Bleeding Blue | Apocalypse Au
bleeding blue | apocalypse au
part thirty —other parts
pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: this chapter is all from Blue's perspective. if anything regarding the abuse or suffering of children triggers you do not read. though it is really not graphic at all (imo) and the SA is EXTREMELY implied and subtle (just a woman looking/potentially touching Blue's private area to check for virginity). I wanted to tell you so there are no surprises.
B
Blue hasn’t been without her father for more than an hour in over five years. There were moments when she'd imagined him disappearing, especially when he said no to her, when he could annoy her, push her too hard, or withhold the words she craved. And yet—now, with her head resting in Twix's lap, she can only long for him. The thought of his absence fills her with cold dread. The kind that erupts goosebumps on her arms despite the stuffy air in the room. Twix’s fingers gently stroke the back of her scalp, but it does little to ground her as her mind drifts to Ghost. He’s alive, that woman said. But it's been over a day, and he still hasn’t come for her.
"Do you think he will come soon?" she asks quietly.
Twix's fingers pause at the top of her hairline. "I think... I think he is doing everything he can to find you."
Blue is old enough to know that is a non-answer.
She knows, deep down, that Twix doesn't think he'll be coming, either.
"I will figure something out, okay?" she promises.
"Okay," Blue whispers noncommittally.
"Hey." A faint smile. "I've done pretty good at getting us out of shit in the past, right?"
Blue mumbles, "I guess so."
But this time felt different from those times. No matter how many times she catches Twix squinting around the room, murmuring things to Nereida, even Blue knows that a bright idea won’t magically appear. Not in here, where there is nothing except the three beds, the bolted cell, and the out-of-reach door that Ghost has yet to barge through.
When Blue's fingers instinctively search for her wrist, Twix’s face softens, and she gently encloses her palm over Blue's knuckles. "Alright. I want you to close your eyes and imagine that beach you showed me once. The one with white sand, and super blue water." Blue plays along with a deep sigh, closing her eyes as she feels a callused thumb brush her cheek. "Almost as blue as your eyes. See it?"
"I guess."
"Good. Now, I want you to imagine that you are lying on the sand, eating all the Twix bars and Nutella you want. Oh, and Grim is there. He was trying to make a sandcastle but got his head stuck in the sand."
Blue's lips twitch despite herself. "This is dumb."
"Dumb? Well, I don't think Grim finds it dumb. He can hardly breathe right now so you better stop eating chocolate and haul his ass up."
Blue snorts quietly, eyes screwing tighter as she imagines it; pulling the bunny out of the sand, giggling, the waves crashing. She falls back onto the sand with him in tow, but he darts away from her hands, toward the water. When she looks over, sun glaring, someone else is there. It's her father, and for a moment she is ready to jump on his back and beg him to play in the waves with her. That's when she notices he is keeled over, ripped apart, bloodied and battered.
Blue jolts, inhaling sharply. When she reopens her eyes, the image is still there.
"What's wrong?"
"I just saw—" she rubs her eyes profusely, but he's right in front of her. Blood begins to spurt from a sever in his throat. His head snaps forward, hanging by a thin thread of tissue. "I see him! H-his head is..."
She jerks upright from Twix's lap, her eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to shake off the vision. When that doesn't help, she buries her face in the pillow, but the image remains too real to ignore. The thread snaps, and her father’s head rolls away silently.
Twix’s voice cuts through, her hands gently shaking Blue’s shoulders, but it feels distant, like a shadow compared to the sickening thud of her father’s headless body hitting the ground. Thick blood pools at her feet, and she tries to move, but her muscles won’t obey. The blood rises and rises, suffocating her, until she can’t breathe.
"Blue, it's just... you're imagining it."
"I can't... I can't..."
Someone flips her over on the bed and hugs her shoulders.
Twix's chapped lips press into her cheek.
"Please, Blue. I'm here."
The touch is enough to drain the blood and free her lungs. Her father's dead body floats away. She gulps for air, cold sweat clinging to her neck, and curls into the body beside her. Lingering panic races through her heartbeat, but then, after a minute, it begins to slow considerably. A new feeling washes over with the force of a tidal wave; fatigue.
Blue suddenly feels so tired that she can't keep her eyes open. It’s as though the terrible images have drained her entirely, leaving only murky water in their place. Her mind begins to float, and the edges of the world blur. Twix's face is in front of her yet feels so far away. Her lips try to part for words to come out, but it takes three tries just to manage: "I feel strange."
Across the cell, Nereida whispers, "I do, too."
Weight shifts on the mattress as Twix tries to sit up, leaning against the wall. Her head dips slightly, then snaps back up. A shaky inhale. "That... that fucking bitch. The oatmeal!"
The oatmeal? Blue’s thoughts latch onto the warm meal they’d been forced to eat, but the memory slips away before she can hold onto it. The slow descent snowballs. Twix’s voice distorts, blending with the chirping of birds outside the window. Her body slides down the wall, crumpling back beside Blue. She tries to hug Twix again, but her arms won’t cooperate.
Minutes later, or maybe hours, Blue hears the metal screech of the cell door swinging open. Veiled ghosts drift in. She can do nothing to run from them. Murmured voices, speaking words she doesn't understand, bleed through the heavy blanket of fog lying over her.
"Vous avez dit que celui-ci était intact?"
"Oui, Maman."
"Nous offrirons son corps pur au Seigneur. Les deux autres seront aptes à avoir des enfants."
"Mais elle est une... Je veux dire, oui, Maman."
She feels something cold and sinuous lifting her—snakes. No, not snakes. Hands. Cold, unfamiliar hands. Twix shouts something slurred. Then Blue is dragged by her feet, her spine no longer supported by the bed. She tries to squirm free, but her limbs feel heavy, useless. More hands clamp down on her arms.
No, no.
She wants to call for Twix, but her voice is muffled beneath a palm, the sound dying in her throat.
A weathered voice coos in her ear. "Sweet child. There is nothing to fear."
She can't scream.
All she knows is Twix is no longer the one beside her.
Cold fear surges through her veins, and she claws at someone’s arm. The retaliation is swift—a prick to her neck.
The strike of pain intensifies her dizziness, the last fight in her body fading away. They're dragging her again. The hard floor beneath her feet melts into soft grass, and the stark white ceiling shifts into a blue, cloudless sky before everything fades to black.
A gentle melody repeats in her subconscious until she rouses.
The same three-note tune, over and over.
Peeling her eyes open against the buttery sunlight, the first thing she notices is an open window above her head, its thin white curtain dancing in the light breeze. Upon the windowsill sits a small, cooing bird with pearly grey feathers and a black ring around its neck. Its head tilts almost mechanically, two little black eyes regarding her. She stares for a long moment before her eyes fall closed once more, lulled by the familiar call. Only when the bird quiets does she truly come to her senses. The sudden silence jolts her upright.
This isn't the same room she was in before. There hadn’t been a window in the cell, and certainly not one left open. The air there had been thick with the scent of old wood and lingering dust. But here... here, the air is different. It smells of fresh flowers, of the tall grass she used to wade through with Ghost while hunting.
The bird calls once more before flittering away, leaving her reeling.
"A collared dove."
Her gaze snaps to the right where an old woman sits in a mahogany chair, knitting needles in hand. Without looking up from the red yarn she weaves, she explains idly, "They are very common. Lovely, but common."
The accent of her old voice is nothing like Blue's Mancunian one. But she understands each word.
Her voice pulls through her teeth with great effort. "I don't... Where am I?"
The old woman's brow furrows as if she is deep in thought, but it smoothes over after she undoes a stitch and loops it again, hands moving with an unnatural slowness. "You had them in England, yes? They are very common there, too."
Blue's fingers spread into the fine linen, her pulse ticking as she blinks a few times to sharpen her vision. The woman before her is older than anyone she has seen in a long time, though there is a faint resemblance to a woman deep in her memory who she believes was her grandmother. Unlike the woman who visited their cell with food, this one does not wear a veil over her face. Long wisps of gray hair fall over her shoulders. Wrinkles etch around her eyes and lips. She is still cloaked in white, but around her neck hangs a red cord beaded with a cross dangling at the end.
Her fingers clench. "I don't care about the-the stupid bird. Why am I here? Where are my friends? You..." she swallows the feel of sandpaper in her mouth, "You put something in the food. You made me lose control of myself again!"
Finally, grey-blue eyes flicker up beneath a questioning brow. "Oh, sweet child. You are so full of fire." With an unsettling calmness, the woman sets down the knitting needles on a carved side table. Pressing a palm to the surface of it, she rises slowly, then laces her hands in front of her. "Come, and perhaps your questions will be answered. Though, I wouldn't try to run." She moves toward the door, her gait shuffled but steady. A glance over her shoulder beckons. "Your friends are under my care."
The mere mention stiffens Blue's spine. She forces herself to her unsteady feet, swaying slightly, bare toes digging into the wood planks. Each small step feels lighter than the first time she woke up from being drugged, though her body still protests. Ahead, the woman is already walking away. It wouldn’t take much to catch up, but Blue lingers, her eyes sweeping the room with deliberate caution—always stay aware of your surroundings.
For a moment, she considers grabbing the knitting needle and stabbing the woman. But then what? Everyone, her father included, is under her care, and any misstep could mean their deaths. Ghost always told her to never act without some type of plan—to wait for the right moment. Blue doesn’t even know where the others are.
As she hesitantly steps out of the small house, the realization hits her. There are more people here than she’s seen in a long time. Almost like a town, but not really. Smaller than that, but more than her group. The building they just left is a small, home made of light grey stone. To her right are more homes, smoke billowing from the chimneys. She counts at least four of them. Straight ahead of her is gravel road. This is where the woman heads, with Blue trailing behind her. To the left is a stretch of green lawn, bright and lush. She has the itch to sprint over it, but a voice ends that idea.
"Catch up, girl."
Gravel bites her toes as she walks to the woman's side. She is still only dressed in the simple, white slip. She hasn't worn a dress before.
"Where are you taking me?"
"There are some things I wish you to see."
"Why... why can't the friends I was with be here to see them, too?"
From the corner of her eyes, Blue catches the woman smile lightly. "What do you think of France?"
Blue digs her nails into her palms, swallowing down her frustration at the non-answer. "It's... nice, I guess." It isn't a lie. The beautiful beach they left from, the fields of wheat and flowers, were things she'd only imagined before.
"Good. My husband was from India but owned this land. I never wanted to leave it. France is the most beautiful place. I knew I wanted my son to grow here." She exhales in a quiet appreciation. "My husband said this land would thrive, even after the plague. He was right. The Lord spared it. He did not spare Ashwin, though."
Blue doesn't know what to say to that. If she should feel sorry for this person or not. She didn't state her husband's death in a sorrowful way, merely factual. As they walk, they pass a few men hunched over tree stumps, chopping wood. The smell of fresh earth and spilt sap wafts up her nose. The men glance up, their gazes lingering on Blue a moment too long, making her shift uncomfortably. Then, they lower their heads respectfully toward the woman. She speaks to them in French, and their chuckles follow her words.
Under a warm afternoon, they approach what looks like a large barn, bordered by wooden fence posts strung with taut wires. Inside the fenced area, Blue notices a white horse, smaller than Cherry, along with four cows. More men are working nearby, some tending to the animals while others, farther off, wield sickles to harvest stalks of wheat.
When they stop in front of the fence, Blue can't stop herself from asking, "Where are all the girls at? Like the one who fed us? I've only seen guys so far."
The woman doesn't look at her. "Our community is built around the roles God intended for us. Men have bodies made for working under the sun. Women, like those beautiful young ladies you traveled with, are vessels to be cherished, protected. Especially in these times when they have become rather scarce."
A few of the words fail to make sense to Blue, never having learned them from any of the books Ghost read her. "Um, is that why you separated the girls in my group from the men?"
She hums, a slow sound. "Women are kept in their own quarters with the infants."
"Okay," Blue rocks on her feet and grips the hem of the dress before the light air can catch it. So is her dad one of those men working, then? She quints, confused, and shakes her head. No; if he was anywhere out here, he would've come to her. He must be locked up, too. A wave of anger buzzes in her chest, louder than the cicadas. "That still doesn't explain why you are holding Twix and Nereida prisoner. If women are so special, why are they locked up and I am out here? And where are all the men from my group?" Her mind briefly flashes to the others; Kyle, Price, and... Ari.
"None of them are prisoners, child. They are merely being readied for the role their bodies were created for, by God."
Blue grits her teeth. "You're not really answering my questions. What about me? Why did you bring me to," she glances back at the working men, who haven't stopped to look at her like the others had, too engrossed in the strenuous labor. "A fucking farm. What could you possibly want to show me here?"
"There is someone I need here before our next stop." She leans closer to the barbed fence and calls out, "Pierre! J'ai besoin de toi et de trois hommes pour nous accompagner jusqu'à la cale. Apporte les chaînes."
A man—Pierre, she guesses—strikes one of the cattle's hindquarters, wipes sweat from the back of his neck, then shouts in French to three others following behind him. They unlatch a gate in the fence and slip inside a small shed for a brief moment, emerging with rusted chains in hand. They approach, causing Blue to falter and step back. An old, strange woman is one thing, but three strong men are another. A fissure of terror cracks through her, and she inhales shakily.
"You need not be afraid."
She blinks up at the woman, who for a moment, conjures something similar to a comforting expression. Blue nods, and then they are walking again, with the four men trailing behind them. The sound of the chains dangling in their grasp makes her feel uneasy. What are they for, and why are they coming with them? She is ready to build the bravery to ask when the woman ghosts a hand on her shoulder.
"What is your name, child?"
"It's... um, Blue."
A soft chuckle. "The English and their strangeness. This is not your real name, is it?"
For some reason, Blue finds the truth stuttering out of her. "No, it's—the name I was born with is Amelia."
"Amelia. Much better. Tell me, Amelia, did your mother have blue eyes?"
Blue nearly chokes, her footsteps halting in the grass as she flinches away from her hand, curling her fingers into fists. "What the fu—why are you asking me that?"
The woman stops beside her and clasps her hands together, the long sleeves of her gown falling over them. She is small woman, hardly taller than Blue, and can't be any stronger than she is, but something about her emits control. Blue can't look away from her eyes, even as her jaw tightens, stomach swirling.
"They are many answers to questions that can be discovered on their own if one simply looks for them. I know which one of them is your father—"
"How could you know?" Blue demands. "I haven't even said any of them was my dad."
Thin lips twitch at the side. "A daughter gets the shape of her face from her father." A bony finger reaches to trail the edge of Blue's cheek, and she trembles from the cold feel of it. "But the features are all from her mother." She looks away and continues walking, speaking over her shoulder, "A little dove might have also told me he was asking for you."
When the men step forward, Blue is forced to continue walking. It feels hard to breathe, even though the canopy of trees offer fresh, rich air. "Then why are you asking about my mother?"
"Your eyes are blue, but your father's are not. I was simply curious."
"My mother is dead," Blue finds herself gritting out.
"I figured. Neither of those women were her, and many mothers have been lost. A very terrible thing. A child needs its mother. You will call me Maman, Amelia. This is what French children call their mothers."
"I am not going to fucking call you that. Tell me where we are going," Blue presses, swallowing as she looks back at the farm behind them. Through the gaps between the men's shoulders, she sees that it is rather distant now, along with the small homes. She looks back ahead; nothing but overgrown vegetation. Even the flowers have grown sparse over here. It is quiet and still. She can hear the thrum of her own heart.
"Your fire is admirable, but you need to learn respect." For the first time, Maman's voice carries an edge, one that sends a shiver down Blue's spine. A foreign bird call echoes through the leaves, and the woman holds up a hand, signaling for everyone to stop and listen. "Ah. That’s the Bluethroat, if I’m not mistaken. Much rarer than the dove. You won't often find those in England."
The bird calls again—a trilled chirp—as they crest over a small hill, and the air suddenly grows heavier, more pungent. A smell Blue knows well makes her freeze, but a strong grip on her arm keeps her moving toward the source of the stench: an old, smaller building made of much darker stone. The sharp rustle of wings through the trees fades into the distance, but the tension in her body doesn’t ease.
"You, too, are rare, Amelia," Maman continues, voice steady and unhurried. "A pure, young female like you—so virtuous—carries more favor from God than any other. Your friends have their purpose, and you have yours. Each of us plays a part in shaping the new vision of God's children."
The men move in front of them now, except for one who continues gripping Blue. The tremble in her body intensifies, and a cold pit grows unbearable in her chest, thundering. She is forced to stand about four meters in front of the large door, where one man grips the handle while two others, including Pierre, stand beside it, their hands ready with chains and their stances wide. It’s now, through the stinging film that grows over her eyes, that Blue notices large metal muzzles attached to the chains.
Blue is too stunned—too confused, yet frightfully aware—to move a muscle when Maman procures a knife from inside her robe. Pierre shouts something in French, but Blue can barely hear him. Her senses are fixed on the bead of sunlight glinting off the knife, and on the scratching and snarling she hears from the other side of the door.
"Please—" she gasps, unable to finish the thought.
Maman ignores her in favor of snatching hold of her wrist. Cold fingers force her arm to extend, and a burning pain cries out when the knife slashes a laceration from her elbow to the rim of her palm.
"Une seule coupure pour les attirer."
The blood weeps, and the door shakes from the ignited frenzy behind it.
Tears finally escape Blue’s eyes just before the door opens. She feels it—the sensation of her body being torn apart beneath rotten teeth. She squeezes her eyes shut, thinking of Ghost, when she hears more shouting and the harsh sound of chains being whipped through the air. When she opens her eyes again, the men are wrestling two Greys into the muzzles.
"Deux c'est bien!" Maman orders, and the door is slammed shut over the others that threaten to spill out toward the fresh wound.
Blue is alive.
Her arm numb and bleeding.
Maman yanks something else from her robe—a strip of cloth. She wraps it roughly around Blue's forearm, then issues another command. Without warning, Blue is hoisted from the ground and callously tossed over the shoulder of the man who had held her in place. They start heading back the way they came, the leashed Greys trailing behind them, and finally, a scream rips from Blue’s throat.
"You said this one was intact?" "Yes, Maman." "We will offer her pure body to the Lord. The other two will be fit to have children." "But she is a… I mean, yes, Maman." "Pierre! I need you and three men to accompany us to the hold. Bring the chains." "One cut to attract them.” “Two is good!”
More Posts from Ffushiquro and Others
Forbidden Promises
Chapter 7 (Series Masterlist)
Pairing: Modernau!Sukuna x Mother!Reader
Genre: Hidden Baby Trope
Summary: Reader opens up a bakery after running away from her three year relationship with Sukuna, effectively ghosting him and hiding away in the middle of the countryside. Unknown to Sukuna, reader also had a baby, and now is living peacefully until an unfateful meeting starts to pull her back into the life she so desperately escaped from.
Tw: Reader lowkey cries again, Misunderstandings resolved!! Finally!! Sukuna does kiss reader but consent is kind of implied. More drama ensues!! No Hana :(
Wc: 2.4k
Sukuna had always prided himself on being somewhat of a good actor, or at the very least masking his emotions better than anyone else. From a young age he learned the hard way that his emotions were to be suppressed, he wasn’t supposed to feel anything but anger and frustration.
He can still remember his mothers disgusted face when Sukuna had taken barely a week to conform to the new rules set on him, distaste weighing heavy in her mouth as she pushed him away from her embrace.
“Don’t ever try that with me, Ryoumen. You will regret it.”
Her indifferent tone hit him like a bucket of cold water. The man couldn’t remember what happened next, Jin rushing in and comforting his younger twin as Sukuna held back tears.
That’s why he finds himself plastering a business smile on his face, masking the shock with a charming smile as he extended one arm out to Aoi, the other coming to wrap around your waist and pulling you closer,
“Ah it is good to meet you too…?”
He paused, letting Aoi introduce herself, shaking Sukuna’s hand with enthusiasm.
You quickly interjected before Aoi could go any further than her name and occupation, wrapping an arm around Sukuna’s and making up some excuse to pull him away from the sea of onlookers,
“I didn’t know you were going around telling other people I was your husband?”
Though Sukuna sounded offended, he was nothing but relieved. His eyes trailed down to the chain on your neck, a simple golden ring glinting in the morning sunlight. It felt like a heavy weight had been pulled off his chest. His arm dropped from your shoulder to the small of your back, resting comfortably like it did years ago.
“That’s not- I haven’t been telling anyone you are my husband, it’s a simple misunderstanding,”
Sukuna hummed, high on the euphoria of the thought that you had no husband to be paying any actual attention to the words stumbling from your mouth.
“Whatever you say wife,”
He smirked, feeling far too happy for himself as he turned his head to look at you, eyes gleaming in happiness.
“That’s not the point- oh god you’re just so!”
That fond feeling rose up in Sukuna’s chest as he watched you fuss over the situation, freeing yourself from his grasp as you walked up the sidewalk faster.
Sukuna merely took longer strides to catch up with you, eating the distance up in a few seconds as his hand wrapped around your elbow, tugging you away from the curb and claiming the space you left.
The action made you flush, highschool feelings returning all at once at the sweet gesture. So many people asked you what you saw in Sukuna, some even straight up asked you if you were being held hostage. They just didn’t know about your Sukuna, they didn’t know about how sickeningly sweet he treated you.
He’s not even on social media, neither does he even know about the pathway rule but it’s ingrained in him to look after you, to make sure you were the most comfortable at any place. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to let go of him after all these years.
“Where did you even find out that I have a husband?”
Sukuna turned his head to look at you, almost pouting as his eyebrows furrowed together opening his mouth just as you opened the door to the bakery.
“Let’s talk inside your house,”
He mumbled under his breath, making you pause as you sighed, flipping the sign on the glass doors of the bakery to display closed.
Sukuna sat quietly at your dining table, no longer awkwardly trying to fit himself in the cramped space, instead just staring at the tiny piece of furniture like it had personally insulted him.
You whipped a few more pancakes, making sure to reduce the sugar content just like how the CEO liked it, placing a few berries on top along with a cup of black coffee. You were surprised he didn’t blow up on you without his daily fix- then again you suppose you wouldn’t know a lot of things about him, not after all this time.
Sukuna eyed the pancakes with a hungry look, scarfing them down as you watched him amused, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips,
“Is Uraume not cooking for you anymore?”
Sukuna glared at you, gulping down mouthfuls of the scalding coffee as he wiped his mouth with a napkin,
“Nah they’re working at some fuckass restaurant, just been a while since I had your food,”
Sukuna continued eating his pancakes without a care in the world, like him saying that sentence didn’t have a million thoughts swirling in your head,
He missed me..
You thought to yourself, looking down at the cup of coffee in your own hands, twirling the cup so the liquid was sloshing around inside the ceramic.
“Where did you get the information that I had a husband?”
You peeked through your lashes watching Sukuna finish the pancakes and the rest of the coffee. He looked like he was struggling to get the words out, licking over his lower lip and pressing his thumb to his temple as he was left in deep thought.
Under his lip was the light pink stain of a strawberry and you instinctively reached over to wipe at with your thumb, eyes widening as Sukuna’s own shocked gaze met yours,
“Oh uhm- Hana- she gets messy- so I,”
You pulled your hands back, immediately going to explain with a flustered expression while Sukuna started barking out in laughter. You glared at him with a pout, sitting back in your seat white your arms crossed under your chest,
Sukuna stopped laughing, wiping away imaginary tears as he took another napkin, wiping his mouth with it as he grinned at you. He then crumbled up the tissue in his hand, looking out at the balcony that was a few steps away from the dining room with a complicated expression.
“I guess you deserve to know what really happened back then,”
When Sukuna finally came home after five long weeks of not seeing you, he made a beeline for your room, then your shared bedroom, then the kitchen, then the specialized baking room he had built for you, then the living rooms followed by all the washrooms and guest bedrooms.
His heart was thumping irregularly in his heart, body drenched in cold sweat when he sent a thousand missed calls only to find your phone abandoned on the dining room table.
His head chanted your name like a mantra, like it would suddenly make you appear in front of him. A few days passed by where he didn’t really move from the house, praying to the gods out there that you were safe and would come back home.
Uraume stayed over with him for a few weeks, cleaning up after his messes and cooking for him. They got to work immediately, slowly removing the traces of you that were left behind, pacing them all into a box and storing it in the attic lest Sukuna find them and go on a witch hunt.
Sukuna had already established himself in the company- he had a few more fuckers to send to the afterlife and he could finally stop these month long trips away from you. He had officially been recognized as the CEO by all the board members, a velvet box tucked into his pocket when he came home, just for the ring to be discarded in one of his bedside drawers.
He waited for a grueling three months before he decided enough was enough and hired people to go look for you. What he got in return was photos of you with an obvious baby bump, a man helping you walk with a hand on your back, smiling at each other like you were a lovesick couple. His ring was glinting in the light, both of you disappearing into the bakery as the man held open the door for you.
Sukuna felt his heart stop, dread crawling up every blood vessel, scalding and freezing him at the same time. He crumpled the photo in his hand, frozen in place as he felt his head go blank.
Uraume watched him with a careful eye, ripping the photo from his hand and frowning at the sight,
“Sukuna-”
The CEO held up a hand, chair screeching as he got up from his office chair, effectively silencing Uraume as they pocketed the photo.
“Get a new place for me. I will move in by tonight,”
You were silent when Sukuna finished his story, red eyes glancing at you every now and then at you as you picked at your nails,
“I was never married, I- there's been no one, not after you..”
Sukuna nodded, eerily quiet as he scratched at a sticker on the dining table, trying to scrape it off with his nail.
“The man you saw, I think you mean my cousin. He’s married, three kids and all- Hana plays with them,”
You finally looked up, meeting Sukuna’s gaze as you continued, voice feeling far too raw and much too exposed. You took a deep breath, calming yourself
“I would never-,”
You shook your head, biting your lip as you scowled at the mere thought,
“I would never cheat on you- Ryo you meant far too much for me to even think of that-,”
Sukuna cut you off, voice unnaturally cold as he spoke, you wondered how long it had been since you heard that tone directed to you,
“Why didn’t you reach out,”
You took another long breath, looking down at your hands and then the worn out house.
“I was hoping you’d have moved on. I don't know- I hoped you would have found someone better, not someone like me. It was obvious that your board didn’t approve of me and I just-” I felt like you were holding yourself back for me, you were doing things you didn’t have to- just for me and that scared me. I never thought I’d have become the coward in our relationship. I just craved when we didn’t have to think so much just to be together. I was scared you wouldn’t want Hana even though I did. Maybe I was trying to fill in the hole you left when you went on those week-long missions, I was scared- I was just so scared Ryo.
You wondered why the words you wanted to say didn’t come out, stuck in your throat like it was held down by cement, weighing heavy on your chest. The hurt of those unspoken phrases was far more than you thought them to be. The words swirled in your head, your mouth pulled to a thin line as you stopped talking,
“I got rid of them all.”
Sukuna finally spoke, getting up from his chair and pulling his seat closer to you,
“Huh?”
Your voice squeaked out and Sukuna had a crazed grin on his face, cradling your face with his hand, thumb brushing over your cheekbones,
“Every fucker that didn’t approve of you- thats why I left for so long,” You felt like time had stopped again, it was just you both again and it was like you were in his college dorm room again, cleaning up the cuts he got from punching a guy who was talking behind your back.
“I promised I’d protect you, didn’t I?”
Sukuna leaned in closer, pressing his forehead against yours as his breath fanned against your face. You leaned into his hand unconsciously, biting your lip as tears streamed down your face.
“Ryo I’m sorry- I’m so sorry, I just didn’t realize what I had done and by the time it was too late and I didn’t have the courage to face you-”
Sukuna shushed you, pressing his lips to yours in one go. He tasted like pancaked and salty tears and nostalgia all at once. He pulled away staring into your eyes as he wiped away your tears,
“Stop crying you baby,”
Sukuna teased, pulling you closer by your shoulders and enveloping you in a hug.
Sukuna and You stayed like that for a while, hugging each other till Sukunas back started to ache and he pulled you into his lap, resting head on your shoulder as he mumbled reassurances into your ear.
“So why are you going around telling people you have a husband?”
You stilled in Sukunas arms, pausing for a second before you continued.
“Didn’t want people prying into Hana’s life and teasing her. She already gets into so much trouble for fighting with the boys in her class. Honestly I don’t know how she even learned how to fight,”
Sukuna chuckles, his laughter settling deep into your bones as you let yourself enjoy the timbre of his voice,
“That’s my girl.”
You rolled your eyes, scoffing as you got up from his lap and looking at the time,
“Don’t you have work?”
You asked raising a brow at the carefree man,
“Nah I’m letting the Gojo handle it for now heh, took a week off too”
You smiled, Sukuna was having far too much fun relaxing around in your home. You started your way up the stairs, glancing back to see Sukuna on his heels trailing after you like a big tiger.
“Well I’m going to get to work then,”
Sukuna caught up with you on the top of the stairs, twisting you around to face him as his hands rested comfortably on your hips, rubbing smooth circles.
“We’re not done talking though are we?”
You stopped, averting your gaze as you avoided speaking on the topic. Sukunas hand came to rest above your collarbones, twisting the ring on your chain and tugging it off you,
“When are you going to tell the kid?”
You sighed, pulling Sukunas hands away from you, he looked dejected for a second, immediately masking his emotions as he took a step forward, bending his neck to look at you properly, hands fisting at his sides,
“Are you trying to run away again pet?”
You shook your head, words dancing around in your mouth as you bit your tongue, hands resting on Sukunas arms as you tried to comfort him,
“With Hana, we should take things slow, she’s never asked me about her dad. She's kind of perceptive- never been one to pry about the stuff I didn’t like,”
Sukunas jaw ticked and he glared at the floor, pulling away from you this time.
“What- what about us,”
He called out your name when you didn't respond, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he stared at you longingly,
“Sukuna-”
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Taglist: @lady-of-blossoms @shokosbunny @after-laughter-come-tears @glads-stuff @acidrefiux @linny-bloggs @dahliadaenerys @gojotech @emi311 @poopooindamouf @sadrna @domainofmarie e @sukubusss @nousija @pjofics @katsukiseyebrows @the-reas0n-is-y0u @krispywhisperswhispers @pillkits @rier @needsleep3000 @tangsakura @raquel12 @not-aya @melancholycries @desprrssooo-espresssooooo @tojisbabymommasblog @thebumbqueen @melancholycries @totallygyomeiswife @kiyotosbae21 1 @bwlol7 @ratedrrrr @ihrtbin @kunascutie
A/n: Issues are getting resolved but are they really. I want to build up the tension between Sukuna and Reader a bit more but a kiss was much overdue. MORE DRAMA!!!!
Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Three
Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader
Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, dubcon showering, dubcon nudity, power imbalance, sexual tension, brief description of canon-typical violence
Word Count: 4.4k
You and Ghost shower together. He answers your questions. The reality of your situations comes to light.
Chapter Two // Chapter Four
ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist
Carapace nest. Gator teeth. Swamp water.
Survival. Survival. Survival.
“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”
Empty words. Nothing more than a tree hollowed-out by rot.
You slap Ghost’s hand away, uncaring if the action will draw his anger. The brute doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.
“Don’t touch me,” you growl, forcing yourself to hold eye contact with him.
With a soft snort of amusement, Ghost’s head tilts slightly, gaze assessing. You won’t be the first to blink—the first to look away. Glancing down is a show of submission, and you refuse to bow out and make yourself appear weak. It hurts though. A deep pain like a drill to your skull.
Rolling his shoulders, Ghost retreats a step.
It’s a small thing, and you should feel victorious. Yet it’s more like permission, as if he’s allowing this behavior by the grace of his sincerity. The urge to break eye contact flares hotter—bites deeper—and Ghost’s refusal to drop his gaze only makes it that much harder.
Backward step after backward step. A languid sway until he reaches the chair. He slowly eases down into it, sighing loudly, stretching his legs until he’s spread out and comfortable. Relaxed and unhurried, Ghost begins to remove his gloves, absently tossing them onto the floor, revealing tattooed knuckles. Flexing his fingers, Ghost forms a fist, and then relaxes the tendons, repeating the process a few times.
Leaning forward, Ghost starts to unlace his boots. There is no hurry to it. The fact that he’s completely comfortable grates at your patience. He slips off one boot and moves to the other. He reaches for his weapons next, removing his pistol and knives.
“Enjoying the show, love?” he asks dryly.
You roll your eyes and remain mute.
This power dynamic is frustrating, and you’re sick of him pushing your buttons, forcing you into corners. Only moments ago, Ghost was telling you to strip down and shower, to give him something to watch.
No. You’re not playing this game.
If he’s so goddamn adamant about you dipping under the hot water, then so fucking be it. If he wants you to shower—you’ll fucking shower. He wants to see you naked and dripping wet? Fucking fine.
You’ll put on a goddamn show.
Bending forward, you reach for your boots, unlacing then kicking them to the side. Ghost notices, his gaze drifting upward yet he remains silent, his movements staying steady and unhurried. It’s when you wrench your jacket off and start lifting your shirt that Ghost begins to slow. The dirty, blood-drenched shirt crackles as you pull it up and over your head. You drop it onto the floor without giving it a second glance.
Ghost has his hands on his belt, but it’s almost like he’s not moving at all. His gaze lingers on you, and though you pretend not to notice, his chest heaves slightly. Reaching behind your back, you pop the clips on your bra. The flimsy material slides away. Behind the skull mask, Ghost’s eyes grow wide.
You don’t allow yourself space to linger on what you’re doing or if this is a radically poor decision. As the bra hits the ground, you’re already undoing the front of your pants, shoving them down along with your underwear, revealing everything.
You unfurl slowly. Full frontal and bold.
Ghost is motionless. All you can see are his eyes as they dart around, taking in your nakedness. You retain that eye contact, daring him to say anything, to give himself a good look since he wanted it so badly.
Those brown eyes of his roam up, connecting with your gaze. He stills. Coughs. Clears his throat. Glances away.
Fucking men.
You extend your arms out slightly like you’re presenting yourself for his inspection. “Are you?” you counter before placing your hands on your hips.
Ghost keeps his gaze averted, unspeaking.
With victory singing beneath your skin, you turn right, striding toward the shower. The promise of hot water is tantalizing. Not that you don’t have hot water where you’re from, but it’s not automatic. It’s not available with a simple turn of a handle. That’s a luxury from before, and it shouldn’t exist. Yet it apparently exists here.
The promise of a hot shower nearly overtakes whatever adrenaline-fueled nonsense that drove you to strip down in front of Ghost. Now, you’re naked and vulnerable and trapped in a room with him. There is no place for you to flee to. No chance for escape. No privacy.
With your back to the room, you place your hand on the knob below the showerhead. It gives easily under your palm. There’s a rattle—a clanking coming from behind the wall—then water shoots out.
You gasp, stepping back.
It’s ice fucking cold.
The bastard lied. He lied.
Your nipples harden, and your skin pebbles. Instinct kicks in, and you cross your arms over your chest, covering your breasts in a protective gesture.
But just as you’re about to turn away from the icy spray—to curse the skull-faced fucker out—the chill dulls into a lukewarm ache.
You pause. Wait.
The water is warming. It’s actually warming.
“Oh my God,” you sigh as the water heats further. “Oh God.”
Cupping your hands under the spray, the water pools in your palms. You bring it up to your face, eyelids closing as you splash it over your skin. A little giggle escapes you, your smile so wide it hurts your cheeks. Standing directly under the water, you allow it to run all over you, warming you everywhere until you’re almost bouncing on your toes.
Opening your eyes, your gaze scans the wall, and the small nook nestled there. You lean in, and read the labels. There’s shampoo, a bar of soap, and—you blink, shaking your head as if your eyes deceive you. Reaching out, you snag the second bottle and turn it.
It’s conditioner. Fucking conditioner.
Absurd. Ridiculous. How do they even have this?
Back home, shampoo and soap are handmade. Flowers are dried and added to give scent, but that’s only ever for part of the year. They’re usually unscented. Conditioner is unheard of, and if someone needs to give their tresses a lift, they might use a few drops of oil warmed in the palm and applied to wet hair.
Placing the bottle back, you reach for the soap.
A large, muscled arm covered in tattoos appears to the left of you. It extends forward, palm resting firm and flat against the wall. You stare at it, surprised, but it’s fleeting. A solid body bumps into you from behind, forcing you forward. The hot water no longer rains down on you but on the man directly behind you. The very naked, very large man.
His other arm appears to your right, that hand also pressing flat against the wall. You’re caged in. Trapped.
Ghost groans with contentment as the water rushes over him. “Told you there was hot water,” he sighs. He shifts, and you feel all of him, including a hardening appendage that pokes you in the hip.
Seriously? This asshole couldn’t wait?
Glancing over your shoulder, you give Ghost a scowl, only for your stomach to flip upon seeing him. Beneath the skull mask, you weren’t sure what you’d find. Not like you thought about it in any decent capacity. Curious, sure, but also cautious.
What you weren’t expecting was someone attractive. Handsome. Not in the traditional sense, but in the ruggedness of his features. Strong but also scarred.
Goddamn it. Fucking shit.
You should feel nothing for him. He’s taken you hostage, intending to take you somewhere for…processing. Whatever the fuck that means.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you ask with as much venom as you can muster.
“Showering,” he replies with a sigh. Ghost runs his hand over his face and then his head, slicking back his blondish-brown hair. The eye black is smudged now, running away in little rivers down his face.
“That’s obvious,” you retort. “But you couldn’t wait until I was done?”
Ghost shrugs. “Hot water is limited.”
“Oh.” You snort. “How fucking convenient.”
With a slow roll of his neck, Ghost lifts his head and stares directly at you. “I’ve been out in the bloody wilderness for over a month. Same unit. Same blokes. Breathing the same air. Spending all goddamn day together. Forgive me for wanting to enjoy a simple comfort.”
“Right,” you say slowly. “Is that why your dick keeps stabbing me in the side?”
Ghost chuckles and runs his hand over his mouth. “Just told you I’ve seen the same ugly mugs for over a month.”
“And?” you counter. “That’s an excuse?”
He leans in, lowering his voice. “It’s a natural fucking reaction when I haven’t seen a naked woman in over a month.” You try to move away from him, and only end up bumping into the shower wall. “What would you like me to do about it?”
“Great question.” You shrug. “You could stick it elsewhere.” Ghost’s eyebrows rise with a hint of a devilish smirk. “I mean—”
“I can think of a few places,” murmurs Ghost.
“Fucking—shut up. Just don’t let it…poke me.”
“Fucking hell,” he chuckles. “Hand me the soap.”
“No.”
Ghost reaches for it. You slap his hand away.
“Oh, love,” he chides. “If you want my friend to stop poking you, being adorably stubborn isn’t going to help things.”
“You’re a disgusting pig.”
“Then hand me the soap. I clearly need it.”
You do not give Ghost the soap. “If you’re going to force this,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Then at least answer some questions.”
Ghost nods like that’s a reasonable request. “And what do I get for answering your questions?” he asks, straightening slightly.
“Soap,” you deadpan.
“No,” he laughs. “I want a scrub down.”
“You want—” You pause, startled, and then quickly cover. “You want what?”
“Suds me up. Scrub me down. I’ll answer your questions.”
You shake your head. “No. Absolutely not. Ask for anything else.”
It’s the wrong thing to say.
Ghost grins, and you know you’ve messed up. “All right, love. Fine.” He pushes off from the wall, the water falling between your bodies. “Now that the mask is off, you want to try that kiss again?”
You scoff. “I’d rather not touch you at all.”
“Kiss,” says Ghost. “Or a scrub down. You pick.”
“Neither.”
“Those are the two options.”
“And I hate them both.”
“Then I don’t answer your questions.”
You lick your lips, looking away from Ghost’s piercing gaze. Stalling. You’re stalling. You don’t want to choose either option, but he’s offering to answer all your questions. Regardless of what’s transpired, Ghost hasn’t lied to you or been dishonest. Flirty and forward? Yes. Pushing your boundaries just to rile you up? Absolutely.
The kiss would be quick. One and done.
“Fine,” you reply after a few moments of deliberation. “I choose kiss.”
Ghost smirks. “You want to kiss me?”
“Didn’t say want,” you correct.
The smirk lingers, and you suddenly doubt your choice.
“Too late,” he says with a brief shake of his head.
“Too—too late?” you exclaim. “What do you mean too late?”
Ghost shrugs. “I want both now.”
“Oh,” you laugh, blowing raspberries. “Go fuck yourself.”
“My hands no fun,” he muses. “But I’ve made it work the last month or so.”
“Fuck this,” you mutter, turning around.
Ghost’s hand if on the front of your throat in an instant, forcing you back around to face him. “What’s you decision?”
Your heart thunders in your chest. Ghost’s hold is firm but not breath-stealing. This is a show of dominance—a clear signal that he’s the one in charge.
“Is there one?” you ask, even though you fear you already know the answer.
Ghost remains quiet, but his hand on your throat loosens, lingering for a few seconds before dropping away.
The last thing you want to do is give this man any room. And if you agree, what else might he ask for? There’s still the whole night ahead of you, and a singular bed that you’ll be forced to share with him. What can you do in a situation like this?
“I’ll scrub you down,” you murmur. “But I won’t kiss you.”
Ghost nods. He reaches past you, retrieving the bar of soap. He offers it. “Ask me your questions.”
You take it from him, and Ghost straightens to his full height, looking down at you with a neutral expression.
Between your palms, you rub the bar of soap until it lathers. Reaching out with one hand, you pause just before you make contact with his chest.
“Ask me a question,” murmurs Ghost.
He speaks so gently to you that a hint of flustered nervousness arises. You lick your lips, exhaling deeply to absolve the tension. There’s so much you want to ask. Question after question pops into your head, but you’re unsure of which to grab on to.
Clearing your throat, you close the distance, your soapy hand splaying wide over his right pectoral.
The beginning. Perhaps you should start there.
“Why were you after those men?” you ask, moving your hand in a circle.
“They’re terrorists,” he replies blandly.
You rinse your hand. Start lathering again. “That’s all I get?”
Ghost cocks an eyebrow. “You want specifics?”
“Yes.”
Ghost’s gaze briefly flickers away from you. There’s a moment of hesitation, like he’s unsure of what to say next.
“Those men were part of a larger group. A group that likes to paint themselves as revolutionaries. Resistance fighters.”
You move up to his shoulder, scrubbing there before descending down his tattooed arm. “It’s common to paint an opposing group as the enemy.”
“This is different.”
“How so?”
“They want to live differently, and that’s perfectly fucking peachy. But they go out of their way to try and free others through violence.”
You shrug, scrubbing at his forearm. “Doesn’t sound much different from how you treated me.”
Ghost grasps your wrist, stilling your hand. You glance up at him, finding that his demeanor has completely changed. There’s a look of sheer desperation and anger on his face, but it doesn’t feel geared at you.
“If those men had taken you hostage, they’d have taken their turns. And if you were somehow alive after that, they’d take you to wherever they call home, and keep going until you died or became pregnant.” You go to yank your arm away but Ghost holds firm. “They’re evil, disgusting monsters.”
A little wave of fear rises, swirling to seize your stomach, turning it into a tumultuous storm. “And what you’re doing to me now is kinder?”
Ghost doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch under that question. “We were hunting this group down because they kidnapped a few of our littles. Do you know how they returned them to us?”
“Don’t,” you whisper.
“They strapped bombs under their clothes before reuniting them with their mothers.”
“Stop.”
“You asked for specifics,” he replies. “I’m sure you can figure out what happened next.”
The corners of your eyes sting, tears threatening to spill over. All you can think about are Ben’s two little girls and the children you read to during story time. Imagining any of them disappearing like that, only to be reunited in such a gruesome way brings misery to the forefront.
Ghost’s grip on you eases. You withdraw your hand, vigorously rubbing the soap until the bubbles overflow and drip toward the floor.
“They deserved worse than an executioner’s bullet,” murmurs Ghost, his voice firm yet full of grief.
Placing the soap back on the ledge, you gently lift his hand, scrubbing the suds between and over his fingers. His words linger, hanging in the air until you have to ask.
“Were any of them yours?” you ask, voice a near whisper.
Ghost gives a quick shake of his head.
“I’m sorry,” you reply, turning his hand over to reveal his palm. “That’s terrible.” You make slow circles with your thumb. “What will happen to the three you brought back?”
“They’re probably wishing we killed them,” he replies. You nod, swallowing, reaching for the soap again. “Anything else you want to ask me?”
“The emblem on your uniform.”
“What of it?”
You start on his other arm. “What does it mean?”
“The flag of England?” he asks, perplexed.
“No,” you smile, shaking your head. “The other one. With the olive branches. It’s familiar but I can’t place it.”
“It’s the emblem of the United Nations.”
You glance up, hands stilling against Ghost’s muscled arm. “The United Nations,” you exhale, a disbelieving laugh falling on the end of it. “But they don’t exist anymore.” You sound desperate. A bit insane. “Nothing exists anymore.”
Ghost’s gaze narrows. “What do you remember?”
“I remember when we withdrew from NATO. How eastern Europe started to collapse first.” You take a moment, lathering up the soap again. “I remember how country after country declared war. The rationing. The constant threat of a nuclear attack.” You shake your head, scrubbing at Ghost’s skin to distract yourself. “Endless fucking war. And for what?”
“I fought in that war,” says Ghost.
“Good for you,” you mutter, scrubbing harder.
“You’re upset.”
“How observant.”
You keep going, and Ghost takes your wrist again. This time, he’s gentle, stepping closer to you, the water rinsing away some of the residual soap from his skin.
“Ask me something else,” he softly urges.
“How does the United Nations still exist?” you continue. “What’s happened since the collapse?”
Ghost’s expression is grim, and you want to scream.
Did Zac know? Did they know and not say anything? You believed the world to be nothing more than desolation, poisoned from nuclear fallout and disease. Is it all a lie? Or is the destruction not as widespread and extensive as you were led to believe?
“I think you should ask me something else,” Ghost urges again.
The water is starting to cool, and you haven’t even washed your hair.
“I think I’m done,” you mutter, returning the soap to the nook in the wall. You reach for the shampoo, but Ghost grabs it first.
“Allow me,” he says, squirting some into his hands.
You reluctantly turn around, giving him your back. You stay still, and then his fingers slide over your scalp, gently scrubbing. It’s refreshing—relaxing. You sigh, shoulders lowering as the tension leaves your body. Ghost massages the shampoo in, lathering it up.
The two of you fall into silence.
Ghost rinses the shampoo from your hair, and then does his own as you run conditioner through your strands. It’s a quiet back and forth, the two of you moving in and out the water to rinse and repeat.
He reaches for the knob, but you block his forward momentum.
“The water is growing cold,” he says.
“I know,” you murmur. “But you still have black around your eyes.” You gesture at your own face, indicating where there are still smudges on his.
Ghost starts to rub at his face. You step up to him, reaching out to grasp his hands and pull them away from his face.
“Allow me,” you insist, adding a bit of soap to your hand.
With one finger, you swirl it around the suds in your palm. Bringing it up to Ghost’s face, you lightly rub at the faded smudges.
“Have any more questions for me?” asks Ghost. You nibble on your bottom lip. Nod. “Go on then. Ask away.”
Using the tip of your nail, you lightly scratch at a few flecks of black. “What’s the mandate?” Ghost grimaces, and you inwardly flinch. “Is it something bad?” you ask tentatively.
“No. Just—” Ghost sighs. “When someone is found outside the designated safe zones, it’s mandated that we bring them back for processing.”
“That’s what your captain said. That you’re to take me for processing. But I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s reintegration.”
A deep dread forms in your stomach, turning it to lead.
“To what?”
“Society.”
You drop your hand from Ghost’s face. “But I have a home. People that love me. That are waiting for me. I don’t need to reintegrate into anything.”
Even as you say it, you know there is no negotiating. There is pity on Ghost’s face, and you hate it because he knows he’s ripping you from your life, upending everything for some arbitrary rule.
“I won’t go,” and this time your voice is firm. Steadfast.
Ghost turns the knob, shutting off the water. The air rushes in, cooling your skin where the water touches.
“I can’t take you back.”
“You can,” you insist. “You absolutely can.”
“I can’t,” emphasizes Ghost. “In the morning, we’re going home. To the nearest safe zone.”
“No,” you gasp. “I won’t go. I refuse.”
Ghost takes a step forward. Instinct has you stepping back, but it only pushes you up against the wall. “You said you’d behave. That you wouldn’t cause problems.”
“Refusing to take me home isn’t winning you any favors.”
“You’re already on base,” growls Ghost. “There is no going back.”
You smack his chest. “You bastard. You selfish fucking bastard.”
“Don’t,” he warns.
You smack him again. Harder. “Do you get some kind of bonus for bringing me back? An award?” When Ghost doesn’t reply, you form a fist, beating it against his chest. “Or is it something worse?”
Ghost takes a step back but you move forward, raising both fists. You’re ready to swing. Ready to fight.
“Don’t,” he repeats, but you’re seething.
Anger is like a lustful tide, swallowing you down into its depths. “Tell me, Lieutenant Riley. What do you get for bringing me back?” You shove at him, but he hardly moves. “Is it me?” you laugh. “Am I your war prize?”
“Final warning,” he growls, but you ignore him.
“Will they make me your whore?”
The question is a taunt. Airless. Empty. It’s a push. A verbal shove. And it sends Ghost over the edge.
Ghost surges forward, a wall of brute strength and muscle. You stumble backward, only to be shoved up against the wall. His arms rest on either side of your head, his own head bent down, making the space feel small.
“Listen to me,” he says, trying to keep his tone calm and even.
A small voice inside your head tells you to comply, to hear him out. But there is another voice—this one louder and more insistent. It tells you to cause trouble, to put up a fuss.
“Fuck off,” you reply sharply.
Water drips off the tip of Ghost’s nose. It falls onto your breast, rolling toward your nipple. His gaze follows it, and you promptly strike him across the face. The crack is loud. It echoes against the tile wall.
Ghost mouth drops open, skin reddening where you hit him.
Shit. Oh, shit.
With a growl, Ghost pushes off from the wall, lifting you into his arms without effort. You scramble for purchase, surprised by the sudden movement. He takes three steps and then tosses you onto the bed. You bounce as you hit, one arm shooting out to steady yourself, fingers pressing against the wall as you wobble.
You’re fuming now. Raging.
“Going to have your way with me now?” you mock. “Is that part of the mandate?”
Ghost ignores you. Turning away, he heads back to the shower. He grabs two towels off the rack.
“Let me make it easy for you,” you continue, not backing down. You lean back onto your elbows, chest pushed out, legs extended and bent at the knee in front of you. As Ghost steps around the dividing wall, you spread your thighs, revealing your pussy to him. “You can slide right in. I won’t make a fuss.”
Ghost stills, staring down at your naked body. Your chest heaves, nipples hard and erect. It roams over you, and then he’s staring you down, clearly unamused by this outburst.
“You think I’d take advantage like that?” he asks.
“You joined me in the shower,” you counter. “Doesn’t give me much faith.”
Instead of replying, Ghost throws a towel at you. “Cover yourself,” he mutters, turning away, using the other towel to start drying off.
You hold the towel against your chest. Drawing your legs up, you close them, using the towel to cover the little it can. Ghost is still naked, and he appears in no rush to cover himself. You watch him, observing every movement, expecting him to circle back.
But he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even look in your direction. Even when he discards the towel, standing bare in the middle of the room, Ghost continues to ignore your existence.
He strides over, and your cheeks flame as his cock bounces with every step. You look away, staring at the wall as he takes a knee beside the bed. Grunting, Ghost tugs on something beneath the bed. You turn your head just enough to watch.
Ghost tugs again, and out comes a trunk.
He pops the tabs, opening the lid. The first thing he removes is a pair of clean boxer briefs. Ghost stands up, and you have to pretend you’re staring at the ceiling and not what’s swinging between his legs as he puts them on.
He goes down on his knees again, shifting through whatever is inside. As you start to lean forward, curiosity getting the better of you, you’re met with fabric to the face.
“Put this on,” mutters Ghost as he shuts the trunk.
You hold out a shirt, something far too large to fit you properly. Slowly, you tug it over your head, wiggling it down until it comes to mid-thigh. Ghost snags the towel off the bed, taking yours and his back to the dividing wall. He hands them over the side.
“Be honest with me, Lieutenant Riley.” Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. “Please.”
This time, he turns, and you have no idea what he might be thinking. His features are passive. Neutral. You want to dig around, crack him open, figure out the inner workings of his mind. You’re angry, but you’re lost.
A sparrow in a dark forest.
“This mandate. Bringing me back to a…safe zone. When I come out of processing, am I yours? Do I belong to you?” He stares, and a sinking feeling emerges. You need answers. You desperately need them. “Please,” you say, voice cracking.
He takes a step toward you.
Another.
He comes to a stop at the edge of the bed, staring down at you. Fingertips brush against your bare arm. A shiver runs through you.
“No,” he answers. “You don’t belong to me.”
It’s out there. Hanging.
But is it the truth?
“Scoot over,” he murmurs. “Sleep is calling my name.”
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bleeding blue | apocalypse au
part twenty —other parts
pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!
You land hard, elbows hitting the ground with a jolt of pain, but it’s nothing compared to the realization that someone is screaming—Blue is screaming. The heat in your veins fizzles, your heart jolting. Ghost has already sped off toward camp, pulling a knife from his ankle, and you scramble to your feet to follow.
Your movements are clumsy, your mind replaying the last few seconds, searching for any signs of trouble you might have missed. The air is clear, the trees are quiet, the ground is still. Yet, as you weave through the tall grasses that swipe at your ankles, you finally hear it—muffled voices, unmistakably human. They grow sharper with each step you take.
Ghost reaches camp first, stopping in a lethal stance. You roll in just behind him, eyes snapping to where Blue stands behind the fence, alive and aiming one of her dad’s rifles at four strangers. Still dressed in an oversized sleep shirt, she juts the rifle through a gap in the fortification. Two of the strangers are mounted on a brown horse, while the other two flank their sides, backs swollen with rucksacks and chests thick with gear. There is no doubt they have weapons.
