Oct 22, 2025
Modern Day Charlotte York
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Modern Day Charlotte York
art I saw today and a gorgeous door too. upper east side
photo by me b. segura
ME AND MY GIRL - nate archibald x f! OC
author’s note: i really wanna do a suites x gossip girl cross over bc i recently read a fanfic called hold my girl which was a harvey specter fanfic and i just can’t stop imagining donna with a little girl called violet so there’s that :,)) also missed you guys loads
the morning air at constance was crisp, but the tension between the four of them was thick. violet was practically vibrating with nerves, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag as she stared at the street.
"i’m telling you, s, it’s a bad idea. i hate the sky. remember paris? you guys practically had to cradle me the entire way across the atlantic," violet groaned, her eyes darting toward the idling town cars.
blair rolled her eyes, adjusting her headband with clinical precision. "come on, v. it’s a short flight to d.c. i’m sure nate will be more than happy to play bodyguard. god knows he's been acting like one all morning."
serena smiled warmly, tucking a stray hair behind violet’s ear. "i’ll be right there too, don’t worry. we'll have mimosas before we even hit cruising altitude."
"if you’re not making out with carter the whole time," blair countered dryly. she turned her sharp gaze back to violet and serena. "anyway, what are you two wearing? show me before you go. i refuse to find out from gossip girl before i see it with my own eyes."
serena laughed, glancing toward the sidewalk. "shh! be composed, the boys are coming."
chuck led the way, looking entirely too smug, with nate trailing just behind him looking restless. chuck’s eyes immediately locked onto blair. "waldorf. why don't you stay here with me? i have a suite at the palace and much better plans."
blair didn't even blink. "no, chuck. i have other interests than you and the capital. i'm helping my mother with the seating chart for her fashion show."
serena looked between her friends and shrugged. "i don't know why we're all stressing. why don't we all go to bendel's together and you can help pick the dresses out for us, blair?"
chuck smirked, leaning in. "oh, how i’d love to see all three of you in a dressing room—"
"your busy somewhere, right chuck?" nate interrupted, stepping forward and cutting chuck off. he reached out and slid his hand around violet’s waist, pulling her flush against his side. "how about i go with violet instead? since i'm her date, i should probably have a say in what she’s wearing."
nate leaned down and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to violet’s forehead, his thumb hooking into the side of her skirt to keep her close.
"how much longer is this going to take?" nate asked. he was slumped on a velvet ottoman, surrounded by gold-stamped shopping bags. "the jet leaves soon, v."
"perfection doesn't have a stopwatch, archibald," blair called out from the racks.
violet stepped out of the dressing room, looking small and hesitant in the shimmering, petaled gown. the pale pink fabric caught every light in the room, making her look like she was glowing.
nate stopped mid-sigh. his head hit the wall behind him as his gaze dragged over her. "wow," he breathed. "this is the dress. seriously. don't even look at another one."
"you like it?" violet asked, biting her lip. "the waist is okay?"
nate stood up, walking over and letting his hands find her waist again, his fingers splaying over the delicate silk petals. "it’s perfect. though you're right—my family is going to have a hard time focusing on the politics with you in the room."
"you perv!" violet laughed, swatting his hand away even as she leaned into him.
they had swapped their school clothes for comfortable travel gear—violet in a soft cashmere sweater and nate in a simple knit. as the cabin door hissed shut, violet felt the air thin out, her heart starting that frantic drumming against her ribs.
the front of the cabin featured two sets of seats facing each other across a table. nate sat in the seat right next to violet, his shoulder brushing hers. across from them, carter and serena were already deep in their own world, whispering and laughing over a shared drink, completely distracted by each other.
violet didn't say a word. she didn't want to admit how terrified she was, but she couldn't stop her eyes from fixing on the window, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the armrests. nate didn't need her to say it. he could feel the tension radiating off her.
