at the camera like it was evidence in court. “Y’all are just in DENIAL.”
The video zoomed in aggressively on a screenshot of you in an oversized hoodie, coffee in hand, walking beside Bucky months earlier.
Text overlay says:
RECEIPTS WERE RIGHT IN FRONT OF US THE WHOLE TIME
Yelena leaned forward slightly. “Oh this one is confident.”
Alexei nodded approvingly. “Strong argument. Poor grammar, but strong conviction.”
Bucky didn’t say anything.
Because he was already moving.
Natasha called after him, “Hey, you don’t need to—”
But he was already gone.
The lobby felt louder than it should have been, even for Avengers Tower. Security radios crackled. Cameras clicked outside the glass doors. The crowd pressed forward like the building itself had become a stage.
Bucky came down too fast, then slowed immediately when he saw you.
You were already inside.
Just past the entrance zone. Calm in the middle of moving chaos, surrounded by security and microphones and overlapping questions.
“Have you ever dated both of them?”
"Why Bucky Barnes specifically?”
"What happened at Coachella?”
You removed your sunglasses just as the doors closed.
And Bucky was there.
Ten feet away.
He stopped.
You stopped too.
Everything behind you stayed loud, but the space between you was oddly quiet. Like it didn’t belong to the internet.
You looked at him and smiled.
“Hi,” you said.
Bucky blinked once. “Hey.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the chaos behind you. Then back.
“You said coffee?" he added, quieter.
You nodded.
That got him. A small laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He stepped forward.
You met him halfway and took his hand like it was obvious you would.
Behind you, the lobby exploded again—cameras, shouting, headlines being born in real time—but it stayed outside the moment.
Bucky looked down at your hand in his, then back at you.
“You’re kinda early,” he said.
You shrugged slightly. “Traffic was emotional.”
His smile softened properly now.
“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”
A/N: im backkk?!?! this is like a warm-up one shot cuz i haven't written in a long time lol // anw how r yall??? // will probs write again for bob just bc i kinda miss him
summary: You and Yuuta raising your daughter throughout the years
words: 5.07k
author’s notes: Seriously, Gege should have made Yuuta a girl dad. Many of the scenes are highly inspired by the K-drama When Life Gives You Tangerines. I highly recommend listening to ZVC's verse during the song ‘her’ while reading this fic.
two weeks
“She’s so small,” Yuuta muttered to you. You were looking down at your newborn daughter, who was sleeping soundly in her cot. The maids tried to urge you to let them bathe her instead, saying you should be resting, but you couldn’t stand being away from Toru for even a few minutes.
You giggled, admiring her scrunched-up face. “She’s a bit wrinkly, isn’t she?”
Despite your daughter’s small stature, her appetite was no joke, although Yuuta was sure all babies were like that. It must be boring, having nothing else to do other than sleeping and eating.
Unbeknownst to Toru, her parents made sure she was protected from curses to the highest degree. It wasn’t particularly hard since Yuuta was in line to be the leader of the Gojo clan. When you came back home from giving birth, he arranged for a few guards to patrol the wing where you resided. Of course, since he was unofficially the strongest sorcerer, no one dared to attack his wife and child.
You also put in your efforts, using your cursed energy to enchant talismans to ward off cursed spirits. You stuck them everywhere, to the point that Panda thought the appearance of the bottom of your baby’s cot being plastered with every talisman known to mankind was very macabre, especially when compared to the pastel pink walls and decorations of the nursery.
Toru suddenly sneezed, causing you to laugh. “Even her sneezes are too cute.”
Your husband gazed at her softly, gently brushing her sparse hair before letting his finger rest in her palm. As if by instinct, Toru grasped it with her pudgy hand, five little fingers wrapped around his.
“Sometimes, I think I made a mistake in naming her after Gojo-sensei,” he quietly confessed. “I want Toru to live happily for the longest time.”
“And she will. After all, she has you as her father,” you smiled, holding your hand to his cheek. The scar across his forehead had healed over, a constant reminder of what it took to defeat Sukuna. “I promise.”
You then sealed it in the form of a gentle kiss that was somehow still as time-stopping as your first kiss all those years ago when you and Yuuta were still teenage sorcerers, just trying to survive.
five months
“Her dinner should be on the counter, and the instructions for her milk is right next to the steriliser,” your husband told the trio. “Her bedtime is in an hour and a half. Toru-chan instantly falls asleep after a lullaby, but don’t sing one of those cursed clan ones. She hates those.”
He turned to you, briefly admiring how beautiful you looked in the black dress he bought for you. No one would have guessed that you had given birth just five months ago. “I think that’s all.”
You laughed softly. “Babe, you forgot one other thing.”
Yuuta tilted his head, a bit confused. “Which one?”
“The baby.”
Sure enough, your husband was still cradling your daughter in his arms. Her curious dark blue eyes were fixed on Yuuta’s tie. Nine months in your womb, and somehow, Toru came out looking like a female version of Yuuta, from her inky black hair to her round blue eyes. Due to her lack of hair, she had hair, it just grew very slowly, people often mistook her for a boy, which led your husband to buy all sorts of ribbons, hats and hairbands. Right now, he had dressed her in a white onesie with a matching wool cap with bunny ears.
“Shake. Takana.”
“She’s a princess!” Yuuta refuted. You weren’t sure how he figured that out from just two words. He held Toru out for Toge to see. “Look at how cute she is. How could you ever think she’s a boy?”
“It’s an honest mistake, bean sprout.” Maki teased him, taking Toru out of his hands. She scanned the baby as if wondering what size polearm suited her. “How much can this little tyke do anyways? Can she sprint yet?”
“She’s only five months old!” Yuuta was getting more anxious about leaving Toru behind with them. Sure, he trusted them with his life, but when it came to childcare, he rightfully had his doubts. “The most she can do is sit up and roll over.”
“Like the dogs in obedience school?” Panda, who was perched on Maki’s shoulder, unhelpfully chimed in. “I watched a video about it the other day, so you can definitely trust us Yuuta.”
The cursed corpse’s dog comment made your husband lose all faith in them. “Maybe Fushiguro-kun isn’t busy.”
three years
“What’s with your husband?” Maki asked you when Yuuta was checking his phone over and over again during their meeting earlier.
“It’s Toru-chan’s first day at preschool today.”
“She’s old enough already? I could have sworn she was still learning how to walk.”
“Time just flies by when you’re raising kids,” you said, remembering how Yuuta cried when Toru called him Daddy for the first time. Now, she is going to preschool and making friends. You called out to your husband, “Toru’s otou-chan, the school would have called us if anything went wrong.”
“No, it’s just that- earlier, all the other little girls clung to their dads, but Toru-chan,” he suddenly squatted down, hugging his knees. His broad shoulders made him look like a white ball. “She just walked inside the classroom. She didn’t even look back. Like a boss.”
Toge offered his condolences, clapping Yuuta’s shoulder. “Takana.”
“She’s probably just excited to make new friends,” you comforted him. “I was the same way. I remember bringing one of my stuffed dolls as a friend on my first day.”
“Speaking of dolls,” Maki looked around. “Have any of you seen Panda anywhere?”
“Panda-kun? He was at our house this morning,” you answered.
Yuuta nodded along before saying, “he was playing with Toru-chan before…”
The four of you froze, realising where the cursed corpse could be right now.
“You don’t think…”
You and your husband rushed to your car. Yuuta basically stepped on the gas pedal to reach Toru’s preschool faster, where you stumbled into Panda’s election as the mascot of the Sunshine class.
six years
Luckily, little Toru’s hair started growing out, and at six years old, she had long, silky black locks that were currently tied up into pigtails by you. She was buzzing with energy as she impatiently waited for Yuuta to finish tying her laces. Her elementary school was having a sports day today, and Toru was specially chosen to represent her class in the 100 metre race.
“Daddy, hurry up!”
“I’m almost done.” Yuuta made sure her laces were double-knotted. He didn’t want a repeat of Toru falling flat on her face again, just because she was too shy to ask a teacher to tie her laces back. “Toru-chan, are you ready?”
Your daughter grinned as bright as the sun. “I think I can get first place!”
“First?” He had no doubt she was capable of beating the rest, but she was also too impatient. “You don’t have to get first. Whatever you get, you can always run back to me.”
Yuuta checked her over, brushing the dust off her gym uniform. Her bangs were tucked under her pink sweatband.
“Okay, let’s practice first. When the teacher says go, that’s when you run.” Yuuta pointed out the red track fields to Toru, where her teacher waved to them. “On my mark. Three, two, one-”
“GO!” Toru excitedly screeched, about to run off when her father stopped her.
“No! Not like that!” He knew she would do that. “You run when you hear go. Let’s try it again. Three, two, one-”
“GO!”
Yuuta’s advice practically bounced off Toru’s ears as she eagerly sprinted to her friends, eager to join in. He, exasperated, watched as his little princess started chatting with them.
“Oh, what am I going to do with that little thing?”
sixteen years
“Dad, you’re impossible!”
“Toru-chan!”
You barely even got to look at her before Toru, now a second-year at Tokyo Jujutsu High School, sprinted to her room and slammed the shoji door shut. Your husband looked like he wanted to run after her, but he decided not to, taking a seat across from you where you were sorting through some documents.
“What happened?” you asked him while pouring green tea into a mug before offering it to him.
Yuuta gratefully took the mug, thanking you. “I may… have interfered with her mission again.”
“Yuuta-”
“I know.” He groaned. “It’s just-”
“I understand.” It was hard seeing your daughter as a sorceress, even though it was certainly safer than it used to be when you and your husband were her age. “Even so, no one’s going to take her seriously if you keep coming to her rescue. She’s not a Semi-Grade 1 for nothing.”
Yuuta kept quiet. It was easier back when Toru was starting out last year, since first years weren’t permitted to do solo missions, a rule you established just after your daughter was born.
“I’ll talk to her,” you said, standing up from the table, “but you have to promise you’re not going to mess with her assignments again.”
Yuuta looked up, smiling at you. “I promise. I don’t like it when our princess is mad at me.”
“She also doesn’t like being mad at you,” you told him before leaving the room. You made your way to Toru’s room and knocked on the door.
“Toru, it’s Mom.”
“Go away!” yelled Toru, her voice muffled.
“Baby, I just want to talk.”
The room was silent for a moment before you heard the sound of shuffling feet. Your daughter slid the shoji door open, letting you inside before sliding it shut. The pastel pink walls were gone in favour of the light cream paint Toru had chosen last year. Posters of popular idol groups plastered the walls, though her stuffed animals were still lined up on her bed.
Toru flopped down on her bed, inviting you to sit down next to her. “Mom, can’t you tell Dad to back off? People think I’m a joke.”
“Honey, they don’t think that-”
“Yes, they do!” She interrupted you. “I’m the only one with a babysitter, while Uncle Megumi’s son gets to do solo missions and he’s fourteen!”
You were sure that Hinata wasn’t allowed to do that, but then again, Megumi was primarily raised by Gojo so it would make sense that the latter’s unorthodox teaching methods were subconsciously passed on to him.
“Dad just doesn’t believe in me,” said Toru while hugging a pink rabbit doll to her chest.
“Don’t say that,” you patted her head, making her look up to you. “It’s just that, you’re his little girl.”
Toru whispered, “I’m not so little anymore.”
“His mind knows that,” you held a hand over the left side of your side, “but his heart doesn’t know it. Even the idea of you being in danger hurts him so much that it causes him to act irrationally, so please understand that this isn’t easy for him.”
Toru’s dark blue eyes, which reminded you so much of your husband’s, softened. “Fine, but only if he stops hovering so much!”
You made your husband compromise by having him wait outside the high school with you, where Toru had her assignment. Your vivacious daughter made Yuuta promise that he would only come in if she sent a distress signal.
Twenty minutes passed by, and Toru came out with curse blood trickling down her face, and all of the hostages were rescued.
She had a wide smile while holding up a peace sign. “I exorcised the cursed spirit!”
You celebrated her success by having a barbeque party with all of your old schoolmates. However, the biggest surprise came a few weeks later when you and your family came home to a teenage boy waiting in front of your house with a bouquet of flowers.
You recognised him as one of the hostages that Toru had rescued. He was a tall and handsome young man who blushed at the sight of her. You laughed lightly, realising why he was here, while Yuuta just squinted at him.
“H-Hajimemashite, my name is S-Sakura Takeda,” he stammered before pushing the bouquet towards Toru. “Thank you for rescuing my friends and I!”
Although she was shocked by his gesture, your daughter gratefully accepted the flowers, her cheeks as flushed as his, much to your husband’s dismay.
Takeda nervously bowed deeply again to you and Yuuta, especially when your husband stared him down with unblinking eyes, as if the boy was Getou Suguru reincarnated.
“O-once again, thank you for saving us!”
He was about to leave when suddenly-
“Sakura-san!” Toru called out. “My favourite flowers are cosmoses, so just get me those next time!”
Yuuta’s jaw dropped while you pushed him into the house, not wanting him to intrude on their moment.
“Anata, I need to be there!” Your husband tried to leave, but you blocked his path. “Why would that boy-”
“Obviously, he likes her!” Your answer only added to his misery. “Our daughter is more popular than you think. He’s hardly the first boy who likes her.”
“Wait, there’s more?”
“Yeah. Why do you think Hinata-kun’s always training?” Only Yuuta wouldn’t notice Megumi’s son’s feelings for his own daughter.
“I thought he was like Megumi!”
“The boy wants to be strong enough to protect Toru-chan.” Granted, you only knew about it because Megumi’s wife told you during tea time.
“W-wait a second!” Yuuta was panicking harder than when he had to go up against Sukuna. “I’m not ready for this! Toru-chan’s still a baby!”
“You got engaged when you were ten!”
“That was a completely different situation!”
twenty-two years
Toru hurriedly unlocked the door to her boyfriend’s apartment while balancing a birthday cake in one hand and keys in the other.
“Takeda, sorry I’m late! I got dispatched on an urgent assignment-” She fell silent when she saw his mother instead. She immediately bowed down to her, but the older woman ignored her, instead choosing to walk up to her son.
“It’s bad enough that you invited her, but did you really have to give her a key?” She confronted him.
Takeda, uncomfortable, replied, “Mother, I invited Toru since it’s my birthday. Can’t I celebrate with my girlfriend?”
His mother glared pointedly at Toru, not bothering to hide her displeasure. Although the couple have been dating for a few years now, his mother never approved of her, always hoping that Takeda would end up being with a normal girl.
“Don’t just stand there!” She snapped, shoving a rice paddle into the sorceress’s hands. “I know that you’re some sort of heiress, but in our family, women do the housework here.”
Toru went to work with the rice bowls, even when she felt small under her gaze.
A few minutes later, they were having dinner. Takeda sat with his mother on one side while Toru sat alone on the other side. The atmosphere was very awkward with no one saying much.
“Um, Mrs Sakura, Takeda-kun always raves about how good of a cook you are!” Toru spoke up. “Like the mackerel. It’s so delicious that I can eat three portions in one sitting!”
“Our family values portion control. We’re not wealthy like your family, and can just eat whatever we want all the time,” Mrs Sakura coldly replied. She put her chopsticks down on the table. “Okkotsu-san, do your parents know you frequent a bachelor’s apartment?”
“Mother, why do you have to phrase it like that?” Takeda tried to defend her. “I told you I’m not dating Toru just for the fun of it. We’re hoping to get married-”
“Stop it before I get angry.” She sharply interrupted. “You’re my pride and joy, and right now, my pride is damaged.”
Okkotsu Toru, who had exorcised countless spirits, saved multiple lives, had never felt so worthless in her life.
“Is your family really that religious? Is that why they are always so self-righteous?” Toru angrily ranted after they were done with dinner. Takeda was following her, holding an umbrella over her head as it rained. With tears in her eyes, she turned around to face him. “I come from a family of sorcerers. I can’t change that, but why does she always make me feel like I’m stupid for not being ashamed of it?”
“So what if I’m not good at housework? Are you any good at cooking and cleaning?”
Takeda admitted, “I’m bad at those things.”
Toru furiously tried to wipe her tears away.
“I hate feeling like this. I feel like a foolish jester just dancing around for a queen who’s never going to like her. Do you even have any idea what that feels like?” Her words became barbed-wired, even though they were for her first love. The first boy who ever gave her flowers. “You can either be a good son or a good husband. You have to choose. If you can’t even do that, don’t even think of asking me to marry you.”
“Toru, I can’t just- who would be able to pick one over the other?” Toru was the first and only girl Takeda ever loved, but how can he go against his mother? “It’s an impossible choice-”
“My dad did it,” She cut him off. “He chose my mom over the clan.”
When she was eighteen, Toru found out the real reason why she was an only child. You nearly died giving birth to her, and Yuuta promised never to have a second child. He never wanted to put you through that pain ever again.
The elders of the Gojo clan weren’t happy to hear that. They tried to urge him to try for a son, a viable heir. When that didn’t work, they tried to convince Yuuta to take a few concubines, and that was when he put his foot down. Either they stop with their nonsense, or he would leave them, dissolving the Gojo clan.
They should have known that Okkotsu Yuuta would always choose you.
“I’m only telling you this once,” Toru took a deep breath over her sobs. “I will not marry your mother’s son.”
twenty-four years
Toru checked her phone again while her parents sat beside her. They had been waiting for over an hour for the Sakura family to discuss her and Takeda’s upcoming wedding.
“His father had a late shift,” she tried to excuse her future father-in-law, although she knew that he had gone back home hours ago, “and the traffic in Tokyo is really bad at this time.”
“Your mom and I are busy too.” Your husband even had an assignment in Okinawa last night, and just went back home this morning. Yet, you managed to show up on time. “They should have told us if they were going to be late.”
Toru bit her lip. She muttered to herself, sending a text to her fiance. “Where is he?”
Fortunately, Takeda entered the private room soon after, with his parents in tow. He apologised to his future in-laws for the wait. You pretended not to notice his parents not bowing back to you and Yuuta.
When the food was laid out on the table, your heart ached at the sight of your daughter serving food for everyone else first, leaving only scraps for herself. You knew that she learned this from you, back when Yuuta wasn’t the clan head yet, and you often had to put your own head down.
While Takeda’s father boasted about his son’s achievements, even though he knew that Toru earned more than his son, you quietly gave your bowl of seafood broth to your daughter, and quietly took her bowl of scraps for yourself.
“Look at how your daughter served you,” Mrs Sakura criticised, not realising that you had switched the bowls. “Maybe it’s because she’s been raised in a wealthy clan, but that’s not how our family does it. How is she going to manage our household when she can’t even ladle soup?”
You held your tongue at the blatant disrespect of your daughter. When you were young, you would have exploded right then and there, but you matured since then, and knew that her future was at stake.
Yuuta fidgeted with his sleeve. “Well, regarding the household, as a working woman, it would be hard for Toru-”
“That’s why I asked her to stop being a sorcerer after the marriage.” Mrs Sakura innocently revealed, as if she had done nothing wrong. She turned to your daughter. “Didn’t you tell them?”
“Mother, I told you-”
“Was I asking you?” Mrs Sakura sighed. “My son is a lawyer. He earns more than enough to support her. Unlike some people, he didn’t have any connections.”
“Our daughter is a sorcerer because of her own merit.”
You wanted to say that. You hated seeing her like this.
“Ah, you haven’t served us the miso soup yet.” Mr Sakura thrusted an empty bowl towards Toru. “Give me some.”
Mrs Sakura added two more bowls. “You might as well get started.”
You have never seen Toru scramble for anything, much less for the opportunity to ladle soup.
“Usually, only daughters are good at this sort of thing, but Toru’s different.” Mrs Sakura’s sweet tone didn’t fool you. Why was she acting like this? “It looks like I have my work cut out for me. She needs to learn to be a proper woman before I can introduce her to the extended family.”
What exactly did she mean by a proper woman? Toru loved her son faithfully without any doubts. Why wasn’t she happy that her son was loved in such a way? You barely noticed Yuuta sending a look towards Takeda before you stood up.
“Let me.” You said to Toru, taking the ladle away from her.
“Okaa-san-”
“Just sit down.” You told her, taking over.
Mrs Sakura took the chance. “Your mother does everything for you so you don’t know anything. Isn’t that right, Toru?”
Your daughter meekly nodded, not daring to look up. She didn’t want to know how you and Yuuta looked.
“I couldn’t teach her,” you interrupted, bringing the attention of the whole table towards you. “She was too precious, and too dear.”
You looked Mrs Sakura straight in the eye for the first time. “So, I chose not to teach her.”
You finished ladling the miso soup into the first bowl. It was chock full of tofu and seaweed, and instead of handing it towards Mr Sakura, you served it to your daughter.
In the car, after you were finally done with the horrendous lunch, you finally let everything go.
“She always acts like the boss at home, so why couldn’t she say anything around them?” You fumed.
“Why did you do that?” Your husband asked you. “You couldn’t stand it?”
“Our Toru has parents,” you dabbed your napkin at your eyes. “She has a family!”
“So you wanted that woman to know that?”
You turned to Yuuta. “You sure held yourself back. I thought you were going to unleash Rika and demand that they call off the engagement!”
“I wanted to, countless times. I was holding back so much,” he sighed. Just like you, he couldn’t stand seeing his daughter acting so small. “But Toru-chan loves him. If I force her, it would just hurt her. It’s not because she’s any less than him.”
You sobbed. You didn’t want to know what Toru’s future would be like in that family. “I can endure anything for her, but seeing her like that… it just destroys me.”
The second time you met Mrs Sakura was after the dress fitting. You were sitting across from her in the cafe while Toru was waiting for Takeda outside. It had been a few weeks since the lunch, and you were worried that your outburst had caused Toru some backlash.
“I know that Toru isn’t very gentle or soft-spoken,” you started saying. There were some times you were convinced that she was like Gojo, even though she had never known him. “But when she loves someone, she loves deeply-”
“Mrs Okkotsu, may I say something to you?” She rudely cut you off. “You see, I always prefer being frank and honest. I admit that your daughter and my son do love each other, but honestly, I’m just not fond of her.”
“What?”
“I really tried, but I just don’t like her.” Mrs Sakura confessed. “If she wasn’t a shaman, maybe I would have accepted, but you see, our family has been blessed for generations. How could I let her in our family when she brings bad fortune? What kind of mother would I be if I let my son make the wrong choice?”
She grasped your hands, not caring that you were shaking and that your eyes were brimming with tears. It was as if she enjoyed unnerving you like this.
“You know that our children aren’t a right match for each other, so Mrs Okkotsu, let’s work together to call off the wedding.” She smiled to herself before sipping her tea. “I’ve been waiting a long time to say that. Now, it feels like a boulder has been lifted off my shoulders.”
“Do you know where you’re putting that boulder?” You finally said. You had decided. You weren’t going to let your princess get married into that family. “On your son’s heart.”
When you got back home, your daughter confronted you for your silent behaviour.
“Takeda-kun was about to lose his mind in there.”
“So let him.” You said.
“What?”
“Are you really that fond of him? It’s not like he passed the bar exam.”
“Then, what about me?” Toru asked. “Do you think I’m a fool for loving him? Mom, you think I’m less than him, don’t you?”
You vehemently refuted her claim. “No! I’d never think that!”
“Then why do you never say anything to his mother?” She yelled.
“So that she won’t be cold to you!” You yelled back. “I held myself back so that she won’t take it out on you! Why on earth would you be less than him? That’s just a load of crap!”
After a second of silence, Toru asked you, “Why? Did she say anything to you?”
You winced. You couldn’t tell her that woman was determined to scorn her forever. “How can I act on my temper when you’re joining their family?”
Toru sighed loudly before saying outloud, “Just go ahead and lose your temper!”
Your heart hurts worse than ever. You did everything you could to protect her from curses, but you forgot that heartbreak was inevitable. “Toru, please, get your act together. I can’t decide for you. Just know that even a small wound on your heart turns into a deep scar for your father and me.”
A week later, Toru called to inform you that she called off the wedding. While you and Yuuta were elated at the fact that she didn’t have to suffer with in-laws like that, your hearts broke at the end of your daughter’s first love story.
twenty-five years
Toru yawned as the sun was rising. Her dad has asked her for her assistance in a mission. Of course, she knew he was using it as an excuse to spend time with her. Even at his age, a Grade 1 curse was nothing to him, but it was nice to work with him sometimes.
Her dad walked over to her, carrying a tray with two hot chocolate drinks. It was something they always did as a little girl. Drinking hot chocolate together. There wasn’t any particular reason why.
Toru watched as the sky became brighter and the city started waking up.
“How are you doing?” Yuuta asked her.
Toru knew what he was really asking her. “It’s been a year, Dad. I’m fine.”
He sighed. “I’m your father. Do you think I don’t know when my little girl is hurting?”
“I’m not so little anymore.”
“In my heart, you still are.” He answered. “One of the few things I’ve learned over the years is that you never really stop raising your children. I knew you would break off the engagement. Even if you don’t end up married, it’s fine. You can always come back to us.”
With the sun shining behind him, Toru started seeing him in a different light. Every time she walked the tightrope, he was always below her, always letting her know that he would catch her.
“Why would you say I wouldn’t get married?” She started whining. “I’ll get married someday. My future husband will be a super handsome guy.”
Yuuta chuckled. “Okay, my bad.”
He had no idea that a month later, Toru and Fushiguro Hinata would reconnect over childhood memories and start dating a few weeks later.
twenty-seven years
Toru anxiously tapped her high-heeled foot as she and Yuuta waited outside the hall. Her makeup was immaculate and her wedding dress was a brilliant white with a lace train trailing after her.
“Dad, you absolutely cannot cry, got it?” She frantically told him. “You know what? It would be better if I just don’t look at you through the whole ceremony. This makeup took almost three hours! I can’t ruin it-”
“Toru-chan?”
“Nani? W-what is it?” The normally confident Toru was nervous as hell. In a few minutes, she will be marrying Fushiguro Hinata.
“You can do this, right?” Yuuta sincerely asked her. “Because if you can’t, just run back to us. Don’t worry about the clans or anything like that. Just run!”
For a moment, Toru froze. Her dad told her that all the time, and he always meant it, even now.
She immediately burst into tears, bawling loudly. “Otou-chan, you’re so annoying!”
“If Hinata ever messes up, just leave him-”
“Stop it!” Toru sobbed. “Why would you make me cry now!”
You had the shock of your life when you saw your daughter crying while walking down the aisle. You smacked your husband’s shoulder when he sat down after giving her away to Hinata.
Yuuta really tried to keep his cool. He had promised Toru after all, but when they were pronounced husband and wife, your husband couldn't hold his tears back anymore.
His little princess had become someone’s queen now, and yet, Toru would forever remain his little girl in his heart.
Hi guys! First of all, I have to thank all of you because we’ve already reached 300 FOLLOWERS!!! Honestly, that makes me really happy, because I know that somehow my fics can make your day a little better. That’s why I wrote this fic with more than 5k words as a thank you for such a huge achievement, so, I hope you like it <3
The house was big and bright, with large windows that let the sunlight in from early in the morning and made every room seem more alive. The hallways were decorated with elegant paintings and furniture that did not look like they were there only to be pretty, but to be part of everyday life. In the living room there were always cushions out of place and some jacket forgotten over the back of the couch, a sign that Satoru had been there not long ago. Despite how spacious it was, the house had a special warmth, as if it was used to keeping laughter, late-night conversations and shared moments inside.
