#jjk ff

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March the 14th

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

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

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

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

He reads it again.

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

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

Perhaps, we are simply of different minds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You will do no such thing!"

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

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

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

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

Satoru could not help but feel afraid.

At last, she said, "Satoru."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boys?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed,” Duke Nanami dryly replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I've implemented those."

The table turned to Gojo.

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

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

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

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

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

"I have hidden depths, Mother."

You pressed your lips together very hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only when the company is worth impressing."

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

"Extremely. I attend only the finest."

"And yet you were late to this one."

"Fashionably," he corrected, raising a finger.

"Is that what we're calling it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, not, not quite—”

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

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

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

“I beg your pardon?”

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

“It is settled.”

“Then why did you not say so?”

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

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

“I am not—”

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

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

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

And you cannot even tell him he is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

"Sister—" Choso starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

prev. the art gallery | next. soon!

general masterlist | series masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

choso in the carriage ride back

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

reblog and comment to lmk your thoughts!

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“stop.”

he said it like he wasn’t angling his hips upward to feel more of your mouth, giving him one final flick of your tongue before moving to straddle his waist properly.

“do i need to tell you to sit down again?”

“patience. please.” you giggled, finally lining him up, knees digging into the mattress as you slowly sunk down onto each and every inch, palms resting themselves on his chest as you bottomed out.

you smiled, a finger moving out to tap the point of his nose. “much better.”

he scoffed. “…not until you move.”

and so you move, pace slow and lazy—hands moving back to your hips to push you up and down on his length.

“this is what you wanted?” his voice ran right through you, slight rasp making you shudder.

“mhmm!” you nodded your head limply, already feeling yourself getting stupider with each stroke, dumb smile drawing your lips tight.

“then say it again.” he muttered and you didn’t even have to ask what he meant, clearing your throat.

“i-i lo-oo,” you spluttered, voice wavering.

“what is that honey?” if you still had a working brain cell you would’ve had something clever to clap back with but you didn’t, hand moving from your hip to smack your ass again—walls squeezing tight around him.

“i loveeee—”

“need some help?” the smile on his face was getting wider by the minute, tight coil building up with ease at how precisely he was hitting your sweet spot.

“i love your cock!"

“oh i know you do.” sliding a hand along the curve of your spine, he pressed you to his chest; feet flat against the bed, allowing him to hit even deeper inside of you.

“...now i’m going to need you to show me just how much you like it.” and on cue, you felt your stomach do that dip, breath uneven.

“ohmygod m’going to—”

“give it to me. come on.”

tucking your head into his neck, you all but strangled his length; tears running down your cheeks from how overwhelming it all was, white hot flash of pleasure making you drool into the crook of his neck.

“s’too much!” you sobbed, arm wrapped tight across your back forcing to continue taking it—slick dripping out onto the sheets.

“that’s what you always say.”

you weren't sure whether it was mere minutes or a full hour before he finally eased you up off him, hands moulding your limp frame to lay flat over the bed, plump pillows curving your back into the perfect arch.

“now you’re going to lay there—” he dragged you down to the edge of the bed. “and give me…” he paused for a moment.

“three more, okay?”

“three?” you wailed, hands twisting in the covers in anticipation.

he moved back a little, hand falling back down to the curve of your ass; stroking over the smooth skin before striking the fat again, walls squeezing tight against him.

“can my beautiful wife count for me?” he murmured, hand soothing the dull ache.

“mhmm!”

“and you’re ready?”

“i am!”

he chuckled.

“start counting then.”

a/n :: was starting to write a whole plot for this but then i realised idgaf + i'm horny

he missed it— more than he wants to admit.

when he finally gets home, the apartment is dim except for the faint glow of the tv. you’re curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, cute, he mutters under his breath. your legs are tucked safely under you, completely unaware of the thoughts running through your boyfriend’s head.

he shuts the door softly this time, trying not to startle you.

you glance up and your eyes turn into crescents and your smile takes over your face— god, he loved that look on you.

“hi babe, you’re back.”

your boyfriend unconsciously blushes as the nickname rolls of your tongue so comfortably. there’s something about the way your voice comes out, warm and comforting, and he never wants to leave your side again.

suddenly, all the hours he was away for feels unbearable. he drops his bag by the door without even thinking about it and comes straight to you.

“practice went well?” you ask gently, looking up to lock eyes with him.