as the engines began their low, heavy whine, nate reached over and took her hand, interlacing their fingers. his other hand moved to her thigh, and he started drawing slow, rhythmic stars and circles on her skin through the soft fabric of her leggings.
he didn't look at carter or serena. he just leaned his head against hers, his thumb tracing a steady, firm line across her thigh as the plane began to taxi. violet let out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut. she didn't tell him she was scared, and he didn't ask—he just kept drawing patterns on her skin, a quiet, private anchor as the nose of the plane tipped upward and the world dropped away beneath them.
peach season [a gossip girl story]
episode one ; return of the peach
summary ; after a summer away, georgia is ready to make the upper east side her playground. on her first day back, it seems like ice has overtaken the welcome party. it's all secrets, fear, and late-night meetings that lead to unlikely partnerships.
wc ; 2k
Carnegie Hill, #Manhattan
next chapter for upper east side au plzzzzz
𝖢𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾
𝖩𝖩𝖪 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 [𝖴𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖲𝗂𝖽𝖾!𝖠𝖴]
𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟤𝟣: 𝖣𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖣𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖻
𝖬𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍
♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎
You stood by your balcony windows, phone pressed to your ear, watching the city blink back at you like it hadn't just watched your night implode in real time. Somewhere behind you, Kento's voice had dropped into that clipped register he used when he wanted someone to feel small. Satoru was pacing near the bar, phone against his shoulder, not saying much of anything. Suguru had disappeared into your bedroom, and Utahime was already three sentences into a rant you could hear through the wall.
The line clicked. “Reader.”
Your father's voice. Even now, at—you glanced at the time—1:12 in the morning, he sounded like a man reviewing a quarterly report, not one waking up to a call from his only daughter.
“Hi Daddy.”
"I've already had two calls." No hello. No are you alright. Just data. "One from Whitmore's office. And one from a number I didn't recognize…which turned out to be someone at the Zenin family's counsel."
You closed your eyes briefly. "Wonderful. So they're already lawyering up."
"Naturally." A pause, the particular kind he used when he was deciding how much to say. "Were you photographed?"
“I assume so.”
"In frame during the altercation, or adjacent to it?"
"Adjacent." You kept your voice even, the way you'd learned to. "I pulled Satoru back. That's it."
"Good." Something in his exhale sounded almost like relief, if you squinted. "That's the version we're keeping."
"But it's the true version."
"That's beside the point, but I'm glad it's also convenient." A beat. Papers shuffling somewhere on his end—he was awake enough to be at his desk, which meant he'd been awake before you called. "Now, for this website. Have you seen the full post?"
"I have."
"And?"
"And it's thorough," you admitted. "Too thorough. Whoever runs it wasn't guessing. They had to have been there."
"I don't like that." His voice didn't rise. It never rose. But there was a flatness underneath it now. "I don't like that someone can stand in a room with my daughter and I don't know their name."
You blinked, caught slightly off guard by the ‘my daughter’ — not ‘the family’, not ‘our interests’.
"I'm fine, Daddy."
"I know you are." Another pause, shorter this time. "You're always fine. It's rarely the comfort you think it is."
You didn't have a response for that one.
"I'll have Aldrich look into the domain registration," he continued, already moving past the moment, already back to business, like the crack had never opened. "Discreetly. If this touches the Montclair name in a way that isn't strictly true, I want it handled before it becomes a habit."
"And if it's true?"
A long pause.
"Then we'll discuss it," he said. "Go to sleep, Reader. Or don't. But stop standing by the window where every photographer on Fifth Avenue can see you brooding. It's bad for the optics and worse for your posture."
The line went dead before you could tell him you weren't brooding.
You almost smiled. Almost.
♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎
Across the room, Kento hadn't moved from his spot near the kitchen island, one hand braced against the marble, voice low and precise.
"I need the registration history, not the surface data—yes, I'm aware it's masked, that shouldn’t be a deterrent." A pause. "Then unmask it. I don't care what it costs. Send the invoice to the firm." Another pause, longer, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "No. Don't loop in my father. This one's mine."