You lived there with Satoru, and both of you were university students. Your routines were similar in some ways and different in others. He spent a big part of the day between books, notes and dramatic complaints about how hard studying was, while you balanced university with another important part of your life: recording videos, editing content and talking to a camera as if it were your best friend. Your room always had a tripod leaning in one corner, lights turned on and your phone ready to record at any moment.
At first, your channel was only yours. You talked about your day, about university, about simple things that happened to you, without imagining that something would change one random afternoon. You were doing a TikTok live from the living room when Satoru walked behind you without knowing that you were streaming. He leaned down, kissed your cheek and murmured an “I love you” as if there was no one watching. When you realized what had happened, it was already too late: the comments were exploding, people were asking who that white-haired boy was and why he was so handsome.
From that moment on, everyone wanted to see him.
You started inviting him to appear with you in some videos. Sometimes they were short TikToks, other times longer videos where you answered questions, did challenges or simply went out to eat together while you recorded. Satoru did not really understand how social media worked, but he had fun participating, exaggerating his reactions and acting as if everything was a show. His confident personality and huge ego made every video with him become more chaotic… and more loved by people.
With time, your followers did not only want to see his face, they wanted to see his reactions. They wanted to see how he got surprised, how he got confused, how he went from drama to laughter in seconds. And without even noticing, between challenges, questions and recorded outings, you started including something else: little pranks. Some were harmless, others more elaborate, others seemed completely real until you revealed the truth in front of the camera.
It was something that grew together with your career, mixing with your university life, with your relationship with Satoru and with your habit of turning any ordinary moment into content. The house became the setting for many recordings, the streets for many recorded outings and Satoru, without looking for it, became the unexpected main character of more than one surprise.
Throughout your career as an influencer and university student, you had videos like:
SEEING IF HE REMEMBERS YOUR HEIGHT – 95M VIEWS
The room was bathed in a warm light that came through the tall windows of the house. The white curtains moved slightly with the afternoon breeze, and the air smelled like clean clothes and freshly made coffee from the kitchen. The shiny floor reflected the sunlight, and the bed, perfectly neat, looked like a stage prepared on purpose, as if it knew that in a few minutes it would become part of something important. On the desk, your phone was already placed on the tripod, with the ring light turned on and pointing directly at you, ready to record every gesture and every laugh.
That house had always been too big for only two people, but it never felt empty. It had long hallways where Satoru’s footsteps echoed when he walked around distracted, walls decorated with elegant paintings and furniture that mixed luxury with comfort. It was the place where you studied, where you argued over silly things, where you recorded most of your videos and where, without even noticing, the two of you had built a shared life between university and social media.
There was something between you and Satoru that always caught people’s attention: the height difference. He was tall (super tall, if you ask me), confident, with broad shoulders and a presence that took up too much space wherever he stood. You, on the other hand, were much shorter, barely reaching his chest when you stood in front of him. Since the beginning of your relationship, that difference had become a constant joke between the two of you. He said he had to bend down to talk to you, and you said you needed to stand on your tiptoes to kiss his chin (with a lot of effort). It was one of those jokes that never got old, because they always ended in laughter and hugs.
You stood in front of the camera and took a deep breath, fixing your hair a little before smiling.
—Hi, loves —you said sweetly—. Today I have a new challenge… and for that I need someone very special to do it with.
You turned your head toward the bedroom door.
—Baby! Can you come here for a second, please?
Long and calm footsteps were heard from the hallway. A few seconds later, Satoru appeared, wearing a light-colored shirt and with his hair a little messy, as if he had just gotten up from the desk where he had been studying.
—What happened, baby? —he asked—. I was in the middle of something very important… that was probably going to end in a nap.
His eyes moved from the phone on the tripod to you, and then back to the phone.
—Oh no… —he sighed—. Baby, what did you come up with this time?
You smiled with a mix of nerves and excitement.
—It’s a little challenge. I want to know if you remember exactly how tall I am.
Satoru tilted his head with amusement.
—Your tiny height? Of course I remember it, pretty girl. But how exactly am I supposed to prove it?
You stepped a little closer.
—Look, I’m going to cover your eyes with that blindfold and you have to bend down to kiss me.
He let out an exaggerated laugh.
—Bend down? Baby… I think I’m going to have to kneel on the floor to reach your face.
—Idiot —you said, pushing him softly.
—That’s exactly how you love me, beautiful —he answered before leaning down and giving you a quick kiss on the cheek.
Then he crouched down in front of you with a smile.
—Alright, come here. Blindfold me.
You placed the blindfold on him carefully, making sure he could not see anything.
—Don’t cheat.
—I never cheat… I just improvise.
You stood in front of him, aware of the camera that was still recording every movement. Your heart was beating fast because the situation made you laugh.
—Okay. Do it.
Satoru moved slowly, exaggerating every step as if he were exploring an unknown place.
—I’m calculating your size… —he murmured—. This is pure science.
He bent down although… too much, because his face ended up right in the middle of your boobs.
For a second there was silence.
Then you pushed him back softly, laughing with embarrassment and surprise.
—Hey, pervert! That was not the right place.
Satoru stayed still, still wearing the blindfold, and raised one hand as if asking for a moment.
—But you never told me where the kiss was supposed to be.
—Satoru!
He started laughing too.
—Besides… I reached something that is also important to me.
—Idiot —you said, covering your face, red from laughing—. It was supposed to be on my lips.
—Sorry, sorry —he answered, raising his hands—. Second chance, and I promise I’ll do it right this time.
He bent down again, this time more carefully. His movements were slow, as if he were really measuring every centimeter until he found your face. His lips touched yours in a soft and gentle kiss, full of held-back laughter.
—There we go —he whispered—. Confirmed: your height is still perfect for me.
—Did your back hurt? —you asked teasingly as you pulled away.
—A little —he said, stretching—. I think I need a massage as a reward for helping you with your video.
—As if I made you bend down that much, idiot.
—Since I helped you with your content… now you help me with mine.
He walked toward the living room.
—Hey! —you said—. Wait.
But he was already taking off his shirt as he walked, completely shameless. Your followers were able to see him walking away toward the living room, showing the muscles of his back and his perfectly toned torso before disappearing through the doorway.
You quickly turned back toward the camera, still laughing.
—Thanks for watching.
You stopped the recording with a nervous smile and your heart beating fast.
Video comments:
@LunaDreams: I need a relationship like this, please
@Sora_22: HAHAHAHAHA I honestly feel like he did not actually get it wrong
@PinkCloud: I do not want to know why he knows that height so perfectly
@KiraLove: They love each other so much, you can tell
@SunnyGirl: Her laugh is the cutest thing ever
@BlueSky: Can we talk about the ending and his abs
@StarBoy: I need more challenges with him right now
@Moonlight: My official parents
@DreamyVibes: This video made my day
@SoftHeart: I want a love this sweet and fun
@GalaxyGirl: How can you not fall in love with both of them
@CloudNine: The best couple on all of TikTok
@SweetSmile: You can tell they take care of each other and love each other so much
@SkyLine: More pranks, more kisses, more videos
TELLING HIM TO LEAVE THE ROOM BECAUSE YOU’RE GOING TO CHANGE – 180M VIEWS
The room was wrapped in a soft light that came through the tall windows of the house. The white curtains moved slowly with the morning air, and the silence was only interrupted by the distant sound of water from the bathroom. The bedroom was spacious, with a huge bed in the center and a closet that took up almost an entire wall. On a shelf, discreetly hidden between books and a small plant, you had placed a camera pointing directly at the bed.
You settled carefully in front of it, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Your hair was messy and you had a mischievous smile that you could barely hide.
—Hi, loves… —you whispered to the camera—. Sorry about my face, I literally just woke up, but it’s worth seeing me like this because… today we’re going to prank Satoru. Basically, I’m going to tell him that I want him to leave the room because I’m going to change… and because I want to see his reaction.
You looked toward the bathroom door and lowered your voice.
—Right now he’s brushing his teeth, so… shhh.
You laid down on the bed, pretending to act normal, holding your phone as if you were only checking messages. The room went quiet again for a few seconds, until the bathroom door opened.
Satoru came out, his hair still a little messy and wearing a loose shirt. He walked directly toward the bed and, without warning, dropped himself on top of you, resting his head against your neck and wrapping one arm around you.
—Good morning, beautiful —he murmured—. Did you know that sleeping with you should count as therapy?
He started leaving little kisses on your neck while you laughed softly.
—Toru…
—Beautiful… —he said without moving—. Since we both have the day off today, what if we go out for breakfast?
—I think that sounds good —you answered—. I like the idea.
He stayed hugging you for a few more seconds, as if he never wanted to move from there.
—But not right now… —he added—. I want to stay like this a little longer.
—Satoru… —you said softly—. If we keep doing this, we’re going to have breakfast at four in the afternoon.
He let out an exaggerated sigh and fell onto his back dramatically on the bed.
—Life is so unfair to me.
You stood up laughing and walked toward the closet.
—I’m going to change.
From the bed, he started talking as if he were planning a banquet.
—You know, beautiful… I’m craving pancakes with lots of syrup, fruit, ice cream… and maybe something even sweeter, but I don’t know if I want jam or fudge.
—That’s way too much sugar for the morning —you said, laughing.
—That’s barely any sweetness —he answered—. It’s exactly what I need to stay awake until the afternoon.
While you were talking, you picked an outfit from the closet and turned toward him with a nervous smile.
—Toru… baby… can you leave for a second?
He sat up slightly.
—What?
—I mean, can you leave for a moment please, so I can change?
Satoru looked at you with one eyebrow raised, completely incredulous.
—Baby… don’t you remember what we did thirty minutes ago?
Your eyes widened at his confession.
—Satoru, don’t say—
—Are you seriously telling me you don’t want me to see you now when a little while ago my mouth was on your p…?
You immediately rushed toward him to cover his mouth.
—Shut up! Don’t say that.
He started laughing under your hand, gently moving it away.
—What? Are you embarrassed now? After how much you enjoyed it?
—No… it’s just… —you stayed quiet for a second because you were actually blushing—. I’m… I’m recording.
There was a second of silence.
—What?
He froze, looking around the room.
—Recording… right now?
He ran a hand through his hair, clearly embarrassed.
—Why didn’t you tell me?
At that point you could not hold back your laughter anymore.
—Because it was a prank.
—You’re evil —he said, covering his face—. I’m over here talking about pancakes and other things while you’re recording me.
—My followers love you like this —you answered—. Natural.
Satoru sighed and got off the bed.
—Fine… I’m leaving. But this counts as a sacrifice for the content.
He walked toward the door and before leaving, turned around to look at you.
—But later we’re going to talk about the payment.
—Deal.
He closed the door and you looked back at the camera again, laughing.
—Thanks for watching. I love you all so much.
You turned the recording off with your heart racing and the smile still on your face.
Video comments:
@LunaVibes: They are way too cute, I need this in my life
@SunnyMood: HAHAHAHA Satoru definitely knows how to wake his girlfriend up
@PinkDream: The way he goes from pervert to embarrassed in two seconds
@CloudyDay: My favorite parents
@StarLight: You can tell they love each other so much
@MoonSoft: The “reveal” moment was the best part
@SweetTalk: I need a Satoru like this
@BlueSky: The house, the vibe, everything feels so warm
@KiraLove: They literally live in a romantic comedy
@DreamLine: Please more pranks with him
@AngelEyes: The way he talks to her is so sweet
@CosmicGirl: This couple fixed my day
@HeartBeat: I want a relationship this natural and fun
CALLING HIM BY HIS LAST NAME TO SEE HOW HE REACTS – 67M VIEWS
The kitchen was wrapped in the warm light of sunset. The sun came through the large window and reflected off the counter, creating golden glimmers that moved slowly every time the steam from the ramen rose from the pot. The smell of the hot broth filled the house with a comforting feeling, mixing with the scent of ginger and soy sauce until the kitchen became that small everyday refuge where you almost always ended your days together. The sound of the broth boiling was constant and soft, a calm bubbling that accompanied the silence of the house and made everything feel strangely peaceful.
You carefully placed the camera on a high shelf, tilting it slightly so that your face and part of the kitchen behind you could be seen. You adjusted the angle several times until you were satisfied with the frame. On the screen, you could see the steaming pot, the table with the plates already set, and your figure standing in front of the counter. You looked at yourself for a few seconds, fixing a strand of hair and taking a deep breath, as if you were about to say something important.
—Hi, loves… —you whispered, looking directly into the lens—. I’m thinking about pranking Satoru, even though I’m not completely sure.
You picked up the wooden spoon and began stirring the ramen slowly as you spoke. The steam rose in front of the camera, creating a small warm cloud between you and the lens.
—It’s been a really long time since I called him by his last name. You guys know I always call him baby, Toru, pretty boy, handsome… but when I’m upset with him, I call him Gojo. And today I want to see what happens if I call him that even though I’m not mad.
You tasted the broth with the spoon, blowing on it a little before bringing it to your lips.
—He’s not home right now because his dad called him about company stuff… Six Eyes Industries. Meetings, numbers, stress… all of that leaves him exhausted. So he’s coming home tired, and I’m making dinner like everything is completely normal.
You rested the spoon against the pot and looked back at the camera.
—The next clip is going to be the prank, which for you is going to be one second… but for me it might be like an hour. So get ready.
You smiled at the lens with a mix of nerves and excitement before ending the recording.
The silence filled the house again. But it was no longer the same peaceful silence from before. Every little noise made you lift your head. Every shadow near the door made you think that maybe he had already arrived. Your nerves mixed with the excitement of the prank, but also with that unavoidable affection you always felt whenever you knew Satoru was about to walk through the door.
When the next clip started, the kitchen looked almost exactly the same, except now the sky outside the window had darkened and the golden light had turned softer and dimmer. The house was quiet until the sound of the front door opening echoed through the hallway.
Your heart jumped.
You hurried over to the camera and started recording again, speaking quietly.
—Guys… Satoru’s here. Now I just have to stay calm… and calm down… and make sure he doesn’t notice that I’m nervous.
You took a deep breath and went back to the pot, trying to look completely normal.
The sound of his shoes in the hallway echoed clearly as he walked slowly through the house. You could recognize those footsteps without even seeing him; his presence always had a particular way of filling the space.
He appeared in the kitchen wearing a black suit with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and his tie slightly loose. His white hair was more messy than usual, like he had spent the entire day running his hands through it. He looked tired. Really tired. But the second he saw you standing in the kitchen, his whole expression softened.
—Beautiful… —he murmured, walking toward you immediately.
Without even thinking about it, he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and buried his face in the crook of your neck.
—I missed you so much.
You smiled a little because he always did that. No matter how exhausted he was, the first thing he wanted when he got home was you.
—I missed you too.
He left a kiss on your neck and then another on your cheek.
—What smells so good?
—Ramen.
—Marry me again.
You laughed softly.
—I already did.
—Then do it again.
You turned around slightly in his arms, trying not to smile too much because you still had to do the prank.
—Gojo, can you set the table for me?
The effect was immediate.
Satoru froze.
For a second he didn’t move at all. Then, very slowly, he pulled away just enough to look down at you.
—What did you call me?
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
—Gojo. Can you set the table?
He stared at you like you had just said something completely absurd.
—Baby… why are you talking to me like that?
—I’m not talking to you any differently.
—Yes, you are.
He looked genuinely offended.
—You called me Gojo.
—That is your last name.
—I know it’s my last name —he answered dramatically—. But you only call me that when you’re mad at me.
You shrugged, pretending to stay calm.
—I just called you Gojo.
Satoru narrowed his eyes a little.
—What did I do?
—Nothing.
—No, seriously, what did I do?
He followed you around the kitchen while you pretended to keep cooking.
—Did I forget something? An anniversary? Your birthday? Did I leave my socks on the floor again? Because if it was the socks, I can fix that.
You laughed softly and shook your head.
—You didn’t do anything.
—Then why are you calling me Gojo?
You put the bowls on the counter and looked at him innocently.
—Can you please bring these to the table, Gojo?
He looked like you had stabbed him directly in the heart.
—Please stop saying it like that.
—Saying what?
—Gojo.
He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest.
—It feels like we’re strangers. Or worse… like I’m in trouble.
You almost broke character right there because he looked genuinely distressed.
—Sato…
His eyes widened immediately.
—There! See? That’s better. That’s my name.
You blinked.
—I thought your name was Gojo.
—Baby, don’t do this to me.
He walked toward you again and wrapped his arms around your waist, lowering his head until his forehead rested against your shoulder.
—Please call me Toru again. Or baby. Or handsome. Or the love of your life. Anything except Gojo.
You laughed, finally unable to keep the prank going.
—You’re so dramatic.
He pulled back just enough to look at you suspiciously.
—Wait.
You covered your mouth, but it was too late.
His eyes immediately moved toward the shelf where the camera was hidden.
—No.
You started laughing harder.
—No, no, no —he said, pointing at the camera—. Tell me this is not another one of your videos.
You leaned against the counter because you could barely breathe from laughing.
—I’m sorry!
Satoru stared at you for a second before groaning dramatically and covering his face with both hands.
—I spent ten whole minutes thinking our marriage was falling apart because you called me by my last name.
—It was only like two minutes.
—Worst two minutes of my life.
You walked toward him and gently took his hands away from his face.
—Poor thing.
—Don’t “poor thing” me. I suffered.
You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him softly.
—I’m sorry, Toru.
The second you called him that again, he visibly relaxed.
—There you are —he whispered, wrapping his arms around you again—. My sweet girl is back.
He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips.
—You’re lucky you’re cute, because otherwise I would’ve filed for divorce.
—You’re impossible.
—And you love me.
—I do.
He smiled immediately.
—Good. Then call me handsome while we eat ramen.
You laughed and turned off the camera.
Video comments:
@Moonlight: HE REALLY THOUGHT THE MARRIAGE WAS OVER HAHAHA
@SoftDreams: “Marry me again” “I already did” I’M CRYING
@LunaSky: The way he immediately panicked is killing me
@PinkCloud: He looked more offended by “Gojo” than by anything else
@StarryNight: “Worst two minutes of my life”
@SunnyGirl: This man is so obsessed with her and honestly same
@BlueHeart: The way he relaxed the second she called him Toru again
@Dreamy: “Call me handsome while we eat ramen” PLEASE
@CloudNine: Their relationship is literally my favorite thing ever
@AngelEyes: He was ready to investigate every mistake he’s ever made
@CherryBlossom: Satoru would absolutely react like this and no one can convince me otherwise
@LoveLine: I want a love this soft
@SkyLight: The forehead kiss after the prank… I’m unwell
@HeartBeat: They are so married it hurts
SEEING IF HE MELTS FROM A KISS – 98M VIEWS
The room was wrapped in the soft light of late afternoon.
The curtains let the sunlight in shyly, painting the walls in golden tones and casting long shadows across the messy bed. The air felt calm and warm, with that comfortable silence that only exists when there is no rush to leave and no responsibilities to interrupt the moment. The whole house seemed suspended in a perfect stillness, as if it too were waiting for something.
You carefully placed the camera on the desk, adjusting it so the bed and the space in front of it could be seen clearly. You fixed the angle twice, then three times, until you were satisfied. You looked at yourself on the screen for a few seconds, fixed your hair with your fingers, and took a deep breath. That mischievous smile appeared on its own, impossible to stop.
—Hi, loves… —you whispered, looking directly into the lens—. Today I want to try a trend I saw, and it was way too cute. I’m going to tell Satoru to raise his arms because supposedly “I’m going to tickle him”… but really I’m going to kiss him instead. I want to see if he melts.
You covered your mouth to keep yourself from laughing.
—I’m sure he’s going to think I’m about to attack him. You already know how he is with tickles… he gets so dramatic.
You glanced toward the door, lowered your voice a little, and added:
—Let’s see if he falls for it.
You stopped recording and went back to the bed, pretending to act normal. You picked up your phone as if you were distracted, even though your heart was beating faster than usual. The mattress was still warm, and the room had that clean smell that lingers after you air it out.
You heard footsteps in the hallway.
Gojo Satoru appeared in the doorway with his hair slightly messy and a comfortable T-shirt on. His presence filled the room instantly, as if the whole space became warmer just by seeing him.
—What are you doing, baby? —he asked as he dropped down beside you on the bed with complete confidence.
—Nothing… I was just looking at my phone —you answered casually, not looking at him too much.
He got more comfortable, resting his head near your shoulder and lazily wrapping an arm around you, as if the natural place for his body was right next to yours.
—You look suspiciously calm —he murmured.
You looked at him with a sweet smile.
—Toru… stand up for a second.
—That’s never a good sign.
—Trust me.
You got off the bed and stood in front of him. Satoru raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
—Raise your arms.
—Why?
—Just do it.
—That sounds exactly like tickling.
—Don’t be dramatic.
—Every time you say that, I end up screaming.
He sighed dramatically, but slowly raised his arms to each side, as if he were surrendering himself to his fate.
—If you tickle me, I’m going to get you back three times worse.
—You’re so brave.
—I’m psychologically prepared.
You stepped closer slowly, little by little, holding back your laughter. He closed his eyes slightly, tense, waiting for the attack.
Instead, you placed your hands on his face so you could pull him closer, stood on your tiptoes, and gave him a soft kiss on the lips.
For a second, Satoru froze completely.
Then, as if it were an automatic reflex, he dropped his arms immediately and wrapped them tightly around your waist, pulling you closer against him.
—That… that wasn’t tickling —he murmured—. That was cheating.
You smiled against his lips and kissed him again, this time slower. He responded without hesitation, leaning down so he could reach you better. His hands tightened around your waist, as if he were afraid you might slip away.
The kiss became longer, warmer, deeper.
The world seemed to stop around the two of you for a moment, as if nothing else existed except for that small space between your breaths.
—Hey… —he whispered between kisses—. I think I’m melting.
You laughed softly.
—That was the challenge.
He rested his forehead against yours.
—Don’t play with me like that, baby… it’s not fair.
His arms wrapped around you even tighter, pulling you completely against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat against yours.
His hands slowly began to move down your back, a little lower than they should have, as if he had completely forgotten that there was anything else around you.
The moment became too intense.
You pulled away quickly.
—We can’t keep going!
—What?
—There’s a camera recording.
He opened his eyes in surprise.
—...A camera?
He turned his head and saw it on the desk.
—Were you recording me?
—Yes.
—Since when?
—Since before you raised your arms.
He brought a hand to his face, embarrassed.
—I can’t believe I fell for that so easily.
—You melted.
—You betrayed me with a kiss.
—It works better than tickles.
He stepped closer again and wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.
—Don’t ever use your lips as a secret weapon again.
—I’m not promising anything.
You walked over to the camera and turned it off with a calm smile.
—Challenge completed.
Video comments:
@LunaSoft: This was way too romantic
@MichiLove: He melted in two seconds
@Akira_22: He dropped his arms purely on instinct
@SofiDream: I want a relationship like this
@Nori_chan: The way he hugs her
@RinRin: That man is in love
@KiraSun: The best challenge so far
@CamiOtaku: This wasn’t a prank, it was a romance movie scene
“Just give up, Fushiguro.” The tallest kid of the group says, crossing his arms over his chest and flashing Megumi a grin. “There’s five of us and only one of you. There’s no way you’d win.” On either side of the bully, four more kids snickered, practically salivating over the idea of outnumbering him.
Megumi sighs irritatedly. This is why he hates staying after school. On one hand, he’d be the first one to greet Yuuji once he’s done with his sports practice, but on the other hand, he’d end up getting into more altercations since he’d made quite a bit of enemies at his school. Your face floats in his mind, along with you worriedly asking him to promise that he wouldn’t fight anymore.
Suddenly, the leader’s smile drops, and the five of them take a couple of fearful steps back as their gazes drift upwards. Two tall shadows loom over Megumi, and he doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s there.
“Well, well,” Toji, his father, says with a lazy smile, then looks over at the man in his mid-twenties next to him. “Looks like you weren’t exaggerating after all. He really is fighting multiple students each time.”
Satoru Gojo chuckles, then ruffles Megumi’s hair. “Told ya. And he hasn’t lost a single fight. However, anyone can tell that he’s holding back.”
“Oh?” Toji raises a brow curiously, then taps his son’s shoulder. “That true? You’ve been holdin’ back?”
Megumi turns around and meets his eyes. He nods once, and Toji gestures to the five kids. “Wanna stop?”
The boy frowns. “I’ll get expelled.”
“Trust me.” Satoru peers at him over his glasses, his blue eyes shining mischievously as he reassures him with his usual grin. “You won’t. Suguru’s already at the front desk taking care of it. I’ll head up there in a second to make sure everything’s going smoothly. Go on and handle it, kid.”
His eyes widen slightly, and then he looks over at his father again. Toji’s scarred mouth lifts into a small, vicious smile, granting permission. “You heard your teacher.”
Megumi nods, faces the bullies with a similar smile, and cracks his knuckles.
—
“Hey there, Mrs. Fushiguro!” Satoru Gojo greets you when you walk into the school’s front office. Next to him, Suguru Geto gives you a friendly wave. “Picking up Tsumiki? Wow, you’re kinda early!”
“Uh, yeah… What’re you two doing here? I know that Megumi is supposed to meet you both at Jujutsu Tech since Yuuji wanted to hang out after practice.”
Satoru and Suguru laugh nervously, and you squint your eyes at them. Something’s up. “What did you two do this time?” You ask.
“...Nothing.”
“Nothing at all!”
The doors to the principal’s office open, and you gasp loudly when you see five students sniffling as they walk out with their parents. All five of them were teary-eyed if not sobbing, bruised and holding ice packs to different parts of their bodies. Once they’ve left the school, you hear familiar voices.
“Did you see how the last one ran?” Megumi snickers as he shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Yup.” Toji laughs. “And you didn’t let him get far. That’s my boy! Let’s talk about how you tossed that one kid into the other and they hit the wall. Did Gojo teach you that one?”
“Actually, I watched you handle—” Upon seeing you, Megumi stops in his tracks, and he gulps nervously. “Hi, Mom.”
Toji’s eyes go wide. “Oh shit.”
You cross your arms over your chest, and Satoru clears his throat. “Let’s look at the bright side here. He won’t be expelled or even suspended! It’s like the whole thing didn’t happen.”
You ignore them and sigh at the sight of Megumi’s reddened knuckles. “Didn’t I tell you that you shouldn’t fight anymore? Your hands—”
“Are strong enough to take out multiple enemies,” Toji says, wrapping a strong arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “We’re very proud of him. Can you imagine what he’ll do when he starts curse-hunting? His training is paying off.”
You glare at him. “That’s true, but don’t try and– Mm…” Your mind goes completely blank when your husband gently kisses you. Behind you, Toji gestures to the three of them to leave now.
When you hear footsteps shuffling away and the door closing, you pull away from Toji’s mouth and whirl around, groaning when you see that your son and his two teachers are gone. You turn back around to face him, and he smiles charmingly. “This isn’t over,” you tell him.
“I know, I know.” He kisses your forehead, then chuckles. “You can lecture me after we grab Tsumiki and go for ice cream.”
Life had simply kept happening.
And you were finding a way to be content.
“Do you regret it?” you asked.
His head turned sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Being with me, staying like this.” you clarified. “Knowing how it ends.”
He stared out at the water. The answer came without hesitation. “Never.”