"D-don't come any closer or I'll blow your heads off! I mean it!"
“We’re not here to hurt you,” one of them says calmly. A man.
“I don’t care why you’re here! You need to leave before my dad…” Her eyes flicker to you. “Dad!”
When their heads turn in your direction, you waste no time arching the knife over your head. You’re not much without your bow, but this is all you have.
In a split second, your eyes land on the burliest of the group, a man with a boonie hat and a dense, brown beard. He was the one speaking. The leader, maybe. You aim the knife for his head, but before you can throw it, Ghost grabs your wrist, wrenching you to his chest without warning, the knife falling to the ground.
"Wait," he says in your ear, his breath steady against your skin. There’s a detectable lilt of surprise in his voice. You try to squirm free, but he holds tight. "Stay here."
He lets go. Confusion reels through you. Everything in you screams to pick up the knife, but you hesitate as Ghost signals for Blue to lower the gun.
He calmly walks over to the intruders, heading to the man you were aiming for. The air feels thick as you watch with parted lips, stance still readied and breath racing. Ghost stops in front of him, and the two stare at each other strangely before the man smiles.
A strong hand reaches for Ghost’s shoulder.
“It’s good to see you, Simon.”
The clanking of metal against ceramic plates and the low murmurs of a fire fill the cabin.
Your spine presses into the wall.
There isn’t a free chair at the table, but you’re not sure you’d sit in one even if there was. Blue stands beside you, hands laced in front of her. She’s silent. You are, too. The cabin feels cramped with seven people in it. It makes your skin itch.
You can inspect them more thoroughly now that you’re not thinking about who to kill first.
There are two men—the older one you believe Ghost called Price, and a younger one you think he called Kyle. He’s fine-looking, you figure, underneath the overgrowth of facial hair and grime smudged on his dark skin. He had a tan cap on earlier but now a head of short, black hair is free for him to slick fingers through every now and then. Then there is a woman, some years older than you. She’s beautiful in a raw, Grecian sort of way, with long black hair and a violet undertone to her skin. Lastly, a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen. It doesn't take much to discern he is related to Kyle in some way.
They all look starving, though not as much as you once were. Nevertheless, Ghost is feeding them more than scraps. Canned beans, rice, and rabbit. They shovel it into their mouths. The men have muscles on them, so they can’t have been struggling much. Based on all the supplies they carry and the horse tied to a tree outside, you’ve figured they’ve been traveling for some time. A flurry of questions runs through your brain, but your lips remain in a tight line.
Ghost hasn’t said much yet. He hasn't even explained who they are. Your slitted eyes flicker to him. While the strangers fill up the table, he hovers beside it. His body speaks more than his expression. His shoulders are not tense and lethal as they'd been when you first sat at that table scarfing down food. But they're not relaxed, either; his arms crossed, still exposed from the black tee he'd put on for training, giving way to the slight flexes in his corded muscles that signal even he is thrown off by their presence.
But he trusts them enough to let them in here. With the way they carry themselves, and the fact that Ghost hasn't killed them, they must've been in the military together. He doesn't seem like the type to have had normal friends.
Kyle speaks first.
He thrums the pads of his fingertips against the wood and clears his throat, breaking your thoughts. "We were hoping you'd still be here, but it was a shot in the dark."
"I’ve never left," Ghost says, plainly.
Kyle sips from his mug and wipes his mouth, then his eyes shift toward you. You meet his gaze with a hardened look.
"We're sorry for scaring you."
It takes a moment to realize his words aren't for you. Blue glances to her toes. "I wasn't scared."
His lips lift. "Of course not. It's us who should've been scared of crossing paths with Simon Riley's kid. You did the right thing, you know. Protecting yourself."
"I didn't realize you knew my dad." She nibbles her lip and looks up. "My name is Blue, by the way. And this is..." Her eyes flick to you. "My friend, Twix."
Your tongue pokes your cheek as you look over the new faces. What are you supposed to say?
"Hi," is all you settle on.
Ghost clears his throat. "Kid, why don't you clean some more water for them."
Blue nods dutifully, lingering only a second before pouring more river water into the pot over the fire.
"Thank you for your kindness. We haven't had a warm meal like this in days," the woman says kindly.
"It's a strong setup you've made for yourself," Price speaks, one hand stroking his beard while he pushes the cleared plate away with the other. He leans back, boonie hat still cradling his head and casting a shadow over his eyes, but you catch a glimpse of warm brown irises that might've comforted you in any other circumstance.
"It's lasted me this long." Ghost shifts his weight slightly. "Where are you coming from?"
"Near the base by the border, further north."
"Last I heard you were in Manchester."
"Once the radios went out, we picked up my wife," he touches the woman's shoulder, "Nereida, and Kyle's nephew here, Ari, from Newcastle. Made camp with a few others. Served us well for the past five years."
Ghost slowly nods and then drawls, "And Soap?”
Price leans his forearms on the table. "Not quite sure. The base was falling apart, but he stayed back, saying he'd meet up with us once he could. That was five years ago."
You're not sure who Soap is, someone else they worked with, maybe. There is a brief pause before Ghost asks, "Why did you leave?"
"More and more of 'em, Simon," Price replies with a slight shake of his head, emitting a low breath. "Made it difficult to even get food."
"Too many of them, not enough of us," Nereida murmurs distantly. Her hand slips under the table, out of view. You imagine it resting on Price's thigh as she leans into him with a weighted sigh. "They always seem to be moving. Not with a destination in mind, of course, but it was only a matter of time before they ruined our setup. We decided to leave before that could happen."
Kyles adds, "It wasn't an easy decision, but living in anticipation of the worst isn't really living at all."
Your brows lower. “Where exactly could you be headed that wouldn't mean living in anticipation of the worst?” you can't stop yourself from asking, the question burning in your mind.
Price leans back, those warm brown eyes finding yours. A short heartbeat passes before he answers simply, "Switzerland."
The absurdity of that single word response forces a disbelieving, chuffed breath through your nose. Of all the things this stranger could have said, that would have to be the least expected. You anticipate an equally surprised reaction from Ghost, but he seems unnervingly unfazed. Blue, however, swivels her head from where she sits cross-legged in front of the fire.
"What the fuck is Switzerland?"
"It's another country," the boy—Ari—answers.
Blue glances between him and her dad. "Like... not in England?"
Ari snorts softly. "No, not in England. It's across the channel."
"The channel?" Blue frowns. "That's... far, isn't it?"
"Very far," Nereida confirms with a nod.
The subject is brusquely dropped when Ghost reaches for their cleared plates. "You must want to bathe while you're here. There's a river nearby."
Price clears his throat. "These two can go first." He gestures to the woman and child.
Soon enough, you become irritatingly aware of what's happening; you're being shooed away, along with the kids and Nereida, so the three of them can speak privately. There isn't much room to object as you shuffle out of the cabin, carrying a handful of rags for them to wash with along with the homemade soap that you once used to wash away the grime and earth that caked up from traveling.
The sun beats hard, the river warmer now that spring has aged. Dried sweat clings to your spine from this morning, but bathing yourself is the last thing on your mind now, not when you're still reeling in the presence of people you don't know. You swing a glance at the cabin behind your shoulder, something in your gut twisting. Ghost doesn't want you there to hear whatever they're talking about.
"This is a good spot," Blue says, stopping in front of a shallow part of the bank where the water is warmest. She hands Ari some soap and teeters on her toes. You realize why she keeps staring at him like that; he's probably the only other kid she's met in years. She is even more shy than when she first met you. "Twix and I will look away, don't worry."
You and Blue sit perched on a rock as they wash themselves.
"This is weird," she admits quietly to you.
"Very," you mumble.
When they're done, you offer Nereida the only clean clothes you have at the moment: one of the oversized shirts Ghost gave you and some jeans. An annoyingly strange thought brandishes your brain... you don't like the way the black fabric sits on her bare chest, nipples poking through, and the hem hanging down to her knees as it does on you. You should've just given her the dirty blouse to wear.
She sits at the edge of the river, wringing her soaked hair with a rag. From the corner of your eye, you catch Blue helping Ari rinse his dirty clothes in the water. You want to keep an eye on him; your knife is still nestled around your ankle in case they try anything, though a woman and preteen don't heighten your paranoia as much.
"How long have you two been together?"
Her soft voice makes you blink. "What?"
"You and Simon."
You're confused until you recall the revelation from earlier—the man you've known the past few months as Ghost, the one whose hard form laid beneath you just hours ago, is actually Simon. Simon Riley. You're tempted to say the name; try it out. But it is hard to reconcile with. It might taste strange on your tongue. The name fits a version of him that doesn't exist in this world now, you suppose. British. Simple. Like John or Kyle. The name of a lieutenant. The bits of his face you've witnessed crosses your mind; his nose, lips, and chin seem like Simon. The damn mask is Ghost, though.
"Jesus... I am not—" You shake your head, the sun even hotter on your neck. "I'm not with him like that. We're just allies." You glance back at the cabin in the distance and you fight a scowl. "If that."
She runs her fingers through ravenous tendrils. "Oh. I apologize for assuming."
You offer a small smile. "It's fine."
"How long have you been staying here then?"
"Um, a few months now. I used to stay with my sister and a friend, but they died."
Her eyes soften. "I'm sorry for your loss."
You shrug. "Everyone has lost important people."
"Doesn't make it easier," she says. "Ari's mom and younger sister used to be with us," she adds quietly with a solemn downward cast of her eyes, as if a memory has taken her for a moment. "They passed two years ago during a really rough winter along with this other couple we knew. Then it was just the four of us."
You inhale through your nose and release, frowning. "No child should have to experience that."
"No," she agrees, nodding. "They shouldn't. Which is why we're looking for a better life for him."
"And you think you'll find it in... Switzerland."
Nereida offers a half-smile, as if reading your thoughts. "We'd heard of a commune there, up in the mountains."
"A commune? Like what, a town?"
"Sort of. Just... more people, living together. Protected. Greys make awful climbers, and the mountains there are much higher than anything in the UK."
This catches your attention, and the divot between your brows deepens. "How do you know it exists?"
"Well, we can't know for certain. John heard about it at the beginning of the spread, but it was too difficult to make arrangements at the time, especially when he had to help out at the medical site and then come find me. Things were a mess, I'm sure you remember."
"Yeah, I do." You reel in her words, thinking. "That was... years ago, though. Aren't you taking a huge risk going there now? What if nothing is there?"
"Staying in England would be a risk, too," she counters. "There is nothing here except death and hardship. You can't hide from it forever."
You look down at the water. Cicadas fill your ears, the buzzing drowning out your voice. "No, you can't."
You go on a hunt that afternoon, itching for some space to breathe. Deer tracks are harder to spot without the snow, but you find the unmistakeable marks of antlers against a tree and follow them. You glance around the forest. It feels endless and like a cage at the same time. Which way did they come from? If they made it to camp by morning, that means they spent the night here somewhere. You don't like the idea that others could be so close by, like that car.
The sun has turned orange by the time a healthy doe skirts in your peripherals. You stalk it behind an oak. An arrow flies from your bow, but you miss; the deer flees. You return in the dark empty-handed. No doubt, the visitors are fatigued, with Ghost already setting blankets across the cabin's floor for them to sleep on. You offer Ari the couch, figuring an exhausted kid needs it more than you do. He knocks out the moment he lays down.
"Here. For the night." Ghost offers you a heavy blanket and nods to the only bare spot of floor left after they've all settled down.
You avoid his eyes and accept it. The moment he's disappeared to his room, you slip outside under the starlit night, finding the flattest patch of ground to lay the blanket down, which happens to be only a few paces away from a sleeping horse. It's not the couch, but it'll do for a night or two, and you refuse to sleep in the shed again.
You're in the midst of standing back up after straightening out your makeshift bed when you bump into something solid. A hand grips your bicep and whirls you around, a pair of darkened eyes glowering down at you.
"What are you doing?" you breathe up at him. "I don't like when you grab me like that."
"What are you doing?" he retorts, voice low and hard.
"Trying to get some sleep."
"Out here?"
You look away and shimmy out of his hold. "Does it matter where I sleep?"
"It's not safe out here."
"You had no problem sending me out here before."
"You have since earned your keep," he mutters, as if annoyed you're even mentioning the past.
"My spot is taken for the night by your lovely friends, so for however long you plan to let them stay, I will sleep out here."
"There is a spot on the floor for you inside."
"I'm not sleeping in there." With them.
The whites of his eyes flash as he darts his gaze over your face. His tone softens perceptibly. A mere breath. "They won't hurt you, Twix."
You roll your eyes away from him. "I would just rather sleep out here by myself, okay? I prefer solitude at my most vulnerable. And it's not like my experiences with militant men have been pleasant so far." You keep your tone neutral, but a chill touches your spine at the memory.
Ghost emits a low huff. He suddenly rips the blanket from the ground and turns his back to you. "What are you doing?" you gape at him.
"You'll take my bed," he throws over his shoulder.
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨
pairing: gojo x fem!reader
part two of the arrangement
summary: life was going well. better than you could have ever imagined. the whirlwind marriage between you and gojo satoru that started as an arrangement blossomed into something sweeter and more tender after you both fell in love. but that storybook life you've been living soon shatters when you're told that a bitter king wants you two to separate so gojo could marry his daughter. either that, or he promises a war to follow. you live between selfishness and sacrifice as the fate of the kingdoms rests in your, and your husband's hands.
warnings: 18+ mdni, angst with no comfort for a while, near-death experiences, gojo sometimes struggling to be reasonable, small panic attack, heavy making out, heavy smut, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, (reader's first time), creampie, (happy ending)
word count: 38k+ (sorry again)
note: act two is finally done! (nearly lost my fingers writing it) art credit: _3aem
jjk masterlist + series masterlist
One year ago you were told about an arrangement. The arrangement.
It offered you a chance of freedom, a lick of life. You didn’t have time to question why the most sought-after bachelor of the six kingdoms was asking for you to be his bride, and only a daft, bumbling idiot would seek out the answer when time was given. Gojo Satoru was the man you soon called husband, but the true act of having an actual husband didn’t come around till months later.
At first, the dinners you spent alone were now spent together. Albeit in silence, but sometimes you’d catch his stare from the other side of the long, mahogany table, and the two of you would quickly look away. On other days you’d walk around the estate only to catch him when he was training with his men, his loud voice booming around the walls as he commanded them. You’d watch them from the balcony, leaning over the railing as you rested your chin in your palm. Sometimes he’d look up and see you, not doing anything to hide his surprised expression, other times he tried puffing his chest out so he’d seem even bigger.
All of the unspoken feelings, lingering touches, and longing glances morphed into the two of you spurring out your thoughts to one another, elated and relieved to find that the other felt the same.
Months would pass and a part of you wondered if perhaps what he felt was only momentary. But those worries quickly seemed to pass the more you surveyed him. Because the most esteemed man, the most worshiped warrior destined to lead his lands to greatness, could not seem to survive apart from you for longer than five minutes.
“Love, we have to go.”
It’s your fifth time telling your husband about the urgency of getting out of bed, and the fifth time he’s tugged your squirming body closer to his bare chest to get you to stay in bed. His arms, which are the size of tree trunks, prove to work more than your pathetic flails, chuckling when you let out a deafening, annoyed whine.
Months ago you never entertained the idea of the two of you sharing a bed, let alone the man you married turning into such a leech. Seeing how you were first sleeping on separate sides of the estate, you always assumed you had ended up in one of those marriages in which the only time you two ever saw each other was during meal time (if that) and at gatherings.
But things took a turn, and after a while, that turn never stopped. And you found yourself here. With no complaints, of course.
The days when the two of you weren’t burdened with the life of being the Lord and Lady of the North, Gojo would whisk you away to wherever you pleased. Sometimes you settled to bake some sweets in the kitchen, other times you requested to go into town and look through the bustling markets. He would always oblige, taking you down to the epicenter of Northern life, watching as you carded your fingers through the fabrics and stocked up on your spices. And though you enjoyed prancing around with your husband attached to your side, most days, these were the moments you loved the most.
Other days you’d find yourself with newly made friends, women you had slowly gotten closer to the more you socialized. It took a while for you to move away from the quietness you had been accustomed to for so long, but you preferred walking around the town or the estate with them, arm in arm as you laughed about something minuscule.
Nights were spent with each other, skin to skin, sharing the warmth. Mornings like this would come and he’d awake before you, pulling you closer to his chest as he nudged his nose against your ears. He’d whisper how much he loved you, how pretty you were when you slept. It proved to be a nice and easy way to wake up, but on the days where you were particularly stubborn and wanted to sleep more, he’d bite your ear, chuckling when you would let out a fake whine. Afterward, you’d grumble about it, like now, but other times you’d laugh softly when you’d turn and see his blushing face.
“People might gossip if they hear you,” your husband muttered against your head, his lips pulled back into a large grin, “They might say I’m torturing you, leaving you unsatisfied.”
Your cheeks heat up at his implications and you wrangle a hand out of his hold to slap at his torso, rolling your eyes as you give up, going slack in his arms as you relax against him. You might’ve put up a tougher fight if this wasn’t a daily occurrence and your overall zest to equal the strongest man ever known was decreasing.
“You’re so lude,” you comment, and he just shrugs in response, knowing that you weren’t lying. If anything, this was him being more than tame. Sometimes he’d corner you in a hallway that had heavy foot traffic and kiss you senseless, his plush lips growing into a sly grin when somebody caught the two of you.
“You make me lude,” Gojo remarks and you sigh, pretending to find him annoying instead of endearing as you look away. In reality, you loved your mornings together. With how busy the two of you got throughout the day, these little blips of being alone together were heavily enjoyed.
You rub at your eyes, yawning a little bit as you stretch your legs out. You find yourself sleeping better than you ever have in this bed, and whether it be the fact that your husband was asleep next to you or that the bed was constructed of goose feathers, you didn’t care much to question it.
“We should go into town today,” Gojo says suddenly, and you turn your neck slightly over to him as you raise a brow. He mirrors your expression as if he isn’t riddled with duties that need to be taken care of.
“A ride into town alone takes an hour,” you argue, bringing his hand closer to yours so that you can fidget with his slender fingers.
“I’m well aware,” he says, “But you were saying last night that you need more cinnamon sticks and that your honeycomb stash is nearly gone.”
You try to hide your smile, try not to let him know how pleased you are that he remembers the little things you mention to him on a whim.
When you don’t say anything in excitement to his plan, he pours slightly, nudging at your shoulder with his nose.
“Have you grown tired of me?” His voice is slightly muffled against your skin and you laugh a little bit, the sound making him smile slightly, hiding it against your collarbones, “Do you wish to cast me aside and take on a different lover?”
Your mouth drops open in a loud laugh, shoving your shoulder upwards so that his chin would fall off and you look at him in shock.
But there’s a teasing grin on his face, one that truly just wanted to see you smile.
“I’m just trying to be sensible,” you say with a pout, craning your neck as you glance up at him, your legs sprawling out on his, “You have that meeting with your advisors and I have to pretend I’m not listening to your meeting with your advisors.”
Gojo’s eyes crinkle upwards, soft and gentle as he looks at you like you raised the moon, and pinches your arm slightly.
“I’ve told you if you want to join us you’re welcome to,” he says against the skin of your neck, his lips moving fast and you try to hide your bursts of giggles at the ticklish feeling, “I’d much prefer having you inside with me than standing alone outside.” You also try to hide the way you burn up wherever his fingers are, which at the moment are gripping at your hips.
“But it’s more fun when it feels like I’m learning state secrets,” you murmur teasingly, turning around a bit so that the two of you are face to face. So close that you could count the amount of eyelashes he had and the little dust of barely visible freckles on his cheeks. He was training more than usual now, spending more time in the sun. His pink lips pull into a wide smile when he finally sees you, all of you, and runs a hand under your calf and up to your thigh to hike it up over his waist.
Gojo’s eyes trail over your features for a silent second, admiring your appearance early in the morning, disheveled from a good night's rest. You feel like hiding, but admire the endless attention you receive from him at the same time. You feel foolish when you note how his features soften, his smile genuine and bright when his thumb traces over the hairs of your eyebrow.
A part of you never thought you would have a husband who looked at you the way he does. When you were younger you always assumed you’d end up a spinster or married off to an old man in need of an heir. This is why you so eagerly accepted the Gojo family’s initial proposal, but you never expected much to come from it. Never in your dreams did you envision the Gojo Satoru holding you close to him with such tender care, or that he’d gingerly run his fingers across the slope of your nose just to memorize your bone structure.
Never this.
Gojo Satoru was somebody who you had grown up with but observed from a distance. You always assumed that he and his family would prefer for him to marry a girl with a more…favorable background than you, but by a force of fate, you were the lucky girl they picked. You found yourself immensely lucky seeing that it was either him or evil incarnate himself, but some mornings you wake up and expect to blink yourself out of this dream. That you’ll turn around to find some other man than him, somebody with an oily smile and evil eyes. But just like this morning you woke up to fluttering kisses on the exposed skin of your shoulder and slender fingers trailing up your arm.
“You have that look,” Gojo murmurs gently, his eyes tracing the way your lips part, the way they do when you’re in your world, “The one where you’re deep in thought,” he says, his voice a little softer as your gaze settles back onto him.
You think a little longer, eyes squinting as you smile.
It’s been a while since the two of you have had a decent amount of time alone together. Mornings together, dinners, and then nights climbing into bed seemed to be the only blips of time when he wasn’t riddled with counsels and you with overseeing and trying to take care of problems the people of the neighboring towns were dealing with (last week you had to carefully settle a dispute with two farmers arguing over a goat, claiming it was their own.)
“I'm thinking….” you chew on your bottom lip a little bit, “I’m thinking I want to go away,” you say with a sigh, resting your back upon the headboard behind you as Gojo leans upwards, resting his weight on his arms.
His white brow cocks up, not confused, just curious.
“Where to?” He asks, and you know he could’ve asked something more extensive, but he’s gotten to know you and your strange requests, knowing you preferred simple questions instead.
You hum, crossing your legs across the bed as you bring his hand back to yours and play with the wedding ring on his finger. He lets you do it, his fingers curling a bit so that they can hold onto yours, limiting your movements just a little bit.
“Your summer home,” you say, tilting your head towards him, a gleam in your eyes, “The one near the ocean. Do you remember? The one where we all used to go when we were younger?”
Gojo nods a little bit, his pink lips and pink cheeks pulling upwards in a little grin. This was something he would very much be willing to fulfill.
“I think that’s doable,” he says and your smile widens, “We can invite-”
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head, eyes flitting to his momentarily before they dropped back down to his large hands, which were freckles slightly as well, “Just us.”
Gojo nods a little bit, swaying his head from side to side as he thinks about how quickly he can put all of this together. Maybe if it were any other man he’d be taken aback by the strange and unexpected request, but he was your husband and was used to your nature by now.
“I’ll tell my men, I’m sure we’ll be able to pull some strings and be there by next week,” Gojo tells you after a minute of thinking and you grin, going to say something but get interrupted by a steady knock on the door.
“My lady?” One of the girls, Alina, calls out, and you look back at Gojo with a smile, knowing the slight angry pout that’s going to be taking over his face.
“Coming!” you respond after a beat, pressing a soft kiss to your husband's forehead as you brush the white strands of hair away from his face before pushing the blanket off of both you and your husband as you swivel your legs around the bed, sitting up as you stretch your arms above your head and yawn.
You hear the bed squeak as Gojo does the same, the wooden floor creaking as he stands up, walking over to your side as he leans his back on one of the pillars of the bed, waiting for you to stand.
When you finally do he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your lips, knowing how much you were averse to his breath in the morning, and another one to the tip of your nose. His hand rests at the back of your head, gentle and soft.
“I’ll bring up the trip to my advisors today,” he starts, and your eyes twinkle, “And I’ll see you at dinner,” he tells you, and you nod, running your hand up and down his sturdy arm. You pinch at the muscles and he yelps a little bit, looking down to where your fingers are and you can’t help but laugh, soothing over the spot.
“I’ll see you then,” you say with a smile. There’s a little silent beat before he speaks.
“I love you,” Gojo’s voice lowers slightly, knowing that the women outside can’t hear him, but still wanting his words to only grace your ears.
You giggle, your cheeks pulling upwards as you smile brightly, your hands trailing upwards to tangle in the hairs at the nape of his neck.
“I love you more,” you reply giddily.
---
Once your maids came in and got you ready for the day, you bid farewell to Gojo, knowing that with how long his meetings with the advisors and counselors went you most likely weren’t going to be seeing him till later in the night.
You don’t miss the way the younger girls blush when they see him kiss you farewell on the side of your forehead or the way they stare longingly at his musculature figure as he leaves the room, but you don’t care much. They can stare as much as they’d like. You’ll stare at them. You know you’re the only one he looks at anyway. Especially when you catch the wink he sends your way before closing the door shut.
The five girls come bustling in as usual, helping you out of your sleeping garments, although you’ve told them countless times that you don’t need help to undress yourself. They help lace you up in your corset and bodice, helping you with your chosen outfit of the day. As usual, you find yourself in the plush chair as they dote over your appearance, swiping honey over your lips and dusting powder over your cheeks.
It was a routine you had slowly gotten used to. A far cry from your old life where you’d turn out of bed, get dressed in your sister's old clothes, and walk through the pantry and into the kitchens to find something to eat. But this was better, far better than that.
But despite those younger girls and their bubbly personalities, there was something off with the way your usual maids were acting. Alina, who usually was the most talkative out of the group, only met your eyes in the mirror a couple of times, her lips pressed into a thin line as she quickly looked away.
Two of the other girls, Maryam and Lilly, seemed to be whispering together in hushed tones. It was ineligible from where you were sitting, and you tried to make yourself seem as discreet as possible as you slightly angled your head towards them, but to no avail. Sometimes, when you could look up for them to clasp the gold necklace around your neck, courtesy of Gojo, you saw the way they glanced at each other and then down to you with pursed lips and downcast eyes.
When Alina went to dot some lavender oil on your wrists you saw how her hands were slightly shaking, her fingers cold and clammy.
“Alina?” You said with a little laugh, eyebrows pulled together in confusion, “Are you alright?” You pressed the backs of your fingers to her cheek and then her forehead. A couple of months ago she would’ve pulled away in shock, telling you how unorderly it was for a lady to get this close to her maid, but she’s gotten used to it, and she only pulled away after a few seconds.
The other girls around you pause as you speak, but you don’t notice how they seem to mirror Alina’s expression.
You watch as she swallows thickly, nodding her head down low as she places the glass bottle of oil down on the vanity. Her brown curls bounce a little bit with her movements, her large brown eyes wavering, as if she couldn’t bear to look at you.
A look of perplexity takes over your face. Had you said something?
“Is something wrong?” You press again, turning around in your chair as you look at the other girls who have now fallen silent. None of them seem to be looking at you.
You let out a curt laugh, arms resting on the back of the chair as your head tilts slightly.
“Alina?” You ask one more time, your voice dropping a bit out of genuine worry. But you can only watch as she takes a deep, shuddering breath, her head still facing downwards as if there was a weight on her shoulders.
You go to stand up but she quickly ushers for you to sit back down, though you see the way she brings her palms up to her eyes, trying to wipe something away.
Was she crying?
“What…?” You reach your hands out, trying to see what is wrong, but she looks up quickly and you’re taken slightly aback by the way her eyes seem bloodshot and wet cheeks, stained with tears.
She shakes her head again, lips trembling as she quickly bows her head to you.
“I’m s-sorry my lady,” she says in a choked voice, “We’re done. I’ll see you tonight.” And before you can ask what was going on, to see if she was okay, you watch as she almost runs out of the room, leaving your other maids standing in a heavy, awkward silence. You look around to see what the other maids are looking like, surely as startled as you were, but if anything, they seemed to be struggling as equally as Alina was.
“What’s….what’s wrong? Do you know-” “We have to leave, my lady,” Maryam quickly says, cutting you off unintentionally as the other girls mirror her movements and bow their heads down in respect, “I apologize.”
You sputter, trying to find something to say, but fall silent as you watch them file out in your room in the same hurry as Alina.
You stand still, staring at the large wooden door.
What was that?
—-
You try going about your day like normal.
You asked around, trying to see if anybody had seen where Alina or the rest of your maids had run off to, but nobody seemed to find an answer.
Not only that, but it seemed like the girl's strange behavior was reciprocated around the entire estate. Wherever you went, people would look at you for a second longer. You try not to make it obvious, and after years of being surveyed, you’ve gotten rather good at discretely listening in on what others are doing and saying.
Walking around the halls alone, you keep your head down and ears open. You don’t miss the way some of the servants murmur things to each other behind their hands, their stares never leaving your frame. You’re grateful that today was one of the days Shoko, who you had become good friends with, wasn’t able to join you. With her rapid talking you doubt you would be able to hear any of the gossip even if it was shouted in your left ear.
You felt like you had been transported back to your old home, with your father's wife and your sisters. The constant whispers wherever you went, the eyes trained on your back. It was benign and odd, something that had never, ever happened until today.
Something was wrong, and nobody was telling you what it was.
You had initially wanted to eavesdrop on the meeting Gojo was having with his advisors, but with the pit in your stomach and the dizzying feeling you were having everywhere you went, you decided to hide the rest of the day in the library, finding a little alcove where you could nestle away from everybody else.
Truth be told, you had known something was wrong for the past week. Although today was the first physical evidence of this hunch you’ve had, there’s been something off in the air and you didn’t have the heart to voice this insanity to your husband. You tried brushing it off after the first couple of days.
As somebody who grew up around maids and servants, cooks and cleaners, you were aware of how they were often the first to learn of any news. Words traveled fast with those who worked, and it didn’t take long to settle. You had been the subject of whispers and subjected others to being the victim of it, but either way, you saw firsthand how quickly gossip would and could spread. Especially when it was good. Even more so when it was bad.
You could only wonder what it was that was plaguing the mouths of everybody around you. Has somebody passed? Somebody you knew? Your palm grew sweaty at the thought. There were only so many people you were close to and one of them you saw alive this morning. It couldn’t have been your father, they wouldn’t drag it out like this. You chew your lips raw, thinking. If it wasn’t a death, then it must be regarding the social circle sphere that you’ve recently found yourself a part of.
You stare at the walls lined with books, blankly blinking as you rake your mind.
It had to be serious and it had to be important. But as much as you tried to think, you kept drawing blanks.
And so, as much as you tried telling yourself it was nothing, you knew deep down it was something. Today you had seen the people around you exhibit what you were more fearful of, but this past week you could pick up on hushed and worried voices. You could barely even read the first page of the book you had blindly selected from one of the many shelves, and when the sun set in the large window behind you, you had to remind yourself that there was still dinner to be had.
You begrudgingly made your way to the dining hall, knowing you could barely stomach a block of cheese let alone a full meal. You had spent the last couple of hours letting your mind run over all the horrible things that could be coming your way, and having to mull over all those horrible things over food might cause you to become sick.
The guards open the large double doors for you as you begin to enter, and you feel a part of you deflate seeing that Gojo isn’t already there.
You slowly make your way to your seat, moving in a trance as you pull your chair in, looking around to get a sense of the mood in the room. Heavy, from what you could tell. Perfect, you think to yourself.
The servants bring in different assortments of food prepared tonight, and had you had a better appetite you might’ve finished them the second they had arrived. But it felt like there was cotton shoved in your ears, barely hearing anything they were telling you.
You swallow your bile down, your head ringing as you look up from your plate and to the man in front of you, your forehead dotted with sweat. You like your chapped lips, fidgeting with the ring on your finger.
“Where,” your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, “Where is my husband?”
The servant blinks once, then twice.
He rubs the back of his head apprehensively, looking behind him to the closed doors, and then back to you. You could feel the way he was taking in your sick appearance, the way you seemed to be swaying side to side in your set as a means to help your queasy self.
“Lord Gojo won’t be joining dinner tonight, my lady.” The man tells you. You know his name and have seen him countless times, but you can’t think about what the first letter of his name even starts with.
“Did he say why?” You think your hands are shaking, and you grip the fabric of your dress to calm them down.
In all honesty, you don’t know exactly why you’re freaking out the way you are. It could be something simple that’s happened and Gojo’s only stalling to tell you because he doesn’t find it to be important. But in all the time you’ve lived at this estate, have become the Lady of the North, you’ve seen things going right and things going wrong. You’ve observed the way the maids and servants act with one another and how they act with you when things aren’t going well. They’ve taken a deep liking to you, and respect you and your title. They care about you, which you still have trouble accepting given your past life, but they do things out of the goodness of their hearts. So if they were talking behind your back, it couldn’t be because they no longer care about you. It’s worse, and you can’t fathom what it must be.
“No…my lady, I apologize.”
You glance up at the man again and nod slowly.
“Thank you,” you chew on the inside of your cheek, “That, that’s all.”
He bows down, giving you a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and exits.
You look down at your plate and heave out a breath.
—-
Dinner was spent in total silence, but that was a given seeing that Gojo never showed up.
You don’t know how long it took for you to walk up the stairs that led to your shared bedroom, but you know it took longer than usual with the way it seemed like your legs were weighing you down.
When you entered the room, all you were reminded of was this morning with Alina and the other maids, and it only worsened your already raving heart. You tried to sit at the edge of your bed and calm your breathing, but slowly you realized that you needed to be moving. Sitting was only going to worsen your condition.
You paced around the expansive room, fidgeting with your ring, moving it up and down your finger as you tried to busy yourself with taking off your other pieces of jewelry.
You had also requested for the girls to not come in tonight. You needed to be alone, not knowing what you’d do if you were to see their pale, fear-stricken faces again.
With shaky hands and multiple efforts, you were finally able to unclamp your necklace and take off your earrings. You tried to wet some cloth and drag it across your face, hoping the cool water would help. It didn’t.
A part of you tried to force yourself to think that you were simply overreacting. There was nothing to worry about. But deep inside, you knew that that was a lie. You felt this same way when you were a little girl and your father's men raided you and your mother's little home to take you away from here. This was the same feeling you had when you were informed of your marriage with Naoya Zenin. It was the same, deafening and nauseating feeling whenever you’d walk into a room and know that everybody there knew your secrets before you even knew them.
There was a moment in which you thought perhaps that part of your life was left behind, but it seemed like with every creeping shadow, it was still following you around.
Still, you did what you could to distract yourself. You were able to unlace the back of your bodice and corset, pulling your shaky legs out of your petticoat and skirt. You ringed around your wardrobe and found a shift that was suitable for the summer breeze.
There seemed to be only a few seconds where you wouldn’t look at the door, but you couldn’t help yourself. You’d glance at the old grandfather clock in the corner, feeling your blood roar in your ears as the hands ticked away later into the night. It was unusual for a meeting to take this long. And if it did, Gojo would’ve warned you ahead of time so that you wouldn’t worry the way you’re doing now.
It took nearly another two hours of your frantic effort to stay awake when your bedroom door creaked open and Gojo walked in. His white hair was messy, eyes sunken in. When he saw that you were awake his glare softened slightly.
You could only blink when you saw him, your nails digging into your palm, surely leaving little crescent moons indented into your skin.
There was an unwelcome silence that followed afterward. You watched as he shut the door, rubbing his tired eyes, and looked back up at you through furrowed brows.
“You’re not asleep?” He groggily asked as he began to take off his boots, his back rippling with muscles from under his tunic as you gnawed on your lips and he stood up from his position on the floor.
“I couldn’t,” you simply said, moving forward a couple of steps and slowly leaning into his outstretched arms as he pulled you into his chest, planting a tender, heavy kiss on the side of your head. One of his hands pressed tightly against your back, not moving.
There was another moment of silence, one heavy and unknown as you listened to the sound of his heartbeat.
“Is everything alright?” Your voice was muffled, but still audible, as you finally asked the question that was searing into your head.
There was another beat of silence, but this one was uncomfortable. Gojo hadn’t let go of you yet.
“Yes,” he finally said, but you had heard better lies from your sisters after they ate your pastures and said they didn’t than this.
Your brows furrowed as you looked up to him.
“What took so long?” You pressed, pulling away slightly as his lips formed into a thin line, and he dragged a hand down his face.
“Just…state affairs,” he turned away from you, against eye contact as he ran another hand through his hair.
You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you crossed your arms over your chest. You thought that he had at least begun to trust you enough not to lie this blatantly.
“Have one of the states suddenly terminated their subject's existence?” You tried to tease, but your voice was flat and you couldn’t hide the curiosity and hurt behind it. Gojo didn’t laugh, which hurt even more. You leaned back on one of the pillars of your bed and watched as he stood with his back to you, contemplating something in utter silence.
How you loathed silence.
“What’s wrong?” You ask again, your tone heavy, not leaving any room for him to stay quiet.
Your brows furrowed even more, arms tighter around your middle as he heaved a heavy breath, and when he finally turned you wished he would’ve just stayed hidden from you. Because there were spots of red in the whites of his shimmering eyes, and that was more fearful than the quiet.
You tilt your head, not knowing what to do, and see his breath in shakily. The only time you had seen him break was that night he confessed to you in the field. Never again. Not until now.
You take a tentative step forward, eyes searching his but he can’t bear to look at you.
“I know there’s something wrong,” you say shakily, taking a deep breath as you pinch the bridge of your nose, “Alina nearly broke down in front of me today and everyone around the house seems to be walking on glass. So…so please just tell me what it is.” You’re pleading with him at this point, and you don’t care if you’re losing a shred of dignity.
Gojo takes a deep breath, his hand searching for yours as you oblige. It’s warm, comforting. His thumb rubs up and down your wrist apologetically.
His nose picks up on the smell of lavender oil, one he’s come to associate with you. It’s calming, a gentle reminder of his home, the one thing he fights for. When he looks at you and sees the worried crease of your brow, it only tugs on his heart more.
“You’re…aware of how there’s been some conflict with the South for a while, right?” Gojo finally asks, though it seems like speaking is physically hurting him, “And how tensions worsened when my father stepped down?”
You nod slowly, knowing of this. After all, you might’ve been kept in the shadows in your old life, but you weren’t daft. You tried to keep up with the relations of the state as much as possible. Your father also did what he could to inform you of the North’s relations with the other tribes and nations before your wedding. Given its sudden nature, there were some things you weren’t able to fully learn until you got here, but it was common knowledge that the north and south were always teetering on an edge.
It was centuries of conflicts that dated well before your time. Bloody disputes over land, women, and coin often seemed to be the root cause of all the troubles, and however petty they might seem, they’ve mended themselves deep in the current rulers of the country. Gojo’s father, the previous Lord of the North, was a peaceful man, but there were tensions even he couldn’t solve. The Southern King often ruled with an ironclad fist that only grew more spiteful when the old lord stepped down and Gojo took his place.
You remember your father sitting in front of you with an ancient book spread out in your old home's library, a candle flickering in the background as he told you all this. And the final thing that you couldn’t forget he said regarding the current relations between the north and south were embedded in your mind.
“I know the king isn’t happy with this arrangement at all,” your father had said as you flipped through the crinkly pages, smoothing over the wrinkles on his forehead as you glanced upwards.
“Because of the Princess?” You asked, looking down briefly to read a passage on one of the northern wars that happened nearly three centuries ago.
“Partially because of that,” your father agreed, his eyes glancing over your features.
In the candlelight, when it was dim and nobody was around, he was allowed to look at you and see his daughter, not a bastard child everybody swore you were. Sometimes when you looked at him, he saw your mother. And when that happened, he had to look away.
“But because of you. Because of who you are. Never forget the blood that runs in your veins is the blood that old lords and kings fought over.”
Your eyes narrowed, trying to think back to your sister's history lessons you listened to behind closed doors.
“Me?” You parrot, confused. Your father nodded, his fingers scratching at the slight stubble on his chin.
“There are greater enemies than ones gained from lost land, and the South would never forget those who allied with the North to get them where they are now.”
So you knew that it certainly didn’t help that Gojo married a daughter of the Western ruler, a union that in its nature was egregious to the South.
“And before I married you, my,” he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply, “My father had agreed for me to marry the Southern princess to mend our relationship.”
You knew of the women Gojo had lined up, some in his favor and some not. The Southern princess was one of them. You had seen her a handful of times at the old gatherings you were forced to go to when you were younger. There was always a circle of girls circling around her, their voices chirpy and pitched like canaries, and whenever she said something, loud laughter (faux) would fall comedically from their lips. Your sisters always tried to befriend her, but you knew it wasn’t your place. You’d observe them from afar, taking note of the ridiculous amount of jewels and stones that decorated her bodice, her neck, her wrists, her hair. The boys would stare at her from a distance, talking to each other, trying to decide who should approach her first. The princess was indeed a true beauty, perhaps the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, but that was the last bit of knowledge you had regarding her.
Much like you who was initially supposed to marry another man, Gojo was close to accepting the South’s proposal to marry him off with their only daughter. But something happened, and the former Lady of the North proposed for you to marry her son instead.
“So?” You shake your head in confusion, your stomach churning, “You’re married to me now,” you state the obvious, but you see the way he smiles softly at that, nodding.
“The Southern King wasn’t fond of our marriage,” you watch as he twirls his ring around, “They’ve been holding off on trade with the North and anybody who’s pledged allegiance to us. They’ve formed naval blockades around parts of our ocean that stop us from reaching our traders across the sea.” Gojo jams his palms into his eyes. For a moment he doesn’t look like the ruler he is or the warrior he’s always been but a scared boy who doesn’t know what to do.
You take another step forward, leaning into him as he deflates into you, one hand protectively going around your shoulders and the other around your waist.
“Well, surely there are ways to figure this out,” you say as confidently as you can, “We’ll ask for a smaller cut of their exports than usual….or offer another northerner of higher ranking for their princess,” you offer, looking up at him only to see his eyes wavering, the tip of his nose pink.
He swallows thickly.
“We did,” he mutters, “We did all of those things. All of those things and more. but…”
He trails off and you shake your head, eyes wide.
“But what?” You press and he rubs at his eyes, at his stray tears.
He goes to open his mouth but he can’t. You’ve never seen him like this.
“The Southern King, he-” your husband's voice cracks and you pull away in shock, in fear, in terror as he tries to control a sob. The most feared man of all the land fighting down a sob, and all you could do was watch in fear.
“He’s promised war if we don’t abide by his terms.”
Your tears have stung in your eyes, maybe because you were terrified of the response because a part of you knew that something good like this could only last for so long. That your moments of bliss were only to be cherished at an arm’s length, good, but not eternal. Perhaps you should’ve known from the start, should have braced yourself for something as terminal as this.
But war? You never could have prepared yourself for this. It had been years since the land had seen war of any kind. Minor battles and conflicts were impossible to avoid, but a declaration of war from a king was beyond what you could have comprehended.
Your eyes blink rapidly, your fingers twitching as they reach upwards to cover your mouth. There were only so many routes Gojo could decide to go down on. Depending on the conditions of the statement the king had set forth, there might be a way to avoid any senseless bloodshed. But you knew your husband, knew how much he cared for his land, for his people, for you, and if any one of those things were at stake…
“And,” your lips tremble, and how Gojo longs to kiss it away, if only his hands weren’t shaking and heart pounding, “And what are his terms?”
A grim look takes over his face, one that looks like a knife has been dug into his stomach and has begun to twist. He opens his mouth once, twice, and fails. He can’t speak. He can’t say the wretched words out loud.
“That,” Gojo’s voice is wavering, and it’s a strange, unnerving thing to hear, “That I uphold by the initial promise. That I marry his daughter. That I separate from…” he blinks slowly, his mouth closing and then opening, a little gasp of horror leaving your lips as you piece together what he was saying.
You’re shaking your head, lips trembling, moving away from him as you walk around the room until you’re standing near your vanity, your chest shaking with quivering breaths as you try desperately to keep your stinging tears at bay.
You can hear him shuffling, but with your back to him, you can only feel his presence come up from behind you as his hands try to grasp at your elbows, trying to move your hands away from your face. But it’s no use. It’s as if you’ve been petrified, turned into a stone statue. The only sign of movement was the way your chest heaved up and down with each gulp of air you were taking.
He’s calling your name, but you feel like a fish underwater. You can’t hear anything correctly, can only hear the pounding, shuddering beat of your dying heart. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold on to the cries that are threatening to spill from your lips. You realize now what it was that the maids were talking about, why Alina was crying. It was no surprise to you that they were able to get word of them before you did. And you were no longer confused by their sullen responses.
Because there truly was no answer. No good answer, at least.
You couldn’t justify a war over a marriage that didn’t work out. You couldn’t find it in yourself to allow Gojo to go through with it, despite knowing that was most likely what he was planning to do. An image of marching men, heading straight through a firey unknown, swords raised, and arrows drawn. You think of bloodstained letters finding their way home, wives crumbling upon finding the news of their husbands dead. Children left abandoned by their fathers and siblings. All of it in the name of a marriage. One marriage to survive while others withered away. Your eyes widened at the horrifying thought, trying to humor the other one.
The one that included your separation.
Separating from the only man you’ve ever loved, who you consider to be your other half seemed…barbaric. You couldn’t imagine a life where you wouldn’t wake up next to him, couldn’t think of a day where he wouldn’t sneak through hallways and corridors just to surprise you with some flowers he had picked from the garden. Your mind flashed, thinking of what separation truly meant. Banishment, for you. Your old life wouldn’t accept you, his new wife wouldn’t want you near. There was nowhere you could go that you had any familiarity with.
You felt your knees give out from beneath you, falling to the floor as you hunch over, cradling your thighs to your chest. You feel stupid, knowing how childish you must’ve looked to him. But you felt like you had been plagued by every sort of emotion, and it was tethering you downwards, down where you felt more safe.
Somewhere in the midst of this you could feel his guiding hands sprawl on your back, one slowly circling your shoulders. Gojo must’ve come down to meet you where you were, and you felt like a shell of a person as he gingerly pulled you toward his chest.
One of his hands moved upwards to cradle the side of your head, his thumb rubbing up and down your forehead, as he shakily tried to wipe your watery tears away. If only you knew how much it pained him to see you cry. He wished you knew that he’d rather be shot with a thousand arrows than see you cry tears of sorrow.
He was talking, you knew he was because you could hear muffeled noises from above you that mirrored his tone and voice. But you couldn’t hear anything, trying your best to focus on the pieces of woven threads of the carpet beneath you.
“...alright,” you think he says, making out some words, “...will figure…out…alright?”
You can only nod.
Alright?
—-
Nothing was alright.
You’ve barely slept ever since you got the news.
The people around you seem to have pieced together why you’re acting the way you are, and thankfully, they don’t push it. Alina doesn’t ask why you’ve suddenly grown so silent, none of your other maids jest stupidly when they feel you’re especially down, and even the younger girls don’t pretend to fawn over Gojo, gently applying rose water to your hair as they give you soft smiles.
Everybody in the estate knows what’s happening, and nobody dares to bring it up. Wherever you go there seems to be a darkness that follows you. People go quiet when you walk past them, and looks of pity and solemness are clear on their faces. You feel like a ghost that’s wading through the halls with nowhere to go. You feel like a dead body roaming the land of the living.
There were several of these meetings you went to, knowing that these ones should not be heard behind a closed door. You were told to come to more of them, but you slowly realized that the more you heard, the more sick you felt.
A part of you was screaming at yourself, begging to see what was truly at stake. A simple marriage was not worth the countless lives at stake. No matter how long this feud was going on between the North and South, you knew that using your marriage was just another scheme to worsen it.
The more you allowed yourself to think about the situation at hand, the more you felt yourself going mad. You knew that war wasn’t the right answer, and it wasn’t the one you wanted. You couldn't even begin to think about the piles of bodies, the smoke rising into the ashen sky as they were set on fire in Northern tradition. You think with a shudder about the homes raided, the women assaulted, just how much men turn to animals when war turns lawless. You think about the years to come, when there’s nothing left of you but bones. How you’d be remembered in the stories, as the selfish whore wife that wouldn’t separate from her husband and would rather watch lands be torn apart instead. So no, war wasn’t the option.
But separating from your husband? How on earth was the better choice?
Perhaps a while ago you wouldn’t have wanted to separate from him because you refused to go back to your old life. You didn’t want to go back to your old room that could only be accessed through the dingy pantry and a dimly lit corridor.
You didn’t want the constant reminder of your untrue blood, how much of a bastard reminder you were to your fathers life. Months ago you would’ve tied yourself to a tree and let a bear feast off of you then become the social outcast again because you had lived through it once and would rather wind up dead.
But now, you’d chain yourself to that tree because leaving Gojo might be the other thing that would tear you apart.
You never thought it would be possible to be loved by another person who you love just as much. You had forced yourself into believing that tender care and pure adoration wasn’t something you would ever receive in this lifetime. In all honesty, you didn’t expect to receive it from Gojo Satoru either. But you did, and living a life without it would be more than empty. You knew you could never have him the way you do now, casted aside as another woman takes your place. And perhaps he might come to love her just as much, even more. But another part of you, the part that’s been trying to claw its way out ever since you were a little girl is screeching. Screeching that you deserved that shot of happiness, of joy, that those moments you shared with your husband should’ve only been shared by you two alone.
A part of you wilts when you even begin trying to think of mornings without him. Without him pulling you into his chest, murmuring words of nonsense into your ear as you pretend to sleep. Your heart burns when you begin to think of him kissing another girl the way he kisses you, bringing her to parties and balls tied around his elbow. You know the ton would appreciate a princess with the lord of the north far more than you, and you can’t begin to imagine what would happen if Gojo began to prefer another union. One that benefited him more than it benefited his partner.
You weren’t a jealous person by any means. Sometimes you got snippy, and sometimes you glared when women looked too long at your husband. But this was more than simple jealousy. It was biting away at you, taking away from the brightness that once bloomed across your entire body.
Maybe deep down you thought you deserved that chance of a better life, and maybe that part of you was just too optimistic knowing the hand you’ve been dealt with up until now.
But gods would sooner fall out of the sky than you tell all this to Gojo. Not the latter, at least. But regardless, it seemed to brew more and more arguments between the two of you as of late.
“I don’t understand why this is something that still needs to be discussed,” Gojo bit out one night as he was undressing to sleep, taking off his uniform as he angrily hung it up.
You had one hand wrapped around the bedpost, fidgeting with your necklace, the singular pearl moving back and forth as you shook your head.
You knew it was a bad idea bringing up the war plans right now. It was one of the first nights where Gojo was actually free from his meetings, earlier than what had become the norm. But it was also the first time you had properly seen him in almost a week, and your mind was nothing if not still.
“I’m not saying we terminate the marriage,” you pause when he snaps his neck over to you, his eyes darkening with a glare, “But surely we can’t be thinking of war. ‘Toru there has-”
“There is no other way,” his voice is deep, his back to you as he takes off his bottoms, kicking his heavy boots off as the thud against the wall, “I’ve told you this countless times I’m not separating from our marriage.”
Your chest is heavy, your heart churning, and he can’t tell. You know there are thousands of other things that are riddling his mind right now, but you wish he could see what you’re begging him to see. If there was one thing you’ve grown to know about Gojo is that his stubborn nature was unbridled and steady.
You wanted him to take a second and understand, or perhaps he did understand but chose to see this as a black and white matter, the gravity of what he was suggesting. It had been years since an actual war had been fought. Years since men were sent in blind with only their swords and their wits to keep them alive. None of you had seen the true calamity of war, the sheer destruction that followed from it. Gojo was thinking as the cold hearted warrior he had been trained to be, but not like the man you had fallen in love with.
“What if you…gods,” you groan, exasperated and tired, “What if you take the princess on as another wife?” The suggestion itself tastes like poison, bitter poison on your tongue, and maybe it soothes you just a little bit when Gojo lets out a bitter chuckle, his hands gripping the table as his knuckles turn white.
“Do you want me to do that? Truly?” He spits it out and you let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you shrug helplessly.
“No, fuck. No, I don't want you to do that! But what else can-”
He raises his hand upwards, something he does when he wants to interrupt you, and you clamp your mouth shut.
“We’ve declared war today,” he glances at you from over his shoulder and your eyes widen, “It’s final.”
You crumble against the wooden pole, fingers curling into the bed sheets as you choke on air. Final? Your fingers are trembling, your lips quivering as it feels like you’re struggling to breathe. No, you know you are. You feel lightheaded, the little bits of dinner you had surging upwards, bile filling your mouth.
He hadn’t told you about any of this, had silently refused to tell you the status of this situation because he knew how loudly and adamantly you would protest it. But it was done now. There was nothing else you could do.
Gojo looked over at you, his face that was once cold and unmoving shifting to one of worry. Moving away from the warrior he was forced to be this past month and back to your husband.
He moves to where you were, but you shake your head, not bearing to look him in the eyes as you shakily make your way over to your side of the bed, climb in without a word and watch as your shoulders shake with silent sobs.
His mouth opens and closes. He shuts his eyes, jamming his palms into his eyes as he clenches his fists.
“I love you,” he whispers finally, and the words seem to carry slowly between your two bodies that to him seem oceans apart, “So much,” he feels like he’s choking on your silence, it’s thick and settles deep in his throat. He’s been punched, hit, kicked, beat and thrown before, but none of them have knocked the air from his lungs much like you staying utterly quiet.
“I’m doing this for us,” his voice is wavering, why can’t you understand that he wants to yell, but won’t, he’d never raise his voice at you, “When this is all over we’ll go to the house near the ocean,” your heart cracks, “Remember how you wanted to go?”
Gojo watches as your shoulders stop shaking, the only sound in the room becoming your labored breaths.
“Please, darling, please say something. Anything.”
You’re the only person Gojo would beg to. The only human who could hear his desperate pleas, the way his commanding voice would crack and crumble and shatter all at your mercy. You sniffle quietly, pulling the blanket closer to your chest. You love him, gods above you love him. You don't know yourself how much you love him. Sometimes it frightens you how much you do.
But in this moment, the man behind you was the Lord of the North and not your husband, and so you stayed quiet, letting the only sound that he heard of you be your cries.