“yeah,” he answers automatically. his voice raspy from running. “it was good.” and his hands droop to his sides like he’s let all the weight of his shoulders.

megumi just stands there for a second, looking down at you. his black hair is slightly messy, cheeks faintly flushed, a beads of sweat still on his skin. he looks tired but soft.

“megumi?” you tilt your head, smiling.

his jaw tightens for a second, debating whether or not he should drop the nonchalant act and just jump straight into your arms, but he manages to let out small sigh and says, “i missed you.” his voice is quiet, almost swallowed by the air between you.

your boyfriend was the shy type, he wasn’t the type to say words of affirmation or kiss you in public. he would do the small things— tying your hair up for you without asking, treating your wounds and letting you talk about your tiring day to him.

so when you hear those three words come from his mouth you are ready to tease him for it, because he is so cute. but before the words reach your lips, he’s reaching down and pulling you up into him.

his large arm around your waist like your going to slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough and his other arm slides up your back, hand spreading between your shoulder blades as he presses you against his chest, leaving no space between the two of you.

megumi then plants a soft kiss at the top of your head and he doesn’t say anything else. he just holds you tight, like he needs to make sure you’re solid and real.

you can feel his heartbeat, a little fast from practice, thudding against your cheek, “you were gone for two hours,” you murmur, smiling against his shirt.

“it felt a whole lot longer,” he says immediately.

his hands start moving, one slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing so softly over your cheekbone as if he’s scared he’ll break you with such a small touch. he leans down and presses a faint kiss to your forehead.

then another to your temple, your right cheek, then the left cheek, your eyelids and even your jaw, but each kiss was deliberate. they were warm and filled with all the love he had for you.

“gumi,” you laugh quietly, your hands fisting lightly in his shirt and he ignores you completely.

he continues his endless kissing spree and kisses the bridge of your nose, the tip of your nose and the corner of your mouth like he’s making up for all times he couldn’t kiss you before.

when he finally kisses your mouth, you feel it. the heat and the slight roughness of his lips, the shakiness of his breath like it was your first kiss but it’s tender. he’s gentle and slow with it, making sure you want it just as much as he does.

megumi pulls you closer and the kiss deepens, not desperately, but with this quiet hunger he only ever shows in private. his fingers tighten slightly at your waist, thumb tracing small circles against your back.

when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, letting out a faint smile. his eyes are half lidded now, steadier and much more calmer.

“don’t disappear on me,” your boyfriend mutters under his breath, almost embarrassed by how much he means it.

you smile softly, eyes turning back into crescents, “i’m not going anywhere.” your hands gently lay on his waist, taking him into your embrace this time.

he studies your face for a moment, taking in the sight in front of him. the way your face was flushed from all his kisses, your hair ruffled from a long day and the fact that you were there, in his arms.

he can’t help himself and kisses your lips again, multiple times before he pulls you back into his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck this time. his large arms wrap fully around you, engulfing you in his embrace, safe and sound.

that’s when you feel him relax. the tension in his shoulders melts away and his breathing slows down and that’s when you realise your boyfriend who pretends he doesn’t need affection, folds the second he’s home.

“you are such a baby, do you know that?” you tease him, looking up to his soft eyes.

“let me be with my girlfriend for just a little longer, please?” he pleads and goes right back into your arms because megumi has missed you and he’s still not done making up for it.

“Careful,” he teases.

“Wouldn’t want that hot chocolate spilling… on you.”

You glare at him, swatting his hand away. “I can handle my chocolate!”

“Can you handle me, though?” he whispers, leaning in so close you can feel his breath, Santa hat slipping lower on his forehead.

He tilts his head, eyes sparkling with that ridiculous mix of mischief and obsession, like he’s already plotting something very naughty and very unnecessary.

You groan, trying to focus on the wall instead of the heat radiating from his stupidly perfect body.

“Jungkook, seriously! stop being disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” He laughs, full and obnoxious.

“You love it. Ynnnnn Admit it. It’s Christmas Eve! You’re supposed to be having fun, and I’m the fun.”

He grabs the tiny mistletoe dangling from the ceiling fan and dangles it above your head.

“Or… maybe I just want to test a theory. Like… does kissing you under mistletoe make me… even hornier?”

Your face burns. You slap his hand away.

“It’s a decoration, you idiot!”