GENRE: alternate universe - canon divergence;
WARNING/S: sfw, post-canon, jjk modulo, angst, fluff, romance, light-hearted, slice of life, marriage, family, long lasting marriage, aging, physical age difference, old people being in love, immortality, mortality, nicknames, hurt, comfort, laughing, teasing, feelings, remiscing, nostalgia, domestic life, children, grandchildren, sparklers, enjoying the sea, illness, mention of illness, upcoming character death (implied), mention of character death, motif about death, motif about life, jjk modulo! yuuji, wife! reader;
WORD COUNT: 6k words
NOTE: this was heavily inspired by all the edits of the song 500 miles which was sung by peter, paul and mary. i just, i really am just emotional about everyone having their feelings about it. i genuinely enjoyed it. whenever i listened to this song, i think about yuuji. and it cannot be helped. so i wrote about him too. i hope you enjoy this a lot!!! anyway, i love you all.
main masterlist
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kayu's playlist — side 4500;
IT WAS THE FIRST TIME YOU ALL HAVE BEEN BACK WITHIN THE FABRIC OF TOKYO. But considering the danger of the curses that were still lurking about within areas you had known a long time ago, it was only the brave that were willing to go as far as to see the glimpses of what it had been.
Yet with how life had panned out, you had to be brave. And people around you had to be brave, for you were not long for this world, the human you were. You were chasing time, in the way your husband and kids were not. It was better to be brave now, when it would be the legacy you leave to them. It would be the happiness of a life lived in bravery than a life lived in seclusion.
The sea in Kamakura was quieter than you expected. You could hear it from the small ryokan balcony. It was not the loud crashing kind from the way one would flash about postcards playfully, but a patient breathing that came from a long life lived and the eagerness now to have peace in your own time.
The brash tide came in, and then out again, its sweeping waters slipped across the dark sand, leaving some stranded, only to then be pulled back again, carrying it back with it, almost like it had all the time in the world.
You supposed it did.
Your beloved husband Itadori Yuuji leaned against the wooden railing beside you, rolling up his shirt’s sleeves to the elbow. You remember being young and how intently you would watch him fold his sleeves, so carefully, so tenderly. And he still does the same thing, as you do the same thing with never ending fondness in your eyes.
The evening light caught his whitish-pink hair and made it almost the blinding echoes of silver melting into copper. He looked exactly like he had when you first met him, decades ago, when you were both kids who didn’t know your lives would lead here. Years of loving the same face, the same smile, the same soul.
Exactly that. He was the same. And he always will be. There would be nothing that would change about him. But immortality has always been like that to any one who has to go through it and live it. It was a cruel miracle that kept him untouched for years, and you are devastated, heartbroken even.
Yuuji looks at you.
He smiles.
He’s more broken than you.
“Cold?” he asked gently.
You shook your head. “Just listening.”
He followed your gaze out toward the water. The horizon had begun to blur into evening, the pale blue sky slowly deepening into soft violet. From the small balcony of the ryokan, the sea of Kamakura looked endless, a long sheet of darkening silver stretching to meet the fading light.
Neither of you could find yourselves speaking, ultimately succumbing to sudden silence. Yuuji rested his elbows on the wooden railing, shoulders relaxed, the quiet sound of waves filling the spaces where words might have gone. You had shared silences like this for decades.
For the two of you, it was the comfortable kind that came after a lifetime of talking, a lifetime no one would ever understand, a lifetime where you live with the kind of comfort that didn’t need explanation.
Behind you, the paper door slid open with a soft shhhk. Suddenly bright, beaming laughter spilled and echoed into the hallway, bright and chaotic, completely shattering the peaceful quiet of the evening.
The two of you turned at the same time.
Yuuji was the first to react.
He was the same with the kids too.
His face broke instantly into a grin, as it usually does. A grin that held that same wide boyish warmth, somehow as if the years had never managed to change how such dimples permeate through the beautiful face he holds.
It was the exact same smile he had worn when you first met him, when he was still a reckless fifteen year old boy who believed every problem could be solved with optimism and stubbornness that you could not share with him.
Standing in the doorway were three of your young, budding grandchildren, who were all slightly out of breath and glowing with excitement, beaming through it all. “Grandma! Grandpa! Come look!”
Your youngest granddaughter burst forward first, bare feet slapping lightly against the tatami as she ran out onto the raised threshold. She nearly tripped over the wooden step, wobbling dangerously before catching herself.
“Careful!” you called automatically, though you couldn’t help smiling.
One of the boys hurried after her, clutching a small crinkled paper bag like it contained treasure. “We got fireworks from the shop, grandma, grandpa! Like the ones you used to buy for us at the corner store!”
The young excited fella lifted the bag proudly and shook it, the faint clink of thin sticks bumping together inside. Yuuji’s eyes lit up immediately. It was almost unfair how quickly his expression transformed before your eyes.
It was like someone had turned a switch inside him. He hadn’t truly looked like that for a while now. Yet you can suppose he needed to put on a show for the younglings. But you know better than that. He was happy to be joyous with them, like he used to be with your kids when they were younger.
In an instant with your dearest grandkids, he looked decades younger. Finally matching such tenderness with the same essence of youth in his eternal face. There was endless excitement flashing across his face with the same energy he’d had in his twenties.
“No way, kiddos!” he said, crouching down in front of them with exaggerated disbelief. “Did you get sparklers?”
“Yes!” the kids answered in unison. “Uncle Wasuke gave it to us!”
You shook your head, laughing softly. “You really knew your uncle wouldn’t be able to say no to your cute faces, huh?”
“Then we have to do them on the beach.”
You sighed. “Too late to do it now. Everyone’s going to catch a cold if they go out.”
Yuuji waved you off. “Then we’ll figure something out! We’re gonna go and do this on the beach!”
“Yay!” The kids cheered, causing Yuuji to laugh.”
You laugh too. “You guys are impossible.”
There was no hesitation in your husband’s voice, no thought about the time or the cold or the sand that would inevitably end up everywhere. Everything in this moment was pure enthusiasm. You watched him kneel on the tatami floor as the children crowded around him, immediately trying to open the bag together.
Soon the small entrance area of the ryokan had become a whirlwind of movement. And you were just happy to be a spectator, to watch it all happen. The paper bag was emptied across the floor instantaneously. Thin fireworks sticks rolled across the tatami. Someone accidentally kicked a sandal across the hallway. One of the younger ones tried to grab two sparklers at once.
Yuuji was right in the middle of it, trying his best to help them sort through the fireworks. It was almost like watching your entire life flash before you all over again in that moment, almost like you were back in that small house with the bright garden on a summer night.
You could remember how intently your husband Yuuji was with your three children, how intently he used to listen to every excited explanation they had, like he is now with the youngest grandkids. He would do the same, reacting like each of their little discoveries of the world were the most impressive things he had ever seen in his entire life. But perhaps that was what made it good.
You leaned against the doorframe quietly, watching. He had raised three children with you, a whole beautiful life together from start to finish. You still remembered the first one. You could only laugh to yourself as you remembered how it all happened then.
Itadori Yuuji was so intent on having a family and most of all with you, a big lively one at that. He started like all husbands, all fathers do. He was so excited and so eager during the entire process, but even with all that in him, he still panicked in the hospital hallway, pacing back and forth like a caged animal who didn’t know what to do.
Yet when Itadori Chouso was born, all that panic went away. When he saw you holding your first born in your arms, so beautiful in the glow of springtime, he was just stupefied into life. That moment, when he held Chouso, he held him like his son might dissolve if he blinked too hard.
He was the same way with every single one of your children. He held Shoko the same way, and then Wasuke. And now that your precious children had children of their own, Yuuji beheld them the same way. With so much love, so much tenderness. Even when the times changed, your husband was always what he was.
All the difference is that Itadori Yuuji still looked exactly the same, as did the kids too. And you were certain it would be the same for all the young children that were slowly growing. But just like you, they were mortal in the way your husband would never be.
Perhaps that’s why you keep looking.
Even when you didn’t want to anymore.
You mourn for him as much as you love for yourself.
You take a deep breath. You were grateful that the small ryokan continued to feel alive as you lamented to yourself. It distracted you enough to not drown into the endless echo of melancholy. You knew you would not be able to get out of that hole.
So you let yourself enjoy it all. How the voices overlapped across the hallway and echoed all throughout. You could hear how somewhere in the ryokan, someone yelled from the back room that they couldn’t find their socks. You think that’s Wasuke, trying to rally some of the other kids to help him find his socks.
On the other corner of the ryokan, Chouso’s older daughters, along with Shoko’s eldest daughter were in the other room talking about what yukata they wanted among a huge pile that their mothers were slowly unpacking in time for the festival.
Chouso’s younger daughter said, a big pout on her lips. “I want the blue yukata!”
“No fair, you had it yesterday!” Her elder sister responded to her.
“That’s because it’s my favorite!”
“Now, now, there’s plenty of yukata for everyone!” Shoko’s elder daughter tried to play peacemaker.
“No, I want that exact design!”
The older one put her tongue out. “Well, I don’t care!”
Tatami rustled under quick footsteps. The faint scent of the ryokan’s wooden beams mixed with the salt breeze drifting in from the open balcony. Your daughter Shoko appeared in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame.
She watched the scene for a moment. Yuuji kneeling on the floor surrounded by grandchildren, sparklers scattered everywhere, hearing the chaos of the other rooms full of children, full of home. Full of life. She takes a breath, before her eyes shift toward you.
“Mom…..” she said softly. “Are you tired?”
The question was gentle, as careful as it could be. You noticed the way she looked at you reminded you so much of how Yuuji used to look at you when there were bad things that came and went in your long marriage. You shook your head.
“Not tonight.”
For a brief moment, her gaze lingered on your face. There was a quiet understanding there. Three weeks ago, she and her husband had been sitting beside you in the hospital when the doctor explained the diagnosis. She had heard every word you heard.
She had seen the way Yuuji went completely silent afterward, when he had been told by Chouso and Wasuke, who looked just as devastated as their wives were. They haven’t told the kids yet. They think it’s not the right time.
Since then she has been watching you differently. Almost like she was already trying to find all the ways to keep you there. Like she was trying to memorize every part of you that a camera would never capture. But tonight she simply smiled.
“Good….That’s good.” she said, almost relieved. Then she glanced down at the chaos unfolding on the tatami floor. “Because dad promised to embarrass himself by lighting fireworks again.”
From the floor Yuuji immediately looked up, offended. “Hey! Don’t do your old man like this, Sho-bear. That happened once!”
Your grandson pointed dramatically. “Three times, grandpa!”
Another voice chimed in from the back room. “And grandpa screamed!”
“I did not scream!”
“You totally screamed!” his youngest granddaughter pointed out. “You said, “your grandma’s going to take my butt for this!” and then went wild!”
“Then you panicked and screamed about how the sparkler exploded!”
“It fizzled!”
“It popped!”
Yuuji threw his hands up in exaggerated defeat while the kids dissolved into laughter around him. “Traitors, the lot of you.” he muttered dramatically, looking from one giggling grandchild to another like they had all personally betrayed him.
One of them clung to his arm, still laughing. “You did scream, Grandpa!”
“I did not scream, kiddo!” Yuuji insisted, though the grin tugging at his mouth completely ruined his defense. “Grandpa just over…estimated things!”
You couldn’t help laughing too. The sound rose quietly from your chest, warm and full, the kind of laugh that felt like it came from years of living rather than a single joke. It slipped into the lively air of the ryokan, blending with the children's high-pitched giggles and Yuuji’s mock protests.
For a few seconds, it was just noise and warmth and movement. Then heavier footsteps approached from the back rooms. Your eldest son appeared first, arms crossed and wearing the patient, slightly exasperated expression he had inherited from you. Chouso.
Behind him came Shoko, one hand guiding two smaller children who had clearly been running wild somewhere deeper in the inn. The youngest had a sock halfway on and the other dragging behind them like a small white tail.
And finally Wasuke followed, carrying a stray sandal and looking entirely too pleased with himself. Chouso sighed the moment he saw the state of the entrance. Suddenly the sparklers scattered everywhere.
Your husband Yuuji remained kneeling on the tatami, the grandchildren gathered in the room and started to do their best to crowd around him like excited sparrows. He rubbed his temple for a moment.
“Why do I feel like we left you three alone for five minutes and the entire place exploded?”
Shoko snorted under her breath as she finally herded the last two kids toward the group. “Took you two long enough to get your shit together.”
Yuuji’s head snapped up instantly. He pointed at the children around him. “Sho-bear, the kids—”
“Dad, please.” Shoko interrupted without missing a beat, “it was a tiny cuss.”
From behind her, Wasuke immediately broke into a grin. “Ha!” he laughed. “Dad scolds you.”
Yuuji groaned. “You can shut up now.”
Wasuke only looked more entertained, clearly enjoying every second of the situation. Chouso let out another long sigh, shaking his head slowly. “You two are such trouble.”
The tone of his voice tried to sound responsible. Unfortunately, it failed completely when one of his own kids immediately tugged on his sleeve asking for the fireworks bag. You laughed again, shaking your head at the whole ridiculous scene.
“You all are too much more like children than your children.”
That earned you a chorus of reactions. “Hey!” Yuuji protested.
“That’s not true, mom.” Wasuke said, though he was still grinning. “I’m an adult now.”
You hummed. “It doesn’t look like it, son.”
Wasuke laughed at that.
Choso looked mildly offended.
Shoko simply smirked.
Around them, the file of grandchildren continued poking through the fireworks like curious little investigators. One of them, a younger child, waved a sparkler stick in the air, almost too excitedly.
“Grandpa said we’re going to the beach!”
“Did he now?” Chouso muttered, giving Yuuji a look.
Yuuji lifted his chin proudly. “Of course I did. I did it with you kids when you were younger, didn’t I?”
Shoko leaned closer to him. “You’re the one lighting them, by the way.”
“Excuse me?”
“You screamed last time, though?” Wasuke looked confused.
“I did not scream!”
The kids burst into laughter again, as did the grandchildren. And for a moment, standing there in the doorway with your family filling the small ryokan with noise and warmth and life, the weight of hospital rooms and quiet diagnoses felt very far away.
The sterile smell of antiseptic. The quiet voice of the doctor. The careful pauses in conversation that followed afterward. All of it felt distant to you at that moment. Here, there was only the soft scent of tatami and wood, the bright allure of the salty sea breeze drifting through the open balcony, and the overlapping voices of people who loved each other loudly.
Itadori Yuuji was still kneeling on the floor in the middle of it all, his legs still surrounded by sparklers as much as the kids remained interested about asking him questions by his feet. He was continuing arguing with Shoko while two grandchildren clung to his shoulders, who were laughing like little children.
Before long, that all died down for him as he found himself glancing back at you, even just for a second. His smile softened almost imperceptibly. He could not find it in him to let the same playful grin he wore for the kids, for the grandkids to be the same as his loving smile towards you.
Everything with you was more intense, something quieter, something that was far more passionate and warmer. Yuuji knew that he was relieved you were here to see this, still here to be blessed by time.
He was glad you were here enjoying the beautiful messy chaos of your lives with a smile on your face, you were still here to be fond of his noise and laughter and ridiculous arguing. He couldn’t ask for anything more.
“Are you going to the beach with us, grandma?” one of the younger boys asked you as he pulled at your kimono.
You looked at your grandson, blinking. You then offered him a smile. “Of course, grandma wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Itadori Yuuji felt his heart warm at that.
Yet there was some sort of dread.
How long would he survive without that warmth?
Without your smile?
He feared the worst.
“Alright, alright.” Chouso said as he clapped his hands together. “Everyone get your kids together. The walk is only five hundred miles to the shore, it's about six or so minutes.”
Shoko smiled. “Hm, alright.”
Wasuke looked at you. “You’ll be okay to go out tonight, mom?”
You looked back at him and then to the rest of your kids. You sighed and locked eyes with Yuuji. You smiled. “Of course.”
YOU FELT YOUR HUSBAND’S WARMTH THROUGH THE JACKET HE PLACED ON YOUR SHOULDER. It wasn’t even a few moments out the house before your worrywart husband put his jacket on you as he held you in his arms. You could only shake your head, lips bountiful with laughter as he tells you that he’s not being funny when it comes to you not catching a cold.
You shook your head. After all this time, he’s still like this. And it only made you fall in love with him deeper, which one could only think impossible after being together for nearly fifty odd years. Yet it was still that way for you. You will always be falling in love with him, over and over again.
The beach was already far too dark when the moment settled around you, only finding light in the lit lamp canisters your kids and grandkids were carrying among themselves. The waves moved in long, patient breaths against the shore of Kamakura, sliding up the sand and retreating again with a whisper.
The tide was low, leaving a wide stretch of cool damp shore where the children and the grandchildren had immediately taken over the moment you arrived. It was almost like they had never seen a beach their entire lives.
Some of them had run ahead the instant, removing their shoes and immediately letting their feet touch the sand, laughing among themselves as they played with the water. Shoko reminded people that they didn’t bring towels for those who decided to go swimming.
Some of the kids were all in awe at the thin trails of gold flickering through the night as the sparklers burned bright in their hands. Itadori Yuuji stood a few steps away lighting another one, the flame from the lighter briefly illuminating his face before the sparkler caught with a sharp hiss. He handed it carefully to your youngest granddaughter like it was something precious. Her delighted gasp carried across the beach.
“Grandma! Look!”
You sat on the driftwood log he had brushed off for you earlier, hands folded in your lap as you watched them all scatter across the sand. For a moment, the scene looked almost unreal. Little streaks of gold dancing through the dark. Children shouting with joy.
Your grown children trying half-heartedly to maintain order while secretly enjoying the chaos themselves. And Yuuji. He was always in the middle of it, laughing with all his heart, boisterous and so young as ever. It made the night feel impossibly alive.
Five hundred miles. The number had stuck in your mind strangely clearly. Five hundred miles from the hospital room where the doctor had spoken softly, hands folded over the file in front of him. Five hundred miles from the quiet drive home afterward where no one knew quite what to say.
As everyone had their own fun, you couldn’t help but notice how your husband Yuuji had become almost despondent in silence as he watched everyone find the time to have fun among themselves. Wasuke had taken over lighting the sparklers for the children.
You walked softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t look up to find your gaze. Instead, he places his hand carefully on top of your wrinkled one, his eyes staring straight ahead, into the distance. Almost trying to find something in the darkness of the boundless sea.
The night he was told the diagnosis, everyone was over at the house. But everyone seemed to be taxed from the amount of themselves they had put into this emotional rollercoaster and you couldn’t blame them. It was past one in the morning when you found him at the kitchen table.
He had his laptop open, his cold already gone cold. He was searching for train routes on the screen. On one of the tabs, there were lists of the top finds in Kamakura. On the other hand, the top ryokans are listed neatly in a website’s listing.
He looked up when he noticed you standing there. “Let’s go see the sea again.”
That was all he said. He hadn’t asked if you wanted to. He already knew. He already knew that everything was on borrowed time. And there was nothing else but to continue living on, pushing on. Taking advantage of the time that you could have with one another.
Now the ocean stretched out before you again. Everything was dark, everything was endless. Yet it was all so meaningful. It was still the same sea you had visited together when you were young and reckless and convinced that you were simply able to go on for forever.
And now, it was the same ocean where you were all trying to process living with the unimaginable, with the most human of all traits. With the possibility of the grim ripper waiting right behind you for the right time.
“Don’t think too much.” Yuuji said it all of a sudden.
Your brows furrowed. “I’m not—”
“You have that face again, when you’re too deep in thought.”
Before you could reply, you hear something behind you. “Hey! Don’t wave it like that!” It was Shoko’s voice that cut through the night. “That’s how you set your sleeve on fire!”
“It’s just a sparkler!” one of the kids protested.
Yuuji laughed. “They’re too much, aren’t they?”
“But you love them all the same.”
He seems to smile. “I don’t think I can love anything more than them.”
“I can say the same.” you smiled back to him.
Before long, the sparks flared bright in the wind. The two of you rejoined everyone else in a few steps. Yuuji found himself crouched to hand it to one of the smaller children, steadying their wrist gently so the sparks didn’t scatter too wildly.
You watched him quietly. He looked exactly the same. The same shoulders. The same bright, open smile. The same easy energy in the way he moved. Decades have passed and things have changed in this world. The children are grown, the grandchildren are growing. You are too old, but your beloved Yuuji hasn't changed.
The contrast no longer hurts the way it once had. For years there has been a quiet tension between you. The strange unfairness of time pressing more heavily on one of you than the other. Now it simply felt like part of the story. It was just like the ocean. This ceaseless, endless run towards one direction. Finite in another.
Your son Wasuke suddenly waved from the sand. “Mom! Look!”
He spun a sparkler in a wide circle, creating a glowing ring in the air. You raised your hand in greeting, smiling. “I see you!”
Yuuji returned a moment later and lowered himself beside you on the driftwood. The wood creaked softly under his weight. He didn’t speak right away, and you soon followed suit. Instead, he just took in the need to have you close to him. The children’s laughter carried through the wind as they ran through the dark with their trails of light.
“Worth the trip?” he asked finally. His voice was quiet, far too gentle for your liking. It suddenly hurts to feel the tenderness against your ears. “Warm?”
You leaned your head against his shoulder. The fabric of his jacket was warm beneath your cheek. “Always.”
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of salt and faint smoke from the dying sparklers. Out on the sand, another one fizzled out with a soft hiss. Your granddaughter ran over suddenly and climbed into your lap before anyone could stop her.
“Grandma!”
You laughed in surprise. “What is it, dearest?”
She pointed excitedly toward Yuuji. “Can grandpa teach me how to make a heart?”
Your husband Yuuji found himself standing, taking sparklers from her. He grinned big at her. “I don’t see any reason why I wouldn’t, kiddo!”
“Hurray!”
Before long, your husband has lit the sparklers. Soon enough, he was trying to teach her the basics, all the while trying to make sure she was keeping a distance from the sparks. You intently watched and clapped when she did something clever.
“Okay, now….grandpa’s going to teach you how to make a heart. So pay attention, okay?”
Your granddaughter grinned and cheered. “Please teach me, grandpa!”
“Okay, okay, have patience.”
But that patience didn’t pay off even when one had it. Itadori Yuuji then spent nearly half an hour trying to prove to you, to your granddaughter, that he in fact could make a heart using sparklers. Still, each attempt didn’t pan out. Until this one.
“Look, grandma! Grandpa made a heart!”
It looked nothing like a heart.
More like a crooked X glowing in the dark.
You laughed anyway.
A warm laugh that surprised even you. And in that moment, it was almost like all the worries of the world faded away. With the sea breathing slowly in the dark, your family scattered across the sand, and Yuuji glowing in a flickering gold light, it felt like it was normal. Almost like this was something that would never end.
Eventually the last sparkler burned down to its final ember. The golden light faded. The children began to slow down and sit by the concrete benches scattered around the beach. In a matter of minutes, their calm tired yawns replaced all the excited energetic shouting.
Small feet dragged through the sand as the night air grew cooler. One by one they drifted back toward the stone steps leading up from the beach. Someone carried the waste of the wrappers in one bag. Another carried the empty sparkler bag like a prize.
One of the youngest had already fallen asleep against his Wasuke’s shoulder. Another had been leaning on both sides of Chouso’s body. Shoko nodded at her husband as he carried their youngest daughter, who was sleeping soundly in his arms.
Soon the beach grew quiet again.
Your daughter approached you slowly and knelt in front of you, brushing sand gently from your sleeve. “Mom, we’re gonna head on ahead and bring the kids back to bed.” she said softly to you. “Are you staying?”
You gave her a look. “Sho—”
“Great, dad can help you walk back, okay?”
You knew exactly what she was doing.
Giving you the time you need with Yuuji.
You squeezed her hand. “Alright.”
She hesitated for a moment longer. Her eyes flicked briefly to Yuuji. Then she stood and called the others. “Alright everyone, let’s go.”
Groans followed.
“I’m not tired!” one of Chouso’s older kids said.
“You were literally asleep two minutes ago!” Her cousin, Wasuke’s eldest, rebutted.
Slowly the small group climbed the steps toward the lantern-lit street.Their voices faded gradually into the night. There was lighter laughter and heavier footsteps. The faint murmur of parents guiding sleepy children home.
Until finally the beach was quiet again. Just the tide. And the two of you are sitting side by side beneath the dark Kamakura sky. Yuuji sat beside you in the dark, elbows resting on his knees. The ocean rolled in and out, steady as breathing. For a while neither of you spoke.
You had learned over the decades that silence between you was never empty.
Finally you said, softly, “Do you remember the first time we saw the sea together?”
He snorted a little. “You mean when I got dragged under by that wave?”
“You said you knew how to swim.”
“I do know how to swim!”
“You swallowed half the ocean.”
“That wave was cheating.”
You laughed again, quieter this time. It had been more than fifty years ago, on a cheap train trip with barely enough money for food. You had shared a single umbrella, a single room, a single future you were making up as you went.
Back then you hadn’t known he would outlive you. Back then you hadn’t known you would reach seventy-five. The wind shifted, bringing the salt smell closer. Yuuji glanced at you for a moment, almost taking in the sight of all the years that had made you the person he loved most.
“You’re tired.”
“A little.”
“You want to go back?”
“Not yet.”
He nodded. He always listened like that, like whatever you said mattered enough to wait for. You studied his face in the faint light. The same eyes, once again. The same soft expression he had when he looked at you, the one that had never changed, even after all the years.
“You never aged.” you said quietly.
He didn’t smile this time.
“I know.”
There had been fights about it once. In your forties, when the first gray hairs appeared. In your fifties, when strangers began assuming he was your son. In your sixties, when the grandchildren asked why their grandpa never got wrinkles even when his hair was turning white.
But those fights had passed.
Life had simply kept happening.
And you were finding a way to be content.
“Do you regret it?” you asked.
His head turned sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Being with me, staying like this.” you clarified. “Knowing how it ends.”
He stared out at the water. The answer came without hesitation. “Never.”
The word settled between you, firm and certain. A long wave rolled in and dissolved across the shore. You reached for his hand again. Your fingers were thinner now, skin lined and soft with age. His were still strong, warm, unchanged.
But he held yours the same way he always had for these many years of life together. He held your hand like you were everything that made his world. Like you were the most precious person in his life. Like you were the universe itself.
“Yuuji.” you murmured.
“Yeah?”
“When it happens…” Your voice faded. He waited. “…I can only hope that you don’t stay in that house too long.”
He frowned slightly. “That house is everything to me.”
“I know it is.” you shook your head. “But you’ll not live properly in a place holding so many memories.”
He looked down at your hands. “I’m allowed to remember.”
“You are.” you confirmed to him gently. “But you’re not allowed to stop living.”
A faint laugh escaped him. “That’s a tall order, isn’t it?”
“You married me.” you reminded him. “You’re used to impossible things.”
The tide crept closer to your feet. He finally nodded. “Okay.”
“Promise?”
“…I promise.”
The word felt heavy, but he meant it. You leaned against him again, closing your eyes briefly. The sound of the ocean filled the quiet. After a while he spoke again, softer than before. Softer than he had done his entire life.
“You know something?”
“What?”
“You always wanted to come back here when we were old.” he whispered to you. “We came here for our first trip alone together and you said you wanted to come back when we’re older.”
“I did?”
“Yeah. You said this place felt peaceful.”
You smiled faintly. “Then I picked the right trip.”
