Bleeding Blue | Apocalypse Au
bleeding blue | apocalypse au
part thirty-five —other parts
pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.
Jagged rock burns into your palms. Slapping a hand up, you feel for the grassy ledge, barely visible in the darkness. You heft the backpack over it before managing to pull yourself up, landing on your stomach with a grunt through your teeth. The sneakers you scavenged from the closet are tight around your toes—better than Salome's thin shoes, but still far from pleasing as you stand and press on towards the road.
Moonlight guides you north.
Not long until sunrise, judging by the sky.
Small white clouds puff around your mouth as the chilled air brushes the damp spot on your too-big jeans, the cuffs rolled and the waist cinched to keep them from slipping. You couldn't leave in the middle of the night, so you held a mug of water as a makeshift alarm. The moment sleep tried to steal you, the splash on your thigh ended it abruptly.
You'd woken Blue up to tell her. At first, grey eyes scolded you in the dark. She looked away, ready to argue, before quietly reciting instead: the house they kept her in, the layout, any hiding places she may have seen.
"What about her?" you had asked. "Anything important to her. She probably saw antibiotics as a gift from God or something."
"Yeah. She would've," Blue muttered. "She liked to knit. And, um, talked about birds. Her husband owned the whole place, but he died. I don't know if any of that helps."
"It does. It's better than nothing." You gave her hand a squeeze. "Make sure he eats again. And check his back. You might need to drain it. You know how now, right? Nereida could—"
"I've got it." She slipped her hand away. "Just—don't do anything stupid, okay?"
"Of course not."
Sneaking out had been easy—only because Nereida was on watch. You slipped out the back and wove through the tall grass, barely stirring the stalks. Price would've caught you for sure. But you made it across the creek with nothing more than the slow unrolling of your jeans to slow you down, the cuffs dragging in the water and soaking through. You rolled them back up, but a kilometer up the road, they've slouched back down, heavy and clinging to your legs.
Time is an enemy you've already lost a day to. With a sigh, you drop onto the hood of a rusted car, pull the knife from your waist, and hack at the fabric’s ends. A serrated blade would make this easier. The hems are jagged, but at least they won’t get in the way.
Ghost’s fever is bad, but the real threat is sepsis—the blood poisoning, organ failure, the things you haven’t told Blue. At best, he has a week. At worst, another day. The thought has you scrubbing a hand over your tired eyes before pushing off the car. You toss the cut scraps into the grass just as a disturbance prickles the back of your neck.
You whirl around, dropping the knife in favor of the pistol.
"Just me."
"Jesus. Kyle. I was ready to shoot."
"Honorable of you to give me a quick one."
You huff, bend for the knife, and slip it back at your waist.
He closes the gap, rifle and backpack slung over his shoulders.
"Why wouldn't you tell anyone?" His brows lower. "I went to feed him, and Blue said you’d gone back. Hell of a surprise."
You give him your back. "I've already wasted time. I knew what you'd say."
"And what exactly did you think I'd say?" A hand on your shoulders pries you back around.
Your eyes drift up to his, narrow, then veer to the side. "That it's a long shot."
"Yeah, it is." His hand drops. He brushes past you with a sigh, long and ragged, adjusting the rifle on his back. "Come on, then. You're not the only one who gives a shit about him."
There isn't anything to be said as you trudge beside him, no argument able to form. You know his company is invaluable. Gratitude is still hard to find, even when he prevents you from going the wrong way. "We turned here last time." Apparently you hadn't paid much mind. The road fills the gaps of silence, dawn breathing life into the buzz of cicadas. Long drags of air fill your lungs: sweet flowers only, until, something else. A waft of charred meat.
"You should eat."
Kyle extends a piece of squirrel. Despite the twinge in your stomach, you brush him off. "While they were starving you, we were getting stuffed. Fatten the mares, get a strong foal—all that."
His jaw ticks. "Ah."
"Damn good food, too."
"Lucky you."
"Lucky us."
Conversation shrinks to a brief exchange of what Blue said. He doesn't look convinced it'll help much. The stench doesn’t sour the air until the first sign for Fleurbaix rises at your right—like a breath in your face. Humidity clings to it, thick and unmoving, until there’s nothing else to breathe. In the sunlight, familiar stone walls and red-shingled rooftops repulse you, almost more than the sight of aimless Greys—some weaving between clotheslines, most trapped within the fenced pasture. The cows, however, have already fled through a broken gap, eager to escape uphill.
"They should've lost interest by now. The blood isn't fresh," you mutter.
"Humidity. Less evaporation, more smell." He nods the tip of his rifle. "Over there. That one has a wraparound porch like Blue said."
The view vanishes behind overgrown trees as you crest a hill, descending toward the commune. Kyle motions you forward, weaving through structures, keeping clear of the Greys. As long as they can’t scent you, they will stay distracted. You step over a few stray bodies, faces picked apart by crows that scatter at your approach. Clinging to a stone wall as you follow, a bony hand bursts forth from a window—Kyle knifes its skull before it can grab you.
Other than that, there aren't any close calls.
You reach the house that fits Blue's description.
The door is wide open.
Kyle sweeps in with the poised rifle.
You are greeted by an already ransacked interior. Tipped chairs, half-yanked cabinets, tossed couch cushions. A sick understanding settles at your fingertips, curling them around the gun.
"They were here. The women. They knew she would've hidden them."
More signs that this is just a dead end; a waste of precious time.
Kyle lowers the guns and presses forward into the hall. "That doesn't mean they found what they were looking for. Check the rooms."
Maman's house is as expected, even in disarray. Quiet and balmy. You kick open the first door. Polished wood, gold-embellished hinges, a closet stuffed with white gowns. A knitting bag catches your eye. You sift through it, tossing out balls of red yarn. Nothing.
More nothing under the bed.
You tear the painting from the wall, only solid stone behind it.
A family photo thrashes to the floor beneath a swipe of your fist. You find Kyle in the other room, where a smaller bed is tucked beneath a window—the sight makes it hard to breathe for a moment. The blood stain on the sheets. Somehow you know whose it is. Your stomach rips at itself. You force yourself to look away before you lose it.
"The floorboards. They didn't look under them. Help me."
He raps the butt of the rifle against the wood. A hollow echo near the doorway offers promise. A knife jammed between the planks pries them apart. When you sink to your knees, all that fills your hands are stashes of faded euros. No pills, no vials.
You rip up the notes and let the shreds feather through the air, leaning back on your palms as a quiet hiss leaves your teeth. "Where did you put them you vile, ugly, goddamn hag."
"Maybe her son kept them," Kyle murmurs, threading a hand through his hair. "He had the guns."
"No." Your voice is firm. You stand and pace. "She would've wanted them close to her. Antibiotics—she was saving that for the women. The births."
You reach for your knife and stab the mattress, slicing it open. Springs and foam. Books maybe. You run back to the shelf in the hall and rip them one at a time, flipping them open to see if any were hollowed out. Even the Bible is just a book.
What else?
What else?
"How much time are we willing to spend looking for them, Twix?" he asks lowly behind you. "Maybe we check somewhere else. A town."
"They'd have picked them clean years ago." You toss the Bible to the floor with a thud. "This was our best bet. We had them. We fucking had them."
"And now we don’t. We can’t keep tearing this place apart. We focus on keeping him stable—keep the wounds clean, use what we’ve got. He’s made it this far without them. We just need to buy him more time. There might be another stash in one of the other houses."
You lean against the wall, eyes fluttering shut briefly. A deep inhale. "There's just—something I'm missing."
"Twix—" He sighs, running a hand down his face. "Alright. Let's do another sweep. I'll check the floors in the living room."
Thoughts race. A frothy tide refusing to settle. You press your thumb to the scabbed cut on your wrist, the sting sharpening your mind. Back in the cell. Morning sun slanting through the window. Obsessively studying what’s around you. Replaying everything you learned about that woman. A dead woman. If you could’ve told the Greys to hold off, let her speak before they tore through her neck, you would have.
In the midst, a dove’s call breaks through—three notes, too close in your ear. You must be imagining it, but Alexandre’s voice stirs in your head: La tourterelle chante pour toi.
He said that when he heard the dove.
Why?
Birds.
She talked about birds.
You push off the wall and follow the sound to the room where they kept Blue. The coo draws you to the windowsill by the bed, where the glass is cracked just enough for the curtains to stir, the stench outside seeping in. Twin beady eyes snap to yours, a mechanical tilt of its neck. A collared dove, you think. Paul used to rise early to listen to them.
"Where are they?" you press lowly, accusing. "You know, don't you?"
The bird doesn’t answer, only flutters down from the sill.
Your fingers grip the edge of the window as you kneel on the ruined mattress. Below, the bird perches in the flower box—no flowers, just dried weeds and a nest of twigs.
"Tell me." It watches the whisper curl from your lips. "Tell me, or I’ll rip apart your home."
It flutters off. Your arm lunges after it, clawing at the nest in blind retaliation. Twigs snap. Dirt kicks up into your eyes. You blink hard to clear it. A strangled sound catches in your throat—half a curse, half a cry. Then, something strange beneath. Sharp rust that makes you freeze.
You sweep debris off the top of a—a lock box—loosely buried within the soil. A breath lodges in your throat as you claw at the dirt, dragging the rusted metal loose, launching backward on the bed with it clutched in both hands. It can't be real. You give the box a sharp shake. Something rattles inside, and your chest tightens.
"Kyle!"
Thunderous slaps of his boots echo down the hall. He rushes in, scanning you with a sweep of his gaze.
"No, I'm—this is locked." You tug at the bolted metal. "Can you open it?"
He doesn't question it. Relief flickers across his face, quickly replaced by grim determination. He raises the rifle and slams the butt against the lock. A sharp clang echoes, metal chipping but holding. Exhaling through his nose, he adjusts his grip. You meet his eyes and nod—keep going.
He hammers at the lock, pausing only to yank at it, testing for weakness. You wipe dirt from your jeans, watching. Whatever she buried here—it mattered. It had to. A dove lands on the windowsill, but movement beyond it sends your pulse spiking above the sharp cut of metal.
Greys.
When did they—
"Shit, shit, shit." You lurch from the bed.
He stops, yanking up the rifle to jut it toward the window, shooting a snarling one that clambers up on the porch. It flails back, revealing more alike behind it—many more—shambling out from wherever they'd been lingering. "Fuck—how!" He tucks the lock box under his armpit and grabs your wrist. "Come on."
The living room windows reveal just how many have begun to close in around the house. Faster ones are already at the front door, clawing at the wood. Kyle swears, yanking you toward the bathroom—higher ground, a window above the porcelain tub. He slams it open with the rifle, then hands instantly find your waist to lift you. You shed the backpack, pulling it through behind your feet to squeeze through blindly.
"Anything to climb?" he barks.
You look up. "A gutter!"
You grab it and tighten your core, hoisting yourself up as your sneakers scrape against the siding, the moans below growing louder as they round the corner of the porch. Your palms press into exposed rafters, the gutter serving as a shaky foothold, but the last push onto the roof eludes you.
A firm shove at your thighs sends you over. You scramble up, steadying yourself before glancing back.
Kyle is halfway up, rappelling fast—until a bony hand clamps around his ankle, yanking him downward. Disoriented from the rush, you slap for the gun at your waist, firing wildly—two bullets wasted before one lands, shattering the Grey's skull with a squeal.
He throws the lockbox. You catch it just as he hauls himself onto the shingles.
Your head reels as you watch Kyle drop to one knee and start picking them off. Four, maybe five drop with ease, but the rest move erratically—jolting, frantic. He slows, trying to track their unpredictable movements, each shot requiring more precision. If you had your bow, you could help. But the pistol? You don't trust yourself.
He grunts in frustration, adjusts his stance, then reloads as he circles the perimeter of the roof. That’s when you feel it—not a hunger pang, but a deep, familiar ache, piercing low in your gut. Then something wet. Warm. A slow gush down your leg. Your breath stutters as you glance down at the stain blooming red across your thigh.