—-
You can’t seem to find reasons to leave bed most of these days.
Every time you look in the mirror, you feel like you’re staring back at a stranger. There are dark circles beneath your eyes, your lips chapped and cracking. Your cheeks have fallen, sullen and flat. Smiling has become a chore, laughing a rare occurrence. As the North was beginning to prepare and brace for the oncoming war, your home was starting to look more like housing quarters for troops rather than the place you used to adore.
You haven’t seen Gojo in a while, and each day it seems like he’s pulling away from you. At night, you barely see each other. He comes to sleep far later than you do and wakes up earlier and earlier with each passing day. Sometimes you’re awoken to the bed dipping when he climbs in, other times you pretend to be asleep even when he presses a lingering kiss to the side of your forehead, your fists balling up when he whispers a quiet I love you in your ear before he sleeps.
It’s not that you don’t love him. And you don’t fear him, you never have. Sometimes you curse yourself when you don’t mutter the words back, but you’re suddenly and crudely reminded that outside your bedroom walls, there were people actively preparing for a war being fought in your names, and it stills you from moving.
It was becoming rare sharing a meal with your husband, even rarer to see him anywhere but the counseling chambers, and it no longer felt like it did months ago. Every time you walked past him, you two were so busy and wrapped in your own minds that you didn’t even acknowledge each other until it was too late, your neck twisting as he walked on by, and his body turning when you rounded the corner to another hallway.
You wonder if this was truly the love that was fated to emerge from this marriage ever since the beginning. That the feelings you felt were mirrored in an act that Gojo was putting up with until this point, if this war was bound to happen and using the arrangement between you and Gojo as a catalyst for the chaos that was to follow.
The idea that was slowly planted in your head began to flower, and it caused you to see things for what they weren’t. Eventually leading to looking blankly at the wall when he walked into your bedroom one night, hours earlier than when he usually comes, and you don’t even spare a glance to him.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Your head slowly turns to where he was standing at the door, eyes gradually making their way upwards to his face, lips parted. You were leaning on the headrest behind you, twisting and turning the ring around your finger.
In this moment, you allow yourself to look at Gojo. You take in his disheveled appearance, the white stubble that was dotting across his jaw. A couple months ago you might’ve felt your cheeks heat up at the sight, never expecting for him to look so ruggedly handsome looking like this, but now, all you’re able to think about was how much this cursed war was taking away from time he cherished being able to shave himself clean. He looks worn down, aged, no longer the youthful and cheerful man you remembered. How was this happening? How was any of this real?
You blink, shaking your head a bit as you come back to reality, biting your tongue for a few seconds before you speak.
“Leaving?” You finally ask, watching ashe nods, nearing where you were sitting on the bed, leaning down the untie the straps and leather clasps of his boots, letting out a sigh of finally being able to relax as he shrugs his coat off, running a hand through his white strands that seemed to be longer than from the last time you saw him.
He nods dimly, his lips pressed into a thin line as he looks you over, his eyes falling when he takes notice of your crestfallen state, the way the light that was in your eyes has seemed to die out.
“I have to go rally more allies across the West,” he explains, slowly making his way over to the bed as he drops down on the corner of it, his hand reaching out for yours but you don’t move, “Your father has promised us his troops but there are smaller cities scattered across that still need some convincing.”
Your fingers curl around your blanket, eyes pulled together in a furrow.
“Let me come,” you tell him but he stares at you for a few seconds, trying to see if you were joking.
When he realizes you're being serious he shakes his head, his blue eyes a dark color as he looks away for a second to stare at the wall.
“It’s dangerous-“”
“But I know the cities!” You cry out, the first time you’ve heard your voice be this loud in a while, and it takes him by surprise as well, “I can help! I’ve been sitting here feeling like a duck waiting to be shot! I…” you stop for a second, the stupid tears that have seemed to become a common occurrence burning your eyes.
You look away, biting your lip to keep it from shivering, hoping he doesn’t come near you.
“This is my fault,” you whisper, “Everything that’s to come, it’s all my fault. If only I didn’t…” your voice cracks, your chin falling to your chest as your eyes wring shut, wanting to keep everything and everyone away.
But Gojo, like always does, is drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You hear the sheets rustle as he moves across the bed and settles in beside you, his tall and lean frame shadowing over your body as you refuse to look at him, not wanting him to see how weak you’ve become.
You feel one of his hands reach for your jaw, his fingers curling around your ear and holding the back of your head as he gently turns you to face him.
You try desperately to keep your eyes somewhere else, focusing on his knees rather than him, but when you feel a tear escape and roll down your cheek, being wiped away by his thumb, you break, barreling yourself into his chest as you cry.
His hands circle your body, caging you to him as you feel your chest shake. It’s painful and it burns, but you can’t seem to stop. You can feel his heartbeat ratting against his chest, a faint smell of smoke clinging to his skin.
“None of this is your fault,” he murmurs against your head, “You’re not to blame for anything.”
“Satoru, I,” your hands curl as they rest on your thigh, a tear catching on the tip of your nose, “I’m s-scared,” you choke, the words slurring on your tongue, “I’m so terrified all the time. This…this war, these plans, the strategies e-everyone keeps talking about,” your hand curls against his tunic, gripping into the fabric as if it was tethering you to the earth.
Gojo takes in a deep breath, and you feel his lips pressing to the crown of your head, soft and warm. Oh, how you missed his lips.
“There’s nothing to be scared about,” his voice is slightly muffled, but it’s steady and sure, “Everything will be alright.”
But you shake your head, a fresh wave of tears sprouting.
“How do you know?” you’ve been asking yourself the same question over and over, “None of us have even lived through a war, l-let alone fight in one.”
“I,” Gojo sighs, and you imagine the pensive look on his face, “I don’t know. I have no idea how any of this is going to go. And,” he pauses, thinking briefly, “I’m scared too. I’m scared that all of our plans will go to shit and we’ll encounter a force we never expected. Everyday I examine different escape routes we should go through, creating different maps that might save us. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time,” he admitted with a solemn laugh, “But…but no matter what, I’ll still come back to you when all of this is over.”
Your breathing shudders, and you raise your head to look at him. You’re sure you look like an absolute mess, with tears staining your face, you’re constant sniffles to keep your nose under control, the reds of your eyes. But Gojo still smiles, his hands moving to either side of your face, his thumb moving back and forth across your cheeks.
“There’s my girl,” his voice is barely above a whisper, but he sounds proud, his blue eyes lightening up a little bit. You let out a little cry when you see his tender smile, the way he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.
“P-promise, promise you’ll come back to me,” you say through broken sobs, wiping messily at your cheeks, your palm rubbing harshly against your chin so that the tears don’t fall against the sheets, “Promise me that you will come here again.”
He nods, his own eyes wavering when he understands just how much this has been tearing you apart. One of his hands moves to cradle your head, bring you closer to his and he rests his forehead against yours with a quiet thump.
His nose nudges yours, and his lips inches away from your trembling ones. Your eyes close shut, hands refusing to move away from his sturdy chest.
“I, Gojo Satoru, will come back to you,” his voice is clear but heavy as if he intended for his words to travel across the world and through different lifetimes to end up back here, “I promise this to you. As your husband, as your friend,” his voice slightly cracks, “And as the man who loves you most ardently.”
You don’t give him another second before you pull him a little bit closer by the collar of his tunic to slam your lips against his. You hear him groan instantly from underneath you, but you don’t care. Your teeth move cruising against each other, your tears mixing with your spit.
It’s messy but needed, an anchor that you’ve so desperately been craving.
Gojo’s large hands move from your back to under your ass, cupping the flesh as he grips your thighs, pulling you into his lap as his finger trails upwards to your waist, his favorite spot. His slight stubble scratches against your skin, but you’re surprised to find that you like the feel, like the way he feels.
He bites your bottom lip, slipping his tongue past yours when your mouth opens slightly and you moan against him, fingers curling tightly in his white strands of hair, tugging them harshly. It earns a deep groan from him, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist in a desperate attempt to keep himself steady.
Your back arches closer, nails raking his scalp as you tilt his head back upwards for your lips to capture his. He moves at your will, slotting himself against you, working in tandem as your chests rise and fall at the same pace.
You feel starved, needing to taste him, to feel him. You can’t remember the last time you’ve kissed him this feverishly, as if you’d die within moments if you didn’t have your skin melting against his.
The seconds seem to blur together, and before you know it, there was a loud knock at the door. You squeal, almost shoving yourself off of him as the two of you look back to see what it was.
“My, my lord?” The voice behind the door squeaks, most likely a younger soldier, “There’s been a slight shift in tomorrow's plans. The general wants to speak to you.” He clears his throat, most likely having heard your moans and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.
You look back to Gojo, and see the way his head falls and his hands curl into fists on his thighs.
Your hand traces the hot skin of his jaw, your thumb hooking underneath his chin to bring him back up to you.
“Go,” you say quietly, a small smile on your face. You try to hide your disappointment, knowing this is more important.
There’s a storm happening behind his eyes, swirls of blue and gray mixing together as his chest slightly heaves, his cheeks dusted with pink. One of his hands grips your waist, pulling you forward with no force as he kisses you once, twice more.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing your cheeks softly, “I’ll come back tonight and I’ll wake you before I leave tomorrow.”
You nod, hoping he knows that you’ll be okay, and shift away slightly from his lap so that he can go.
“I love you,” he mutters against the side of your head, looking deep into your eyes before he presses his last kiss against your forehead, “Sleep well, love.”
Your smile cracks slightly, and you swallow the lump in your throat as you cross out a measly love you most and watch silently as he puts his boats and coat back on and leaves within seconds.
You stare at the messed up sheets and then to the door, accepting the fact that this would be your life from now on.
—-
Gojo left the next morning, before the sun was in the sky.
“It’ll only be three weeks at most,” Gojo assures you, and you look up to see his men preparing their horses, throwing saddles across them as they prepare their satchels of food and gear, “Two if I flatter my way through the cities.”
You giggle a little bit, rolling your eyes, the most you could muster yourself to do and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to your body.
“I’ll miss you,” you mutter, hoping nobody could hear the way your voice was barely surviving it’s need to break, “Come back as soon as you can.”
Gojo sprawls a hand across your back, tipping you up by the chin to meet his lips in another kiss. A while ago you might have felt shameful and scandalous for kissing your husband like this out in the open, but everybody was so distracted with their own tasks that they wouldn't bother to look at you right now.
You pull away slightly, cheeks heating when his pupils grow slightly, and place a hand across his sternum, rubbing up and down the vigil of the North that was pinned to his coat.
“I will,” he says, pulling you in for a tight embrace as you hug him with as much strength as you have, your cheeks pressed against his shoulder as his chin rests on the top of your head, “I’ll be back before you even realize I was gone.”
That was a few days ago, but with how little you already saw him before he left, it felt a little bit true to his words. You were so busy trying to help the war efforts around the estate that missing your husband happened in the quiet moments when you were allowed to have some silence to yourself, or in the late hours of the night when you hugged his pillow close to your chest.
When nights would come and you had had your dinner and were making your efforts to sleep, you requested to only have Alina help you get undressed and ready. She was the one you felt closest too, and the only one who never seemed to bombard you with sympathy. And after a grueling day, that was all you needed.
“Would you like some lavender oil?”
You look up from the counter, putting your necklace back in its case as your eyes meet her brown ones in the mirror.
“Not tonight, Alina, thank you,” you say and she nods, setting the glass bottle back down as she picks up some of the rose water, native to the North, and begins doting it across your neck, head and wrists.
There was a slight breeze that was wafting in through your open window. Fall was quickly approaching, but you were trying to hold on to the last bits of the cool summer air before the biting winds staked their spot until the next spring.
“Would you like me to close the window?” Alina glanced over to the rustling curtains, flowing freely, and you shrugged, taking off your earrings as you placed them down gently on the little plate Gojo had given you as a gift a while ago.
“I prefer the breeze,” you reply, wiping your face with a damp cloth, “Thank you, though,” you offer her a small smile, one that she reciprocates.
Alina finishes up some things, and the two of you work in comfortable silence. She knows just how much you need these little things to help keep you sane, and as much as she’s been trained to help out her lady in any means possible, as your friend, she lets you do some things alone.
After a few more minutes pass Alina clasps her hands on her hips, and you let out a small giggle, knowing she was done.
“I don’t see why you need me here,” she grumbles, pushing some hair away from her face and you snort, standing up from your chair as you flick her shoulder gently.
“You’re good company,” you simply say, moving around your room as you go to the little corner where you keep some of your books.
Alina pushes the chair back in and makes her way to the door, bidding you a good night before she pauses, looking back at the window.
“My lady?” She says, and you look up from the shelf, glancing over to her. You raise a brow, waiting for her to continue.
“I know it’s not my place, but my mother always told me to sleep with the windows closed. You never know how cold the night might get and I don’t want to see you waking up with a fever.”
You look back to the window and the rustling curtains and grin, nodding.
“I’ll close them in a bit,” you tell her and note how her shoulders ease and a smile makes its way onto her face.
“Goodnight my lady,” she tells you, and you say the same thing, making sure she’s all gone before you let the smile drop, your cheeks hurting, and look back to the bookshelf.
You’ve seen how worried she’s gotten as of late regarding your nature, so you’ve tried being a little more cheerful around her even if it pains your soul to act like nothings wrong.
Your fingers card through different books, reading the spines as you try to find something that might help put you to sleep. Finally you find a title of a book you’ve read before, maybe a few years ago, and pull it out, examining the cover.
You move around to your bed and place it near your pillow. You fill the glass on your stand with some water from your pitcher, setting down as you go to the vanity to blow out the candles that were lit.
There were only a few left, and you just wanted to save the one next to your bed so you could read. You move past the window, going to the corner of the room, blowing the third remaining candle out.
You feel the hair on your arm prick up from the sudden rush of cold air, goosebumps trailing in their wake, and you walk back to the window, pushing aside the long drapes as you reach your arms out to find the knobs that would pull them in towards you.
Until a sudden force knocks you down to the ground.
It takes you half a second to realize that you hadn’t tripped on something, and that the reason why your head didn’t hit the floor causing a thud to be heard was because something, somebody, was on top of you.
A man. There’s a man lying on top of you.
This can’t be happening.
You go to scream, but a hand flies to cover your mouth, pinning your legs and wrists down by a heavy leg and their other hand, effectively holding your writhing body still.
Your eyes are squeezed shut as you try to move, biting the hand that’s over your mouth but it doesn’t budge. You feel your heartbeat as fast as it ever has against your ribcage, your fingers trying to grab something, anything, that could help you.
“If you make any noise I’ll cut your tongue straight from your mouth, you hear me?”
Your eyes slam open, looking straight at the face hovering above yours.
A brute of a man is looking down at you. You yell again, but he presses his hand down even harder, his rough skin meeting your teeth as your voice becomes muffled.
He’s gigantic, looking more like an ogre than a man. His hooked nose and sly lips are pulled into a sleazy smile as he looks down at you, his greasy black hair pulled back behind his ears. His arms are the size of boulders, his legs looking like they were strong enough to push boulders. His teeth are yellow and crooked, and he lets you see them when he talks.
You feel something sharp press to your side, and in your frantic state you’re able to wiggle a little bit to tilt your head down to see what it is. Your eyes widen when you see the glimmering dagger, its edge serrated. Its tip was so sharp that you could feel it cutting into your skin and you knew he wasn’t pressing as hard as he possibly could.
“Stay. Still.” The man grunts again, licking his teeth as you shake, shaking your head as your hands open and unopened, not knowing what else to do.
“I’m going to move my hands from your mouth,” he says next, slowly and quietly, “There’s a couple things I need you to do for me. But I swear that if you make a single squeak, any fucking noise, I’ll gut you like a fish, hm?”
Your eyes are shaking, brows pulled taut as you try to move around but to no avail. The knee that was pressing down onto your thigh digs in deeper, his bone searing into your flesh as you whine in pain.
“Do you understand?” He whispers in your ear, his hot breath fanning over your skin. The knife is still pointed at your hip, and he presses it just a bit deeper, and you’re sure if he goes any more he’ll draw blood.
You look at the man, at the deep set scars that run all across his face. You take in the glint that shimmer in his eyes, the pure evil that drips from his grin. You can smell the blood drying on his clothes, and can almost taste iron the closer he gets to you.
You want to fight back, but you can’t.
Your mind races back to those days when you had asked Gojo to let you spar with him, wanting to know how to defend yourself. There were some moments when you felt like you could take him down, but he’d always find a weak spot of yours and bring you tum biking to the ground. But he would always help you up with a gentle smile, apologizing profusely as he kissed your cheeks. This man was far bigger than Gojo, and his smile wasn’t kind the way he was. You knew you couldn’t overpower him, not in the slightest.
So you slowly nod, your tears falling freely from the corners of your eyes, rolling back onto the floors as the man grunts.
Slowly and surely, he moves his hand away from your face, still keeping the rest of his body pinning yours. Your lips are trembling, your body almost convulsing as you wait for him to speak.
He gives it a second, making sure you weren’t going to pull anything before he decides you’re compliant enough, or rather not willing to die, to listen to his orders.
“Good job,” he mutters, his voice pricking at your skin like a thousand needles, his greasy smile making you want to hurl, “There’s three things I need you to do. Nod if you understand.”
You look back at him. He presses the knife into your hip, and your teeth dig into your lip, knowing that he for sure broke skin.
Your eyes squeeze shut in pain as you slowly nod.
“First, from here on out, be as quiet,” his voice is low, “Don’t let anybody outside think anything.”
He pushes himself slightly off of you, trying to get a feel of how loud the floorboards creaked. When he was satisfied that they wouldn’t make a sound, he moved his hulking body away from yours, carefully standing up.
You feel your heart lurch when you see him at his true size, nearly three heads taller than Gojo, and even more packed with muscles.
“Stand up,” he motions for you to do the same, not until he warns, “Slowly.”
You’re frozen in place, your arms and legs losing all function. The man looks down at you through his dark stare, seeing that it’s taking you too long, and bends down to loop a hand around your elbow.
He drags up upwards like you weigh nothing, your lungs refusing to work as you gasp for air.
When you're on your feet, you feel like throwing up, your head dizzy, nose wrinkling at his strong odor that reeks of onions and ale.
“Walk over to that table,” he nudges his chin over to the desk that is littered with Gojo’s maps and scrolls and your books, “And sit down at the chair.”
You can only stare at him, biting your tongue, hoping this was all a nightmare.
But the man just stares back at you, waiting. He flashes you the dagger again, it’s too stained with your blood, and your legs, however weak, seem to work faster than your mind. You feel like a newborn lamb learning how to walk as you somehow make your way over to the table, his presence never leaving from behind your back.
Your legs shake as you set yourself down on the wooden chair, tears biting at your cheeks as you wait for his next instructions.
Behind you, you hear something rustle. You don’t want to look to see what he’s doing, but you’re able to pick out a bag being opened carefully, some papers scratching against each other.
It takes a few more seconds but the sounds stop, and suddenly a piece of parchment falls down next to you.
“Write down on a piece of sheet that repeats what is written there,” he tells you, and your eyes dart down to the parchment, tears blurring your vision.
“W…” your words are slurring together, and you can’t hear your own voice, “What?”
You’re quiet, but the man hears you.
He just shoves the parchment closer to your face, saying nothing.
Your eyes fall down to the words scattered across the price, black ink staining its yellow color, and you blink your eyes a couple of times to read what it says. The handwriting is foreign to you, something you can’t recognize. You don’t know how, with everything your mind was going through, you were able to read properly, but you felt your stomach drop when your eyes scanned through the first couple of sentences.
My love, with a heavy heart I write to you, but there is no other way to break my thoughts to you. I can no longer sit and watch what you plan to do in my name…your eyes skim a further but down, the blood you’re willing to spill is unlike what I thought you to be capable of. You’ve become cruel and inhuman, and I refuse to have myself tied to a man that desires death the way you do…
Your mouth drops a little, your jaw slacking when you realize what the note was saying. This was a goodbye letter.
I have to leave. I could never, under any gods’ sky, pretend to keep loving a man as barbarous as you.
Your heart stops.
“Write that down girl,” the man’s gruff voice interrupts, “Here.”
He scavenged through the piles of discarded plans and strategies, finding a clean sheet of parchment that was untouched by ink.
You shake your head, looking over your shoulder as your tears drop from your chin.
“I,” you swallow thickly, trying to force down the vomit that was at the back of your throat, “I can’t…write…”
The man snorts, his arms crossing over his large chest as he shrugs.
“If you don’t write, I’ll gut that girl that you favor so much,” he twists the daggers handle in his large palm, “The only with the curls. Gods, it’d be a shame though. I might have a taste of her before…”
You tune him out, ears filling with water as you realize he’s talking about Alina, your fingers trembling against the wood of the table as you look down at the pre-written note and the blank parchment he had set in front of you.
Your mind was blanking as you try to ration what’s happening.
You look a little bit to your left at the pot of ink and the quill Gojo was always scratching away with. Before you can think any other thought, you feel cool metal pressing against your neck.
The man is right behind your chair, his daggers blade a breath away from your skin. He’s holding your jaw in place, forcing your head down at the table.
His fingers are rough and calloused, stained with blood and dirt, and you gasp slightly, eyes blurring once again as you turn still.
“Write.” He whispers thickly in your ear.
You don’t move, and the dagger presses down, your lips falling open in a silent cry as you feel it cut through some skin, blood beginning to stain your nightdress.
Mindlessly, your hand moves to the ink and quill. You feel like you've left your body as your fingers grasp the quill, dipping it into the little pot, and set it down to the paper.
You feel like you’ve left your own self as you look back to the note, chewing your lips raw as you write down the first word. The dagger is still against your throat, unrelenting as you begin to write. You don’t know how none of your tears have yet to stain the paper, but you don’t what the stranger would do if that were to happen.
A part of you blacks out when you write, your eyes open but not understanding anything in front of you no matter how hard you try.
Your quill suddenly stops, and you feel the man leaning in behind your shoulder, the dagger loosening away from you as he lifts the two pieces of parchment up.
You don’t know when you finished, or what you write, but in the silence that it takes for him to read yours through, you get the grasp that you must’ve done something correctly because he seems satisfied, setting your version down on the table.
He steps away from you, and you watch from the corner of your eyes as he takes the original piece to one of your candles, holding it over the flames as it catches fire. He watches as it burns, the ashes falling into his other hand. When it’s all burnt up, he scatters it out the window, the wind doing its job as it takes any remains of what it was away from here.
He looks back at you with a smile.
“Last thing,”
Your head sways.
“Fill this bag,” he holds up an empty satchel, “Fill it with things you’d take if you were to run away.”
You blink slowly at him, your mouth going dry.
You can’t speak, but he can tell you’re confused.
“We need to make it seem like, well,” he shrugs, his lips pursed together, “That you wrote that note and ran away. Pick out some clothes, jewelry, and coins. Make the room messy.”
Your heart beats slowly in your chest when you start to understand what it was he was asking you to do.
He holds up his weapon, its edges shining red with your blood, and he points it to the door.
“I know you’d hate to hear her scream,” he says, and you dimly nod.
You set the quill down gently on the table, moving carefully from your chair as you walk towards his outstretched hand. Your fingers tremble as you take it from him, walking slowly towards your dresser.
He’s right behind you, the knife pointed at your waist so that you don’t think of doing anything, and you quietly open the door, grabbing some hoods, slips, common clothes, nightwear and undergarments. You shoved it in until the bag was nearly full.
You did as you were told, taking the rest of your clothes and scattered it across the ground, throwing some things onto your bed.
He grunted behind you, most likely a little surprised with how compliant you were.
You drift to your vanity, shoving some necklaces and earrings in the satchel, not wanting to take all because it was actively killing you to do this.
“That’s good,” the man says after a couple minutes and you pause, your back still to him.
You set the satchel down and turn slowly around, hoping this would be enough. That your night was done and that he would let you go.
“Oh, and,” his eyes drop down to your empty hands, pouting the tip of the blade to your finger, “Leave the ring.”
Your eyesight goes blurry.
You feel lightheaded, gripping into the edge of the table as you heave for air. Leave the ring? Leave? Leave?
“We don’t have all night,” he explains, making that his reasoning for why he so suddenly takes your hand, his large fingers circling around yours as he roughly yanks off the piece of jewelry, throwing it next to some other pieces you had lying on the table.
You can only stare blankly at it as he moves around, stare as the gold glimmers in the soft candlelight. It looks the same way it did the first time you saw it, when Gojo had placed it on your finger when he was saying your vows. It was a simple ring, a gold band that didn’t have any stones on it. Gojo later explained that while he had told you earlier it was usual something he had picked out, his mother had gifted it to him.
You feel a force hit the back of your head and suddenly, everything goes black.
—-
Waking up hurt.
You blink once, twice and then for a final time before you feel like you can see accurately again. Your head was throbbing, a dull pain at the back of your skull. You go to rub it, but notice that your hands are bound together by rope.
Coming to your senses you realize that the rope wasn’t the only problem. The wobbling motion you first had wasn’t from your stomach ache, but because you were rocking back and forth on a horse.
You sit up a little bit in shock, but the motion causes you to wince, your body sore and aching.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you.”
That voice.
So it wasn’t a nightmare.
The wall that you felt behind your back wasn’t a wall, but was in fact the same man who had forced his way into your room at night, made you write that letter, packed your things and leave…
Leave home.
All around you was a sprawling field, no sign of life from as far as you could tell. You had no idea how long you were unconscious, or how long you had been on horseback, but the North usually didn’t get grass to grow this tall seeing how the cold winters usually killed them. There was a breeze, but it wasn’t as biting as it should be.
You were glad to see that your mouth was wrapped shut, but that also put a strike of fear through you. If the man wasn’t afraid of you screaming, then there surely wouldn’t be anybody around to save you.
You were alone.
A part of you was on the verge of breaking down, screaming until you coughed up blood and your throat became raw. But you knew that if you wanted to stay alive, if you wanted to go come, you had to keep onto your wits. It was either that or you froze, not moving, becoming a shell of a human, the same way you were that night when this all happened. And you had seen what it could do, had seen how your own body would betray you, and you vowed to never let that happen again.
“How long has it been?”
Your own voice shocks you. Your throat is dry, seeing how you haven’t opened it in a while, and the sentence comes out like a croak. You swallow some spit, hoping it would help with the scratchiness you were feeling. The horse moved slowly through the pasture, the sun shining but not beating down on your face in an unforgivable way.
The man clicked his tongue against his teeth, his hands holding onto the reins.
“Nearly six days,” he says gruffly, and your eyes widen, not expecting for it to have been almost a week that you’d been out, “Thought I’d killed you.”
Five days?
You try to do the math in your head. It had been almost six days since Gojo had left when the man came into your room, and with these five days, it would be almost a week since Gojo was gone from home. If the travel West took as long as it did for you, then he’d be almost there by now. But you didn’t know how mail would travel, or how long it would take till he’d come back home to figure out what the problem was.
Depending on which direction the man was going, it could take weeks until they found you. Fields like this weren’t uncommon in the North, but the weather wasn’t. It reminded you a bit of home, but Western nature was dry and glaringly hot. Even in the fall, you’d still break a sweat after being in the sun.
And given how prepared this man was, he surely wouldn't be heading there, most likely knowing that Gojo was there as well. You had seen enough maps and heard enough talk around the counsel to know that it would take almost two weeks to travel Westward, but almost three weeks to arrive in the Eastern nations.
Judging by the landscape you had seen on paper and that you’re surveying now, this man was taking you somewhere East.
“Did the king send you?” You ask, your head dipping downwards so that you could angle your ears to hear him better.
He pauses, and you wonder if you’d asked the wrong question, if he was going to make you suffer in some way for crossing the line. You still couldn't work out his motive. If he was truly sent by the king, then why wouldn’t he have killed you in your room? Why go through the hassle of making you seem like you had run away?
Killing you and showing the North your body would send a greater message than whatever this was. Taking you without making it seem like an abduction was strange, even for the South, and so you desperately wanted to know what it was that had put you in this situation.
“A friend of his did,” the man finally says, and when he falls quiet, you realize that this was all he was going to say.
So he was from the South. And he didn’t seem like he’d be a lying man, he’d have no reason for it. The more you thought about it, it made more sense that the king didn’t send direct orders to abduct you. But that made you furrow your brows in confusion. If the king was ready to wage war, why would an abduction be something he wanted hidden?
“Why didn’t you kill me?” you ask after a beat of silence, your body swaying in tandem with the horse. You could feel your dried tears crusting near your eyes, your lips battered, iron coating your tongue the more you spoke, causing the wound to open up.
“I will, but not here.”
You bite your cheek, your hands shaking.
“Will you take me up to your king to make a spectacle out of me?” You try to keep your voice from wavering, from showing him any signs of fear.
The man chuckles, spitting to the road.
“I’ll kill you somewhere where there’s a lot of trees, hide your body so that nobody can find it,” he explains, and you feel your heartbeat in the palms of your hands, “Make it seem like you ran away.”
You try not to let your lips tremble, instead, you try to piece the clues he was giving you together. If the king truly wanted to make it seem like you were running away, then it means that he would want your spot as Lady of the North to appear vacant. He would want Gojo to think that you didn’t care for him anymore, and that you wanted out of this marriage, which would make room for…
His daughter.
But if the king wanted his daughter to marry into the Gojo family, you wonder why he didn’t do this whole abduction in the first place. You sigh deeply through your nose, looking down at your hands, your fingers moving around slightly but to no avail. While you’re trying to see if there was any wiggle room, a thought runs through your head.
The king wasn’t expecting this…
You wonder if perhaps the king promised war in a way of bluffing, or hoping that Gojo would terminate the marriage and take on the princess to avoid any trouble. This wasn’t his first plan, you decide, but him trying to save the skin of his teeth. He wasn’t expecting the North to retaliate, to declare a war of their own. He didn’t see Gojo carrying this much for his arranged bride, and didn't think that the young lord would rather die than marry another woman. But the king underestimated Gojo, and sent this man to answer for his mistake.
If it seemed like you found Gojo repulsive, that you no longer loved him, then he could search all he wanted to, but if he never found you, or your body, then he would come to the eventual conclusion that you had run away. Either way, this would make it so that he would call off the war. Maybe in attempts to fix the now shattered relationship between the two nations, a marriage between Gojo and the princess might actually take place.
Your hopes deflate, knowing the letter you were forced to write might also be more realistic than some Southern scribes realized. With the way you had argued countless times with Gojo over the chance of ending the possibilities of war, he might read it as an actual goodbye.
The thought makes you sick.
So, you decide to busy yourself with trying to find an escape option.
Your wrists were chafing with how tightly the rope was tied, but the knot around it was tied in a way that seems to have shifted in the days you had been riding. The man behind you is tall, but sitting down, he can only see above your head, and he’d have to force himself up to peer down at your lap.
Slowly, over the span of a few minutes, you’re able to position the rope closer to the bottom of your palm, your thumb and pointer finger reaching for the knot. A small smile graces your face when you're able to pinch it between the two fingers.
You stop your movements, not wanting to make anything obvious, and then start back up after a couple minutes of silence passed.
With the knot now closer to your finger, you begin picking at it with your nail. You know your nail is dull and cut through it, but you think that if you nudge at it enough, you might be able to create a small opening that would allow you to slip your pointer finger through it and unravel it.
“I think it would be fair to share your name,” you say, not wanting the man to think anything of your silence, and you begin to execute your plan, fiddling away with the rope with your finger as you raise your head up, not wanting to keep your stare directed at your lap, looking ahead at the field.
Wind blows through your body, ruffling the nightdress that you were still wearing. The man at least had some decency to put a cloak over you, hiding your body from being entirely bare. The more you looked at the field, the more it reminded you of the one that surrounded the Gojo estate. You blink and see him sitting there, his back on the grass, an arm resting behind his head, his white hair sprawled out as he held you close to his chest, telling you stories from his childhood. You blink again and see nightfall, see him with his tunic off, telling you about the scar on his torso. You see him professing his feelings, telling you how much he loved you. You blink again and see the field, your nose twitching slightly.
“My name?” The man repeats with a slight chuckle, most likely shaking his head in disbelief. Out of all the people he’s taken, out of all of the people he’s been sent out to kill, you’ve been the weirdest behaving out of all of them.
You nod, your finger working away at the knot, and you cough to cover up the noise when you make a particularly loud scratch.
“My name changes based on the man who hires me,” he says after a minute, and you almost want to look back at him in confusion.
“What was the name you gave to the employer who sent you out to find me?” You ask, trying to wiggle some fingers around, bracing your thighs around the horse, trying to keep yourself balanced and upright.
The man breathes deeply through his nose, as if he was contemplating telling you. There’s no reason not to tell you, if his plan is to kill you anyways. But you plan to escape, and you want to know the name of the man who put you through this hell.
“Toji,” he finally says, and you commit it to memory, your mouth falling in the shape of the name, “But I’ll change it for my next employer.”
You go to say something else, but almost let your disguise slip when you feel your finger make its way through the knot. You move it in circles, moving it across, and slowly you feel the knot begin to unravel. You keep your hands pressed tightly together, but in a few seconds the rope has become undone.
You stare at it in shock, not expecting for it to take so little time to unravel, but you look ahead again, shifting a little bit as you begin to think about what to do next.
You can feel the sheath of his dagger digging into your back. You remember how it looked when you first saw it, and can confidently say that this was the thing that was there. It was large, but given how large his weapon was, you weren’t surprised to find it had an even larger cover.
You didn’t know how fast you could move, nor how fast he could. You didn’t know if there was a latch or specific way to take the weapon out, but as far as you could remember, that was the only weapon he seemed to operate with. If you were able to harm him in some way and get him off of the horse, you might have a chance of escaping.
Though there was the obvious challenge, he knew how to fight far better than you. What’s to say that you get the dagger but he doesn’t get it out of your hands even faster? And if you did manage to wield it, how fast would it take for him to understand what had happened, how fast his reflexes were? If he’s had multiple employers before, then he must be skilled in his trade, putting you at an immense disadvantage.
But you knew that if you didn’t try, you’d die at his hands. You knew you’d rather die fighting and on your own accord than at the merciless dagger of a stranger who was paid to kill you.
You let the silence grow, wanting the man to think that you had fallen asleep. You let your head hang down, your chin to your chest, and you slowly, quietly and gently begin the snake one hand out from the ropes.
The man grumbles to himself from time to time, spitting to the side every now and then, but from what you can tell, is still unsuspecting.
You know it’s a matter of seconds that gives you the advantage, and that any slight fumble or mistake will be catastrophic. You tell yourself that you have to twist your back quickly, pull the weapon out with your right hand, and strike him through the chest. You don’t know if one strike would be enough to take him down, but it would be enough to have you force him off the horse and take the animal for yourself.
You breathe deeply through your nose, calming your nerves.
And then, you turn.
You’re met with his face, your hand reaching for the weapon, and see the way his eyes slowly fall down to your fingers, and then to you, but you’ve calculated his brutish daftness enough to know that a moment of surprise would be his doom.
It doesn’t take much effort to get the dagger, but his hand quickly shoots for your throat, his fingers wrapping around your skin as he squeezes tight, restricting your airways. You choke, trying to cough, but with the way he’s seated on the horse you know you can’t falter. Your hold on the weapon weakens, but you still drive it forward, and are met with the satisfying sound of his groan.
His hand around your throat falls, and you pull out the dagger only to drive it further up his chest, into his ribs.
The man, Toji, grips the handle, but you push with as much force as you can muster at his shoulders. You wonder if he’s ever had people fight back, if he’s ever dealt with somebody striking him hard enough to draw blood.
With the way you’re positioned; your dress and robe still underneath him, he takes you down with him. You fall to the ground with a hard thud, wincing at the pain that shoots again through your head. Your vision has gone blurry again, but you can make out the man stumbling on the ground, grasping at his chest in shock.
You place your hands on the ground, forcing yourself up. Your head is spinning, swaying up and down, but you know you have to get back up on that horse.
He’s shouting at you, saying something but you stand up, almost falling back down with how your legs are shaking, but you hold yourself upright by the horse's saddle. You’re shocked that it hasn’t been spooked away, but don’t find time to question why.
You’ve ridden enough times before to know how to haul yourself up, but it’s a trying effort that takes a couple swings. The man is still on the ground, clutching at his wounds, and you can’t revel in your victory just yet.
When you’re up on the horse you feel your vision start to clear up a bit and your ears stop ringing.
You look down to the man, trying to make out what it was he was saying.
“...can’t go back,” he spits, blood coating his lips, staining them red as he coughs out more, “they’d never take you back.”
You stare at him, dazed.
“You committed treason,” his voice is hoarse, and he tries to grab at your foot but you kick it away, “That letter? Don’t you remember?” he smiles darkly, and his teeth as red, “And if you go back, the king,” he chokes, spitting out some blood, but he chuckles, a mad look in his eyes, “The king would kill every single person you care about. He’ll rip the throats from your maids, send an army of unkillable men to kill y-your dear lord.”
You look down, his words slowly making their way into your brain.
The letter.
You remember now. It wasn’t just a goodbye, but a confession of even further betrayal. You had denounced the North and its power, had said that the Lord of the North was an enemy of every state.
And even if you did go back to prove that you were forced to write it, what’s to say that his words weren’t correct? If he was able to spy on you long enough to know your schedule, your maids, when to attack, then the South was truly capable of sending in more assassins. And Gojo might be able to take them, but what about Alina? What if the king decided to target Gojo’s parents, your friends, people you’ve come to care deeply about?
The man grins cruelly when he sees the way you begin to understand his words, the threat behind them.
The man wasn’t standing up not because he was weakened, but because he knew that even if he didn’t kill you, you’d wind up dead anyways. He knew you’d give up and let him go through with his initial plan. Because in that case, only you’d be dead. But you returned back to the Gojo estate and would have you killed, alongside everyone else you loved.
But…but if you ran, ran away to somewhere hidden, it might be avoided. The war, the bloodshed, everything. You could actually be doing something good.
He laughs, blood falling from his lips, staining the floor when he sees the tears fall down your cheeks. You go to wipe them away, but it doesn’t matter anymore. In that moment you’ve made up your mind, have seen that there was no other way.
You’d be leaving behind the man you loved in return for saving his life, as well as everyone else's.
You think about his smile, the way his lips felt against your skin when he kissed you goodbye. You think about the way he laughs, a hearty sound that makes you laugh in turn. You think about the warmth you felt when wrapped in his embrace, the way he smelled like cinnamon after spending time with you in the kitchens. Your heart churns when you think about the love you hold for him, just how much it drived your everyday life. How you’d do anything to save him, even if it wasn’t a lot. You think about Gojo, and how for a little moment in time, you truly had the world in your hands. How he would do the same if the roles were reversed, knowing that the way you feel for him is just as intense as how much he feels for you.
And you finally think about how leaving might preserve those little things, even if not for your experience. If you were to disappear, this might all be forgiven. And that was a price you decided there that you had to pay.
You turn away from him, and maybe under different circumstances you might have gloated at the confusion that takes over his face, not knowing why you weren’t stepping down.
With shaking fingers and a shattering heart you look ahead, kicking the side of the horse as you send it running. You could hear his yells from behind you, calling for you to come back, but you kept repeating in your head that this was the only way.
Your eyes were blurring with tears from just how fast the wind was hitting your face, your cheeks and nose growing cold. You leaned forward, holding onto the reins with all the strength you had.
Please forgive me Satoru, your mind begged, please forgive me.
—
“Miss?”
You dream of a sound, a soft, gentle sound. It circles around you like a mothers tender care, making the coldest parts of your soul warm slightly. You smile a little bit when you imagine it again.
“Miss?”
A shower of icy water, colder than anything you’ve ever felt, washes over you, and your eyes sprout wide open, your mouth open in a loud gasp as you sit up as fast as you can, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths. Your fingers jump to your face, trying to wipe off the freezing feeling away, and blink rapidly, trying to get a grasp of where you were.
“Miss?”
Your head swivels to the voice, and you feel your eyes burning. The voice is overshadowed with the burning sun behind them, but they crouch down over you, shoving you with a little force. You blink again, trying to make the spots go away.
A woman, you think. Not Gojo.
The last thing you remember was going to sleep, your stomach empty after multiple days of night finding any food, shivering your soul away as you curled up. The horse that you had stolen was set free a couple days ago after you felt bad for not being able to provide anything for it to eat or drink. Knowing that it had left somewhere for itself puts you in a better state of mind.
You couldn’t remember how many days it had been since you had run away. You lost track after the twentieth night. You had no map to guide you, nobody you trusted to tell you where to go. You walked around with a hood over your head, looking through different towns and villages, scrapping around for their garbage. You were running both from the man that had been sent to kill you, but your old life as well. You didn’t know if Gojo believed the letter, if he had sent people out to look for you. You knew you just had to get as far away from the North as possible, even if it meant you die trying.
After a few days of doing this, your feet had given out, marked with blisters and scraps, and you fell in your spot, sleeping near a tree as you let the exhaustion finally settle deep in your bones. You remember closing your eyes, thinking of the time when Gojo woke you up with sweets from the bakery you adored. You could smell the sugar beneath your nose, your fingers itching to grab one, your mind not able to tell what was imagination and reality anymore. You would wager that hunger was making you do this, but you couldn’t care anymore.
You can only look at her, forgetting the words needed to form a proper sentence.
“Are ‘ye alright?” She asks you finally, and you can slowly begin to make out the crease in her face and the color of her eyes. You can see the wrinkles that adorn her forehead and cheeks, all scrunched up together in worry as she looks down at you.
Your hands pat themselves across your body, trying to make sure you weren’t dead. It had been a while since you had spoken to someone, especially when they weren’t throwing sticks at your head to get you to stop looking through their discarded piles of vegetables.
You swallow thickly.
“Can ‘ye hear me?” She asks louder, bending down a little closer to you as she rests her hand on your forehead.
She doesn’t seem too old, most likely a few years older than your father, but you feel stricken by her appearance. A part of you wonders if you truly have died and this was the afterlife; an old lady taking care of you.
But with how hard she’s jamming her finger into your ribs it makes you think otherwise.
“Are ‘ye hungry darling?” She continues to talk, her gray brows pinching together as she glances over your frail appearance, “Would ‘ye like something to eat?”
Your eyes widen slightly and she takes note of it.
A small smile makes its way onto her face as she eases back upwards.
“My husband and I own a small tavern,” she says, and with the sun framing her head she looks like a divine power, “I’ll take ‘ye there.”
You stare at her outstretched hand, look at her fingers, at the way they’re reaching out to you. You can’t remember the last time somebody offered you help, or looked at you like you were more than a common thief. You’d cry if there was any water left in your system.
But slowly you raise your hand, holding hers as she heaves you up. You show her your feet, and she tells you not to worry. She sits you on the back of her donkey, telling you that the animal looks stronger than you’d think.
You don’t have any will to argue, letting the old woman, who told you to call her Miss Murray, guide you and the donkey through a dirt road. You sway in and out of consciousness, blinking to find the scenery changed from what you last remembered.
Miss Murray talks to you, but you don't have any energy to respond. She checks behind her shoulder sometimes to make sure you were still alive, and would only look back to the road when she was satisfied you were.
It takes nearly another thirty minutes before you start seeing little homes begin to appear from over the hill. There’s a town in the distance, one that you see is bordering a vast blue ground.
The ocean?
You blink to make sure you were hallucinating.
You were only aware of larger cities that bordered the ocean, but this was a small little town at most. The roads were dirt and unpaved, the homes made of wood and layers of hay. The cities you were aware of were far richer, their structures made of sturdy stone and glass. And you knew that despite your delirious travels, you hadn’t rerouted and gone back up North, the only other place you knew that had cities near the water.
“Home,” Miss Murray says with a content sigh and you look at her, your eyes slightly squinted in confusion.
You swallow some spit, trying to wet your mouth.
“Where,” your voice sounds foreign to you, and even the woman looks back in surprise when she hears you trying to speak. Your fingers are at your throat, wanting to have your voice sound normal.
“Where a-are we?” You finally get out, and the woman smiles gently at you.
“As far east as ‘ye can get,” she replies and you look back to the ocean. The water is shining off of the sun, the cold air that’s biting at your skin is a reminder of the winter that’s about to come.
The color reminds you of a pair of eyes, the same eyes you often thought about before you went to sleep, not knowing if you’d wake up.
“I’d wager yer a far way from home dear, no?”
Your body sways with the donkey's gentle movements, and your mind is slow. You know you need food and water, but her question isn’t one that reminds you of this. It’s a cut that runs deep through your aching soul, one that hurts to admit.
So you only give her a little nod, one that she seems to understand quickly.
“D‘ye plan to stay here?” Her gray curls frame her face in a nice way, her plump cheeks pink and soft.
You look to the water and then to the town. It’s a far distance from the North, and hidden enough that nobody would recognize you or find you. It’s surrounded by a forest, a densely thick mass of trees that stretches as far as the eye can see. The town is quaint, at most a few hundred people inhabiting it. Even if the news of your runaway had heard their ears, it was doubtful that they’d recognize you. Especially now, that even without a proper mirror you’re sure your appearance has changed drastically.
“Yes,” you mutter, your throat raw and unused.
She hums, pulling you carefully down the grassy hill and closer towards the busting town. People were walking and shouting to one another, carrying trays of breads and pastries, flowers and fabrics from one place to the next.
“I’ll fix ‘ye up something to eat when we get to the tavern,” she promises, having surely heard your eager stomach, but you shake your head slowly in a form of protest.
“No, no coin,” you tell her, your eyes falling down in embarrassment, “I don’t have…any coin,” you say slowly, your tongue heavy in your mouth.
Miss Murray looks at you for a second before throwing her head back and laughing.
“Dear, I’m sure ‘ye need that food more than I need that coin.”
Your heart beats a little faster, your eyes glimmering slightly.
You want to tell her why you’re like this, that you weren’t this way a few months ago. That you had a husband who you cared very deeply for, people who you loved helping. You want to tell her that you would give her all the coins you and your name if you could, but you bite your tongue from doing so.
You no longer were the Lady of the North. You were married to Gojo Satoru, and you had no title, no coin, no amount to your name. But you still had respect and dignity, knowing you couldn’t lose every shred of yourself while trying to stay alive.
“I’d like t-to…pay you back,” you stammer out, “I want to pay you back, please,”
You watch as Miss Murray pauses, the donkey halting its movements as your body lurches forward slightly.
You watch silently as she observes your face, looks at the cracks in your skin, the stained clothes you were wearing, and your lack of proper hygiene. She feels something when looking at you, something that wasn’t right. There’s a certain stubbornness, a fight in your eyes, one that somebody only gets after surviving for so long.
She knows you won’t back down, especially after you’ve had something proper to eat.
“‘Ye need a job, no? Some coin?” She finally asks, and you look down at your torn up clothes and your bones fingers.
You look back up to her and nod.
She thinks for another moment before starting her walk again.
“‘Ye can pay me back by working for the tavern,” her fingers curl around the donkey's rein as she controls it through a winding road, “Aye, we’re in constant need of firewood. It will make us even for this meal, and every day after that I’ll pay ‘ye for yer help. Deal?”
You feel a little light shine down, maybe from the gods as she turns her head to look at you, raising a brow as she waits for your answer.
For the first time in a while, you feel your lips quirk upwards, a small, miniscule grin on your face. Miss Murray smiles at the sight.
You nod slightly before you murmur a quiet, “deal.”
——
Miss Murray took you to her tavern and fixed you a large meal, something even your old self would gawk at if served at the estate.
And she introduced you to her husband, the other keeper. She told him that she found you and knew you were willing to work, to which he took one look at you and decided she wasn’t going to budge on her decision.
The old man showed you after a week of rest what it was you had to do. He demonstrated how to use an axe, how to cut up the logs in a way that would fit into the tavern's fireplace. He showed you which trees would be easiest for you to cut down, and which ones to avoid.
The old man told you that his previous lumberjack had left town in search of a new life, and with how strenuous the job was, he couldn’t find anybody to do it eagerly in the short amount of time he needed. His son, who you slowly became familiar with, would do a majority of the workload, meaning you’d just have to bring in the smaller branches and twigs that kept the fire going throughout the night.
Miss Murray also showed you an old shack they had been using to store some equipment, saying that you could stay here for as long as you liked as long as you cleaned it out yourself. It was a little way away from the tavern, but still close enough that you wouldn’t have to drag the logs for a great distance. You were near trees and a few homes scattered around you as well so that you weren’t isolated. She told you she would’ve given you someplace nicer, but this was all she had.
It takes a while for this strange new routine to become normal for you, but you quickly decide that chopping wood and lugging it around beats the hunger and cold you felt for weeks before you found this little town. That the motions almost became therapeutic, and offered you a peace of mind, letting yourself try to forget about your previous life, your husband, Gojo, and focus on getting your job done.
You get the old shack as clean as you can, pleasantly surprised to find that underneath all the rubble and blankets there was a fireplace with a chimney still intact. You set a little bed up for yourself in the corner on the floor, made out of multiple sheets all piled on top of each other (all borrowed from Miss Murray) and a pillow that she had given you.
You never told Miss Murray of where you were running from, who you were running from. You didn’t tell her that you were married or that you were from the North. Though she asked about why you ran, you never gave her a clear answer. It hurt thinking about him, let alone voicing the fact that you had left a loving husband in hopes of sparing thousands of people their lives. Some days, the pain was so numbing that you didn’t know how to move. You would hear his voice in your thoughts, could see his smile when you closed your eyes. In these moments you wondered if he misses you as much as you missed him. If he still slept in the same bed, or had his room completely changed. Did he get rid of your books, your oils, your clothing? A part of you hopes he did, hoping that he didn’t have to be cursed with the memory of you after what you had done. The more time passed, you wondered if he had decided to forget about you, if the thought of you was something he decided was better hidden rather than called upon.
Slowly, you began to turn the shack into your home, delivering the firewood as your daily routine, and made the town that bordered the ocean somewhere that you considered safe.
But each night that passed and you went to sleep you dreamt of your old home, your old bed, the strong arms that wrapped around you, and you woke up, pretending the tears that had drenched your pillow weren’t there.
Though you knew that after a while, when the talks of the Northern soldiers died down, that you had to move on. And when Miss Murray excitedly knocked on your door, a month later, telling you that the war had been called off, you offered her a gentle smile, knowing that you had done the right thing. She showed you the papers that were making their way across the kingdoms, the ones that said the North had agreed to pull their forces out from near the Southern border, releasing their final statement of neutrality. You skimmed the page, your heart hammering when you read that The North credits their Lord for the sudden decision, claiming that after months of searching for his missing wife with no luck, he agreed that continuing war efforts were barbarous and unnecessary.
Your vision goes blurry for a moment.
He had been searching for you? For nearly six months?
It had been almost half a year, if you had done the math correctly, since you were first informed that a war would be happening. Six months of hardship, pain, tears, blood and half of your soul to end it all. Nobody in your little town knew of what you did, and you knew to keep it that way. Hiding your true nature was safe, no matter how much it stung when you realized that the North had most likely decided to forget you. That night you stayed in your little cabin while everybody was in the square celebrating and crying, not knowing what else to do. They were partially tears of joy, but mainly an accumulation of guilt and longing, wondering why your absence was what was needed to end a war.
Slowly, that pain began to seep into your bones, but you knew that you must go on with your life if you ever wanted to make it worth it. The days and nights turned into weeks, which then turned into months, and after some time, you no longer considered yourself the old Lady of the North. You melted into this life, and pretended that this was what you were destined to live from the start. You cut wood, collected pieces of dry bush and twigs to help keep the fire going at Miss Murray’s tavern. On the days when they didn’t need any fire wood, you helped her and her husband out with food and serving drinks. When she wasn’t busy, you found yourself listening to her talk, filling your silent moments with the gentle-hearted lady.
When a year had passed since you came to this town, you let yourself forget about everything. Everything your mind began to tuck away, all but for the lingering ache that longed for the man you loved so many moons ago.
—
Winters in a town near the ocean was something you never experienced until last year, and this year you knew how to prepare yourself.
The North was notoriously known for its freezing winters, but this town could rival it, you’d wager coin on this fact. The lakes in the woods nearby would freeze, snow piling on the ground, reaching a little bit below your knees in some areas. The ground was sometimes slick with ice, and if you didn’t have a careful eye to catch it you’d often come tumbling down, your cheeks heating in embarrassment when people nearby would laugh.
Last winter you had barely gotten on your own two feet before it had hit, but Miss Murray helped you out as much as she could. She spared some meat cakes from the tavern, bringing you what was left of their bread when the night was over. She lended you some of her old winter clothes, ones that she had outgrown, and you took it appreciatively. There were some nights you were sure you’d freeze to death, and other mornings when you weren’t sure you weren’t going to wake up. But you reminded yourself of all that you had been through, everything that you had survived, and pushed to open your eyes. So, in these past months, much like others in the town did, you prepared for this icy season, knowing this year you had to learn on your own.
You stocked up on breads and pastries in a corner of your home which was always keen on never staying warm. You kept jars of jams, pickled vegetables and potatoes near the breads, somewhere dark and away from the morning sun. You learned from other townspeople how to prepare for when the cold settled in your home, how to fight it off late into the night. You watched the baker as he explained how to keep your bread from going bad, and how to store it properly. When you were content with the amount of food you had accumulated over the summer and fall months, you then prepared your clothing.
You had learned over trial and error to begin with wrapping your hands up once with some gauze (this would also prove to help once you were using the axe and looking through the shrubbery for things that could easily burn, seeing that it provided a buffer zone) and a thick pair of gloves that Miss Murray knit for you. You always had a fire running in your own fireplace, tending to it from the moment you woke up till late in the night when you went to sleep. The tavern needed its delivery each night, so until then, when you weren’t chopping, you either bundled up with a couple blankets or walked through the town, looking through the bakery and small bookshop (those two stores always were toastier than the rest).
If you had some spare change you’d buy a couple of loaves of bread and see if there were any old books the bookkeeper was going to throw out, and in between your free time, this seemed to be the best way to go about the freezing months instead of wasting away in your little cabin.