“Uh-huh,” he purrs, crawling closer until his knees are pressed against yours, smirk sharp.

“And yet, here I am. So curious. Maybe… the snow outside isn’t the only thing that’s gonna melt tonight yn.”

You bury your face in your hands. “You’re insane.”

“I know yn.” He drags a finger down your arm, slow, teasing. “But you like it, don’t lie. I can see it in your eyes.”

You peek through your fingers. His grin is impossibly wide.

His voice drops, almost feral now.

“Come on, babe… it’s Christmas Eve. You know what that means. Naughty list or not, I’m gonna make sure this night is… unforgettable.”

You realize, with terrifying clarity, that yes. You are completely doomed.

And you also kind of… don’t hate it. 

Jungkook leans back on the bed, propped on one elbow, that stupid Santa hat sliding even further over his eyes, looking way too smug.

“You know,” he says, slow and mischievous, “making out on Christmas… it’s scientifically proven to be good for you.”

You freeze mid-sip of your hot chocolate. “…Excuse me?”

“Yeah. Stress relief, better circulation… and,” he grins like he just delivered the gospel, “it’s… uh… very festive for, you know, the heart and stuff. Totally healthy. Doctor-approved.”

You snort, trying not to laugh. “And fucking you?”

“Obviously that too!” he says, as if it’s the most logical next step. “I mean… come on. Calories burned, blood flow, happiness perfect Christmas Eve activity. Totally recommended.”

“I’m not gonna fuck you, Jungkook.” you say firmly, crossing your arms and glaring. “End of discussion.”

He groans, mock dramatic, flopping backward on the bed like you just told him Santa isn’t real. “Babe… come on. You’re rejecting science. That’s illegal.”

“I don’t care about your fake science, Jungkook,” you snap, but the way your cheeks are heating up betrays you.

He props himself up again, crawling closer, smirk sharpened.

“Okay, okay, think about this logically: Christmas Eve only happens once a year. You’re literally cheating yourself if you don’t do it. Statistically, it’s a rare opportunity. RARE.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh at his ridiculous logic. “Your logic is terrible.”

“Terrible? Babe… it’s perfect. Everyone will hate themselves tomorrow, but we’ll be… you know… happy. Healthiest decision ever. Trust me.”

You groan, flopping onto your back dramatically. “You’re insane.”

“Crazy? Sure yn. But you secretly love it,” he whispers, inching even closer. His finger brushes your arm, slow, teasing, like he’s testing your willpower. “Come on. It’s Christmas. You know you want it. Don’t fight science, babe. Science is sexy.”

“ LITERALLY STOP CALLING ME YOUR BABE I’M NOT YOUR BABE!”

You bite your lip, glaring at him, because oh my god he’s completely right you do want it but you’re still stubborn as hell. “I’m not gonna-;”

He cuts you off, voice low, teasing, unstoppable.. oh here we go again.

“Yeah? That’s what they all say… until Christmas Eve logic hits them. And you, my love… are about to be educated.”

Jungkook leans in, that stupid, feral grin plastered across his face, eyes sparkling like he’s about to win some very inappropriate Christmas award.

“Yn, think about it kiss me. Just a little Christmas Eve kiss. Totally healthy. Totally scientific. Totally… mandatory.”

You groan, trying to curl back into yourself, but he’s already close, knee brushing yours, warm and annoyingly irresistible. “I’m not—;”

“Not gonna what?” he interrupts, voice soft but wicked.

“Not gonna follow the rules of science? Not gonna have the perfect Christmas Eve? Babe… come on, look at me. Do you really want to fight science?”

You glare, flailing slightly with your hands. “You’re insane. I’m not doing—;”

He grabs your wrist, gently, then releases, smirking like he’s just baited a wild animal.

“Babe… stop resisting. It’s Christmas Eve. The universe literally demands it. Look at the snow outside. Look at the lights. Look at me.”

You do look, of course. And oh god, his stupid smug grin is way too effective. Your heart is racing, cheeks burning, brain screaming that he’s completely illogical and somehow perfect.

He tilts his head, whispering low and teasing, “Just a kiss. Just one. You can call it… science. For your health.”

Your resolve crumbles faster than a cookie under pressure. You groan, hiding your face in your hands for a moment before he’s sliding one hand to your cheek, tilting your head up.