"It's me," you say.
"What?"
"Fuck, it's me they smell. My period."
His gaze drops to your body, widening when he sees the evidence. You should feel exposed, but you don’t. The thought slams into your brain at the same time your hands move—unbuttoning, yanking at the fly. The moans below swell.
"We can use it. Look away."
His eyes snap back to yours, then dart away with a sharp exhale. "Christ."
You’re already shoving them down, tugging at the loose, borrowed underwear clinging to your hips. Gathering the fabric, you swipe at the blood slick on your thigh, pressing it deeper into the fabric. "It can buy us time—but not much."
You yank the jeans back up. You roll the underwear into a ball. Kyle looks over.
"There—throw it toward that house. The door’s open. If enough go inside, it might trap some. Then we run back to the hill."
Just as quickly as the plan is formed, you hurl back your arm and launch the decoy as hard as you can. It lands in front of the next house, far enough to release the breath caged in your lungs as heads snap toward it, bodies lurching away. Kyle slings the rifle over his shoulder, grips your waist, and helps you down—but the moment he lets go to steady himself, your foot slips on the gutter.
You land roughly on your side and lose hold of the lockbox. All of the breath leaves your body as you scramble to grab it. A strong hand beneath your armpit tugs you back up, and then you're sprinting. A quick glance back shows most are drawn away, but a few still trail you. Kyle snatches the handgun from your waist mid-stride and fires, dropping two before they get too close.
You duck beneath clotheslines, weave through wash bins still brimming with water. Trample roses. The pulse pounding in your neck drowns out everything but the next shot Kyle fires—enough to throw off your step. You don’t see the one lunging until it slams into you from the side.
You feel the jolt of the fall before you fully register the thing wrestling on top of you. Hair whips into your mouth, rancid breath spilling hot across your cheek. The strength is wrong—too fresh, too human. The hands grabbing at you are still strangely soft. A distinct bulge presses you down. Then a glob of dark-tinged saliva splats onto your eye, blinding you before you can make sense of it.
It's only a second of fight before a shot to the skull sends pulpy blood and brain onto your face.
The weight is torn away as you scrub at your eyes. Part of you already knows before you look at the limp corpse. Time congeals. Blonde hair fans over the grass, framing a pale face with white eyes. The slip dress—the same one you pulled over her head.
Her swollen belly.
You go rigid. Kyle has to yank hard to get you upright.
"Come on!"
"They left her."
The words spill numbly from your lips.
When he shoots another Grey, your wooden, puppet legs move. You leave the body of her behind, adrenaline numbing you. After what is realistically only minutes but feels like hours, the thick trees envelop you once again, and when you finally steal a glance, you can't see them anymore. They've lost your scent for now. Enough for you to pause against a tree, swallowing air to catch your breath.
You walk deeper into the vegetation until Kyle feels satisfied enough to stop and retrieve a canister of water from his backpack. He offers it to you. It takes a moment to steady it at your lips, then your throat allows some down. But your stomach spasms almost instantly, and you are wrenching it back up at the base of a tree, crumpling to your knees.
"Shit."
Hands collect your hair.
A few more dry heaves consume you, until you're breathing harshly through a hanging mouth.
"No… They didn’t—" A hard swallow. "They let her out. She was in the cell."
"What?" His voice brushes your neck, touch halting at your shoulders. Realization softens his tone. "You knew her—the pregnant one."
You wipe your mouth and stand. His hands stay at your arms a beat too long, grip firm, like he’s waiting for something—an explanation you don’t give. You don’t meet his eyes. "We need to move."
Your stomach still aches, but you don't vomit again. You walk quickly out of the trees and to the road.
The walk back is spent scanning more closely to see if you've drawn more with your smell. By the time you reach the cliff, midday swelters. Lightheadedness teeters your first attempt down. Kyle tosses the box and rifle to the bottom, then carries you on his back, your fingers interlocking to keep you secure like the backpack that hugs his chest.
A stop at the creek allows a shaky handful of water to splash your face. Taking off your jeans to wash your blood-stained thighs feels too much of a task. Instead, you watch Kyle finally finish striking the lock, the metal giving way under his relentless grunts.
"Do you want me to open it?" He glances at you.
A slow shake of your head. Your knees sink before it. Fingers hesitate at the latch. If this isn’t it—if it’s empty—you don’t know what comes next. What fills the space where the smallest sliver of hope has wedged itself in.
The scrape of rusted metal.
At first, all you see is cloth. A yellowed shade of white. A beat of nothing. Then, your hands move on their own accord, unwrapping the contents, brushing hard plastic. The faint rattle of capsules makes you inhale before you even read the first label: amoxicillin. You go still. Dig through for more. Four, five vials. Even more than what you had on you.
The run back to the house is a battle against your own legs.
The smell of blood hits first—thick, metallic. Not human. A quick glance confirms it, Price carving up a hefty cattle he must've found.
He's saying something, to Kyle maybe. You don’t pause.
The front door swings open.
Blue—
She slams into you, arms locking tight, breath knocked from your lungs.
"I saw you from the window."
"You shouldn’t be on your feet," you manage.
She looks down. At your hand. At the pills.
Her voice trembles. "You… you found it?"
You nod.
Up the stairs. Blue tugging at your sleeve. Kyle's steps audible behind you. The bedroom waits. Stale air. Ghost—he's lying on his stomach the way you left him, but a smother of something sticky glistens on his back.
"Honey," Blue mumbles, wincing as she lowers on the bed. "Ari... he found a hive. I was just about to put clean bandages, too. It helps, right?"
"Not as much as this should help."
Kyle begins lifting him.
"He was up for a bit, but he was... talking weird," Blue whispers as you kneel at Ghost's side, fight the shake in your hand to unscrew the cap. "He asked if you were sleeping outside—like, out loud, to himself. Then he kept saying ‘sparks’ and ‘Washington.’ Do you know what that means?"
The words barely register anything but confusion and the fact that he is even worse. It's Kyle who answers under his breath. "No clue." His gets Ghost upright without disturbing his wounds, steadying a hand at the back of his skull.
When your thumb presses at his bottom lip, the dry, cracked skin resists. As you try to pry it apart, his eyes flicker open—unfocused. Dilated pupils shift to yours.
"I need you to open," you whisper around the tightness in your throat. "It's amoxicillin. We've got it."
Overgrown hair clings to his forehead, thick and unruly. Sharp stubble scrapes your hand as you try again to open his mouth. Labored breaths hit your knuckles, unnervingly hot, along with a release of words he murmurs through his teeth. "There you are... again.
Your teeth graze your cheek. "Here I am. Now open, please."
He does—barely. The chalky pill makes it to his tongue. The rest blurs.
Waking up on edge is nothing new.
At first, you keep your eyes shut—squeezing them until the backs turn red. Then, true consciousness jolts through your limbs, setting a heavy heartbeat between your ears. Light floods your vision. Soft cheeks. Pink lips, pursed. Brows knitted tight.
"You make the strangest faces in your sleep sometimes."
"I..."
"Water?"
"Please," you croak.
Pins and needles prickle your fingers as you lift your head. A mug presses to your blistered lips, gentle fingers stroking the greasy hair at your temple. The gulp of water almost makes you moan. You're ready to down the entire things until it's pulled away.
"You're gonna throw up again if you keep going."
You lick your lips. "What?"
"You've been passed out for two days," Blue explains. "Except for when we tried to get you to eat and drink, but that was a fucking struggle. Nereida says you overworked yourself. Not enough sleep and water can kill you, you know." Her brow arches. "I told you not to do anything stupid, but I guess you've been doing that."
Two days.
You inhale through lungs that feel primitive.
"He—"
"Before you ask, yes. We've been giving him the meds. Morning and evening. His fever finally went down last night. He's been out since."
Your eyes finally drift to the other side of the bed. A steady rise and fall presses warmth into the sheets. You scramble up, reaching over—his cheek meets your palm, warm, but not alarmingly so. Normal, almost. A faint flush dusts his skin, the color creeping back in. His back is freshly bandaged, but his eyelids still bear the violet tinge of exhaustion.
"It's helping." The words press into your teeth.
The rest of the day passes in gentle fragments.
A bowl of fire-braised beef pressed into your hands. You eat without tasting, slow chewing through lush fat, while Price and Kyle pore over a more detailed almanac they found in the house. The food settles heavy, to the point of discomfort, but stays down.
Later, you wade into the creek with Nereida. She was the one who changed you while you were out—scrubbing the dirt from your legs, tucking fresh towels and a new pair of underwear beneath you. You only realize she added rosemary when a sprig falls out as you undress.
You listen to her talk. You don’t tell her about Salome. No. You keep it to yourself. The water is warm. At first, you don’t feel it. But as it swallows your shins and carries away ribbons of dried blood, the gentle current soothes, taking the edge off the sun, which turns the rocks along the bank scorching hot. Birds call from the trees—you don’t know what kind. Worm-like minnows tickle your sore toes.
Back at the house, you sit on the porch to wring out your hair. You catch Ari carrying Blue through the garden, her head tucked against his shoulder, bandaged feet dangling over the arm that hooks under her knees. They whisper about something. His steps are slow, pausing by a beautiful patch of flowers that, apparently, smell rancid by the way she leans in and recoils, making a face. When you look away, Kyle is staring at you across the grass as he hangs strips of beef over a tree branch to dry.
You should thank him. For not letting you do the stupid thing alone. But instead, you shift your gaze to the sun and watch its slow descent on your own, studying the way it casts an orange glow across the wild growth. It's the sudden assault of dark clouds that send everyone inside. A summer rain that bursts down without warning, without mercy.
It hasn't relented by the time you fix a bowl of meat for Ghost. He has yet to ingest anything but bone broth and some plum juice according to Blue and Nereida. You chew off little pieces of the least fattiest parts into a bowl and give it to Blue. You go with her to feed him but stop short, keeping your distance. You simply watch from across the room as he manages to sit up on his own despite swaying, brushing away Price's helping arm, and chewing slowly with great effort. His eyes, focused and clear, flit upward to yours. You hold them for a moment, until the pull in your chest turns intolerable, and you look down at his bandaged shoulder instead.
"Tastes good?" Blue murmurs, brushing the hair from his forehead.
He hums.
"How do you feel?"
He swallows, then lifts a hand to her hair, thumbing at it. "Young again."
She places her hand over his, biting a smile. "You're so annoying."
She wipes at her eyes.
Instead of easing, the rain intensifies as the night deepens. Distant thunder rolls closer, flashing into overhead lightning that only sharpens your edge. Blue spends the night with Ari in the living room, where Kyle helped them set up a small fort of blankets and pillows—a small distraction, but one she could use. It takes a nudge from you to push past her hesitation, to convince her it’s okay to leave Ghost’s side, just for a little while.
"It's good to have some space, if you need it."
That leaves you alone in the bedroom with him. He knocked out again after eating. You redo his bandages, relieved to find the wounds free of pus. New scabs have begun to form, fragile but promising.
But you can't lay down. You try—perch at the edge of the bed, press your palms into the mattress—then you're back on your feet.
The walls feel too close. The air too thick. His steady breathing should ground you, should ease something inside you, but it doesn’t. The storm is unyielding, pressing against the house, rattling the windows. It drives your nails into your palms, into the raw skin around them. A string ties itself around your ankles, pulling one foot in front of the other until you're in the hallway, hand blindly skimming the wall to guide you to the spiral staircase.
Upward.
The library. You don’t even realize you’ve come here until you freeze at the top of the stairs, staring at the wreckage left behind by your hands. Books lie scattered across the floor, pages severed and crumpled. A curtain rod rests askew, displaced in the quiet ruin.
When you finally move, it’s a mindless ordeal. The motions of putting the room back together—guided only by the stray flash of lightning—steal any thoughts before they can form. You kneel, gently stacking books against your chest, slotting them one by one back onto the oak shelves. Embellished spines offer familiar titles, even in French. A lot of Jane Austen.