Yuuji looked at you for a long time. The wind tugged gently at your hair. Your breathing had slowed. He brushed a strand of silver from your face, finding the woman he loved, and still loved, after all this time. He smiled, almost too sadly that it broke your heart.
“You know….” he said quietly. “Having seventy-five years of you in this world isn’t ever going to be something that is enough.”
Your eyes opened again, warm and knowing. “It was never going to be. If it was the other way around….I would feel the way you do.”
“It still feels too short. And so incomplete and I just…..”
You squeezed his hand. “Yuuji.”
“Yeah?”
“It wasn’t short.”
The ocean breathed in, its waves caving in and crashing. Then receding, only to crash outward again. His eyes widened slightly, before he looked away. For a long moment neither of you said anything. Then you shifted slightly, turning your face toward him, smiling.
“Yuu-kun, my dear Yuu-kun.” Your voice was soft, but it carried the same warmth it always had. Your eyes gleamed tenderly at him, a small smile resting on your lips. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What is it, my dearest [name]?” he asked quietly.
He took your wrinkled hands into his, just like he had thousands of times before. His fingers traced the lines in your skin with the same careful affection he used when you were young, when your hands had been smooth and restless and always reaching for him.
“Do you still recognize the person you fell in love with?” you asked, smiling gently.
Yuuji blinked, clearly caught off guard. “It’s been so long, and I just….I know you feel it, and you look at me that way.” you continued softly. “But I just….I’ve gotten so old and now that time is—”
“What sort of question is that?” He shook his head immediately, the movement sharp, almost panicked. His lips trembled. “Of course I do. I recognize everything about you. All of it.”
“Yuuji…”
“You could be five hundred miles from me.” he said, voice thick with emotion. “You could be on another planet and I’d still recognize you. I’d only love you. I’d only recognize you and my love for you.”
His grip on your hands tightened slightly, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. “You’re everything to me, [name]. You always will be. You will always be worth everything.” he finished, barely above a whisper. “How could you not be?”
The wind moved through the quiet beach again.
You watched him carefully. Your husband. He remained to be that boy you will always remember loving. This man who will never age, the man who will spend lifetimes after you. And yet he remains there seated. Tears threaten to form in your eyes but you blinked them away. Your smile deepened.
“I’m glad then.” you murmured. Your voice was quiet, almost carried away by the wind coming off the sea.
Yuuji frowned faintly beside you, turning his head just enough to study your face in the dim light. “Why?”
You looked out at the water again. The tide rolled in slowly, silver foam stretching thin across the sand before retreating again into the dark. You had never looked more beautiful, and devastatingly so, as you remain there in his arms, under the moonlight.
“Because that means…” you said after a moment, your fingers resting loosely in his hand, “…You’ll remember me properly.”
The words hung between you, gentle but heavy with meaning. Yuuji could feel his throat tightened. His hand brushes against his white streaks as he takes it all in. The idea of remembering had never frightened him before.
Memory has always been something warm, everything about your life together in memories will always be warm. The photographs in the mind, old jokes retold at dinner tables, stories passed between generations. But now it feels different. Now it sounded too close to goodbye.
“I don’t want to remember you.” he said hoarsely. “I don’t just want to remember you.” The words came out before he could soften them. He looks devastated. “I want you to stay.”
His hand tightened instinctively around yours, as if he could hold you there by sheer will alone. As if refusing the idea might somehow make it untrue. You turned toward him slowly, your age keeping up with your movements.
The move took a little more effort than it once had, but your smile remained soft and patient. It was the same expression he had seen countless times across a lifetime. You lifted one hand and touched his cheek.
The warmth of his skin hadn’t changed in fifty years. It was still smooth. And it will always be like this. Everything about him is still alive with the quiet energy that time had never managed to touch.
“You already kept me longer than the world would have promised.”
Yuuji closed his eyes briefly at the touch. His chest rose and fell slowly. When he opened them again, they shone faintly in the darkness. “That wasn’t long enough.”
The words were almost stubborn, as they always have been. Like the boy he had once been, the one who believed problems could be solved simply by refusing to accept them. You smiled at that familiar stubbornness.
“Maybe not, Yuu-kun.” you agreed softly. Your gaze drifted back toward the ocean. “But time is the greatest thief.” The tide rolled in again, patient and inevitable. “And yet it’s also the most merciful giver.”
The wind moved gently through your silver hair as you spoke. You smiled at him. “If time had not been so generous…we would not have had the life we had.”
You thought of all the years folded quietly behind you in that moment, coming in flashes that made you long for them with nostalgia in your heart. First apartments with leaky ceilings. Late nights rocking crying babies. Family dinners so loud the neighbors once complained.
The way Yuuji used to fall asleep halfway through movies because he insisted on working too hard during the day. The day your daughter first rode a bicycle without falling. Your son’s terrible haircut phase in middle school.
The day your kids each announced that they were all getting married. The day they all went off and achieved the things they wanted. The first time each and every grandchild wrapped their tiny fingers around yours.
All the ordinary days.
All the little moments that built a life.
Another wave rolled toward the shore.
Foam spread thin across the sand before dissolving quietly back into the sea. Yuuji followed your gaze. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then his fingers tightened gently around your hand again. As if he were trying to memorize the shape of it.
“I love you.” He whispers against you. “Five hundred miles, or to the universe, I love you.”
Tears finally fell from your eyes. “I love you too.”
Synopsis: in which popular girl!reader is done with shitty players and wants to try the newest delicacy: virgin nerds. It’s game on to seduce the physics student, who seems more than ready to abandon his life of celibacy.
But their arrangement only works if they’re both on the same page. What happens when one expects a little more than sex?
Is it game over?
Warnings: eventual smut, plot with porn, fake dating trope, college au, no curses au, mean girl!reader, fem dom!reader, nerd!jo, subby!gojo, virgin!gojo, masochist!gojo, some angst but with a happy ending, very early 2000s romcoms, reader grows a lot (hate towards her will not be tolerated), reader gets humbled quite often here lol, chapter specific warnings will be listed on the chapter, some allusions to toxic/unhealthy relationships and coping, not proofread
Word Count: 41k
Gojo art by @/Leimiruu on X
Chapter ONE - Game start
Chapter TWO - Different levels
Chapter THREE - Boss fight
Chapter FOUR - Perfect victory
Disclaimers:
♤ COMPLETED
♤ Available on AO3.
♤ This is a mix of fluff, smut and angst, so minors/ageless blogs do not interact.
♤ Any comments hating on the reader in this story will be deleted and the user will be blocked. The story plays on the mean girl trope so you will see mean girl behaviour. Just know this is all intentional. If you are sensitive to a flawed female character, do not read. I know what some of you are like. I have played these games before.
♤ This is a college au separate from my EdenU au. Different Gojo and university setting altogether. Any semblance is coincidental.
♤ Every part of this is of my own work. No AI or external inspiration was used. Please do not repost this on Tumblr or on any other platform without credits. I do not give permission for this to be translated. And please do not feed my work into AI.
nerdjo’s a fool for his pretty, high maintenance girlfriend.
I. PRINCESS MELTDOWN #107 : “BUT TORU, I DON’T GET IT..”
11:57 am location: SC/MATH 3020 (Vari Hall, Room B)
you’re supposed to be solving laplace equations. instead, you’re sending satoru doodles of you pregnant with his child.
satoru gojo is jacques marie mage glasses & messy blanche hair & forearms thicker than his head. he should be studying—god, he should be, but his pretty girl is texting him mid-lecture & satoru’s something of a fool for you so he foolishly decides, who is he not to reply ?
and his replies are earnest. always earnest. too punctuated, too grammatically correct.
toruu : You’re the cutest girl in the world.
toruu : Pay attention, okay?
his first message makes your heart swelter & bloom. the second makes it drop to your ass.
but satoru gojo is honey mouthed & heart-achingly sweet. and when your boyfriend asks you to focus so sweetly, how could you not obey?
so you open your notebook & close it right back.
you : toru i tried :( i don’t get ittttrt
toruu : Send me the question.
and you do. along with a selfie of your cute pout, of course. satoru’s reply comes in in an instant:
toruu : Gorgeous girl.
toruu : Okay, try isolating the variable first.
you do as he says. satoru’s instructions always come easy-sweet. sugar coated & simplified like he’s talking to the softest girl in the world. & perhaps he is.
toruu : Good. Now distribute.
toruu : Yes. That’s it. Keep going.
toruu : That’s perfect, baby. My smart girl.
your cheeks grow mushy & sticky & heart-wrenchingly soft.
satoru gojo is going to be the death of you.
II. PRINCESS MELTDOWN #126 : LOVER BOYS DON’T IGNORE THEIR GIRLFRIENDS !
time : 1:48 pm. location: york lanes ( indoor mall )
“satoru hasn’t texted me in fifteen minutes.”
“they faces killing me why nobody give a fuck.”
you ignore shoko & her bitter response. you’d rather die than argue with a bitch & her bad bob. you lean to rest your head on suguru’s shoulder, who’s much more empathetic & strokes your hair lovingly.
“isn’t he tutoring right now?”
and he is. somewhere across campus, in a cramped corner of the scott library, gojo satoru is bleary-eyed & suffering.
he’s supposed to be explaining calculus to confused first year yuuji itadori. but his phone, face-up & gleam-screened on the mahogany table, hums and vibrates with desperation.
1 new message: princess 🧸💗 1 new message: princess 🧸💗 1 new message: princess 🧸💗
satoru’s jaw is tight. there’s crescent shaped crevices in his palms & his knuckles rouse rash red. his focus flickers. he catches a glimpse of your latest message: the preview of a selfie, that low adorable angle where you’re peering at your phone from under your lashes & your lips jut out in a ‘where are youuu’ pout.
fuck.
“uhh, gojo?” yuuji’s biting his pencil again before he points it at the vibrating device. “aren’t you gonna answer that..? i dunno, it looks important.”
it is important. it’s you. but if satoru answers now, poor yuuji’s paid tutoring session would immediately be over.
“it’s fine, yuuji. let’s focus on finding the derivative.”
and it is fine. because gojo satoru is a man of logic. a man of discipline. a man of pa—
princess 🧸💗: i always knew you’d get tired of me one day
princess 🧸💗: it’s okay. thank you for everything toru 👍
gojo satoru grabs the phone faster than you can say go pandas! his thumbs fly over the screen, ever precise, ever trembling.
toruu: Baby, please don’t say that.
toruu: I’m almost done. I’ll be with you in ten minutes. I’ll buy you that Drake meal you wanted.
toruu: I love you. Please wait for me?
back at the mall you’re reading his text. and god, your heart bubbles up like soda pop. “he’s coming,” you murmur into suguru’s shoulder, scrolling past his text without a reply.
“great!” shoko cheers with fake enthusiasm, taking a puff of her vape (suguru’s complaining that the pineapple & kiwi she blows make his poutine taste sour-ish, & she shouldn’t be vaping anyway, but guess what? shoko doesn’t care!)
“now can we stop acting like it’s the summer hikaru died?”
“no.”
instagram’s algorithm is always on your side. you’ve opened the reels tab to find a video of a rainy window, a quote captioned over it: ‘if he wanted to, he would. silence is a choice.’ simple. short. effective.
you add it to your story. suguru catches a glimpse of your screen & chuckles.
“y/n,” he sings your name, tutting. “you’re gonna give the boy a heart attack before he even hits the common area.”
“he deserves it.”
satoru gojo has already viewed your story. he shows up within the next five minutes.
III. PRINCESS MELTDOWN #167: BABY, I’M BORED.
time : 3:58 pm. location: science & engineering building
there’s solution bubbling pink in a flask. in lab four, the air’s sticky with the sweat of too many boys with glasses & a half-drunk energy drink rotting in the corner.
gojo satoru is huddled over a circuit board with two other boys who look like they haven’t seen sunlight in days.
nerd #1 points at the monitor : “if we adjust the frequency here,” he’s muttering, “the entire wave function collapses. it’s an impossible solve, gojo.”
“it’s not impossible. you’re just missing the constant.”
gojo satoru is the god of lab four; formulas on his fingers & equations on his tongue. he’s leaning over now, fingers on the screen when the heavy steel door swings open,
“hi, toru!”
you’re all soft perfume & clicky heels & smile as sweet as sugar. satoru’s head snaps up instantly—his glasses slip down his nose, & he flicks them back upward, eyes glimmering in the fluorescent light.
“hi sweetheart,” he breathes, “you’re here early.”
the other nerds are staring now, and for good reason. how did gojo satoru—who’s paperbacks & friday nights spent bent over research papers—pull a pretty thing like you ?
“are you doing science ?” you’re already across the room, arms around his neck as his palms press you flush against him from the side. your perfume’s sticky in his lungs. “why’s that line so squiggly? you guys should make it straight. it’d be much prettier.”
nerd #4 winces. “actually, that’s a representation of—“
“you’re right, baby. it would look prettier. have a seat, okay?”
you hum an okay! & plop yourself down on his lap. nerd number 3 & 2 exchange glances. nerd #1 asks, god, me when ?
the group discussion starts up again. satoru is half-science half-yours—his thumb traces circles on your thigh as your feet kick in his lap, & you’re asking one too many questions while satoru tries—tries to pay attention.
“toru, what does this button do?”
“that’s the power supply, baby. please don’t touch it.”
“but it’s glowing. can you make it glow pink ? i think it should glow pink.”
“noted. you’re squirming, princess.”
and you are. nerd #4 wonders how you’re still balanced. the discussion continues but you’re a constant background noise of ‘toru, look at this tiktok’, and ‘baby, i think the lighting’s washing me out.’ you try to touch a wire. gojo catches your hand mid-air & cups it with a kiss.
you flop against his chest. “satoru, i’m bored.”
& satoru is tired. exhausted, really. he’s fighting the rash creeping up his neck as nerds one to four watch you pout in his lap like a spoiled child. “i want matcha. can we go get some?”
you can’t. because this is a project due in twelve hours. because satoru has only so much time to lock in—
“alright, let’s go.”
nerd #3 is distraught: “huh—?! gojo, you can’t leave now, we’re in the middle of a breakthrough!”
satoru doesn’t even look around. he’s smoothing your skirt after you hop off his lap, your bag already slung over his shoulder. he’s leading you out by the hand; “sorry guys. i’ll send my solution to the group chat. brief me on the updates later?”
the door swings shut. nerds one to four are in awe.
↬ summary: gojo satoru was a storm—reckless, untouchable, and wholly unwilling to be bound by duty. you, the viscount’s daughter, were everything he was not—poised, dutiful, the perfect noble. an arranged marriage should have been nothing more than a cold alliance, but nothing with gojo was ever simple. by day, you wage a quiet war of sharp words and tense silences. by night, you are drawn into a far more dangerous game. one of courtly intrigue, betrayal, and a conspiracy that could shatter all you know. for a while, you both pretend it’s only politics, only necessity. but gojo has never been one for rules, and when the line between duty and desire blurs, you’ll find that some battles aren’t meant to be won. they’re meant to be surrendered to.
↬ genre: jjk x regency era au; bridgerton au; arranged marriage au; drama; romance; angst and then fluff; slowburn basically; happy ending i promise but it takes angst to get there.
↬ warnings: nsfw; alcohol; mentions of pregnancy; mentions of fencing; corruption kink lowkey; mirror sex; carriage sex; p in v; oral (fem receiving); fingering; angsty !!!! etc
↬ word count: 25.5k.
↬ note: part two to my brain child. @gojover ily forever and always :3
↬ navigation: part one, jjk masterlist.
Present, Highgrove House.
It has been three days.
Three long, cloistered days since the masquerade at the Marquess Ieiri’s estate—the night when the chandeliers glimmered like stars and the music was so lovely it almost made you forget the weight of your own name. Since the ball ended in silence, in whispers, in scandal. Since the paper came.
You sit at your writing desk, spine straight, hands still, the air around you thick with the scent of lavender oil your mother insisted be applied to calm your nerves. As if perfume could unwrite disgrace. The window is open, but the curtains are drawn, and a breeze stirs the edges of the paper resting in front of you like a ghost just beginning to wake.
You haven’t touched it since that morning. Haven’t dared to. You’ve just been staring. Staring at the crisp, expensive print of the Quill, like it's something foreign, alien, capable of betraying you simply by existing. You remember how it was delivered. Silver tray, linen gloves, a footman with eyes politely turned down, even though you knew he'd already read it. Everyone had.
Your mother hasn’t spoken to you in full sentences since. Her disapproval is quiet now, but no less punishing. It lives in her eyes. It lives in the hallway, because you are not to go out of your room. It lives in the drawing room, where she receives no guests. Where she smiles thinly through closed windows when carriages pass by.
Shoko and Utahime came yesterday. Loyal, warm, loud-mouthed girls who still believed this could be mended. They brought flowers and lemon cake, but your mother turned them away after tea, with all the calm and cruelty of a hostess shooing away the stench of something rotten. “She is resting,” she said. “She’s not to be disturbed.”
But you were listening from the stairs. You wanted to be disturbed.
You are a pariah now. A woman no longer whispered about in curiosity, but in caution. The type of girl mothers point out at parties so their daughters know what not to do. And it’s not even because of what you did—it’s because of how it looked. Because you left the ballroom. Because he followed. Because no one else was there to confirm anything, and so everyone assumes everything.
The Duke of Six Eyes. And you. On a balcony. Alone.
You lower your gaze to the article again. It lies open on your desk like a patient on the operating table. You know every sentence. Every phrase. You know the rhythm and the scorn, the barely-concealed venom beneath the lace of polite language. The words had come easily. Too easily.
Let us hope wedding bells come before the ruin does.
That line alone had traveled faster than any carriage. Mothers had gasped. Fathers had frowned. Daughters had clutched their fans, eyes alight with hungry joy. Because it wasn’t about you, not really. Not to them. It was about what you represented: the unraveling of someone prettier, smarter, better. You, the girl who had once worn the season like a crown. And now here you were, being eaten alive by your own myth.
You press your palms to your thighs. Try to breathe. Try to pretend you hadn’t written it. That someone else had.
But that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it? Because you did. And no one knows.
You try to console yourself with the notion that, perhaps, this is the better outcome. That in the grand scheme of things—reputation tarnished, invitations rescinded, your mother pacing the drawing room like a woman betrayed by fate—at least no one suspects you’re the Phantom. No one could imagine that the girl locked inside her home, disgraced and discarded, had ever penned those biting words, that she had whispered scandal into the ears of the ton with the sharpness of a dagger dressed in velvet.
This is the lesser evil, you tell yourself. Over and over.
And yet, it still pricks. The silence. Gojo’s silence. His absence. Three days have passed, and not a single letter. Not a flower, not a raven, not a knock on the door. You don’t even know what you would say if he did come. Whether you’d scream at him or fall to pieces in his arms. Whether you’d admit that you kissed him and then wrote about it in the third person, hoping to save yourself by damning the memory.
Your mother watches you like she’s watching the slow ruin of a once-favored gown, threads pulled loose by foolish fingers. She doesn't shout. She doesn't need to. Her silence is a punishment sharper than words.
And the only one who tries—truly tries—is Yuji. He comes in with arms full of pastries from the corner bakery and jokes that don’t land, and makes exaggerated attempts to dance with the footman until you almost laugh. Almost. But even he doesn't know what to do with your grief. You see it in his eyes. In the way he holds your hand a second longer than needed, as if to say he wished he knew how to fix this.
But he doesn’t. No one does. Because they don’t know what you've done. They don’t know who you really are.
That evening, the silver glints dull beneath the candlelight as you reach for your water glass. But the dining room is oppressively quiet. It has been like this for the past few days—each meal a silent, calculated exercise in civility. The clink of forks against porcelain. The hesitant lifting of soup spoons. The sharp, faint scratch of your father’s knife slicing through roast.
And then your mother clears her throat.
It is not a gentle clearing, not a casual sound to free her voice—it is sharp, intentional, a prompt. A summoning. She looks at your father, a subtle incline of her head, a tightness in her jaw. He sets his cutlery down with just a little too much force, and clears his own throat in response. Yuji pauses with his bread halfway to his mouth. You look between them, your stomach a knot. You know something is coming.
“We are hosting a fête at Hyde Park,” your father says finally. His voice is careful, practiced. “This coming weekend.”
You blink, looking at him. He does not meet your eyes—his gaze already returned to his plate, as though what he has said is trivial, administrative.
You glance at your mother. “What about the Duke?” you ask slowly, your voice barely above a whisper.
“The Duke and your father had a verbal agreement,” she replies with clipped precision, each word knotted with cold disdain. “After this ridiculous scandal, we must salvage what we can.”
Your mouth parts, your brows knit. “That’s not fair,” you say, voice shaking slightly now. “You and I both know it. The ton won’t believe anything unless we make it feel true. There must be appearances, affection, connection. Not just obligations. If we make it look romantic—”
Your mother slams her glass onto the table. Not hard enough to break, but hard enough to make you jump.
“But it isn’t romantic, is it?” she spits. “It isn’t real. I raised you better than this. Better than to slip away with a man in the dark, to a balcony, with no chaperone. God knows what the two of you did there.”
“We spoke,” you hiss. “That’s all. He... he listened to me. Which is more than I can say for either of you.”
The silence after is electric. Yuji shifts slightly in his seat, uncomfortable. Your father says nothing. Your mother stares at you like she doesn’t recognize you. Her voice, when she speaks again, is laced with something curdled and sharp.
“How dare you speak to your mother like that?” she says, rising to her feet. Her hands are trembling against the tablecloth. “You go to your chambers this instant.”
You stand, slowly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. You place your fork and knife down on the plate, too carefully, almost shaking. The china shudders beneath the weight. You turn, leaving the room without another word, your heart pounding in your throat.
You take the stairs two at a time, not because you're in a hurry, but because you can’t trust yourself to walk with dignity. Your fists clench at your sides. Your eyes blur. You refuse to let the tears fall here—not where they can see. The door slams behind you harder than intended, echoing like a slap across a cheek. You glance back just once—Yuji’s eyes meet yours from down the hallway. Not your parents’.
Never your parents’.
And then the room is quiet. Too quiet. The only sound is your breath, shallow and uneven, and the faint echo of your shame.
You’ve been lying still for hours now. The curtains are half drawn, and the sky beyond your chamber window is starless—an inky, unbroken dark. You don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, you keep your gaze fixed on the linden tree outside, where the swing sways gently in the night wind. You think of everything and nothing. You think of the column you finished earlier: a benign, delicately worded piece about the upcoming fête, a light-hearted nod to a young gentleman’s garden proposal. You wrote it slowly, methodically, because it was easier to write about someone else’s happiness than to wonder why your own had been so quiet these past days.
Because he hadn’t written. He hadn’t come. Gojo Satoru, who made entire rooms feel too bright with his presence, had gone completely silent.
You try not to dwell on it. Because if you do, you will spiral. You will remember the way his breath caught when he said your name. The way his hands trembled just slightly when they touched your waist. The way he said goodbye without saying goodbye at all.
So you don’t think. You simply lie there.
Until the sound comes.
A sharp, sudden thunk against the glass. Not loud, but just wrong enough to set your whole body on edge. You sit up too quickly, a jolt of alarm running down your spine. And then it comes again, more urgent this time. You push the blankets aside and cross the room barefoot, your dressing gown whispering across the floor behind you.
You ease the window open, the old hinges creaking like something wounded. And there, in the yard, under the silhouette of the linden tree, you see him.
Satoru. The Duke. His white hair glints faintly in the moonlight, and he is standing just where the tree splits, beside the swing your father had once ordered strung up when you were six. You remember tugging at his sleeve and saying you wanted to fly. Now, all you feel is the dizzying weight of having fallen.
He looks up, and when he lifts his hand, something in your chest unknots.
You lean out, voice hoarse from disuse. “What are you doing here?”
“Did you not get my letters?” he calls, brows drawn together, voice tight with something frantic and raw. You freeze. “What letters?”
His jaw clenches, and then he exhales a breath of near disbelief. “Dear God, how cruel is the Viscountess?”
A pause. A beat. And then, "Can you come down?"
You don’t answer. You nod, once, and pull the window closed.
You move on instinct, quietly opening your chamber door and making your way down the corridor. The house is still. The air is heavy. You step softly, your bare feet silent on the stairs, your heart anything but. You don't bother with shoes. You don't bother with a shawl. The only thing that matters is getting outside. Getting to him.
When you emerge from the side door into the courtyard, the world feels unnaturally quiet. You pass the swing, still moving slightly, as though it had been disturbed only moments ago. He turns the second he sees you, and his entire posture softens. The tension in his shoulders vanishes. He looks like he’s been holding his breath since the night of the masquerade.
And then, his voice. Gentle, almost boyish in its tenderness. “Are you alright?”
You stop a foot away from him. His eyes flicker over your face, searching for something. An answer, a wound, a sign. But the wound is deeper than that. So is the answer.
“Do you want me to lie or tell you the truth?” you ask quietly, the words barely breaking the hush of night. You don’t wait for an answer as you walk toward the swing. It creaks faintly as you settle onto it, the ropes groaning against the branch overhead. You don’t look back to see if he follows. You assume he won’t. You expect him to stay standing, half in moonlight, half in shadow, because that’s where he belongs—half-truths, half-promises, always somewhere in between.
But then you feel the shift. A weight beside you. The warmth of him, close but not quite touching.
“I’d never want you to lie to me, darling,” he says softly. That word again. Darling. As though nothing between you has unraveled. As though you are still exactly what you were before the Phantom—you—wrote that damned line. Before the ton decided you were a ruined woman.
You keep your gaze fixed ahead. Past the swing. Past the tree. Past the soft swell of earth where the grass folds in on itself. You do not trust yourself to meet his eyes. You do not trust yourself to remember how to breathe if you do. But you glance anyway.
He’s already looking at you, as if he never stopped. His eyes are patient. Not pleading. Not angry. Just quietly, achingly, there. You exhale, unsteady. “I was terrified,” you whisper. The admission is small, but it tastes enormous.
He doesn’t flinch. “Understandably so,” he says, voice gentle, like something carried in cupped hands. “I sent you four letters the first day.” A pause. “When you didn’t reply, I sent five more the next. And three after that. I thought... perhaps your mother confiscated them in case the Phantom could find out.”
“Twelve letters?” you ask, your voice catching on a smile that wants to live but can’t quite find room in your chest. “In three days?”
He shrugs, the motion elegant and deliberately careless. “Call me smitten.”
“Are you?”
That stops him. Or maybe it unmoors him. You’re not sure which. He turns his body slightly toward you, not all the way, but enough that the side of his leg brushes yours, barely, like an afterthought. His lashes dip with the breeze, and for a moment, it’s just breath between you. Breath and silence and everything you haven’t said.
“Aren’t I?” he says finally, low, certain.
You swallow. The words hang in the air like condensation, like something half-solid. You look away again, the weight of it too much. “How did you get into the courtyard?” you ask, if only to say something.
He hums, brushing his shoulder against yours, an answer without force. “It’s not hard to bribe a footman,” he says, almost smiling. “Especially when you’re a Duke.”
There’s a beat. Then you speak again, without looking at him. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I did,” he says. “Because if you asked me again—‘Are you?’—I would still say it. Again and again. Aren’t I?”
And this time, when you meet his eyes, you don’t look away.
You purse your lips, fingers knotting loosely in the folds of your dressing gown. The words leave your mouth more bitter than you mean them to. “My parents are throwing a fête at Hyde Park this weekend. We have five more days of suffering until the ton shifts its feeble attention from my ruined reputation to my mother’s tireless heroism. Apparently, she's saving me from becoming a harlot.”