When night came, you hauled the wood, leaves and twigs into the wheelbarrow Miss Murray had lended to you and headed for the tavern, making sure your scarf was tied around your neck multiple times before you left the warm retrieve of your home.
It was only a ten minute walk from where you were to the inn, and if you hurried enough you could finish it in almost eight minutes. The colder it got, the slower your joints would work, but you also reminded yourself that the faster you got there, the faster you’d be met with the tavern's overwhelming and comforting warmth. You had the hood of your cloak around your head, keeping your ears from freezing and your scarf wrapped tightly around your neck. It was hard pushing the handcart through the snow, but you had learned where to go over the past weeks, which roads were more forgiving.
It had become clockwork as you neared the oak doors, the windows lit orange from the amount of candles inside. You could smell the meat roasting and see the smoke from the brick chimney as you neared it. You were already hearing the loud boisterous laughter from inside, some from town natives, some from travelers making a stop at the place for the night. You knew to walk around back, follow the track that led to the stables and ultimately the smaller door that would lead inside the kitchen, open it with the key Miss Murray had given you. You make a note of a couple of men standing near the horses, the usually empty rooms now filled with the animal. They were most likely tending to them, trying to keep them warm. You’re greeted with the familiar sound of the bustling kitchen; the cooks yelling at the other cooks about what to get ready, the loud roar of the fire, the sounds of knives chopping away their vegetables and meats. You can smell the usual pies and stews they made nearly every night. This night seems to be their specialty of chicken pie with potato gravy soup. If there was a moment you could slip away and taste some, you reminded yourself to do so.
Glancing around the large room you take in the sight of the visitors of the night. There are a few wooden beams that restrict your vision, but you don’t need eyes to know just how packed it is. The sounds inside are even louder than the ones you heard walking near the place, and you’d wager that there are far more people staying here than usual. You’d guess that with the recent and abundant snowfall, some travelers were forced to re-route, and by the looks of it, you see far more strangers than familiar faces.
But you don’t let that distract you, walking over to the fireplace as you crouch down, making sure your cloak and skirt weren’t bunched up under your boots. You set the cart down near the fireplace, taking your gloves off as you held it near the heat for a few seconds. The gloves did a great job with keeping the cold from your hands, but they limited your mobility, and when you had to unload the logs, the branches, twigs, and everything in between, you wanted to do it as quickly as possible. You place them all into the large basket, observing the flickering flames. It’s still going strong, but there are some embers of coal that seem to be dying out, and so you tug carefully the door of the fireplace open as you place some wood inside, fanning it so that it would grow a little more.
You brush your hands against your legs, getting rid of the spare bits of bark and wood, and hold it back up to the fire as you feel the tension in your fingers and wrists begin to melt away.
“We don’t pay ‘ye to keep up our space, y’know,”
You turn your head around to the voice, smiling when you see Miss Murray standing behind you with her hands on her hips, her apron stained with spilled ale and some food splatters. Her gray curls are pulled underneath her cap, her full cheeks red and rosy, her lips pulled into a slight frown.
She tries to look serious, but her act slips away instantly when she sees you, moving closer as she wraps her around around you from behind, her arms reaching your shoulders, just barely, as you crouch a little to pull her in for a hug.
It’s only been a night since she sees you, but this is always how Miss Murray greets you.
“Are ‘ye warm?” She asks, her eyes worried as she looks at your hands and your slightly runny nose.
You chuckle, nodding your head so that she doesn’t fret.
“I’m warming up,” you tease your brow slightly raised, holding your fingers up to her cheeks to show that they were no longer cold, wiping your elbow across your nose as you go back to holding your hands over the fire, “And dare I say it’s my right seeing how it’s my wood that’s burning?”
Miss Murray chuckles, pinching you softly on the side as you yelp, moving a little bit away from her as you giggle.
She stands next to you, looking over the crowd as she takes in who needs more beer and food, making a mental tally in her head. Once your entire body has finally thawed, you stand up straighter, turning around to look at the busy crowd, not a single chair going unused.
“It’s busier than usual, no?” You ask, crossing your arms across your chest as you look to Miss Murray, tucking your hands into your elbows to keep the warmth.
She nods, her eyes turning to yours slightly before she goes back to assessing each table.
“Aye,” her voice is slightly lowered, not wanting others to hear, “The storm caught many travelers by surprise. There’s a group of young men coming in from Lolygrad,” a Western town, you note, a name you remember from ages ago, “Said they wanted to go up ‘nor but their horses cannae walk through the snow.”
You chew on your lips, looking at the large group of men gathered near a corner, their beards and shaggy hair covering up most of their faces. Most of them had their backs to you, and the ones facing outwards were hunched, their shoulders sagging as they leaned their ears in to hear clearly what was being said. The rest of their features were pinched together as they let out howls of laughter, swinging their mugs of beer around as they listened to one of their members tell an animated story.
You slightly smiled at the hearty sound, against your own will.
“Oh, dear, before I forget,” Miss Murray suddenly turned around, gently holding your hands as you look a little bit down, “Ewan,” her son, another worker at the tavern, the poor fellow who was tasked with almost every job, including getting the hefty tree trunks cut into bits, “Said he saw ‘ye heaving that barrow through the snow-” you began to shake your head, knowing what she was going to say but she raised a hand midway to stop you.
“He told me to tell ‘ye to leave it near the stables. When the snow has settled and thaws a bit, he’ll bring it to ‘ye.”
Your brows furrow, lips parting slightly as you go to protest.
“But what about the firewood? I can’t lug it up on my own,” you joke a little bit, your lips quivering as Mis Murray smiles, patting your arm as she shakes her head.
“Ye’ve brought us enough wood to supply a week, maybe even more,” she says, and you look behind your shoulder at the overflowing bin, knowing there were at least three more filled with logs waiting out back, “Give yerself a rest dear.” Her kind face looks at you in such a way that you can’t argue, sighing deeply through your nose as you debate it. You have enough coins to last you for a while, and seeing that you already have some bread and food prepared, it shouldn’t be much of an issue. So you nod.
You move to get your gloves, pulling them on as you head back out through the kitchen. You brace yourself for the cold, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck and throwing your hood over your head as you open the door, quickly leaving and shutting it, knowing how much he cooks bickered when you let the air in.
You keep your head down, nose scrunching as your boots crunch as you walk through the snow, nearing the corner of the tavern, the one that rounds into the road that leads you back home before a yell catches your attention.
It comes from behind you, the sound slightly muffled with the hood and scarf slightly covering your ears, but you glance over your shoulder to see what it was.
In the distance, one of the men is waving over to you, his body illuminated slightly from behind from one of the lit torches that hang on the wall of the stables. Your eyes squint, moving a few steps closer as you try to make out what he was saying.
“...glove,” is all you make out, the wind roaring around you not helping. But he waves a red glove around, and you look to your hands to see that your right glove was missing. It had been so cold that you didn’t notice it had been blown away, the only thing covering your hand being your bandages.
You shake your head, rolling your eyes at the thought, and slightly jog back, bringing your hand to your lips as you blow some hot air on it. Your cheeks feel like they're on fire with how freezing it is, the tip of your nose about to fall off, but you’re able to muster up a thankful smile as you near the man.
“Thank you!” you call out, laughing a little bit at the absurdity of it all, boots scrunching and sounding like ice being shaved as you run a little bit closer to him, the man taking a few steps himself so that you wouldn’t have to go the full distance, and you squint your eyes more, trying to make out his blurry appearance that’s slightly coming to as he nears another torch, “It’s so cold that I didn’t even notice…”
You stop.
It seems like time has stopped.
The snow seems to have frozen in mid-air, not falling as it stops around you. The wind no longer howls, but has fallen silent. The snow on the ground doesn't glisten, the torches lit with fire slowing down.
Your lungs don’t work. You can’t feel any air coming in through your nose. It might be because your nose refused to inhale. You can’t feel your heart, can’t feel a singular beat to keep you alive. Your pulse has fallen silent, your ears hearing every sound but no sound at all.
Gojo seems to have stopped breathing as well.
His hand is still reaching out, your glove held tightly in his fingers as he stares,
And you stare back.
Your chest heaves out a single puff of air.
You blink once before everything suddenly goes black.
—
“...is it really…?”
“...never found a…thought she had…there must be…”
“..last time I saw him look like that…”
There are multiple voices that blend together, and you can’t tell what’s happening aside from the fact that you can’t feel your limbs and your eyes feel like they’ve been turned to lead. You can’t open them, can’t move, can’t do anything but try to figure out what is happening around you.
“...doubt he knew,” a voice, louder and more clear than the rest fills your ears, sounding a little less like it was coming from underwater, “...searched for months…looks like her…”
Her?
The conversations around you continue, and you feel your fingers slightly twitching, a good sign that you weren’t completely incapable of moving. You feel your lashes flutter, lips parting a little bit.
You try to listen more to the voices, but suddenly a loud slam happens from somewhere in the room. You nearly flinch, eyes moving back and forth between your lids and you will yourself to sit up, to do something.
The voices suddenly all fall silent, and your ears are becoming more in tune because you can pick up on the heavy thud that rings around the walls, loud but quiet at the same time, heavy and deep.
The sound nears your ears before it completely stops.
You feel a touch, light, barely there, but you feel it. It’s the grace of a feather upon your body, a fingertip that slightly moves across skin. Your pointer finger moves a little bit, but it’s so miniscule that you doubt the touch noticed.
It’s familiar, you think to yourself, you’ve felt this touch before. It wasn’t Miss Murray, for her fingers were more round and rough. It wasn’t foreign, because sometimes you still got off put by a stranger's touch. This was something you knew once, had carded somewhere in your mind when your skin felt raw and barren.
“Nothing?”
The voice, it’s even more familiar. You hear it not only settle deep into your eardrums, but it rattles around your head, flowing down into your blood, seeping into your bones. Your brows scrunch a little bit, and you feel like a little bit of life is flooding back into you. Your toes curl in your boots, fingers itching against the wooden surface you feel yourself lying back upon.
“Nothing at all?”
That voice. The touch. The feel of those fingers against your skin, the way the voice breathes.
Gojo.
Your eyes suddenly snap open, your chest concaving in as you take in a big gasp of air. You shoot upwards, your hands resting on either side of you as they balance you on the table, your chest moving up and down with big movements as you look around wildly.
The men that surrounded the table were the same men you saw earlier that night. But you know them all. Samson, Ren, Kenji, Declan, Koji. You remember now, how they all challenged each other to grow the longest hair and beard in the winter months, the winner taking the head of a hog they had hunted. Malcolm, Oisín, Shiro, Genji.
They all stared back at you, their faces clammy and pale, as if they were staring at a ghost.
Your body is shaking, your neck turning when you look to your side.
Gojo.
There’s a hitch in your breathing, your lips trembling when your eyes take in his face.
Those eyes, the same eyes that stared back at you the day you married him. A foggy storm, oceans clashing upon each other, dark and messy. His hair was as white as the falling snow right outside the window, slightly longer than what you remembered, but still the same shape.
His lips, red as the blood that stained the bandages around your hands. You take in the shape of his nose, the lashes upon his lids. The sharp line of his jaw, the slight twitch of his eyes. You take in the lifeless appearance of his skin, his cheeks lacking their usual pink hue. His figure looks even sturdier, more pronounced muscles around his shoulders and chest, the fabric around his arms tight. He looks exactly like you imagine him each night.
You had forgotten some little things over time; like the scar near his left ear or the mole above his brow. You don’t remember how there was a slight crook in his nose from when he had broken it as a child from falling down a tree, but it’s still him. It’s Gojo.
Your fingers itch to touch his face. Your nails dig into the wood.
You look at him. Look at the way his chest rises with each breath. This wasn’t a dream. This was him. He was real and staring back at you.
You had to get out.
It feels like a force pushes your body forward. You don’t know what strength it was that allowed you to swing your legs over the table, what power it was that allowed you to lurch yourself away and fall into him. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t falter, but you hear the others around you exclaiming some things in surprise at your sudden movements.
You don’t stay on him for too long, forcing your feet that feel like iron ore to take one step at a time. You limp and stumble your way through, blindly grabbing for things as you pick up your pace, not looking over your shoulders as your hand reaches for the door.
“Come back.”
It’s his voice. You feel yourself shiver at the sound.
But you don’t know what to do except escape, your palm touching the door knob.
“Come. Back.” His voice is steady, biting, warning, and he doesn’t say anything else because this itself is the extent of what he’s willing to say.
You pause, not looking behind you, your knees shaking as you support yourself upright on the door, one hand sprawled out on it as you heave. You feel like throwing up, feel like your head is about to burst.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.
You feel your body shaking, your arms quivering, your legs wobbling. Your shoulders are moving up and down as you struggle to breathe again, and you feel your legs slowly give out beneath you, and you crumble down onto the floor, your hand still on the door as the other one covers your mouth, trying to keep your broken soul contained.
“My lord, should we-”
“Get out,” Gojo says, barely above a whisper, but perhaps the most forward and heavy command you’ve ever heard him give.
There’s a confused silence that follows, his men faltering with the sudden order.
“But-”
“Out!” He roars, and you don’t make a move from the door, can’t find a bone in your body that has the ability to pull yourself away.
Thankfully, you think this is one of the more advanced rooms of the tavern, and when you hear the patter of footsteps and a door latch open from another side of the room, one that most likely leads to an office that has another door out to the hallways. It takes a minute, but the footsteps begin to slow and finally they cease, the door quickly clicking shut as the last man closes it behind him.
But there’s still one person remaining, and you could distinguish who it was by the sound of his breathing alone.
Your back is still facing him, your hands moving to hold your head as you fall sideways to the wall next to you, your hands moving down to hide your sweaty and clammy face from the one person you had convinced yourself you’d never see again.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move.
You curl your legs up to your chest in an effort to hide as much as yourself away from him as possible. It feels like your heart isn’t working correctly. It rattles around at an odd pace in the limited space of your rib cage, bouncing around erratically, trying to warn you that something was wrong. Your hands grasp at your chest, fingers digging into the skin as you try to calm it down.
But you soon realize that that’s not your only problem. Your head was spinning in a way that made you see twos of everything, your forehead beading with sweat. It feels like you’ve lost control over any of your movements, your body working as one, your mind as a totally separate entity. You wondered if this was you dying, if your body had suddenly given up.
“Slow your breathing down.”
You falter, eyes looking above your direct line of sight which was staring at the wall adjacent to you, traveling upwards when you slowly looked up and saw muddy boots, then a familiar pair of black trousers, upwards till you landed on his chest and then his chin. You see his face, looking down at your form, his eyes dark but focused on your face, his lips pulled into a thin line. You hadn’t heard him come near you, but you also doubt you’d hear a canon go off in this state.
Gojo.
You shake your head, looking instantly away from him as your lips tremble, snot falling from your nose as you look anywhere else. It seems difficult to breathe, the simple but tiring task bordering on impossible.
You can’t see him, but hear a small thump sound a few seconds later. You glance from above your lashes to see that he’s taken a seat, resting his back on the wall that’s facing yours. His legs are sprawled out, long things that you used to tease him about, and the tip of his boots almost reach your knees.
“Reach your hand out,” he says after a beat of silence.
You almost scoff at the insanity of it.
But you look at him, truly look him in the eyes this time, and see that he’s being serious.
You look back down to your shaking hands, cold and still bandaged up, and then back to him. It feels unreal. You feel your hands shake even more when your mind computes again that it’s Gojo that’s two feet in front of you.
“One hand at a time,” Gojo says, his voice lowered, and he demonstrates by sitting up a little bit, leaning a breathe closer, still feet away from you as he lifts his hand up from where it was resting on his thigh, holding it up in the air, fingers sprawled from each other, “Like this.”
Your mind tells you to move, just a little bit, and your fingers twitch against your knees that were sitting close to your chest. It takes a few seconds but you will raise your hands upwards, slowly, gently, just like he did. It’s shaking, he isn’t, but he doesn’t say anything about it.
His eyes look over the bandages on your hand. Some spots are dotted with red blood from your most recent cuts. He looks at your fingers, the dirt beneath your nails and the way they’re cut at odd angles. He finally focuses on your fourth finger, lingering on its bareness, and you don’t realize in that moment just how much he was mourning the absence of your wedding ring.
“Bring it away from your body,” his voice is barely a whisper, thick with unspoken emotions that have plagued him for the past year and a half, his own eyes glossing over slightly when he takes you in, just as you were doing to him.
You find that in these last moments your erratic breathing has slowed down a bit, so you go the distance, gingerly stretching your arm out so that your hand is straight in front of you, still trembling just a bit.
“I’m going to hold your hand with mine. It helps, I promise.”
I promise.
Your teeth clatter against each other, your tongue laying flat and like a stone in your mouth. You can’t speak yet, but there’s a sharp look in his eyes. The same one that happened whenever he made his promises to you. Ones he’d never break.
So you slowly tilt your head down in a small nod.
He watches this, observing your behavior. He shows you his hand, never putting it down, just carefully outstretching his arm like you did, and he moves a little bit away from the wall to get a little closer to you.
You never blink as you watch his hand stretch out towards yours, fingers straight, and in a few seconds they hover above yours. He’s not wearing his ring, you note, but put your focus on the fact that in another moment his skin is touching your skin, his fingers curling slowly over yours. In another moment, his hand moves, gently holding yours in his. That touch, the same touch you feel like a lingering ache at night.
The two of you don’t say anything, looking at where your hands meet with bated breath.
The touch was grounding. You feel his fingers against your palm, long and steady, unlike your own. His skin is warm, comforting, inviting. It’s not soft, but it never was. Years of yielding swords, bows, spears, using his fists as means of destruction caused that. But when he held you, it never felt like the hands of a warrior, just of a man. Your own fingers stretch outwards, your tips gracing his large hand, slightly above his wrist, where his pulse point is. You try to forget that the last time you touched him was so long ago
“Better?” He asks simply, taking in how your chest had slowed its movements, the sweat on your forehead stopping. Your eyes are still glossy, but he knows it’s more than just an episode that’s causing that.
You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands and not to him as you nod again.
There’s a silence that follows, the only sound being the small exhale that you would give, and his slight inhale.
You’re the first to move, your hand going slack in his as you begin to pull away. His own finger twitches, not wanting to let go for a minute, but he falters and lets you move away, resting your back up against the wall as you cradle the hand close to your chest, as if it was searing.
Gojo moves back too, his shoulders square as his hands go to rest on his thighs again, letting out a large puff of air through his lips. After another moment his head dips, fists clenched as he pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut as if he too can’t believe any of this. He runs a hand through his white hair, pushing it back, before he allows himself to open his eyes again and stare at you.
“I’ve looked for you for sixteen months.”
You look at him blankly, but inside something cracks.
“I thought you were dead after the first eight,” Gojo says, “So I've just been searching for your body.”
You look away from him, the sight of him here and speaking to you too much to bear.
He waits for you to say something, anything, a flash of anger crossing his face, his nose flaring and lips stretching thin as he tries to control himself. He had convinced himself for a while now that you were dead. He wondered what he’d do if he found you somewhere, not knowing how to prepare himself for the sight.
But in the beginning, when he was sure that he’d find you, Gojo wondered about what he might say to you if he ever saw you again. He told himself that he’d yell, he’d beg you to tell him why you ran away, why you never wrote back, but his anger faded and dissipated the minute he saw you. The anger, the frustration, the pain, hurt, breaking, everything that he feels now is from seeing you alive, knowing that you were alive this whole time and never once said anything. The tears and the bite in his throat he has to fight back being from the sole reason of how much he missed you.
He sees you here, alive, your chest moving with each breath. He sees the flutter of your lashes against your cheek, the plump of your lips. He sees your eyes, more tired and filled with unknown sorrow, but still that burning color he loved so much. He watches the way your arms wrap around yourself, the curve of your jaw and the way you try to blink away your tears. Gojo sees you and though there are small changes to your appearance, still remembers you being as beautiful as the day he last saw you.
His wife, Gojo thinks, his wife was alive after all this time.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he thinks his voice comes out breathy, almost like he was trying to stop himself from cracking in front of you, “Why didn’t you send a letter? Or…or a sign?”
You bite down on your lip, your head turned away from him so that he couldn’t see your face. You feel yourself choking as he speaks, your eyes stinging with tears again. You can’t do this, you can’t.
You blindly walk back into the other part of the room, where he and his men originally were. You hear him move instantly behind you, as if he was fearful you’d try to make a run for it again, but you’re searching for a pitcher, your throat dry and aching.
You stumble around, wiping away at your wet cheeks, hands stiff as you turn desperately to find anything, something to just wash away the biting and choking feeling you had that was settling deep in your chest.
Your eyes almost light up when you see a pitcher, making your way through it as your fingers grasp the handle, finding a cup next to it as you bring it up. It’s heavy, filled with water, and although you’ve gotten stronger these past months lifting and carrying wood, you can’t seem to properly pour.
It must be from how your hands are still shaking. Water pours messily from the sprout, getting everywhere but the cup. You let out a frustrated cry, wiping the tears away from the corners of your eyes with your elbow as you try again.
Something stops you. You look over your shoulder to see Gojo, his hand hovering over your arm that’s holding the pitcher. Silently, he grabs it, fingers curling around the handle as you let go. He reaches for the cup in your hand, which you give him, and sniffles when he calmly pours some water for you, handing it back with the cup full.
You take it after a beat of quiet, bringing it to your lips as you chug it down. You finish it in seconds, wiping your lips as you squeeze your eyes shut, feeling his heat radiating off of him from how close he was to you.
“You have to leave.”
Your voice comes out frail and hoarse, and you're staring at him through tear stricken eyes, your lips pressed firmly into a little frown, one that you do to help you from crying even more. You cross your arms over your chest, wincing slightly when your bandage rubs the wrong way, but you refuse to drop your gaze from his.
“Y-you can’t know I’m here,” you’re shaking your head adamantly, stuttering as you think of everything that has happened and what it means, the repercussions that could come from it, all of your sacrifices amounting to nothing, “None of you can…please, gods, I…” You let out a gasp, hands covering your mouth as you frantically walk away from him, pacing around the vastness of the empty room.
You run your hands over your face, wringing your fingers, fidgeting with the fabric of your bodice as you shake your head repeatedly. They know you’re here, they know you’re alive. If anybody finds out, if word gets out of where you are and your true identity, gods, what if the king finds out?
You’re muttering words to yourself, tears catching on your cheeks, chin, falling into your lips, and you phase Gojo out. You act like he’s no longer there. It feels like what you’ve done for the past year, pretending like his ghost, the thought of him, wasn’t haunting you when in fact it was at every single second of the day.
“Leave!” You shout, your voice hoarse, “Get out! Leave! Please!” You’re pleading with the gods above to make him listen to you, to cast away his stubbornness and pride and make him listen to your words just this once.
“Leave?” He says with a stutter, a chuckle of disbelief falling from his lips, “What are you sa-”
“Get out!” You scream, cutting him off, pointing at his chest and to the door, “I don’t want you here! Go!”
He shouts your name, loud and clear, and you instantly stop.
Your brows are furrowed down the middle, a crease between them, and you feel like your eyes are slightly twitching. You must look mad to him, not the person he once remembered. You hope he feels disgust, wanting to leave as soon as he gets a few words in. That would be ideal. Maybe he despises you so much he doesn’t talk about you ever again, satisfied to see just how poorly you’re doing by yourself
But to be fair, he doesn’t look any better himself.
There are dark circles under his eyes. His skin seems flushed, but not in a good way. There’s a bead of sweat above his brow bone, his lips moving slightly as if he wants to yell, scream, cry, shout, but can’t figure out which one to do. The more you get a look at him the more you’re able to see the cracks in his usual appearance. The way he hides behind his strength but fails to use that strength to keep himself afloat.
But oh, how you wish to walk to him, run to him. How you long to collapse in his chest, to feel his heartbeat against our cheek. How you want to feel those sturdy hands wrap themselves around you, give you an embrace you’ve been chasing for so long. You want to feel his skin, taste his tears. You want him, all of him. But you can’t, you remind yourself. He’s not yours to have anymore.
“That’s it?” He bites out, his tone furious, “You haven’t seen me in over a year and that’s it? I have to leave?” He sputters, a bitter laugh falling from his lips as he rubs a hand across his jaw in disbelief, as if he can’t fathom the person that’s standing in front of himself right now is the person he nearly died trying to find.
You glance out the window, the snow storm still going strong. It’s as dark as ink outside, the only light that’s illuminating your faces coming from the candles lit that scatter across the room. You wish you were in the snow than in here, the freezing winds better than the hot and burning sensation you feel at the moment.
“You…you don’t understand,” you plead quietly, “This isn’t-”
“What?” Gojo snaps, cutting you off as your mouth clams up, “This isn’t what? Simple? Easy to grasp?” He’s cracking, his demeanor slipping from calm to angry, ”How you ran away without any fucking warning? How you evaded all my guards? How you wound up here? What can I not understand? Because I’ve spent a year and a fucking half coming up with every single theory that could explain this!” His voice bounces off the walls and you wince slightly, face cracking as you sniffle, “So what? What is it? What can I not get that’s so difficult to comprehend?”
A strand of his hair has fallen onto his face and his eyes have gotten as dark blue as they can get. You let out a little sob, covering your mouth as you turn away from him, shaking your head again and again as you try to think, try to will yourself out of this.
How could you explain any of this? How could you tell him without anything happening as a consequence? There’s no simple way. If you tell him the truth, who’s to say he’d believe you. And on the off chance he does, there’s no way he’d sit still and take it. All your efforts of keeping the two nations from war would break. If Gojo believed that his wife had been abducted due to order from the Southern king, a war was no longer the worst thing that could happen but full fledged destruction. Years of bloodshed and violence and everything you did would be for nothing.
But if you didn’t tell him? If you lied? You didn’t know what to do or say, not expecting or preparing for a moment like this because you never thought it would happen. You tried to live blissfully unawares, hoping that your past life had eventually faded away.
“Tell me,” he says again, his voice cracking, and his tone has fallen, it’s not angry, not the facade he was putting up because he could never be angry with you, could never yell at you and immediately regret his actions, “I’m here, I found you, so, so please, just…just tell me why,”
You jam your palms into your eyes, beginning to pace around the room again as you breathe deeply.
“I, I didn’t know,” you don’t know what to say, how to lie, what to do to make any of this make sense, how to satisfy sixteen months of questions, prayers, hurt, in the little time you had, “I can’t…” you sigh through your nose, looking at him apologetically, cheeks shining in the candlelight as your lips tremble and you shake your head, giving him a small shrug, “I-I can’t tell you.”
“Was it because I left?” He takes a few steps forward to get closer to you but falters when he sees how you take one back, his eyes confused, full of pain as he stammers, “Were…were you scared? Because I came back,” you let out another cry, hiccuping when you heard the tenderness and hurt in his voice, “I came back like I promised you I would.” And you shake your head to that and he pauses, hand clenching and unclenching as he tries to figure you out with your minimal words and even more limited movements.
“So…so why? Darling, please, just tell me why,” He’s begging you, and Gojo never begs. Not unless he needs to. Not unless it’s without anybody other than you.
“You don’t - don’t understand,” your voice cracks as you wipe away your falling tears, “It’s n-not that.” How could he think you didn’t believe him? The thought that he even believed that, using it as a hypothesis breaks you even more and your chest shakes, fingers itching to hold him and tell him everything that happened.
Gojo looks like he’s struggling to think, like he doesn’t know what to do as he throws his arms in the air, his eyes pleading with you. You see a slight sheen in them, see the way they quiver, how maybe he too is crying. Maybe from frustration, maybe because he just missed seeing your face.
“Then what?” He takes another tentative step closer and you don’t move, frozen in place, and he takes one more step to you, until he’s only a foot away, “Was it because of…because of the war? Because of what I did? Were you angry with me?”
You lick your lips as you pursue them, squeezing your eyes shut as you cry even more. A sound tears from your throat, a sort of wail that you can’t control, and it’s one that you don’t mean to let out. You furiously wipe at your face, your head hanging low as you cross your arms across your stomach. It doesn’t take another second until you hear his boots thump along the floor, bringing himself to you as he pauses. And slowly, before you or Gojo knows what’s happening, you feel one of his arms circle your shoulders. Unknowing, a movement he wasn’t sure of.
But then you break, falling into his chest as you sob, your arm flying upwards to grasp onto anything you could, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat, into his shoulders, around his waist. You can smell the faint lingering smell of smoke on him, the little hint of leather. You sniffle, fingers moving up towards his hair, wanting to feel it beneath your skin. You wanted to cherish it for a moment longer, like you should have all those months ago. You feel the sturdiness of his chest against yours, feel the buttons that engrave into your cheek. You feel him, all of him that there is to offer.
You don’t realize how he does the same as you. The anger instantly faded when he felt your body against his, when he wrapped his arms around your frame. He could feel the flesh of your cheeks as he moved his hands across your face, over and down your torso as he grasped onto your waist. He wanted to push you away, force you to feel the pain he had all those months, but he couldn’t. He had you now, and he didn’t know how much longer he was allowed to. His lips are a breath away from your forehead, and he presses them to the crown of your head, his chest shaking as he cries silently, his tears wetting your hair.
You don’t know why he holds you like he used to, why he comforts you like he still loves you. After all this time you thought that the only way he’d touch was if he were to touch you with a sword, banishing you from the North and from any of their territories if he saw you again. Not this. Never this.
If only you knew how upon feeling you, holding you close to his chest, he first took a breath of air in sixteen months. If only you knew how his heart started to pump, pump, pump, the way it was supposed to, and not the pathetic little beats it did just to simply keep him alive but wasn’t living until now. Because the truth was that he’d already forgiven you for what you did. He’d forgiven everything you had done up until this point and would forgive everything you do later, even if he wouldn’t be there to witness it.
“I’m s-sorry,” you cry into his chest, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you chant, your words slurring together in a mixture of apologies, guilt, longing, hurt, and every emotion you’ve bottled up and decided to put away, hoping you’d never have to touch them again.
It was a culmination of months away from the only man you had ever loved. Months of barely surviving, living through peoples scraps and trash as you tried to run away as far away from the only home you had ever known in a last ditch effort to be of some help to the people you cared about. It was a broken plea for Gojo to hear everything you had suffered in just two repeated words, knowing that he could never truly know what you had done and why you had done it unless you told him yourself. He just hugs you tighter, his arms caging you in as you bring yours close to your chest, your hand lying against his torso as your body shakes with cries. His hand rubs up and down your back, fingers curling into your cloak as he just nods, not trusting his own voice, just holding you with as much strength he could muster without crushing you.
Gojo waited for sixteen months, and he’d be damned if he let go of you now. Not after countless nights of staying awake and days riding across the four nations, through rain and mud, snow and storm, heat and desert, weeks spent without barely a blink of sleep, all in efforts to find you. And now he has. And he isn't letting you go. Not now, not ever again.
“Did you mean what you wrote?” He asks against your head, his lips falling open in a silent cry as his hands shake against your body. You squeeze your hands, balling them into fists against his chest. No, you want to scream, no!
“I have to leave. I could never, under any gods’ sky, pretend to keep loving a man as barbarous as you,” his voice is choked, the sentence falling from his lips at such a heart wrenching rate, and a part of your mind flashes to that fated night when the man put that knife to your throat and forced you to copy down those words, the same ones he’s saying now, the words that he memorized after reading your farewell letter over and over again, the letters searing into his mind, “Did you mean that?” You hear how Gojo’s voice cracks, as if hearing you admit to that would be a fate worse than death, as if he regrets asking the question that’s been plaguing him for months.
You feel your tears soak through his coat, your teeth biting into your lips as you control yourself, taking every part of your soul that wants to crawl out and scream, from shaking your head. So you just go limp against him, nails digging into your palms.
“Look at me,” he whispers, his hand trailing up from your back, floating over your side as it comes upwards to grab at the side of your head which was hidden away in his chest. You don’t fight him as his fingers latch under the skin of your jaw, or when he cups your face as gently as he possibly could, his touch like a feather as he angles you upwards to look at him.
When you see his face you let out a little shaky exhale, wet and messy as you feel his warmth travel from his fingers to your body, tingling everywhere, a certain type of warmth that you had been missing for a while and only came back because the other half of your soul did.
“Tell me you meant it, p-please,” his voice travels across the walls of the room, heavy, barely above a whisper but you hear every crack, every single way he breaks down, no longer able to keep himself strong, “That you ran away because you never loved me, and I’ll…I’ll leave,” his thumb rubs up and down your jaw, a movement he doesn’t even realize he’s doing, something that’s second nature to him and a tear falls from the corner of his eyes, his lashes fluttering as he tries to blink them away, “I’ll leave and you’ll never have to worry about me ever again.”
No, no no, no this can’t be happening all over again. You feel like you’re going insane, his thumb wiping away your tears as you stare silently at him, your lips chapped as you shake your head slightly, knowing the movement itself just cost you everything. You see the way a little spark makes its way onto his face and you shake your head even more at that, not wanting him to get any sort of idea.
“N-no, no, no,” you mutter, gasping for air, his hand falling a little bit but you chase after his touch, your head falling into his palm like it was meant to, “No, I…I didn’t want to, I m-mean I didn’t, I,” you’re stammering, words falling out like vomit and you can’t control them.
You press your cold fingers to your eyes, shaking your head as if it’s the only thing you can do.
“I,” you sigh, looking up at him with a breaking look, “I d-didn’t but,” he deflates a little bit and it hurts to see the most strongest person you’ve ever seen look so broken, “But I can’t,” you whisper the last word with as much strength as you could, “I can’t go back.”
Gojo lets out a puff of air, his shoulders rising and falling, his hand pulling away from your face, most likely thinking you didn’t want it there when it was the only thing you wanted, the only thing you longed for when you were alone and slept with one eye open.
He looks lost, confused, not knowing what to say to make any sense of this.
You take a step back.
“Then,” he runs a hand through his hair, something he does when he is stressed, not knowing what else to do with his hands, “Why did you write it? Why…why, why did you leave?”
You look away, your mouth opening slightly before you close it again, knowing your best option was to stay silent.
“Was…was there someone else?” There’s a slight tremor in his voice, no malice, no blaming, just curiosity, “Someone here?”
You quickly shake your head, hiccuping a little bit as your nose scrunches up, sniffing when you vehemently try to silently tell him no, that the only person you’ve loved and can ever love was him. That you’d rather stab a stake through your heart that makes room in your heart for anybody else but him.
“Y-you didn’t do anything,” you murmur, a tear slipping down your nose as you shudder, “It wasn’t because of you.”
“Then why?” He presses quickly, pleading, his cheeks red and flushes as he begs for you to talk, to say something other than the empty clues you’re giving him, “If, if not because of another person then…then what possible reason did you have for leaving?” Gojo pauses to catch his breath, glancing away from you as he tries to regain composure, “You left without any other reasons telling me why, coming to a random town on the eastern coast with nobody you know here. It’s,” he laughs to himself, shaking his head as he shrugs indifferently, “It’s not like you were forced to leave, so…so why, why darling, why?”
There’s a hitch in your breathing when he utters the simple words. It’s not like you were forced to.
Your mind flashes quickly with memories of that night, the man on top of you, the knife pressed to your throat, urging you to write that letter. You remember waking up on his horse, your hands bound, trying to piece together what was happening. You think back to his greasy hair, the oily smile, his cruel eyes. You can still hear his gruff voice in your ear, the way he ordered you around your own room as if you were his dog, doing whatever he asked you to to spare the lives of those outside the door. You remember his hot breath on your skin, the weight of his body on yours, the way his eyes raked over your figure. You remember him lying on the ground, bloodied, calling you names as you ran away with his horse.
Gojo calls your name, once and then twice when you don’t acknowledge him the first time.
He stares at your body with furrowed brows, taking in the way your chest heaves, your fingers digging into your sides as you stare blankly out the window.
Gojo takes a few brisk paces to where you were, his hands grabbing your elbows, not tightly, just to force you out of your busy mind, his head shaking in utter confusion at the way you suddenly left, and you slowly blink out of your stupor, looking at him and his questioning eyes.
There’s a strange look on your face, one he doesn’t recognize.
His mouth parts a little bit, eyes squinting together as he assesses you. He lets out a small laugh, a disbelieving, questioning one, one that he can’t control because you didn’t react like this to any of his other questions.
“You…” his hand falls from your elbow, hovering over the back of your head, gently holding your nape, and you feel like a magnet, drawn to him, your hands balled by your side to keep you from doing something you’d regret, “You weren’t…forced to leave…right?”
You just stare at him.
You count to five, trying to steady your breaths. You want to shake your head, to disagree with his question even though it was the only correct thing, but your body stops you from doing that. Maybe it was fighting back, begging for you to tell him the truth. You evade eye contact from him, your tongue resting on the roof of your mouth and you swallow thickly, forcing down the bile.
But Gojo knows you, knows how to read your quiet expressions and little ticks. You don’t do anything but stay quiet. Soon, after a few seconds pass and he stares longer at your face, your silence becomes your only answer.
His hand falls away from your head, taking a few steps back as if the air had been punched from his lungs.
It was one of the first things he thought when he was given your letter. Thought you had been abducted, and entertained the idea for as long as he could. But there were just no signs of a forced entry, your bags packed and missing some clothes. He read your letter over and over again, and when they never found you, he began to believe the words you had written down. Different ideas came to him, ones of a different lover, ones that made him believe you truly never loved him, ones that said you had run away on your own free will.
He covers his mouth with his hand, a tremor in his breath when you glanced at him with a sheen in your eyes.
“But…?”
There’s no answer, no need for one.
You shrug a little bit, wiping at your cheeks once again as you purse your lips together, sniffing as you try to keep everything at bay.
“I, um,” you swallow your spit back, biting your lip as you think for a second, think before the dam breaks and you realize it useless to keep any of this in anymore because Gojo knows and it’s worthless to keep it a secret, “A man came a few nights after you had left. Through my window.”
You peek over at Gojo and quickly glance away because the look on his face is too much to process. You keep your eyes trained on the corner of a carpet, at the fraying end as you decide to continue.
“He was huge, ‘Toru, like nothing you’ve ever seen,” you say with a small laugh, one because this entire situation is too much to handle, your hands moving away from your body as you show his width with the space between them, “He told me he’d cut my tongue out if I screamed, so I…I didn’t.”
You sniffle again, chewing on the inside of your cheek, pausing slightly as your jaw ticks the more you recall that night.
“H-he had this letter in his, uh,” you sigh, trying to control your breathing as you blink rapidly, brows furrowed as you motion to your chest, “In his pocket. He told me to write the same words down b-but in my own handwriting.”
Gojo feels his knees give out, holding onto one of the pillars of the bed next to him to keep himself upright, his eyes never leaving your lips, his head suddenly feeling like it was about to detach from his body.
“I was told to pack some b-bags and clothes,” you wave your hands around as if that wasn’t important, “And I think he, uh, hit me in the back of my head,” your hand rises to your head, as if you could still feel the pulsing feeling from when you had woken up days later, “So I was out for five, six? Six days, I think, before I woke up again and was on his horse.”
The words fell from your mouth like silk, things you had been wanting to see forever spilling like water from a pitcher, and you couldn't stop yourself, the only thing your mouth was willing to do was continue.
“He said that somebody had sent him. Some bidding for the king, I guess. I think sometime between his talking I realized he was sent to kill me, dump my body in the woods so you’d think I had left. So I knew I had to leave, fight my way out somehow. And…and I don’t know…how, but,” you chuckle to yourself, shrugging at the thought of you when you broke free from your restraints and overpowered him, the look of surprise in his gnarly face when you dug the knife into his ribs, “But I was able to get away from him. I might’ve killed him, I didn’t check.”
Your blurry eyes blink upwards to Gojo as your head tilts to the side as you give him a small smile, full of unsaid words and melancholy feelings.
“I wanted to go back, back home to you and - and everything but,” your teeth dig into your bottom lip as the two of you stare back at each other through tears and even more tears, “But he said that if I had committed treason of the highest degree, that,” your teeth rattle, “That you’d never take me back. And that if they’d send more people like him. To hurt people l-like you, like Alina, my friends, your parents, e-everyone I cared for, everyone that you care for,” you can’t control the little cry that escape your lips, your hand flying upwards to your throat as you give yourself a second, “And I thought to myself that…that maybe if I ran away, if you thought that I no longer wanted to b-be your wife then,” one shoulder lifts up in a sad shrug, “Then maybe everything would resolve itself. That there’d be no war to fight, no cause to die for.”
You wait for a second, air lodged in your lungs.
“I nearly ended up dead on the side of a trail,” you motion around you, to the tavern, the snow, the town, “A lady found me and took me here. I,” you swallow thickly, tears caught on your lashes, “I’ve been here ever since.”
You look at him but he isn’t looking at you. You want him to look up, just this once, but he doesn't and you allow him his own time to think. You gnaw on your lips, fingers fidgeting with themselves as you tilt your head a little bit.
“I…” Your head tilts down to your chest, your words dying on your tongue, but there’s a sudden warmth that takes over you and you feel your legs being lifted from the ground as strong arms circle around your waist, your body almost flying back with the force and speed you were picked up with. You feel your arm go to circle around your head, holding you close to his face as he hugs you to himself like he never has before.
Your legs wrap around his torso, your cheek pressing against his and you cry, you let yourself let go of the tears, let go of the lost time, let go of all the feelings you told yourself you aren't allowed to feel, and wrapped your arms tightly around his shoulders and neck, holding him as close as you could to you.
“I j-just wanted to help,” you murmur wetly, choking as you sob, “I didn’t want anybody else to - to get hurt,” you tell him in broken phrases, “I didn’t want you to get h-hurt…”
He shushes you, lips kissing the side of your face, the corners of your eyes, your cheeks, the crown of your head, your ears, everything he could reach, feverishly. You could taste the saltiness of his own tears on your tongue, could feel his heart beating quickly from the pulse on his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your skin, his eyes squeezing shut as he shakes his head over and over again, “I’m so sorry sweetheart, I’m sorry,” his arms grasp onto you tighter, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, gods, I’m sorry, I’m sorry darling, oh gods, I’m sorry,” you laugh weakly at his muttered apologies, at the way it sounds like he’s praying and apologizing at the same time; for your forgiveness, for you to believe that he was more sorry than any man has been and could be in his life.
“I s-should’ve stayed,” he cries out, his lips trembling as he kisses your forehead, between your eyebrows, your lids, “I should never have left,” you shake your head, trying to stop him but you can’t, “I…I shouldn’t have left, shit, gods, it’s m-my fault, I should’ve-”
“It’s not your fault,” you murmur against his ear, kissing his jaw softly, pulling away a little bit so that you could look him in the eyes, shaking your head a firmly as you could, holding onto the side of his face in your shaking hands, “Don’t you ever, e-ever, say that...you couldn’t - you couldn’t have known.” You shake with cries as you try to smile, try to rake your fingers through his hair to calm him down, twirling his hair around like you used to when you’d wake up next to him. You unlatch your legs from his waist, slowly setting them down as you stand up on your own, your hands still tangled with each other in his hair.
“I never stopped loving you,” you whisper, watching the way his face crumbled upon hearing your words, “When…when I was starving and didn’t know if I’d make it through the night, I tried to pretend you were beside me. And,” your shoulders shake again, “And when I didn’t want to wake up I pretended I was in o-our bed, about to wake up next to you. Everything - everything I did was for you, and I…I know you might hate me for it, despise me for running away but…” you trail off, your thumb running across his cheekbones, his brows, his nose, “But I hoped that one day you’d understand why.”
You finish your words, staring at him as he stares at you, a storm happening behind those irises you loved so much. You deflate, knowing that this must be your final goodbye. That he’d never want to get back with somebody who’d ruin their life so easily, who’d break his heart so quickly and without any remorse. You try to cherish the way he looked, try to engrain the little features you had forgotten in your head for when he eventually pulled away and wasn’t yours again. You open your mouth, wanting to tell him that you understand if he no longer shares the same feelings.
“I’m-”
His lips slam against yours, his hand behind your head to keep you steady as you stumble a little bit. Your arms go up to hold onto his, surprised and taken aback by the sudden movement. He pulls away almost as quickly as he had moved in, an apologetic look flashing across his face.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters breathlessly, his lips shining with spit, “I-”
This time it’s you who cuts him off, reaching your hands upwards to tangle back into his hair as your lips slot against and move roughly against his, mixing your tears, spit, love and pain with one another as he eagerly meets you in the middle with another hand sprawled out across your back, pulling you closer to him.
You angle your head upwards, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as your lips press harshly against one another. They move in tandem, in perfect synch, as if you hadn’t spent one day away from each other but still with so much passion as if to make up for the months spent without one another.
You moan slightly, your lips opening as the sound escapes you, and he surges forward, his tongue meshing with yours as he licks into your mouth, wanting to taste you, to drink from you as if he hadn’t had a proper sip to satiate his thirst in over sixteen months. His lips are soft and plump, just like you remember, and your eyelashes flutter against your cheek at the feeling of him panting into you like a mad man who was suddenly becoming sane.
The hand that he had resting on your back moves upwards, grabign and kneading at your hips, cupping your waist as you whine at the spark his touch brings, feeling lightheaded when he pulls away slightly just to bite down on your bottom lip with his teeth, his nose nudging against yours as you try to catch your breath.
“I missed you,” he whispers against your lips, two hands cradling each side of your face, “So, so much. I never stopped looking for you,” you laugh through your tears, your eyebrows quivering as you hold onto him, “I could barely sleep since you’ve been gone and the only reason I did was so that I could dream of you.”
You pull his neck down to press one, two, three chaste and salty kisses against his trembling lips.
“I would have taken you back even if you had burned the entirety of the North,” Gojo tell you in a low tone, “I would have taken you back even if you carved my heart out,” he kisses the tip of your nose tenderly, “Which you damn near did with that letter.” You laugh softly, his thumbs on either side of your lips as he cradles your face in the palms of his hands.
“I wish I never wrote it,” you say quickly, scrambling, your eyes darting around, “I never…” but he hushes you, shaking his head as he bring your head forward to place a longing and slow kiss on your forehead, one hand at the nape of your neck to force you look him in the eyes.
“If he,” he pauses, his nose flaring at the mention of the man who tore you away from him, he controls the anger that boils and bubbles at his flesh at the thought of him touching you, threatening you, hurting you, taking you away from him, but he knows it’s not the time for that right now, he’ll deliver chastisement when he gets the chance, “If that man told you to kill me, to kill an entire group of my men so that he wouldn’t hurt you, I’d let you it in a heartbeat,” you feel him wipe a tear away, looking at your features, taking in everything he had been nearly dying without for so long.
“I’m so proud of you, my darling girl,” he says delicately and your eyes well up at his words, never hearing them before and never expecting Gojo to be the one to tell you after everything that you had done, “Going through what you did? Surviving on your own? Gods,” he lets out a little chuckle, dipping his head down so it could rest on your own, smiling at you through his own tears, “That’s what I’d expect from my wife.”
Your mouth parts a little bit and you sniffle, holding onto the back of his arms like he’s your anchor, a tether to reality, to show you that this isn’t a dream and that you’d wake up in your shack but that he’s here.
You feel his arms go lower though, grabbing your thighs from behind your skirts and petticoat, a sign that he wanted you to jump. So you oblige him, knowing he’d catch you regardless, and you silently wrap your legs around him again as his lips find yours once more, your chests moving up and down with labored breaths, but you don't’ need air, you just need him.
“Bed,” you murmur against his feverish lips, in between his dizzying kisses as your fingers slightly pull at his white strands, “P-please,”
Gojo pulls a little bit away, his eyes falling to your lips and then back up, almost in silent questioning. You nod once, needing for him to move, but he gets the gist, a smile, the first one you had seen that night, the first one from him you had seen in over a year, breaks onto his face, and he moves slightly back, nudging you with his nose to kiss him again and you do.
When his thighs hit the back of the bed you feel like a feather as he twists you around in his arms, your hands never disconnecting from his shoulders he gingerly puts you against the mattress, climbing over your body to resume his movements.
The two of you work in tandem, and you know when he’s growing restless, when he wants to explore the rest of your body. His lips trail from your lips to your jaw, pressing wet and splotchy kisses against the skin you have there before his lips move downwards, towards your throat.
You lift your chin a little bit, giving him more access as he sucks your skin into his mouth. You let out a little whimper at the feeling, his teeth grazing your soft skin, and one of your mouth slowly falls open in a little part.
Gojo feels like he’s finally taken his first breath of air when he sees the way he’s marking up your skin, and he knows that once he’s started, there’s doubt he’d ever stop. There’s sixteen months of his lips and touch and mark absent from your skin, and he wants to make up for that.
His hands are at your waist, but his fingers dig into the fabric covering it, frustrated with the barrier that’s still between the two of you.
Your eyes creep open when you feel him pull away, looking at his large body looming over yours with a little pout, one that disappear and melts into a little grin when you see him fumbling with the knot of your cloak, looking even more frustrated with trying to take off your bodice as quickly as possible.
“Here,” you whisper gently, your hand holding his as you move it away, sitting up on your elbows as you undo the knot, shrugging off the layer of warmth as you throw it to the side, “There’s a lace up in the back,” you say, about to twist your body around to show him how to undo the bodice before you hear a loud, almost animated riiip!
You stare down at shock, your chest completely exposed to him, naked and bare, and then to his hands, the culprits for tearing the fabric as if it was a piece of parchment and not heavily lined and stitched top.
Your mouth drops open, hands flying to cover your breasts, but he tsks, swatting your hands aside.
“H-hey!” You exclaim, laughing a little bit at the way his eyes look at you, his brow cocked, heat blossoming across your cheeks and chest, your nipples pebbling in the cold air, “You can’t just - just rip it!”
Gojo chuckles, rolling his eyes, moving up to get closer to your face as he leans down, pressing another searing kiss against your lips.
“I didn’t wait all these months just to be halted by lace,” he mutters, his voice thick and primal and your breathing hitches at the sound, the near growl he has in his tone, and you don’t have it in you to argue with him, desperately needing his hands on you as if you’d die without his touch.
His head dips as he looks down, his eyes finally falling onto your tits, your nipples, your chest that moves up and down with each exhale, and feels his mouth suddenly go dry. He remembers the first time he saw your naked top, remembers that night in the fields vividly, but now that he’s spent so long without being able to look at them, it feels as if he’s seeing you like this for the first time all over again.
“Wait,” you sputter out quickly, your hands going up to your chest again and this time Gojo moves away, quickly and giving you some space as you sit up a little bit against the pillows and backboard, chewing on your lip in embarrassment, “I, um, I might look different, from…from the last time you saw me.”
His white brows pinch together in confusion, but he lets you have the time to gather the words, no matter how much they make you want to see yourself aflame in shame.
The bandages around your hands had slipped off with all the movement, your skin riddles with small scars and bruises that came with chopping and hauling woods. You sometimes looked in your little mirror and saw somebody different.
“My hands,” you say, looking down at them, at the scratches from leaves and twigs, the coarseness on the pads of your fingers from wielding an axe for so many months, and you feel subconscious when his stare falls down to them, “And I…I don’t know, the rest of me, it’s not-”
He cuts you off, pulling your hands away from your chest, but not for the reason you’d expect. He brings them up to his lips, pressing a kiss against each knuckle, the backs of them, the bottoms of your palms, and the only thing you could do is watch with bated breath.
“Do you want to know what I thought when I saw you again? Just outside, in the snow?”
You shake your head, eyes peering at him with an air of curiosity.
“At first I thought that I had died,” he says with a chuckle, “But when I saw you, saw your face, your nose, your eyes, your eyebrows, your cheeks, your hands,” he saws with a little grin, squeezing them in his hands, “I thought that I was dreaming. You looked just like you did when I dreamed of you. And when you woke up, and I saw your eyes again, I felt the happiest I have since the day I last saw you.”
Your shoulders fall, the tension in them dissipating, and you smile gently at him. Of course Gojo would know how to ease your worries, even after a year and counting of not seeing you. And he pauses, a silent talk happening between the two of you, one where he wanted to make sure you were still comfortable. To which you nod, biting your lips a little bit in nervousness, good nervousness, as you do.
His large hands falter, fingers reaching to grab the soft mounds. You watch through your lids that were slightly dropping, the anticipation causing a heat to blossom in your core, and you bite your lip as you wait for him to move.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says in a hushed tone, wonder dripping from his voice as if he was seeing a statue come to life, a painting moving in front of him, “As beautiful as the day I last saw you,” his fingers rub soothing circles on your waist, “My beautiful girl,” he mutters, a small smile on his face that you mirror.
After another second of staring, Gojo makes his first decision, long slender fingers trailing up from your stomach, up your navel and to your left breast, cupping it, his thumb rubbing across your hard nipple as a small sigh escapes his lips.
“G-gods,” he stammers, squeezing the flesh, feeling like a teenage boy rather than the man he’s grown up to be, “Soft,” he chokes out, leaning his head down, “So soft,” he murmurs, his lips latching onto it as you let out a gasp, his tongue rubbing over your areola and your back arches up into him.
He sucks the tit into his mouth, his other hand moving upwards to squeeze and knead the other one, not wanting to leave her unattended. Your lashes flutter at the feeling, mouth dropping open in a quiet sigh when you feel his teeth scrape against your nipple, biting down on it a little bit as your fingers curl into his hair.
“O-oh,” you’re able to say, “‘Toru, oh, oh gods,” you can’t think, can’t formulate a thought as he latches off with a pop, his chin dragging across your chest, his eyes never leaving yours as wrapped his swollen pink lips around your other tit.
He smiles a little bit at the sight of you crumbling from his mouth, flicking your nipple over with his tongue, biting down on this one as well as he moves upwards, sucking the skin around your breast, watching in satisfaction as dark hickeys bloom in the wake.
Your nails rake against his scalp, tugging a little harshly, but his eyes roll back at the feeling, loving the sting.