"No Hemingway, huh?" you whisper, swiping a finger through the blanket of dust before bending for more books. You reach the last shelf, lips twitching. "I'm fixing you. Happy now?"
Of course, no answer. Only the faint slide of leather against the wood.
He’s in the room before you notice.
The presence registers as a skim along the back of your neck.
But you don’t turn, hand freezing after you release Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, then dropping limp at your side. You know it’s him. You feel it in the shift of the air, the weight of it settling differently around you. More so in the slow, deliberate footfalls, each one measured, as if testing the ground. And if none of that gives him away, the warmth of his breath—heavy, uneven—spilling over your scalp does. It sinks into your skin when he reaches you, winds through your veins, curls your toes against the floor until they hurt.
You try to inhale, but the breath snags, fracturing in your throat. "You shouldn’t be up."
"I shouldn't."
His hand lifts, knuckles skimming the flannel draped over your frame before grazing your neck with a slow, unhurried sweep of his thumb. It trails down your arm, pausing at the last book in your grasp. He takes it from you—or maybe it slips from your weak grip. You can't tell.
With a deep breath, he reaches the shelf above you. The book doesn't fit at first, his hand unsteady, struggling to align it. A final rough shove of his knuckles forces it into place. He’s close. You knew he was, but now his scent wraps around you—mossy, salty, earth that you fall face-first into. His chest skims your spine. An elbow grazes your ear as he finishes.
And then he turns you.
His fingers curl around your shoulder, guiding you until you're facing him. Your feet slide to follow, reluctant and all too willing. Storm-filtered light catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, casting it in shadow. You brace yourself. An unformed breath fills your chest. You're unable to meet his eyes—though you feel them, tracing every inch of your face.
Wordless, he takes hold of your wrist. You don’t understand why until he cradles it in his rough palm, between your chests. His chapped lips lower to the tail-end of the healing cut, light enough not to stir pain.
His lips move.
But you don't.
It's as if every function of your brain is funneled into the nerves beneath each kiss he trails up your forearm. Soft, unwavering, yet each one lingering for a beat longer than the last. The next one lands at the crease in your elbow. A breath finally rushes out of your nose when he reaches the top of your shoulder, close enough to the pounding artery in your neck to invite heat over your cheeks. A strange heat. The same temperature of the moisture that begins to cloud your vision.
You tremble. "Ghost, I—"
You make a last-ditch effort to clutch the hem of his jeans before your knees can waver, his mouth finding your throat. He kisses the part of it that bobs. Then pulls away just enough to cup your face between his hands, forcing your gaze to his. What you are met with is twin, black eyes. They unnerve you. Like the ground beneath your feet, it feels like they might swallow you whole and spit you out.
You can't breathe. The shaking is uncontrollable. Rapid blinks dispel the moisture in your eyes before you're gasping, pressing into him. "Please... please. Ghost, I—" you choke, "Please, I just—"
You sound scared, even to your own ears. Like you might get hurt if you he doesn't give you what you're asking for. But you don't know what you're asking for—don't understand why the soft kisses he places on your forehead and cheeks feel like too much and not enough at the same time. You clasp his wrist to pull his hands off your face, nails piercing into the skin there. He allows it—you hurting him—even when almost his entire upper half is swathed in bandages.
"You're shaking," he murmurs.
"I'm fine." You exhale, but it’s uneven, shaky in its own right. "I just need—"
His thumb presses under your chin in attempt to still you.
A swallow forces down the lump in your throat. The ghost of an inhale. Then you lunge, kissing him. Not gentle or hesitant. But with a desperate growl, bursting forth from your mouth into his, your hand threading into his hair and holding tight onto his skull.
More Posts from Ffushiquro and Others
The Mask I Live With - pt. 17
The happy ending :)
I honestly had been going back and forth on this all week about the next post, and honestly I knew I had to give us all the happy ending we were looking for.
Not fully proofread!
Roommate|Reader x Simon Ghost Riley
The months that followed settled into a rhythm that felt almost suspiciously good. There were still sore mornings where your leg ached like hell, especially after nights tangled with Simon, neither of you knowing when to quit. But you learned to read your limits, and he learned to hover close enough without smothering you.
Light duty turned into moderate duty... and then moderate duty turned into cautious, evaluated runs at the flight simulators. Before long, real missions crept back into your life.
The first time you stepped onto the tarmac again, helmet tucked under your arm, and a helo roaring in front of you, your hands shook—not from fear.
From need.
You belonged here.
There were days you thought maybe you had lost that piece of yourself. That maybe you'd never sit inside the cockpit again without reliving the moment you and your Sergeant crashed. But standing there, wind whipping against your fatigues, it clicked back into place like it had never happened at all.
And Simon?
He was waiting at the edge of the hangar when you returned the first day, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind his balaclava. You could practically feel the tension bleeding off him like heat waves. The second your boots hit the ground, he was at your side, hand hovering on your lower back, before his lips brushed your temple in a rare moment of public affection.
Big softie
You laughed. "I didn't crash this time."
"Wasn't takin' any bets." He grunted.
You didn't tell him about the orders until a few days later. Sitting together at the kitchen table, you slid the paperwork across to him. He blinked down, scanning it quickly before his brow furrowed.
"Permanent?" He asked, voice low like he almost didn’t believe it.
You leaned forward, propping your chin on your hand with a stupid grin on your face. "Talked to my commander. Pulled some strings. Used the crash. Used the injury. Hell, I used everything I could think of." You shrugged. "I get to stay here now. No more transfers. No more bouncing around."
He lifted his head slowly, expression unreadable, but his hand reached across the table and settled heavily over yours.
"Y'did tha'... for me?"
You squeezed his fingers, smiling so wide his heart skipped several beats. "For us..." A rare grin formed on his lips before you giggled. "And for Danny, Gaz, Soap, and Price...... For all of it."
He playfully rolled his eyes at the last part, but was happy none-the-less.
Speaking of Danny. . . .
His recovery had been slower. His injuries still needing time to heal. But it wouldn be no time before he could officially fly again per the doctors. In the meantime, he was back into desk duty, barking orders and cracking jokes from the safety of an office chair—which he hated but tolerated for now.
******************************************************
The Shack was alive tonight. Even though you had just gotten back from a small mission, you were surprisingly upbeat and not tired. So you messaged everyone, asking to come to the usual spot for some drinks.
You tucked yourself between Simon and Danny at the table near the back, beers scattered across the wood, the guys already half into a shouting match over who would win an arm-wrestling contest between Johnny and Price.
"You're all dreaming." Danny snorted, shaking his head. "Price would mop the fucking floor with him."
Johnny threw his hands up. "Oi! I've got technique!"
"You got bird bones." Gaz countered, grinning wide. "Price sneezes and you go flying, mate."
You laughed, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. Simon, sitting so close his thigh brushed yours, leaned in just slightly, voice low against your ear.
"Missed hearin' tha'."
Your chest warmed at the simple truth in his tone. The mission itself had you flying somewhere no cell service for a week, so Simon wasn't lying when he said it. You briefly rested your hand against his leg under the table, a small, quiet anchor between you.
Price lifted his glass toward you then. "So, Lieutenant..." He drawled causing both of you to look at him. "You're really stuck with us for good now, huh?"
Before you could answer, Johnny cut in, smiling like an absolute devil.
"Please. She's just staying for our dear old Ghost here." He said, bumping Simon’s shoulder. "Can’t bear to be away from him."
The table erupted into laughter, even Simon letting out a rare low chuckle. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but you raised your glass anyway.
"For all of you." You smiled. "You're stuck with me now, like it or not. You're family."
That silenced them for a second. Not heavy or awkward... just... real.
Johnny grinned even wider, raising his own beer to clink against yours. "Cheers to that, lass."
"Cheers." Everyone echoed, glasses clinking together.
******************************************************
Five years later
The helo sputtered a little as you cut the engines, the rotors spinning down with a high, whining sound that faded into blessed silence. The poor bird was in immediate need of maintenance, but that was a job for another day, and another version of you who wasn’t running on fumes.
You exhaled, muscles tight from the long string of flights, and leaned back in your seat. The helmet that had been digging into your forehead was quickly discarded, resting now on your knee. Next to you, Danny gave a tired chuckled, rubbing a hand through his hair.
"Remind me why we thought this was a good idea again?" He joked, voice hoarse from yelling over the comms.
You giggled, voice just as wrecked. "Cause we're idiots."
He snorted and pushed himself up, joints popping loudly. "And here I thought retirement sounded boring."
You smiled as you leaned forward, fingertips brushing the worn metal of the dash one more time before standing. But the ache in your bones wasn’t just physical. It was the weight of time but even through it all, you were still here... still flying... still chasing the sky.
Danny hopped out of the helo first, boots thudding against the concrete. You followed, stretching your sore leg carefully as you climbed down, wincing a little at the familiar pull. Sometimes it still ached... sometimes it still whispered those awful, distant memories you didn’t talk much about anymore.
The hangar loomed ahead, the evening light spilling across it in brilliant golds and oranges. You barely took a full couple of steps before you saw him.
Simon.
Casually leaning against a humvee parked near the hangar doors, his frame relaxed but unmistakably alert, civilian clothes hanging loose over his broad, muscled frame. The familiar black surgical mask covered his mouth, along with dark shades hiding his eyes.
But that wasn’t what had your breath catching hard in your chest (like it did every single time). It wasn’t what had your feet picking up speed without thought. Tucked securely in his arms, head resting against his chest, was a little girl.
Your daughter.
Three years old. A little ball of fire and sweetness, with wild curls that refused to be tamed and big brown eyes that somehow managed to look exactly like both of you. She was fast asleep against him, one tiny hand fisting the fabric of his T-shirt like a lifeline, and the other clutching her battered old stuffed bear that went everywhere with her.
The world around you—the ache, the exhaustion, the buzz of everything—blurred into nothing.
Simon tilted his head slightly when he saw you, that silent, familiar greeting that you could read in your bones after all these years.
Missed you. Proud of you. Come home.
Danny followed your gaze and let out a low whistle, clapping a hand on your back. "Look at that. Your welcome party showed up."
You laughed under your breath, quickly blinking away the sudden burn in your eyes. You wiped your gloves on your pants, shaking off the exhaustion and picking up your pace despite the tired pull in your leg.
You barely registered it, already running on something deeper; something that hurt in a sweeter way.
When you reached them, Simon straightened, peeling his mask down with one hand just enough to press a kiss to the top of your daughter's head before he reached for your without hesitation, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist.
"Hey sweetheart." He quietly said, voice low and soft in a way he reserved for the only two people in this world. "Missed you."
You whispered back. "Missed you more."
You reached out, smoothing a stray curl away from your daughter's forehead. She blinked up at you sleepily, heavy-lidded and disoriented, but the second she recognized you, a slow, shy smile bloomed across her face.
"Mama." She mumbled, little hands stretching toward you instinctively.
Your heart shattered into a thousand pieces in the best way possible.
Simon shifted, carefully transferring her into your arms. You cradled her close, small body pressing against yours, and the presence of her—solid, warm, yours—banished the mission behind you.
You kissed her soft cheek, taking her in—sunshine, soap, and the faint lingering trace of Simon’s cologne.
He rubbed the back of his neck, mouth tugging up in a sheepish, boyish smile. "Figured... we could meet ya. Thought she'd like to see her mum be a badass." He muttered, almost embarrassed.
Danny chuckled behind you, slinging his gear bag down with a heavy thud. "Hell of a welcome wagon, mate. Setting the bar high."
You laughed, the sound bubbling up unfiltered, before you rested your forehead against Simon’s for half a second. Just long enough to feel him soak you in. Long enough to remind him you were real.
"Always knew you were trouble." You softly teased.
He smirked, the faintest crinkle hidden at the corners of his eyes behind his shades... but even though you couldn't see them, you just knew.
"You're stuck with me forever, love." He replied, before leaning down and giving you a sweet, lingering peck on the lips.
The kind of kiss that said: I’d wait a thousand lifetimes for you.