Near the bar, Satoru had his phone tucked against his shoulder, pouring himself something amber and unbothered—except his knuckles were a little too tight around the glass.
"I don't want a statement," he was saying, tone lazy. "I want to know if this actually reaches anyone who matters, or if it's just noise that'll die by Thursday... Yeah. Yeah, I know it's live. I can read a view counter, Marcus."
He hung up without saying goodbye, tossed the phone onto the counter, and knocked back half the glass in one go.
Suguru drifted back in from the bedroom, hands tucked in his pockets. "My mom's art world contact says there's whispers of some backer with actual money behind the site," he said, voice quieter than usual. "Not just a bored student with a laptop. Someone funded the infrastructure."
"Comforting," Shoko muttered from the couch, not looking up from her own phone. She hadn't called anyone. Just texted, thumb moving fast, expression unreadable. "My guy says the same. Whoever's behind this isn't doing it for free."
Utahime stormed back in from the hallway, phone still glued to her ear. "No—Mom, I said I'm fine—no, I wasn't drinking, I was—" she pulled the phone back to glare at it before pressing it to her ear again. "Yes. I know optics matter. I invented optics." A pause. "Okay, love you, bye." She hung up and exhaled sharply. "She's already drafting a statement. For me. I didn't even do anything."
You moved away from the window, the glass of the balcony cooling behind you as you joined the circle. The atmosphere in the penthouse was thick with paranoia, everyone locked into their own digital defensive perimeter.
"They're treating it like a corporate crisis," you said, tossing your phone onto the kitchen island. "My dad's already got Aldrich tracking the domain. If this site touches our names with anything actionable, it's a legal war."
"It's already an actionable war," Kento snapped, shutting his laptop with a decisive click. "The sheer speed of the distribution means they bypassed standard campus network protocols. It's an internal breach."
Before Utahime could launch into a critique of the university's infrastructure, the sharp buzz of the front door intercom cut through the room.
Everyone froze.
Shoko didn't look up from her screen, but her thumb stopped moving. Suguru slowly took his hands out of his pockets, his gaze shifting toward the foyer.
You walked over to the wall monitor, tapping the screen to reveal the lobby camera feed down on Fifth Avenue.
Kugisaki was standing directly under the gold awning, her arms crossed over her jacket. Beside her, Maki had a firm, non-negotiable grip on the strap of Megumi’s collar, preventing him from fading back into the Manhattan dark. Mai was a few steps behind them, typing lazily on her own phone.
You pressed the small button beside the screen, your voice crackling to life through the lobby speaker. "Password."
A beat of silence on the feed.
Kugisaki looked directly up at the camera with an unamused huff. “Reader, I am wearing eight-inch platform heels, and we had to chase Megumi out of the subway. Buzz us in.”
"That's…not a password."
“Reader-!”
You snorted, releasing the button and hitting the main door buzzer. "The kids are here," you announced, turning back to the room.
"About damn time," Utahime said, already sliding off the barstool to check her reflection in the nearest reflective surface, which happened to be the toaster.
Satoru leaned his chin in his hand, a lazy smirk returning to his face. "Be nice, Utahime. They survived the subway at midnight. That's practically hazing."
"I took the subway once," Suguru mused from the couch, swirling his glass. "It smelled like piss and shit."
"That's just Manhattan after dark, Sugu," Shoko muttered, not looking up from her screen.
You could hear them before the doors even opened.
"—I'm just saying, if I break an ankle in these heels because your cousin sprinted through a turnstile, I will sue you personally, Maki, not your family, you—"
"You didn't have to wear them."
"I always have to wear them, that's the whole point of having them—"
The doors slid open with a soft chime, and the four of them tumbled out in a loose, uncoordinated cluster — Kugisaki first, heels clicking against your marble. Maki followed, still gripping the back of Megumi's collar with the calm, practiced ease of someone walking a dog that had tried to bolt one too many times. Megumi himself looked exhausted while Mai trailed last, thumb still moving across her phone screen, seemingly unbothered by the journey that had apparently almost ended in bloodshed.