His lips continue to kiss your chest, moving down from the valley of your breasts and goes down, his spit shining in the candlelight as he kisses the soft skin of your stomach, just above your belly button and then lower, where the tear from your corset ends and the loops of your work skirt begins.
You let out a whine, a keel as he sucks the skin into his mouth.
“You’re s-such a tease,” you stutter out, and he looks at you from his white lashes as his lips make another mark, his tongue moving as he licks the spot, lovingly, and you try to smile back, but your head falls back against the pillow no matter how hard you tried.
“I’m taking my time darling,” he corrects you, his hands moving the hem of your skirt, tugging it down a little bit but eyes eyes squint when he feels some resistance, “I need the woman I love to know just how much I cherish her,” he kisses your hip slowly, “Want her, “another kiss to your lower stomach, “Need her,” and he finishes by moving a little up to press a kiss to your sternum.
You catch your bottom lip beneath your teeth, one hand wringing into the sheets of the bed as you sigh shakily, the heat that’s in your core turning into a fire, one that is growing and burning you from inside out.
Before everything happened, the two of you were burdened with the ever impending need of consummating the marriage. Gojo’s parents were understanding, never pushed the two of you, but the outside world seemed to ponder why your belly hadn’t grown in the months you had been together. Truth be told, you were always nervous, not knowing how to do it, what to do, where things go, and so you’d freak whenever the two of you got close to having sex. So Gojo would always pull back, assuring you that your comfort was the most important thing to him. And though there were nights when he's eating you out, bringing you to ruin on his tongue and fingers, but that was it. But now, it feels different. There was a growing desire in you that felt like it was about to burst the longer you didn’t feel him inside of you.
You can feel the ghost of his touch on your legs, the way his fingers trail slowly up your calves and to your knees, not long before settling on the meat of your thighs, squeezing them as he feels the soft plushness beneath him.
It’s all so maddening.
“‘T-toru?” Your hands search for his, your chest moving with each labored breath, and you feel his hands move upwards, lacing his fingers between yours as his eyes search for what it was you wanted, “‘Toru, please, oh, please, I need you,” you murmur weakly, “Need you i-in me, please,” you beg, and see the way his pupils grow, his eyes barely even blue when you say the words inches away from his lips.
He lets out an animalistic grown, his eyes rolling back in his head as he plants a sloppy kiss against your lips, his hands falling down to the waistline of your skit, fingers fumbling to find the loop before he gives up, scrunching up the fabric between his fingers before you hear another rip. Looking down you see your skirt in tatters, the fabric looking like it had been mauled by a bear, and watch as he bundles it up and throws it to the side somewhere.
You go to argue but he raises a brow, wondering how you expected him to stay calm and put together when you utter such filthy words in his ear.
It takes you a second to find that you’re now completely naked beneath him, and while that doesn’t cause you to cover up the way you expected, you find yourself pouting a little bit, something that Gojo notices.
“What?” He asks, his hand immediately cupping the side of your face, worried, “Is everything okay? Do you want to stop?”
But you shake your head, hands pawing at his coat, nails scratching as you try to unloop the buttons.
“‘S not fair,” you mumble, pointing to his chest and then to yours, your lips quirking up a little bit as your pout deepens, eyes all wide and open for him, the way you know makes his words turn to slurred speech, “I’m all bare and you’re…not…s’not fair ‘Toru,” there a little whine in your voice, one that causes his cheeks to go pink.
He grins, kissing your cheek apologetically as he nods in agreement.
“You’re absolutely right darling,” he says, able to make quick work at tearing his coat off, swift finger fumbling to get his arms out of the sleeves, his hands going the either side of the tunic beneath him to lift it off and above his head, but the sudden touch of your hands against his skin makes him stop.
He looks down to where your fingers are lying, atop his neck, your eyes wavering when you hook something out from underneath the dress shirt.
How could you have forgotten?
You think to yourself, looking at the ring he had resting on the delicate gold chain. His wedding ring, the one he had told you ages ago he keeps around his neck so that it does fall off during training. Your fingers rub against it, feeling the cold sting of the gold, a familiar thing. But that wasn’t what caught your attention. No, your eyes fall to something next to it.
The matching ring. Yours.
You let out a little shaky gasp, looking up to Gojo to only see him staring back at you, trying to gauge your reaction.
“I…” he sighs, holding your hand in his, the one that was holding onto your ring, “I thought-”
But you don’t let him finish his rambling, pulling him down by the chain of the necklace as you slam your lips against his, a new set of tears sprouting in your eyes as you feel the rings dance around your neck.
Your fingers curl into his hair, digging them deep as your tears wet his cheek, your lips trembling against his as you hook a leg around his waist, your other hand holding onto the side of his face as you kiss him feverishly. You need him near you, need him to know just how much you have missed him, longed for him, need him.
But after a few seconds pass, he pulls away from you and your head moves up to chase him, but he sits up completely, your leg falling away from his waist as you watch him move his hands up to the necklace, tugging at it as it unclips from the back.
You watch silently as he slides your ring off of the chain, holding it in the palm of his hand as it shines brightly in the candlelight. His white lashes flutter against his cheek as he twists the ring around.
“May I?” Gojo says quietly, and you falter, looking down at your hand.
The hand that you’ve lived by for a while, using it for cutting logs and trees, to collect twigs and leaves. The hand riddles with scars and bruises, some fading, some new. The hand that always felt light, no matter how many things you were carrying in it. The reason you always knew, but never wanted to admit it.
You bring it closer to his own, watch as he turns the ring around to face your finger. You feel like the seconds have turned into hours, your mind flashing to when the last time he placed this ring on your finger, when you were a little bit younger and naive, not knowing he’d be placing it on your same finger nearly two years later, but this time out of love and not from an arrangement.
When it finally slides on you sigh a breath of relief, a tear escaping the corner of your eye, falling into your hairline as you hold the hand up, admiring its lost component that you’ve missed so dearly.
“My wife,” he whispers softly, almost to himself as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, bringing your hand up to his lips as he presses a kiss that lays over the ring, holding onto your hand tight, giving it a squeeze as he gently set it back down on the bed. He places the necklace back over his neck, taking his tunic off with one fluid motion after it clasped into place.
You smile, full, content, and you lie back down against the pillows after a minute passed, your legs spreading a little bit to make room for him between them. His touch goes back up to your thighs, fingers searing in their place as his gaze finally, finally, drops down to your aching, burning core.
You watch as he undoes the buckle of his pants, his trousers being kicked off, his eyes never leaving your glistening folds, and you feel your heart rattle in your ribcage, waiting to just jump out.
Your eyes rake over his naked torso. Gods, he looked even bigger if that was possible. He riffs with even more muscles all across his chest, his arms, and his abs, looking even more pronounced from when you last saw him. His shoulders stand broad and sturdy, a thick vein running across the white trail of hair leading down, and you feel yourself growing wetter at the thought. You’re so busy staring at him you don’t even realize that he too has put his focus down. Down to where you need him the most.
Your mouth goes dry at the sight. It’s the first time you’ve seen it in its entirety. Sometimes you’ve seen the outline from afar, feeling the length from layers of his clothes, but never like this, never so raw.
It’s long, you think, and though you’ve never seen anyone else cock before, you know this must be above what was normal. It curved upwards, not fully standing up from how heavy it was. You wanted to guess that it was at least eight inches, and gods, he was thick. His cockhead spurted more precum, pink, almost red, and it looked like it was about to burst.
Little white hairs grow from its base, soft and plush, and your eyes almost blur from lust at the sight.
Gojo scratches the back of his head almost in embarrassment, a little flush to his cheeks as he snaps his fingers in front of your face to get you to look back at him and not his little friend downstairs. You gulp, slowly finding his gaze as you stare at his pink face. A blush had traveled across his cheeks and went to his nose and jaw. Your head tilted slightly, bottom lip caught underneath your teeth as you squinted a little bit.
Was he…shy?
“Are you…” You almost want to laugh, but stop yourself, a questioning look in your eyes as you sit up a little bit, resting on your elbows as you grin, “Are you blushing?”
Gojo rolls his eyes at your teasing tone, pinching your waist as you squeal a little bit, a fit of laughter falling from your lips when he refuses to answer. Though he tries to look tough, his demeanor cracks when he hears the musical sound of you giggling, a new noise that seems to bring a fresh wave of colors back into his dull grey colored life.
“I know you haven’t,” he swallows, his throat bobbing when he rubs a thumb slowly up and down your thigh, a comforting touch, “I know you’ve never done this before. And if you want to wait-”
“No,” you say instantly, shaking your head, “No, I want this. I want you. I…I need you, Saotru, I need you so bad I think I’m going to start going crazy if you don’t…” you trail off, swallowing thickly as you look back to his groin, and your fingers itch to hold it, to touch it, to feel the velvety skin beneath yours.
Gojo’s mouth goes dry, his lips parting as his pupils grow again.
You need him. You need him and oh gods does he need you. He thinks his heart will stop if he doesn’t have your warmth circling him, pulling him closer to you.
He nods slowly, gnawing on his lip as he continues to rub soothing circles on your thighs, scratching his jaw as he thinks about how to go about this. Though he hates to even think about it, this wasn’t his first time the way it was yours. But it was his first time with the woman he loved, and it felt like he was learning how to do it all over again.
“O-okay,” he says shakily, and here he looks like a young man in love, not the Northern warrior people forced him to become, just your Satoru, “I’ll go slow, okay? Hold my hands, squeeze them as tight as you want. If it becomes too much…” his brow furrow, heart lurching at the thought of hurting you.
“Then I’ll let you know,” you finish with a smile, a promising one as you lean up to rest your forehead against his, “And I’m a strong girl,” you say with a little tease, trying to relax the tension, “It takes a lot to bring me down.”
Gojo chuckles, nodding at your words as he leans a little closer to peck at your lips. You fall back down to the pillows, your legs spreading again as his hands move away form your thighs, going to your cunt, spreading some of his slick on them as he brings it to his cock, breathing slightly through his teeth as his fingers make contact with it, lubing it up as he lines it up with your entrance.
He looks at you once, and you nod, smiling, telling him you were ready.
He pushes the tip in, and feels your walls clench instantly around him. The stretch is there, and your eyes flutter shut, his hands traveling up through the sheets to grab at yours, your fingers lacing together as he brings them to your head, watching your reactions, fearful that it was too much.
But you nod again, wanting him to continue.
He pushes his way in little by little, your tight cunt fluttering and squeezing around him with each inch, biting down on your lips to keep the sounds in. It’s not too much, but you know that if Gojo heard he’d stop it immediately. Because while it does hurt a little bit, the sting is good, and the more he lets you settle in it, the more it actually becomes pleasurable.
Gojo lets his cock sink into, letting you take all the time you need to adjust to his size, squeezing his hands as your fingers dig into his skin.
“G-good? Do you want to stop?” He’s able to bite out, feeling like he was about to cum with the way you’re clenching around him. But his eyes are still filled with worry, not knowing what you were feeling with the way you were staying quiet.
You take a deep breath, biting the inside of your cheek as you slowly open your eyes, looking down to where your bodies were connected, and a little gasp escapes your lips when you see that he’s somehow managed to fit all of himself inside your tight walls, your cunt spasming around his girthy cock.
You moan, mouth falling open as you grip onto his hands again, quickly nodding, needing him to move.
And Gojo takes it.
He slowly begins to pull out, your cunt weeping wetly with his absence, and he gives it a second before he slams back in.
“Umph!” You whine, eyesight going white when his cockhead hit the spongy part of your cunt, nudging at it as you feel achingly full, a good full, “Oooh, oh, ‘Toru, it’s…ohh,” and he knew it was a good oh because you were growing wetter around him, your slick staining his dick and the sheets beneath you.
He pulls his hips back out before he goes back in, creating a steady rhythm that makes your legs feel useful, wrapping around him to keep him as close to your middle as possible. You can hear the squelch whenever he pushes himself back inside, and can feel the way you spurt around him.
“You’re doing great darling,” he says encouragingly, praising you as your finger clench and unclench, “Doin’ so great for me, you know? So perfect, my perfect wife, fuck, oh, s-shit,”
He pulls the back of your hand to his lips, kissing it before he lets go, bringing your now empty hand up to his shoulders, his own hand falling in between your bodies as his finger find your clit, rubbing and pinching at it with such a speed that you feel like you’re finally going towards the light.
“S-so tight,” he moans out, head falling down to your chest as he takes in a nipple between his teeth, sucking your tit into his mouth, needing something to with his tongue, “You’re s’warm, fuck, it’s so, so fucking good,”
You nod feverishly at his words, mewling in agreement, the ability to talk dying right in front of you, your walls turning to mush the more he slams himself inside of you.
It feels like lightning when his fingers continue their movements on your pulsating bud, his cock molding your cunt into its shape, your hot warmth trapping him inside like a honeypot, barely allowing him to move but pulling him back inside whenever he pulls away, needing to chase after the intoxicating feeling.
You feel like crying and laughing, never expecting to have this moment happen. You want to pinch yourself, to see if maybe you were dreaming. You feel all your emotions wash up as Gojo kisses your chest, feel the excruciating pain you first felt when you ran away, the lonely feeling when you were surviving on your own, to live by yourself, pretending that he’d be there to wake you up.
And sure, you dreamed that you’d see him again, but you never thought he’d believe you, let alone forgive you. You never thought he’d be like he always was, kind and caring, loving you with such tenderness that it feels like you never left. You never thought he’d fall in love with you twice, but maybe that was your biggest mistake. Because Gojo Satoru never stopped loving you just like you never stopped loving him.
You feel tears prickle as your eyes, your nose scrunching up to hide your sniffles, a sound that quickly catches his attention.
He looks up from your sternum, fear flooding through his eyes when he sees the tears that roll down the side of your face, the watery look of your eyes and the way you turn your head away so that he wouldn’t see you.
He instantly stops, pulling out of you as his hands quickly go to your cheeks, tapping your jaw, worried, anxious as he begs for you to look at him.
“Hey, hey,” he mutters quickly, his hands slightly trembling, thinking he had hurt you terribly, “We can stop darling, it’s okay, don’t worry,” but you shake your head, a tremor in your lips as you look at him, hands covering your face as you feel tears wet your finger.
“It’s not that,” you whisper, choking on a cry, “‘S not that, it feels good, really good,” you add, sniffing again as your nose scrunches up. Gojo falters, rubbing away your stray tears, eyes looking everywhere to figure out what was wrong. He lets you find your words, even if it takes a minute.
“I…I just,” you sigh, pushing your lips together tightly as you look at him, “I missed you so much Satoru, I m-missed you, and,” you feel his eyes gloss over, “And I’m sorry I didn’t write o-or tell you anything. I love you,” you tilt your head up slightly to kiss him softly, “I love you so much. I know this isn’t what-”
“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head to cut you off, knowing that you might spiral, “I don’t care about the time, darling, I don’t care how long it took to have you again,” a tear off his falls on your cheek, “Just that I have you again. That I have the woman I love back in my arms is enough for me,” he promises and you laugh wetly, rubbing at your eyes.
He kisses your tears away, balancing himself above you as he nudges his nose against yours, something he does when he wants to catch your attention, when he knows you’re lost in your own mind.
You smile again, your hand falling in between your bodies to line himself up again with your entrance. He stutters, going to stop you, but you shake your head, wanting this, wanting this more than anything, and let your legs wrap around him again.
“I love you,” you whisper against his lips, feeling his cockhead push a little bit again past your aching walls.
His head drops down to your chest, not wanting you to see him break. Not wanting you to see the way he cracks because he never thought he’d hear you say those words again, never thought he’d see your lips form around those tender words, to give him such a divine feeling.
“I love you,” he says huskily, gasping it out as he sink in a little deeper, “I love you so much, so so much,” he kisses your chin, “So much that even if it took a century to find you I’d still love you as much as the day I first loved you,”
You giggle a little bit, kissing him messily as you moan against his lips, your cunt stretching again to fit his size, cradling the side of his face in your hands.
“I’m…I’m never letting go of y-you ever again,” you stammer, a little moan escaping you when a vein scratches deliciously against the side of your pulsing walls, “‘M yours, S-satoru, all yours.”
He groans, hands finding purchase on your waist as his eyes squeeze shut, too many feelings, all good feelings, coursing through him.
“Everything I have, e-eveyrthing I am and will be is yours,” he says, his voice breaking, “I was always yours to begin with.”
Your nails scratch down the flexing and large muscles of his back, leaving red lines in their wake as he picks up his face, your own tears, spit, juices, everything, mixing together as you moan in tandem.
“So good!” You whine, toes curling, your arm wrapping around his neck to pull him down to your chest until you were flush against each other, kissing against him messily, licking into his open mouth as you moan even louder when he angles his hips a certain way to reach even deep inside of you, if that was even possible, “T-think…think I’m ‘gonna…!”
That same buzz grows, that feeling of an incoming orgasm approaching you quickly. You were warned that it was difficult for a woman to finish during sex, and some of your friends often told you how they usually lay there until their husbands finished. But it wasn’t like that with Gojo, not at all. You have no idea how much time has passed, but it feels far quicker than usual.
His fingers never give up their pace on your clit, and your walls clench around him, a new feeling growing inside of you.
“‘Toru, I think I’m ‘gonna c-come,” you hiccup, your orgasm building up, “I t-think…”
He nods, biting your bottom lip between his teeth, feeling his own release creeping up on him, feeling the white hot flash grow in his groins.
“I know darling, I k-know,” he mutters, kissing the side of your mouth as his motions quicken, needing to feel you come with him, “I know, let go, come on, I know you can, let go for me darling, there it is.”
You let out your last moan when you feel your orgasm wash over you.
It’s blinding, exhilarating, and for a second you think you nearly died from how good it was.
You spray around his cock, gushing with your release. It wets his balls, dripping down onto the sheets, his abs shining wet from the way you squirted all over him. You want to feel embarrassed, but quite frankly can’t because of how utterly spent you feel.
Gojo opens his mouth in a silent exhale when his own orgasm happens, spilling his cum deep inside of you, painting your walls white with his seed as he spurts, seeming like it was never ending.
You feel yourself clench around him at the feeling, your entire body feeling even warmer at his cum reaching deep inside of you. He came so much that it overflows from inside, coming out from the sides of your cunt, mixing with your own juices as the two of you try to calm down from your mind-shattering climaxes.
And despite how tired you feel, a giddy smile makes its way onto your face.
Your husband is right next to you. You could have only dreamed this moment happening.
Gojo looks down at you, smiling too, his head tilting to the side.
“W-what?” He asks with a quiet chuckle, his cock still nestled inside you, and the thought makes you feel even giddier, turning your face to the side, smushing it against the pillows to mute your bursts of laughter.
But it’s no use, because Gojo leans down to the side of your face, kissing your cheek and jaw gingerly as he smiles against your skin, wiping the excess tears away from the corners of your eyes.
“What’s got you laughing, hm?” He says, his voice slightly muffled against your cheek and you giggle even louder, unable to control it, his fingers not helping as they place tickling and fleeting touches all over our naked and sweaty skin. He can’t help himself and laughs too, the sound hearty and loud, bouncing off the walls as you squirm around, your lips pulled wide, a toothy smile etched permanently onto your face.
“S-stop!” You wheeze out, his fingers everywhere, your arms, legs, thighs, stomach, fast and unforgiving, trying to squeeze every but of the wonderful sound out of you so he could bottle it up and keep it forever, “S-satoru, s-stop! Please!”
You push at his chest, eyes bright and full of mirth, looking back at the man you loved, his smile bright and blinding. You want to have this moment forever, over and over again, never ending, and you never want it to end. He finally pulls away, looking down at you with such adoration and love in his shining eyes that you feel like you’re about to go blind.
He pulls himself out of your warmth, kissing the back of his teeth when you pulse around him again, and his limp cock hangs satisfied. He pushes the mixture of his cum and your juices back in with his thumb, something primal filling him seeing you full of his seed.
Your legs twitch, slapping his curious hand away when it starts to trail back up to your clit, and watch him send you a little wink, a little sign for what’s to come later. Not now, though, because he sees the way your eyes are drooping, your hands resting on your stomach as you pat the empty space next to you.
Gojo obliges, falling down on the rumpled sheets, turning to the side to look at you.
You sigh, happy, full, and breaking at the seams with love. He lets the same sigh out, his pink lips pulled into an easy grin, months of exhaustion washing away from his body as he loops an arm under your waist, tugging you closer to his chest.
The two of you stay there in comfortable silence, grieving the months you lost, celebrating the moments just spent together, finding each other over and over again even if it tore you apart in the process.
He kisses your hairline, your forehead, the corners of your eyes. You preen like a cat, humming when you feel him kiss your cheek and your lips, pressing his last kiss to the tip of your nose, something he used to do when you were about to go to sleep.
“Sleep now” he whispers against the side of your head, pulling the blanket to cover your bodies, his hold of you never letting go, “I’ll be here when you wake up,” he smiles, pausing before saying, “I promise,”and you smile softly, craning your head up to look at him.
You fight back the tears, at the thought of waking up next to him, just like you always dreamed you would.
“You promise?” You murmur, feeling one last tear fall, one tear of joy, utter joy, and he catches it with his thumb, his blue eyes wavering like a clear sky without a singular cloud, and you watch as his throat bobs, eyes roaming all over your face, still can’t believing you were real. He hums deeply, tipping your chin up to meet him in one last longing kiss, lips moving gently along one another.
“I promise.”
Boxer Sukuna who, despite his hard and heavy appearance, is an absolute lovesick bug once you start dating him.
Boxer Sukuna who makes you kiss his knuckles before a match. Makes sure the stain from your lipstick/balm and grease is there on his knuckles before he puts his gloves on. (Nobody knows why he kisses his gloved knuckles in the middle of a match)
Boxer Sukuna who appears to be a relentless bully to you in public, biting your shoulder, pinching your sides, flicking your forehead, sinking his fangs into your cheeks, but is gentle when his mouth is on yours, gentle with his arm around your waist, gentle with his hold on your shoulder as he helps you navigate through a crowd.
Boxer Sukuna who is pliant in your arms. Who comes home after a tiring day and sinks into you, eyes heavy and shoulders sagging, and lets you run your fingers through his hair, massage his shoulders, and mumbles a heavy, “talk.” into the skin of your neck as he quietly lays on you, occasionally he chimes in with a , “what a pathetic bastard,” or “remind me to break his fucking nose,” when he listens to you rant about one of your lab partners.
Boxer Sukuna who finds himself reaching out for your favourites at the grocery store, at the deli, anywhere really.
Boxer Sukuna who knows your schedule by heart so he promptly slips in a sandwich or a wrap in your bag on days where you’re too busy.
“Eat.” He texts you the second the clock strikes one.
“Forgot to pack lunch.” You answer and he can picture your sheepish grin.
“Third pocket in your bag. Eat.” He answers.
Boxer Sukuna who doesn’t admit it, but is so stupidly in love with you.
A/N: Not sure if i should add this to the series.
Silence is better together IV
Chapter tags/warnings/ themes: AU!pirate hunter!Simon, fem!reader, mythological symbolism, angst, hurt/comfort, emotional whiplash, slight argument, bittersweet moments, Simon’s non-canon backstory, mentions of violence, mentions of 141, character death (Soap) grief, loss, trauma, flashbacks, survivor’s guilt, past abuse, soft!Simon, protective!Simon, tenderness & affection, confessions, pet names, fluff, slow burn is not slow buring anymore
Word count: 6,4k
A/N: Thank you so much for reading my story! I truly appreciate your support and for staying with me until the end of this series. And yes, I have to announce that this is the final part of Silence is better together. At first, this was supposed to be just a one-part thing, but I got carried away and ended up writing more. That’s why some scenes, especially the ending, might feel a bit rushed. I simply ran out of inspiration and didn’t want to drag this series to nowhere. Yet, I’m planning to write a few extra scenes that I didn’t get the chance to explore. Once again, thank you for being part of this journey.
Previous part
“When were you planning to tell me about this? If you were ever planning to do so. I feel like a fool,” you say, trying your hardest not to shout at him.
“I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to expose you to what I did or what happened in my past.”
“Expose me to what you did? Are you one of them? One of those who brought destruction to my village?”
“No. Don’t associate me with them. Never!” Simon exclaims, emphasizing each word.
“I don’t know what you did or who you truly are, but I was a fool to blindly trust you. At first, I wanted to take some time to assure myself that I could trust you, but then I allowed myself to believe you were different. You showed no signs that I should fear you. Yet, I am disappointed in myself. I regret meeting-”
“Don’t even think about saying that when you know damn well that is not true. It was my fault; I should have told you sooner.”
“No, it's mine. I should have pushed you to tell me more about your past when I met you, but I was so focused on other things…”
“You were focused on taking care of my arse. You made damn sure I kept breathing,” he completes your sentence, his voice low, mind filled with the moments you spent ensuring he stayed alive.
“Yes, I did that. I promised myself I would keep you alive. I couldn't bear the thought of letting you die, especially after witnessing my people die, powerless to stop it. I did not want to see another soul disappear too soon from this world. I did not want to lose someone again,” you continue the sentence in your mind.
“Listen, I need to make things right for the trouble I’ve caused you. I have a long story to share, and now feels like the right time to do it,” Simon says, his tone filled with remorse as he tries his best to redeem himself in your eyes. It’s not just about the two of you needing to cooperate to survive the colder season; it’s also about the strong connection you built together over the past few weeks - one he would be damned if he lost.
“Simon, if that’s your real name, you don’t owe me anything. I did everything expecting nothing in return. You don’t have to prove anything to me anymore. That’s enough,” you reply, your voice heavy with defeat.
“I never lied to you. I thought sheltering you from the harsh realities of the world outside was a good idea, but it wasn't. You need to understand the other side of the story.”
“What do you mean by that? Is there more to know?” you respond, your tone laced with a strange curiosity.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for what’s to come. “This time, don’t omit any important details. I need to know the truth.”
"After everything you've been through, you deserve to hear the truth. It's time to confront what’s real."
He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as memories from his past flood his mind. When he opens them, a hint of melancholy lingers, and hesitantly - with an unfamiliar emotion - he begins to share his history with you
Simon's story was devastating, full of tragedy, loss, and profound pain. He begins to paint a portrait of his childhood - a troubled one. His mind wanders back to his early years, a time marked by anxiety and fear, rather than the warmth of innocence, hope, and nurturing growth that many children his age experienced. His very being was molded by the tumultuous feelings of his past. Although he promised to share his full story, he felt the need to spare you the haunting memories of his violent father. He revealed only fragments of that turbulent time, driven by a desire to justify himself to you - to see him as he is, his true self.
Now, you understand why he struggles to express his emotions freely and articulate what he truly thinks. His complicated family situation formed him in this way; he lacked the privilege of growing up in an environment that nurtured this side of him. As a result, he often found himself isolated and quiet. Despite his mother's efforts to mend the harm caused by his heartless father's actions, the misery had already settled deep within his soul. His father's mistakes made him the man he is today. He vowed to himself never to become like his old man, and he has kept that promise to this day.
He believed that after his father left, his mother and brother's life would improve - he was wrong. When he joined the Privateer Unit, a group organized to hunt and capture the pirates that plagued the seas, he returned home for a short time, only to find his mother in debt and his brother struggling with addiction. His new mission was to help his family. After a long period of recovery, he had to come back to his work. Not long after he left, the Red Wave attacked his town, destroying it much like they had done to your village. However, at that time, they were just beginning their criminal path and were not as bloodthirsty as they would become when they destroyed your island. His family survived: his mother, brother, his brother’s wife, and his little nephew.
Yet, they were hurt, especially Tommy, his brother, who did his best to protect their family from these thieves. Their town was ravaged; they took everything they could carry. If his family had been lucky enough to escape this misery, it did not mean that the other families were also fortunate. Many people suffered at the hands of those cruel individuals. One of them was Henry, who faced a brutal death after trying to help his mother. Simon grew up with him; he was his only childhood friend. He remembered running away from home to escape his father's violence, wandering the streets for hours, even when it was cold or dark outside. Henry’s mother would often ask him to come inside to warm up. Hesitantly, he would want to decline, but the cold and his hungry stomach forced him to accept every time. They would pull out a chair at the table and welcome him with open arms, feeding him fresh food - even sweets afterward. Simon’s mother was an excellent cook, but he avoided sitting at the table with his family because his father always found a reason to raise his voice at him. He would quickly grab a piece of bread and leave, unable to bear the tension at the table. Henry’s father never raised his voice at his wife or son, and Simon felt a pang of jealousy at that. However, he pushed the feeling of envy to the back of his mind and pretended, if only for a moment, that this was his life.
He was grateful to Henry’s family for everything they had done for him. He felt an even deeper appreciation for Henry, who had been his only friend during a time when he felt all alone. Although he spent time with his brother, Tommy, he sometimes struggled to understand why their father seemed to favor him. This led him to distance himself from Tommy, even though he knew it wasn’t his brother's fault. He believed it was his own fault for being who he was. Over time, he learned to accept these feelings and focus on other aspects of his life. Deep within his soul, it still hurt, but he had grown accustomed to it by now.
He explains that he had decided to move his family to a place far from the ocean - somewhere safe and out of sight of the pirates. He wanted to prevent any future attacks. However, he knew he couldn't just wait and hope for the best; he had to take action. His mother was particularly stubborn, refusing to leave her home. It took a long time to convince her that it was for the best.
Since that moment, his life mission had been to hunt down those who wounded the most precious people he held close to his heart. He wanted to prevent their expansion into other areas as much as possible. His aim was to put an end to the suffering caused by their wicked actions, but doing all the work on his own proved to be a difficult task. Although he possessed ambition equal to ten men, he was also a man who acknowledged his limits.
He struggled to find allies he could rely on; most were only interested in fighting for money, not for the cause. This was understandable, yet the few men he had hired - initially eager for revenge - soon became clouded by their desire for more. They took the gold and goods stolen by the pirates, filling their own pockets instead of trying to give back to those who had suffered. While their desire for wealth was comprehensible, their greed was not. Now, they were no better than the pirates of the Red Wave.
Simon thought he would have to come back to the days of fighting alone, but fate had other plans. A man with an authoritative presence appeared out of nowhere, demanding that he join his team - he commanded, not asked. Simon was taken aback by such boldness, initially thinking the man was out of his mind. Yet, the man's speech was too good to ignore. In that moment, Simon found himself reevaluating his sanity as he made the decision to join the team, feeling trapped by circumstance. This is how he became part of Team 141, led by the rugged and determined Captain John Price, whose powerful moral compass guided their every move. Alongside him was Kyle Garrick, known as Gaz - a man with a sharp tongue and a fierce dedication, always ready for action. Then there was the unpredictable man that introduced himself as Soap, whose infectious humor, brilliant mind, and strong loyalty often caught Simon off guard. Within this new team, Simon discovered something he hadn’t felt in a long time: a sense of belonging.
Strangely, he felt at home in this team formed by three men who had once been nobody to him. It could be the sense of camaraderie he felt being with them, or perhaps it was the mutual reason they were fighting for. Maybe it was the feeling that he was an important piece of something greater; a piece that was undeniably needed. He felt seen and, oddly enough, understood by these men who did not know the full extent of his troubled past. They didn’t need to know his entire story to understand that somehow, they all shared the same cruel fate in life.
Soon, 141 became the first opponent of the Red Wave. No matter how hard the Red Wave tried to recruit the fiercest mercenaries, they consistently faced defeat. Battle after battle, they suffered significant losses in resources, personnel, and ships. The pirates were nearly brought to their end - until one day. On that day, 141 was struck by an unforeseen challenge: two or more pirate groups formed an alliance with the Red Wave. Historically, the Red Wave had operated alone, preferring to hire mercenaries rather than collaborate with other pirate factions. However, they had to set aside their pride and resort to drastic measures. Now, every pirate was in danger as 141's power grew with each passing year, and many began to forge alliances with them.
The upcoming battles grew increasingly brutal. Both sides fought with fervor, desperate to suppress their adversaries, and the struggle was palpable. For over six months, the conflict raged on, claiming countless lives and sending ships to the depths of the ocean. While vessels could be rebuilt, the profound loss of life weighed heavily on the hearts of those who remained. Just when Team 141 believed they were on the edge of victory, the unthinkable struck again. Fate seemed to laugh in their faces as they suffered the devastating loss of Johnny MacTavish - Soap. He was a man celebrated for his unwavering bravery, strategic mind, and bright personality. His absence left a void in the very spirit of the group as they faced an uncertain future.
The loss of his comrade, friend, and brother made Simon unpredictable. He felt a whirlwind of emotions: disbelief, shock, grief, guilt, and anger. Deep down, he knew it was a bad idea to join them. He was aware that he would grow attached to his teammates, who had become his second family. Now, he reminisces about the good times spent with Soap: laughter, silly jokes, and drunken ramblings about the past and future. Simon chuckles as he recalls moments during battles; always, one of them had to crack an idiotic joke to lighten the mood. They had a knack for telling jokes in the most unusual situations. But nowadays, he finds himself haunted by the horrible memories, particularly the moment Johnny passed away. He relives that instant every time he closes his eyes, vividly remembering the light that had once shone in Soap's eyes, now extinguished.
Simon confessed that he could no longer focus on their mission, constantly distracted by his racing thoughts. He felt like a coward for opting for the easy way out, yet he knew his poor mental state could compromise the entire team. This struggle ultimately led to his separation from 141.
“I always say the people you know can hurt you the most, either by betraying you or by losing them,” Simon explains, his gaze clouded as he looks at you.
You struggle to maintain eye contact; your mind is consumed by guilt. You feel ashamed for making assumptions about him when he had lived through similar experiences. You now understand his reactions, mannerisms, and the way he speaks - everything has a reason. He was hurt so deeply in the past that he still relies on these coping mechanisms to this day. He has gone through hell and has come back alive each time, but he carries the consequences of that suffering. He endured the separation from his family and chose to act as if he was dead to protect them from his enemies. He has had to live with the losses of so many people, including Johnny; especially him.
“I am so sorry, Simon. I shouldn't have made those accusations. I’m truly sorry -” you say, voice trembling and tears welling in your eyes.
“Don’t cry, love. It was just a silly miscommunication that led to this,” he reassures you, gently extending his hand to wipe away your tears.
"You didn’t deserve to suffer all of this. You deserve more good things to happen to you, Simon," you say as you clasp his hand, the one that cradles your face.
He knows he doesn't deserve your compassion, he doesn't consider himself a good man, even though he knows that the cause he was fought for was a good one. He committed unspeakable acts in pursuit of what he called victory. The same hands that cradled your face in comfort during the night when you were distressed were the ones that had killed man after man. The hands that were stained with your tears were the same hands that, in the past, bore the blood of his enemies. Those gentle hands that had brought you so much peace and consolation belonged to a man who was not proud of his past actions, but felt he did what was necessary. At the same time, Simon believed he had somehow protected you indirectly by ensuring that none of those men would again come close to you. Yet, he knew that from the moment he met you, he had tainted your soul with his very presence. He recognized that it might sound selfish to think this way, yet, he felt an overwhelming sense of contentment because he had met you. For the first time in his life, he believed he could offer more to someone who cared so deeply for him, even when he struggled to see himself as worthy of your affection. For once, he felt truly alive, not merely existing or surviving a cruel fate. He wanted to live a life worth living, and you showed him what that could be. The way you showed him how to appreciate the little things: the feeling of the sun on his face, the cold morning breeze embracing his body, the smell of the ocean, the songs of the birds, the pleasant taste of warm tea on a cold day, the laughter at silly things, and so much more. Unbeknownst to him, he began to pick up on traits from your behavior. Often, he found himself gazing at certain things with sparkles in his eyes and a genuine smile on his lips. However, he couldn't help but notice that his heart was filled with warmth when his gaze was upon you. He once more pledged to shield you from all harm, vowing to himself that he will not let anything or anyone to hurt you again.
As you read his mind, your expression shifted from comfort to worry in an instant. A disturbing thought consumes your mind.
“What happened, love? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Simon says with a hint of his typical humor.
“What if they come back to seek revenge?” you voice your concern.
“That is not possible, dear. There's no need to worry about them anymore,” he reassures you.
“How can you be so sure? You said there were many more of them. What will happen then?”
“There's no need to worry; everything is going to be just fine. The people who followed me were the last survivors of the Red Wave. You can set aside those concerns. Trust me, we are safe.”
“How can you be so sure that there aren’t more of them?” you ask, panic rising in your voice.
“Because I took every measure that was necessary. I handled it all, and no one was left standing,” Simon changes his tone from soothing to serious. His mind drifts for a moment to the time after he left 141 and decided to work alone once again. He made sure to follow every ship that flew the Red Wave flag and sank them to the bottom of the ocean. Even though there were times when he failed miserably, he remained unstoppable. Soon, he became known as the Ghost of the Ocean. No one knew when he would appear, and when he did, he left no traces - just like a ghost.
“They are not returning, not now or ever. I am here to ensure that no one will ever harm you, love. Do you understand?” he continues.
“Yes, I understand now. I just panicked, sorry…” you confess with embarrassment in your voice.
“It’s going to be alright, darling. And it’s the time we admit we both need to rest after all this madness.”
“I have to confess, I could really use an entire day to recover after everything…” you say, a question haunting your mind. “Would it be alright if I lay next to you tonight?” you ask, knowing that you need a moment of quietness, but most importantly, you need his presence.
“You don’t even have to ask. Let’s go now, dear,” Simon chuckles as he guides towards the bed.
You fall asleep reflecting on the events that just unfolded. Simon's vivid recollections of his experiences, thoughts, and emotions still linger in your mind, refusing to fade away. You try to approach his stories with caution, hesitant to accept everything he shared. It puzzles you why, despite his repeated demonstrations of loyalty and truthfulness, a wall of distrust still looms within you. You grapple with your own insecurities, determined to put an end to your doubts. Yet, your paranoia, like a restless spirit, continues to claw at the confines of the cage you have built to function normally. Deep within your soul, you feel a sharp sensation, like a knife twisting into a wound. It is the pain that accompanies the realization that he is telling the truth, and you don’t want to accept it. You struggle to believe that someone could suffer so profoundly throughout their entire life, especially during their childhood, and at the hands of the Red Wave. You also find it difficult to accept that someone had to choose violence and endure such brutality to stop the horrors inflicted by others. He had to embrace violence to put an end to someone else's. You must admit that you admire his burning devotion to eradicate the wrongdoings of others. His intention was to avenge those who can no longer fight for justice and to protect others from suffering the same fate that both he and you have endured. This is simply who he is; this dedication is deeply etched into the fabric of his being.
Simon was a man with a tumultuous past, marked by blood, tears, and agony, yet he treated you with such gentleness that it was hard to believe anyone could ever show you such kindness. He always made sure to make you feel seen and understood, even when he couldn’t provide any answers. He would look at you and nod, paying close attention to everything you had to say. As you revealed your past, he held your hand tightly, knowing how difficult it was for you to speak about that part of your history. He grasped your hand in consolation and support, recognizing that it was up to him to help keep you together as pieces of you began to crumble before his eyes. In moments like this, he was the sturdy marble column that held your unstable ruins in place. His rough, scarred hands seemed to find their way to the soft skin of your cheek, gently wiping away the tears that escaped from your eyes. In your most vulnerable moments, he was there - never asking for or demanding anything in return. He anchored you in the present, never letting go. He was the support you needed to keep you grounded and sane. Simon was the presence you needed badly in order to begin the healing process after experiencing that terrible incident. Curing a wound that has been open for a long time will be difficult, but you won’t be alone anymore. He is there for you, just as you are there for him. And in the morning when you wake, you will find him still next to you, just as he is now, sleeping peacefully, his chest rising and falling with each breath he takes - he is real and alive.
As you gaze over his face one last time before drifting off to the land of dreams, a sharp sensation pierces your heart abruptly. You are struck by the shocking realization that you have developed strong feelings for Simon - feelings that go beyond friendship. It feels as if you have been profoundly hit by Cupid’s arrow. Instead of bleeding red, you bleed the golden hue of a summer sunset on a beautiful, warm day. Golden like honey being poured into a fresh cup of tea. Golden like the precious thread that ties your fates together. Golden like his eyes in the candlelight.
Despite your desire to wake up first and welcome him to a new day, Simon beat you at this game once again. He wakes from sleep with a warm feeling beside him. When he looks over to your side of the bed, he is surprised not to see your back as he usually does. Instead, you are facing him, nuzzling your face into his arm. One of your hands is entwined with his, while the other is lazily draped over his chest. As much as he would have liked to greet you this morning with a fresh cup of tea, as he often did, he lets you rest. He can’t deny that he enjoys your closeness; it is pleasurable to wake up beside a soft, warm presence on a cold morning like this. He is so accustomed to waking up in a cold, empty bed in various locations and under different circumstances that this intimate greeting feels unfamiliar to him. He forgot what it is like to live in a house and how to feel at home - somewhere where he is seen, wanted, and where he belongs.
Carefully, so as not to wake you, he turns his face to admire your sleeping form. You look so peaceful in your slumber, wrapped in an enchanting and mystical allure. He can’t comprehend how you can radiate such energy after enduring so many horrific experiences. You are not defined by your past traumas, nor is he, but those experiences can profoundly affect your present, shaping the aura you emit. Yet this isn’t you. You envelop yourself in a transcendent glow, as if you have broken free from the realm of the gods he has read about. Then, he remembers - the myth.
He recalls the legend that began to take shape after the Red Wave destroyed your village. The lighthouse, which had always shone to guide the navigation of ships at night and during foggy weather, stopped shining. Many sailors chose to avoid that area afterward to prevent accidents caused by the unlit path on the ocean. After that, people began to spread tales of how the land of your village was haunted by the spirits of those who had fallen, seeking revenge.
As time passed, people began using this tale to scare their misbehaving children. But that wasn't all - someone, a man, added fuel to the story by claiming there was a sole survivor from the village. This man was one of the few survivors of the Red Wave imprisonment. Nobody believed him; they thought he had gone crazy after spending so much time as a prisoner. Somehow, Simon overheard the man discussing the story with curious children. He recounted tales of a woman, also a prisoner, who had once lived in a beautiful village situated on the cliffs of Crescent Island. This woman, who sadly passed away, had spoken to him about a beautiful and strong girl who survived it all. Soon after, the children began to create enchanting songs about the lonely girl who lived at the very end of the world, weaving tales of her solitude and dreams into melodic verses. However, their parents forbade them from singing or even thinking about the tale any longer, as some children were determined to rescue her, while others remained saddened by the thought of her loneliness. With that, they all forgot about her - until he crossed paths with you. The story the man told turned out to be true.
Now, Simon looks at you, your face slightly obscured by your hair. He reaches out and gently tucks your hair behind your ear. You haven't woken up; you are still deep in your sleep. He slowly begins to caress your face with feather-like touches, thinking about how he would burn the world to protect you from all the harm that exists. Each touch is filled with a fierce promise; the soft movements of his hand against your skin serve as a reminder that he is always there for you. Each promise is sealed by an insistent desire to make you happy and ensure that you will never again know pain. He doesn't question this reaction towards you; he thinks it is natural, spontaneous in an unusual kind of way. He wants to protect those who need protection, but with you, it is different. He hadn't questioned himself until this moment - he finds himself smiling as he caresses your face. Is this normal? He feels a strange sensation in his chest, like his heart is hurting, but there is no pain at all. It is more of a phantom sensation than a physical one, but it is there. He feels this way when he looks at you or when you make eye contact with him - paying attention to him, listening to him, and being there for him.
He realizes he often feels this way around you, yet he never questions it. He begins to reminisce about the times when you made his heart tighten in his chest; it was as if you held his heart in a firm grasp and never let it go. You made him feel this way when you smiled at him, appreciated the little things he did, held his face before you drew his portrait, or simply looked at him with those mesmerizing eyes. His mind is in a constant battle trying to decipher his own emotions, yet it is clear - he has fallen for you.
Simon continues to absentmindedly touch your features, tracing the beautiful contours of your face with his fingertips. He is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't notice you are awake, gazing at him with a shy smile.
“Good morning, Simon,” you say with a drowsy voice.
He yanks his hand back from your face, pinching the spot between his eyebrows as if that might somehow hide the fact that he’s been caught off guard; embarrassment is visible across his features. “Morning, love. How did you sleep?” he asks in a hoarse tone. It’s a question that has become his signature line, one he utters first thing each morning, reflecting his deep care for your well-being.
“I slept well. How about you?” you respond, wanting to stretch your arms in the air but surprised to realize that your hands are tangled around Simon’s body. Slowly, you begin to untangle your arms from him, avoiding eye contact as much as possible, too ashamed to meet his gaze.
“Surprisingly, very well,” he replies, gazing at you with amusement as you struggle to maintain your composure.
“Wonderful. May I have the honor of preparing you a cup of tea?” you ask with a silly grin, eager to distract yourself from the awkwardness of the moment. Fate seems to smile upon you as an affirmative hum escapes Simon’s throat.
You distract your mind for a short period as you prepare the tea, adding a few dried flowers and strongly scented leaves to infuse in the hot water. You start gathering ingredients for a freshly made breakfast, perfect for this cold weather. Behind you, Simon busies himself with putting firewood into the wood-burning stove. Your hands are moving, but your mind is still frozen in that morning moment - Simon’s warm body next to yours, your arms embracing him as you wake to the gentle caress of his hand on your face. If you could, you would stop time at that moment, never wanting it to end. It felt so addictive - in a good way. You never thought you would miss affection so much. It was so healing, a gentle reminder that you were not alone anymore. As you recall the feeling of his fingertips kissing the skin of your cheeks in a tender way, the newfound memory stirs in you a desire to cry - and you do. The weight of this feeling makes you silently sob, your body trembling slightly as you grip the edge of the table for support.
Simon quickly notices that something was wrong with you. “Dear, what is it? Are you hurt?”
You struggle to form a coherent response, but only shaky breaths escape your lips as you inhale deeply and exhale. Simon stands frozen beside you, unsure of what to do next, waiting for your reply. You wrestle with the decision of whether to tell him the truth, fearing his reaction. You don’t want him to see you as weak, especially since you already believe he perceives you as fragile and vulnerable. You don’t want him to feel responsible for your emotions, yet it seems he has taken that role upon himself. At the same time, you make a silent vow to be honest with him from now on, recognizing that he has already tried to be open with you. Taking another deep breath, you finally share the real reason behind your emotional state. You begin by expressing how long it has been since you felt the caring touch of another person - one that feels as if they are pouring their heart into that tender caress - warm, affectionate, and sincere.
“Oh, love…so that was the reason for your tears” he says in a sweet voice, while the worries wash away from his body.
“Yes, a silly motive, I know…” you look away, embarrassed.
“Listen, dear, it’s not a silly thing. What you’re feeling matters,” he says, placing his hands on your cheeks and wiping away the tears from your eyes with his thumbs. He gazes intensely into your red-stained eyes, his heart breaking at the sight of you like this. After that, he opens up his arms and says: “Come on, love.”
“I don’t -” you pause for a moment, but your concern fades in an instant as you throw yourself into his arms. One of his strong arms envelops your body while the other finds its way behind the back of your head, fingers softly tangling in your hair. His face nestles into your hair, breathing in your sweet, intoxicating scent. You hide your face in the crook of his neck, enjoying the mixed scents on his body: his natural one, the floral notes of your homemade soap, and a hint of tea. It’s an unusual combination, but it creates a comforting blend of essences, accompanied by the warmth radiating from him. One of your hands mimics his, tangled in his longer strands of hair at the back, while the other is tightly pressed against his back, your nails almost digging into his covered skin.
The harmonious entanglements of two souls intertwine, becoming one. The golden thread of fate weaves their destinies together - heart to heart, their beats synchronized. Two become one.
He is Simon Riley. Riley, his father’s name, weighs heavily on him, a burden of his father’s terrible wrongdoings. He is the Ghost of the Ocean - terrifying, vengeful, merciless. Once, he was a troubled, forgotten, suffering child. But for you, who is he? He is simply Simon - thoughtful, gentle, kind-hearted, wise, bright-minded, protective, amusing, loving - your Simon. If you had asked him whether he ever thought he would become like this, he would have laughed in your face. But things are different now. His stone walls have begun to crumble, piece by piece, since he met you. His ice-covered heart melted at the sight of your happy smile.
From a curious girl who picked and crafted beautiful pieces from seashells to offer as gifts to your loved ones, you evolved into the nameless mystical presence, one that survived the horrific attack of the Red Wave - a story told by survivors and sung about in children’s songs. But for him, who are you? You are selfless, soft-hearted, doting, sharp-witted, eloquent, loving - his darling. Since he came into your life, your broken soul began to fuse together, one shard at a time.
You had been praying for this moment to last forever, frozen in time, just the two of you. Yet, the realization that this can't happen to be true hit you as the boiling water shattered your unity. Quickly, Simon takes the pot from the stove, placing it on a spot so as not to get hurt by accident. He turns his body to face you, slowly closing the space between you.
“Better now, dear?” he asks with a light expression covering his features.
He is waiting for your response, which was slow to arrive. Your impulses get the best of you; you grasp his face, and soon, your lips are pressed together. A kiss that begins with you soon becomes guided by Simon, as you find yourself unsure of what to do next. What started as awkward pecks evolved into a more intense kiss, filled with passion, longing, and emotion. Hands caressing each other's faces, memorizing every contour with closed eyes, as if trying to preserve the moment in memory forever. From a gentle kiss, it transforms into a desperate one, consumed by the flames of the deep affection you held for each other. Each kiss, move, and touch was a declaration of love, marked by the promise of a happier and better future.
After a few moments, your lips finally part, both of you breathing heavily, your eyes shimmering with sparkles of hope and unspoken emotions. You cradle each other’s faces with such affection, looking into each other’s eyes and pleading for this to be true. It felt as if one wrong move could make everything vanish - your presence would become mist, evaporating into thin air. It was too good to be true, yet this was real and tangible. You could feel his facial muscles move under your touch - he was smiling, and so were you. Both of you let out a chuckle of disbelief, especially you, as you never thought you would be this bold.
“Yes… everything is better now,” you break the silence, still holding his face and running your thumbs over the smile lines etched into his skin. You crave to always see him this happy and, at the same time, want to be the reason he is.
“I can clearly see that. You are daring, love. I’ve got to say, I quite like it,” Simon responds with adoration in his voice, tucking some loose strands of hair behind your ear to get a better look at your face.
All it took was a moment of vulnerability, trust, and profound tenderness for you both to truly realize that your souls belong together, intricately intertwined forever - a bond secured by the unbreakable chain of fate. With him hugging you from behind, his arms wrapped around your waist and his face nestled in the crook of your neck as you stand on the veranda, enjoying a warm cup of tea and gazing at the beautiful view as the sun's rays break through the thick veil of clouds. You think: “Silence is better together.”
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ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony I ch 7 ᰔᩚ
ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader
ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.
ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, some triggers of domestic abuse » 【note, this chapter contains heavy triggers of domestic abuse and explicit sexual content (dry humping, grinding)】
ꨄ words: 21k (i'm so... so tired guys...)
ꨄ a/n. happy thanksgiving! sorry this took so long—this chapter has a lot in it. i'm laying down a lot of ground work for what's to come so... this is kind of a unique chapter, and it didn't feel right breaking it up. anyways, here ya go! also, happy birthday @gojoslefttoenail ♡
ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)
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series masterlist ꨄ︎ previous chapter ꨄ︎ next chapter → pending
ch 7 // the road ahead
Stepping out of the suite’s bedroom, raindrops cling to the large windows—a warm glow radiating over the common area as each shimmering bead catches delicate streams of morning sunlight, but the only thing that draws your attention is Satoru.
Sitting casually on the plush couch, one of his arms is draped lazily along the backrest, his long legs stretched out as though the world couldn’t faze him. He looks utterly at ease, but as soon as his eyes meet yours, everything shifts. His expression brightens instantly, his features softening into a boyish grin, and those brilliant blue eyes of his twinkle with a warmth that feels like it’s meant for you alone.
“Mornin’ sleepyhead. Ready to get going?”
A soft smile tugs at your lips as you meet his gaze.
He never fails to make your heart skip a beat—every single time. But now, your heart flutters differently. There’s a gentle intimacy in the way he looks at you—something that is much more than casual affection.
Nodding, your fingers absentmindedly tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you begin to cross the room, closing the distance between him.
“Yeah,” you murmur, reaching for your purse on the coffee table, then sliding it around your shoulder. “Let’s go home.”
Stepping out of the suite together, it’s almost like the quiet click of the door feels like the closing of a chapter, and the beginning of something new.
You both begin to make your way down the hallway towards the elevator, and without a word, Satoru reaches for your hand, his fingers threading between yours in a way that feels so natural, so right, like they were always meant to fit together this way.
Looking up at him, he flashes you another one of those disarming smiles while offering your hand a reassuring squeeze.
Your stomach flips—but why? This isn’t the first time you’ve held hands—far from it. You do it all the time in public, in front of others. So why does it feel different now?
Ah…because this is real.
There are no cameras. And there is something different in the way he holds your hand—it’s more deliberate, more certain, as if the invisible wall that once stood between you has finally crumbled.
That realization alone sends a warmth flooding through you, spreading up your chest and into your cheeks, leaving you flushed with a delicate shade of pink. But it’s not just the hand-holding—it’s everything. The look in his eyes, the warmth of his touch, the way his presence makes you feel cherished in a way you’ve never felt before.
For the first time, you know for certain that you’re not just pretending.
And despite being able to walk beside him in comfortable silence, you can’t help but feel a little nervous around him now. Everything is different…and that’s exciting, but also terrifying in its own way.
Familiar, but new.
A subtle tension begins to coil in your chest, and then, your stomach betrays you with a low, unmistakable growl. Its soft rumble breaks the quiet moment—catching Satoru’s attention.
“Hungry?” he teases.
“Yeah… I could really use something to eat…” you mutter, almost to yourself, a faint blush creeping into your cheeks.
Satoru’s eyes glint with amusement, and he hums thoughtfully, his thumb tracing idle patterns on the back of your hand.