You cradled your daughter closer, your free hand gently grabbing his shirt, anchoring yourself to him like you had all those years ago without even realizing it when you were just........ roommates.
Well... that's it for my little story about roommate reader lol! I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I wrote it! As always, please like, comment, repost, and give me feedback!
If you're new here and interested in seeing my other stories, please check out my masterlist link below!!!
The next story I will be finishing is "Before The Ghost"!
Love you all!!!!
-Daydreamer 🩵
Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9; Pt. 10; Pt. 11 (Simon POV); Pt. 12; Pt. 13; Pt. 14; Pt. 15; Pt. 16
Masterlist
Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013 @sssophia0-0 @a-lil-bit-nuts @kalypsoox @nicolebarnes @jesskidding3 @kissmeharderrrr
bleeding blue | apocalypse au
part thirty-two —other parts
pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.1k 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: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol
The tray of food crashes to the floor at her feet. Salome gasps. Her hand shoots back, fumbling for the doorknob, and her lips part, ready to call the guard you know is just outside.
"If you call for the guard," you stop her, "I’ll cut deeper."
She clamps a hand over her mouth. "Please—stop! Hurting yourselves is a sin, a great dishonor to the body God gave you—"
“It is,” you agree calmly. You press the shard deeper into the cephalic vein, ignoring the bite of pain. Blood spills in a fresh, startling curtain down your arm, the wound mimicking the severity of an arterial cut. “And she’ll blame you for it. You’re the one she entrusted to watch over us, and you didn't notice we broke one of the mugs."
"I did not think you would—"
"What happens to you,” you cut her off, pointing the bloody shard at her stomach, “—and your baby when the two new child-bearers die because of your failure? Because I will die, if I cut any deeper. This artery,” you lie, tapping the wound for emphasis, “is important. If I finish slicing through it, I’ll bleed out in less than a minute. Not enough time for you to get help. Not even enough to try saving me yourself.”
Her lashes flutter rapidly through a swell of tears. "You could have a good life here—"
"Answer me. What happens to you if I die?"
She swallows hard. "She’ll punish me," she whispers frightfully. "I have seen what happens to those who fail her. She might take my child and I will... never see them. Please, don’t do this—”
"Why should we care about you and your child when you are okay with them killing an eleven-year-old girl tomorrow?"
A flash of shame crosses her face. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't know Maman would want the girl. The offering has never been so young before. But it is God's will, there is nothing I can do to—"
"What you can do is open the cell. Open it and we will kill Maman, then you won't have to worry about anyone taking your baby. But if you don't open it, then we die in here and you will face her punishment."
Her lips part, but nothing comes out. She looks between you and Nereida, eyes darting wildly, fingers twitching against her stomach.
"Decide before I bleed out!"
"I... I can't," she says pitifully.
With a glance at Nereida, she takes her cue, digging into her vein.
"Open the cell," Nereida urges far more soothingly than you can, blood dripping to her elbow. "We won't hurt you. We want Maman gone, not you."
Salome whimpers under her breath, but her fingers move before her mind catches up, reaching inside her robe to retrieve the key, gripping it like it might burn her. She shuffles closer but pauses, inhaling deeply before finally reaching the door. Her hands shake so violently that the key rattles against the lock. It slips against the metal, failing to match the hole, and your finger twitches when she nearly drops it.
"Mais si elles ne parviennent pas à la tuer..." The whisper leaves quietly, lost beneath the veil. "Sa punition pour moi sera pire."
Then, her hand curls back around the key.
She swallows hard—and steps back.
No.
You see red.
A growl curls at your mouth and you snap forward, grabbing onto her dress through the bars before she can retreat too far, and pulling her flush against them, her forehead banging into the metal. Before she can scream, you clamp a bloody hand over her mouth and then press the piece of broken mug to her neck with just enough pressure to make her panic. She gasps into your palm, struggling. You dig it harder, forcing her body to turn still and rigid.
"Twix—"
"I tried doing things the nicer way," you speak in a low snarl, veering off the script you and Nereida conjured. Round, glossy eyes stare into yours. "You should have made up your mind before getting within my reach. Now give her the key. I’d hate for my hand to slip."
Another sharp press into her skin wrings a squeak from her, her breath coming out jagged and uneven against your palm. Trembling, she extends an arm through the bars, offering the key to Nereida.
The moment Nereida takes it, she fumbles to find the lock from the outside, her fingers searching blindly. The key scrapes against the metal—once, twice—before a soft click finally reaches your ears.
The door swings open.
You don’t hesitate. Keeping your grip firm over Salome’s mouth, you shove through the opening and swing around to the other side. Before she can react, you force her back into the cell, driving her onto the bed. The veil tears free from her head as you pin her down, your weight pressing her into the mattress, the sharp fragment still poised at her throat. When her legs begin to flail helplessly, you order Nereida to grab them. She clasps Salome's ankles to keep her from bucking you off.
"You were afraid of the wrong person," you hiss, your nose nearly brushing hers. "Maman may have spared your life because she values her baby makers—but I don’t. Answer everything I ask, or I’ll show you just how merciless I can be."
The dishonest threat rolls off your tongue with enough force to make her nod frantically, fear widening her eyes. But what she doesn’t need to know—what you won’t let her see—is the part of you still holding back. Because even now, even as you pin her down and press the shard to a vital piece of her throat, you’re careful. You don’t dig hard enough to damage. You don’t let your weight bear down on the swell of her stomach.
"I'm glad we understand each other. I am going to lift my hand, and you're not going to scream. You're going to tell me everything we need to know about the guards out there."
Her lips are puffy and raw when you set them free.
"There is only one outside the d-door," she sputters in a whisper. "B-but there are more... more by the... h-homes and the keep."
"The keep?"
"Where they keep the new m-males," she chokes out, snot dripping from her nose.
"That's in the old slaughterhouse, right?"
She nods.
"How many guards are over there exactly?"
"I do not know." At your glare, she rushes out, "B-but there are less after d-dinner ends. Many go to sleep, and switch shifts at sunrise."
You mull over the information, eyes darting across her face. “And the child—the offering? Where is Maman keeping her?”
A terrible look of fear ripples through her eyes. "Only few are allowed near the offering b-before her ascension.
"So you're telling me you don't know?" you seethe in her face.
She sobs. "I know they... they will offer her to the démons right before the sun rises. The night is when God’s wrath is strongest, but it’s in the morning—when hope ascends—that we seek atonement."
Despite further pressing, that seems to be the extent of what she knows—or she's still withholding. Either way, you're satisfied enough. You rip strips of the sheet, using one to gag her and two more to bind her wrists and ankles. You and Nereida wrap your wounded wrists tightly to stop the flow. Then, you remove her white gown. You’ll need something to wear that doesn't easily mark you as an escapee, but there’s only the one white dress and veil. You hurriedly slip into them, making sure all of your hair and face is hidden, leaving Nereida still in the thin slip. The shoes Salome wears are thin and made of unsupported leather, but they are all you have to tuck your bare feet into.
Salome said there will be fewer guards after dinner. You and Nereida listen carefully to every sound that bleeds through the window. When you hear a few exchanges of bonne nuit, you figure people are starting to retire for the night. You take this as your cue to grip your makeshift weapon. The guard outside the door is expecting Salome to leave at some point, giving you the perfect opportunity to catch him off-guard while dressed as her.
You quietly open the door to the warm summer night, the long gown ghosting around your ankles. As expected, a well-built man leans against the side of the building, arms crossed languidly. No one else is in sight, which brings you some relief. When his gaze shifts to you, he raises a brow.
"Tout va bien, mademoiselle? Vous êtes restée là-dedans un moment."
The last word barely makes it out of his mouth. Within a heartbeat, you spring at him like the head of a snake, one hand over his mouth and the other stabbing his neck with the shard, then sweeping it through the thick of his trachea. A gush of blood oozes out in one thick stream, before he gargles out a strangled choke and turns to dead weight against the wall.
With Nereida's help, you quickly push his body inside the building to keep anyone from spotting it.
"Wear this," you usher, already starting to undress him. Like the man who visited you, he's wearing a grey cloak. Though it's too big for her, and bloodied, it will be enough to keep her discreet in the dark, her long hair safely tucked beneath the hood.
Two things race through your mind: the ticking time toward sunrise and the fact that you still don’t know how many more men you’ll have to take out to reach Ghost, Price, and Kyle. The knife you find on the guard adds a small weapon to your shitty arsenal. You have no idea where they could’ve stored the guns and ammo they took from you, or your bow. How you'll manage to fight through a community of cultists without those is a worry you can’t afford to dwell on right now—one step at a time.
After a few minutes of collecting yourselves, urgency pulls the two of you outside, free from the barred enclosure for the first time in almost four days. In the blanket of night, you quickly scan the area, taking in what you’re up against. The community appears fairly spread out, with only six small farmhouses like the one you just escaped from, along with a few larger structures in the near distance—likely where they house the men. You catch a glimpse of a fenced pasture’s perimeter and the unmistakable stench of cattle fills the air. Despite the faint shuffle of hooves and grey plumes of smoke from a few of the chimneys, everything is eerily still, leaving an unnerving amount of quiet for your heart to shatter through.
From what you can see, there aren’t many places to hide Blue, but there could be more to this place beyond what’s visible, especially since the chapel you first saw is nowhere in sight. But none of that matters right now; you need to find the others first if you’re going to have any real chance of saving her and getting out of here.
The next male you encounter spots you first as you make your way up the gravel road towards the barn, the sound of his boots making your hand tighten on the knife's handle. He greets you unassumingly in French, causing Nereida to startle beside you as his shadow approaches. Then he stops in front of her, his shoulders tensing and his hand hovering near a knife at his waist.
"Que fais-tu avec la femelle? C’est interdit!"
Again, you go for the throat, desperate to silence any screams that could cause alarm. You get a good swipe at the base of it, but he is at least a head taller than you, making it difficult to stab fully. He grabs you by the waist, clearly in shock that a veiled female just sprung on him with a knife, but swipes a fist at your face nonetheless. The force spreads through your temple, thrusting your head to the side.
"Take the knife from him," you hiss at Nereida through the pain, who until now was effectively frozen. She finally moves, using the distraction you've caused as he clutches his bleeding neck, and snatches the knife still hanging at his waist. Once she has it, you leap at the disarmed man again, this time stabbing his liver. With a muffled grown, he face-plants into the gravel, quickly soaking it with blood.
"The body," she stutters worriedly. "We need to hide it."
You look around, spotting stacks of chopped wood.
"Over there. Help me drag him."
Once the body is heaved behind the logs, you pat him down in search for anything else, but there's nothing.
"Keep that on you," you tell her, and she gives a quick nod, hiding the knife under her sleeve.
You keep following the road up to the fence, your white dress splattered with crimson, resembling the dotted stars overhead. The 'keep' is somewhere by the barn that man said, but you notice smaller buildings to the right and to the left of it. Which one looks like an old slaughterhouse? It's too difficult to tell even when you squint, so you grab Nereida's arm and quickly lower by a bush.
"Watch that one, and I'll keep an eye on this one. Whichever building has more guards patrolling is probably where they're holding them."
"Okay," she whispers, peering around the bush.
Minutes pass. The building on the right has more shadows skirting around it—three guards total. You take a moment to study their movements. One is stationed near the back, the other two at the front.
"I want you to take the one at the back and wait for me. I'll handle the other two."
"How do I take him?" she whispers uncertainly. "He’ll see me coming."
"You’ll come at it from an angle." You point toward a stack of hay. "Sneak over there, quietly. Once you're behind it, circle around and approach where he can't see."
She hesitates, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. "I’ve never—"
"Never killed anyone?"
The way she grips the knife, her fingers white on the handle, confirms it.
"These people deserve it, Nereida," you say, forcing her to meet your gaze. "John is in there."
She closes her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of it all presses down on her. When she opens them again, her jaw is set, and her grip on the knife tightens.