The air stills between you. The kind of silence that thickens before it breaks.
Satoru smiles faintly, more rue than warmth, and then exhales, slow and shallow. “And what am I to do at this fête to make them believe I’m hopelessly taken with you?” His voice is gentle, but there's a tension running under it. The kind that suggests he’s speaking past the question, asking something much deeper.
You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “You're hopelessly taken with me?”
He flinches, barely, as if it wounds him. Feigns indignation a second later. “Darling,” he says, softly and steadily now, “a man wouldn’t write you twelve letters in three days, send flowers chosen for meanings he researched himself, or sneak into your courtyard under a watchful moon—during a scandal, no less—if he didn’t…”
He falters. Just long enough for the truth to slip past his guard. His voice softens again. “If he didn’t love you.”
You go still. The words hang there. Fragile and too large for the space they occupy. You blink once, slowly, trying to breathe through the tightness blooming in your chest. He doesn’t look away. His gaze holds steady, clear and unyielding.
“You...” You breathe, not quite able to finish the sentence. “You love me.”
There’s a half-second where something flickers in him, as if he hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud. He blinks, his lashes wet from the wind. And then he laughs. A dry, breathless thing. “I didn’t intend to say it like that. Quite anticlimactic, isn’t it?” His lips twitch into something resembling a smile, but it’s laced with nerves. “I imagine this is not what you pictured when you asked me for a proper courtship.”
You don’t speak. Not at first. You sit there, staring at him—at this man who is all contradictions, who carries titles and expectations and yet stumbles through love like a boy. And something inside you shifts, just slightly, just enough.
You reach out. Not with words, but with your hand, gentle against his sleeve. His eyes meet yours again, and this time, they’re wide with something vulnerable, something almost childlike.
“I didn’t want perfect,” you whisper. “Just honest.”
He watches you for a long moment before he speaks, his voice hushed with something brittle, like he’s afraid it will shatter the stillness between you. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for following you into the balcony that night.”
It’s said gently, but there’s an edge to it. Guilt tangled with longing, remorse tinged with hope. You turn to look at him, fully now, and for a beat, you don’t respond. You’re watching his profile, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch as though unsure of what to do with themselves. As though he wants to reach for you, but won’t unless you allow it.
And then, finally, you smile. It blooms slowly. Tentative at first, then warm, then utterly full. “It’s no matter,” you whisper, your voice thick in your throat. “I wouldn’t have known what it felt like… to kiss the man I love if you hadn’t followed me onto that balcony.”
There’s a silence so sharp it almost hurts. It draws itself tight between you. His head turns, slowly. His eyes widen. Not dramatically, but just enough for you to see the shift. The full weight of your words lands on him like a sudden gust of wind, catching him off balance. And you see it clearly: the disbelief, the hope, the fear that he has misheard. That he’s allowed himself to believe too much.
He stares at you, his breath visibly trembling as it escapes him. “I hope you know,” he says finally, voice hoarse, like it’s caught in his throat, “I stopped breathing for a moment when you said that.”
You laugh, softly, but it’s not mocking. It’s trembling at the edges. “I hope you know,” you say, drawing your knees up to your chest, hands curled at your ankles, “I couldn’t breathe either. Not when you said it first.”
And then, the tension dissolves. Not all at once. Not like a string snapping, but slowly, like a pressure valve being loosened. Like the breath you’ve both been holding for far too long is finally allowed to exhale.
He leans forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours, the tips of his fingers brushing against your knee. There’s no rush to kiss, no sudden swell of music. Just the knowledge that something sacred has passed between you. It's irrevocable. It's something neither of you dares name again too quickly, as if saying it once was enough, and more than enough.
The next afternoon, Gunter's Tea Shop in Berkeley Square, London.
“The Phantom released the article about the Viscount's fête this morning,” Utahime says, her voice low and tightly clipped. “At least that wretched wench didn’t say anything outrageous about you this time.”
You press your lips together and dip your spoon delicately into the small glass dish of rose ice cream, letting the cool pink mound dissolve slowly against your tongue. You nod, pretending to mull over her words when in truth, you are thinking only of the ink that stained your fingers when you wrote those vile words about yourself—how it refused to come off in the morning, how your name looked so sharp and elegant in print.
Two tables away, your mother laughs too brightly with Shoko’s and Utahime’s mothers, a hand fluttering to her chest like a pale moth. They sit beneath the sage green awning, teacups in hand, surrounded by other women in shades of cream and lemon, and the occasional gentleman in fitted coats who glances over with a kind of casual, habitual curiosity. You are used to it—the way they look at you. Not with desire, not anymore, but with expectation. As if waiting for a performance to begin again.
“I still can’t believe she praised you so thoroughly at the start of the season and then... that. Out of nowhere,” Shoko says, swirling her tea idly as she watches you with eyes that miss nothing. “At this point, I almost want to know who she is. Just so I can send her horse dung. Or spill milk through her letterbox.”
You nearly choke on the ice cream. The spoon clangs gently against the glass, and both girls look up, though neither seems overly concerned. You recover fast enough to avoid suspicion. The laugh you offer is thin. “I don’t think I’d want to know anything about her. The less I know, the better.”
“How utterly boring,” Utahime murmurs, plucking a raspberry from her plate and inspecting it before placing it in her mouth. “I’d send her a dozen letters lined with the purest vitriol. Maybe lace them with perfume and powdered rage. She also mentioned that bit about me slipping in the ballroom and Nanami catching me.” Her gaze flicks to you, narrowed. “That was hardly newsworthy.”
Shoko sets down her teacup with a small, decisive clink. “Any word from the Duke?”
You straighten slightly. “Yes,” you say, voice light but careful. “He appeared in the courtyard last night. Bribed the footman. He’s sent twelve letters in the last three days.”
Shoko’s smile is slight but sharp. “Your mother is slowly becoming just as cruel as the Phantom.”
You swallow hard, as if you do not understand what she does not mean. The dark little crease folded into her words like a pressed flower between pages. But you do understand. And worse: it makes sense. In that terrifying, private way that truths only you know often do.
You lean forward, elbows lightly touching the edge of the linen-covered table. Your voice drops into something more fragile, more deliberate, and both girls respond the way they always do—Shoko arching a brow with amusement barely disguised as detachment, Utahime still too earnest to pretend she isn’t hanging on your every breath.
“There is… one more thing.”
Their shoulders tilt inward. You close your eyes, just for a moment. It is not for dramatic effect—it is, rather, the only way you can steel yourself. Your breath catches in your throat like a ribbon being drawn tight.
“He said he loves me.”
The words are small, almost shy. But they land like an aria. Utahime gasps. Not shrill, not childish—but loud enough that three heads turn in unison. Your mother, resplendent in lavender silk, squints suspiciously in your direction. Shoko’s mother says something behind a teacup, and your mother forces a laugh. But the tightening at the corners of her mouth betrays her.
You shoot Utahime a withering look. Shoko, without glancing away from you, reaches beneath the table and delivers a sharp, practiced pinch.
Utahime’s mouth snaps shut. You exhale, a whisper escaping with the next revelation. “I said it back.”
For a moment, they both stare at you. Neither scoffing, neither doubting. Just quiet, giddy awe. As if they know the gravity of such a thing. As if they understand how rare it is to say it and mean it, to hear it and believe it.
Shoko leans back, amused. “You’ve grown into such a bold woman,” she says, mock-reverent, and lifts her teacup in a tiny, invisible toast. “'Hime, if you so much as squeak again, I will kick you hard enough to knock your stocking garters out of place.”
“I’m trying,” Utahime mutters through clenched teeth, reaching for her cake with something close to desperation. She stabs her fork into the raspberry cream and takes a resolute bite.
You laugh then—quiet, contained—but it feels real.
After half an hour, your mother begins her retreat, masked in the practiced grace of social obligation. She is making excuses artfully, to remove you from the crowd, from the warmth of laughter and companionship, from the subtle but undeniable attention you’ve begun to draw again. She murmurs something about needing to visit Hatchard’s—to collect your father’s volumes on parliamentary history, and, pointedly, to procure something poetic for you, as if that might remind you to behave like a girl worth writing sonnets about.
You smile at Shoko and Utahime. Not joyfully, not even convincingly, but enough to satisfy the performance of it, then bow your head politely to their mothers, whose eyes, you feel, have never quite left your figure.
Then you are in the carriage, and your mother’s voice, once syrupy and social, sharpens like a knife. “What were you doing in there?” she hisses, the words so bitter they practically blister. “Laughing? Gossiping? While I’m out here sewing together the scraps of your reputation?”
“We just talked,” you murmur, gaze fixed on the passing blur of shops and parasols outside. The glass is warm where the sun catches it. You imagine being anywhere but here. Your mother sighs, long and theatrical. And begins a tirade you’ve heard so many times the syllables barely register. Something about your fall from grace. Something about dignity and self-control. Something about how you were once the season’s prized possession, and now you are something dulled, tarnished, unworthy of the settings once offered to you.
But you are not listening. You are thinking of last night. Of the Duke. Of the wild, impossible thing he said with his hands still trembling and his breath uneven—I love you. And worse: how you said it back.
At Hatchard’s, she strides ahead, elegant and exacting, giving orders at the counter about your father’s precious editions. “Wait here,” she commands, not glancing back. You nod dutifully, already drifting away.
The shop is dimly lit toward the back, dust moats caught in the slant of early afternoon light. You move without thinking, fingers trailing across the worn spines—books of sermons, scandal, feminism, philosophy.
And then, a glint of silver. A figure that is lean, familiar, almost out of place among the cracked leather bindings. You freeze. And in that suspended breath between recognition and response, the quiet, heavy weight of anticipation settles into your bones.
“I had a footman stationed at the ice cream parlour while passing it en route to the palace this morning,” he says absently, eyes trailing the gilded spine of a Byron edition. “Saw you and the Viscountess by the window. Thought it wise to orchestrate a timely appearance. For her benefit, of course.”
You stifle a laugh, glance to your left and right to ensure no familiar eyes linger, and step closer. The air between you tightens—not scandalous, not improper, but something soft and secretive all the same. Your shoulders brush as the two of you face the towering mahogany shelves like confidants in quiet rebellion.
“One might say you’re an impertinent fellow of ill repute,” you murmur, turning your attention toward the philosophy section. Your fingers find a new bound Mary Wollstonecraft book—A Vindication of the Rights of Woman—and you lift it with care, your gaze lowered to its burgundy cover.
Behind you, he chuckles. “You’re alright?” he asks, voice gentler now. You nod, but it’s a brittle thing. “If you consider bearing witness to my mother’s theatrical lament on my fall from grace, how I was once a diamond of the season, and now I’m Icarus mid-plummet, then yes. Perfectly alright.”
“She’s rather fond of dramatics, isn’t she?” he says, turning to look at you fully now. His eyes flit to the book in your hands. “I never took you for a radical.”
“Everyone should be a radical, Your Grace,” you reply quietly, lifting your chin. “And if reading this makes me one, then I’m already behind on my studies.”
He smiles at that, something glinting in his expression. Half pride, half awe. “I see now why your mother despises when you act of your own volition.”
“And yet,” you say softly, “I’m still standing.”
A beat. And then: “I have a copy of all her writings. Wollstonecraft’s. If you’d like, I can send them over. Via footman, of course.”
You blink, startled by the offer. By how casually he makes it, as though sharing sacred texts were a simple thing. Your heart hitches. “You do?”
He nods, as if it costs him nothing to hand you entire revolutions.
And just when you are about to say yes, just when the softest edges of something warm begin to settle in your chest, you hear her voice.
“Your Grace.”
You turn, too fast. Eyes wide. Breath caught. Your mother appears from between the shelves like smoke rising from scorched silk—elegant, composed, but furious in the way only a woman with power over your life can be. Her eyes cut to Gojo with a diplomat’s charm, all surface and calculation. But when they land on you, the temperature drops. It is the kind of stare that sears beneath the skin.
“Viscountess.” Gojo inclines his head with just the right measure of politeness and ease. “I was merely informing your daughter that I’d be sending along a few books she seemed fond of. We appear to share taste in authors.”
You swallow hard. Too hard. The muscles in your throat tighten against the tension stretching in your chest. You feel yourself retreating inward while their voices float past you, muffled, distorted. Something about politics. Something about propriety. The sound of your own heartbeat begins to blur their words. You are still trying to breathe when Gojo’s shoulder brushes yours so gently it might have been imagined.
“I had something to ask of you, my lady,” he says then, and though he looks at you for a breath of a second, it is your mother he addresses. His voice is calm, almost careless. He is playing a long game, you realise.
“Yes, anything,” your mother replies, sweet as overripe fruit, while her fingers curl tighter around the parasol in her hand, as if she might strike you with it if no one were watching. Her smile holds.
Satoru’s gaze drifts back to her with diplomatic patience. “I wondered if we might take supper at my estate before the fête. I’ve been hoping to speak with the Viscount—your husband—but my schedule at the palace has kept me from paying a proper visit.”
There’s a pause. A tiny, ruptured silence in which you realise just how much this means. How calculated the ask is. How public, how binding.
Your mother blinks. Visibly thrown. She gathers herself in the space of two breaths. “I would need to ask, Your Grace. The fête requires all our attention at present.”
“Of course,” Gojo replies smoothly, tucking a hand into his coat pocket. “But do consider it. It would mean a great deal.”
You see the moment her mind shifts. When she begins to weigh the proposal for its implications, its potential, its danger. And then: “Very well. I shall speak to my husband.”
“Splendid,” he says, and offers that smile. That smile—the one that turns the tide of every ballroom he enters and has the heart of every woman in the ton.
Your mother turns to you then. Something clipped and polite leaves her mouth. Something about how it is late, how you must go. She takes your arm with the practiced grip of control masked as care. You nod, too stunned to protest, feet following without meaning to.
And just as the threshold nears, just as the scent of old paper and pipe tobacco begins to give way to carriage smoke and rain-slick cobblestone, you look back.
Satoru is still there, framed in the hush of mahogany shelves. He lifts the Wollstonecraft from your hands like a keepsake, not a book. Then, with maddening calm, he winks. And you leave, as your heart pounds like thunder beneath silk.
THE VEILED QUILL
Volume II, Issue XII
Walks and Whispers Between Pages
My dearest gentle readers,
Though the Season presses forward with its usual rhythm of dances, dinners, and decorum, this particular week has proved most diverting. And not for reasons your chaperones would approve.
Let us begin with a scene that could have been lifted from a sentimental novel: on Monday afternoon, none other than Mr. Nanami Kento—staid, solemn, and as serious as any eligible bachelor can be—was observed calling on Miss Iori Utahime at her family residence. Yes, calling. One might argue it was a simple gesture of civility, but we are not in the habit of reporting mere civility, are we? Are we to expect a courtship announcement soon? Or is this simply a case of a baron’s daughter charming a man of fewer words?
And on Tuesday, if you were fortunate enough to stroll through Hyde Park before the hour grew too warm, you might have spotted Mr. Geto Suguru—that ever-pensive gentleman with the air of a tortured poet—walking beside Lady Ieiri Shoko, daughter of the Marquess. The two were seen in hushed conversation, walking chaperoned by the lake. While neither party is a stranger to intellectual pursuits (and, one imagines, complex inner lives), this particular pairing has not gone unnoticed. Are we witnessing the quiet beginning of a romance?
But nothing—not even the potential entanglements of society’s sharpest minds—has caused quite so much ink to flow as the return of the Viscount’s daughter.
Yes, dear readers. She has reappeared.
After days spent in discreet withdrawal following that unspeakable scandal, the former darling of the ton was seen in the public eye once more, making her entrance not in ballrooms or drawing rooms, but at Gunter’s Tea Shop—a choice cunningly poetic. Seated beside the aforementioned Miss Utahime and Miss Shoko, the trio appeared shockingly at ease, laughing over rose-flavored confections and whispering secrets so thrilling that even this Phantom burns to know them. (What did they say between bites of raspberry cake? Were those secrets sweet, or devastatingly bitter?)
And yet, dear reader, this is not where the tale ends.
No sooner had the daughter of the Viscount re-emerged than she was whisked away by her mother—who, in a fit of theatrical duty, dragged her to Hatchard’s in Piccadilly under the guise of purchasing political readings for her husband and poetry for her daughter. But what poetry, I ask, could possibly compare to what transpired there?
For as fate would have it, His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, was already present there. Sources say his carriage arrived no sooner than fifteen minutes before the Viscountess took her daughter there.
That’s right. The Duke—elusive, dazzling, dangerous—was seen among the shelves just before the Viscountess arrived with her wayward charge. The two—our scandal-touched lady and His Grace—were together once again. And when she emerged? The very same lady who once held all of society's hearts in the palm of her glove? Dazed. Distant. As if touched by lightning or haunted by something only she, and perhaps the Duke, could name.
What occurred in those hushed book-lined corridors? What was said? What was felt? Did the Duke offer her consolation? Or temptation? Whatever the answer, one thing is certain: the Season just became far more interesting.
With ink-stained fingers and a heart attuned to secrets,
Phantom.
You wear a cloak that night—midnight blue, hood drawn, hem grazing the stone like a hush. In your gloved hands rests the latest issue of The Veiled Quill, its contents still warm from ink. You'd just written it. The house is silent. Ladies of the ton are meant to be dreaming by now, tucked beneath canopies of silk and embroidered virtue. But you are wide awake, each step down the stairs as soundless as sin.
The courtyard is damp with moonlight. You move quickly, past the clipped boxwoods and sleeping roses, to the waiting carriage hidden behind the garden wall. No lanterns. No insignia. Just an old, nondescript cab driven by a footman who knows not to ask questions. You pay him enough for it, anyway.
London slips by in a blur of cobblestone and gaslight. Southwark lies across the Thames—far enough from Mayfair, far enough from the Crown's watchful eye. Far enough from genteel society that no one would even think that this is where your secrets lie. Its streets stink of sweat, smoke, and secrets. This is where your printing press lives. Nestled between a tavern and a forge, behind a crooked sign that never bears your name.
You hand over the last issue, neatly folded. The printer, a wiry man who smells of tobacco, presses a pouch of your earnings into your palm without a word. He knows better. You count the coins by feel, because ever since the scandal, your earnings had almost quadrupled.
By the time you return, dawn is still a rumor. You step out two streets down from your house, pulling your cloak tighter. Your hair is unpinned. Your cheeks bare. In your plain cotton dress, you look nothing like the daughter of a Viscount. And that is the point.
Men pass you in the misty dark—some weaving home from gaming halls, others from beds not theirs. They do not see you. Not really. At best, you are a maid. At worst, a curiosity. But never a danger. Never the storm behind the scandal sheets.
There is a narrow cobblestone street you turn onto, slick with the memory of rain and lined with oil-lanterns that flicker like half-breathed secrets. The hem of your cloak catches against your ankle as you walk, quickly, quietly, alone in the way only women can be when they are trying not to be noticed. You barely register the figure behind you until you feel the tap against your shoulder.
You flinch. And then you freeze. Because it is him. Lord Nigel Berbrooke. His eyes are glassy, his breath thick with drink. “Thought it was you,” he slurs, teeth yellowed under the dim gaslight.
You feel your spine go taut. Nigel Berbrooke is a man of deeply unpleasant reputation. Older than most eligible bachelors, and yet more infantile in his sense of entitlement. You remember the way he cornered women into dancing at Utahime’s ball, how he refused to take no for an answer. How he had asked you more than once that night. You had declined each time. You hadn't spoken of it. Not to your mother. Not to Utahime. You had wanted to preserve the memory of your first dance with Satoru, not tarnish it with Berbrooke's presence.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, m’lord,” you say, quick to adjust your voice into something meek. Small. Working-class. Your gaze darts, calculating. Escape routes, light, witnesses. The street is quiet. A carriage rattles past on the far side.
Berbrooke steps closer. You step back.
But his hand is fast. He grabs your arm—tight, unrelenting—and your body goes still. “The daughter of the Viscount,” he sneers, too loudly. “Out for a moonlit stroll, is it? Gone to meet your Duke?”
Your stomach lurches. You tug at your arm, but he doesn’t let go. He reeks of brandy and sweat, and something older, something rotted. Panic scratches its way up your throat. His grip tightens, and he begins to speak again. Vulgar things about balconies and what might have transpired there. Your vision blurs. Your breathing shortens.
You don’t think. You simply react. Your knee finds the soft of his stomach and drives upward. He wheezes, collapses forward with a grunt. You stumble back, barely registering the sharp stop of a carriage just ahead.
Two figures leap down. Moving fast. Familiar.
Satoru reaches you first. His hands are cupping your face before you realize it’s him. His touch is careful but firm, thumbs warm against your cheekbones. “I knew it was you,” he breathes, eyes wide with something that looks frighteningly close to fear. “What in God’s name are you doing out so late at night?”
You blink, still breathless, the panic clawing at your lungs as you try to make up a lie. “I went out for a walk,” you say, voice tight, fragile. “It felt... it felt suffocating at home.”
“You know better than to leave your courtyard,” he says, his voice softer now, but still edged with tension. “You could’ve sat on the swing. Cleared your head that way.”
Suguru steps past you, his eyes hardening as they fall on Berbrooke’s groaning form. “Are you hurt?” he asks, gentle.
You shake your head. “He just... grabbed me. Said things about me and—”
You look to Satoru. His jaw clenches. Suguru doesn’t ask for more.
“What were the two of you doing out?” you ask, trying to collect yourself, to change the subject.
“Club,” Satoru replies, almost too quickly. He glances at Suguru. “I’ll walk her home. Suguru, deal with this poor excuse of a man, will you? Wait for me in the carriage. I won't take long.”
Suguru nods, and gives you a look—one part reassurance, one part apology—as he moves to drag the lord out of sight.
Satoru slips his arm around yours, his pace slow, deliberate, every movement saturated with concern. “I keep finding new things about you,” he murmurs.
You glance at him. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Not at all.” A smile flickers across his lips, crooked and soft. “I’m even more smitten.”
“You are,” you say, voice quieter now, the fear beginning to settle into a tremble. “Such a tease.”
“A tease you said you love, nonetheless,” he replies. Then, more seriously: “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Just shaken,” you murmur. “I thought the cotton dress would be enough. I thought he wouldn’t recognize me.”
Gojo’s eyes trail down the length of your cloak. “It’s the silk,” he says gently. “No maid would wear a silk cloak, my dear. Though you do play the part well. No one would have noticed, except Nigel Berbrooke. He's a lecherous man.”
You exhale. “Oh.”
His grip tightens on your arm. Warm, anchoring. You're nearing the back gate of your home. The iron is cool beneath your gloved fingertips as the courtyard stretches before you, bathed in the faint light of a gas lamp swaying gently in the night wind. You pause, cloak curling around your ankles, the weight of the evening pressing into your bones.
"I suppose this is it," you murmur, voice feathering out into the quiet.
Satoru stops beside you, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders drawn with restraint. You want to say something. Ask him what happened in Hatchard’s earlier. You want to bury your face in his chest and confess how your hands still tremble. But instead, you wait. Hoping. Maybe he’ll say something first. Maybe he'll linger.
“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he says, and there’s something raw in the way his voice cuts through the hush.
“Like what?” you ask, blinking up at him.
His jaw clenches slightly. “Hurt.”
You force a smile, small and crooked. “I’ll be alright. I just... I can’t believe I hit him.”
At that, he laughs. A startled, quiet laugh that still feels like it shakes the stars loose overhead. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to muffle the sound, but his shoulders still tremble with it. You can’t help it—you laugh too, albeit breathlessly.
And then, silence. But not the cold kind. The kind that stretches softly between two people who’ve begun to understand each other. Satoru looks at you, eyes gentled. “You’re much, much more than just the Viscount’s daughter,” he says. “I hope you know that.”
You can’t speak. Not immediately. The words settle in your chest like warmth from a hearth after a long frost. So instead, you step forward. One breath, then another. And then your arms are around him—soft cotton sleeves brushing velvet lapels—your head pressed to his chest, where his heart is beating far too fast for someone so composed.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He holds you close. “Whatever for?”
“For being there,” you murmur. “For being here.”
Two days later, Highgrove House.
It is late in the evening when Gojo Satoru arrives.
Tomorrow is Saturday, and the garden fête is scheduled for Sunday afternoon. The house is still, lamps dimmed to a golden hush, and you are in the drawing room, seated beside the fire with Yuji at your side. One of the books His Grace had promised—the very same Mary Wollstonecraft, finely bound—had arrived just yesterday, and you'd been reading it aloud to your brother before a rustle in the doorway makes you both look up.
“His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, has arrived, miss,” the maid announces.
Yuji perks up instantly. “D’you think he’s brought his brother?”
“It’s do you, and he has,” you correct gently, closing the book and setting it on the low table between you. “And I don’t know. I hope so. You’d like him, I think. His name’s Megumi. He’s your age.”
“You told me,” Yuji says, already tugging at his coat to neaten it, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve. You smile at his eagerness.
“You look very handsome,” you assure him. “If I were a twelve-year-old boy, I’d absolutely want to be your friend.”
“That’s great consolation,” he says dryly, “coming from someone who’s good at fencing, horse riding and pall-mall.”
“Exactly,” you reply, rising and smoothing the folds of your skirt. From the hallway, you hear voices. Your father’s clipped, courteous tone, and the unmistakable lilt of Gojo’s. You take Yuji’s hand and step into the corridor.
Satoru stands tall in the foyer, the picture of composed elegance, all wintry hair and effortless charm. He is speaking to your parents with the easy grace of someone who has nothing to hide and everything under control. Beside him stands a boy, black-haired and blue-eyed, quieter in stature and presence, his gaze lowered to the polished floor. So unlike the Duke. And yet, unmistakably kin.
You glance down at Yuji, giving his hand a small encouraging squeeze. “Go on,” you whisper. “Introduce yourself. Maybe the two of you will be great friends.”
Yuji nods, swallowing his nerves before releasing your hand and stepping forward. You follow, casting a soft, searching smile in Satoru’s direction. He bows his head ever so slightly in return—calm, unreadable, collected. As if nothing has shifted. As if everything has unfolded precisely according to his own private design. As if the chaos of the past weeks has been nothing more than a prelude he anticipated all along.
And you, despite everything, trust him enough to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he’s right.
When the six of you settle into dinner and have only just finished the first course—an almond soup delicately spiced, accompanied by poached fish and its garnishes—you notice it. A shift. Subtle at first. The change in Satoru's tone when he turns to your father. It is not unkind, but it is unmistakably deliberate. His posture straightens, a certain stiffness entering his shoulders, and his voice loses its usual lightness.
You glance over just as you're breaking your bread roll, and catch it. The flicker in his eyes, the way he glances down at his lap, as if preparing for war rather than dinner. The maids move soundlessly between chairs, clearing plates with practiced ease. The air tightens.
"I must admit," Satoru says, tone formal but softened by a trace of humility, "I’ve come here this evening with something of an ulterior motive."
You still. Your mother lifts her wineglass to her lips, eyes narrowing faintly. Your father sets down his knife and fork, attention now fully focused. Across the table, Yuji and Megumi have taken to whispering, clearly fast friends already, blissfully unaware of the shift in atmosphere.
"Ulterior motive?" your father repeats, arching a brow. His voice is calm, but it rings like a bell in the stillness. "And what might that be?"