“Y’know… I should’ve ordered us breakfast in bed. One call, and we could’ve had pancakes, coffee… the works.” Tilting his head, he lets out a playful sigh. “Just think—pancakes and cuddles.”
The thought sends a shiver of warmth through you. His eyes flicker to yours—meeting you with a smirk, and you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. Nudging him gently with your elbow, you let out a soft, breathy laugh.
“Mmm, that does sound tempting…” you pause, letting the image linger, but then your smile fades slightly—tempered by a tug in your heart.
Haru—is she okay? The wind had howled so fiercely through the night, and you weren’t there to comfort her.
“But… we should get home to Haru…” your voice softens as the concern creeps in, despite your best efforts to hide it.
The teasing gleam in Satoru’s eyes soften into something warmer, more tender.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he murmurs, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “Can’t keep the little princess waiting.”
Once you approach the elevator, Satoru reaches out to press the button. But as you stand there for a brief moment of silence, he glances at you from the corner of his eye—catching sight of your furrowed brow, your lips pressed together in a thin line. Thoughts of Haru cloud your mind—weighing you down. You’re anxious to get home to her.
He leans back against the wall beside the elevator, and then with a subtle movement, you blink as he gently pulls you into his chest.
As his warmth envelops you like a soft blanket, he intertwines both of your hands, holding them between your bodies.
“So…” he sighs, looking down at you affectionately, “pancakes or waffles when we get back?”
The question, so simple yet so thoughtful, pulls you out of your reverie.
“I could definitely go for pancakes,” he adds with a slight grin, leaning in closer, “but I think Haru’s more of a waffle girl, right?”
His thumbs brush gently over your knuckles—a wordless reassurance—and the tension within you slowly begins to fade as you relax into his warmth. Your heart swells that he has caught onto such a small detail regarding Haru.
“Yeah… definitely waffles,” a slow smile spreads up your lips. “She thinks pancakes are too mushy.”
Satoru’s face immediately falls into an exaggerated frown, his lower lip jutting out in a dramatic pout.
“Seriously? Too mushy? Aww man… what kind of taste does she have?”
You can’t help but giggle at his expression, but before you can respond, he doubles down on the silliness—his voice dropping into an absurdly serious tone.
“Tch… waffles are just pancakes with abs.”
The deadpan delivery of his words catches you completely off guard, and before you know it, a burst of laughter escapes your lips and Satoru’s grin widens, clearly pleased with himself—soaking in the joy he’s managed to spark.
“See?” he teases, soft but triumphant as he unclasps your hands, only to wrap his arms around you. “Can’t be stressed when you’re thinking about pancakes with abs.”
“How do you even come up with these things?” you shake your head, still smiling.
“What? You know it’s true,” he declares.
His fingers absentmindedly rub against your lower back as he leans down to place a tender kiss upon your temple.
“But I’ll win her over one day. Pancakes will prevail.”
As his words settle, you feel a warm realization blooming in your chest.
Was… he trying to cheer you up?
Leaning into his embrace, you feel the last traces of tension melt away, replaced by a quiet gratitude that fills every corner of your chest. For once, you don’t feel the need to hold everything together alone. With him, it’s safe to let go, to simply be.
Suddenly, the soft ding of the elevator breaks your thoughts, pulling you back to the present—and as the door slides open with a quiet swoosh, you both step in together, welcomed by its faint hum.
After pressing the button to descend, Satoru’s arm slips around your waist, drawing you back against the warmth of his chest. Your heart skips a beat as his hands move slowly across you—gliding up your hips until they settle on your stomach—his fingers splayed gently over the fabric of your dress.
He nuzzles into the curve of your neck, and ripples of pleasure course through your body as he exhales deeply—basking in your presence.
“Satoru…” you whisper, but his name falters on your lips as he dips his head lower, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder and trailing soft, lingering kisses up your neck.
“Mmm?” he hums against your skin, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
A quiet, airy laugh escapes you, and you tilt your head slightly, granting him better access.
“What… what are you doing?” you ask breathlessly.
“Just… enjoying this moment,” he murmurs through kisses—inhaling deeply. “Is that okay?”
Oh… this is new. He’s so… affectionate.
“Um… yeah…” you whisper, “it’s… more than okay.”
A deep, contented groan rumbles from his chest, and you feel his hands slide to your sides, his thumbs brushing slowly over your hips in a rhythm that’s both soothing and exhilarating.
“Good…” he exhales, a hint of tension in his voice. “’Cause… I can’t seem to keep my hands off you today…”
A pleasant shiver runs through you as his warmth surrounds you—the solid press of his body so close that it’s all you can feel, all you can breathe in.
Heat floods your cheeks, and just as you’re about to say something, he lets out a shaky sigh—his forehead coming to rest gently against your shoulder—his arms easing into a softer, more measured hold.
“Fuck… sorry,” he breathes. “See what you do to me?” his words come out in a quiet, almost desperate groan. “You drive me insane…”
Your heart races at his admission, and a light, breathless laugh slips from your lips.
“Do I?” you glance back at him.
The moment you catch that look in his eyes, dark and intense, a slow, deliberate smile curves up his lips—something wild simmering beneath the surface.
“More than you know,” he murmurs.
Tilting your head, you hold his gaze—a spark of mischief lighting your own as you manage a small, daring smile.
“Well… maybe I like driving you a little crazy…”
A low groan rumbles in his chest as his grip on your hips tightens with a restraint that feels as delicate as a thread.
“Oh, you’re trouble,” he murmurs, “I’m trying to be respectful here, but you’re really not making it easy.”
A thrill courses through you at his words—your heart racing in your chest. For a brief, dizzying moment, you wonder what it would be like to let him lose that last bit of control.
But…
“We’re… we’re in an elevator Satoru,” you exhale with a growing smile. “And… there are cameras, you know?”
Drawing in a slow breath, his eyes drift shut for a moment—as if gathering himself. Then, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder, soft yet intense—leaving a warmth in its wake.
“I know, I know,” he mutters reluctantly, “I’ll behave...”
You arch a brow, the faintest smirk touching your lips.
“Really?” you tease, tilting your head. “Because you don’t exactly feel like you’re behaving.”
A deep, rich chuckle escapes him, reverberating against your skin as he leans in.
“Believe me,” his tone dips to a hushed promise, “if I wasn’t behaving… you’d know.”
“…is that so?” you challenge, just above a whisper.
“Oh, sweetheart…” he whispers, lips brushing against your ear. “I’d pin you against this wall and kiss you senseless if we weren’t in public…” his fingers trace slow, deliberate circles on your hips. “But for now, I’ll settle for this…”
A flush of warmth spreads up your cheeks—his words unraveling you on the inside. You manage a small, steadying breath, clinging to your composure as best as you can.
“Good to know you have some self-control,” you sigh breathlessly. “Although… I didn’t ask you to hold back… entirely.”
A spark of mischief lights his eyes, and in one smooth motion, he loosens his grip on your hips—pulling back just enough to shift the energy. His hands slide down to capture yours, and he spins you around to face him with a gentle tug—interlacing his fingers with yours.
“Don’t tempt me,” an exasperated laugh slips through his lips. “C’mon now… that’s really not fair. I’m seriously hanging by a thread as it is.”
His laugh is contagious, and it pulls one from you, breaking the tension just enough to leave you both grinning.
“Since when did you become such a risk-taker, Mr. Perfect?”
He chuckles, shaking his head slightly, almost as if he’s surprised himself.
“Since you started driving me out of my mind,” with a soft sigh, his voice lowers as he brings his forehead to rest gently against yours. “You’ve got me breaking all my rules.”
A warmth blossoms in your chest, his quiet admission stirring something deeper within you.
“I guess… I’m breaking my own rules too…” you admit quietly.
ꨄ
As the limo door closes and the car pulls away from the hotel, you let out a deep, satisfied sigh, sinking back into the plush seat. Stretching your legs out, you slip off your heels with a soft groan of relief, wiggling your sore toes and savoring the freedom.
“Finally,” you murmur, leaning your head back against the seat. “I’m so ready to go home.”
Beside you, Satoru watches—a lazy, amused smile tugging at his lips as he crosses his arms and leans back.
“Mmm... I suppose it was a long night, huh?”
You respond with a dramatic groan—tilting your head back against the seat and letting your eyes flutter shut. The exhaustion from the previous night still lingers—a subtle ache in your muscles.
Will these events ever get any easier? You seriously doubt it.
“That’s an understatement,” you sigh. “No more charity galas for a while, please. I need a serious break.”
A low chuckle escapes him, and you feel the warmth of his hand as he reaches over, his fingers finding yours in a gentle squeeze.
“Oh?” his thumb brushes softly against your knuckles. “Well, well… and here I thought you were starting to enjoy the glamorous life, Mrs. Gojo.”
You open your eyes, turning to give him a look of pure disbelief.
“Enjoy?” you scoff, letting out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Satoru, my feet are still killing me from last night, and my face actually hurts from all that forced smiling. I’m serious. Please, no more galas for a bit. I’m begging you.”
Pressing your hands together in a dramatic plea, your exaggerated gesture pulls a small smirk to the corner of his lips.
“So… you’re telling me you didn’t enjoy the endless small talk, the flashing cameras, the unsolicited life advice?” his tone drips with feigned innocence.
You snort, rolling your eyes as you lean your head against his shoulder, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over you. With a tired sigh, you murmur,
“If I have to hear one more person ask when we’re expanding our family, I might actually lose it.”
His smirk deepens, a mischievous gleam flickering in his gaze as he leans in a fraction closer.
“Well…” his voice drops to a low, intimate murmur. “I’m more than happy to help with the ‘expanding’ part.”
A flush of warmth rushes to your cheeks—your eyes widening as his words sink in. You lift your head to meet his gaze, but the intensity in his eyes only makes your blush deepen.
“S-Satoru!” you stammer.
He laughs, rich and unrestrained—clearly delighted by your reaction. His eyes glint with mischief as he leans back—stretching his arm along the back of the seat in a languid, confident gesture.
“What?” a wicked grin tugs at his lips. “Just trying to be a supportive husband.”
“You’re impossible,” you mutter, still feeling the warmth on your cheeks as you nudge him with your elbow—a reluctant smile creeping onto your face.
After a moment, you clear your throat, shifting the conversation.
“Speaking of which… Mr. ‘Supportive Husband’… you really threw me off during the interview last night, you know that? Changing the script at the last second?”
He crosses his arms, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Oh, come on. You handled it perfectly. I was impressed.”
Raising an eyebrow, you give him a pointed look.
“Impressed or not, that doesn’t mean I wasn’t panicking. I had everything planned out, rehearsed a dozen times, and then you just… decided to go off-script.” Shaking your head, you sigh in exasperation. “I mean… you know how much I practiced those responses.”
His expression softens, the playful edge fading as he meets your gaze.
“I couldn’t help it. I just… wanted to be honest.”
The words come out quietly, and for a moment, the sincerity in his voice makes your breath catch. You swallow, your mind flashing back to last night.
“Well…” you manage—voice softening as you feel the blush return to your cheeks. “A little warning would’ve been nice. I was just standing there, trying to keep it together while you… well…”
A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans in closer.
“Oh? Did I make you nervous, sweetheart?”
You roll your eyes, though your heart flutters at his infuriating charm.
“Just… try to give me a heads-up next time you decide to profess your feelings in front of an audience.”
He chuckles again, and this time, his hand finds yours—intertwining your fingers in a gentle, reassuring hold.
“Fair enough,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb softly over your knuckles.
But as his fingers linger, his gaze shifts to the window, his expression tightening ever so slightly. You follow his line of sight, noticing the way his eyes narrow, his jaw setting in subtle concentration.
“Satoru?” a touch of concern creeps into your voice. “Is… everything okay?”
Before he can answer, the driver’s voice crackles through the intercom—calm but cautious.
“Mr. Gojo… I believe we have a vehicle following us. They’ve been on our tail since we left the hotel.”
Satoru’s jaw clenches slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face as he narrows his eyes—focused on the dark car trailing a few lengths behind.
“I’m already aware,” he mutters, almost to himself.
Glancing over your shoulder, your eyes land on the vehicle in question—a sleek, shadowy figure weaving through traffic, keeping pace with the limo’s every turn. A prickle of unease begins to settle in your stomach.
“Who are they?”
“Probably just paparazzi. It’s nothing new, trust me. Annoying, but they usually give up after a while.”
But as he says this, his expression betrays a hint of tension—a subtle tightness around his mouth and eyes that doesn’t quite match his nonchalance.
You shift in your seat, feeling a mixture of curiosity and unease as the car continues to follow behind, relentless in its pursuit—clinging to your trail like a shadow.
“And… if they don’t give up?”
A flicker of amusement dances across Satoru’s face, though there’s a guarded glint in his eyes. He lets out a low chuckle and his smirk returns—something unreadable lurking beneath the surface.
“Then Ichiji gives them a little… tour of the city.”
As if on cue, Satoru leans forward, pressing a button on the console to speak to the driver.
“Ichiji,” he calls, “think you can lose our friend back there?”
“Understood, sir.”
The limo surges forward, weaving through the road as it picks up speed—the cityscape flashing by in streaks of light and shadow—side streets you didn’t even know existed.
Satoru’s hand tightens on yours as you feel the controlled chaos of the limo dipping and swaying with each sharp maneuver—slipping through intersections just before traffic lights change.
Ichiji’s skill is apparent as he navigates the city’s maze. Yet, each time you risk a glance over your shoulder; the dark vehicle remains close, mirroring every twist and turn with an unsettling persistence.
Satoru catches your glance, and despite the tension etched into his features, he offers you a small, reassuring smile, though a flicker of irritation sharpens his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” he gives your hand a comforting squeeze. “Ichiji’s handled far worse. It’s just a nuisance—probably some rookie who thinks they’ve found their big break.”
You nod, taking solace in his confidence, but the tension in the car is thick, wrapping around you like a shroud.
After slipping down another narrow street, there’s a fleeting moment where hope blooms—you think you’ve finally lost them, that the shadow has fallen away.
But just as you start to relax, a chill races down your spine. Glancing over your shoulder again, there it is—the dark car, reappearing like a phantom.
Beside you, Satoru’s demeanor shifts, his usual light-hearted smirk fading into something colder, more resolute. He’s not just irritated anymore; he’s assessing, calculating.
“Sir,” the intercom crackles to life—Ichiji’s voice breaking through with a note of frustration. “They’re persistent. I’ve tried several routes, but they’re still on us.”
Satoru’s jaw tightens, though his voice remains calm, almost casual—a stark contrast to the intensity in his gaze.
“Keep going, Ichiji. Let’s see if they’re just stubborn… or genuinely serious.”
The limo surges forward—Ichiji pushing the car into tighter turns.
As the narrow roads and sharp angles blur past, your body sways, and you find yourself slipping into Satoru’s side—his arm instinctively wrapping around you to steady you.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of winding detours and narrow escapes, Ichiji makes a bold maneuver—a sudden, sharp left down an alley barely wide enough for the limo, followed by a swift merge onto a bustling main road.
With the limo straightening, he picks up speed as it merges seamlessly with the traffic—the dark vehicle disappearing into the distance—swallowed by the sea of cars.
Relief washes over you as you look back, and the tension in your body slowly unravels as you sink further into your seat, exhaling a shaky breath.
Satoru lets out his own small sigh, his shoulders loosening as the hard edge in his expression softens slightly.
“Persistent, but not persistent enough,” he mutters, casting a final glance out the rear window before finally turning his full attention back to you.
A relieved laugh slips past your lips—a blend of amusement and exasperation. You quirk a brow and give him a wry smile.
“So… is this, like, the VIP experience of being married to you? Complimentary car chases and all?”
Satoru snorts—a smirk breaking through his calm facade as he chuckles.
“Only the deluxe date package, sweetheart. I aim to impress.”
“Well, mission accomplished,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes with a grin. “What’s next? Parachuting out of the jet?”
“Not today,” he lets out a dramatic sigh. “But if you ask nicely, I might arrange it for our next outing,” he adds with a wink.
A soft laugh escapes you, but as the humor fades, a comfortable silence settles between you. The adrenaline from the chase lingers, slowly dissipating into a shared quiet that feels strangely intimate.
Settling back into his seat, Satoru’s gaze drifts to the window—watching the city blur past with a distant, almost contemplative expression—absently tracing gentle patterns on the back of your hand.
You take the opportunity to study him, observing the subtle lines that have eased from his face—for although his hand, still entwined with yours, feels relaxed, there’s something lingering in his eyes.
A guarded look, a shadow of vigilance—as though he’s still braced for the next challenge, the next threat lurking around the corner.
You can’t help but feel a pang of empathy, a longing to understand, to somehow lighten the burdens he doesn’t speak of. And as you sit there, your hand in his, the question rises to the surface, soft but insistent.
“Does it ever get… easier?”
He blinks, pulling his gaze from the window to look at you, a faint surprise flickering in his eyes as he considers your question.
“Easier?” his voice lowers, softened by a hint of weariness. “I guess… you learn to live with it,” his gaze drifts again. “The constant attention, the expectations… it just becomes a part of you, like background noise.”
With a subtle pause, a quiet sigh slips from his lips, barely audible.
“Perhaps it only gets easier to pretend it doesn’t bother me.”
As his confession hangs between you, your heart aches for him—for the weight he’s constantly been forced to carry in silence.
Gently, you give his hand a reassuring squeeze, and feeling a surge of tenderness, you shift closer—resting your head against his shoulder in a gesture of quiet support.
“That must have been… hard to grow up with, Satoru.”
A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, his gaze dropping to where your hands are entwined.
“Well… when you grow up in a family like mine, you learn early on that everything comes with a price. Privacy, peace, even… happiness.”
He pauses, the faintest shadow crossing his face. You feel his hand tense slightly in yours.
“My father… he was very clear about what he expected, what he considered acceptable.”
A flicker of vulnerability passes through his gaze, and for a brief moment, he seems to struggle, as if wrestling with the decision to reveal more or to keep his past guarded.
His jaw tightens, as he reluctantly mutters, “…and if something threatened that image?”
Tilting your head slightly, your heart aches as you sense the struggle behind his words.
There’s a part of you that dreads the answer, that fears what he might say, but another part—the part that trusts him, that wants to understand—urges you forward.
“What would he do… if something threatened it?”
The silence feels heavy, and Satoru’s gaze grows distant—his eyes unfocused, as if he’s looking at something far beyond the present.
“He’d… handle it,” he pauses, hesitating. “He had a way of making problems… disappear. It didn’t matter what—or who—got in the way.”
A chill runs down your spine, his words settling over you like a shadow. And then, like a whisper carried in the wind, another voice intrudes, one you’d rather forget—Naoya.
‘The Gojo family isn’t as squeaky clean as they’d like everyone to believe’
Swallowing, the knot in your stomach tightens—uncertainty and unease churning within you.
‘Corporate malpractice. Insider trading. Swept under the rug.’
Your mind races with questions, possibilities—fragments of a puzzle that feel just out of reach.
But as you look at Satoru, his profile softened by the passing streetlights, his expression seemingly relaxed yet shadowed by an inner turmoil—you feel an undeniable urge to understand, to know the truth—not from anyone else’s lips but his.
What’s his side of the story?
You chew on the thought, and the question sits heavy on your tongue—tangled with hesitation and a nagging curiosity that prickles under your skin.
Part of you fears what he may reveal; wonders what will come to light if you dare pull back the curtain. But you’ve already made your choice—you have placed your trust in him, and now, it’s time to act on it.
“Hey… Satoru?”
At the sound of your voice, his expression softens, his gaze shifting from the window to meet yours, a faint smile touching his lips
“Hmm?”
Hesitating for a heartbeat, you gather your courage—finding your words.
“There’s… something Naoya said that’s been bothering me.”
Satoru’s brow knits, his relaxed posture shifting as a flicker of apprehension crosses his face. He leans in, subtly closing the distance between you.
“…what did he say?”
You swallow, steadying yourself.
“He mentioned… a court case. Said it was ‘swept under the rug’ by your family.”
At this, a faint tension settles over him, and he glances away—his gaze clouding as though he’s sifting through memories he’d rather not confront.
“Well… Naoya’s not entirely wrong,” he hesitates, a flicker of something heavy in his eyes. “There was a case… years ago, before my father passed. I… wouldn’t say it was ‘swept under the rug’ though.”
Sensing the reluctance in his words, you shift closer, letting your hand rest lightly on his arm—a quiet reassurance that he doesn’t have to face this alone.
“What happened?” you ask gently.
There is a beat of silence—his eyes flickering to yours as he lets out a deep sigh.
“Look… my father was a powerful man,” he begins, low and guarded. “He would do whatever he thought was necessary to protect our family’s legacy. But… at some point, having power like that attracts attention from people who want to exploit it.”
With a subtle pause, he holds your gaze, gauging your reaction—almost as though he’s afraid of what you might think. You offer an encouraging nod—silently urging him to continue.
“They were… dangerous people,” he continues. “At first, they saw my father’s influence as something they could control—a tool to serve their agenda. But when he refused to play along…” his voice trails off, and his lips press into a hard line. “Well, let’s just say they didn’t take it well. The retaliation started subtly—small threats, quiet warnings—but it didn’t take long before things began to escalate.”
A prickling unease creeps up your spine, the revelation unfolding an image of his family’s past that you’d never envisioned.
The Gojos? Entangled in the underworld?
It seems impossible—absurd even. Yet, as you watch the subtle tension drawing across Satoru’s face, the disbelief gives way to a somber realization. His family’s legacy, so polished and prestigious, carries a dark weight that’s been carefully hidden.
A thousand questions rush through your mind, but one stands out, pressing at the forefront.
“These people…” your fingers brush over his arm in a silent promise of support, “who were they?”
His hesitation stretches, the tension deepening in his face as his eyes darken. Swallowing, his gaze drops for a moment before he finally murmurs,
“The yakuza.”
A soft, involuntary gasp escapes you—your breath catching as the gravity of his words sink in.
“The yakuza?”
You stare at him, searching his face, trying to fully comprehend the magnitude of what he’s revealing—though all he offers is a nod, his expression grim.
“I… I had no idea it was that serious,” you stammer. “I… I thought… maybe it was just business rivals or… or people with grudges. But… the yakuza?”
“Yeah… they approached my father, tried to pull him into their world. He resisted… but with people like them, ‘no’ isn’t an option. So, they went after what he valued most—his reputation. That’s why they took him to court.”
As his words sink in, your heart races, a new fear unfurling in your chest, cold and insistent.
If they were willing to tear Satoru’s father down so publicly, to ruin him in order to make a statement, what would stop them from going after what Satoru values most now? The thought sends a ripple of dread through you, heavy and unsettling.
The memory of the car that had tailed you earlier rises unbidden in your mind. Was it really just… paparazzi? Or could it have been something more sinister? The possibility claws at you, leaving a hollow ache of unease that tightens around your chest, raw and suffocating.
And then, almost as if summoned by that fear, Haru’s innocent face flashes across your mind—her bright eyes, her soft laughter. The mere thought of her being anywhere near this kind of danger wraps around you like a vice, filling you with a terror that threatens to spill over.
“Satoru…” your voice trembles, the panic creeping in as you whisper, “If they were willing to go to those lengths… what does this mean for us? For Haru?”
Noticing the anxiety bubbling within you, Satoru’s expression softens as his hand finds yours—warm and steady, a reassuring grip.
“Hey… you don’t have to worry about that. Not anymore,” his thumb brushes over your knuckles in a soothing rhythm. “My father… he dealt with them. He put their kanbu—Toji Zenin—in jail. Since then, they’ve kept quiet.”
Toji Zenin…
As the name rolls off his tongue it lingers in your mind, echoing, triggering something faintly familiar.
“Zenin?” you repeat, eyes widening as the realization dawns. “Did you say… Toji Zenin?”
He blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face as a faint crease forms between his brows. Nodding slowly, his gaze is steady but laced with quiet concern.
“Yeah… Toji Zenin. Why?”
The pieces fall together in a chilling clarity—a cold, uncomfortable realization settling over you like a shadow. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and your mouth goes dry.
“Satoru…” you inhale sharply. “Naoya’s last name… it’s Zenin.”
A heavy silence fills the car, pressing in from all sides, suffocating in its intensity. Satoru’s eyes widen, a crack in his usual composure—a flicker of shock as he absorbs the implications of your words.
“Naoya… is a Zenin?” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.
Leaning back, he releases a sharp exhale as though the weight of this new knowledge has landed squarely on his shoulders. His gaze shifts, unfocused, as he absorbs the impact.
“Well,” he mutters, almost to himself, “that explains a lot...”
But his reaction only sharpens the tendrils of fear coiling around your heart, constricting until it’s hard to breathe.
Your thoughts spiral, slipping beyond your control—images of Haru’s innocent face, of your family thrown into turmoil, of everything you and Satoru are trying to build, crumbling under the threat that looms over you.
“Satoru… this… this isn’t just some family feud, is it?” you struggle to keep your composure. “If Naoya’s related to Toji, he won’t just… let this go. Oh god… what are we going to do?”
Satoru’s expression softens at the panic rising in your tone, and without a word, he shifts closer, reaching out to anchor you. One hand finds yours, wrapping around it in a steadying grip, while his other rises to cradle your face, grounding you in his touch.
“Hey… shhh, look at me,” his thumb traces a gentle line down your cheek. “I will handle this. I won’t let anything happen to you or to Haru. I promise.”
Searching his face, you are drawn to the quiet intensity of his eyes—the fierce protectiveness simmering beneath his calm demeanor. Despite the fear gnawing at you, there’s a flicker of reassurance, a warmth spreading from his touch—one that eases the tension in your chest.
“I know this feels overwhelming…” he soothes, “but I guarantee you, whatever Naoya or his family think they can do, they won’t succeed. Not while I’m here. I don’t care who Naoya is or what he thinks he’s capable of. He won’t touch you. He won’t come close to Haru. Not now, not ever.”
The calm certainty in his voice wraps around you, dispelling the worst of the shadows lurking in your mind. Drawing a shaky breath, you nod—clinging to his steady presence as his words sink in.
He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.
“You’re safe with me,” his gentle breath fans your face as he caresses your cheek. “No matter what happens, we’ll face it together. I’ll protect you… protect our family. I need you to trust me on this sweetheart.”
You squeeze his hand, finding strength in his resolve, in the steady rhythm of his breathing—and for a moment, enveloped in his warmth and the comfort of his words, you allow yourself to believe—if only for a little while—that you’re safe.
ꨄ
As the door of the Gojo estate clicks shut behind you, the hurried patter of small feet echoes down the hall. Haru rounds the corner, her small frame skidding slightly as she sees you—eyes wide with relief but a little red-rimmed.
“Mama!”
Her bottom lip quivers as she reaches for you, and her little arms are stretched out as far as they can go—desperate and open.
Dropping to your knees just in time, she crashes into you—her small hands clinging desperately to your shoulders as she buries her face in the crook of your neck.
“Oh, sweet girl,” you whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to her head. “I missed you too, baby. It’s okay. Mama’s here.”
It’s all you can do to hold her close, stroking her back in soothing circles as her quiet whimpers are muffled against you. Then, lifting your gaze, you catch the nanny’s gentle, sympathetic smile from where she stands nearby—watching the reunion with soft eyes.
“How was she?” you ask quietly.
The nanny gives a small, reassuring nod.
“She was very brave,” she says kindly. “The storm shook her up a bit, but she’s been a trooper.”
Stepping beside you, Satoru’s comforting hand rests on your shoulder as he listens—his gaze softening as he looks down at Haru nestled against you. He turns to the nanny, and offers a grateful smile.
“Thank you for staying with her through the night. We really appreciate it.”
The nanny smiles, her gaze flickering to Haru, who is now sniffling quietly in your arms.
“Of course, Mr. Gojo. She’s a sweetheart.” Leaning down, she pats Haru’s head gently and whispers, “Bye Haru. Take care, little one.”
With that, she gathers her things and quietly slips out, leaving the three of you in the quiet of the entryway.
But as the door clicks shut, Haru’s small hands cling even tighter to you, showing no signs of letting up. Her hold is firm, as though she’s afraid you’ll slip away the moment she loosens her grip.
Kneeling down beside you, Satoru reaches out a tentative hand, brushing his fingers gently over her hair.
“Hey, Haru,” he clears his throat softly. “I’m… glad you’re safe. You had me and your Mama worried, you know.”
Haru shifts a little but keeps her face buried against your shoulder, her grip on you unwavering, causing Satoru’s hopeful smile to falter just a touch. He glances up at you, searching for reassurance.
Your heart swells at his expression. This is uncharted territory for him, and though his effort is sincere, there’s an unmistakable hint of awkwardness, a subtle vulnerability as he tries to connect.
But you’re grateful he’s trying, grateful for the patience he’s showing even when Haru’s response isn’t what he hoped for.
Offering an encouraging smile, you squeeze his hand briefly before looking down at Haru.
“Haru,” you say softly, rocking her slightly, “Satoru’s here too. And you know what? I think he missed you a lot.”
Haru’s little arms only tighten around you in response, her small face nestled firmly against your neck. There’s a hint of a pout in her expression as she stubbornly clings to you, seemingly unimpressed by Satoru’s efforts to engage.
With a soft sigh, Satoru’s shoulders slump slightly as he scratches the back of his neck.
“Guess I’ll have to work harder to get on her good side today…” he murmurs, trying to mask the slight discouragement in his voice.
“She’s just a little shaken up,” you reassure him, giving his hand another gentle squeeze. “She’ll come around.”
Determined not to give up, Satoru’s expression shifts, a glint of playful determination lighting up his gaze.
Leaning in a little closer, his voice softens, adopting a gentle, almost sing-song tone as he tries again—this time with a different approach.
“Haruuu~” he coaxes, drawing out her name with a gentle smile. “What if we make waffles for breakfast? Would you like that?”
At the mention of waffles, Haru’s grip loosens ever so slightly. Slowly, she peeks out from the safety of your shoulder, her wide eyes darting toward Satoru with a mixture of curiosity and caution. Her little brows knit together as she seems to weigh her options, the slightest glimmer of interest flickering in her gaze.
Satoru notices, his eyes lighting up with a renewed sense of hope. Seizing the moment, he leans in a little closer.
“We can make them together. Extra syrup, extra whipped cream… just how you like it!”
Haru considers this for a moment, still clutching you but her gaze locked on Satoru—deciding whether his offer is worth leaving her safe place. Then, her small voice, barely above a whisper, asks tentatively,
“…with strawberries?”
Satoru’s face brightens, a wide smile breaking across his features as he nods enthusiastically.
“With as many strawberries as you want,” he promises. “We’ll pile them up nice and high. Just for you, princess.”
ꨄ
In the cozy warmth of the kitchen, the scent of waffles and melted butter fills the air. Satoru—who hasn’t spent much time at the stove since his first impromptu cooking session with you—fumbles slightly with the waffle iron, his fingers awkward as he glances over at you for guidance every few seconds.
“Careful,” you murmur, stepping forward just in time to guide his hand as he nearly overfills the iron. “Remember, less is more.”
Satoru huffs out a laugh, scratching the back of his head with his free hand.
“Right. I was just… testing the limits.”
Rolling your eyes, you nudge him gently with a grin.
“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”
“I wanna put the toppings on!” Haru chimes in excitedly, bouncing slightly on her toes as she stands beside him on a step stool—a can of whipped cream clutched in one hand and a bowl of sliced strawberries in the other.
“Hold on, little chef,” Satoru grins, gently steadying her, a hand on her back. “We gotta make sure the waffle’s just right first. Can’t rush perfection.”
Puffing her cheeks, Haru lets out an exaggerated huff as the waffle iron starts to hiss and steam.
“It’s taking forever,” she complains. “Mama doesn’t take this long.”
Satoru arches a brow in amusement, and you chuckle softly from the counter where you’ve discreetly started mixing a separate batch of pancake batter.
“That’s because Mama knows what she’s doing,” you tease, glancing over your shoulder at Satoru with a smirk.
Clutching his chest, Satoru gasps in mock offense.
“Wow. Betrayed by my own wife. Right in front of our sous-chef.”
Haru giggles at his exaggerated reaction.
“Mama’s the boss,” she declares confidently—holding up her can of whipped cream like a trophy.
“You know what?” Satoru sighs, his grin softening. “You’re absolutely right. Without her, I’d probably burn this whole kitchen down.”
You chuckle, stepping closer and leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“You’re sweet,” you say softly. “But I trust you to handle this. I’m gonna prep something else over there.”
He blinks—a surprised but pleased smile tugging at his lips—eyes glimmering with amusement.
“Wait, you’re leaving me in charge? Bold move, Mrs. Gojo.”
“Very bold,” you reply with a smirk, backing away toward the counter. “But I have faith in you. Just keep an eye on the steam. You’re in charge of waffles and keeping Haru entertained. And don’t let her eat all the toppings before the waffles are done.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies with playful seriousness, saluting you with the ladle.
As the waffles cook, you finish mixing the pancake batter and quietly heat the pan—keeping an ear on their conversation. Satoru is showing Haru how to hold the whipped cream can steady, but Haru protests the second he sneaks a strawberry slice from her pile.
“Hey! Those are mine!” she pouts, reaching out to swat his hand away as she clutches the bowl protectively against her chest.
“Quality control,” he argues, popping the strawberry into his mouth. “Someone’s gotta make sure they’re not poisoned.”
“No stealing!” she declares, shoving her own strawberry into her mouth with an exaggerated defiance.
Shaking your head, a quiet laugh escapes you as you pour pancake batter onto the hot pan. The soft sizzle of batter meeting the heat blends seamlessly with the chatter and laughter filling the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Satoru triumphantly announces, “Waffle’s done!” as he carefully lifts the golden creation from the iron and places it on a plate.
Haru squeals with delight—already reaching for the whipped cream as he sets the plate in front of her.
“Careful, careful,” Satoru warns, steadying the plate with one hand while Haru applies a generous swirl of whipped cream, her tongue sticking out in concentration.
“There we go—masterpiece in the making.”
While they’re distracted, you quietly finish stacking a plate of pancakes, adding a pat of butter and just the right drizzle of syrup—exactly how you know Satoru likes. The warm aroma wafts upward as you carefully carry the plate to the table, setting it down without a word.
Haru, oblivious, is busy adding strawberries to her waffle with a proud grin, but Satoru’s sharp eyes catch the movement—he pauses mid-motion, his attention snapping to the pancakes. As his eyes widen slightly, his expression shifts to one of boyish delight.
“You made those?” he asks, stepping closer to the table.
You smile, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Well, someone mentioned earlier that they were more in the mood for pancakes.”
A slow grin spreads across his face as he steps toward you, his hands settling on your waist as he pulls you into a gentle hug from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder, and his voice softens.
“You spoil me, you know that?” he murmurs.
Tilting your head slightly, a soft laugh escapes you as you glance at him.
“Mmm… well, someone has to keep you in line.”
Haru, catching the exchange, glances up from her waffle with a small pout.
“Hey! What about me?” she asks, holding up her masterpiece. “Look at my waffle!”
Satoru straightens up, feigning shock.
“Oh, wow, Haru! That’s the most beautiful waffle I’ve ever seen. Way better than mine, for sure.”
Her pout shifts to a triumphant grin.
“I know,” she says, plopping a strawberry into her mouth.
ꨄ
The sound of the doorbell echoes through the estate just as you’re finishing your last few bites of breakfast. Haru, seated on her highchair, barely glances up from her waffle masterpiece—her tiny hands busy scooping up a dollop of whipped cream.
You glance at Satoru, curious.
“Are we expecting someone?”
He straightens in his chair, casually wiping his mouth before tossing his napkin onto the table with an ease that feels practiced.
“Yeah, I called him first thing this morning.”
Your eyes narrow on him as he rises from his seat.
“Called who?”
But before he can answer, Ichiji steps into the kitchen doorway, his posture as poised as always.
“Mr. Gojo—Mr. Geto is here to see you.”
“Suguru?” you tilt your head, and your fork clinks softly against the plate as you set it down—muttering softly, “I didn’t know he was coming today.”
“Figures,” a familiar, exasperated voice chimes in. “That’s because someone didn’t give you a heads-up.”
Turning towards the kitchen entrance, you spot Suguru Geto stepping into view. He’s every bit as composed as you remember—dressed sharply in a tailored black suit that perfectly complements his tall, lean frame—though his polished appearance doesn’t disguise the easygoing air he carries.
His leather briefcase dangles casually from one hand, and his eyes flicker to you—a polite smile tugging at his lips.
“y/n, nice to see you again.”
“Likewise,” you reply, matching his smile with your own.
Then, Suguru’s attention shifts seamlessly to Satoru, his expression sliding into something closer to feigned annoyance.
“Well,” he exhales dramatically, running a hand through his loosely tied-back hair, “I see you’re wasting no time dragging me into your messes, huh?”
“Our messes,” Satoru corrects smoothly, leaning back against the counter with a grin that radiates shamelessness. He gestures toward the table, a silent invitation for Suguru to join you. “I thought we agreed—you’re part of this circus now.”
Arching a brow, Suguru shakes his head in amused resignation as he steps further into the room.
“Oh, is that what we agreed? Must’ve missed the memo.”
As he approaches the table, his gaze slides back to you, softening slightly.
“And how are you holding up, y/n? Still surviving the whirlwind that is Gojo Satoru?”
A chuckle escapes you as you wipe Haru’s syrup-sticky hands with a wet napkin.
“Barely, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
Suguru hums thoughtfully, nodding with approval.
“Good,” he says with a wry smile. “You’ll need to keep up that resilience.”
Setting his sleek briefcase down on the counter with a soft thud, his tone shifts ever so slightly, as he steadily says,
“I’ll be representing you in court.”
The weight of his words settles over the room, a sobering reminder of the battle ahead. Yet, as Haru swirls her fork eagerly through her syrup and giggles softly, her blissful innocence seems to lighten the tension just enough.
“Thank you,” you say earnestly, your gaze meeting his. “I… really appreciate it.”
Suguru offers a confident smile, his presence radiating assurance.
“Don’t mention it,” he takes a seat next to you. “We’ll go over everything. There’s a lot to cover, but we’ll take it one step at a time. I’m here to make sure you’re prepared.”
From his spot against the counter, Satoru chimes in, his grin practically glowing.
“See? I told you he’s the best.”
Rolling his eyes, Suguru’s fingers deftly adjust the cuffs of his sleeves.
“Flattery won’t make this any easier, you know,” he quips dryly, though the hint of a grin betrays his amusement. “But I hope you realize you owe me for this. This isn’t exactly light work. Maybe start with some coffee.”
Satoru laughs, stepping over to clap a hand on Suguru’s shoulder with playful force.
“Anything for my favorite lawyer.”
“Favorite?” Suguru deadpans, arching a skeptical brow. “I’m fairly certain I’m your only lawyer.”
“Details,” Satoru quips, his grin widening. “Besides, no one else could handle me.”
Suguru sighs, shaking his head in mock defeat as a small smirk pulls at his lips.
“On that, we agree,” he mutters dryly.
ꨄ
The Gojo study hums with a quiet tension, but the rustle of paper punctuates the stillness as Suguru methodically spreads neatly labeled folders across the polished desk.
In the distance, Haru’s delighted laughter echoes faintly through the halls, a gentle reminder of her presence as Ichiji keeps her entertained—a task assigned by Satoru to ensure your conversation remains undisturbed.
Leaning against the desk, stands Satoru—arms crossed over his chest. But the absence of his trademark smirk is striking, replaced by a rare focus.
His crystalline blue eyes are sharp, intent, as they flit to you, then to Suguru.
“I appreciate you coming on such short notice,” he begins, low and unusually steady. “Look… there’s a lot we need to get ahead of…”
Suguru waves off the gratitude with a flick of his wrist, flipping open a folder.
“No problem. I’m used to you dragging me into your messes, remember?” His lips tug into a faint smirk. “Besides, this one’s actually important.”
Sitting across from Suguru, you shift in your seat, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The weight of uncertainty presses against your chest as your eyes drift to Satoru, who stands as if bracing himself to deliver a blow.
“Suguru,” he begins, tone sharpening, “we found out something big. About Naoya.”
Suguru’s brow arches in mild curiosity, but he continues thumbing through the documents, waiting for Satoru to continue.
“He’s a Zenin.”
The folder in Suguru’s grasp stills—freezing mid turn. His dark eyes flick up, recognition flaring in his gaze, followed swiftly by something colder, heavier.
“A Zenin?”
“Yup,” pushing off the desk, Satoru leans forward to plant both palms on its polished surface. “He’s got more resources than we thought. We’re not just dealing with some rich, bitter ex—we’re going up against the yakuza.”
Suguru exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair as his fingers rub at his chin. The lines of his face sharpen, his usual easygoing demeanor slipping into something far more calculating.
“Zenin… Naoya Zenin…” he mutters, almost to himself, then, a wry smile ghosts across his lips, void of any warmth. “Of course, it’s him. I knew the name sounded familiar.”
You lean forward slightly, soft but urgent.
“You know him?”
As Suguru’s gaze flickers to you, his expression darkens—he nods.
“We went to the same law school. Different years, but our paths crossed a few times.” Shaking his head, he lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “He’s… not exactly the type you forget.”
Your breath hitches as you glance at Satoru, who straightens slightly—a glimmer of curiosity breaking through the severity in his expression.
“You’re kidding…” his head tilts as he studies Suguru. “What was he like?”
Suguru snorts softly, but the sound carries no humor.
“Arrogant. Ruthless. He’d throw anyone under the bus if it meant getting ahead—professors, classmates, even so-called friends. And he did it with a smile, like it was a game. He was top of his class, but not because he was the smartest. No, Naoya Zenin was the most cutthroat. Every victory he claimed was calculated, every move designed to humiliate someone else.”
Satoru’s jaw tightens at the description, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge of the desk.
“Sounds about right,” he mutters under his breath.
But as Suguru’s dark eyes sharpen, a flicker of protectiveness flash within them as he turns to you.
“If he’s tied to the yakuza, we need to be strategic. This isn’t just a custody battle anymore—it’s a power play. He’s going to use every trick in the book to undermine you, y/n.”
The knot in your stomach tightens, your hands clasping harder in your lap as you force yourself to speak.
“…what do we do?”
Leaning forward, Suguru rests his elbows on the desk as he fixes you with a steady gaze.
“We build your case airtight. Document everything—your role in Haru’s life, your finances, your relationship with Satoru. We highlight what’s best for her, and we get ahead of whatever dirt he’s going to try to throw your way.”
Satoru plops down in the seat beside you—a casualness that doesn’t quite match his intensity. As he kicks up his feet, his lips twist into a determined scowl.
“And if he steps out of line,” he grits, “we make sure he regrets it.”
Suguru raises a brow at Satoru’s bluntness but doesn’t refute him. Instead, he turns his attention back to you, his expression softening slightly.
“If Naoya’s involved, he’ll stop at nothing to win. But that also makes him predictable—at least to someone who knows how he operates. And fortunately for you, I do. His yakuza connections might make him dangerous, but they also make him vulnerable if we play this right.”
Nodding slowly, the steady conviction in Suguru’s voice grounds you, even as the gravity of the situation sinks in. But then, as your gaze shifts to Satoru, you catch sight of him, leaning back further—his hands clasped behind his head as a faint smirk tugs at his lips.
“Well,” he exhales with a playful glint, “if anyone can turn this into an advantage, it’s you, Suguru.”
Arching a brow, Suguru’s lips curve into a wry smile.
“More flattery, huh? You must really want me to win this.”
Satoru’s grin widens, his signature charm slipping back into place as he shrugs.
“Hey, I’m just giving credit where credit’s due. Besides, I’m kind of depending on you here.”
Rolling his eyes, the faintest trace of a smirk lingers on Suguru as he settles back in his chair.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures. “By the time I’m done, Naoya won’t know what hit him.”
The moment feels lighter, more hopeful, but it’s short-lived as Suguru turns his attention back to you. The weight of his gaze is discerning, his tone shifting into something sharper, more direct.
“All right, y/n,” he begins, flipping open a folder and grabbing a pen. “Let’s get into it. I need to know everything about your history with Haru—how long you’ve cared for her, the kind of stability you’ve provided. What does your day-to-day with her look like?”
You blink, caught off guard by the abrupt shift in tone, but you clear your throat and nod.
“Right… um, well, I’ve been her primary caregiver since she was born. I—”
Suguru lifts a hand, halting you mid-sentence.
“Actually, let’s start from the very beginning. What were the circumstances that led to Haru? Your relationship with Naoya? The more details, the better.”
As the question lingers in the air, you hesitate—your gaze dropping to your hands while your fingers twist anxiously in your lap.
Talking about Haru is easy—she’s your light, your joy. But the road that brought you to her… that’s where the cracks lie.
With a deep breath, you’re unable to meet Suguru’s steady gaze, so instead, you glance toward Satoru.
He’s leaning forward now—elbows resting on his thighs, watching you intently. There is an unwavering reassurance in his soft expression, urging you to continue.
Holding onto that look for a moment, you let it push you forward.
“Haru wasn’t planned,” you admit quietly, voice trembling slightly. “At first, it was… okay. Naoya was never exactly hands-on, but he wasn’t hostile either. I think… back then, maybe he thought Haru might be useful to him someday.”
Suguru’s pen doesn’t pause as he scribbles notes, his eyes briefly flicking up to meet yours.
“Useful? In what way?”
You shift uncomfortably—your hands continuing to twist in your lap.
“To him, it was always about control,” the words come slower now, as if you’re piecing them together. “Having a child—especially one he thought he could… shape—meant he could use her somehow, like leverage. But when he realized Haru was… more work than he expected, he just… started pulling away.”
Satoru’s jaw sets tightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. Leaning back slightly, his fingers drum sharply against the armrest of the chair as Suguru presses gently.
“Pulling away how?”
You hesitate, your voice quieter now.
“He started coming home less… and when he was home, it was like walking on eggshells. Nothing was ever good enough—how I held her, how I fed her, how I…” Drawing in a shaky breath, your voice wavers slightly. “How I was raising her. He had an opinion about everything. I couldn’t do anything right.”
Suguru’s pen stills, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he listens intently. Across from you, Satoru’s posture stiffens further, and you can see his knuckles whitening where they grip the armrest.
“I was young and scared,” your voice wavers, tinged with a quiet shame. “And I thought… I thought I could change him. That maybe things would get better.”
Your gaze drops to your lap again, your fingers twisting together so tightly it feels like your knuckles might split.
“But… they didn’t. If anything, they got worse. He would question every choice I made as a mother. And when I tried to stand up for myself…”
Trailing off, the memories send a familiar shiver down your spine—your body trembling slightly as you attempt to take in a deep, shaky breath.
“y/n,” Suguru’s voice pulls you back gently, and his gaze is steady, though there’s a slight edge of concern to it. “This is important. Was there ever any… abuse? Emotional or otherwise?”
Unable to look up, you can feel both men’s eyes on you—Suguru’s sharp and calculating, Satoru’s burning with barely restrained anger. Cautiously, you take in another shaky breath.
“It… depends on what you define as abuse. He never hit me, if that’s what you mean. But he didn’t have to,” pausing, your hands twist tighter in your lap. “There were times… when he’d get angry, really angry, and he’d slam things—doors, tables. It was enough to make me… worry about pushing him too far.”
The room is suffocatingly silent as your words hang in the air.
As the pressure builds in your chest, the shame coils tighter with each second that passes. Speaking the truth aloud feels like ripping open an old wound—exposing the raw, aching parts of yourself that you’ve worked so hard to keep hidden.
For a moment, you wish you could take it all back, swallow the words and let them die in your throat. But then you think of Haru—her tiny hands reaching for yours, her laughter echoing faintly through the estate.
This isn’t just about you anymore. It never was.
But as the trembling in your fingers begins to spread to your shoulders, you force yourself to breathe, to focus—though the weight of their stares only crush you further.
Is this what it feels like to be seen? To have someone actually listen?
“Is… is that enough?” you whisper, the question trembling as it leaves your lips.
“Oh, it’s enough,” Satoru’s voice cuts through suddenly, snapping your eyes up to meet his. The restrained rage is radiating off him like heat. But then his gaze softens—just slightly—and when it meets yours, you see something else beneath the anger.
Something quieter, deeper. A promise.
“More than enough…” he murmurs.
Swallowing hard, you’re unsure if the tears welling in your eyes are from relief or the overwhelming vulnerability coursing through you.
You’ve handed them a piece of yourself you’ll never get back, and yet, for the first time, you don’t feel entirely alone in carrying it.
“y/n,” Suguru begins, leaning forward slightly, “what you’re describing… controlling behavior, intimidation, emotional manipulation—that is abuse.”
There’s a quiet emphasis in his words, as if he’s trying to make sure you truly hear him.
“Even if he didn’t put his hands on you, using fear and control to keep you in line is just another way to break someone without leaving a mark.”
His acknowledgement is both freeing and suffocating—and as the truth of his words sink in slowly, for a moment, all you can do is nod—your throat too tight to form a proper response.
“I think we’ve covered enough for today,” Satoru says suddenly, leaving no room for argument. He rises from his seat. “We can pick this back up tomorrow.”
Opening his mouth to protest, the words are poised on the tip of Suguru’s tongue, but Satoru silences him with a single sharp glance and a slight shake of his head—not aggressive, but firm.
“She’s been through enough for one day,” his gaze flickers to you, and the edge of his earlier anger melts away into something gentler as he murmurs, “let her breathe.”
Suguru hesitates, studying Satoru for a moment, before letting out a sigh. He leans back in his chair, snapping his folder shut with a quiet click.
“Alright…” he concedes, “We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
The tension in the room eases slightly as Suguru begins to gather his papers, but your body remains taut—like a string pulled too tightly.
Managing a small nod, gratitude blooms in your chest, though you’re not sure how to voice it. Your lips part to say something to Satoru—anything—but the words refuse to come.
Stepping closer, Satoru reaches your side, and he crouches slightly, bringing himself closer to your eye level. As he lifts his hand, his fingers graze your cheek, softly tucking back a loose strand of your hair.
“Come on,” he whispers, “Let’s get out of here.”
And for the first time since the conversation began, you feel like you can finally exhale.
ꨄ
After Suguru leaves, Satoru doesn’t say much about your conversation in the study. There are no heavy discussions, no probing questions. Instead, his actions do the talking—offering a steadying presence that words could never match.
He eases you into a rhythm that feels unhurried and safe, and at the center of it all is Haru—her bright energy pulling you both into her orbit like a tiny sun—melting away all lingering shadows of worry.
It’s just the three of you—embracing the gentle cadence of togetherness—the hours blurring into a soft haze of tender moments, strung together like beads on a necklace.
Though what surprises you most, is Satoru.
He’s not the detached observer you’ve come to expect but something entirely different—present, engaged, and effortlessly intertwined in the fabric of the day.
Perhaps it’s the shift in your relationship—the silent understanding that this isn’t a charade anymore. Or maybe it’s his resolve to carve out a meaningful connection with Haru, to find his own place in her world.
Whatever the reason, he is there, fully and completely.
When Haru launches into a vivid narration of her stuffed animals’ daring adventures, Satoru listens with rapt attention, as if each word holds the weight of an epic tale.
Later, when she declares it’s time for an impromptu tea party, he folds his tall frame onto the floor without hesitation,
The sight is almost absurd—this man, so completely out of place yet so effortlessly part of it all. And as the day fades into evening, his presence remains constant, even as the tempo slows.
With bedtime arriving, he follows you and Haru to her room, lingering in the warm glow of her nightly routine. It’s the first time he’s joined you, yet there’s something achingly natural about it—him sitting cross-legged on the floor as you read her favorite story—the three of you together in that small, cozy space.
It’s almost as if this is how it’s always been, or perhaps how it was always meant to be—because now that the facade has fallen away, there’s a quiet sincerity in the way Satoru moves through this new dynamic, as though he’s made the deliberate choice to truly belong to it.
But when Haru’s eyelids grow heavier, her small body relaxes in your arms, and Satoru suddenly rises to his feet.
Glancing up at him, a question flickers in your gaze, but he only steps closer, slow and unhurried.
“I have to take care of something,” he whispers quietly, leaning down to brush a featherlight kiss upon your temple. “Finish up here. I’ll be waiting downstairs.”
Arching a brow, you study how his lips curve into the faintest smirk—but not wanting to disturb Haru’s peaceful state, you simply offer him a subtle nod as he quietly steps out of the room.
The door closes with a soft click, leaving you alone with Haru—and the room feels a touch emptier without him.
Focusing your attention back to her, you hum a quiet lullaby, feeling her breathing grow deeper, steadier, until at last, she’s fully surrendered to sleep.
Slowly, as not to wake her, you rise from your seat and carefully lower her into her bed—smoothing the blanket over her small frame and pressing a kiss to her forehead. Her peaceful expression tugs at your heart, and you whisper a soft goodnight before tiptoeing to the door.
Closing the door gently behind you, the soft click of the latch settles into the stillness of the hallway, and for a moment, you linger there, exhaling deeply as you close your eyes briefly—letting the day’s weight slip from your shoulders.
It’s been quite a day… and this is only the beginning…
But once you turn to head down the hallway, something catches your eye—something unexpected.
Just outside Haru’s door, lies a delicate trail of flower petals—soft pinks and whites, scattered purposefully across the floor, stretching out before you like a whispered invitation.
You blink, your brows furrowing in curiosity as you step closer. The petals wind down the hallway, forming a path that seems to beckon you forward.
A small, amused smile tugs at your lips as a thought flickers in your mind.
What on earth is Satoru up to now?
Following the petals, your bare feet pad lightly against the polished wood, and eventually, they lead you to the top of the staircase—cascading down the steps in a soft, scattered rhythm.
You move forward—descending the stairs, pursuing the trail that spills into the expansive space of the Gojo estate. The petals seem to playfully weave through the living area, pulling you deeper into the quiet elegance of the house.
But as the trail leads you through the kitchen, where the petals curve gently around the island in a playful arc, your gaze follows the path to the French doors, slightly ajar at the far end of the kitchen.