After reminding her where to strike, you pause for a moment, watching as she sneaks over to the hay. Then, you move toward the other two, slipping behind a tree for cover, but your foot catches on something and you almost trip, catching yourself against the bark. Your breath hitches and you steal a peek at them to make sure they didn't hear you. No—they are too busy murmuring to each other, laughing in a low exchange.
When you glance down, you spot a shovel half-buried into the ground, its handle sticking out. Carefully, you wriggle it free, having to grit your teeth to fully remove it. This will let you stun one while you deal with the other. Inhaling deeply to center yourself, palm tight over the splintered wood handle, you close in on the two guards.
The shorter one with curly hair spots you just before you take a swing, his eyes widening. The shovel slams into his skull, effectively making him stumble to the ground, but slips from your grip from the force. The other guard whirls around, hand slapping for the pistol at his belt. You deliver three consecutive stabs to his stomach, heart, and cheek. The gun never leaves his waist before he falls dead.
You suck in a gulp of air just as the curly-haired one regains his footing. His head is still heavy from the blow, and before he can draw his knife, you shove him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground. You pin him easily beneath you, his movements sluggish and weak. The two of you wrestle in the grass, jagged breaths mixing with frantic, scraping nails, until, with a snarl, your knife finds purchase in his neck, stealing the life from his eyes in an instant. You stab him again and again, shaking, until the ticking urgency pulls you back into control. With a deep breath, you steady yourself and wiggle the knife lodged in his trachea, your hands slippery with blood.
"You got death," you spit in a whisper, thumbing his lids shut.
You lift up.
Now you have a single gun.
It is an old thing. Outdated and far from the military-grade weapons Ghost has. It takes a moment to figure out the parts—your fingers fumble for the small magazine, which is stocked with three bullets. You pull the slide to chamber a round with a click and keep it ready in your hand as you circle the building toward the back, praying that Nereida managed. When you find her, she is stood over the man's body, a deep cut oozing on her cheek.
"He saw me," she says, swallowing. "But I did it."
You nod. "We need to hide them before we go in."
All three bodies are hidden behind the hay stacks. You cover them with manure to mask the smell, not wanting a horde of Greys to materialize. You'd spotted a door at the back and hope it may be more discreet then blazing in through the front, given that you don't know who all is in there. Finger ready on the trigger, you hold your breath as you lead Nereida into the old building, instantly met with the rich smell of pennies. The space quickly unfolds into an old butcher house, rusted hooks hanging from the stone ceiling, the air cramped and cold.
"Une femme? Maman ne voudrait pas de toi—"
The voice echoes in your ear as you round the corner, and then a fiery bullet rips into the owner's chest. Nereida flinches. Another guard comes barreling over, shouting, but you slide the chamber and shoot him in the head.
You don't linger by the bodies, itching to check the first steel door you see. You lower the gun only to pull at the handle, but it won't budge.
"Check him for keys," you motion to the dead guard.
Nereida crouches, hands rifling through his pockets until she yanks free a ring of keys. Her fingers shake as she tries them one by one, the lock stubborn—until, at last, it gives. With a sharp tug, the door groans open, revealing a windowless chamber. In the center, a lone captive hangs from chains.
It’s Price. Shackles bite into his wrists, his bare chest mapped with deep bruises against pale skin. Beaten, but unbroken—his gaze sharp as it lifts to meet yours. Nereida chokes on a sob, ripping the hood off her head and sinking to her knees before him, cupping his jaw.
A weighted baritone manages: "Duchess."
"There is nowhere I will not find you," she croaks. Teary kisses find the corner of his mouth. "I'm here, I'm here."
"How did you—"
"We got out. Where are the others?" you ask.
His jaw grits. "I haven't seen them since they knocked us out."
"They must be here somewhere. We need to move quick before someone notices the bodies."
After finding the small key to undo the manacles, you leave them to each other for the moment, continuing down the hall until the next door. An undeniable pull rises in your chest, something that has nothing to do with the adrenaline rushing through you—something you can’t quite name. But when you open the door, your heart falters with unwelcome disappointment at the sight of Kyle. He looks equally battered, but still aware enough to lift his head as you step in.
"Who are you?"
You lift the veil.
"It's me," you answer, the words almost lost in the rush of emotions. Only when you fully take in the room do you notice Ari, curled in the corner. They’ve put them in here together. While there are no obvious injuries on the boy, the sight of the open Bible on his lap, and the empty dinner plate beside him, sends a cold shiver down your spine. You touch his cheek, feeling warmth, and reassure him he’s safe.
You release both of them. "Price and Nereida are through the door down the left. I need to find Ghost. I’ll be back."
Kyle rubs his wrists and manages to stand despite his black eye and shaky legs. "I’ll come with you."
"No. I’ll get him." The words come out sharper than you mean to, but you turn away before he can question them.
You are pulled further through the tight, cold hallway, movements turning more hurried as you look around. There are a few more half-opened doors, but they only lead to supply closets filled with whips and metal batons and empty chambers where old blood stains the floors. Something sharp tugs at your heart, and for the first time since initiating your escape, your fingertips succumb to a tremor of fear.
Where is he?
The hall spits out into a room where dried animal carcasses hang from the walls.
One final door sits on the far end.
The rusted lock resists, swears hissing from your lips—until a sharp kick forces it open.
The smell thickens with fresh blood, and a cold pit sinks into your stomach at the sight of him—bound in chains, his body slumped haphazardly. Unlike the others, he doesn’t lift his head. You rush forward, a shaky breath catching in your throat as you take in the blood caked on his shoulder blades, deep welts splitting through the inked skin. His back, too, is covered in wounds. He looks worse—so much worse—that a bite of anger swells moisture in your eyes.
"Simon, you idiot. What did you do?" The words slip out on a sharp inhale as you lower yourself in front of him. "Simon," you whisper again, silent tears hot against your lips. You thread a hand through his hair, tilting his jaw up with careful fingers. His eyes are heavy, but relief finds you when they flutter open. He’s alive. The reddened whites flicker over your face, unfocused—until something strange sharpens the haze. A flicker of fear.
"It's me, Simon. We're getting out of here."
The brief fear shifts into shock when he recognizes your face, and only after you fumble with the key ring does understanding click into place, causing his jaw to flex. "Where... where is she?"
"I don't know, but we need to hurry. They have her." You undo the manacles, and his body rolls heavily into you, face falling onto your collarbone. You struggle to hold him up, gripping his shoulders without touching the wounds. A low groan bleeds through his teeth, and his eyes flutter shut again. No, no, no. "Please, you have to... you have to get up, Simon. I can't—she's going to fucking die!"
His upper chest rapidly expands with a breath, and he musters the strength to lift his weight off you and slap a hand against the wall. As he leverages his weight up, you help by grabbing beneath his other arm, until a final rush of adrenaline gets him on his feet. Urgency snaps tension into his limp shoulders, and he growls out another, more steady, breath.
"Price," he says.
"He's alive. Come on."
It takes some effort to help him walk at first, but eventually, he manages on his own. You guide him to the first room, where the others are pacing, murmuring in low voices.
"Simon, Jesus," Price mutters when he sees him.
Ghost brushes it off, his eyes narrowing. "They're going to kill her."
"At sunrise," you add, your voice tight. You pull out the pistol and show it to them. "I have one bullet left. I don't know how many more men are in this cult, but we've killed six so far."
"We have one shitty old gun." Kyle growls in frustration. "They took all our shit. How are we going to—"
"We find the weapons. They must have stored them somewhere," Price says.
"We can't just go searching through every building here. We don't have the time," you press. "And how are we supposed to get it back without everyone noticing we're gone?"
"I don't give a fuck about the guns. We find her first," Ghost grits, nostrils flaring.
"We can't help her if we don't think things through. We can't just start a war with these people empty-handed, Simon," Price says.
"We find her first!"
"Simon," you say, reaching for his arm, but he pulls it away, clenching his bloody fist. The energy radiating from him would scare you if you didn't feel the same way.
Just then, there is the faint sound of a door opening and footsteps clanging through the hall. You tense up, two male voices shouting in echoes, one of them vaguely familiar.
"Quelqu'un les a tués ! On doit régler cette merde avant que Maman découvre quoi que ce soit."
"Les putains de prisonniers!"
Before you can react, Ghost snatches the pistol from your grip. The second they rush toward the open door, he launches at them—an elbow to one’s face, the butt of the gun breaking the nose of the other. Price uses Nereida's knife to stab the fallen guard, while Kyle helps Ghost subdue the second one. You only recognize him as the man who made you strip when they forcibly drag him toward the manacles, the sight of his blonde hair making your nails curl into your palms.
"You stupid fucking Brits!"
Ghost strikes the gun into his left eye, making him jerk within the constraints, howling as the socket turns into bloody pulp.
Kyle grips the man's scalp from behind to hold his head up, while Ghost presses the gun into his cheek, where you notice a wound shaped like a bite mark.
"Tell us where she is," he roars. "Or I'll take the other eye."
Nereida cowers into the corner, holding onto Ari's arm.
"I don't know!" the man spits blood, and Ghost digs the gun into his cheek, ripping it open further until the bitten flesh hangs as a torn flap, exposed all the way to his eye. The scream that follows feels inhuman. "I swear, I don't—I don't fucking know!"
Fresh blood drips to the floor. Price, much more calm, lowers at the man's side. "How many people live here?"
The man grits his teeth, struggling to answer, "T-thirty males, and six females. Plus the infants."
Twenty-two now, you count in your head.
"And the weapons we had. What about those?" Price questions further.
When only staggered, pained breaths fills the room, Ghost tosses the bloody gun and grabs the knife from Price, stabbing the man's kneecap without hesitation. Another scream ensues, and there is the small itch to cover your ears, but you steel yourself against the wall to keep watching.
"Answer the fucking question." Ghost twists the knife in his knee.
He cries out, more bloody spittle flying from his mouth. "All of the ammo is hidden. Only A-Alexandre knows!"
"Who is Alexandre?"
“Maman's son, he enforces her commands and oversees the males.”
"Where is he?" Price asks, voice hard.
“He… he resides in the work shed, while the rest of us sleep in the quarters within the barn.”
You step forward. "We saw another building outside with just one guard, that must be it."
There is a beat of silence as Price processes the information, giving Ghost a satisfied nod. With pain still contorting his face, the man's eye drifts past Ghost's shoulder toward you. His lips twitch into a faint, bloody smirk that makes your skin crawl. Ghost follows his gaze, snarls, and abruptly slashes the man's throat from ear to ear.
B
It is still dark when Eloise comes to awaken her, though Blue's eyes never once fell shut with sleep. She spent the short-lived night alternating between staring at the crescent moon outside the window, and fiddling with the knitting needles left on the table. There is a new dress in the woman's clutch, beautiful white fabric embroidered with flowers, and a pair of beautiful leather shoes in the other hand.
"See? I told you the dress would be nicer." She smiles and hands it over, as if to offer something to be thrilled for. "You must change quickly. There is a lovely breakfast of framboises and milk waiting for you. Put these on as well." She sets the shoes on the floor.
Blue thinks it strange, to bother feeding her just before her death. Blankly, she asks, "How many people will be there? To watch me die."
Eloise's smile quivers slightly, a slight crack in her composure. "Not too many, I assure you. Only a few of us women, and one or two worthy men. Most are still sleeping." After a pause, she adds even quieter, almost ashamed, "Be thankful you don’t suffer through childbirth instead. It is... a painful thing. Long, too. At least this pain will be honorable and swift."
Blue's fingers tighten around the dress. "Okay. Do you mind if I change alone, please?"
Eloise bows her head. "Of course."
She casts one last gentle glance her way before shuffling out of the room, locking the door behind her and leaving Blue with only the dress and shoes. Once the door is closed, Blue quickly slips the dress on, shuddering as the cold fabric caresses her limbs. It’s more beautiful than anything she can remember ever wearing, and that disgusts her. Swallowing the churn in her stomach, she grabs the needles and sits back on the bed.