“Babe… just this once,” he murmurs, voice soft but feral, eyes darkening in that ridiculous way that makes your stomach flip.

“It’s Christmas Eve. You know you want it.”

You don’t argue anymore. Not really. Your lips meet his, slow at first, testing, and oh god yeah. That’s it. 

That’s everything.

He groans softly, smirking against you, like he’s already winning, already melting, already completely in love with how easy you are to manipulate on Christmas Eve.

The kiss deepens slightly, a little chaotic, a little desperate, a little perfect, and suddenly the room feels too small, the lights too warm, the world outside irrelevant.

And just like that, you realize you’re done fighting him. Done trying to be logical. Done pretending you’re not completely, hopelessly drawn in.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, grinning like the absolute disaster he is. “See? Science wins every time.”

You groan softly, leaning against him, trying not to laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes sparkling like the Christmas lights, “but you love me anyway.”

“ yeah, I love you but like in a roommate way.” you counter back but he only smirks like a fucking evil cat.

A drizzle of rain pours against the windshield, headlights beaming into your car, a low hum of the radio filling the quiet space. It doesn’t take long to reach the office building; traffic is on the slower side tonight.

Greeting the security guard, you step into the elevator, hitting the button while tapping your heel along with the elevator music. Arriving on his floor, it is empty, almost everyone has already gone home but you see the dim lighting pouring from Hiromi’s office.

With the door slightly cracked, you step inside, not saying a word as you shut the door and click the automatic blinds shut. Without saying a word, you walk over to him, and he looks up while pushing his chair back to make room for you to stand in front of him.

“Hey baby. Sorry I got caught up. What are you doing here so late?”

Slowly unbuttoning your trench coat, his eyes follow your fingers, working each one open until it is obvious you are bare underneath. His hands slide below the leather fabric, feeling the soft skin of your naked hip, his breath catching in the back of his throat.

“Babygirl... don’t do this to me,” he mumbles, gazing up at you with those half-lidded, dark and tired eyes that make your knees weak.

“I’m sick of not being able to get fucked like I deserve because you spend so much time here,” you pout, huffing and puffing with the biggest attitude you could muster up which you know he couldn’t stand, but that was all a part of the plan.

“Don’t start...”

“I just don’t find it fair that-”

Your sentence was cut short by Hiromi grabbing your waist tight, fingers digging into the plush skin, hoisting you up on his desk on top of all his loose papers and important documents. Your trench coat drapes against your shoulders, revealing your stiff nipples and bare pussy that glistens under the soft light of his desk lamp.

“You show up to my job, with nothing on, whining and pouting because you need me to make you feel good? Is that right,” he asks, unbuckling his belt and removing it from the loops of his grey slacks, his bulge evident now.

Before you can say anything, your breath catches as his clothed cock rubs against your slick folds, him reaching behind you to tie his belt tight around your wrists. Positioning you so you will remain steady, he pulls his handkerchief out from his suit pocket and brings it up to your mouth.

“Such a needy, dirty slut you are. So much attitude, so much back talk. You can sit here and watch me fuck you without saying a word, okay?”

You nod your head eagerly, letting him push the fabric into your mouth before tying it around your head, gagging you just right for his liking. His hands unbutton his slacks, pushing them down just enough for his cock to slip out, already twitching and leaking copious amounts of precum from the sight of you on his desk.

Wrapping both forearms around the underside of your legs, he pulls you closer to him, his cock nudging at your entrance. The head stretches you wide, whimpers already falling from your lips before he has even pushed in all the way, and a smirk plays on his face when you squirm underneath him.

“Oh c’mon. We’re just getting started.”

His cock plunges deep inside your pussy, nestled firm against your cervix, walls stretching endlessly around his thick, long length. You moan, throwing your head back, legs trembling against him while slick gushes from your pussy and coats his cock in your desire.

With a few experimental thrusts, he rolls his hips deep into you, the veins and ridges of his cock sliding through your falls, filling up every last empty space inside of you until the only feeling you know is him. His tip brushes past your sweet spot just right, back arching in the air, tears welling up in your eyes as drool dampens the fabric of his handkerchief stuffed deep in your mouth.

“Yeah? Right there, baby,” he coos, leaning down to you, pressing his chest against yours to place a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Whatcha you crying for sweet girl? Feels too good,” he chuckles, slamming his hips at just the right angle to hit your cervix and sweet spot in one go.