Gojo doesn't hesitate. "We'd spoken, briefly, of marriage. Informally, yes, but earnestly. I'm here tonight to make my intentions plain."
The servants begin to lay out the second course—roast venison, its juices glistening, followed by pigeon pie, soufflés, and a new round of gleaming cutlery. Yet no one reaches for a fork.
Satoru presses on as though the entire table has not gone silent. As though the air is not pulled taut between expectation and propriety.
"I believe," he says, carefully, clearly, proudly, "it is time we put an end to the whispers. The scandal, as it were. I've come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage."
You pause. The air in the dining room stills, despite the low clink of cutlery and the rustle of napkins. Your eyes move slowly. First to your father, then to your mother, and finally to the two boys at the other end of the table, who’ve gone entirely silent. Yuji’s eyes are round with awe, flicking between you and Satoru as if he’s accidentally wandered into a play. Megumi, more composed, simply watches his brother with a dark, unreadable gaze, then glances once at you.
Your father says nothing at first. He seems to weigh the moment in his head, brow furrowed—not out of anger, but as if turning something over in his mind. Something unsaid. Something unresolved. And then, finally, he speaks. “I don’t see why not,” he says, quiet but firm.
It should feel like relief, but it doesn’t. Gojo grins then, quick and boyish—triumphant in the way of someone who’s just executed a clever move on a chessboard—and turns to you as though to confirm the checkmate. You try to mirror it, to offer back the expression he wants, but all you can manage is a soft, uncertain smile. A twitch at the corner of your mouth. The tiniest scrunch of your nose. Confusion creeps up your spine.
Then Gojo continues, this time to your father. “My father knew the Archbishop of Canterbury personally,” he says, voice smooth, even, practiced. “We can arrange for the license swiftly. I could speak to him, if expedience is preferred, of course.”
“Lovely,” your mother says at once, almost too quickly. Her voice lilts upward, hopefully. And there it is: the shift in tone. As if she’s just remembered that marrying a Duke’s heir erases scandal, clears reputations, sets everything straight.
You say nothing. Because what is there to say? Gojo speaks again. “We shall have the license in a matter of days,” he announces, his tone tipping slightly toward command. “Preparations for the wedding can be made, I assume?”
He speaks with such certainty now, such composure, that you feel, absurdly, as though he’s rehearsed it. As if this evening were a script and he knows every beat, every line. You wonder if he’s always this calm when negotiating outcomes that affect other people’s lives. That affect your life.
It unnerves you. Not the proposal. Not the dinner. But the ease. The precision. The sheer confidence of it. You can’t decide whether to admire him or recoil.
You listen quietly as the dinner continues—soufflés arriving, plates cleared, wine glasses half-drunk. You play the part of the composed daughter, the future duchess, but your mind is elsewhere. Picking apart the pieces of him that you thought you knew. Wondering what else lies beneath that smile, that grace, that armor of polished charm.
And later, much later, once the servants have cleared the table and the doors to the parlor have been shut—you find yourself outside. The evening air is cool, soft, still edged with the scent of crushed lavender and stone warmed by day. The garden is dappled with dusk. You and Gojo stand near the courtyard, half in shadow, watching the boys—Yuji and Megumi—laughing as they take turns pushing one another on the swing.
They’re just children. Careless. Weightless. You, on the other hand, feel the full heft of everything that just transpired pressing like a hand to your spine.
“How is it,” you ask, voice low, “that you can so confidently, so easily, dictate what you want from others and receive it without resistance?”
Satoru’s brows knit, but not out of annoyance. It’s curiosity. He turns toward you, his eyes pale and searching in the twilight. The golden light of the garden lanterns flickers softly over the lines of his face. “What do you mean?” he says gently.
You glance up at him, then away, toward the swing where Yuji’s laughter is fading. The boys are slowing now—less shrill joy, more tired amusement. “It just felt like… you and my parents were speaking in a room I wasn’t in,” you murmur. “Like I was sitting beside you all and somehow still not quite present.”
He exhales. It’s soft, careful, as if he knows he’s treading somewhere delicate now. “Trust me, darling,” he says, “I was waiting for you to speak. For you to stop me, if you wanted to.”
You shake your head slowly. “It’s all right. I suppose I should’ve expected this. Mother will take the fête as an opportunity to make an announcement about the wedding.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks, quiet but not unkind. “To be married? To me? Does it not make you happy?”
“I am happy,” you say, lifting your eyes to meet his. “Delighted, even.” But your voice betrays you—too soft, too even, too polite. You glance back toward the children. “It’s just… I never thought it would happen this way. Not through scandal.”
He hums faintly, a note of regret in his tone. “If it’s any consolation,” he begins, “I’m sorry for following you into the balcon—”
“No,” you interrupt gently. “I don’t regret it.”
He grins, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve made that quite clear.”
The moment stretches, quiet and not entirely uncomfortable. Then he steps back a little, brushing down the front of his coat. “I should leave. The sun’s gone, and I’ve got appearances to keep with the Archbishop in the morning.” He glances sideways at you. “I wrote him this morning. About our… situation.”
You blink. “So you knew my parents would jump at the offer for the expedited license.”
“I did,” he confesses, a note of guilt tucked behind the smile. It’s not smug, not quite. Just certain. Just planned. You nod, slowly. The smile you offer isn’t warm. It’s the kind of smile one gives upon solving the last riddle in a long line of riddles. “That’s what I thought. I keep finding out more about you than I bargained for,” you murmur. “It’s terrifying, in a way.”
“I had the same feeling,” he says, lips curling, “when I saw you knee Nigel Berbrooke right in the corner of Grosvenor Square.”
You almost laugh. He calls to Megumi then, and the moment fades—replaced by the sound of feet on gravel, of the boys returning with flushed cheeks and wide grins.
“Can I visit my sister often once you’re married?” Yuji pipes up as the four of you enter the house. The light indoors feels warmer than before, too bright. Too staged.
Satoru laughs, ruffling Yuji’s hair. “You can visit Megumi and I, too. Whenever you like.”
Yuji beams, then turns to Gojo as though just remembering. “Did you know she plays chess? And that she's great at pall mall? Oh, did you know she can fence?”
Gojo lets out a laugh now. Loud, full-bodied. “Trust me,” he says, “she can do far more than just fence.”
And later, when the Duke and his brother have gone—when the house has quieted and the laughter of dinner has faded into memory—you find yourself in the parlor again. Yuji chatters beside you, dreaming aloud of the escapades he’ll have as the Duchess’s brother. You nod, smile where you should, tease him gently. You walk him to his bed, tuck him in, promise him summer rides and borrowed hounds and library keys. You press a kiss to his forehead and bid him goodnight.
Then you retreat to your room. You set pen to paper, intending to finish the article you began yesterday. You write a single line about the fête, then stare at it for too long. Eventually, you set the pen down. It’s late. The fire’s burned low.
You lie in bed, hands clasped over your stomach, and think of your parents’ expressions at dinner. Not startled. Not overwhelmed. Just... prepared. Just ready. As if they’d known all along. As if Gojo had handed them the lines to read.
It sits heavy in your chest.
You are delighted. You are engaged. You are on the cusp of a future some women would kill for. And still, you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, behind it all, a conversation occurred that did not include you. And it unsettles you.
Late afternoon of Sunday, Hyde Park.
It is astounding, what your mother can do when she sets her mind to something. This is not merely a fête champêtre. It is a declaration. A staking of territory. A performance, curated down to the last spun sugar petal and silk-draped pavilion. And it has Hyde Park—no, the entire season—in its palm.
Your family arrives half an hour before the invitations permit. It is early enough to watch the event take shape, late enough that the magic has already begun to settle. Enough for your mother's watchful eye to make sure everything is up to the mark. You step from the carriage, feet sinking just slightly into the trimmed grass, and it takes you a long moment before you can do anything other than simply stand. Breathe. Take it in.
The Parade Grounds have been transformed into a dreamscape. Tents and pavilions bloom across the green like ivory flowers, their silken walls rippling in the breeze. Musicians tune their violins on a raised dais in the centre, the light catching on the brass fittings of their flutes. Fortune-tellers settle into their tents with velvet-draped tables and cards worn to softness. Puppeteers test the wires of their painted marionettes, hands moving with the delicacy of surgeons. Pavilions with refreshments like champagne, ice-cream, sugared strawberries, and pies and cakes are blended into the lot of the rest like a beautiful painting.
Lanterns, hundreds of them, are strung from poles and trees, not yet lit, but already trembling with anticipation. By dusk, they will burn like stars. It is beautiful. Not the fragile, private sort of beauty one tucks away—but a theatrical kind, curated to be admired. To be envied.
You walk slowly across the grounds, your gown catching slightly at the knees. It’s a soft pastel blue muslin, airy enough for a day on the lawn, but intricate where it counts—lace tracing the collar and hem, tiny pearl buttons running down your spine. Your mother insisted on this shade. Said it would make you stand out just enough: an echo of the sky, a suggestion of innocence, but unmistakably tailored for attention.
Lawn games are cordoned off by rope garlands—pall mall, lawn archery, and some whimsical game involving hoops and ribbons you don’t even recognize. Musicians drift between the setups like well-dressed ghosts, their instruments resting against their chests like lovers. There is movement everywhere—an elegant chaos. You think, briefly, that it all feels too perfect.
And then you remember the reason behind it. Your engagement will be announced today. To the Duke.
The thought rushes through you like wind. A thrill. A knot. You clasp your hands at your waist, feeling the fine tremble of anticipation settle under your skin. This will be the most talked-about event of the season. Perhaps the next, too. Of that, you are certain. And it is your name they will whisper behind fans. Your mother’s triumph. Your family’s rise.
Your story—beginning, here. In full view.
You hardly have time to name the miracle of it before the crowd begins to pour in. An endless stream of silk, laughter, and social ambition. Lords, barons, and the finely powdered elite of London arrive in carriages and on foot, their presence declaring the event the apex of the season. It is, you realize, too perfect to be anything but deliberate. Everyone has come.
The gentlemen drift toward the card pavilions like moths to candlelight, already leaning over hands of whist and hazard, murmuring their wagers beneath the pluck of lute strings. The ladies—lace-gloved and flushed—gather at the fortune-tellers’ tents, giggling as their futures are read in cryptic symbols and feathered cards. Children are spellbound before puppet stages and in pall mall, their laughter lifting into the air with the scent of sugared pastries and lemonade. The entire world has converged here, in Hyde Park, under your family’s name. All of London, is here.
“I cannot believe your mother did this in a week,” Shoko says beside you, one brow raised in something between disbelief and admiration. The three of you stand tucked beneath the awning of a lemonade stand near the musicians’ dais, where a lively tune hums beneath the swell of conversation. The lemon in your cup tastes like a dream—sweet and tart and fleeting.
“I can’t either,” you murmur, still wide-eyed, still unsure how to take it all in. “I almost wish I weren’t the host, just so I could wander and enjoy it properly. But I know she’ll come to collect me any moment now, drag me off to meet half the peerage.”
“How tragic,” Utahime says with a faux pout, raising her glass. You narrow your eyes at her, amused. You open your mouth, close it again. Then, a breath. The words come out quiet. “I have to tell you something. Before it's announced.”
Shoko stills. Utahime’s brow furrows slightly. You glance between them. There’s something in Shoko’s expression already, something knowing, even wicked. She sets her cup down delicately on a side table and folds her arms with too much casualness.
“I am engaged,” you say. “To the Duke.”
Silence. A moment suspended in air, stretched thin. Utahime blinks once, twice. Her mouth falls open slightly. Shoko only smiles.
“Congratulations,” she says at last. “You’re going to be the wealthiest duchess in London.”
You groan, rolling your eyes. “That’s not the point. I just—” You hesitate. “I don’t know. It might be the scandal, but I’ve had this pit in my stomach all evening. Something feels off.”
“Well,” Utahime says quietly, unusually tempered, “He did the decent thing. A scandal always weighs heavier on the woman, anyway.”
You nod slowly, lips pressed together. The moment passes, melts into something easier, something lighter. Conversation shifts, laughter returns. But not for long.
Your mother appears, glowing, and whisks you away. You catch only the briefest glances of the crowd, of your friends, of the festivities still in full swing. You’re passed from one conversation to another, introduced to a daisy chain of barons, counts, viscountesses—faces whose names blur at the edges. You're charming and gracious, just as you've been taught. But it drains you. Every compliment is a cut; every polite chuckle a rehearsed deflection.
It’s only after what feels like an hour and a half of curated smiling that you spot a glimmer of silver. Across the lawn, near the champagne pavilion, stands Satoru. He is unmistakable, even among the cluster of tall men and expensive coats. His hair catches the last remnants of sun like snow under candlelight. He’s surrounded by familiar faces—Suguru, Nanami, and others you recognize at once—but it’s him you focus on. Him, who hasn’t looked your way once.
You stay by your parents, trying not to show the fatigue that pools in your feet, in your jaw, in your chest. You imagine Yuji somewhere far off, shrieking with laughter as Megumi scowls at a lawn game or scampers after a puppet. It comforts you.
And then you quietly step away. Slipping between groups, down toward the edge of the fête where the pie and pastry tent waits. It’s quieter here, easier. The smell of spiced apples and butter fills the air, and you breathe in as if you haven’t tasted air in an hour.
“Look at you,” a voice drawls behind you. “Unchaperoned. Again.”
You smile, turning to him. “And look at you, following me while I’m unchaperoned. Again.”
Satoru steps toward you with that grin—the boyish, maddeningly pleased-with-himself one—and wraps his arms around you without hesitation. You let him. The tent is empty but for an older woman arranging pastries with tender focus, unconcerned with royalty or reputation.
“You look beautiful in blue,” he murmurs, his voice low near your ear.
“I wore it for that very reason,” you reply, unable to stop the smile blooming across your face.
Gojo glances around, his expression shifting. Still playful, but with a note of caution. His gaze sweeps the tent: the older woman arranging lemon and cherry tarts has her back turned, wholly immersed in her task, and the rest of the fête stretches just far enough to grant them a rare sliver of privacy.
Then, without fanfare, he leans in and brushes his lips against yours.
It’s not a dramatic kiss, not the kind poets string sonnets from, but it unravels you in its simplicity. Quick, secret, a punctuation mark rather than a full sentence. Still, you feel it. All the way down. It is the kind of kiss that feels like a promise kept. He pulls back just as easily as he leaned in, his expression unreadable for a moment. And then that grin returns, tugging at the corners of his mouth, softening him.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,” he says.
You don’t reply. You don’t need to. He takes your silence for what it is—something between stunned affection and aching anticipation—and presses one last glance to your hand before he slips back into the crowd.
Time moves oddly after that. It doesn’t speed up, exactly, but it begins to blur. You find your way back to the center of the parade grounds, the sky now fully dark above Hyde Park, where lanterns float like tiny stars strung between trees. The air is cooler, but the excitement thrumming in the crowd keeps it from chilling. You spot Shoko and Utahime near the ring toss stall and slip back into their orbit as naturally as if you’d never left.
You laugh, truly laugh, as Utahime flings her final ring and narrowly misses the wooden peg she’s aiming for. “You’re absolutely hopeless,” you tease, watching Shoko collect a small paper prize for herself—a folded fan painted with florals.
“I’ll have you know,” Utahime mutters, “I let Shoko win. She looked like she needed the morale.”
You're about to reply when something cuts through the air. The music stops. It dies not with a jarring crash but with a soft, deliberate diminuendo, as if the musicians were told to lay their instruments down slowly, one by one. Like a curtain falling at the end of an act.
You freeze.
All around you, people are turning. Faces lift. Heads angle toward the central dais where the string quartet had been playing only moments before. The effect is like a tide: all at once, the sea of conversation ebbs, leaving only a hush thick with expectation.
Your mother steps up onto the dais, flanked by your father. Their expressions are composed, practiced—faces made for portraiture and politics. Your father’s voice is the first to rise. You feel it before you hear it, the anticipation threading into your spine, a quiet and inevitable dread.
It’s time. The announcement is about to be made. And somehow, impossibly, you're not ready.
You search the crowd for him—your eyes scanning beyond the flushed cheeks and swirling silks, past the clamor of card tables and puppet shows, beyond the lords in powdered coats and the ladies in florals—as if you could summon steadiness in the shape of a man. And then, there he is.
Gojo stands at the edge of the dais, tall and immaculately composed in deep navy. The silver of his hair glints beneath the lanterns strung like stars between trees. His gaze is already on you. Of course it is. He nods once, slow and certain. And something inside you stills.
"It's happening," you whisper.
“Go,” Shoko murmurs, voice lower than the hush that’s fallen over the crowd. “Make the most of it. Go. Rid yourself of this ridiculous scandal and present yourself as the Duchess-to-be.”
You hesitate. You feel the weight of your name before it is ever spoken, the pressure of your title before it has been officially given. Then Utahime presses a warm hand to the small of your back for a gentle, grounding push.
You inhale, and then step forward.
Your feet move before your thoughts do, weaving through a sea of murmuring guests, muslin and satin brushing against your skirts as you pass. You are walking toward a future already being written by someone else’s hand. Toward a dais that gleams beneath lanternlight, toward a father whose face betrays nothing and a mother whose tears have been perfectly timed.
Gojo is waiting for you at the bottom step. He offers his arm. His fingers brush your glove as you take it. And then, together, you ascend. The dais is high enough that it feels like a reckoning. The musicians have fallen silent. The air is charged now—still, brittle, like glass waiting to break.
Your father clears his throat and raises his glass, his posture the kind that comes from years of hosting, of ruling from parlors and private dinners. “My lords, ladies, and honoured guests,” he begins, and his voice is practiced, warm, unshaken, “this spring has brought with it more than sunlight and blossoms. It has brought my household a most… unexpected delight.”
A ripple of polite laughter spreads, though it is laced with curiosity.
Your gaze flits across the lawn to the hundreds of faces, eyes fixed on you. You cannot see your brother or Megumi among them, but you imagine them somewhere near the puppet tents, unaware of the consequences of this moment. The nausea threatens you again, rising from somewhere deep and quiet, but Gojo is beside you, unmoved, hands clasped behind his back like he’s been born for this. When you look at him, he is already looking at you. And when he blinks reassuringly, it is like a balm.
“It is with great pride,” your father continues, “and no small measure of astonishment, that I announce the engagement of my daughter…”
He gestures to you. There is an audible swell of breath from the crowd.
“…to His Grace, Gojo Satoru, the Duke of Six Eyes.”
The lawn erupts. Gasps, applause, chatter—voices tangling with one another in a crescendo of disbelief and fascination. Your name flies from mouths like confetti. The match is a triumph. The scandal has been rewritten into something desirable. You are not ruined. You are beloved. You are desired. You are his.
Your mother dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, already performing the part of a sentimental parent, though you’ve never known her to cry unless there was an audience to receive it. Your father raises his glass higher, nodding with a smile that only barely touches his eyes. The musicians begin again, a stately waltz, and suddenly the fête transforms. This is no longer a party. It is a coronation.
And you? You are the Duchess-to-be.
THE VEILED QUILL
Volume II, Issue XIII
From Folly to Fête
My dearest gentle readers,
The Season wears on, and with each passing week, it becomes more evident that propriety is but a delicate veil—and some among us would do well to remember how sheer that veil truly is.
Let us begin, regretfully, with an incident that one wishes could be brushed away like errant crumbs from a silk tablecloth. On Wednesday evening, Lord Nigel Berbrooke—yes, that Berbrooke, of the unfortunate hairline and even more unfortunate manners—was seen in a most unbecoming state at the upper corner of Grosvenor Square. After an evening of drink at one of those gentleman’s clubs where very little gentleness is ever in practice, he was observed harassing a maid, poor thing, who was merely trying to see to her business without being cornered by a stumbling peer. One needn’t be a woman of high society to know: a title cannot soften a man's character, and all the coin in Mayfair cannot erase behaviour as coarse as gravel. A note to all mothers: do not let your daughters wed a man whose respectability is stitched only to his coat.
But enough of men whose presence is as welcome as last season’s hemline. Let us speak, instead, of something divine.
The fête champêtre held this past weekend by the Viscount and Viscountess at the Parade Grounds in Hyde Park was nothing short of legendary. There are events, and then there are moments—and this, dear reader, was a moment. A vision in silk tents and silkier rumours, with the sound of waltzes drifting between lanterns hung like moonlight on string. There was champagne that sparkled like diamonds, wines that warmed like affection, and refreshments more decadent than any secret whispered beneath a fan.
And if one may abandon objectivity for but a moment—this author must confess a particular fondness for the ring toss tucked beside the dais. A charming, utterly diverting little affair. And let us not forget the pastries at the far edge of the lawn. (This author certainly returned for seconds. Possibly thirds. Do not ask.)
Alas, there was no time for the fortune-tellers, whose tent brimmed with silks and mystery. A true shame. This Phantom had quite hoped to learn whether scandal or sentiment lies ahead. But let us speak of something more fateful than fortune.
For while the fête itself would have been enough to keep the ton buzzing for months, the Viscountess had one last waltz up her sleeve. Just as the final gold thread of sunlight gave way to evening’s velvet, a hush fell upon the crowd. The Viscount raised a glass. The musicians quieted. And in that breathless hush, it was announced: the engagement of His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, to none other than the daughter of the house.
Yes. That daughter. The same young lady who has danced, withdrawn, and returned to society in a swirl of rumours and restraint. Now, she is to be Duchess.
What a triumphant turn of events. What a coup. What a game.
For who among us suspected the Viscountess would answer scandal not with silence, but with spectacle? With beauty, with orchestration, with the most dazzling alliance of the season? And yet here we are, watching the curtain fall on speculation, and rise on certainty.
This author, who has watched the highs and lows of their courtship with an ink-stained heart and cautious hope, is glad—genuinely glad—to see the pair united at last. They stood atop the dais like two characters pulled from a sonnet, their expressions unreadable but their bond unmistakable.
Let the poets scribble, the gossips gasp, and the Season spin onward. This couple, it seems, has already found their story.
With admiration (and perhaps a little envy),
Phantom.
The next three weeks unfold like a fever dream, equal parts lace and tyranny. Your mother, possessed by a singular vision, insists on a wedding ceremony “proper enough to make even royalty envious.” You recall her words precisely—how she said them with her mouth full of sugared plums and her eyes alight like a general waging war. “No only daughter of mine shall be married off intimately. We will be making it grand.”
And grand it becomes. Fittings upon fittings. Layers of silk and tulle, endless consultations with the modiste, who eyes your figure like a sculptor assessing marble. There is no time to think, let alone write. The quills remain mostly untouched, save for four rushed columns and some letters to Satoru you managed in a haze of candlelight and exhaustion. The rest of your hours are spent with your mother, overseeing seating arrangements, breakfast menus, guest lists, flower orders, and learning that hosting a ball as a future duchess is not a matter of preference, it is proof. Of stature. Of ability. Of survival.
You choose the fabric yourself, of course. Something ethereal. A blue so pale it becomes a rumour of white in the light. The modiste called it moonmilk. Said it would arrive the night before, perfectly pressed, wrapped in muslin, a ribbon pinned to its bodice like a secret.
The ceremony is to be held at St. George’s, Hanover Square. The breakfast will be at the Six Eyes Estate, arranged by Satoru himself. He wrote to you last three days ago. His letter is thoughtful, brief. “I do not expect a reply. I imagine you are being devoured by gowns and spectacle. I am being devoured by longing.”
And so the night before the wedding comes. You wear your softest ivory silk dress robes, the kind only meant for nights where sleep seems like a betrayal of time. In your hand is the cravat pin he gave you, small and gold, now dulled by touch and memory. You sit by the window. The box containing your wedding gown lies nearby, gaping open like a soft-mouthed promise. You reach in, touch the lace—like spun sugar, like breath. You look outside, to the swing in the courtyard. To your desk. Then you stand, move to the cabinet beneath, and pull it open.
There lie the quiet spoils of your secret: pouches of coins, neatly tied, the sum of months spent in disguise. The Phantom. Every ounce of ink-stained effort has led to this. And now, all of it must come with you. You do not know how. But it will. Your life—your dresses, your books, your horse, your fencing kit—is about to be moved piece by piece to a house that is not yet home.
You do not sleep. You cannot. Instead, you watch the sky tilt gently from night to dawn, the blue bleeding into gold. Your maid, Agatha, rushes in with the first light, surprised to find you already upright, silhouetted at the window like some lonely patron saint of anxiety. She mutters something about tea and biscuits. That your mother insists everything begin early. That the water is already being drawn for your bath—lavender, rose petals, and sandalwood steeping into warmth. That your hair must be washed and bound with care. In case the Phantom is watching, she says with a wink. In case she is to write about the Duchess-to-be.
And for a moment, you wonder if she knows. And if she does, whether she approves. You sip your tea in silence. And the city readies itself for the wedding of the season.
Hours later, seated before the mirror, you look like a bride but feel like a stranger to the word. Silks the color of moonlight—barely blue, more the shade of milk steeped in twilight—pool around you. Your hair is pinned with sapphires and a certain pin, your wrists with diamonds. It is all too fine, too formal, too far from the girl who once wrote under candlelight and tasted freedom in ink.
Your mother has finally allowed Utahime and Shoko to your side, though not without dramatic protest. They burst through the upstairs corridor like wind through opened windows, all breathless smiles and wide eyes. For a brief second, it makes you laugh. But the moment is fleeting, swept away by the inevitability of the hour.
Then the carriage. Your father sits across from you, his hands gloved, his posture formal. But his voice, when he speaks, is not.
“I hope you know,” he says, “this was my only way of ensuring you married well in your first season. You could have done it on your own, but I had my reasons.”
You look at him. And, for the first time in a while, you understand. “It’s alright,” you say quietly. “I like him. I truly do. I think... it ended up being for the best.”
He blinks at you, once, twice, and clears his throat. His gloved hands fold tighter. “It is time.”
When the church doors open, the world sharpens. You see nothing but him.
Not the rows of nobility, not the whispers fluttering through silk fans, not the parish priest waiting by the altar. Only him, at the far end of the aisle. In full military dress, medals gleaming at his chest, and two hairpins tucked boldly near his lapel—the ones he stole from you that he never gave back. You smile without thinking. And when he sees his cravat pin in your hair, he smiles too, just slightly. His lips curving up at the left corner, like a secret passed only between the two of you.
You walk the aisle like one moving through water. Slow, dreamlike, distant. The priest speaks: “Dearly beloved...”
And after that, you hear nothing. Only the sound of your heartbeat, and the shape of his name in your mind. Vows are said, rings exchanged—gold, warm when he slips it onto your finger. In the vestry, you sign your name alongside his. Beside you, your father and Suguru sign too, witnesses to the quietest revolution of your life.
You are wife. You are Duchess. And though your hand trembles slightly, your signature is steady.
The wedding breakfast is a pageant of civility and careful joy. You are gracious, poised, every inch the duchess society expects you to be. But behind your smile, there is a secret truth: you are still learning what this all means.
Later, finally, the carriage. Your husband beside you. Your new home ahead. And the rest of your life—undecided, unspoken, unwritten—waiting just beyond the window.