The wounds on her feet are shallow, her fingernails only able to pierce the thick skin slightly. Using the needles, she digs into them deeper, trembling from the pain that throbs as fresh blood begins to seep from the soles. She cuts and cuts furiously, teeth gritted, praying it’s enough to soak through the shoes she slips on over the new wounds. She covers the blood stains on the sheet with the blanket, then stands, almost crying out from the agony of walking on her torn feet.
"Please dad," she whispers, closing her eyes briefly, before calling to Eloise that she is ready.
"Is everything alright, miss? You've been in there for a while." "What are you doing with the female? It’s forbidden!" "A woman? Maman wouldn’t want you—" "Someone killed them! We need to fix this shit before Maman finds out anything." "The fucking prisoners!"
one of me is cute, but two, though?
one | chapter index
fresh from a breakup, you fucked your ex-something's ex-best friend - and it looks like he left you with more than hickies to remember him by
relationships: baby daddy!Geto x f!Reader
content: smut and angst and fluff unplanned pregnancy, one-night-stand to coparents, pregnancy symptoms, soft domestic Geto, making out, hickies, fingering, unprotected piv sex, this man is already down bad and worships you, falling for each other, comfort <3
a/n: this is part of a larger fic (falling snow found here, branches off of pt. 10 of gojo's ending, picking up a couple months after her and geto's hookup), however it can be read as a standalone <3 gorgeous Geto art is by @grartsss
Your tits felt weird.
A little heavier maybe? You squinted at your reflection in the mirror, readjusting your bra for the third time this morning. How was it too tight? You just bought it before you moved in to your new apartment and out of your old city. It had barely been six weeks.
Frustrated, you unhooked the back and returned to your dresser to fish through the drawer for another one. Maybe it was just the lighting, but it almost looked like your nipples were just a shade darker too.
Weirder.
You pushed the thought to the back of your brain while you kept getting ready. It wasn't until you were pawing through your medicine cabinet trying to find your deodorant that you saw the unopened box of tampons pushed to the back and a little click! went off in your brain.
Must be about time to start your period.
You paused.
When was the last time you'd gotten it?
You quit your birth control the week after your brutal break up, convinced you were calling off all men for the foreseeable future. And okay, yeah, maybe you fucked his former best friend two months later, but that was in the name of getting over him and under someone else.
Either way, you were pretty sure you'd gotten it a week or two after he discarded you. Or at least the month after that. But last one? You had no idea.
Between moving all your stuff in and working overtime half the week, the days had flown by so fast you hadn't even thought about it. Frowning at the box in front of you, you chalked it up to stress and your hormones being out-of-whack.
This was supposed to be your fresh start.
A new job in a new city, fresh faces and a nice apartment to return home to. Someplace you could carve out a sweet little slice of life from and start over again.
Still, the whole day you couldn't shake the lingering feeling that something was different.
“We're going to grab a bite to eat. Wanna come?” The receptionist called out to you, leaning across the desk as she chatted with a few other women you'd talked to a handful of times since you started.
“Sure,” You nodded, backtracking to where they were standing. Honestly, you'd give anything to stop thinking about how off you felt today.
“You seem a little down today, sweetie,” One of them patted your shoulder. She was the type to bring homemade cookies for everyone on Mondays, never forgetting to greet you with good morning before you’d even set your bag down. It was plain to see her concern.
“Everything good?”
“Yeah, I'm okay. Just not feeling very well,” You tried to smile.
“Are you sure you're up for dinner? You don't have to come if you're sick,” The receptionist frowned, searching your features with worry.
“I'm fine, just think it's about to be y’know, that time...” You trailed off, knowing the women would immediately pick up on it. They laughed, offering their sympathies.
“Could be worse,” The receptionist giggled. “At least you're not pregnant.”
A gnawing pit opened in your gut the second the last word fell out of her mouth.
There was no way.
No fucking way.
“I'm actually starting to cramp,” You lied, panic pumping through your veins. “Join you guys next time?”
“Okay,” They waved you off with a chorus of hope-you-feel-betters, heels clicking hard against the tile as you hurried out in search of the nearest pharmacy.
Enduring the embarrassment of being in the family-planning aisle and staring at the assortment of pregnancy tests lining the shelves, all boasting things like a 99% accuracy rate to detecting it as early as the first day of your missed period. How the fuck were you supposed to know what to pick? You didn't miss the tremble in your hands when you grabbed a couple different ones or how white your knuckles were against the boxes as you waited in line to checkout. You couldn't be pregnant - that was insane.
But if you were, then the morning-after pill must’ve not worked. Or maybe you took it too late. Oh God.
“Next?” The cashier's voice snapped you out of your daze as you stepped forward and set the pregnancy tests on the counter. He didn't even bat an eye, scanning the barcodes and monotonously telling you the total as you slid over some cash. He pushed them into a plastic bag, handing it and your change over, already moving onto the person waiting behind you.
Like this purchase didn't have the potential to change the trajectory of your entire fucking life.
“Thanks,” You muttered, stuffing the plastic bag into your purse.
It felt like you were walking around with a loaded gun.
You tried to think about anything else. What you were going to eat tonight, whether or not to make the drive to crash at your friend's place this weekend, what you'd been too lazy to unpack from the moving boxes yet. Definitely not that you might need to call Suguru Geto and tell him he was about to be a father.
The second you unlocked your apartment door, you made a beeline for the bathroom to take every single one of those stupid tests.
Surely you'd feel a lot better once you knew you weren't pregnant.
You’d always heard stories of other girls having pregnancy scares, but it felt ten times worse living it.
So you ended up staring at the ceiling, sitting on the cold tile of the bathroom, staving off a panic attack and waiting for the timer on your phone to go off. Chewing your nails down to nubs as each second dragged on excruciatingly long.
Ding ding ding.
Pushing off the floor, your hand froze before you reached for the first one. Too scared to see what you already suspected. You hesitantly picked it up, teeth gritted as you stared blankly at the two dark lines in the middle.
Two dark lines.
“Fuck.”
Okay, maybe one could be a fluke. False positives happened sometimes. You snatched the second one, heart sinking in your chest as you saw the single word in the tiny box.
Pregnant.
“Oh fuck.”
You called out of the work the next day, feigning a stomach bug as you scheduled an emergency appointment at the nearest gynecologist. Not like it wasn't that far off from the truth.
“When was your last period?” The nurse asked, poised to type over her keyboard.
“Uh, I'm not sure?” You swallowed hard. “July? I think?” She hm-ed like you answered wrong.
“If you don't know, you’ll need an ultrasound so we know how far along you are,” She informed you. You nodded, clutching your purse against your stomach as she went through a checklist of questions that you stumbled through answering. Standing up, she ushered you down the hall into a dim room with a medium-sized screen against one wall next to the exam table. As soon as she closed the door, leaving you to get on the bed and wait for the ultrasound tech to show up. There wasn’t any way to distract yourself or keep the panic at bay laying back on the crinkling paper and scrunching your eyes shut. Your mind constantly wandering back to how you were waiting to see your baby.
You couldn't think of a scarier pair of words.
The tech knocked on the door before pushing it open. She was perky, greeting you with a smile that reminded you of Yuji's as she sat down next to you.
“Morning!” She chirped, looking over the chart in her hands as she confirmed your name and birthday. “So your last period was in July, huh?"
“I'm not sure,” You admitted. “But I think so. Maybe August?”
“No problem,” Her voice was smooth, trying to offer a little bit of comfort as she pulled out a white bottle with red writing across the label. “Why don't we go ahead and get started?”
“Okay,” You mumbled, hesitantly lifting up the hem of your shirt to expose your stomach.
She tucked tissue paper in the waistband of your pants, pulling them a little further down on your hips.
“The gel might be a little cold,” She apologetically said.
“It's fine,” You swallowed hard as she squeezed a fair amount on your stomach, using the wand attached to the ultrasound machine to spread the jelly-like substance across your skin.
You were a little surprised at how firmly she pressed the wand against your lower stomach as she clicked a few buttons on the keyboard. It always looked so gentle whenever you saw it happening in movies and tv, just skimming the surface. Not like this.
A black and white staticky image popped up on the screen, and you had no clue what you were supposed to be looking at. You squinted, trying to make out the vague shapes as she moved the wand along.
“See that?” She pointed to a tiny gray splotch standing out against the black. “That's your baby.”
“Uh-huh,” You said, dumbstruck. It was so small.
It’s not like you were expecting to see a fully-grown fetus or anything. But the thought of that little glob on the screen being a baby, your baby, was sending you in a bit of a tailspin. You nervously laughed, waiting to wake up from whatever weird dream you were in.
“You okay, honey?” She paused, seeing the panic-stricken look on your face.
“Um,” You paused, the lump in your throat choking you up. “It’s, uh, different seeing it.”
You scolded yourself for calling the baby it, but you didn’t think you could say the words out loud yet.
“Yeah, feels more real now, right?” She sympathized, returning her attention back to her own screen. She was typing something with her free hand, taking measurements and offering explanations that went in one ear and out the other. You didn’t understand how she could tell what any part of it was. “We’re going to check for the heartbeat now.”
“Okay,” Your mouth was so painfully dry, palms clammy as you waited for it.
You didn’t know why you were so anxious when it took her more than just a few seconds to find it. But then you heard the muffled and grainy thump-thumps of the baby’s heart beating so fast you could feel your own pulse thrumming in your veins.
You stayed quiet, not a single thought floating through your brain as you watched her click a button and photos of the ultrasound started printing out of the side of the machine. She pulled them off, handing you a roll of photos that all looked virtually identical to you.
“Looks like you’re about eight weeks along,” She commented. “So that’d put your due date around mid-April.”
You felt like you might puke. Or faint. Or maybe both.
“Oh.”
“If you want to keep the baby, if not, there are other options-”
“I want to,” You interrupted, surprising yourself. Although you were admittedly terrified, the thought of not having it was worse.
So what the fuck happens now?
The rest of the appointment was a blur, being shuffled back around to a new doctor who handed you a packet of papers practically two-inches thick with dos and don’ts and what-to-expects and a prescription for prenatal vitamins that she recommended you pick up as soon as possible. Thumbing through it in the driver’s seat of your car, knowing your eyes weren’t processing a single word they were reading while you sighed. Maybe it was silly considering you weren’t actually together, but you still wanted to tell Geto first. He was the father. Even if he ended up not wanting anything to do with it.
You tried to comfort yourself with the hope that he wasn’t the kind of man who’d get angry or upset with you - but you had to remind yourself that you didn’t know him all that well.
Where he worked, what his family was like, what hobbies he had or any of the little things that added up and amounted to who someone was. You’d let him lead most of your conversations, and he usually ended up asking about you and offering very little of himself.
It’s not like you could just pretend this wasn’t happening though.
You were supposed to visit your friends this weekend anyway. You unlocked your phone, pulling up his contact information before you chickened out.
You: Are you free this weekend?
You immediately set the phone down in the cupholder, leg bouncing up-and-down anxiously as you tried to distract yourself by reading the first page for the fourth time since you got in the car. But your phone vibrated only a few seconds later and you couldn’t help snatching it back up.
Suguru Geto: Yeah, everything OK?
You: I’ll be back in town tomorrow morning. Can we meet?
Suguru Geto: Of course.
At least it was a beautiful day to tell your one-night-stand he knocked you up.
The sun was out, pleasantly warm outside. A light breeze floated by, the leaves on the trees just starting to change from green to sunset shades as they drifted down with the wind. You pulled your jacket around you tighter, waiting on a park bench for Geto to show up. The carefully folded ultrasound pictures you brought felt like they were burning a hole in your pocket.
You could tell he was a little confused when you picked a park to meet at when he offered to take you out to eat instead, but you honestly didn’t know if you’d be able to tell him with other people around when you hadn’t even managed to even say it in the mirror.
“Hey,” A warm familiar voice greeted you, a hand on your shoulder as he snuck up on you.
“Hi,” You turned around as he walked around the bench to take a seat next to you. At least you wouldn’t have to worry about your baby being ugly with him as the father. His bangs were down today, but he had put half of his long hair up in a messy bun in the back of his hair. The cream-colored sweater hanging off his broad shoulders suited him, made him look even more sophisticated somehow. He had a small bouquet of flowers in one hand, holding them out for you.