The sheer curtains ripple softly, brushing against the doorframe as the night breeze slips through, and with it, the breeze carries a faint crackle of fire—tugging at your curiosity.
Your heart quickens in anticipation as you step closer, nudging the doors open. The cool air greets you first, but as you step out onto the deck, the sight before you takes your breath away.
The space is utterly transformed.
A canopy of fairy lights stretches overhead—draped elegantly between tall, polished beams that frame the space in a way that feels both intimate and magical—as if the stars themselves have been drawn closer just for this moment.
And at the heart of the deck, a sleek fire pit burns steadily—its flames dancing in a quiet symphony of amber and gold. The flickering light spills across the rich wood of the deck, and the plush outdoor seats—casting shadows that sway with the rhythm of the fire.
To your left, the gentle bubbling of a hot tub catches your attention.
Steam rises from its surface, curling into the night air in lazy spirals, before dissolving into the cool breeze. It’s nestled into a private nook, bordered by sculpted planters. Small lanterns are tucked among the foliage, creating halos of warmth—a secluded sanctuary.
To your right, the deck stretches out toward an infinity pool that gleams like liquid glass under the fairy lights.
The water ripples faintly, mirroring the twinkling canopy above the deep indigo sky. And as the pool’s edge vanishes into the darkness, it blends seamlessly with the garden’s manicured hedges and flowerbeds.
But your gaze is inevitably drawn back to the center of the deck—to him.
Satoru.
Illuminated by the flickering firelight, you catch sight of him leaning casually against one of the polished beams—a picture of effortless elegance.
His white hair shimmers under the canopy lights, and beside him, sits a low coffee table. A bottle of champagne rests on the surface, nestled in an ice bucket, and a tray of chocolate truffles lies alongside it, arranged with deliberate care.
With one hand tucked in his pocket, his posture is relaxed—exuding that effortless air of confidence. His other hand cradles a champagne flute, dangling it delicately between his fingers.
Then, as you meet his gaze, his lips tug up into that faint lopsided smile—the one that always seems to hold a thousand meanings—none of which he’ll ever fully explain.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Took ya long enough.”
The hand in his pocket moves toward the champagne—his fingers brushing the neck of the bottle with an idle, almost careless grace. Tilting his head slightly, his eyes catch the light while his smile deepens.
“Was starting to think you got lost.”
The familiar humor in his tone pulls a soft laugh from your lips, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes your breath hitch—soft, unguarded, and entirely yours.
As you step forward, your feet brush against the soft petals, scattered across the deck.
“What’s all this, Satoru?”
His eyes soften, though the playful curve of his grin doesn’t waver. With a smooth motion, he uncorks the champagne—the quiet pop breaking the stillness.
“Mmm… just something you deserve.”
Pouring the champagne into both glasses, his eyes flick up to meet yours, a playful glint sparking in their depths.
“Lately, you’ve been carrying the world on your shoulders. Tonight… let me take a little of that weight.”
You blink, his words settling heavily in your chest as he steps closer, holding the glass out to you. As you take the glass from him, your fingers brush his briefly, and the simple touch sends a shiver skimming across your skin.
“You… didn’t have to do all this.”
His expression softens further, and his free hand reaches for yours—a touch warm and steady as your fingers gently intertwine.
“I know… but I wanted to. You’ve had a hell of a day, sweetheart. You deserve something special.”
Your lips part as if to respond, but the words catch in your throat—stolen by the sincerity in his voice and the way his thumbs brush softly over your knuckles. His gaze makes it impossible to think, let alone speak.
Tilting his head slightly, his grin widens, and that spark of playfulness returns to his expression.
“C’mon now,” he murmurs, a soft drawl, “are you gonna let me spoil you? Or are you planning to argue with me all night?”
A quiet laugh escapes you—breaking through the lump in your throat as you shake your head lightly, bringing the champagne glass to your lips.
“Oh, I don’t know… arguing with you is kind of my favorite pastime…”
His brows lift, amusement flickering across his face as he leans just slightly closer.
“Oh, is that so? Well, sweetheart, I hate to break it to ya, but you’re not winning this one.”
“Fine,” you sigh, smiling. “But… only because you’re impossible to argue with when you look at me like that.”
His grin deepens, a flicker of triumph lighting his expression as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze.
“Smart choice,” he winks, tilting his head toward the seating area. “Now, c’mon. Let’s sit.”
Leading you towards the fire pit, the moment you both reach the couch, he releases your hand—gesturing with a playful flourish.
“After you, princess.”
Rolling your eyes, you sink into the cushions. The heat from the firepit warms your skin as he settles beside you, close enough that your knees subtly brush.
For a moment, the world feels smaller—just the two of you, the crackle of the fire, and the faint hum of the night. Sipping your champagne, the bubbles fiz gently on your tongue as you glance sideways at him.
He leans back, draping one arm along the back of the couch, his posture relaxed but his eyes focused solely on you.
“So…” he starts, voice softer now, “I think Haru was warming up to me today. Did you see the way she handed me her Pikachu like it was a peace offering?”
A soft laugh escapes you, and you nod, relaxing further into the cushions as the warmth of the fire wraps around you.
“I did. Pikachu is her most prized possession, you know… she doesn’t hand him over lightly.”
Satoru raises a brow, his grin widening with unmistakable pride as he leans forward to grab a truffle from the platter.
“Ahhh, so I’ve officially been accepted into her inner circle?” He pops it into his mouth, chewing slowly before pointing a playful finger at you. “That’s a big deal, right?”
“Oh, it’s huge,” you tease lightly, swirling your glass as you watch him. “Haru doesn’t trust just anyone with Pikachu. You should consider yourself lucky.”
He chuckles, turning to fully face you now as he shifts his weight, resting his elbow on the back of the couch and propping his chin in his hand.
“I do. But now I’m wondering…” he pauses, his eyes widening dramatically with mock seriousness, “Oh god… have I peaked? What comes after Pikachu? Do I get a spot on her bedtime story roster?”
You laugh softly, shaking your head as you lean forward to grab your own truffle, popping it into your mouth with an exaggerated chew.
Swallowing, you mirror his position, your elbow resting against the back of the couch as your fingers absentmindedly toy with the edge of your glass.
“Nonsense, you’re already on it. Didn’t you notice the way she was sneaking glances at you during her book tonight? She was practically daring you to jump in.”
His brow arches in surprise, and his grin softens as he watches you, lingering as though memorizing the curve of your smile.
“Really?” he murmurs, sighing softly, “Damn… missed my chance. I guess next time, I’m doing all the voices for her.”
You share a quiet laugh, and the sound seems to stretch between you, filling the space with a lightness that feels almost fragile. The firelight dances across his face, painting shadows that soften the sharp angles of his features and highlight the lopsided curve of his smile.
As he shifts closer, the fabric of the couch creaks softly, and his knee brushes against yours again, the subtle contact sending a quiet jolt through you. He settles directly next to you now, close enough that the warmth of his presence mingles with the heat of the fire.
For a beat, he just looks at you, his expression unguarded, the teasing edge in his smile replaced by something deeper. The crackle of the fire fills the quiet space between you, and his voice dips lower, softer.
“You know… I think the real challenge isn’t winning over Haru though. It’s keeping up with you.”
You raise an eyebrow, but the weight of his gaze makes your chest tighten, a warmth spreading through you. A shy smile tugs at your lips, and you lower your eyes briefly before meeting his again.
“Oh, stop it…” you murmur, edged with a breathy laugh. “You’re keeping up just fine.”
Tilting his head slightly, he studies you, the firelight casting golden highlights across his face. As his grin softens, the shift in his expression draws you in, your pulse thrumming faintly in your ears.
“I don’t know about that…” he murmurs. “You set the bar pretty high. You’re… really amazing with her, you know that?”
The sincerity in his tone disarms you, stealing the words from your tongue. Glancing down at your glass, your fingers trace the delicate stem in a deliberate motion now.
But the quiet heat of his gaze pulls you back. It always does.
“You make it look so easy,” he continues, quieter now. “The way you handle everything—it’s like… second nature to you.”
You shrug lightly, though the weight of his words stirs something deep within you, curling around the parts of you that often feel worn and stretched too thin.
Exhaling slowly, a faint smile flickers across your lips.
“It’s just… what you do when you’re a parent. You just… figure it out as you go, I guess.”
He watches you for a moment longer, and then his lips curve into a small, lopsided smile.
Lifting his champagne to his lips, he takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours as he leans back slightly.
“Well…” he says, his eyebrows raising as he sets the glass down on the table. “I’m figuring out that bribery works. Waffles for the win, huh? Glad she let me in today. Even if I had to work for it.”
Your laugh comes easily, shaking your head as you set your own glass aside.
“Come on now. It wasn’t just the waffles,” you counter, meeting his gaze fully now. “You’re good with her, Satoru. She sees that. And so do I.”
His grin falters slightly, softening into something quieter, more vulnerable. The playful edge that feels so naturally him gives way to an expression so raw and genuine it almost takes your breath away.
Shifting again, he leans just a little closer, tilting his head as his eyes search yours.
“You… really think so?” he whispers, a quiet thread of uncertainty lacing his tone.
Your chest tightens at the openness in his expression, the way he’s looking at you as though your answer means everything.
Slowly, you reach out, your fingers brushing lightly against his hand as you offer him a small, reassuring smile.
“I know so.”
Your fingers move slowly, languidly against the back of his hand, both deliberate and tender, and he responds with his own subtle movement, interlacing his fingers with yours.
“She doesn’t warm up to people easily, but with you…” you pause, searching his gaze as the firelight casts golden reflections in the depths of his eyes, “I think… she feels safe.”
He exhales softly, his gaze dropping briefly to your joined hands, his thumb brushing against your skin in a slow, thoughtful motion. The quiet crackle of the fire fills the space between you before he finally speaks.
“That’s all I want,” he murmurs, and as he looks back up at you, his expression is raw with sincerity. “For her to feel safe… for both of you to feel safe.”
His words settle over you like a weight, soft but heavy, pulling your thoughts to a place you’ve tried to avoid. The sharp edges of Naoya’s threats resurface—the dangers of the yakuza.
Satoru’s gaze sharpens instantly, as if he can sense the shift, the way your fingers falter against his. His grip tightens slightly, grounding you before the spiral can take hold.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his tone low and steady, pulling your focus back to him. “She’s going to be okay, you know. Haru. She’s got you.” He pauses, his eyes softening as a faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “And… she’s got me too.”
The sincerity in his voice pulls at the tight knot in your chest, loosening it just enough to let a quiet breath escape. His hand squeezes yours, gentle but firm, and the steadiness of his presence wraps around you like the fire’s warmth.
“C’mon,” he adds, his tone lightening, playful now, “no worrying tonight, alright? Just… let me take care of you for once. Relax. Let me spoil you.”
The corners of your mouth lift despite yourself, and your gaze shifts toward the bubbling water of the jacuzzi in the corner of the deck, steam curling into the night air like an invitation.
“Well…” your voice lilts teasingly as your eyes flick back to his, “I was eyeing that jacuzzi…”
His grin widens instantly, the familiar spark of mischief returning to his expression.
“Oh, were you now?” he drawls, already standing and tugging you gently to your feet. “Guess I better make good on my promise to spoil you, then.”
Leading you to the edge of the jacuzzi, the bubbling water shimmers under the soft glow of the fairy lights, and the quiet hum of the jets fill the space between you.
But as soon as he releases your hand, his attention shifts to the buttons of his shirt. With deliberate, unhurried movements, he pops the first one open, instantly drawing your gaze like a magnet.
You blink, your breath hitching as his shirt falls open—the fabric slipping off his shoulders, pooling at his feet to reveal the smooth, toned planes of his chest. The firelight catches the lean lines of his frame and the faint gleam of his skin.
Tossing his shirt casually onto a nearby lounge chair, his grin turns devilish as his eyes meet yours.
“What?” he teases, entirely too smug. “Figured I’d lead by example.”
For a moment, he stands there, utterly composed, as though he knows exactly the effect he’s having on you. Which, of course, he does. The subtle curve of his lips, the relaxed angle of his stance—everything about him radiates confidence.
You huff softly, though the heat rising in your cheeks betrays you, and as your gaze flickers to the water, you shuffle slightly—nerves fluttering in your stomach.
Bathing suits hadn’t even crossed your mind tonight, let alone his, and now… now you’re standing there, knowing what comes next but feeling completely unprepared for it.
The thought of stripping down in front of him? Oh god… it makes your stomach flutter with anticipation.
“I-I…” you stammer, biting your lip as your fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt. “Um… I wasn’t exactly prepared for this…”
His grin softens, though his playful tone remains.
“What, nervous? It’s just me.” He gestures toward the jacuzzi with a slight tilt of his head. “C’mon, your turn. Unless you’re planning on soaking fully clothed?”
Your lips part to protest, but the words catch in your throat. The warmth creeping down your neck has your pulse thrumming, and you quickly avert your gaze.
“Turn around…” you mutter finally, barely meeting his eyes.
He chuckles, low and warm
“Really? After everything?”
But as you give him a pointed look, his amusement softens into something gentler.
“Alright, alright...” he turns with a mock sigh, hands raised in exaggerated surrender. “I’ll behave.”
True to his word, he faces the firepit, though you catch the playful tilt of his head as he calls over his shoulder, “Just don’t take too long. I’ll be claiming the best spot for myself if you do.”
Rolling your eyes, the faintest laugh escapes your lips despite your nerves. But as soon as you hear the soft clink of his belt buckle, your heart leaps, and you quickly turn your focus to your own clothes.
Your shirt comes off first, followed by the rest, peeling them off piece by piece. But for a moment, your fingers linger at the clasp of your bra, and your gaze flickers to his back, broad and steady in the firelight.
Oh god… should you?
Before sitting on the thought for too long, on a whim, you unhook it—slipping it off and setting it down with the rest of your clothes. The cool air kisses your bare skin, and you cross your arms instinctively over your chest, feeling exposed yet exhilarated.
Left only in your panties, you step toward the edge of the jacuzzi, the steam curling against your skin like a whispered invitation.
As you dip a tentative foot in the water, behind you, Satoru shifts slightly. He’s stripped down to his boxers—an easy confidence radiating even as he waits.
“You okay back there?” he calls, light and teasing. “Not chickening out on me, are you?”
“I-I’m fine,” you reply quickly, the quiver in your voice betraying you. “Just… wait.”
Slowly, you sink into the bubbling water, the warmth melting away your nerves as the jets hum softly against your skin. The water laps at your shoulders as you settle into a corner, your gaze flickering to him nervously.
“Okay… you can look now.”
Satoru turns, his gaze sweeping over you briefly, a triumphant grin curling upon his lips before he steps into the jacuzzi. His broad frame settles into the water with a quiet sigh, and the firelight dances along the droplets clinging to his skin.
Sliding into the spot beside you, he stretches his long arms along the edges of the tub while he sinks back, but there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he stares at you, one that instantly puts you on guard.
“What…?” you glance at him sideways, raising an eyebrow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Oh, nothing,” he drawls, his smirk widening into a full grin. “Just wondering how I got so lucky to share a jacuzzi with such esteemed company.”
Rolling your eyes, you exhale with amusement.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter.
“Mm, so I’ve been told,” he quips.
As he leans his head back against the edge of the jacuzzi, the firelight casts golden highlights across the sharp angles of his face. Tilting his head slightly, he lets out a theatrical sigh.
“Well, well… look at you, finally relaxing. Didn’t think I’d ever see the day.”
Your smile softens as you close your eyes briefly, letting the warmth of the water and his teasing words melt away all the lingering tension in your chest.
“Well, the hot tub helps,” you admit, glancing at him again. “Gotta say, this was a good idea.”
The water ripples softly between you as he shifts, leaning closer—his arm sliding along the edge behind you. The proximity makes your pulse stir faintly, though you try not to let it show.
“I’ll take partial credit for that,” his grin widens, triumphant and full of mischief. “After all, this was my idea.”
“Your idea to spoil me, you mean,” you counter, raising an eyebrow. “My idea for the hot tub.”
Satoru hums thoughtfully, tilting his head toward you, feigning consideration.
“Technically,” he begins, holding up a finger, “Who was it that brought you out here, hmm? The petals? The champagne? The fire? You wouldn’t even be in this hot tub if it weren’t for my setup. So, really, it’s all connected to me.”
You scoff, though the laughter bubbling up in your throat betrays you.
“Oh, is that how it works now? You’re just taking full credit for everything?”
“Not taking full credit,” he corrects. “Just… connecting the dots. It’s a chain of events, sweetheart. Genius-level planning, if I do say so myself.”
Shaking your head, you laugh as the water ripples softly around you.
“Careful, Satoru. Your ego’s showing.”
“My ego? Sweetheart, this isn’t ego—it’s confidence.”
“Oh, my god,” you laugh, sending a playful splash of water his way. “You’re absolutely impossible.”
He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest in mock outrage.
“Did you just assault me? In my own jacuzzi? The audacity.”
“Your jacuzzi?” you tease, arching a brow. “Pretty sure it’s our jacuzzi now, buddy.”
“Oho, is that right?” he murmurs, grin widening into something sly. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re the one trespassing.”
Before you can retort, his hand dips into the water, sending a small wave your way in retaliation. The warm splash catches you off guard, and you let out a startled laugh, lifting your arms defensively to shield yourself, but careful not to expose your chest.
“Satoru!” you protest, but he’s already closing the distance between you, the playful challenge in his eyes unmistakable.
“You started it,” he teases.
Moving closer with a daring glint, his knee brushes against yours beneath the water. The contact is subtle, but it sends a ripple of warmth through you.
“Satoru…” you warn again, lacking any real bite.
Pressing closer, his arm comes to rest along the edge of the tub behind you, caging you in with a mix of ease and intention. The bubbling water hums softly against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating from him now.
Your pulse quickens and you press your back slightly against the edge. His proximity suddenly becomes overwhelming as he brings his face mere inches from your own.
“Hmm?” his head tilts slightly and the damp strands of his hair fall just over his brow.
Your lips part as his gaze drops briefly—tracing the soft flush in your cheeks and lingering on the delicate curve of your lips—before returning to your eyes.
Suddenly, you feel his hand move beneath the water, brushing lightly against your thigh in a way that feels far too casual to be accidental.
“Something wrong princess?” he murmurs, low, velvety smooth.
Your breath hitches, your throat tightening under the weight of his gaze. The bubbling water ripples softly as you shift, your cheeks burning.
“N-no… nothing’s wrong…”
For a beat, he doesn’t move—his face close enough that you can feel the faint warmth of his breath mingling with the rising steam. His smirk softens slightly, and his eyes darken with something deeper—the tension in the air almost tangible.
Then, as his gaze dips once more, for a moment, you swear he’s about to close the distance entirely—to capture your lips in a kiss that would leave you utterly breathless. But just as quickly, he seems to catch himself.
Pulling back ever so slightly, his jaw clenches faintly and his eyes flicker with restraint.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he sighs, the teasing lilt returning to his tone as he settles into his seat beside you. “I was just enjoying the view.”
Swallowing hard, the tension still hums through your veins as you glance away briefly, focusing on the way the steam curls into the cool night air.
Breaking the silence, his voice is softer this time as he murmurs,
“Speaking of amazing views… look at that.”
Tilting his chin up at the sky, you follow his gaze, your eyes drawn to the endless expanse of stars glittering against the inky blackness. Lifting his hand, water drips from his fingers as he gestures upward.
“See that there?” he murmurs. “That’s Orion. You can tell by the three stars in the middle—Orion’s Belt.”
Your eyes flicker to him, and a boyish smile spreads across his lips as he continues.
“Orion was this great hunter in Greek mythology. A giant, actually. Depending on the version you hear, he was either killed by a jealous goddess or a scorpion—hence why Scorpius, the constellation, is always opposite him in the sky.”
Leaning forward slightly, you trace the constellation with your gaze.
“I… never knew that,” you admit softly.
Shifting again, he leans closer to you. His hand lifts up again—this time pointing to a different part of the sky.
“And there… that’s Cassiopeia. It’s shaped like a ‘W.’ She was a queen, but apparently, she bragged a little too much about how beautiful she and her daughter were. The gods didn’t like that, so they stuck her up there—forced to sit upside-down half the time as punishment.”
You can’t help but laugh quietly at the irony.
“A queen with a bit of an ego, huh? Sounds like someone I know.”
His eyes flick back to yours, his grin widening.
“Hey, if the gods want to immortalize me for my confidence, I wouldn’t say no. But I’d at least negotiate for better seating arrangements.”
Shaking your head, you smile.
“Of course, you would.”
A low chuckle slips through his lips, and as his gaze lingers up again, you catch sight of the shimmer of stars reflecting in his eyes.
“But… you’ve got to admit, she’s got a better view than most.”
His expression softens as he looks back at you—fingers brushing absently along the edge of the hot tub.
“It’s kind of funny, though. These stories… they’ve been passed down for centuries, and they’re still here. Still lighting up the sky.”
The wistfulness in his voice catches your attention as you hold his gaze—a small smile tugging at your lips.
“You really know a lot about this. I didn’t know you were into constellations.”
He smirks faintly, his voice taking on a playful air again.
“What, you think I’m just a pretty face?”
Rolling your eyes, you laugh softly, but the quiet vulnerability lingering in his expression doesn’t escape you.
“Well now… I didn’t say that.”
Leaning back slightly, the bubbling water hums softly against your skin as he looks up at the stars again—his expression becoming retrospective.
“Truth is…” he starts, voice dipping lower, “I used to sneak out on my balcony when I was a kid. We had this old telescope, probably the only thoughtful gift my dad ever gave me, and I’d spend hours just… staring at the stars. Learning their names, their stories.”
Tilting your head slightly, the quiet shift in his tone sparks your curiosity.
“Why the stars?” you ask softly.
He exhales a quiet laugh, though it’s laced with the weight of something long buried—devoid of any true humor.
“Because… they didn’t expect anything from me,” he admits, gaze fixed on the constellations above. “Looking at the stars…. made everything feel smaller. They didn’t care about who I was supposed to be or what I was supposed to accomplish. Up there… it was just space. Quiet. Endless.”
“So… the reminder of something bigger was an escape for you?”
Glancing at you, a small, almost sheepish smile tugs at his lips.
“Maybe. I guess I’ve always been drawn to the idea of infinity… something that can’t be controlled or contained.”
As his words linger, you can’t help but think of how beautifully they echo the person he is now—brilliant, unpredictable, and endlessly complex.
“Well… I never would’ve guessed,” you murmur, your gaze flickering upward to the stars he’d named for you. “But… it also makes sense. You’re always reaching for something bigger, aren’t you?”
His smile softens, a flicker of vulnerability slipping through as he admits,
“Yeah… guess I can’t help myself.”
Nodding quietly, the bubbling water hums between you as a comfortable silence stretches—charged with something unspoken.
You glance at him, and his profile is softened by the fairy lights—the damp strands of his hair curling against his skin, wet droplets sliding along the line of his jaw.
“Do you still?” the question slips out before you can stop yourself. “Look at the stars, I mean.”
Scratching the back of his head, a wry smile tugs at his lips.
“Mmm… not as often as I used to. Life gets in the way, you know?”
Another quiet pause lingers between you, and your heart aches at the tenderness in his expression—the bittersweet look in his eyes.
For all his teasing confidence and easy smiles, there’s something almost fragile in the way he speaks about this, as if the memory of that boy stargazing on a balcony still lingers—a deeper part within him.
It’s almost unbearable, the way he seems both so close and so far away in this moment, and all you can think about is the need to close that distance. The desire to touch him, to draw him back into the present—it becomes impossible to ignore.
Slowly, your hand moves, almost on its own, your fingers brushing lightly against his arm beneath the water. He looks at you, a flicker of surprise at first, but it softens, quickly giving way to warmth.
“You should,” you whisper. “If it makes you feel that way… then you should make time for it.”
Your fingers trail absently against his arm, the gentle movement sending ripples through the water, and your gaze drops to the curve of his lips before meeting his eyes again.
“Yeah, well…” his voice drops as he shifts closer to you in the water, “now I’ve got something even better to escape to.”
Moving beneath the water, his hand brushes lightly against your thigh—a touch that pulls at something deep within you—soft, deliberate, yet somehow still electric.
“And… it’s not up there.”
As his hand shifts, trailing lightly up your hip, your heart races. His touch urges you to close the distance—pulling you steadily like gravity itself.
Without thinking, your fingers glide up his arm, lifting to his cheek. You brush away a stray droplet of water from his jaw, and his eyes flutter shut briefly at the touch—a soft exhale escaping his lips.
Your breath hitches, and as his eyes slowly open again, they’re filled with something raw and unguarded—a depth that steals your breath away.
Lifting his own hand, it comes up to cover yours, holding it there for a moment as he leans into your touch. And then, slowly, he turns his head, pressing a soft kiss to your palm—so gentle, so reverent, it leaves your chest aching, aching for more.
Your fingers slide further, lacing between the damp locks of his silky hair, and he shifts, leaning in just slightly until his lips ghost yours.
The warmth of his breath mingling with yours is enough to unravel you, and slowly, tentatively, you brush your lips against his—a featherlight touch that sends a spark of pleasure down your spine.
Instinctively, he leans in, deepening the kiss, and his hand slides to the small of your back—steadying you as the water begins to ripple softly around you.
But it’s the faint rasp of his breath that draws you in further. Your own hands move, sliding from his hair to his shoulders, your fingertips tracing the contours of his damp skin.
Suddenly, his lips part slightly—inviting you to explore more.
And the moment his tongue brushes softly against your bottom lip, it flares into something else—the kiss shifts, no longer soft and tentative, but filled with a hunger that neither of you can seem to deny.
Your hands find their way to his chest, and you feel his heartbeat against your palm, strong and steady as he hums in your mouth, breathy moans through each movement of his lips.
Without thinking, you shift in the water. The bubbling warmth ripples against your skin as you move closer—settling your legs on both sides of him, straddling his lap as you press your chest against his.
Everything stills.
His breath stutters, his lips faltering against yours for the briefest second. His eyes flicker open to meet yours, and you see the exact moment it clicks—the moment he feels your bare chest. Freezing slightly, his hands grip your waist with just enough pressure to ground himself.
“You’re not…” he starts, voice hoarse as his gaze dips, taking in the bare skin of your shoulders, the way the water laps teasingly against the curve of your chest.
His throat bobs, swallowing hard, and when his eyes snap back to yours, they’re darkened with desire—flickering with a restraint that’s fraying at the edges.
“Fucking hell…” he mutters under his breath, exhaling heavily as his head tilts back slightly. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
The rough, almost reverent sound of his admission sends a shiver racing through you, emboldening you, and leaning forward, your lips graze the exposed line of his neck.
Groaning softly at the contact, his hands tighten their grip on your hips as you trail tender, deliberate kisses along his skin. Your chest presses closer to him, molding against his as one of your hands slides up to cup his jaw, keeping his head tilted back for your exploration.
“S-shit,” he breathes unsteadily—a quiet, guttural moan escaping him as you brush the base of his throat.
A jolt of heat rushes through you as his hands shift lower, smoothing over the curve of your ass—kneading the flesh as if he can’t help himself.
Instinctively, you shift in his lap, but the moment you feel the firm, unmistakable hardness of his cock pressing against you, a moan slips past your lips—your kisses faltering against his skin.
Your thighs immediately tighten around him, and something snaps in him. A low, desperate groan tears from his throat, and his hands slide back up to your waist—guiding you against him with an increasing boldness.
“God, you’re driving me fucking crazy,” he rasps, thick with desire. “Do you even realize what you do to me? How badly I want you?”
Pulling back to meet his eyes, your breath hitches at the unfiltered need blazing in his gaze.
“Maybe…” your fingers tangle in his damp hair, pulling him closer until your lips hover just above his. “…but why don’t you tell me Satoru?”
His breath stutters, the tension between you crackling like electricity.
“Oh, sweetheart… you’re dangerous,” he mutters, low and wrecked, brushing against your lips with every breath. “Dangerous, and so fucking tempting…”
His mouth crashes against yours, urgent and consuming, his restraint dissolving as his tongue slides against yours with a fervent desperation. You whimper softly into his mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair as your hips continue to shift instinctively against his cock.
Every movement is amplified by the bubbling water, ripping against your skin as his lips claim yours over and over again, but it’s his hands—wandering and deliberate—that make your cunt quiver.
They’re everywhere—sliding up your back, tracing your waist and gliding up to your chest. His palms cup the soft curve of your breast, and when his thumbs roll over the hardened peaks of your nipples, a soft, muffled cry spills from your lips.
Oh, your sound undoes him.
His hips buck up reflexively, grinding his rigid length against your core with a desperation that suddenly sends the water churning around you.
“Fuck… shit—I’m so fucking hard for you,” he groans against your lips, trembling with want. “Baby, I can’t—can’t fucking get enough of you.”
Biting your lip, your hands slide from his hair to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, gasping against his lips while his cock rolls underneath you.
“Been wanting you for so fucking long…” he grunts, dropping his head to drag his lips down your neck.
“Satoru…” you breathe, trembling against him as his tongue flicks against your skin, sucking the sensitive hollow above your collarbone.
“You don’t even fucking know,” he mutters, gripping you with a bruising intensity. “I stood outside our bathroom door…” he rasps, punctuated with another thrust. “…listening to the water, imagining you in there, naked and soaked. Fuck, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
His lips trail up, grazing your ear as his hands drop lower, gripping the curve of your ass and pressing you flush against his throbbing cock.
“Had to touch myself,” he groans, “my hand wrapped around my cock… thinking about pressing you against that tile. F-Fuck… about how fucking tight you’d feel around me.”
A strangled whimper slips from your lips, the filthy image his words paint setting your body on fire.
“God, baby…” he rasps, his lips ghosting along your jawline as his hands guide your hips in perfect rhythm against his. “I came so fucking hard just thinking about you, sweetheart. Fucking my own hand. Thinking about being inside you… stretching your perfect little pussy, making you mine.”
But then something shifts.
His breath stutters against your skin, and suddenly his hands still on your hips. His body is trembling, his head dropping to your shoulder as a low, guttural sound escapes him—half frustration, half restraint.
“Shit…” he mutters, his voice breaking as he shifts beneath you.
Before you can process, his hands grip your waist firmly, guiding you as he adjusts your position, spinning you gently until your back presses against the curved edge of the hot tub.
He cages you there, his arms braced on either side of you, his body hovering so close that the heat radiates between you. For a moment, his head drops, his forehead pressing against yours as he exhales shakily, the tension in his body almost unbearable.
“I can’t…” he starts, voice strained and wrecked. “I—fuck—I’m about to lose it, baby.”
He groans, low and rough, pulling back slightly as his hands slide to your waist—a grip firm but steadying.
“You said…” he mutters, voice softening, “…you said you wanted to take things slow. And it’s been one day, sweetheart. One fucking day, and I’m already losing my goddamn mind.”
His words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable, as his chest heaves with every labored breath. His eyes close briefly, as if trying to gather the strength to pull himself back from the edge.
“I want you so fucking bad,” he admits, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t even know. But… I don’t… I don’t want to screw this up.”
“Hey…” you whisper, cupping his cheeks, your thumbs brushing gently against the rough edge of his jawline. “We’re figuring this out together.”
Leaning into your touch, his eyes slowly open as his breath fans against your face—letting the tension ebb just slightly.
“You’ve got to help me out here,” he murmurs, voice soft but laced with a thread of desperation. “What does ‘taking it slow’ even mean? Because right now… all I can think about is you, and it’s killing me, sweetheart.”
You hesitate for a moment, his question hanging in the air, and the way his eyes search yours—pleading, vulnerable—makes your chest tighten.
“Taking it slow… doesn’t mean I don’t want you, Satoru. I do. So much that it scares me a little...”
His eyes blink open wider, his expression softening as he absorbs your words.
“Scared?” he echoes. “Sweetheart… I’m fucking terrified. I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you. And that terrifies me because honestly, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”
His words settle between you like a confession, raw and unguarded, and for a moment, you’re both quiet—the bubbling water lapping gently against your skin as you process the weight of his admission.
With a quiet breath, your fingers brush along his forearm, sliding up to rest lightly against his chest.
“I… don’t want to lose you either,” your voice trembles slightly as you peel back a layer of your own walls. “Satoru… you’re important to me. And maybe that’s why I want this to be different.”
His brows draw together slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as he tilts his head in question.
“Different… how?”
Biting your lip, your gaze drops momentarily to the rippling water as you gather the courage—trying to find the words.
"Different because… it feels like, for once, I’m not rushing into something just to fill a void. I want to savor this… savor you. I’ve never had the chance to do that before."
His gaze softens further, and the vibrant blue of his eyes darkens under the pale glow of moonlight. You allow the steady warmth of his thumbs brushing absentminded circles against your waist, to keep you grounded—letting the words spill out, your own quiet confession.
"I guess… for once… I… want to enjoy every moment of falling for someone instead of wondering when it’s going to fall apart.”
Satoru pulls you closer, his eyes holding your gaze with a quiet tenderness. Then, after a beat, his lips quirk into a soft, lopsided grin, one that makes something flutter in your chest.
“Well shit,” he exhales, a playful edge creeping into his voice. “I think you like me.”
The unexpected shift in tone catches you off guard, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, light and genuine, shaking your head at his ridiculousness.
“Oh, you think?” you tease, rolling your eyes at him.
“I meeean…” he drawls, his teasing grin widening. “All this talk about savoring me? Falling for me? Sounds like you’re pretty smitten, sweetheart.”
Your laugh turns into a wry smile as you shake your head, nudging him lightly.
“Okay, fine. I like you. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he replies smoothly, his grin turning downright triumphant.
As his face softens slightly, he leans forward, brushing the tip of his nose against yours as he murmurs, “You know… I’ve never really had that either.”
“Yeah?” you ask gently, your fingers moving without thought, brushing against the damp strands of his hair.
He nods, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“I’ve always moved fast, maybe because I didn’t want to feel… too much,” he admits, his tone quieter now.
Tilting your head, your fingers brush along the sharp line of his jaw, encouraging him to go on.
“What’s different now?” you ask softly, the question slipping out before you can stop it.
“With you…” his hand comes up to cup your cheek, tracing a slow, deliberate line. “It’s like… I want to feel everything. Every single moment.”
Your breath hitches at his words, and he leans in closer, lips hovering just above yours. The heat radiating off him mingles with the steam curling around you.
“Hmmm,” you murmur, grinning as you playfully nudge your nose against his. “Well… I think you like me too, Satoru Gojo.”
His brows shoot up in mock indignation, and he huffs out a laugh, his hands tightening slightly on your waist.
“Oh, you think you’re clever, huh?”
Before you can respond, his mouth crashes against yours, cutting off your laugh with a kiss so consuming it makes your head spin. Pulling you flush against him, his lips move in a fervent desperation—his teeth capturing your bottom lip, his tongue stroking against yours in a heated dance.
You gasp softly in his mouth as your hands wrap around him, the bubbling water lapping against you as his hands explore once again—sliding to your breasts, twirling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
A soft whimper escapes you, and he hums in your mouth—pleased and unrestrained—but just as you feel yourself melting completely into him, surrendering to the pull of his touch and the weight of his kiss, he pulls back.
His gaze is heavy-lidded and dark, his pupils blown wide with desire. Yet there’s something maddeningly smug about the way he’s looking at you, his lips curling into a slow, insufferably cocky grin.
“Hmm…” he hums thoughtfully, brushing his thumb against your swollen bottom lip, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I quite enjoy getting you worked up.”
Your cheeks burn as your eyes narrow, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to fire back. He takes full advantage, leaning in close, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he whispers,
“If you want to take it slow, sweetheart, that’s fine. But I’m turning it into my own personal game.”
You blink, his words swirling in your mind as the heat of his lips shifts to the curve of your neck—pressing open-mouthed kisses against your damp skin. Tipping your head back involuntarily, his lips blaze a trail along your collarbone.
“A game?” you manage, breathlessly.
“Mhmm,” his lips ghost along the line of your jaw. “And I’ll have you begging for me by the end of it. Count on it.”
His voice is dark—rich with confidence and something wickedly seductive, and the heat of his promise sends a jolt of need shooting through you. When he finally pulls back, his insufferably cocky grin is enough to make you want to throttle him—and kiss him senseless all over again.
It’s infuriating. It’s intoxicating. It’s Satoru.
With an exaggerated sigh, he settles beside you in the hot tub, the bubbling water rippling against his toned chest as he leans against the curved edge. He’s infuriatingly casual, the image of smug satisfaction as he reaches for his champagne flute resting on the side of the tub.
Taking a slow, deliberate sip, he casts you a sideways glance, his grin widening when he catches the heat in your gaze still lingering.
“What?” he asks innocently. “You look like you’ve got something to say, sweetheart.”
With a pointed look, you roll your eyes—settling beside him.
“Oh, nothing,” you exhale with a smirk, mirroring his casual tone as you reach for your own glass. “I’m just thinking about how funny it’ll be when this little ‘game’ of yours backfires Mr. Gojo.”
His grin widens in amusement as he leans back further against the jets—an arm draping along the edge of the tub behind you.
“We’ll see about that,” he murmurs, lifting a brow and clinking his glass against yours.
But then, his gaze shifts, flicking just past you toward the estate’s edge.
At first, his expression doesn’t change, his teasing grin frozen in place—but as his eyes narrow slightly, for a fleeting moment, his jaw tightens.
“Satoru?” you ask, tilting your head as you take another sip of champagne. “You okay?”
He blinks, his gaze snapping back to you, and his easy smile returns almost instantly.
“Hmm? Sorry, what was that?”
“You… zoned out,” your brow furrows slightly as you study him. “Something on your mind?”
“Oh… just strategizing my next move in our little game,” he says smoothly, his grin turning playful again, though his eyes flick briefly toward the edge of the estate once more. “Gotta keep you on your toes, sweetheart.”
Narrowing your eyes slightly, you sense there’s something he isn’t saying, but before you can press further, he shifts closer, his arm brushing yours as he leans in conspiratorially.
“Speaking of toes,” he murmurs, low and teasing, “I think we’ve spent enough time in here. Don’t want you turning into a prune on me.”
For a moment, you pause—considering whether you should push him further. But instead, you let out a soft sigh.
“Aww, man…” you pout playfully. “I was really enjoying this hot tub, too.”
Satoru’s smile softens, but there's a flicker of something protective in his eyes. He shifts closer, his arm brushing against yours as he gently leans in.
“Well… we can come back again. It is our hot tub, after all. Remember?”
Raising an eyebrow, a half-smile tugs at your lips. Despite the shift in the air, you nod, choosing not to press him.
“Right...” you mutter lightly, “our hot tub.”
Satoru stands, offering his hand to help you out of the water. Pulling you up gently, the cool night air kisses your skin as you step out—the warmth of the hot tub already fading.
He’s quick to wrap a towel over you—his hands gliding across your skin as he subtly dries you off. But the way his gaze flickers towards the trees again, leaves you slightly unsettled. Though, a moment later his smile returns—almost like he’s trying to shake something off.
“Let’s get inside,” he murmurs, carrying an edge that wasn't there before. “It’s getting late.”
As you follow him, you glance back briefly toward the estate’s edge, where the shadows of the trees sway gently in the wind.
But… whatever had drawn Satoru’s attention earlier remains a mystery, tucked away in the dark beyond the gates.
A mystery that perhaps… you’d rather not know the answer to.
ꨄ
The heavy thud of binoculars clatters against the wooden table—Toji slamming them down with a careless flick of his wrist. Catching a dim light, the lenses slide to a stop, and Toji pulls out a chair—leaning back while plopping his feet up.
"Almost blew my cover," he mutters, exhaling in annoyance. "Satoru's more perceptive than I gave him credit for."
Naoya’s eyes flicker toward the binoculars before his gaze settles back on Toji. His fingers drum impatiently on the table—a rhythm quick and sharp.
“What do you mean? He didn’t see you, did he?"
Toji waves a hand dismissively—unfazed, but calculating.
“Nah… didn’t actually spot me. But he kept looking in my direction. I could tell. It’s like he felt me there. That gut feeling, you know?”
“Of course,” Mei-Mei chimes in, smooth and tinged with affection.
Leaning back in her chair, a slow, fond smile curls upon her lips. She twirls her drink languidly in her glass—crossing one leg over the other.
“That’s Satoru for you, isn’t it? Always a step ahead of everyone. It’s honestly incredible how sharp he is.”
Sighing dramatically, she sets her glass down on the table with a soft, deliberate clink. Then, leaning forward, she props her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand.
"He always did have that uncanny ability,” she drawls, dripping with admiration. “It’s just another reason why he’s so... impressive."
Naoya rolls his eyes, his frustration building. His fingers tap a rapid rhythm on the table, betraying his growing impatience.
"Jesus, not this again,” he mutters. “Focus, Mei-Mei. We're here to deal with this situation, not to fawn over Gojo."
Mei-Mei flicks a quick glance toward Naoya, her smile widening just slightly. She runs a finger lazily along the rim of her glass.
“Oh, I am focused, darling,” she purrs, smooth and teasing. “Perhaps this means it’s time to speed things up.”
Shifting to Toji, her voice becomes more calculated—a quiet edge of authority seeping in.
“We’ve played around long enough. Naoya’s plan needs to be put in motion soon. Before Satoru gets… too comfortable.”
Toji chuckles darkly, low and mocking—a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Yeah… well… about that…” he pauses for a moment, glancing towards Naoya. "You sure your intel’s still solid ‘cuz?”
Naoya’s eyes narrow just slightly—his fingers stopping mid-tap on the table. There’s a shift in his posture, a subtle tightening around his jaw.
“What do you mean?”
Toji shrugs nonchalantly, the grin on his face widening.
“After what I saw tonight... I’m wondering if things are a bit more complicated than we thought."
Naoya’s brow furrows, confusion flickering for a moment, before irritation flares up again. He leans forward, his eyes locked onto Toji as his fingers tighten into a fist.
"What the hell are you talking about? What did you see?"
Toji’s smirk stretches—predatory and full of amusement.
“Saw the whole damn thing. They’re not just playing house. I watched them in the hot tub, and I’ll tell ya, that make-out session wasn’t for the cameras. Hell, they almost fucked right there, in front of me. I practically got a show.”
The room falls into an eerie silence. Mei Mei’s expression shifts, her interest piqued, though she masks it with a slight tilt of her head. Naoya’s face twists in frustration, his breathing shallow—the air around him thickening.
"No… no, that can’t be,” Naoya grits, the words slipping from clenched teeth. Leaning forward, his voice trembles with the weight of his disbelief. “She’s just a pawn—he’s using her. There’s no way he’d get attached to her."
Mei-Mei scoffs softly, laced with both frustration and longing. She sets her glass down delicately on the table—her eyes glinting an unsettling mixture of envy and disdain.
"Tch… I never understood why Satoru chose someone like her. He deserves someone who can match him, not... her."
Naoya’s anger erupts, boiling over into a loud, harsh growl. His eyes burn with fury as he slams his fist onto the table again, causing the wood to shudder under the force. His voice cracks with intensity, raw and full of rage.
“This wasn’t part of the plan!” he spits. “I’m not letting that bastard keep her!” His eyes flash with dark intent as he leans forward, hands clutching the edge of the table, knuckles turning white. “He won’t have control over her! I won’t let him.”
Mei-Mei raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curling into a wider, almost cruel smirk as she watches Naoya’s outburst. The tension in her body relaxes, but only slightly, as she takes a slow, deliberate sip from her glass.
"Oh… you poor thing," she coos, dripping with sarcasm, "how cute. It looks like you really did lose your toy, didn’t you?”
Naoya’s glare sharpens, his face darkening with even more rage, but before he can snap back at her, Toji clears his throat—cutting through the tension like a knife.
“Alright, alright. Relax. Both of you.”
Leaning back in his chair, the smooth wood creaks beneath him as he stretches his legs out lazily, exhaling slowly through his nose. His expression shifts to one of cold calculation, his eyes locking onto Naoya with an almost imperceptible smirk.
“This just changes the plan, that’s all. No need to get all bent out of shape over it.”
Naoya’s eyes narrow further, the lines around his mouth deepening into a hard, angry frown.
“What do you mean, ‘changes the plan’?” he spits through clenched teeth.
Toji’s grin turns sharp—his tone dropping to something more dangerous
“Common now, ‘cuz… is your toy making you lose your edge?” he pauses, letting his taunt hang before continuing. “Think about it. To bring Satoru Gojo down, we’ve gotta go after what’s most important to him, right?”
The silence is thick—Naoya’s brow furrowing as the meaning of the statement slowly sinks in. His breath hitches slightly, his mind racing as the pieces fall into place.
“Before, we thought it was his precious reputation,” Toji continues, “—his image as the untouchable, perfect heir. But now…” he trails off, a malicious gleam in his eyes. “Now we’ve got a much bigger target.”
Naoya’s eyes narrow even further, a flicker of realization creeping into his expression as the truth starts to dawn on him. His hand moves to rub the back of his neck, the tension in his body building as he mutters under his breath,
“You’re saying… her?”
Toji’s smirk deepens, turning positively devilish as he leans forward.
“Bingo,” he mutters, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "Satoru’s attached to her, whether he wants to admit it or not. That’s the leverage we’ve been missing. Forget the public image—if we take y/n out of the equation, he’ll break. His whole world will collapse."
A tense silence falls over the room, everyone holding their breath as Toji’s words sink in. Then, after a moment, Mei-Mei hums softly—sweet but carrying an edge of approval.
“Well, well… not bad, Toji. I suppose jail didn’t take the fight out of you after all.”
Toji’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, the smirk on his lips fades, replaced by a cold, hard edge in his eyes.
“Jail didn’t make me soft. It just made me more… determined,” he growls—dripping with resentment. “The Gojo family—they think they can lock me up and forget about me? Tch… I’ve got a score to settle, and this... this is just the beginning.”
Naoya’s eyes flash with a bitter, twisted smirk—his frustration mixing with simmering excitement as he shifts forward in his seat.
“Great. We go after her. If Satoru thinks he’s got control over her, he’s in for a rude awakening.” His voice drops to a low growl as he mutters, “If I can’t have her… then no one can.”
Mei-Mei smiles serenely—cool and calculating.
“And after we destroy everything he cares about,” she murmurs, “Satoru will have no choice but to fall into my hands."
Toji leans back in his chair, folding his arms with grim satisfaction. His eyes flick between the two, the corners of his mouth curling into a slight smirk—one that speaks of cold, calculated victory.
“That’s right. Once she’s gone, Satoru’s nothing. And when he’s broken, we’ll take him down, piece by piece.”
a/n. oh wowee, hi guys. i wanna thank you all so much for your support with this fic. every kind comment really puts a smile on my face :') i know you all waited a bit longer than usual with this chapter, but thanks for your patience! life is kicking my ass lately, but i'm almost done with this school semester 😭 there's a lot going on in this chapter. the yakuza coming into play—satoru trying to connect more deliberately with haru—suguru joining the battle—and satoru and y/n exploring their new relationship together! a few of my favorite things to write this chapter: satoru and suguru interacting together. i just love their friendship in the canon story, so i always have fun writing it (without suguru going genocide crazy, lol). another scene that was my fav, was in the hot tub, where satoru is talking about the constellations 💕 and when satoru realized y/n didn't have her bra on 🤭 hehe. the scene where y/n is sitting in the study with both satoru and suguru... that scene was really tough to write... very emotional 🥺 if anyone has ever been in a position like y/n, don't hesitate to seek help. emotional manipulation and physical intimation is indeed a form of domestic abuse. i also had a lot of fun writing the last scene, with toji, naoya and mei-mei. it was a nice change up! fyi, ya'll will be getting a satoru pov chapter in the future (soon-ish?) huge thank you as always to my friend @strychnynegirl for helping me immensely with this chapter 🥰 she is literally incredible. anyways, hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and i hope you have an amazing thanksgiving 🫶🏻 much love! -aly💕 → you are currently all caught upꨄ
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@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie
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Spicy Curry (Bakugou Katsuki x F!Reader) Chapter 7
Summary: Pro-hero DynaMight hides his developing hearing loss from the public. He doesn’t want them or the villains to know about what he considers his only weakness. His family knows. His best friends know. And now you, the owner of his favorite little curry shop, know. You want to live a quiet life & to protect your son. The last thing you want is to draw attention to yourself. You hide your identity, you hide your scars, and you hide your quirk. And then Bakugou, Katsuki walks in one day with dried blood on his ears, and you can’t help but help him.
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Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | ? ? ?
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Content Warning: This fic will contain mentions of past abuse from a “partner”, including sexual assault.
The bell above the door chimed as Katsuki and Kouichi entered the shop, the familiar scent of curry spices wrapping around them like a welcome. But instead of the usual calm atmosphere, they walked into controlled chaos. Nearly every stool at the counter was occupied, customers' chopsticks clicking against bowls as steam rose in fragrant clouds from their curry. Only two seats remained open in the far corner, tucked away from the main bustle. The tiny kitchen behind the counter was alive with motion as you moved between multiple pots, your hair escaping its neat bun in wisps that clung to your damp forehead.
The sight of you like this made something twist in Katsuki's chest. He'd grown used to seeing you in quieter moments, when the shop felt like a sanctuary from the world outside. Now, watching you navigate the cramped space with practiced efficiency, he found himself studying the fluid grace of your movements, the way you anticipated each customer's needs before they spoke, how naturally you maintained your composure even as chaos swirled around you. It reminded him, oddly enough, of watching seasoned pros work a crisis - that same economy of motion, that instinct born from years of experience.
Kouichi immediately bounced toward the counter, waving his hands to catch your attention, his small body practically vibrating with excitement. When you didn't look up, focused on a pot threatening to boil over, he tapped the counter rhythmically - your agreed-upon signal when he needed you urgently.
You glanced up, and Katsuki caught the flash of relief in your eyes at seeing them safe. But your attention was immediately pulled away by the overflowing pot. "Just a minute, baby," you signed quickly, one-handed while adjusting the heat. A customer at the far end raised his empty glass, and you moved to refill it, narrowly avoiding collision with another patron reaching for napkins.
The dinner rush had clearly hit harder than usual. Katsuki's enhanced observation skills, honed through years of hero work, picked up the subtle signs of strain – the slight tremor in your hands as you ladled curry, the way your shoulders tensed with each new demand for attention, the tight lines around your mouth that spoke of exhaustion you were trying to hide.
Kouichi's hands moved in increasingly larger gestures, determined to share his triumph. His signing became bigger, more emphatic: "Mom! I controlled the heat! I made a rock warm but not too hot and—" His fingers shaped each sign with perfect clarity, unconsciously demonstrating the control he'd learned that afternoon.
Your hands stilled for just a moment, genuine pride breaking through the stress. "That's amazing, sweetheart," you signed, love and pride shining through despite your exhaustion. But your response was cut short by a customer calling out their order. "I want to hear all about it, just... give me a little time, okay?"
Kouichi's face fell slightly, though he tried to hide it. His small hands dropped to his sides, the excitement dimming in his eyes like a candle being slowly extinguished. Kouichi's dimming enthusiasm hit Katsuki harder than he expected, like a punch he wasn't braced to receive.
"Oi," he signed to Kouichi, getting the boy's attention. "Let's sit down," he directed, guiding him toward the only empty seats at the counter's far end. The simple gesture was a quiet reminder that someone was still paying attention to him, still saw him through the chaos of the busy shop.
Kouichi nodded eagerly, settling onto the stool. You hurried past with two steaming bowls of curry, offering a quick glance that somehow conveyed both warmth and apology. Your movements stayed precise despite the obvious fatigue in your shoulders, each step measured as you navigated the crowded space.
"I'll get your food as soon as I can," you signed between packing orders, but three more customers walked in, the bell's cheerful chime feeling almost mocking now. Each new arrival seemed to add another weight to your shoulders, though you moved through the chaos with practiced grace, your movements precise despite your obvious fatigue.
He watched as you juggled multiple orders, your usual grace starting to fray at the edges. When you nearly dropped a bowl, catching it just in time but splashing curry sauce on your apron, he saw real strain flash across your face before you buried it beneath a professional smile. Something in that glimpse of vulnerability made him shift forward in his seat, his body moving before his mind could catch up.
Once Katsuki and Kouichi finally got their food, Kouichi pulled out his remaining schoolwork. The workbook was slightly scorched around the edges, evidence of this morning's frustration, but he attacked it with a determination that reminded Katsuki of himself.
"Mom?" Kouichi's hands moved in question, drawing your attention from where you were recording takeout orders. "What does this word mean?"
You glanced at the workbook, starting to explain, but another customer's voice cut through the din. Your explanation faltered as you tried to split your focus, signing with one hand while reaching for clean bowls with the other. The strain of trying to be everything for everyone showed in the slight trembling of your fingers, in the way you bit your lip in concentration.
"Mom?" Kouichi tried again moments later, pointing to a different problem. Each time you started to help, something else demanded attention – a new order, a spill that needed cleaning, customers requesting their bills. The constant interruptions were wearing you down, though you tried to hide it behind efficient movements and professional smiles.
Katsuki saw the moment it all became too much. Your hands trembled slightly as you stirred a pot of curry, your eyes darting between Kouichi's hopeful face and the growing stack of orders. The careful balance you usually maintained between mother and shop owner was cracking, and something protective surged in his chest at the sight. He recognized the look in your eyes – the same desperate determination he felt when trying to prove he could handle everything alone, even as the world kept demanding more.
The next time Kouichi raised his hands to ask a question, Katsuki shifted closer without conscious thought. The movement was natural, automatic - like adjusting his stance in a fight or reaching for support gear during patrol. Without a word, he angled himself to see the workbook better, as if helping with homework was something he did every day. Kouichi looked up in surprise as Katsuki's shadow fell across his paper.
"Show me what you're working on," Katsuki signed.
Kouichi pointed to a science worksheet about plant growth cycles. His small finger traced the confusing sequence of illustrations. "I don't understand which comes first," he signed, frustration evident in his furrowed brow.