You do nothing of consequence during the day. You tour the estate on Satoru’s arm, your hand clasped in his when no one is looking. You kiss him—softly, quietly—beside doorframes and between corridors, in corners the help dare not turn. The library is your weakness, and he knows it. He shows you the shelves first—where he keeps his favorites, bound in blue cloth and smelling faintly of cedar—and then, a little alcove, tucked behind a narrow ladder. There lie your favorites, arranged as if he has known your mind long before he ever held your hand. You kiss him there, too. Longer, this time.
Dinner is simple, for once. Roast duck, rosemary bread, and spiced wine. You think you are content—until the letter arrives. Stamped with a seal you don’t recognize, handed over with hushed voices. “From the Palace,” he says, rising quickly. You blink, watching his silhouette disappear past the parlor door. He does not return for nearly an hour.
In his absence, you busy yourself. You learn the rhythms of the house. The butler, standoffish at first, warms when you mention fencing. The Duke, he admits, was once obsessed—used to practice at dawn in the old hall before lessons. You store that detail like treasure. The housekeeper is more reluctant, her replies tidy and measured. But when you ask about Satoru’s mother, her face softens. “She preferred the country,” she says. “He lived here with his father, mostly. Genius child, but too quiet for it.”
And then, unasked, unprovoked: “The previous Duchess passed of fever. His Grace was barely four.”
Your chest tightens. You imagine him, alone in this grand place of carved marble and echoing stairwells. Then you remember Megumi.
“But... Megumi is twelve,” you say slowly, at the threshold of your chambers. “That’s well after her passing.”
The housekeeper hesitates, then lowers her voice to a breath. “The late Duke’s by-blow. But hush, your Grace, he is the Duke’s brother in all but blood. He raised him. That is what matters.”
You nod, and say nothing more. The matter is closed. You retreat into the quiet hush of your bedchamber, where Agatha is already laying out your robe. The one familiar face you insisted accompany you to your new life. She buttons you in, her fingers deft and gentle. You glance out the window just in time to see the Duke’s carriage pulling into the courtyard.
When he walks in, he looks like something unravelling—gloves off, cufflinks half-undone. You nearly startle.
“Is something the matter?” you ask. He stills, then shrugs it off too casually. “No. Just a few papers. Palace bureaucracy. Nothing worth troubling you over.”
You walk toward him, slow and careful, undoing the other cuff for him. “I’ve never seen you anxious,” you murmur. “Not truly. You’ve always been so… composed. Charming. So utterly sure of yourself.”
He laughs quietly, remembering. “You saw me flustered the day you kicked Nigel Berbrooke into the street like a rogue from the Peninsula.”
You smirk, helping him out of his coat. “I was too preoccupied to notice, your Grace.”
He winces, theatrically. “Don’t call me that. Not now. Not here. I am just Satoru to you. No titles. No masks.”
Then he sighs, dragging the cravat from his throat and tossing it onto a table. He steps closer, the air between you thinning. “We're married now, and yet the most affection I’ve received are a few stolen kisses.”
“I...” you begin, but falter. There’s something about the way he says it. As if he’s genuinely uncertain. “That’s all I know how to do.”
His brow arches, amused and something softer. “That’s all you know how to do?” he echoes, voice lilting. He sinks into the armchair by the fire, pulling off his boots, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. You swallow as he rises again. He crosses the floor with quiet, unhurried steps. His hand comes to your face—not possessive, not urgent. Just reverent. His fingers trace your temple, brushing a loose curl behind your ear.
“The Viscountess surely is cruel,” he says lowly, “keeping you in the dark for so long.”
“What do you mean?” you ask, but the question dissolves. The warmth of his palm has scattered your thoughts. And then, with the gentlest tug at your robe, the satin slips to the floor. Only your gown remains. It feels like the beginning of something you’ve been circling for years.
He steps closer, slow as dusk. His breath brushes your forehead before his lips press to yours. They're warm, sure, almost trembling with restraint. You kiss back instinctively, but it feels as though you are chasing something he’s already running from. Still, he lets you catch him. Or perhaps he slows down just enough to be caught.
His mouth grazes the edge of your jaw, then your ear, then lower. A scattering of kisses down your throat, each one igniting something unfamiliar. You're not sure whether it's embarrassment or anticipation. He draws you backwards until your knees meet the edge of the bed, and when you stumble slightly, more from dizziness than misstep. He catches you, hands strong at your waist. You’re not hurt, but your heart races all the same.
"Tell me you've touched yourself, at least," he murmurs, voice husky. "That one doesn’t take anyone’s guidance."
You blink up at him, the question foreign, almost impolite. "Touched myself?"
Your brow furrows. Not in modesty, but confusion, honest and childlike. He exhales, not in disappointment, but awe. It’s tender, the way he kisses your forehead. As if to apologise for the question. As if to promise you'll never be left behind again.
"You haven’t?" he asks. You shake your head.
"I don't understand," you whisper.
He doesn’t mock you. He doesn’t smirk or tease. Instead, he helps you lie back, careful as ever, as if you’re made of glass. You feel something between anticipation and fright—like standing on the edge of something beautiful and vast, not knowing how deep the fall will be.
He trails kisses lower now. Along your collarbone, the hollow beneath your throat, and then to the swell just above your chest. Every press of his lips sends sparks under your skin, so much so that the first sound you let out—soft, breathy, involuntary—startles even him.
"It feels good?" he asks, and you nod quickly, eyes wide, glassy.
"I... I don’t know how, but yes."
"Shhh," he soothes, brushing his lips against yours, reverently slow. Then, his hand trails lower. Over your stomach. Down further. And when he finally reaches between your thighs, when his fingers just barely brush where you're most sensitive, your breath hitches. His touch is featherlight, and he speaks while his fingers ghost over your bare folds.
"This," he says, gaze locked with yours, voice low, "is what I meant."
And when your thighs part instinctively, as if your body has answered for you, he smiles. Half gentle, half rogue. As though you’ve just let him into a sacred place.
His finger slides upward, tracing a delicate path along your slit, and the soft sounds that escape you make your eyes widen in startled delight. The slickness of it all catches in your throat, and you search his gaze for something. He finds it easily, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes. His finger finds a sensitive bud, and the sudden touch makes you jump, thighs instinctively closing, but he holds them open with a firm weight that makes your heart twist.
His arm rests against your upper thigh, the hem of your dress riding far too high to be considered proper. You have never been like this before. Never felt such a wild, unfamiliar fire. And yet, it is as if this is exactly where you are meant to be. The pad of his finger moves with increasing urgency against your bud, setting every nerve alight. Your blood rushes fiercely to your cheeks and pools between your legs, your back arching of its own accord, desperate to draw nearer to him. Your breath hitches, and you gasp his name over and over. Like a hymn, or a whispered prayer.
He chuckles softly, knowingly. “This is how you learn to pleasure yourself,” he murmurs. “You touch where it feels good, especially between your legs. I imagine your breasts are sensitive, too, if you’ve never explored them like this. And you keep touching, keep seeking, until you come. Until you reach a crescendo—a pinnacle that frees your mind of doubt and untangles every knot in your body.”
You grasp his shoulders, gasps spilling from your lips as you reach the peak, just as he had described it.
“I know, darling. I know,” he murmurs teasingly, and with those words, every knot in your core unravels, every doubt in your mind dissolves, every weight in your body lifts. You feel as if you are floating, weightless and free. You don’t notice when his hand slips away until your eyes flutter open, coming down from your high, and find him standing at the edge of the bed, watching you with a look that promises delicious sin.
“Come closer,” he commands softly. You obey without hesitation, dropping to your knees at the bed’s edge. His hands cup your face with a tenderness that makes you feel fragile and cherished all at once. His fingers nimbly undo the hooks of your dress, the speed making your eyes widen in surprise. Then, with care, he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to it before sliding your arm through the sleeve. The other follows, and the dress slips from your frame as if it had never belonged there.
You swallow hard as his gaze roams over you—lingering on the swell of your breasts. He says nothing at first, only caresses your cheek. His eyes dark and intense, sending heat pooling deep within you, the same place he touched moments ago. Your lips part, and his expression shifts, expectant, waiting for your voice.
“I want you,” you confess, breath trembling. “I don’t know what it means to want you, but I do. All of you.”
A shaky breath escapes him. “You don’t know what you’re asking, but you still want it?”
You nod, and he chuckles softly before taking your hand and guiding it to his breeches. “Undo them for me.”
You blink, surprised. “You mean take them off?”
He grins playfully, and you comply. As you do, you notice the bulge pressing against the fabric—unmistakably urgent, almost uncomfortable. You touch it hesitantly, unsure what to expect, and he winces.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
“Keep going,” he urges, voice low and breathy. “I like it. Keep going.”
You peel away the last barrier of clothing, and he springs free—long, thick, veined. It’s more than you imagined, but you follow his lead, your hands exploring as he instructs. You stroke, you caress, obeying every whispered command, until his sounds mirror your own—moans, gasps, low grunts—until he shakes his head and pulls your hand away.
“L-lay back.”
In seconds, he is upon you, parting your thighs, pressing kisses to your lips and wherever he can reach. His hands find your breasts, and you return his hunger with equal fervor, cradling his face in your hands.
“More,” you plead, arching your back as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts. “I want more.”
He pauses, positioning himself above you, his gaze softening. “Are you sure? We can stop now, if you’d like—”
“I am sure,” you whisper. “I want you—”
Without hesitation, he enters you, and it feels unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your heart swells, your body overwhelms, and the gasps that escape feel as natural as breathing—terrifying and right all at once. He pulls back, then thrusts forward again, sending stars across your vision as your back arches involuntarily. He moves steadily, up and down, again and again, each motion a delicious torment. You cling to him, whispering his name between moans. His grunts grow louder, pace quickening, skin slapping against yours in a rhythm that sets your senses ablaze.
The crescendo builds again, the undoing you crave. Eyes closed, he cups your face, pressing his forehead to yours as his pace accelerates. Your faces nearly touch, lips parted but not meeting. He stares deep into your eyes, breath ragged, before murmuring, “F-for me, it happens the same way.”
“The pinnacle,” you gasp.
He nods, voice rough. “Unlike you, however,” he grunts, “When I come, I ejaculate.”
“And what does that entail?” you ask breathlessly, as he pulls back slightly to look at you. Your blush deepens under his gaze as it drifts over your breasts and flushed cheeks while he continues his steady rhythm. He laughs softly—not mockingly, but warmly.
“It’s how a woman becomes pregnant. If I do it inside you.”
“O-oh,” you whisper, swallowing hard. He slows just a fraction, panting. “I’m close.”
“So am I,” you admit, feeling yourself unravel further, the knots in your stomach loosening, fraying at the edges. His pace slows, but the intensity only deepens. The sound of skin meeting skin grows louder, more urgent. You feel it—an overwhelming need to hold him, to keep him inside you forever.
And then it happens again. But this time, it feels warmer, fuller, more profound than when it was just his hand. You feel him twitch inside you, the two of you releasing in tandem. He moans your name, forehead pressed to yours, as if you are the very prayer he utters.
When he pulls away slightly, the two of you share a soft, breathless laugh.
In the weeks that follow, you move through the world as if through gauze—dutiful, poised, every smile measured. Your mother basks in the social currency of your title, gathering compliments like pearls on a string. You accompany her, watch the other mamas whisper and envy and flatter, all of them under the illusion that she orchestrated your fate with the Duke. You say nothing. You nod when appropriate. What use is truth to people so fluent in fiction?
You write, of course. The Phantom still breathes beneath your skin. Your newest column, delicate and saccharine, reads: This author has it on good authority that the Duchess looked divine on her wedding day. And that His Grace, upon seeing her, smiled so sweetly it might’ve given the ton a collective toothache.
The estate is yours now, or at least it behaves as if it is. The staff take to you with the kind of slow, sturdy fondness earned rather than assumed. You ask the butler for history, the housekeeper for stories. You learn the creaks of the halls, the way the morning light falls over the courtyard. You walk with purpose, like a woman trying to believe the ground beneath her belongs to her feet.
You try, once or twice, to speak to Megumi. He is polite, reserved, rarely reactive. It’s not coldness. It’s watchfulness, a kind of quiet calculation. And so, you wait. You plan the ball with your mother and the staff, ask about musicians, arrange the refreshments with an exactness that makes the housekeeper blink in approval.
It’s a Friday afternoon when you drift to the library, exhausted but restless. And there he is.
Megumi sits curled sideways on a sofa, a book open in one hand, long legs stretched comfortably along the cushions. He doesn’t notice you at first. You say nothing as you wander to the shelves and pull down a weighty volume—The Monk, by Lewis. You move toward the window, settle into the light like it’s a familiar friend.
You don’t miss the way his eyes flick to the cover.
“I didn’t know you liked Lewis,” he murmurs. His voice is dry but curious.
You raise a brow. “For that, you’d have to speak to me.”
He closes his book slowly. “What else do you read?”
“Wollstonecraft,” you say, glancing at him. “Radcliffe. And yes, I like Austen.”
“Of course,” he says. “I’ve heard all women do.”
“She writes brilliantly,” you reply. “If you've read her, you'd know. And it's not just women. She's better than half the men paraded through the canon.”
He grins then, truly grins. “You have taste.”
You let the smallest smile slip. “I have more than just taste, Megumi. Want to put that to the test?”
The sound of soft laughter at the door makes you turn.
Gojo leans against the frame, arms folded, an unreadable expression just beneath the familiar amusement on his lips. “I would advise against challenging my wife, Megumi. You’re not nearly clever enough to win.”
Megumi smirks. “She was just about to lose.”
Gojo steps into the room. He doesn’t touch you, but he stands close enough to be felt. “Don’t be so sure,” he says, eyes still on you. “She tends to surprise. And you, brother, are twelve.”
You feel his gaze linger a moment longer than necessary before he turns away, joking lightly with Megumi about the arrangement of the shelves and how the boy seems to have claimed a whole corner as his own. But even when he’s across the room, you still feel the weight of him.
That night, in your shared bedchamber, the laughter has long since faded.
You sit at your vanity, unpinning your hair slowly, the soft scrape of the comb the only sound in the room. Gojo enters quietly, not with the dramatic flourish he often employs, but with something more subdued. Thoughtful.
“You like Megumi,” he says after a beat, tone mild.
You glance at him in the mirror. “I do. He’s clever. Kind, even if he tries to hide it.”
Gojo’s eyes narrow slightly, though he doesn’t move. “He talked more with you than he did with me in the last few weeks.”
“Perhaps you should read Lewis,” you offer, tone light but not unkind.
He chuckles faintly, walking behind you. His hands rest on your shoulders, firm and warm. “Perhaps I should.”
For a moment, nothing is said. The air is thick with something you don’t yet name. His thumbs press into the muscle of your neck, a tender pressure. You close your eyes. You let him touch you.
You catch his reflection in the gilded mirror, and your breath catches sharply as your eyes meet his—Satoru. The name tastes like a secret on your tongue as you say it.
"Hm?" he murmurs, bending with a languid grace to press a kiss just where your shoulder curves into your neck. The sensation is exquisite, a sudden, exquisite ache blooming within you. Your eyes flutter half-shut, heavy with desire, and you turn to brush your lips against the sharp line of his jaw. He sheds his coat with careless urgency, the fabric falling away as if impatient to be discarded.
Before you can gather your thoughts, he has you pinned against the wall, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the heat radiating between you. His hands move with a fevered haste, peeling away your dress as if it were a mere barrier to the communion he craves. Your thighs part beneath his touch, trembling, and a soft moan escapes you as he sinks to his knees.
You watch, breath caught, as he lifts your dress with one hand, his gaze rising to meet yours. An unspoken claim, as if you are the axis upon which his world turns.
“Satoru?” Your voice is fragile, a whisper on the edge of surrender. But before you can brace yourself, his tongue finds you; hungry, desperate, as if he has wandered a desert for months and you are the oasis. It laps your cunt and circles your clit with a devotion that steals your breath and weakens your knees.
You arch, clutching the edge of the vanity to anchor yourself, one hand gripping the polished wood, the other tangling in the thick strands of his hair.
“Satoru,” you gasp, voice trembling, “Please... don’t stop. It feels too good. Too much.”
He smirks against you, the vibration of his satisfaction pressing into your skin. You feel the swell of his pride, the fierce possessiveness that makes him hold you by the hips as he remains kneeling before you, as though you are the very thing he has long been denied.
“I’m going to come,” you breathe out, voice trembling with a mixture of awe and surrender. “I didn’t know it could feel so... oh.”
You dissolve into him as his tongue slips deep into your cunt. He giggles low against your skin, the sound vibrating in you, and it nearly breaks you to remain upright. His voice, husky and intimate, murmurs into the depths of you, “You can’t just—”
“Can’t I?” he replies, pulling back with a slow, deliberate grace. Your dress, reluctant as if mourning its loss, slips down to its rightful place when he releases the hem, and you whimper softly. His smile is wicked, a devil’s promise as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. You hate the taste of yourself on his tongue. At how sweet it is, and it only stokes the fire, leaving you craving more.
You gaze at him, eyes glazed with a heady intoxication, and he brushes the stray drool from the corner of your mouth with a tender finger. “As much as I would adore keeping you awake until dawn,” he says, voice teasingly low, “I cannot exhaust you entirely in the first month. I fear you might grow weary of me.”
“I could never,” you whisper, breath still ragged, your chest rising and falling beyond the confines of your neckline. His eyes soften, just for a moment, before he pulls you close by the waist. You look up at him, heart pounding, as he says, “Here.”
He moves toward the vanity, a few deliberate steps, and pushes the stool aside. He guides you to stand before the mirror. You blink, catching your reflection—eyes meeting his through the glass once more. But now, you look undone. Less a lady of society, more a woman laid bare by desire. It is slightly unbecoming, wildly improper, yet you revel in it. You like seeing yourself this way, transformed by him. He sees it too, because his voice drops to a whisper, “You are something else. But you're mine. All mine.”
“You as well,” you retort, a mischievous spark lighting your gaze. “You are all mine, too.”
He chuckles, dark and amused. “Jealous, are you?”
You shake your head firmly. “No. Merely staking my claim, as befits a Duchess.”
His hands settle on your back, commandingly warm, fingers splayed across the expanse of your bare skin as he slowly undoes your dress. It falls away with surprising ease this time. He inhales sharply, a shaky breath betraying his restraint, before his hands roam to your nipples needily. The playfulness has vanished; now, he needs you with a raw intensity that leaves you breathless.
He sheds his breeches with haste and bends you forward. You gulp, shuddering as he enters you like this. You watch yourself in the mirror—your breasts bouncing with every thrust, his pupils dilating in rapture, his body making sounds that are equal parts grunt, moan, and whimper, all for you. It inflates your pride, a delicious arrogance, as if you hold dominion over him.
You yelp, breath catching as he pulls you back upright, continuing his relentless pursuit while standing. Your eyes widen in surprise, but hunger simmers beneath the shock. You pivot halfway, lips crashing against his with a feral hunger. His hands spread wide across your chest, gripping you with a fierce possessiveness that borders on pain—sharp, intoxicating, like the burn of port sliding down your throat, searing yet exquisite after a moment. Your half-lidded gaze and ragged moans confess everything; you are on the precipice of coming, and so is he.
“I can feel it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire. “Almost there, aren't you? You’re quite transparent, darling.”
“Shut up,” you grunt, a whimper escaping as his hand pinches your nipple with sudden, merciless insistence. Eyes closed, you surrender to the symphony of sensation—his hands on your breasts, his length buried deep within your cunt, his breath hot against your neck, his voice a low caress, his chest pressed firmly to your back. The more you dwell on it, the closer you spiral toward the edge.
He grunts into your ear, lips trailing kisses along the sensitive skin, and then it happens. The world narrows to the exquisite clenching of your body against him—against the veins of his cock, the tip pressing mercilessly against your cervix. Your core tightens, gripping him with a fierce, repeated rhythm as your entire frame trembles. And then, you feel him releasing inside you with a shuddering surrender.
You remain locked in that trembling embrace, panting, eyes drawn to the mirror where your reflection entwines with his. He holds you with a desperate tenderness, arms wrapped tight around your waist as his face buries itself in your hair. His breath is ragged against your neck, and your gaze softens.
For all his strength—Gojo Satoru, the man who devours you with such ferocity—there is fragility here. Though he has just claimed you utterly, there is something vulnerable in the way he closes his eyes and clings to you, as if you are the very air he needs to breathe.
And then it strikes you. The Gojo you know is a different creature entirely. Confident. Jovial. A master of wit and flirtation, as if life itself depended on his charm. Ever adorned with that infuriating smirk, so composed that every lady of the ton still whispers his name as London’s most coveted bachelor.
But tonight, you realize it with a shock. You do not know this man at all.
There is nothing particularly remarkable about the ball you host—not in the way society defines remarkable. It is exquisite, of course. Lit like a painting, gilded in every corner, with flowers perfuming the air and crystal glinting off every surface. But you’re tired of it. Tired of society and its pageantry, tired of the performance. Your mother goes on about appearances and honeymoons and duty. You nod, you smile, you dance. You watch Satoru disappear into his study with Suguru for ten minutes and return as if nothing happened. But you know better now. You can read him.
Later that night, while he checks in on Megumi, you sit in bed and think of all the things you have learned about him, and all the things you still haven’t. When he returns, you pretend to be asleep until he presses a kiss to your temple, tenderly quiet. You open your eyes and reach for him.
"You seemed upset when you came back," you murmur. He raises a brow. Waits.
"You left to speak with Suguru. In your office. Is everything alright?"
He blinks. “I didn’t expect you to notice. It’s nothing.”
"You’re the one who said you keep finding new things about me,” you whisper. “Why is it I feel I hardly know you at all?”
He exhales slowly. “It's nothing. A document won’t clear through. I’m looking for a way around it.”
"Can I help?" you ask. He shakes his head. “Not really.”
You card your fingers through his hair. “I’ve been exploring,” you say. He hums, eyes half-closed, waiting for you to continue.
"There are paintings in the drawing room. Your mother’s.”
“She was good,” he says, turning toward you fully now. “She painted. Played pianoforte. Taught me how to ride. To speak. To think. Refused to let a blasted governor near me. Said she wanted to know what I was becoming.”
“You must miss her.”
“Every fucking day,” he says simply. “As much as I hated my father, I loved her.”
You still. “You hated him?”
He stiffens. A beat of silence. Then, “Forget it. Tell me when Yuji’s coming next. I’d like to see him.”
That night, you don’t sleep. You rise before dawn and write, ink staining your hands as you sign your name as the Phantom once more. By sunrise, you’re dressed, prepared, and smiling again.
The months pass like breath. Days folding into one another with dizzying, golden repetition. You and Satoru move like clockwork: breakfast, duty, desire. He touches you constantly behind closed doors, between conversations, in the dark, and often in daylight. You let him. You welcome it. Sometimes it’s gentle, sometimes it’s rough, but always it’s worshipful. You start to wonder if it is his way of apologizing—for what, you don’t yet know.
You begin to bond with Megumi. He softens around you, especially when you bring books or speak of poets he’s only just begun to admire. Yuji visits often, and his presence feels like a memory of something easier. You tend to your duchess duties—entertaining the wives of foreign dignitaries, inspecting the kitchens, reading reports. You make appearances in town. You host teas. You smile.
But something hollows. Slowly, stealthily, as if dug by a spoon from the inside. There is a pit in your stomach that no wine or laughter can fill. Something unnamed. It stirs when you hear Suguru’s voice through the study door. When Satoru smiles just a little too easily. When silence settles between you after the pleasure is gone, and nothing is said at all.
You do not name the feeling, but it grows. Like a storm swelling in the distance. Like an ache you will eventually have to reckon with.
A few weeks later, with Satoru gone to the palace for some diplomatic affair, the house feels quieter than usual—emptier, though not lonelier. You’re curled on the parlor settee, half-lost in the novel he brought you, some token gesture to distract you from the silence blooming between you. Megumi is with his governor. There is no company to keep but the book in your lap and the ache that has been growing in your chest since before you could name it.
You're just about to turn the page when the butler enters and announces, “Lord Geto Suguru has arrived, Your Grace.” You blink, surprised. A smile curls faintly across your lips.
“Send him in,” you murmur, rising slightly.
He steps in moments later, breathless and urgent as though the world has ended, but his expression softens when he sees you. “Hi,” he says, almost sheepishly.
You smile wider, if only to push away the unrest in your chest. “Hi. Come to see my husband and not me, I presume?”
“Something like that,” he offers, bowing a little as he crosses the room to sit. “I don’t mind spending time with my old friend, though.”
“The old friend you haven’t written to since her wedding,” you tease, though your voice is light, practiced. “Seems you preferred me as a debutante.”
“Don’t say that,” he replies quickly, with genuine affection. “You know I never could. You’re like a sister to me.” A beat. “How have you been?”
You hesitate. The silence stretches, hangs. You could say everything. You could say nothing.
“I’m the same as I’ve always been,” you say instead, quiet. He narrows his eyes, then tilts his head, not fooled. “You’re angry with him.”
“No,” you say, too quickly. “Not at all.”
“You are,” he insists, gently. “Is this still about the contract?”
You pause. “Contract?”
“Yes, the one he and your father signed. The one to keep your father’s seat and to secure Satoru’s inheritance.” He says it like it’s common knowledge. “Though there’s a complication now—he’s been chasing down the notary ever since—wait.”
He stops. His eyes narrow again, before widening. “You didn’t know?”
You blink. “Keep my father’s seat at court...?” you echo, your voice louder than you mean it to be.
He sits upright, suddenly aware. “Satoru said he’d told you. Before the wedding—”
“Suguru,” you interrupt, your voice low but steel-threaded. “Explain. All of it.”
He looks at you then, and something in his face breaks. The guilt, the shame. He’s folding into it. And now you understand, how fools are made not by ignorance, but by trust.
“Satoru’s father was cruel,” he says slowly. “Raised him like a prisoner after his mother died. Tuberculosis, they said, though Satoru just called it wasting. His father never let him live, never let him feel. And in his will, he wrote that Satoru could only inherit at twenty-five if…”
“If?” Your voice is a whisper.
“If he marries. And sires an heir.”
There is a ringing in your ears. A coldness at the base of your neck. You feel the edges of your world tilting. “And my father?” you manage.
“Your father’s mistakes almost cost him the magistrate,” Suguru says, still not meeting your gaze. “Satoru saw it unravel. And so he... he made a deal.”
You exhale, slow and long. “He married me,” you say, voice flat. “Gave my father protection. Took a wife for an inheritance.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“I think you should leave,” you say quietly, rising from the lounge. “It was lovely having you, my lord.”
You do not watch him go. You sit back down only after you hear the door shut. You do not cry. Not yet. There is still too much to unravel before the grief can even begin. When Satoru returns that evening, the house is quiet. You’ve already retreated to your bedchambers, the light dimmed, the curtains drawn. You lie still beneath the covers, feigning the deep quiet of sleep. The housekeeper had passed along the lie without question—lightheadedness, perhaps exhaustion. A long day. Soup had been left on your nightstand. You hadn’t touched it.
He enters quietly. You feel the shift in the mattress, the creak of polished floorboards. Then the weight of his hand, gentle against your forehead, as though measuring something deeper than fever. His lips press to your crown with that practiced tenderness you once believed was instinct rather than performance. His hands rub soothing circles along your sides, warm through the thin linen. He murmurs something—your name, maybe. A prayer. A hush meant only for the sick and beloved.
You should soften. But instead you lie still, breathing steady. Pretending. And beneath the layers of blanket and silence, guilt blooms. You shouldn’t feel guilty. You remind yourself that.