It only took him a couple seconds looking at the panic in your eyes for concern to flicker across his face. He sat the flowers down in the small gap between you on the bench, the plastic wrapping creasing as his expression darkened.
“What happened?” He asked, skipping the song-and-dance of him asking if you were okay and you pretending that everything was fine.
I’m pregnant.
The words were on your tongue, lips parted like you were going to say them, but you couldn’t get a single sound out. He reached over, covering your hand with his.
“Hey, it’s okay. You can tell me,” His voice was low, so soothing. You didn’t want him to stop talking to you like that.
“I’m sorry,” You apologized, even though you knew it took two to make a baby. That didn’t make you feel less guilty for the information you were about to drop on him.
“What’s wrong?” He asked.
You stuck your other hand in your pocket, pulling out the ultrasound photos and half-shoving it in front of him.
“I’m pregnant,” You muttered, barely audible. You couldn’t look at him when he took the film from your hand. He didn’t say anything.
Geto sucked in a sharp breath.
“The baby’s mine?” He asked. You shakily nodded.
“I went to the doctor yesterday. I'm, uh, due in April,” Hearing yourself say it out loud was surreal.
“You went by yourself?”
“Yeah. Haven't told anyone else,” You hesitated. “I thought you should know first.”
“Because I'm the father,” He said it like he couldn't believe it. You weren't entirely convinced you were over your own shock yet.
“I understand if you don't want anything to do with this,” You mumbled. He squeezed your hand tightly.
“You want to keep the baby?” He sounded so tender you had to look back over at him. He was staring down at the ultrasound in his free hand, eyes glued to the little gray speck.
“Yeah,” You confessed, feeling self-conscious.
Geto paused, both of you staring at each other while the weight of the decision started sinking in.
“Do you want the,” You cleared your throat, tongue failing you again. “Um, baby?”
You had to cringe at yourself, how tense the word came out, your voice cracking with all two syllables of it. Holding your breath and hesitantly meeting his intense gaze.
“I do,” He softly said. Maybe it was the way the morning’s rays caught the warmth in his brown eyes, but there was something gentle and affectionate in them reflecting back at you.
“Oh,” You squeaked, on the brink of crying and not even knowing why.
“Hey,” He soothed. “It's going to be okay.”
You hadn't realized how badly you needed to hear that until he said it. Geto let go of your hand, reaching up to brush away a tear you didn't know fell. It wasn't even necessarily romantic when you moved the flowers to your other side so you could scoot closer to him.
With his leg pressed against yours, he pulled you against him, one hand deep in your hair while the other still held tight to the ultrasound photos.
“I’m scared. And I don't have anything figured out,” You admitted into the thick cashmere fabric, words broken up by quiet sobs. It’s not that you thought you had to be married to have a baby, or ever really considered the possibility of even getting pregnant beyond a passing thought. But you always sort of figured you’d be in a committed relationship if it happened.
Nothing like this. You just moved cities away and he lived here and you didn’t know the first thing about having a baby, let alone raising one and -
“We have plenty of time,” He talked into your hair while you tried to catch your breath. “Whatever you want to do, I'm here. I'll support you and our baby.”
Our baby.
“I'm gonna get makeup all over your nice sweater,” You started to pull away, sniffling as you blinked back the last of the tears. But he just pressed you back into his chest.
“Go ahead,” He chuckled a little.
The sound escaping your throat was half a sob and half a laugh.
“What are you doing for the rest of the day?” He asked, his thumb dragging along the back of your neck down to massage the tension in your shoulder.
“S’pposed to go see my friends,” You mumbled into his sweater. The idea of telling your friends that you were pregnant made your stomach churn.
“Let me take you out to dinner tonight, okay?” You looked up at him, the seriousness and sincerity in his fox-like features as he brushed your hair out of your face and wiped away the damp trail of tears from your cheeks. For the first time since you’d seen the two lines on the test strip, you felt like things might actually be okay.
“Okay,” You shakily nodded, his fingertips tracing your cheekbone. It wasn’t love in his eyes, but a quiet sort of admiration and adoration to let you know you could depend on him. “Do you mind if we keep this between us for now? Until I’m a little further along?”
“Sure,” He kissed your forehead.
It’s not like it’d be particularly difficult to keep it a secret at least until you started showing, right? How hard could it be?
And yeah, while you made it through visiting your friends just fine, dinner came sooner than you were ready for.
It might have been the most awkward date (question mark?) of your life.
He didn't seem to get the message though Sitting across from Geto in a cozy little booth at a family-style restaurant tucked between some shops you'd never heard of before. It wasn't quite what you expected when you told him he could pick the place. Skimming through the menu and stealing glances at him over the laminated paper.
You had a hard time grounding yourself in the moment.
He was as put-together as ever, not a hair out of place or wrinkle to be found on his clothes as his eyes scanned across the menu.
“Have you been here before?” You tentatively asked, hoping to break the silence. He sat the menu down, directing all his attention towards you.
“Not as much now, but I used to come every month. The girls love this place,” He casually said.
You stared blankly at him, not understanding what he meant by his last sentence. Girls? Was he implying that he used to bring dates here or what?
Sensing your confusion, he frowned like maybe he was just realizing something.
“I’m sorry, I don't think we’ve talked about Nanako and Mimiko,” He paused, going to pull his phone out of his pocket and scrolling until he found what he was looking for. He held it out, showing off a picture of him with two girls a few years younger than you. Probably still in college, grinning brightly at the camera. You recognized one from the work party you first met him at, but you hadn't gotten a great look at her then.
“Sisters?” You asked. He shook his head.
“Adopted them when I was still kind of a kid myself,” His face was grim, like maybe the memory of it was unpleasant before resuming his neutral mask. “But they turned out okay.”
Part of you sympathized - it reminded you of how hard Choso had worked to take care of Yuji. Unfortunately for you, the larger part of you was stuck on the fact you were about to be a what? A mother and a stepmother of sorts? Ok, maybe that was getting ahead of yourself.
You didn't think Geto necessarily wanted a serious relationship with you, but still, your baby would already have siblings before it was even born.
What if they didn't like you? Or the baby? They’d been his family far longer.
Would that change things for him?
“They must really love you,” You commented. It hit you again how much of his life you weren't privy too - just how little you knew about him. You'd be taking care of a whole human with him in less than nine months. Was that nearly enough time to get to know him?
Especially considering the fact you no longer lived in the same city?
“Does it make you uncomfortable?” He asked, watching your reaction through half-lidded eyes.
“Not really,” You shook your head. It was probably best to be upfront with him. “Just thinking about how much we don't know about each other.”
He shrugged like it didn't particularly bother him.
“We've got the rest of our lives to learn,” Geto said, setting his phone down on the table and picking the menu back up.
“How are you just okay with this?” You gaped at him, finger tapping the table nervously. The fluttery panicked feeling was stuck in your throat, the question strained. Could he really be that cool and collected under his polished surface too? Was vulnerable even in a word in his vocabulary?
You probably cried on-and-off for two hours after getting those positive tests. Him? He ended up comforting you not even a full minute after you broke the news.
“It’s our baby.”
It sounded so simple when he said it like that.
But it also made you feel like you were going to have an anxiety attack in the middle of the restaurant. You might actually have if you weren't interrupted by an approaching waiter.
He ran through his memorized greeting spiel, reciting specials with his best customer-service smile before asking what you wanted to drink.
“Just water,” You nodded, your eyes drawn back to Geto as he politely addressed the man and gave him his drink order. The demure confidence that practically oozed out of him no matter what he was doing was intimidating.
What, would you have to be prying other single moms off of him every time you took your kid to the park?
Once the waiter walked away, he turned back to you, the corner of his lips just barely turning upwards realizing you were already looking at him.
“Let's start spending weekends together,” He suggested. You chewed your cheek, considering the logistics of an arrangement like that. “That way we can get to know each other, right?”
“My friends would probably be a bit suspicious if I'm coming down here every weekend and disappearing half the time,” You mused.
Still, you wanted to get to know him. If he was going to be in your baby's life and by-extension yours, it would be nice to have a good relationship of any kind.
“My apartment isn't quite as nice as yours, but I wouldn't mind you staying over,” You added, almost embarrassed by your own invitation. “If you want to, I mean.”
“I’d love to,” His small smile turned into a smirk at your shyness. It felt kind of ridiculous to be worried over such surface-level pretenses when the two of you were here thanks to something so much more intimate. “I meant that you could stay at my apartment too, you know. Not your friend’s.”
You blushed, really embarrassed now.
“Oh,” You mumbled, looking away and praying the waiter would return with your drinks and maybe a gun to put you out of your misery.
But he was nowhere to be seen and you could feel those dark eyes focused solely on your face.
“We could just trade off. I could drive to you one weekend and you come over the next?” You nervously suggested. There was still an absurd amount left to figure out but it sounded like a good place to start, at least.
“Okay,” The look on his face was almost enough to convince you that there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. “I’m holding you to that.”
It was difficult to say no when he suggested you return back to his place for the night after your meal.
His apartment hadn't changed in the past couple months since you'd last been there. But there were a few new additions to the coffee table, books on parenting and pregnancy stacked with the receipt still tucked in the front cover. The idea of him leaving your meeting this morning to go straight to a bookstore to pick those out was more endearing than you'd like to confess.
He shrugged his jacket off, hanging it on the coat rack by the door, not hesitating to help peel yours off and hang it up next to his.
“Thank you,” You swallowed, feeling suddenly meek remembering his hot and heavy touch, how he hadn't hesitated to throw you on his bed and take you like you always belonged to him.
“Of course,” He murmured. His tall frame hung behind you, his breath warm on your neck.
Was it wrong to want him to kiss you? It’s not like it would be the first time.
If you were being honest with yourself, you really wanted him to.
You didn't turn fully, just glancing curious and cautiously back up at his expression. He was watching you back just as intently.
“Are you going to kiss me?” You asked, voicing the thought you couldn't get out of your mind.
He cupped your cheek with one hand, his kiss searing your lips. You slipped your arms around his neck, twisting into his body and parting your lips for him.
“Baby,” He murmured in the shallow gasps for air, picking you up with your legs wrapped around his waist as he tenderly marked your throat with fevered kisses. You could taste the need, the want for more radiating off of him, practically able to see the leash he was using to hold his desire back.
You still weren't sure what this was to you, much less to him - the chemistry just as confusing as it was compelling. Did he need you or just the comfort of having someone warm underneath him? Geto didn't give you a chance to think much further on that.
He pressed you against the wall of the hallway, pausing to suck a harsh mark above your collarbone. You giggled, reaching up to pull out the hair tie on his half-bun that somehow got disheveled in the heat of the moment.
“What? Getting me pregnant wasn't enough? Need to leave hickeys too?” You teased, watching his pretty black hair frame the fine features of his face. The smile that adorned his face came easily, his eyes crinkling in the corners before he buried his face back into your neck.
You groaned into him, letting your fingers sink into his silky black locks, tugging as he grazed his teeth against your skin.
It was like he couldn't get enough of you. Like you might somehow manage to slip away while still in his arms, he had to close the gap. His body slotted so firmly against yours that your thighs ached when they spread further to accommodate him, ankles crossing behind the taut muscles of his back. Pinned against the wall, letting him pepper your skin with heated kisses that melted the thoughts and worries which left you frozen in anxiety and panic over the past two days. You tilted your head back, the exposed tendons flexing as he didn't hesitate to press his tongue hard and flat against one, the sensation sending goosebumps down your arms.
“You're teasing me, you know?” You accused, biting your bottom lip as the growing bulge in his pants rubbed against you tauntingly. He chuckled, his dark eyes flickering over to meet yours as he squeezed your ass in his cupped hands.
“Maybe I missed you,” He casually smirked. Your brain was frazzled by the feeling of all of him grinding against you, the friction bordering on agonizing through too many layers of clothes.