Tears slide down your cheeks, muffled whines and whimpers filling up the room as your body aches with need. Your clit sits puffy and swollen, ready from his touch, but after acting like a brat you are not sure if he would give you what you wanted. You nod frantically, begging him to move faster inside of you, but all it makes him do is laugh softly again.

“Gonna fill you up, make you understand that you will always be mine to take care of even if I’m busy. Maybe you’ll understand it if I make you a mommy.”

Your pussy clamps down on him from the promises laced in his words, and his control slips quickly.

He pounds into you feverishly, cock slipping in and out of your wet entrance, digging so deep inside you that it’s hard to stay steady on his desk. Papers fly across the room, fog builds on the windows behind him, groans rumble out from deep within his chest.

Wrapping one leg around his waist, his hand falls on your clit, thumb drawing tight, quick circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves. You bite down on the fabric in your mouth, moaning relentlessly as he fucks you deep, heat pooling in your lower belly quicker than you could handle.

“So tight and wet. You feel so good around me baby,” he grunts, slamming himself inside you faster, every thrust has his full balls slapping against your ass.

Your orgasm builds fast, your back arching, body drawing taut as you shake beneath him. He pulls down the handkerchief just as an obscene moan rips from your throat, and his cock twitches hard against your sweet spot.

“Let me hear you when you cum on my dick sweet girl,” he says, almost as a beg, voice low and rough.

He buries his face in your neck, cock pounding into you from below at a pace that was hard to keep up with. He mutters praises into your ears, unable to comment on your nasty attitude any longer as pleasure runs through him.

“Hiromiiii...” you whine, tears streaming down your face even with your eyes shut tight, drool dripping from your chin where your mouth hangs open ever so slightly.

Your pussy clenches tight around him, body going rigid as cum gushes from your entrance, making a mess of his papers, and expensive suit. He couldn’t care less.

“F-fuck. That’s right baby,” he whispers, kissing the soft skin of your neck roughly.

The belt digs into your wrists as you twitch from overstimulation, his finger easing up on your clit, but his cock still drills into you. It doesn’t take long for him to reach the same high you are coming down from.

Burying himself to the hilt, a guttural groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating through your own body. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, coating your walls and leaking out when there is no more room inside of you.

His hips stutter, his pace falters as he chases the remnants of his orgasm. Heavy breathing, hearts pounding, lingering whines and whimpers filling the air as proof of the pleasure shared between the two of you. His office was a mess. Pens, papers, folders, everything on his desk has been pushed off, the room hot and steamy after the intense experience.

“Gonna take you home and be a real man for you,” he says, tone softer now, almost as if he is apologizing that you had to do all of this just to be pleased.

“I would love that,” you reply, matching his soft tone, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him into you to reassure him that despite everything you understood him completely.

“And I love you.”

│Masterlist│

your fingers wrapped around your mug, sitting infront of one of your closest friends as she explained to you for the millionth time that megumi was not and never will be good for you.

“y/n, he doesn’t even know what he fucking wants, you don’t deserve that, i don’t know how many times i have to say it, please, for the sake of everyone who loves you, stop. looking. for. him. stop expecting him to show up, he’s not going to.”

her words echoed in your head, but they went through one ear and out the other. your eyes wandering the café, spotting that familiar face that you just so happened to be discussing, chatting away with one of his friends.

she noticed your burning gaze in his direction, “you’re a lost cause.” a big sigh left her mouth before she shook her head, not even wanting to bother since you were so stubborn and stuck on this one guy who barely even treated you like a person.

it didn’t matter to you, you wanted to pull down that wall he built between you, you wanted him to let you in. you wanted to feel the warmth of his gaze against your skin, not the icy daggers he throws that made you question whether he even liked you, you were his girlfriend for fucks sake.

anyone would feel the stare of another on them, megumi locked eyes with you from afar, a small frown tugging on his lips. he never got it, why were you so obsessed with someone like him? someone who is incapable of giving affection and messed up every chance he had, caused misunderstandings to the point where it was past fixing.

but you kept fixing, you wanted it all to be okay, you wanted it to work. it amazed him, no matter how awful he was at being a boyfriend, despite that, you still loved him, why?

why do you still love someone you shouldn’t? why do you want someone that you don’t need? all he wanted was for you to tell him why.