Shouldn’t you be the one owed remorse?
Shouldn’t he have felt it when he let you fall in love with him under false pretenses? When he danced with you at that first ball—so attentive, so sweet—and didn’t think to mention the contract your father signed behind your back? When he smiled at your skirt in Utahime’s garden, saying he didn’t know how to speak to you, when in fact he knew precisely how to weave the web?
And wasn’t it too convenient, too perfect, that he followed you onto that balcony? That he kissed you? The thought clenches something hard inside your chest. You feel it rise like bile. You think: he knew. He must have known exactly what would happen, how quickly duty would follow affection. How clean the trap would spring shut.
You close your eyes tighter, swallowing thickly. His hand lingers on your waist, and all you can think is how expertly he has always known how to hold you.
The next few weeks are agony in silk and lace. Your mother insists on appearances. Says the London season has had its fill of your marital bliss, and it is now time to retreat—just the two of you—to Limitless Hall, the sprawling country estate that belongs to the title you now carry like a weight across your chest. A honeymoon, she calls it. A reward. A blessing. You nod and say yes, and wear the dresses she picks, and sign the letters addressed to "Her Grace," and you avoid your husband as best you can.
But even that is its own kind of torment.
Because pretending is a game you’ve grown good at, but never with him. It is hell to dodge his gaze. Hell to say you're tired when you're not. And it is hell—true, visceral hell—to lie beneath him and pretend it doesn’t make you feel everything when his mouth finds your breast, when his hips snap forward, when his voice rasps out your name like it’s the only prayer he's ever known. To bite your lip and not cry out when his breath fans your throat, when he worships your body like it belongs to him and you alone. When he says, hoarse and raw, “There is nothing I love more than being inside of you.”
It isn't the inheritance that hurts. Or the condition tied to it. You understand selfishness. Ambition. You understand needing to survive. What you cannot forgive—what burns through your chest like frostbitten fire—is that he didn’t tell you.
Because you loved him. Foolishly, fully. You still do. And that is the tragedy of it all. That love makes a fool of both of you. Because deep down, you understand: had you never written that column, you’d never have married so soon. Had you said nothing, done nothing, waited… maybe he would have told you. Maybe you’d have found out the truth slowly, from him, without contracts or obligations or shame.
Maybe, in another life, there would have been no trap. No balcony. No bargain sealed in ink and silence. So you pretend. You keep pretending.
You don’t flinch when he tells you he loves you. You smile when he calls you brilliant for suggesting Megumi stay with Yuji for when the two of you will retreat to the countryside. You laugh when he says he can’t wait to spend forever with you. And you don’t let your voice shake when he presses a kiss to your fingers, or when he draws you in close and murmurs that Limitless Hall will be perfect. That the two of you deserve this. That you’re his everything.
You don’t tell him that that—more than the lie, more than the contract—is what hurts most of all.
A week passes in silence and silk. A week of aching contradictions, of your body wrapped in his sheets, your limbs entangled with his, your mind aching with truths that he, at last, begins to share.
He tells you things he’s never told anyone. Of how he was raised at Limitless Hall while his father lingered in London, always out of reach. Of his mother’s slow unraveling, her health waning while his father watched—unmoved, preoccupied with bloodlines and legacy. Of Megumi’s mother, a woman his father ruined, cast aside, left to die bearing his child. Of the argument that fractured what little remained between them, of the promise Satoru made as his father lay dying: that Megumi would be his ward, his brother, his heir.
He apologizes quietly, without drama. Says he never meant to hurt you. That Megumi will remain first in line, and that he cannot change that. You only nod, and smile gently, placing a hand to his cheek. “I would have done the same,” you tell him, and you mean it. He calls you an angel and falls asleep beside you, breathing softly into your collarbone.
The next day, he returns home lighter, glowing. “It’s all done,” he says. “Everything here in London. We can begin the preparations.”
So, you do. You go home first—your old one. You speak with your mother and with Yuji, make arrangements for Megumi’s stay. Your mother acquiesces easily now. She rarely denies you anything since your rise in rank.
“But will it be alright, truly, if I stay here?” Megumi asks, just as you're about to leave. You kneel slightly, pressing your palm to his cheek with practiced ease. “You’ll be just as happy as I was, growing up with Yuji. I’ll write to you three times a week, and next time, perhaps the two of you can come with us.”
He shifts, frowning. “No, I meant—”
“You meant, is it alright to stay where only my brother knows you?” you finish, voice gentle. “Trust me. I’ll make sure of it. And if you have any trouble with my mother, well, I’ll handle her for you.”
You wink. He smiles. And just like that, you’re back at the estate, the soft click of carriage wheels forgotten by the time your footsteps echo along the polished floors. You’re in the corridor of the Duchess’s antechambers, gathering books, letters, and a few quills from your personal writing desk. A familiar silence blankets the space, until it’s broken.
You push open the door.
He’s standing there, framed by lamplight, a pouch of silver coins in one hand and something far worse in the other. A page. Thin, cream-inked, and damning. The look on his face is neither fury nor shock—it is betrayal in its purest form, so deep it roots itself in the set of his jaw, the stunned slack of his lips. “It’s you?” His voice is strained. “The Phantom is... my wife?”
Your eyes flick to the page in his hand, your stomach dropping, lungs collapsing into themselves.
“Satoru—”
“No.” His voice cracks, shakes, recoils. “No. I truly believed it could be anyone but you. I thought...” he laughs, brokenly, “I thought the way you looked that night. So betrayed. So wounded. Out by the swing, you were ruined, I thought. And it turns out, all of it—all of it was a lie? Was I a lie?”
Something hollows inside you. Slowly. Carefully. Then fills with heat. You freeze, just for a moment. The wind has gone from your body. But when you speak, it’s not with shame. It’s with a soft, terrifying calm. “And what of your deception, Your Grace?” Your voice is dangerously low. “Duke of Six Eyes. Gojo Satoru?”
He laughs, bitter now, clutching the piece of parchment in his hand tightly. “What lies?” he snaps. “I have done nothing but love you. Everything you asked, I did. You asked me to court you. I courted you. You asked me to write, I wrote. You wanted flowers. God, I sent you the damn flowers—”
“What I wanted was truth,” you cut in, your voice suddenly cold, slicing. “And what I received was a man who needed his inheritance. Who bargained for his bride like she was currency. Who shared a bed with her solely so he could sire an heir to secure his standing. ”
He stares. Breathing hard now. The coin pouch slips from his hand and crashes to the floor, the silver scattering like bones at your feet. As if there is nothing left to fight for.
“You made sure my father didn’t lose his judgeship. You made sure I was paraded around with you, easy to catch, easier still to wed. You calculated every word, the kiss, every flower.”
“I loved you,” he says again, and this time it sounds like a plea.
“No,” you stand your ground. “You needed me. And you never told me why.”
There is a ringing silence in the room, interrupted only by the scattered coins still rolling gently to stillness across the wooden floor. He’s staring at you, mouth parted, chest rising and falling as if words might yet come. But none do.
You wait. One second. Two. Five.
He does not move. He does not say anything. And somehow that is the thing that shatters you more than anything said between you tonight.
You turn. You do not speak. Your slippers are near-silent on the carpet, but the rustle of your skirts sounds deafening in the stillness. You walk out of the Duchess’s study as if walking out of a fever dream, your limbs trembling with the weight of all you’ve just learned—of all you’ve lost. There’s a hollowness blooming in your chest, tight and terrible, threatening to undo you right there in the hallway. He does not come after you.
You do not look back. Because if you do, and he is still standing there, you might fall to your knees. He does not come after you, he does not come after you, he does not come after you.
You do not ring for help. You do not tell anyone where you're going. You simply walk. Out the hall. Through the grand front doors of the Six Eyes estate. The butler calls after you faintly, confused, but you wave him off.
The night air bites at your skin. You don't care. Your hands shake as you call for the carriage and give your family’s address in a voice that barely sounds like your own.
And the worst part is that he does not chase you. He does not come after you. Not even once. And that is what makes it excruciatingly painful.
That night, when you walk into Highgrove House, your mother shrieks.
The way she gasps at your state—your half-undone hair, your expression, your silence—is almost theatrical. She rushes to you with a flurry of questions. Why you aren't packed, why you're not on your way to the countryside, why you look like you've been to hell and back.
You don’t answer. Not a word. In the parlor, Megumi and Yuji go still when they spot you. Yuji rises halfway from his seat, brows creased. Megumi looks at you like he's trying to figure out what happened, like he's trying to read something in your face. But there’s nothing. Not grief, not rage. Only absence. You walk right past them. Straight to the study. You close the door behind you. Lock it. You wait for the clink of the lock to register with the footsteps behind you and then silence. Just you and him.
Your father.
He sits at the desk, pen frozen above a page. You don’t look at him yet. Not immediately. You inhale. Once. Twice. Then you turn.
“When were you going to tell me?” Your voice is low. Controlled. Thick.
He blinks slowly. “I thought… I thought he would have told you. Before the wedding. That you knew.”
“You thought I knew?”
There’s no tremble in your voice now, just steel. “You didn’t think to ask me yourself? You didn’t think that your daughter deserved to know she was being sold off like property so you could keep your judgeship? What am I, a broodmare?”
“That is not the only reason—”
You laugh. Bitterly. “Oh no. Certainly not. You also thought he’d make a good match. Because, what? Because of his name? His estate? You thought I’d be content to be wanted for everything but who I am?”
“You said you were fine with it. In the carriage,” he says, desperate now. “You said you were—”
“I said I’d marry him,” you cut in, sharply. “Because I had no choice. Because I thought there was a chance it was love. Or something like it. I didn’t know there was a contract. A transaction.”
Your father exhales, heavy and old. “It was a good match. You’ve gone up in rank. You’re a Duchess. You have power. For a woman of your wit, your education, that’s no small thing.”
“But not because I chose it. That’s what matters,” you say, voice quieter now. More dangerous. “You should have told me. All of you should have.”
He pauses. Then, almost brokenly: “I’m sorry.”
You stare at him.
“I thought you were better than this. A better man. A good man,” you say. “But in the end, you’re just like the rest of them.”
You turn on your heel. The door clicks open. Your mother stands just beyond, hand hovering in the air as if she’d just been about to knock. She says nothing as you pass her. Yuji and Megumi rise, both watching you in a stunned kind of silence. You don’t look at them. Don’t give them anything.
You climb the stairs. You open the door to your old bedroom and shut it behind you. And this time, you don’t just close it—you slam it. Letting it echo. Letting it speak for you.
A week passes. Then another. You write a column about a ball you didn’t attend, inventing details about the color of the lady’s gown and the exact note the violinist missed. The gossip is cheap: some debutante without dowry, trying to entrap a second son before the season ends. It’s exactly what people want to read.
You remain at Highgrove House. The world believes you’ve gone to the countryside for your honeymoon. Only your family, and Shoko and Utahime, know the truth. No letters come from Gojo. Not one. He doesn’t appear at your doorstep, doesn’t write, doesn’t send a single flower or verse or scrap of himself.
“You must go back,” your mother insists one morning, as you come down for breakfast, hair pinned and face bare. You pick up your teacup, sip slowly, and then glance over at her. “Mother,” you say, voice thin but not without edge. “As the Duchess, I command you to stop urging me to return. And I would ask that you use my title, not my name. It is improper.”
She blinks. Her mouth opens, but then closes again. She says nothing more.
The days pass in muffled repetition. You read until your eyes ache, write until your wrist cramps, and in between you sulk in corners like a ghost that hasn’t made peace with the world. At night, after dinner, you sneak off to the courtyard with Megumi and Yuji to fence. You move fast and silent and precise, so that if anyone sees, it will be nothing more than a blur. You read aloud to them after. Tuck Megumi in. Pretend it doesn’t hurt to see your old life stretched out before you, still whole, without you in it.
It rains tonight. Heavy and thick, slapping against the windows like it’s angry too. You sit in the parlor long after the candles have burned low, watching the swing sway in the stormwind. You’ve thought of cutting it off more than once. But Yuji still uses it. That’s the only thing that stops you.
A throat clears behind you. You don’t turn. “Are you here to tell me to go back to the estate too?” you murmur.
“No,” your father says, and the familiar sound of pouring liquid follows. “That’s your mother’s job.”
He walks over with two glasses. Hands you one. Sits beside you. You eye the drink suspiciously, then take a sip. It burns too fast, too loud, too bitter. You cough, a little.
“That is as ghastly as my relationship with the Duke,” you mutter. Your father laughs. It’s soft, worn. When the sound fades, he speaks again, gently. “I should have told you from the beginning. But it isn’t easy to tell your daughter that her father’s about to lose his place in the world. That everything you built could vanish overnight. I still have the land, yes. But I am not just a lord. You know that.”
You keep your eyes on the window. “It’s alright,” you mumble.
“No. It isn’t,” he replies. “And you haven’t forgiven me.”
You say nothing. He continues. “But that’s alright, too. In time, perhaps you will. Or not. I’ll make my peace with either. I came to say one thing.”
You turn your head toward him, slowly.
“One day, when you’re older, when your hands tremble and your pride begins to rot inside your chest, you’ll make a decision that hurts someone you love. You’ll think you’re doing the right thing. Or the only thing. You’ll try to justify it, and you won’t be able to. And your child—your brilliant, furious child—will hate you for it.” He pauses, eyes on the fire now. “And in that moment, you’ll understand. That love is not made up of right choices, or even honest ones. It’s made up of people who come back. People who are willing to stand in the wreckage and ask to be forgiven.”
You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.
“If the Duke returns,” he says softly, “then don’t rob him of the chance to be that kind of person.”
He stands then, says he must rise early for the magistrate. Wishes you good night, tells you not to sit here too long, his voice worn and resigned. The door clicks shut behind him.
Still, you do not move. You remain there, in the armchair, staring through the misty glass at the swing swaying gently in the rain. Your body feels like it doesn’t belong to you anymore; your limbs weightless, your chest heavy. And then you stand. Quietly. Without thinking. You step out of your shoes, let the silk hem of your dress fall limp around your ankles, and walk barefoot to the door.
Your lady maid gasps behind you—“Your Grace!”—but the sound fades behind the groan of the door as it opens.
Rain meets you like an old grief. Cold, piercing, and relentless. It bites into your skin, soaks you in seconds, strips you of the pretense you’ve been wearing like armor.
You make your way to the swing. Sit down with a soft, defeated sigh. Water pools into the folds of your dress, clinging to your body like sorrow. You bow your head. Close your eyes. The rain is merciless, but it is real. Honest in a way nothing else has been for weeks.
Time passes. You don’t know how long. But then, the rain above you quiets. Only above you. The sky is still crying. But you are not. You open your eyes. An umbrella. And behind it, him. Satoru.
Soaked through, hair flattened to his forehead, water running down the sharp lines of his cheekbones. He’s holding the umbrella above your head like a vow, letting himself drown.
“Why are you here?” you ask, softly. Flatly.
“To take you back home. So we can go to Limitless Hall,” he says. As though it’s already decided. As though your heart will fall into step behind his voice like it always has.
“We aren’t,” you whisper. “I feel colder with the umbrella. Put it away.”
He pauses, watching you. And then, without argument, he folds it shut. The rain returns. Full. Immediate. Honest.
“Why are you really here?” you ask again, your voice nearly lost to the wind.
He swallows, once. “I couldn’t stand it,” he says. “The house without you. The silence. I know what I did. I know what I didn’t say. But I—” he falters, as if there are no words that will suffice, “—I couldn’t breathe without you.”
You turn away. “And what if I say no? What if I can’t forgive you?”
He nods, once. “Then I will wait. Until you can.”
A pause. And then, quietly, he says, “I didn’t come here to take you. I came here to ask.”
“Really?” you say, sharp and bitter, your voice cracking against the rain. “Because so far it just seems like you want me to play the perfect Duchess. Have me in your bed, give you heirs, secure your fortune.”
He flinches, visibly, as if you’ve struck him. Still, he moves closer. Rain slicks through his hair as he lowers himself beside you on the swing, the wood creaking beneath both your weight and the unbearable silence that stretches between.
Then, quietly, “You forget that you lied too.”
“I lied to protect myself,” you murmur, a tremor slipping into your voice. “I am the Phantom, yes, but I never lied about loving you. I never once lied about that.”
He turns, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Are you saying I didn’t? Love you?”
You look at him, truly look. At the water dripping from the tips of his lashes, at the shiver in his breath, at the hollow behind his ribs that you know, without being told, mirrors your own.
“Is that truly what you believe?” he asks, breathless now. “That I haven’t been in agony? That I haven’t been waking each morning and hating myself for not telling you sooner? You do not know the torment of every day that I live without you.”
Your throat tightens. The wind cuts through your soaked gown, and yet the ache inside is worse.
“Do you think I wasn’t in pain?” you say, staring ahead, blinking through the downpour. “Do you think I enjoyed being here, pretending? Every second without you is a second I spend pretending I know how to breathe. You are in every thought I have. Every breath. You are the reason I am sitting here, in this storm, not knowing what is to become of us. Of our marriage.”
He swallows. The sound of it feels louder than the rain.
“Then why won’t you come back?” he asks, voice low. “Why won’t you come home to me?”
Your gaze drops to your lap. Your fingers curl, trembling.
“Because you lied,” you whisper. “You stood in front of me, kissed me, promised me the world. And not once did you tell me that our marriage was a transaction. That I was a means to an end.”
Silence again. Then: “Say the word,” he breathes, “and I will give it all up. The title, the estate, my name. All of it. I will sign everything over to Megumi and we will go to Limitless Hall and be nothing more than husband and wife. No titles. No heirs. No obligation. Only us.”
You look at him. His voice shakes, but his eyes hold nothing but stillness. Steady. Certain. Blue like summer light through cathedral glass.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says. “And I am sorry. But I did not lie when I said I loved you. I do. I love you in every way a man can. I love you when I’m beside you. I love you when you’re not there. I love you when I hate myself.”
You inhale, a slow, stunned breath, as the thing inside you—whatever grief that curled around your spine like ivy—finally, finally cracks. Rain bespeckled gems upon his skin bring his beauty into every clearer definition, and you see it. You feel it.
“Satoru,” you murmur, voice too soft to hear. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have written what I did about us. I-I didn’t know what else to do.”
He shakes his head, already leaning in.
“I don’t care that you wrote it,” he whispers. “You could write a thousand more. I’d read every one of them, if it meant you were still mine.”
And then, slowly, reverently, he leans in and kisses you—rain-drenched and desperate, a kiss full of apologies and promises, a kiss that is not a fix but a beginning. You fall into it. Because there is nothing else left to do.
“Satoru—”
“N-no,” he interrupts, shaking his head with a desperate urgency, pulling you into a fierce kiss within the confines of the carriage. His hands tangle in your hair and slip beneath the damp fabric of your dress. “I need you. I miss you.”
Earlier, he had insisted on returning home at once, and you had found yourself unable to refuse. Now, you kiss him back with equal fervor as his fingers tug your sodden dress downward, exposing skin kissed by rain and longing. His lips trail fevered pecks along your collarbone, growing more reckless as he reaches the upper swell of your breasts. His hands grasp them boldly, and you gasp.
“What are you doing? The driver will hear us—”
“Let him,” he growls, voice thick with need. “I pay him well enough. I’ll give him more for his silence.”
“S-Satoru?” you breathe, eyes wide and shimmering. He whispers the words between heated kisses, as if uttering them might ease some ache deep within. “I love you. I burn for you. I am yours, forever and always. It is torture to be apart from you.”
He pulls you closer, settling you onto his lap with a soft yelp. Your hands cup his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the wet strands of hair clinging to his skin. His grip tightens on your hips as he kisses you hard, maddeningly, and you respond by trailing your fingers along his face. His hands slide down your sleeves, damp from the rain, and drag them lower until your breasts spill freely from the dress’s confines. A low moan escapes you as your lips find his jaw, his neck—devouring him piece by piece.
He undoes his breeches with swift urgency, then returns to your lips with a slow, tender kiss before withdrawing to bare himself fully. His hands lift your dress higher, already gathered at your thighs.
“Satoru,” you whisper, breathless, as he enters you. The sensation is full and warm, encompassing and right, as if every moment before this was merely a prelude. His hands cradle your face, compelling your gaze to meet his. His eyes are like ocean shores, sea foam dancing with every breath; warm sunlit currents with a depth that pull you under as he thrusts upward, kissing you senseless.
It is maddening. It steals your breath away. It feels so utterly right that you wonder if you have ever truly belonged anywhere else—here, in this carriage, scandalous and exposed, rain tapping a steady rhythm against the windows, while he claims you in every way possible.
You marvel at how blue can burn with such fierce heat until your gaze locks with his eyes. He is breathtaking, a living tempest of beauty and desire, and you cannot help but roll your hips with abandon as he thrusts into you with a desperation that threatens to shatter your restraint. Your moans spill freely, careless of the driver’s ears or any prying eyes. You gasp softly as his lips find the tender swell of your tits once more, then drift lower. You arch back willingly, offering him better access, and his mouth envelops your nipples, warm and insistent, as you ride him with fevered urgency. It feels like heaven incarnate.
He watches you with eyes glazed and wild, as if your naked form is the most bewildering sight he has ever beheld. You are soft beneath his touch, your breasts flushed and warm as his kisses trace the valley between them. There is a vulnerability in his gaze—a raw, unguarded longing that you cannot resist.
“I love you,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his as you move with fervor. “I love you so much.”
“I see that,” he murmurs, laughter soft and low, pinching your nipples with one hand while gripping your hips with the other. “I’m going to come, you know. You’ve kept yourself away for far too long. I can’t help it.”
“You can’t help it?” you tease, feeling the twitch of him deep inside you. The warmth floods every nerve, every thought, electrifying your senses. The ache of weeks apart has made this moment so tangible, so desperate. You murmur his name into his ear, nipping playfully, and he groans, pulling you closer. Your breasts press against his soaked coat, and his grip tightens in your hair. “Make me come. Fuck yourself on my cock.”
You gasp, breathless, as one of his hands slides lower, fingers seeking, until the pad of his thumb circles your clit. It is messy—pathetically messy and raw with need, but you live for it. You obey, bouncing wildly on him, rocking the carriage with your fervor as he spills his seed inside you. You watch him tremble, but you do not relent. You keep moving, keep riding, until your body spasms uncontrollably, your stomach fluttering with butterflies, your skin aflame, and your mind dissolving into a blissful haze.
The carriage rocks to a halt, the wheels hissing against wet gravel, but no one knocks. No one calls out. The drivers must have heard everything—how could they not?—but they say nothing.
You laugh, breathlessly aching, still straddling him in the cramped dark of the carriage. His hands are warm against your back, buttoning your gown again with a clumsy reverence, as if dressing you were an act of worship. The bodice sticks to your skin where his mouth had once been. His hair is mussed. His heartbeat still hammers beneath your palm like a war drum. It is steady, unrelenting, and devoted.
He touches your face with both hands now. Thumb at your cheekbone, fingers cradling the curve of your jaw as though you might dissolve between one blink and the next.
“What did you even do these last few weeks?” you ask, quietly, as your fingers draw idle patterns on his chest. It’s not teasing, not really. It’s the question of a woman who wants to know if he missed her with the same intensity that she missed him.
“I sulked,” he says, voice hoarsely low. His lips brush yours between syllables, like the words ache to leave him. “I reread every article you ever published. And I kept reading the newer ones you wrote and released while you were gone. I sat on the settee in the library where you used to read to Megumi. I tied a swing to the linden tree in the garden, so when you came back, it might feel a little like home. I cried. I sulked. I was unbearably miserable.”
You smile, forehead pressing gently to his. His breath is sweet with the sharpness of wine and desperation. He breathes you in like you’re something holy.
“I yearned for your presence,” he continues. “And now... now I have you on top of me, glowing. The world has found its axis again. Everything is where it should be.”
You scoff, but it’s soft, full of affection. “'The world has found its axis again'?”
He nods, brushing your damp hair back behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. “It has. Now that you're here.”
“Does that mean,” you murmur, lips ghosting across his cheek, “you’ll finally take me to Limitless Hall?”
“I’ll take you anywhere you want,” he says, without hesitation. “Anywhere you ask. Even if the world burns behind us, I will follow you. I’ll build you a home on its ashes.”
His fingers find your chin and tilt your face to meet his, eyes wild and clear. “I’m never letting you go anywhere again.”
“Never? Is that a promise, Your Grace?” you whisper. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just breathes the words into your mouth as he kisses you again—slow, reverent, trembling: “It’s not a promise. It’s a vow.”
THE VEILED QUILL
Volume III, Issue I
A Blooming of Secrets and Springtime Hearts
My dearest gentle readers,
Another Season begins. How swiftly the world turns. The countryside, with its dewy mornings and rose-laced winds, has offered this author a most peaceful respite. But even amidst the loveliest of meadows and the most fragrant of orchards, one finds that serenity can only satisfy for so long. For what is tranquility without a touch of scandal to season it? This author returns to Mayfair with ink at the ready and ears tuned sharply to the whispers behind every fan.
Why, none other than the Duchess of Six Eyes herself.
Yes, it is Her Grace who offers the first invitation, and society has been all aflutter since. After all, a woman who once moved through ballrooms as an enigma now stands at their helm. If she’s inherited even a hint of her mother’s celebrated flair for fête and flourish, this author wagers the night will be one to remember.
Of course, a new season brings with it new whispers. One can hardly ignore the epistolary bond blooming between Mr. Nanami Kento of Hastings and a certain marquess’s daughter. Just friendship, you ask? Perhaps. But a friendship that has weathered a year of travel, distance, and longing glances exchanged across ballrooms is hardly a trivial thing.
And speaking of matches: Nigel Berbrooke, last season’s most unlikely groom, is now a married man. His bride? A young lady of the ton whose courtship years were long and fruitless—until now. While this union may lack the sparkle of romance, it serves as a reminder that sometimes, settling is simply surviving.
But not all tales are so quiet.
Lady Shoko, Lady Utahime, and the Duchess herself were seen promenading in Hyde Park just this week, their laughter mingling with the scent of roses and rain. The trio, once heralded as the most promising of their debutante year, now stand together in something even more precious: enduring friendship. A lesson, perhaps, that womanhood is not forged in marriage but in who we choose to walk beside.
And now, dear reader, for the loveliest whisper of all. The Duchess of Six Eyes is with child.
There is no scandal in this news. No sharp turn or twist. Only something quietly radiant. A love that once began in shadows has softened, bloomed. Her Grace is said to be in excellent health, and the Duke—who has, at last, exchanged restless wanderings for a settled life at her side—is said to be utterly besotted.
For a couple who began as a tempest gilded in ruin, they have become the season’s finest portrait of devotion—steady, luminous, and achingly sincere. Their story is no longer one of survival, but of sanctuary. Of two hearts choosing, again and again, to remain entwined.
How rare it is to witness love unfold not in spectacle, but in steadiness. In letters tucked into breakfast trays, in gardens newly planted, in gentle hands resting on rounded bellies. In futures not demanded, but chosen.
Let us commence this season, then, with a bit of hope. For happy endings. For new beginnings. And for love, in all its quiet, remarkable forms.
With quill in hand and heart ever listening,
Phantom.
↬ 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.
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
kaledo-art
ellievsbear
titsay
areudirty
blakekathryn
snowghoul
dailybridgerton