"We're here," Kugisaki announced to the room at large. "Barely.”
"You're late," Shoko said, lifting her eyes.
"Blame the infrastructure," Maki said, letting go of Megumi's collar with a dismissive shove.
“Anyways, what’s the actual body count?” Kugisaki demanded, tossing her jacket onto the couch. “Because the comments section on that site is saying Satoru caught a federal charge and Naoya is currently being fitted for a prosthetic jaw.”
“He’s not getting a prosthetic jaw,” Satoru said breezily, lifting his glass in her direction from his perch at the bar. “Just a lesson in conversational boundaries.”
Megumi rubbed at his collar after Maki released him, and his eyes immediately locked onto Satoru.
“Your legal representation just called my phone,” Megumi said, his voice flat. “Why do they have my number?”
“Because you’re with me, kiddo,” Satoru replied, completely unfazed by the glare. “And right now, being associated with me means your name is officially a trending topic.”
“His name was already a trending topic, dipshit.” Shoko muttered.
Maki walked past them both, stepping into the living room and looking directly at you and Suguru. “It’s not just the fight post anymore. Look at the site. They just updated the main page.”
You picked your phone back up from the kitchen island, the cold blue light of the screen illuminating your face as the sleek navy-and-black interface loaded a fresh card.
Sitting right above the viral post was a new text block, written in that same crisp, devastating font:
SPOTTED: A hit lands, a lip bleeds, and the dynasties scramble to lock their vaults. But a broken jaw is just a distraction, elites. The real leaks start tomorrow morning when the first bell rings. We have the registrar logs. We have the donor ledgers. We know exactly who bought their way into the honors syllabus. Sleep tight, Dominae Regis. Class is officially in session.
“They’re going after the academic records,” Utahime whispered, her phone slipping an inch in her hand. “If they leak the internal university endowment files...”
“Then the entire meritocracy facade collapses before midterms,” Kento finished coldly, his fingers tapping an incessant beat against his closed laptop.
A beat of silence.
"I think," you said, setting your phone back down on the counter, "that we should not continue to discuss this matter for the remainder of the evening."
Heads whirled towards you.
“But they could literally expose every legacy admission since 1998!” Kugisaki burst out, throwing her hands in the air. “If my name is on a list next to some trust-fund kid who failed algebra twice, my reputation is completely shot—!”
“It won't be on there, Kugisaki,” Maki said calmly, as she leaned against the back of the sofa. “But half the varsity rowing team should probably start looking at transfer applications.”
“Exactly,” you said, your voice cutting through the rising panic. “Which is exactly why we are stopping right here. Look at yourselves. You’re tweaking out over a nobody. A loser.”
You paused, sweeping your gaze over the room, letting the silence anchor them back to reality. “And the one thing a Montclair does not do is give a coward the satisfaction of a reaction. If we scramble, we show blood in the water. We are not panicking.”
Kugisaki opened her mouth to argue.
You held up a single finger.
She closed it.
"Tomorrow," you said, "we panic. Tonight, we drink."
Satoru raised his glass, delighted. "There she is."
"I second the motion," Suguru said mildly, already reaching across the counter to lift a fresh bottle.
Utahime, ever the fastest to recalibrate, clapped her hands once. "Okay. New rule. If anyone says the words registrar, nepo net, or endowment for the rest of the night, they owe the room a shot."
“Better yet,” Shoko proposed, sitting up with a lazy grin. “If anyone says any of those words, everyone has to take a shot.”
“Registrar! Nepo Net! Endowment!” Haibara cheered instantly.
A collective groan echoed through the penthouse as Satoru immediately started lining up the glasses.
"Wait, that's not fair, he did that on purpose—" Kugisaki started.
"There's no clause about intent," Haibara said gleefully, already reaching for the nearest glass. "Rules are rules."