Katsuki studied the page for a moment, his mind already breaking down the concept into manageable pieces. Years of analyzing quirk mechanics and battle strategies had honed his ability to explain complex ideas simply.
"Think about making curry," Katsuki signed. "What comes first?"
Kouichi's eyes lit up at the familiar comparison. "Getting ingredients!"
"Right. Just like we need ingredients for curry, a plant needs ingredients to grow." His hands shaped each concept with careful precision. "The seed is like the first ingredient. It needs water and soil, just like curry needs water and spices."
You glanced over while measuring out rice, catching sight of them bent together over the workbook. The sight of Katsuki bent over the workbook with Kouichi, his usual intensity softened, stirred something quiet and unexpected within you.His crimson eyes were focused intently on Kouichi's face, watching to make sure the boy followed each explanation.
A customer called for a refill, pulling your attention away, but your eyes kept drifting back to them between orders. Katsuki's hands moved with surprising patience as he explained each stage of plant growth, relating it to things Kouichi understood from the kitchen. The boy's face glowed with comprehension as concepts that had seemed impossible suddenly made sense.
"See? Just like how curry needs time to simmer, plants need time to grow." Katsuki's signs flowed more smoothly now, his initial awkwardness forgotten in the focus of teaching. "Each stage is important, just like each step in cooking."
A bittersweet tenderness washed over you as you observed them working together– Kouichi's hands flying with enthusiasm as he finally grasped the concept, his expressions matching Katsuki's determined focus. There was something achingly natural about how they fit together, how Katsuki's usual sharp edges softened as he broke down complex ideas into pieces Kouichi could understand.
Between serving bowls of curry and recording orders, you couldn't help noticing how competent Katsuki was with Kouichi. He didn't oversimplify or talk down to him, but explained things clearly and expected understanding. It was the same approach you'd always used – treating Kouichi's questions with respect while making sure the answers were accessible.
"Mom, look!" Kouichi's excited signing caught your attention as you passed with a tray of empty dishes. "I understand it now!" He held up his completed worksheet, pride shining in his dark eyes.
You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest at his excitement. "That's wonderful, baby," you signed quickly before turning to deliver another order. You couldn't help watching them between orders—how quickly they'd fallen into step together, how your son straightened whenever Katsuki acknowledged his progress.
Stop it, you scolded yourself, tearing your gaze away. This isn't permanent. He's only here because he's on medical leave. Once he's cleared to return to hero work, he'll have more important things to do than help with homework.
But watching him guide Kouichi through another problem, his hands moving with growing confidence through signs he must have practiced when no one was watching...it was hard to remember why you were supposed to keep your distance. Hard not to imagine more evenings like this, hard not to want this to be more than temporary.
Don't read into it, you told yourself firmly. He's just being kind. He's probably like this with all kids – he's a hero, after all. It doesn't mean anything.
The evening stretched on, full of these dangerous moments – glimpses of what could be, if you were brave enough to want it. If you were whole enough to deserve it. If the world was kind enough to let you keep it.
The last customers finally filtered out, leaving behind a scatter of empty bowls and the lingering scent of curry that permeated everything. Quiet settled over the shop like a heavy blanket, broken only by the soft clink of dishes and the gentle hum of the refrigerator. You moved behind the counter with mechanical efficiency, muscle memory carrying you through motions you'd performed thousands of times before. Your hands trembled slightly as you stacked bowls from the counter's edge, fatigue settling deep in your bones after hours of non-stop movement.
Kouichi had dozed off at the counter, his small face peaceful against his folded arms, schoolwork spread out beneath him. The sight made your chest ache – he should be in bed, not falling asleep in the shop because you couldn't manage to balance everything properly. But there had been so many customers, so many demands on your attention, and Katsuki had been there helping with homework, and somehow time had slipped away from you like water through cupped hands.
Katsuki watched you from his spot at the counter, crimson eyes tracking your path through the small space. You'd been in constant motion since they'd arrived, always reaching, lifting, serving – but he hadn't seen you take a single proper bite of food. Even now, exhaustion clear in every line of your body, you kept pushing forward with that quiet determination that made his chest tight. It reminded him too much of himself, that stubborn refusal to show weakness, to admit when things were becoming too much.
"Oi," he called out. You immediately looked up from your cleaning. His hands moved with a steadiness that hadn't been there days ago. "You've been running around feeding everyone else all day. When was the last time you actually ate something yourself?"
Your hands stilled on the bowl you were reaching for, surprise flickering across your face before you could hide it. The question caught you off guard – when was the last time you'd eaten? You'd had... something, surely. There had been that half-finished bowl of rice this morning, and you'd tested the curry batch for seasoning, and...
"I eat plenty," you signed back, the defensive gesture betrayed by how you wouldn't quite meet his eyes. Your stomach chose that moment to protest loudly, making heat crawl up your neck.
"Bullshit." He stood, moving around the counter with purposeful strides. There was something almost predatory in his grace, the way he commanded space even in this simple movement. "You had lunch with us earlier, sure, but that was hours ago. Since then, all you've had is whatever you can grab between customers. Call that eating if you want, but we both know it's not."
The observation struck deeper than it should have. You were used to running on empty, used to putting everyone else's needs before your own. It had become such a habit you barely noticed anymore – there was always another customer to serve, another task that needed attention, another reason to postpone taking care of yourself.
"I'm fine," you signed, movements sharp with embarrassment. "There's still cleaning to do." The excuse sounded weak even to your own ears, but old habits died hard. Taking care of yourself had always seemed like a luxury you couldn't afford, not when there were bills to pay and a child to raise.
But Katsuki was already taking the stack of bowls from your hands, his movements leaving no room for argument. His fingers brushed yours in the exchange, callused and warm, and you tried to ignore how that simple contact sent electricity skittering across your skin.
"Sit," he signed after setting them aside, pointing firmly at the counter stool. "I'll handle this."
"I don't need—" you started to protest, but he cut you off with a look that could have melted steel. The intensity in his crimson eyes made your breath catch, not from intimidation but from the genuine concern you saw lurking beneath his scowl.
"You're about to fall over," he signed, his movements gentler than his expression would suggest. "Let someone else take care of things for once."
"I can't just—" you tried again, but your hands were trembling now for reasons that had nothing to do with exhaustion. The words died in your hands as you caught his expression – not pity, which you couldn't have borne, but something closer to understanding.
"Yes, you can." His signs were firm but carried an undertone of something that might have been concern. You recognized the look in his eyes – the same one you wore when Kouichi pushed himself too hard, when he insisted he was fine even though you could see him struggling. "Now sit before you collapse and give me more shit to clean up."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it, surprised and a little watery. Katsuki's eyes softened at the sound, his usual scowl melting into something gentler that made your heart skip. Something about seeing DynaMight standing in your tiny kitchen made all your careful defenses start to crack. You found yourself sinking onto the stool he'd indicated, your body yielding to his demand before your mind could formulate any further protest.
The sight of him moving through your space with such natural familiarity made your heart do complicated things in your chest. He navigated between counter and stove as if he'd memorized every inch, his powerful hands handling your worn dishes with unexpected care. A bowl appeared in front of you, steam rising in fragrant clouds. You hadn't even noticed him preparing it, too mesmerized by the sight of someone else moving with purpose through the kitchen you'd always tended to alone.
"Eat," he signed without looking up from the sink, but you caught the slight pink tinge to his ears that betrayed his gruff exterior. “You're no good to anyone if you keep pushing yourself like this.”
The warmth that bloomed in your chest had nothing to do with the curry and everything to do with how naturally he'd claimed his place in your world. As if he belonged here, in your tiny shop with its worn counters and familiar rhythms. As if taking care of you was something he'd always done.
The warm curry filled your mouth, rich flavors spreading across your tongue—the first proper meal you'd had since dawn. You noticed his gaze flicking toward you as you ate, a quick, concerned glance that he tried to disguise as casual. Something softened in your chest at his unspoken attentiveness. There was something comforting about someone caring enough to watch over you.
The comfortable silence stretched between you, broken only by the soft splash of dishes in the sink and Kouichi's gentle breathing from his corner. The evening light painted everything in soft gold, catching in Katsuki's ash-blonde hair and making him look softer somehow. You watched his hands move through the familiar motions of cleaning – the same hands that created devastating explosions in battle now carefully washing your dishes, treating your worn bowls with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He moved through your kitchen like he knew where everything belonged, and maybe he did. Maybe he'd been paying attention all this time, learning your rhythms, finding his place in this small world you'd built.
The clock on the wall ticked past ten, far later than you'd realized. The day's exhaustion settled deeper into your bones as the adrenaline of the dinner rush finally faded completely. You stifled a yawn, gathering your empty bowl to bring to the sink, but Katsuki wordlessly took it from you with a look that brooked no argument.
You moved to wake Kouichi, your hands already reaching toward his shoulder, when Katsuki's warm fingers wrapped gently around your wrist. The contact sent electricity skittering across your skin, but his touch was careful, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid of startling you.
"Don't wake him," he signed one-handed, his other hand still holding your wrist with surprising gentleness. His expression softened as he looked at Kouichi, something protective flickering in his crimson eyes. "I'll carry him. Just show me where."
The offer caught you off guard, a flutter of warmth spreading through you. You hesitated, old instincts warring with the trust that had been building between you. Letting someone else carry your sleeping child, letting them into your private space above the shop – it went against years of careful boundaries, of keeping everyone at arm's length.
But this was Katsuki, who had spent the evening teaching your son with endless patience. Katsuki, who noticed when you weren't eating and made sure you took care of yourself. Katsuki, who had already crossed so many of your carefully constructed barriers without ever making you feel unsafe.
Your nod came after a moment's hesitation. His hand fell away from your wrist, leaving your skin tingling from the brief contact. He picked up Kouichi with surprising care, his movements quiet and efficient. Your son barely stirred as Katsuki lifted him, small body relaxing naturally against his chest as if he'd done this a hundred times before.
You led the way up the narrow stairs to your apartment, each creaking step familiar beneath your feet. The stairwell was tight, forcing you to walk close enough to feel the heat radiating from Katsuki's body behind you.
The door opened into your small living room, warm light spilling from the lamp you always left on. It wasn't much – just a modest two-bedroom unit above the shop – but you'd poured everything you had into making it feel like home. Kouichi's artwork covered the walls, each piece carefully framed as if it belonged in a gallery. A collection of his origami creatures marched along a bookshelf, arranged by color – something he'd done himself one afternoon when you were teaching him about organization.
You watched Katsuki take it all in, suddenly seeing your space through his eyes. The well-worn couch with its carefully patched cushions, evidence of years of stretching resources. Kouichi's finger painting of a colorful mountain sat drying on the coffee table, surrounded by newspaper spread out to protect the surface. Everything in its place, everything serving a purpose, everything chosen with careful consideration of limited means.
His gaze lingered on the family photos dotting the walls, telling the story of your life with Kouichi in captured moments. You watched his eyes catch on one from the hospital – you looked so young, so exhausted but triumphant, cradling your newborn son. Another showed Kouichi's first day of preschool, his smile bright despite the uncertainty you remembered him feeling. Each image carefully chosen to show only joy, no hints of the struggles that lay beneath the surface.
Books filled every available space – sign language dictionaries dog-eared from constant use, parenting guides marked with sticky notes, and well-worn cookbooks. They showed how you'd taught yourself to be everything Kouichi needed, learning through determination what most people had help to figure out.
Something shifted in Katsuki's expression as he absorbed it all. His eyes caught on the height measurements marked on the kitchen door frame, each line dated and decorated with small stars.
The intimacy of having him here, seeing these private markers of your life with Kouichi, made your chest tight. YHe wasn't just seeing your apartment - he was seeing the life you and Kouichi had built together. His careful handling of Kouichi, the way he took in every detail without judgment, made something warm unfurl in your chest despite your usual caution.
You moved ahead into Kouichi's room, turning down the covers of his bed decorated with hero-print sheets – a special find from a secondhand store that had made his whole face light up. The walls here were his gallery, covered in crayon drawings of heroes in action. But it was the sheer number featuring Dynamight that caught your attention now – explosive quirk rendered in bright oranges and reds, each one capturing that fierce determination Kouichi so admired.
Katsuki's steps faltered as he noticed them, something soft and surprised flickering across his face. You watched him take in the evidence of how long he'd been Kouichi's favorite hero, long before he ever stepped foot in your shop. His eyes lingered on one drawing in particular – Dynamight standing protectively in front of a smaller figure with dark hair, flames dancing around them both. The date in the corner was from just after Kouichi's quirk manifested.
Katsuki carefully eased Kouichi onto the bed, his hands moving with such precision that the covers barely shifted. Your son snuggled into his familiar spot, one hand automatically reaching for the worn All Might plush that had been his constant companion since infancy. Together, you stood watching him sleep, his small face peaceful in the gentle glow of his nightlight.
Your hands moved in the dim light, forming a simple "thank you" that encompassed far more than just carrying him upstairs. But your fingers trembled slightly, betraying how much it meant to have someone else here, someone who saw all your careful defenses and chose to be gentle with them.
Katsuki's eyes met yours with quiet intensity, crimson softened to burgundy in the low light. He understood – you weren't just thanking him for tonight, but for everything: for teaching Kouichi with endless patience, for seeing your struggles without making you feel weak, for treating your trust as the precious thing it was. For making your careful world feel less lonely without ever making you feel like you weren't enough on your own.
Stepping out of Kouichi's room, you found yourself suddenly aware of how narrow the hallway was, barely wide enough for two people to pass. The dim light from the living room cast long shadows, softening Katsuki's usually sharp features into something almost gentle. He stood close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest in the confined space. The familiar scent of caramel and smoke that always clung to him mixed with the gentle aroma of curry that permeated your home, creating something new and intoxicating that made your heart beat faster.
You should have stepped away. Should have maintained the careful distance you always kept between yourself and others. But something about having him here, in this private space where you only ever let Kouichi exist, made all your usual defenses feel paper-thin.
"Would you like some tea?" you signed, the offer slipping out before you could second-guess it. "As a thank you." The words felt inadequate against everything he'd done tonight.
His eyes met yours in the half-light, their crimson hue deepened by the shadows. For a moment, he seemed to be weighing something behind that intense gaze. You found yourself holding your breath, though you couldn't have said why. The air between you felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
"Yeah," he finally signed. "Tea would be good." Such simple words, and yet they carried the weight of crossing another boundary - from helper to guest, from Kouichi's mentor to something less easily defined.
You led him to your small kitchen, hyper aware of his presence behind you. The space felt different with him in it. You'd never noticed how small your kitchen was until his broad shoulders filled the doorway, until his presence made every movement feel like a delicate dance of almost-touching.
You busied yourself with the kettle, grateful for the routine tasks that gave your hands something to do. The familiar motions helped ground you - measuring tea leaves, heating water, reaching for mugs.
"Kouichi did well today," Katsuki signed once you were both seated at your small kitchen table, steam rising from the mugs between you. His movements had grown more fluid with practice, each sign shaped with the same precision he brought to everything he did. "He's got good instincts. Just needs confidence."
The genuine pride in his expression reminded you exactly why you were finding it increasingly difficult to keep your guard up around him.
"He was so excited about today he could hardly focus on anything else," you signed, a smile touching your lips. "I haven't seen him this enthusiastic about learning in a long time." The admission carried more weight than you'd intended - hints of Kouichi's struggles at school, of the isolation that came with being different.
Katsuki's eyes drifted to a photo on your refrigerator - you and Kouichi in the hospital, his tiny face scrunched and red against your chest. The sight of him studying that particular moment made your heart skip. That photo captured both the best and worst day of your life - the joy of holding your son tempered by the bone-deep exhaustion of running, of knowing you weren't safe even in the hospital.
"He was early, wasn't he?" The observation caught you off guard. Trust Katsuki to notice what most people missed.
"How could you tell?"
"The monitoring equipment in the background," he signed, gesturing toward the photo.
You nodded slowly, choosing your words carefully. "Six weeks early. We were in the hospital for a while, but he was strong." The simplified version of events felt hollow in your mouth, omitting the fear and exhaustion of those days, the constant looking over your shoulder even in the hospital. You didn't mention the cheap motels before that, the careful planning of your escape, the way you'd rationed food to save money for medical care you knew you'd need.
Something flickered in Katsuki's expression - recognition, perhaps, of the gaps in your story. You saw the questions form and die in his eyes, saw him choose not to push. Instead, he reached for the honey jar at the same moment you did. Your fingers brushed, sending electricity skittering across your skin. You both pulled back quickly, but the ghost of his touch lingered, warm and dangerous.
His attention returned to the photograph, his expression unreadable as his eyes traced over the image. "Can see where he gets that determination from," he signed, his gaze lifting to meet yours for just a moment before glancing away.
Heat crept up your neck at the unexpected compliment, at the way his gaze moved from the photo to your face with careful consideration.
"You notice a lot," you signed, trying to keep your movements casual despite your racing heart. The words felt inadequate against the weight of everything he seemed to understand without being told.
"Hard not to," he signed back, something in his expression making your breath catch.
The implications of that statement hung in the air between you. The soft kitchen light cast a warm glow over his ash-blonde hair, and you noticed how his expression had gentled, the usual hard lines of his face relaxed. Your heart skipped a beat despite your best efforts to remain composed. He looked right somehow, sitting at your small kitchen table with his calloused hands curved around the mug you'd bought at a secondhand store. Like he belonged here.
A comfortable silence settled between you. The gentle steam from your mugs curled upward in the quiet kitchen, and you found yourself relaxing into the moment, your usual vigilance softening at the edges. The exhaustion of the day caught up with you all at once, and before you could stop it, a yawn escaped, your hand flying up too late to cover it.
Katsuki's eyes flickered to you immediately, that sharp observation that missed nothing softening with something that might have been concern.
"You're tired," he signed, his movements gentle in the warm kitchen light. There was no judgment in his expression, just that quiet attentiveness that seemed to catch everything.
"Long day," you admitted, embarrassed at being caught but too tired to properly hide it. Another yawn threatened, and this time you didn't bother fighting it.
"I should go," he signed decisively, setting his mug down with careful precision. "You need rest."
Despite your fatigue, you felt a flicker of disappointment that surprised you with its intensity. You'd grown so used to keeping people at a distance that the reluctance to see him leave felt foreign, almost dangerous.
"It's okay," you signed, even as you suppressed another yawn.
He snorted softly. "You can barely keep your eyes open."
Before you could protest, he was standing, collecting both your mugs and placing them in the sink. The simple consideration of it—that he wouldn't leave you with more to clean—was becoming a pattern you couldn't help but appreciate.
"Come on," he signed once he'd turned back to you. "I'll head out so you can get some sleep."
The wooden stairs creaked softly under your feet as you followed Katsuki down to the shop entrance. Shadows pooled in the corners, broken only by the gentle glow of streetlights filtering through the front windows, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow. Your small shop, usually so comfortable in its limitations, felt different at this hour. The counter where you'd served countless bowls of curry, the worn wooden floors that had supported thousands of footsteps, the simple decorations that made this space yours – everything seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
"Same time tomorrow?" Katsuki signed, his movements illuminated by the light above the door. The question was casual, practical, but something in his expression made your heart flutter traitorously in your chest. His hands moved with growing confidence through the signs, evidence of late-night practice sessions he'd never admit to.
"If you're sure you don't mind," you signed back, hands moving carefully in the dim light. "I know it's a lot of time to spend on your leave."
He scoffed, the sound soft in the quiet shop. But then his hands stilled, hovering in the space between you as if caught between impulse and restraint. You caught something flicker across his face – an aborted movement, words left unsaid. The hesitation felt significant somehow.
His shoulders tensed slightly, and you could almost see him wrestling with whatever he'd stopped himself from saying. The struggle played out in minute changes of expression, in the way his fingers twitched as if seeking signs he wasn't ready to form. You found yourself holding your breath, though you couldn't have said why.
Instead, his eyes found yours in the half-light, crimson softened to burgundy by the shadows. The intensity of his gaze made your breath catch, though there was something gentle in it that hadn't been there before.
"You know," he signed, movements deliberate, each gesture carrying the weight of careful observation, "for someone who spends all day feeding people, you're pretty bad at taking care of yourself."
The comment took you by surprise, not only for how spot-on it was but also for the quiet concern hidden in his rough voice.
"I take care of what matters," you signed, the familiar defense feeling weaker under his steady gaze. The words tasted like the half-truths you'd been telling yourself for years – that you could keep running on empty, that taking care of yourself was a luxury you couldn't afford, that being strong meant never admitting when you needed help.
His expression shifted into something that might have been fondness, though he quickly masked it with his usual scowl. But you caught it – that moment of softness, of understanding that went deeper than words. "Tch. That includes you, you know."
The words settled warm and heavy in your chest, carrying more weight than their simple meaning should allow. In the dim light, your eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the way his ash-blonde hair caught the streetlight's glow, how his usual intensity had softened into something that made your heart beat faster.
"Same time tomorrow," Katsuki signed, his movements illuminated by the light above the door. The statement carried no uncertainty, just the same decisive confidence he brought to everything. A sense of comfort washed over you at his certainty, at how naturally he'd claimed his place in your routine.
"Yes," you nodded simply.
He turned toward the door, and in the narrow space, his shoulder brushed against yours. The brief contact sent electricity skittering across your skin, leaving warmth in its wake that lingered long after the touch itself.
The bell chimed softly as he left, its familiar sound somehow hollow in his absence. You stood in the doorway, watching his figure disappear into the night, the streets quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. Without him, the shop felt suddenly larger, emptier—as if the space he'd occupied had left a vacuum nothing else could fill.
Dog with No Teeth // Chapter One
Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader
Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, canon-typical violence, threatening language, death of a minor character
Word Count: 4.6k
On a scavenging run, two unknown groups arrive unannounced. Through the gunfire, you’re separated, cornered, captured. A skull-faced Lieutenant makes a decision, changing your life forever.
Chapter Two
ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist
Eden is a home.
It is a person. A place. A community
It is the scent of old musty books, and the quiet peace before the rising dawn.
You work by candlelight in the silent hours, an open book resting on the table in front of you. Wearing gloves to protect it, you carefully turn the page, gaze scanning the faded lettering. Most of it is legible, and with some time and care, you’ll be able to replicate it on new paper with fresh ink.
Preservation.
Not of your mortal life and those that live in your community, but the preservation of humanity, culture, and human history. Five years since the world fell apart, and yet you remain, carrying on with purpose, restoring books, transcribing those that are close to falling apart, and keeping records of the years that came before.
It is enjoyable, fulfilling work but you serve a greater need to your community. Here, within your sanctuary of several hundred people, you provide them entertainment and education. The children come to you for picture books and story time, and the adults visit when they need an escape.
You are but one piece of a large whole.
“What are you doing here so early?”
You glance up, smiling at your assistant. “Could ask the same,” you laugh, pushing back from the table. Standing, you remove your gloves and set them next to the book.
Sam, your archiving assistant yawns. “Thought I’d get here early since you’re going out today with Zac and his group.” They rub at their eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the gate already?”
“Shit,” you mutter, checking the mechanical clock hanging on the wall. Sam is right. You should be at the gate right now. “Double shit,” you groan.
Sam laughs and reaches for their own gloves. “I’ll handle this.” Putting them on, Sam settles into your chair. “We doing a refurb on this?”
“No,” you say, running around the room, grabbing your jacket and backpack. “Some of the pages are too faded. Binding is also bust.”
“Transcribe then,” murmurs Sam, gently closing the book to inspect the integrity of the cover. “Where are you going again?”
“Zac mentioned a small town they scoped out. No activity.” You walk over to Sam, yanking your jacket on. “He said there’s a library.”
Sam’s head pops up. “Seriously?”
You nod excitedly. “Said the place was locked up tight. Windows still intact.”
“Untouched?” asks Sam, eyebrows rising in surprise. You nod. Sam whistles lowly. “What a fucking find.”
“I know!” you exclaim. “Could really use some encyclopedias.”
“And dictionaries,” adds Sam longingly.
Tugging on the front of your jacket and then smoothing the front, you zip it up. “Zac said I can bring back as much as I want.”
“Did he really?” Sam shakes their head and opens the front cover of the book. “That man is sweet on you.”
“Which is why I take advantage,” you giggle.
Sam bursts out laughing. “Go. They’ll leave you behind.”
With a grin on your face and a hop to your step, you wave at Sam before heading out the side door and into the early morning. The sun is just starting to rise. Most people are still asleep or starting their day. You walk by the communal buildings where the earliest risers are preparing breakfast. You sigh when you get a whiff of what they’re cooking, wishing you could snag a meal before departing.
As you approach the gate, Zac raises his hand in greeting.
“Have I held everyone up?” you ask tentatively, glancing around.
“Not at all. Still loading up a few things. Your timing is perfect.” Zac smiles, and though you find him pleasant, nothing stirs within you. There is no lust or even romantic interest.
You observe the line of cars queued at the gate. Usually there are only one or two, but there are at least ten vehicles here including the salvaged U-Haul. “Taking a whole convoy?”
“We’re going to need it.”
“For a small town?”
Zac chuckles. “I’m dropping you off at the library. Ben will come with you.”
“I get a security detail?” you ask excitedly and Zac nods. “Fancy.”
Zac scratches at his neck, gaze roaming over the convoy. “There’s a car assembly plant a few miles outside the town. Gonna strip what we can. If things go well, we’ll come back.”
“No activity then?”
“None,” confirms Zac. “We’ve had a scouting team out there for the last two months. Not a soul has passed through.”
“That’s fortunate,” you murmur.
While your community has been largely untouched and unbothered by the outside world, there are still so many unknowns. There have been stragglers that have shown up, and while several have been accepted in and integrated, there are many more that have been turned away or shot on sight. Sometimes you think it cruel, but there are all sorts of horrors in the world now.
Ben walks around the front of the nearest car, and beams in your direction. “Hear I’m looking after you today,” he says, going in for a hug.
You accept it easily. Ben is the comedian of the community, always having a kind word and funny joke.
“And helping me haul books,” you add.
Ben winks in your direction and then turns to Zac. “We’re ready.”
Zac nods. “Load up!” he shouts.
Everyone around you heads to their designated vehicle. Engines roar and car doors slam. You follow Ben, hopping into a dusty Jeep Wrangler.
It’s several hours of open road and clear weather.
You and Ben pass the time by singing songs and playing car games. It’s a good distraction until Zac comes on over the radio and tells Ben their exit is coming up. The rest of the convoy drives on as Ben cuts away to take an exit ramp. A few more minutes and he’s coming to a stop just on the edge of town, parking the Jeep amongst a cluster of trees. The vehicle is completely hidden.
“Ready?” he asks, sliding the keys into his pocket.
“Backpack? Check. Gun? Check. Foldable wagon? Check.”
Ben blows raspberries. “Can’t forget the foldable wagon.”
You playfully smack him on the arm. “You want to haul all those books back yourself.”
“No thank you,” he mutters.
The walk is pleasant, but overall silent. Ben carries an M4AI. The arsenal back home is massive, and whenever there are trips outside the compound, the military-grade weapons come out. He keeps his head on a swivel, but other than the occasional animal sounds and the rustling of leaves, all is quiet.
“Here it is,” sighs Ben, extending one arm toward a stand-alone building at the corner of an intersection.
The library isn’t overly big. If anything, it’s what you’d expect from a small town.
“Now I know you’re excited,” he begins, slightly leaning in your direction. “But you stay close. We’re entering from the back.”
All you can do is nod eagerly, words escaping you. It’s been almost six years since you’ve been inside a library. This is a treat. It takes an insane amount of self-control to not skip all the way to the back of the building.
While the front of the building faces the intersection, behind the library is a small parking lot and two dumpsters. Ben does a slow sweep of the lot as the two of you walk toward the employee entrance. Satisfied that nothing and no one is around, Ben lowers his gun. Removing his backpack, he sets it on the ground, and rummages around inside before withdrawing lockpicks.
Adrenaline surges within you.
A few wiggles.
And then—
Click.
Grinning like an idiot, Ben slips the lockpicks into his backpack and puts it on. Grabbing his gun, he presses himself to the brick wall. Slowly, Ben opens the door with the tip of the rifle. It gives under his touch easily, the hinges even silent as the door swings inwards.
“Draw your weapon,” whispers Ben. “We need to do a sweep first.” As you reach for your Glock, Ben shakes his head. “And leave the damn wagon.”
Leaning the foldable wagon against the wall, you remove your gun from its holster. Ben enters and you follow, shifting your body to watch for anything coming up behind you. It’s a slow sweep. Starting along the wall, the two of you walk the perimeter, checking the back offices, and then finally the center-most area.
Ben comes to a stop near a collection of dusty chairs. Lowering his gun, he sighs with relief. “It’s clear.” He turns in your direction. “I’ll be keeping a lookout at the door. If anything happens, you come directly to me.”
“Got it,” you say with a mock salute.
Ben rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “And don’t drag those books along because I know you will. Leave them.”
You stare him down but Ben doesn’t budge, matching your stare with one of his own. “I mean it. If someone or something comes barreling through the front doors, you fucking run to me. Understood?”
“Sure. Got it. Understood.”
Ben checks his watch. “We have a few hours before we’re expected back at the meet point. Take your time.” He starts to walk away, and then abruptly pivots. “Wife packed a few sandwiches. Promise I’ll share.”
You snort and wave him off. “Bring me my wagon, Ben.”
“On it,” he calls over his shoulder.
As his footfalls recede, you linger in the quiet, dusty library, taking in the significance of the moment. Six years since you’ve stood inside an actual library. Five years since the world fell apart but a year before, third places were quickly disappearing. No one could spend money when wages were low and all the government’s resources were going toward the war effort. Libraries and free spaces shuttered first, losing all their funding.
This place is precious. Special. A rare opportunity.
Of all the books in your community’s collection, they’ve all come to you by the way of others, collected on routine trips and scavenging missions like today. Since stepping inside the walls you now call home, this is the first time you’ve left it. All the stories you receive of the outside world come from the mouths of those who witness it firsthand.
Like a jubilant child, you want to run around—to touch everything. The tips of your fingers buzz with an incessant itch. But you don’t dare remove anything from the shelves. Resisting is almost physically painful as you float through the aisles, taking it all in. To remove a book off the shelf, to open it up, the smell it and feel it would be paradise.
But you know better. You do.
Disturbing them without the right tools and care might cause damage or undo exposure. What you can do is look, to read the spines, and consider your options. Once you know what you want, you’ll drag your little wagon behind you and go about taking the books you want off the shelves.
Ben does leave you alone, and you’re left to wander.
Each step is light but purposeful as you move about the space. You think of everyone back home, of their likes and dislikes, of their needs and wants. More picture books would be helpful as well as some young adult novels. Some of the women have been asking for romance and few of the older folks would like some historical nonfiction.
“Where are you?” you mutter, digging around in your jacket pockets.
Crumpled paper brushes against your fingers. Withdrawing it, you smooth it out as best you can. Using the little light available to read your scribbled penmanship, you pull the wagon behind you, mentally reordering your notes by priority.
Sam wants dictionaries, and you need to grab a set of encyclopedias. Finding the “Reference” section, you survey all your options. Dictionaries and an encyclopedia set are a must, but you also consider the selections of atlases and then the thesaurus collection. The school could really use those resources, and your wagon is large enough to accommodate a few last-minute additions.
Kneeling, you admire the different editions of encyclopedias. Some appear a little worn but otherwise fine. Even though this place hasn’t had power or temperature control in five years, the place was sealed and untouched until you and Ben. It’s likely that everything inside is fine, and all you and Sam will need to do is a rebinding.
You’re completely absorbed, so focused on the tomes in front of you, that the whisper of your name has you spinning around and reaching for your gun.
Ben has his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. A snarky remark sizzles on your tongue. Ben brings a finger to his mouth in a gesture of silence. Whatever you were going to say dissolves, leaving behind an acrid aftertaste.
Slowly, you swivel your head from side to side but see nothing.
Ben shifts closer, leans in, a glint of fear in his eyes.
“There are people outside,” he whispers.
That’s when you hear it. Distantly, you hear a car door slam, and a muffled shout. The marrow in your bones becomes ice. There are people. There shouldn’t be people.
You swallow, mouth becoming dry. “How many?”
Ben shrugs. “Not sure. But there’s two groups.”
“Two—” You shake your head slightly as that’ll clear your racing thoughts. “What do you mean two groups?”
Ben’s mouth turns downward. It’s an I’m sorry but even that is loaded.
We’re not getting out of this.
There’s a distant hoot of laughter, and then the breaking of glass as if someone’s thrown a beer bottle. It’s still far enough away that you cling to that one comfort. But if they stick around, they might come sniffing. If that happens, you and Ben will be cornered.
Ben nods his head in the direction of the front of the library. Staying low, the two of creep toward the front of the building. There are two sets of double doors. The first set open up into the library and the secondary set of doors lead directly outside. Sandwiched between them is a small atrium. Above the doors are massive windows that bring in natural light.
Out front in the intersection are several beaten up trucks. From what you can see, it’s all men, at least a dozen or two in total. They look haggard. Mean.
“Is that them?” you ask softly.
Ben doesn’t look back at you as he answers. “Just the one. These guys came in loud.” Ben shifts slightly to glance over his shoulder at you. “Surprised you didn’t hear them.”
“Lost in my books.” Ben snorts, and returns his attention to the glass doors. “What about the second group?” you ask tentatively. “Our people?”
Ben eases back a bit. He sits down on the floor, checking over his rifle. “No. Not sure who they are.” He licks his lips, gaze focused on the gun. “They’re all in black. Militarized by the look of them. Organized.”
Two groups. Two different groups.
Ben removes the clip and checks the cartridge. “Only noticed them when one of these guys went around back.” He gestures toward the men directly outside the front doors. “Fucker came out of nowhere and knifed him. Dragged his body away too.”
“Who are they?”
Ben shrugs and rummages in his backpack for a new clip. “No fucking idea. The ones out front might be marauders or slavers or—”
He pauses, gaze growing distant.
“Or what, Ben?” you prompt.
He doesn’t answer, only readies the rifle. “All I know is we need to go.”
All this work, all this effort, suddenly gone.
Your shoulders sag as the reality of the situation sets in. “I have to leave the books. Don’t I?”
“Afraid so,” replies Ben. But he smiles, and though he’s trying, you see the strain. “Next time I’ll make sure to bring you and Sam some books.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” he affirms. “Let’s go.”
At the back door, you withdraw your Glock, posting up beside Ben. He cracks it open. Pauses. Opens it a little wider. He carefully sticks a small hand mirror out the opening. He turns it left then right then back again.
“Clear” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
He exits slowly, and then gestures with his hand. You step outside, squinting slightly as your eyes adjust to the light. Ben starts to cross the parking lot, heading for the exit furthest from the intersection.
The voices of the men are louder out here. A tiny bubble of panic blooms. Then simmers. Then boils.
There is no one around. No one. And yet—
A loud crack splits the air. The wall next to Ben explodes, tiny fragments of debris bursting outward. Ben stumbles backward. He grabs for you. And tugs.
You’re yanked to the side, and then spun around.
Time seems to slow, and yet everything occurs so quickly you don’t entirely comprehend what’s happened until Ben shoves the two of you behind a nearby dumpster.
“Oh, fuck,” you breathe. “Ben. We—”
Horror floods your lungs.
Blood.
Everything. Dripping from tiny holes in Ben’s body.
“Oh my god. Ben.”
You reach for him, but there are so many impact points. Too many.
“Go,” he gasps. “Go.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
As the words leave your mouth, a barrage of bullets bite into the wall directly over your head.
“Here,” he rasps, handing you the keys to the Jeep. “Leave me and fucking run. I’ll distract them.”
Shouting breaks out nearby followed by what seems like a never-ending deluge of gunfire.
Your eyes burn. “You promised me books.”
He smiles, and there’s more red than white. “You know I always deliver on my promises.”
With a groan that’s more a cry of pain, Ben stands and reloads with a new clip.
“Go,” he whispers just as he steps out from around the dumpster, gun firing.
You turn. Take off. Gunfire follows.
It comes from everywhere, but you don’t falter, don’t pause to check your surroundings. You’re not a raging bull or an agile cheetah. You are pure frenzy, pure panic, like a rabbit running from fox teeth.
“Fucking grab her!” someone yells. “Grab her!”
You don’t know if it’s the marauders or the men all in black, but there is little reason to consider who.
Survival is paramount. Survival is eternal.
In a world like this, survival is lifeblood.
It is everything.
With lungs burning and muscles screaming, you aim for the houses, knowing you can lose them if you scuttle through the overgrown backyards.
The blow comes out of nowhere.
You witness a brief taste of freedom.
And then it’s yanked right from under you.
A body barrels into you, knocking you sideways. The ground comes up fast. You throw up your arms to protect your head and face. It cushions but protects little else. You hit hard.
“Come here,” growls a male voice. Hands are on you. Grabbing. Twisting. “Let me get a good look at you.”
You kick out. Throw your fists in all directions.
“Stop your fussing.”
A quick blow to the face and you’re circling, everything becoming temporarily blurry as the person atop you brings your vision skyward.
“Look at you,” he laughs.
It’s one of the marauders. He smiles down at you, teeth brown and grey from decay.
“Pretty thing. Gonna look cute choking on my—”
His nefarious smile drops as the rest of him stiffens. You freeze, staring up in shock as you try to figure out what’s happened. It’s a slow unfolding. A trickle. Blood begins to pool in his mouth and then it drip drip drips onto your face.
With a soft cry, you wiggle out from under him as he tips over, falling into the grass. Scrambling backward, you start to push up onto your knees, muscles poised to keep moving.
“Don’t move.” A gun barrel presses into the back of your head. It’s still warm. “Get up.”
A pair of black boots come into view. Your gaze slowly ascends. Black boots give way to black pants to a black bullet proof vest to a black balaclava. The only part of him you can see are his eyes.
Someone grabs the back of your neck. It’s a harsh hold, and you’re yanked to your feet. You twist your neck and find another man, this one almost identical to the one in front of you. This is the other group Ben spotted, the ones tracking the marauders.
The one holding your neck squeezes and the other reaches for you. “Fucking move and I’ll shoot you.”
You remain perfectly still—perfectly silent as he pats you down. The knife in your boot is confiscated along with your Glock. When they snatch the Jeep keys, you instinctually reach to take them back.
“Told you not to fucking move.”
The man slaps your hand down and you feel the muzzle return to your head.
“Sorry,” you murmur.
He stares you down for a long moment. It gives you an opportunity to observe him, and his companion. They both wear identical all-black tactical even down to the patches attached to their biceps. The bottom one you recognize. Both American flags. The one above it is eerily similar but you can’t entirely place it. It’s an azimuthal projection of the earth but a top view from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches.
The stranger’s gaze shifts to just above you. He jerks his head, and then you’re shoved forward without warning. With each of them holding an arm, you’re half-dragged back to the intersection the marauders were at.
While their rusty trucks are still there, they aren’t alone. Four armored trucks are parked in a semi-circle around the marauders’ cars. More men in all-black tactical gear prowl the area. Of the first group to arrive, those that aren’t dead have been zip tied and lined up in a row on their stomachs, faces pressed into the asphalt.
When one of them moves, they’re kicked until they fall back into compliance.
“Found this one out by the houses,” says the man holding onto your left arm.
Soldiers. They have to be. This isn’t some ragtag group. They wear uniforms, all of which are perfectly maintained. Even the armored trucks are in decent condition.
A small trio of them standing nearby turn.
The centermost soldier speaks. “A woman?” His surprise is clear. And like the two men who hold you, this man too has an American flag.
He nods toward the group of facedown marauders. “These fuckers don’t let their breeders out of their sight.”
Breeders.
You almost snarl, bite back with an insult. But you keep your mouth shut. Their intentions are unclear, and you’re without a weapon. Entirely powerless.
Survival. Always survival.
He takes a few steps forward, approaching you, gaze assessing. Behind the balaclava, he gives you a once over. “Looks healthy,” he observers. Without warning, he grabs your face. You jerk back, and he clucks his tongue. “Stop moving.”
Turning your face to the left and then to the right, the middle of his brow creases. “Open your mouth.”
You glower, and don’t comply.
He grabs your nose, shutting off your air. You gasp, mouth opening.
“Has all her teeth,” he announces, dropping his hand. “Can’t be one of theirs.”
“We need to show the Lieutenant,” says the soldier to your right.
The man before you stares, and keeps staring. “Do we?”
You don’t like the implication.
“What’s this?”
A deep, masculine voice cuts through the air. It is accented. British. Every head turns, and the soldiers straighten, shoulders back and heads held high.
The man holding your left arm speaks up. “Found her running toward the houses, Lieutenant.”
All the soldiers wear plain black balaclavas. Simple. Straightforward. But the man who steps into view has a skull face stitched into his. A fucking skull.
Instead of an American flag, it’s a Union Jack.
His brown eyes behind the mask narrow. “They don’t bring their women out.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Are their numbers that low?”
“With how we’ve been picking them off I wouldn’t be surprised.”
They bicker back and forth, arguing about you but not actually talking to you.
“I’m not with them,” you say, and they all go silent.
Skull Face glowers. “You’re not?”
“I was running from them.” You glance between the soldiers who shot the man. “They’ll tell you. They’re the ones that shot him.”
Skull Face appears unmoved. “Doesn’t mean you’re not with them.”
You laugh, and it sounds a bit hysterical. “Why would I be fucking running if I were with them? Wouldn’t I be shooting back at you?”
“No,” he replies flatly. “If you were with them, you’d be bloody running from them. Not shooting at us.”
“She has to be with them. There’s no one else here.” The man who speaks up this time is directly to Skull Face’s right. The accent is different. Scottish.
“I came with one other. Those men shot at us.”
Ben. Oh. Sweet Ben.
“And where are they?” asks Skull Face.
You swallow, knowing the truth. “Behind the library. Parking lot. Near the dumpster.”
Skull Face locks gazes with another solider and nods. Two men break off, heading in that direction. He returns his attention to you. “Who are these men?”
“What?” you ask, perplexed.
“These men.” He points to the facedown marauders. “Who are they?”
These men are strangers to you. “Slavers?” When no one confirms or denies, you guess again. “Cannibals?”
“She’s playing dumb,” mutters the Scots.
“Hush, Soap,” mutters Skull Face. “Who are they? What name do they go by? It’s an easy question. Everyone knows it.”
You shake your head. “I—I don’t know.”
Lieutenant Skull Face leans in, lowering his voice. “If you don’t answer truthfully, you and I can have an extended chat in the back of one of these trucks.”
“She had these.” The Jeep keys are tossed, and he catches them without looking. “And this.” The Glock is presented.
Soap takes the Glock. He turns it over. “They don’t give their women weapons, Ghost.”
So, Skull Face is named Ghost. Fitting.
“No,” he agrees. “Makes it easier for them to fight back.”
The very idea sobers you.
“Who are they?” you ask, feeling safe enough to do so.
Ghost glances up from the car keys. “Your worst fucking nightmare.”
“Lieutenant!” The two men that left for the library return. Jogging forward, they speak in low voices.
Ben is not with them. Ben is—
Ghost nods and steps back. “We’re taking her with us.” The two men holding onto your arms let go and Ghost immediately grabs hold of your shoulder, pulling you forward.
“Pick three of these bastards at random,” he announces, gesturing toward the facedown men. “Put them in Delta truck. Shoot the rest.”
Ghost’s hand at your shoulder slides up, grasping the back of your neck. He leans in close—so close you can pick out the little flecks of gold in his brown irises.
“You’re riding with me.”
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Un-evil
Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
This is filthy. Short and downright filthy.
Crossposted on AO3.
Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3
Word count: 2k
Summary: Simon f*cks you stupid. He's not sorry, and neither are you.
18+ (Can't stress this enough)
CW: smut. that's it. that's the plot. it's just PWP. it's got a little fluff at the end, but it's smut.
Masterlist 🦊
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
Pain should be something evil, shouldn’t it? Yet you’re mostly positive that Simon’s hands aren’t evil – at least, not when they land on you.
But it's hard to prove your words right when he has his fingers curled into a tight fist around a handful of your hair. It's difficult, if anyone were to see, to convince them that he isn't trying to split you in half, by the way he has you curve your back in an impossible angle.
However, you’d gladly give a Ted talk about how un-evil he is being.
Naturally, the image might not seem the most innocent, so you’d have to work tirelessly to sound convincing. On all fours on the mattress of his own bedroom, with your feet dangling off the edge of the bed. Curled toes and stiff calves. Head so thrown back that your eyes are locked to the ceiling – or, well, they would be.
If they hadn’t been rolling back for the past – what? Night? What time is it, exactly?
In truth, the only thing you’re seeing is the back of your eyelids. Luckily the ceiling ain’t all that to look at.
Your throat is so tight and coiled that your breaths come out ragged and – bloody fucking hell – almost pained. And again, there is a bit of pain. A pinch of it.
It would be a lot, with your hair being pulled and your back forced into an arch, but the pleasure is just so overwhelming you feel nothing else. The sting of your scalp and the ache of your spine only enhance what’s happening at the other end of you.
How good he’s fucking you.
It’s deranged, honestly.
Someone must be thinking a bleeding homicide is occurring in the Ghost’s quarters. You'd love to have some containment, acting a little more prude even if he's pounding his cock right into you something fierce. Maybe mewl and moan and be all breathy and shy.
But your neck is so thrown back that the groans coming out of you are mostly punched out by the man himself each time he thrusts in and simultaneously pulls back at your hair to slam you against himself.
On the other hand, his grunts are muffled by the fabric of his stupid balaclava.
Before the whole ordeal started, you told him you wouldn’t fuck him if he wore that thing.
“Not even sure you wash it, L.T.” You’d said, smirking and sounding so proud of having something to mock him for – because he's always so bloody perfect on the field, isn't he.
But he’d shut your mouth spare minutes later, when he’d throw you on your back on his bed, making you feel like you weighed a pound and few spare coins. Lifted his mask up to his nose. Snatched your khakis and knickers off all at once.
And ate you out with such fervor and insistence you were almost positive you’d stopped breathing for a while during the whole meal.
Then, he’d taken off the mask, wiped his mouth with it after you’d soaked it with your orgasm, and put it back on.
“Washed it now.”
Smug cunt.
But now pride and ego and whatnot feel like fickle things, much like your aching back, burning throat, and the impending cramps in your calves.
Now, as your mind squabbles in a puddle of itself, almost disassociating, Simon must notice it. And oh, he doesn’t like that in the slightest. Where are you going, with your pretty little head, when all your blood should be pumping down to where he needs you warm and wet.
“Come back ‘ere,” he grunts, bending forward and pulling your head further back at the same time. He hooks one arm around your front so that he can keep you up when he notices you're all loose and flaccid.
Palm flat to your chest, he presses you flush against his own.
His eyes are hooded and heavy as they lock with yours. Your face is so flushed and sweaty you must look on the brink of collapse, and he can’t deny it has him a little worried.
“Good?” He asks gruffly, and although concerned, his onslaught on your pussy is relentless.
You smile, all teeth. Your lips have drool smeared all over. Your eyes are glossy and heavy. He's been pounding into you for the past hour, you came into his mouth once and on his cock at least twice. The sounds he's punching out of your lips are raunchy and downright pornographic.
It makes something weird and warm swim in his chest.
Fucking hell.
“Words, love.” It’s a demand, but it’s not said unkindly. He’s more than alright with the idea of fucking you stupid, but not so much with the thought of fucking you into a blackout.
And when you don’t respond and get lost in your body again, eyes rolling back once more, he harshly tugs at your hair. “Sergeant.”
Tears are prickling the corners of your eyes when you open them. However, the contrast is striking, with the wheezing moan that concomitantly leaves your lips.
You fucking like it, don’t you? Dirty slag.
A discovery, you are. Truly.
He loves it.
“Solid,” you stutter. Your voice is raspy and wet. "Sir."
He loves that too.
And admittedly finds it almost humorous, how he can make you unravel like that. You came to his door that night, all commanding as if you had any right over him, saying the two of you should stop dancing around each other and get it over with. That you’re adults and that if he was going to use the regulations excuse you were going to blow a gasket because everything you lot do on the field is against the so-called rules, hence a shagwould be the least of you two’s problems.
He hadn’t even had time to rebut. You were so right it hurt his pride. So, he fucked all that arrogance out of you.
And God, did it feel good. You felt good.
You were right, after all. He won't tell you, though. Doesn't need to chub up your ego any further, it's already fighting for space with his own.
He hums at your response. Leaves the hold around your torso and you flop forward like a wet rag, face first in the sheets.
Simon grabs your hair to lift you up, delighted to hear your ecstatic laugh as your head is yanked back once again.
He growls, “Good fuckin' girl."
And he rams into you again, using the grip on your hair as leverage. Your groans are guttural and fierce, so loud that even he is a little worried someone might eavesdrop on some of them.
Of course, this is no time for worries and concerns, all sublimated by the scorching heat between your legs. Warmest fucking place he’s ever been in.
‘S a lot to say, he thinks, since he’s been through hell and back already.
However, he does feel a little merciful. Sure, you’re heavenly in this position, completely at his service, but it’s been a while and you must be aching. You're going to wake up, later, with the worst back pain of your life and a few cracking joints.
Right, not that he cares. But you’re already a pain to deal with when you’re all healthy and cracking jokes and smiling like you give two shits about him, he can’t imagine how whiny you must be when you’re knackered and it's because of him.
He bends forward, then, chest to your back, and curls his free arm around your belly. Fingers sneakily reach down and trace your pussy. Palm cupping your mons while his ring and middle finger outline your lips. For just a second, he settles at the base of his cock, feeling how the shaft plunges so easily right inside of you. The stretch of your hole sucking him in. How wet you are – Christ.
Like this, he has his mouth next to your ear, but he’s not pounding into you with the same fierceness he’s used until now. And your voice has dulled, probably because he’s relented the grip in your hair, letting your head loll forward.
He looks at you through the haze of sex, trying to push through the mist of bliss you’ve shrouded him in. And your face is different. Your eyes are wide, staring blankly ahead, lips parted to take in sharp breaths.
He panics for a moment, but it quickly melts away when he pushes in a little deeper and you keel over with a groan. He must be hitting something new, something different.
Something good.
Which is why he hits it again. And again. And you keen and moan, fisting the sheets and punching the mattress.
“Bloody fuckin’ hell, look at ya.” He rumbles with a chuckle you can feel rippling in his chest against your back.
In the meantime, because he is so un-evil, the hand he had on your pussy finally finds purchase on your clit. He can feel how raw it must be. How stiff and puffy it is under the rough pads of his fingers.
Your breath hitches the moment he starts rubbing it. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it, because he’s found out you like it when he barks and bites.
He’s proven right because the tears that were prickling your eyes before are now flowing freely down your cheeks. Your lips tug at the corners and you wheeze, one hand of yours grasping at the forearm of the same hand giving you bliss. Cheek to the mattress.
You dig your nails into his flesh – scar-thickened skin covered in black ink.
You’re squirming under his weight, with your arse up and back in a pretty arch, as he works you inside and out with hands and cock all the same.
The groan you let out now truly sounds as if you're in pain. Your free hand lifts to grip the fabric of his balaclava on top of his head, as if you were trying to find purchase on his hair but found cotton instead.
“Oi,” he grunts, sounding uncharacteristically worried, but doesn’t stop until you say so.
And thank Christ he doesn’t, because mere seconds later your cunt clenches so tight around him it threatens to chop his dick off. You go ramrod stiff under him. Throat tight and allowing only the passage of mewls that pitch upward.
Three fingers swipe side to side over your clit. He pounds into you once, twice – again, again, again, until he’s pushed out of you.
“Jesus –“
You’re splashing on his cock, a thick stream spraying directly on his sheets. Muffled sounds of water hitting fabric. You’re so fucking silent he bets you’ve stopped breathing as you came, because not even a second later you’re catching your breath with a guttural groan that goes straight to his dick.
He’s dumbfounded and burning, but thankfully has still enough brainpower to realize he has to fuck you through it – and so he does just that. Puts it back in and lays fully above you, flattening your front to the bed. Your thighs are quivering, and your pussy is still clenching rhythmically around him. He thrusts in more and feels tinier splashes gushing out of you each time he pulls out.
Fuck, you’re so wet he barely feels any friction.
A whine escapes you at the intrusion, but you obediently lay your cheek on the mattress, exhausted, and catch your breath, looking over your shoulder up to him.
You’re flushed and so pretty. Looking like an angel and not like the devil that you are, who’s just squirted over his bedsheets.
You deserve a little reward for the show you put on for him because he's surely not going to forget how your cunt fluttered around nothing when it gushed on his bed. It's going to stay imprinted in his forebrain and he's going to relive it whenever his hand won't feel like enough.
He snatches the balaclava off his head and tosses it on the floor. He sees your eyes soften at the sight of the disfigured man underneath, but he won’t have any of that – this is just sex. Just fucking sex.
Before he can have his head wander to unwanted (kinder) places, he roughly grabs your jaw and keeps fucking you raw. His lips slam onto yours in a kiss that sizzles with lust and resentment – because you can’t bring feelings into this, and he will forever hate you if you dare.
“Fuckin’ pretty,” he grunts in your face, as he ruts into you, now propped on his forearms. “Think you can do tha’ again?”
You huff. Probably not.
“Depends how – fuck – good y’ are.” As if he didn’t just wring you dry.
He chuckles darkly, and bites down your shoulder, making you hiss. “Smartarse. Don’t you dare, now.”
“Dare what, L.T.”
Oh, you little devil.
“Stop with the lieutenant shite.” He chides.
You snake a hand in his palm and intertwine your fingers with his. He clenches his fist to tighten the hold because he's a weak, weak man.
“What should I call you, then?” You ask through heaving breaths, “Ain’t calling you Ghost, surely.”
He leans down and kisses your cheek.
You know my name, bird.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He grunts, and surrenders. “Simon will do.”
He feels your cheek lift under the pressure of your smile, right against his lips.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Simon will do.”
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