"There were no rules," Utahime snapped, "thirty seconds ago!"
"And I'm the first to enact them. That's called integrity."
Satoru was pouring in one continuous motion across the glasses like it was choreography. "Everyone, arms out. This is a group punishment. We suffer as a family."
"I didn't say anything," Kento said flatly.
"You're drinking anyway," Satoru said, sliding a glass toward him regardless. "Community tax."
"That's not how taxes work."
"It's exactly how taxes work, Ken-dog, that's the whole problem with them."
Kento accepted a glass with a huff before slapping Satoru’s wiggling fingers away. Around the room, hands reached for glasses — Kugisaki still muttering about entrapment, Maki knocking hers back without ceremony, Mai sipping hers like it personally owed her an apology.
"To poor decision-making," you said, lifting your own glass.
"To Haibara's early demise," Utahime added sweetly.
"I'll allow it," Haibara said, and drank.
The room went loud again — the kind of loud that swallowed whatever tension had crept back in, burying it under music and overlapping conversations and Kugisaki now interrogating Maki about which rowing team members specifically were about to have a very bad morning. Someone put on something with more bass. Utahime abandoned the toaster reflection in favor of dragging Kento and Shoko into a debate about the Halloween gala theme like the world hadn't just threatened to leak sixty years of admissions fraud 20 minutes ago.
Megumi still hadn't moved from the end of the bar.
You caught sight of him past Satoru's shoulder — glass mostly untouched, posture drawn in on itself, watching the room the way he always did, as if he was cataloguing exits.
You picked up your drink and crossed to him, sliding onto the stool at his side without asking permission.
"You're doing the thing," you said.
He glanced at you sideways. "What thing?"
"The thing where you stand very still and hope no one notices you. And then you try to leave when no one’s looking."
His jaw ticked faintly , and he turned his glass a slow half-circle against the marble instead of answering right away.
“Is it because of what Naoya’s been saying?” You asked, your voice softening.
“It’s fine," he said finally. "What he says is true anyways."
"It's not true, and you know it." You kept your voice easy, unhurried. "But whatever he thinks he knows, about your family, about tonight — it doesn't change what's actually true."
"You don't know what's true."
"No," you agreed simply. "But I know you. And I know Naoya's a bitter, overcompensating asshole who says cruel things because it's the only leverage he's got that doesn't require actual talent."
That, finally, cracked something loose in him — not quite a smile, but close enough that his shoulders dropped half an inch.
"You sound like Satoru."
"Don't insult me."
The almost-smile won, barely, and you bumped his shoulder gently with yours, letting the silence sit comfortably between you while the party roared ten feet away like its own separate weather system.
Across the room, you didn't miss the moment Shoko's fingers found Suguru's sleeve, tugging once, wordless. He didn't even glance at anyone else before following her toward the hallway, your guest room door clicking shut behind them a second later, swallowed instantly by the noise.
Utahime, mid-argument with Kugisaki about garlands versus fog machines, turned to point at you. "Called it. Again."
You let out a soft huff that was closer to a real laugh than anything you'd managed all night. "Go on," you murmured, giving his arm a gentle nudge toward the living room. "Go save Maki and Mai from Utahime's event planning before she makes them dress up as ice sculptures."
Megumi looked toward his cousins, then back at you, offering a tiny, almost imperceptible nod before sliding off the stool.
Satoru suddenly appeared at your other side like he'd been summoned, two fresh glasses in hand, already pressing one into your palm before you'd finished the last of your first.
"You disappeared on me," he said, low. "Again."
"I was parenting Megumi."
"I heard." His eyes flicked, briefly, warmly, toward the boy. "Cute. Unsettling on you."
"I’m multifaceted."
"Yeah…ok." he hummed unconvinced, as he leaned into the counter, close enough now that his cologne settled over you. "You good?"
You considered the easy lie. The deflection. The joke that would let you both pretend.
"Ask me again in an hour," you said instead.
Something flickered across his face —gone as fast as it came, replaced by the familiar tilt of his smirk.
"Come outside with me," he said. "Balcony."
"Satoru—"
"Five minutes." His eyes held yours, steady in a way that had nothing performative left in it. "Please."
You should've said no.
You set your glass down instead.
"Five minutes," you echoed.
He didn't let go of your hand until you were both through the doors, the glass sliding shut behind you and swallowing the party down into a muffled hum.
The city sprawled out beneath you in every direction, gold and glittering. The cool night air bit at your bare shoulders, sharp after the heat of the apartment, and you shivered before you could stop yourself.
Satoru noticed immediately, because of course he did. He always noticed the small things about you, even when he pretended not to notice anything at all.
He unbuttoned his silk shirt without a word and draped it over your shoulders, ignoring your token protest before you'd even made it.
"I didn't ask for that."
"You didn't have to." He tugged the lapels closed at your collarbone, knuckles brushing your skin, lingering half a second longer than the task required. "You get this face when you're cold. Little furrow, right here." He touched two fingers to the spot between your brows, feather-light. "Dead giveaway."
"I don't have a ‘face’."
"You’ve got tons. I've catalogued all of them."
You rolled your eyes, but you didn't step back.
"You said five minutes," you reminded him. "Talk, or I'm going back inside to my actual friends."
"I'm hurt." He leaned back against the railing, putting a few feet of space between you that felt, somehow, more charged than closeness would have. His eyes swept over you slowly as if he was reading you. "Tonight was a lot."
You shrugged. “We’re used to it.”
"And now you're standing here," he continued, quieter, "acting like none of it touched you. Like you didn't spend the whole car ride digging your nails into your hand." His eyes found yours, and there wasn't a trace of the performance left in them now — none of the smirk, none of the practiced charm he wore like a second skin in every room that wasn't this one. "I know you, Reader. You don't get to lie to me about being fine."
Your breath caught at the use of your actual name — not ‘sweetheart’, not ‘baby’, not any of the easy nicknames he threw around like currency.
"I was scared," you admitted, so quiet the wind almost took it. "Only for a second."
"Yeah." His jaw tightened, some old, familiar guilt flickering behind his eyes. "Me too."
The silence between you settled over the balcony like a physical weight, thick with everything the two of you had spent years laughing off. The wind caught the hem of his shirt around your knees, a sharp reminder of how high up you were, how precarious everything felt outside the glass.
"Ask me something else." you said, softer now.
"Okay," he said, voice low. "Can I kiss you?"
You should've said something clever. Should've deflected, the way you always did, the way the two of you had built an entire relationship out of never quite naming the thing sitting between you.
You didn't say anything at all.
You closed the distance instead.
His hand found your jaw the second your lips met his, careful in a way that contradicted every reckless, chaotic thing anyone had ever said about Satoru Gojo — like you were something he'd been waiting all night to be gentle with. You felt him exhale against your mouth, some tension you hadn't realized he was holding finally slipping loose, and you let yourself sink into it instead of pulling away, instead of making the joke, instead of doing any of the hundred things you usually did to keep this exact moment at arm's length.
The party noise bled back in faintly from somewhere behind the glass doors — Utahime's laugh, the bass of the music, someone's shriek; but it all felt very far away, very unimportant, next to the warmth of his hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him like the city itself might try to take you from him if he didn't.
You pulled back, just a fraction — enough to catch your breath, enough to press one hand flat against his chest like you might actually put space between you — but Satoru only followed, chasing your mouth with a low sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan, refusing to let the distance stick.
"Uh-uh," he murmured against your lips, tightening his hold at your waist. "Don't do that."
He kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world and intended to spend every second of it proving you wouldn't want to leave anyway.
When you finally broke apart, just barely, his forehead dropped to rest against yours, breath uneven.
"Your five minutes," you murmured, "is up."
"Worth every second," he said, and kissed you again before you could argue.
♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎
rooftop pool | Upper East side NYC
(2002)