“Better prove it then,” You jutted out your bottom lip, and he didn't falter, didn't hesitate to hoist you up higher, readjusting his grip to carry you the rest of the way to his bedroom. The door was half-open already, and he used his foot to kick it the rest of the way before your back could hit the wood. Instead of throwing you down onto the mattress like last time, he laid you down softly without ever letting go. His mouth found purchase on yours, your back sinking into his mattress.
“I've gotta be gentle,” Geto mumbled into the corner of your mouth, barely two inches away.
His hair all the down and so handsome it hurt, he stared so intensely it stole the breath right out your throat.
“You can still fuck me, you know?” You swallowed hard, moving your hands from their spot around his neck to touch his face, trace the line of his bottom lip and craning up to deliver a soft kiss. When he kissed you back, it was harder, rougher, and you could taste the restraint in it.
“You better behave,” He chided.
How could anyone expect you to behave when it came to him?
“Make me,” You taunted, bucking your hips up to harshly rub against his groin. A low moan escaped his throat, his head snapping down as his hair fell in a curtain around his face.
Watching him try to maintain his collected demeanor, attempting to control himself was absurdly attractive.
Why should you hold back now?
He already got you pregnant. It's not like he could do it again.
He sat up, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head while you propped yourself up on your elbows. Geto slipped a hand behind your back, pulling you up into a sitting position so he could get yours off too. When his gaze landed on the way your breasts had already started to practically spill out of the now almost too-small bra you had yet to replace, he paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing tightly in his throat.
“None of them fit right,” You defensively said, crossing your arms over your chest. No one had ever told you about that part of pregnancy, the fact that a baby was barely the size of a raspberry could already be affecting the rest of your body so much. What you just dismissed as period symptoms had persisted, your breasts still swollen and tender.
He grabbed your wrists in one large hand, pinning your hands over your head and pulling one out of the cup before you could protest. Running his fingers across the sensitive peaked nipple and smirking at the gasp he elicited.
“We can go shopping tomorrow and I’ll buy you new ones,” He promised, his voice a smooth velvet meant to distract you before he continued licking and pawing at you while you squirmed under his firm hold.
You slid a knee up to press into his crotch, massaging it up-and-down. If he was going to be a tease, you were going to return the favor. He groaned, his mouth still wrapped around one of your nipples as his free hand slipped down under your skirt to find the band of your panties.
All it took was one finger to slip in, just barely ghosting against your damp skin, for him to laugh.
“What am I going to do with you?” He sighed, but you could see a glimmer of contentment in his eyes as he let go of your wrists so he could stand up and (finally) take his pants off.
“I guess I'm your problem now,” You laughed back, scooting up on his bed and shimmying your skirt down your legs to toss across the wooden floor of his bedroom. You had just managed to reach around and unclasp your bra before he was back on you, hands on your back and skin-on-skin as he pulled you into his chest. Each aching kiss left you wishing his lips had lingered a little longer.
“Yeah,” He softly muttered. “Mine.”
Butterflies fluttered in your stomach at the word.
You weren’t confident, you’d never been, but you could let yourself believe in it while he was here.
He pulled down your underwear, tossing it behind him without a glance. You wanted his mouth everywhere, your upper thighs and dotting across the crook of your hips and smothering your own.
“Sugu,” Your breath was labored, tension packed into every crackling atom hanging in the air between the narrow space between your body and his. There were so many things you wanted to say but nothing would come out.
He trailed feather-light kisses down your chest, pausing when he got to the soft spot of your stomach just below your belly button. His dark eyes looking up to meet yours, a mutual understanding that he meant it when he said he wanted this with you.
“Are you going to let me be gentle now?” He nonchalantly said, not looking away once. You nodded, tongue numb.
He slowly slipped a finger in, easing it in like it might hurt you despite the fact you’d been wet from the moment he pushed you against the wall earlier. He fingered you like he lived - steady and practiced, taking his time and measuring your reactions with an almost smug expression.
“God, please,” You fisted his bedsheets, arching up into his hand.
“Come on, use your words,” He goaded, sliding his finger up to circle your clit. Biting your lip hard enough to bleed, you whined.
“Can’t you just fuck me?” You pouted, desperation bleeding through your question, thighs trying to close around his hand as you searched for any scrap of friction you could get against your clit. “Please?”
He didn’t reply, and you got the impression that he might give in if he did. Instead, he nestled his head in between your thighs, his tongue darting out to paint meticulous patterns inside while one of his long, sturdy fingers massaged the sensitive bud above it. His slow pace was driving you insane.
“Suguru, ah, I can't-” You gasped, trying to buck up into his mouth. He didn't stop, even when he chuckled at your weak mewls, writhing as he slid his other hand up to grope one of your swollen breasts.
“You can,” He muttered, pinching softly at your clit, sending a surprised jolt through the rest of your body.
Suguru Geto was definitely not like anyone else you’d ever met.
You didn’t know if that was thrilling or terrifying.
Maybe both.
Once he felt like he prepped you enough - borderline edging you alternating between his soft and hard touches of his tongue and fingers - he moved up, positioning his throbbing cock against your slit.
His tongue lapped at the blood on your split bottom lip from where you had bitten it earlier, the corner of his mouth red.
“I wanna look at you,” He murmured, thumbs pressed into the corner of your brows as he gently eased the tip in, giving you time to adjust to him. It felt like every part of you was throbbing, aching for all of him.
“Need you, Sugu,” You panted, nails scratching down his back. A not-so-small part of you wanted to mark him too, stain his skin with some proof you were here now that you were carrying part of him with you.
“Need you too,” He promised, his cool was starting to slip a little, sweat dripping and plastering a few loose strands of his bangs to his forehead. He finally started thrusting in-and-out, struggling to keep his strokes gentle. “Fuck.”
His hoarse curse had you curling your toes, lost in the darkness in his eyes and the feeling of how well he fit into you with every careful movement of his hips. He readjusted his position just enough to allow one of his hands to slip back down to rub against your clit while he fucked you.
It was almost embarrassing how fast he’d pushed you to the edge. You hadn’t even realized it until you were on the brink of falling over.
“S-Sugu, shit, ah, I’m gonna cum,” You whined.
“I know, beautiful,” He half-whispered into your ear, hair tickling your face as he rutted into you faster. “Think you can make it a little longer?”
You whimpered, nodding and trying to hold yourself back, clawing at the feeling trying to keep it at bay.
“That’s my girl,” He kissed the side of your neck, and you couldn’t stop yourself from snapping, coming undone under him with a loud moan. The sound of your voice seemed to push him past his limit too, a low noise coming from his throat as he finished inside of you.
He took care not to collapse on top of you, pulling out slowly, cum leaking onto your legs while he sighed. He climbed off the bed, his gaze hanging onto your body bare before him like it was an altar to worship at.
When he watched you with those eyes, it was nearly enough to convince you that all his sweet nothings exchanged in between kisses were whole-hearted and real. As much as you didn’t want to hold your past relationship experiences against him, you were struggling. The weight of them wasn’t his burden to bear but you didn’t think you could carry the load alone.
“You wanna take a shower?” He asked.
“Yeah,” You nodded, pushing down the messy feelings clouding your judgment. You had time to figure out whatever this was going to be.
He held out a hand to help you up. You took it, wishing all the other decisions coming up would be as simple as that.
tags: @inthedarkshadows000 @universal-s1ut @theonlyhonoredone @sugurusfavemonkey @chsuguru @ravester @unikornboop @ivyvenus333 @nylve @shibataimu @20kglex @cuntphoric @starriesworlds @cryingoverpixelsetc @psychoartiste @saurondriell @simplyraeblue @deftoneslut004 @theclassbookworm @grapelover2000
The Mask I Live With - pt 15
Roommate|Reader x Simon Ghost Riley
Gaz, to his credit, hadn't hovered after dinner. He'd given you space, letting you retreat to your room like he knew you needed time to yourself. You were grateful.... but also a little unsettled, left alone with nothing but the hum of the night and your own thoughts. Your leg still throbbed, but you barely noticed it. Instead, all you could think about was the strange fluttering in your chest. That kiss still echoed somewhere deep in your bones.
You laid on the bed, phone resting on your hand, thumb hovering over the screen. You couldn't shake the feeling that you needed to reach out. To say something.... something small; something just to tether yourself to him for a moment.
After a moment, you typed.
You: House feels weird without you here.
You stared at it for a second, feeling like an idiot and debating whether to delete it. But finally, your thumb hit the send button before you could talk yourself out of it.
You didn't expect him to reply at all. You knew better. He was probably already in mission mode—shut off, focused, unreachable.
Let it go. Just put the phone down and go to sleep.
But five minutes later, your screen lit up.
Ghost: Not the same here either
Your eyes widened, breath hitching, and chest tightening. The fluttering in your chest soared up your throat.
Another message came through immediately after.
Ghost: Won't be gone long. Don't wait up.
Short. Controlled. But you could feel it—the weight of his words, the way he was keeping himself in check, balancing the same line you were.
You hesitated, biting your bottom lip as your brows furrowed, before you texted back.
You: Be careful.
This time, the pause was longer.... so long, you almost thought he wouldn’t answer.
Ghost: Always.
You didn't text back. You knew he couldn't let himself get pulled too deep; knew he'd shut it down before it could distract him. And you didn't want to be the reason something happened all because you wanted to text.
But somehow, just knowing he did, knowing he'd seen the message—and took the time to even talk—settled low and warm inside your heart.
******************************************************
What you thought was a short mission, ended up being a little over a month. The sound of the front door unlocking jolted you from the nap you were taking on the couch.
You sat up, heart thudding, almost not believing it until you heard heavy footsteps and saw his figure in the doorway. He looked... worn. Shoulders tense, posture tight, exhaustion written in the lines of his eyes. There was still that ever-present sharpness in his eyes, but it was dulled now, tempered by fatigue and something heavier.
His gaze landed on you instantly, scanning you head to toe like he had to make sure you were still in one piece. You carefully stood pushing up with one crutch, softly hissing at the slight, unfamiliar weight shift onto your injured leg.
You had been cleared to start walking with partial weight-bearing a couple of days ago. A big win. One you hadn't had time to tell him about yet.
Before you could say anything, Gaz appeared from the hallway, grinning like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.
"Look who finally decided to show up." He quipped, slapping Simon shoulder as he passed. "My babysitting shift's over, mate. She's all in one piece." Simon shot him a look but didn't reply, eyes flicking back to you. Gaz continued as he glanced over his shoulder, smirking. "Gotta say.. you're a real pain in the ass to watch over. Think I deserve hazard pay."
You rolled your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. "Pretty sure I'm the one who had to keep you entertained."
He grinned. "Whatever you say, Riggs."
Simon exhaled through his nose, clearly done with the banter, brow furrowing slightly. "You alrigh'?" His voice tired, but focused solely on you.
You nodded, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. "Yeah. Got cleared to start walking."
His eyes dropped to your leg, assessing, and you could almost see the calculations running in his head. Before he could do anything, Gaz grabbed his jacket from the chair.
"Well, my job's done. Off to get a proper meal that doesn't involve frozen pizza." He winked on his way out. "Don't break yourself again."
You slightly flushed, glaring at him, but looking back at Simon who was waiting for the door to click shut.
"Didn't tell me." He quietly said.
You shrugged, shifting your weight awkwardly. "Didn't want to bother you."
His jaw ticked, but he said nothing, crossing the room instead as he removed his skull mask. His hand reached out, hovering just shy of your waist, gloved fingers twitching like he wanted to steady you but was holding back.
"Try walkin' on it yet?" He asked.
You hesitated. "A little." He gave you a look.... clearly not thrilled. And you knew better than to lie. "I was gonna go to PT tomorrow."You added, trying to keep your voice light. "You should rest. I've got it."
That did it.
His eyes darkened, a muscle in his jaw flexing as he took a step closer, crowding into your space without even touching you.
"Not happenin'. Not goin' anywhere on y'own."
You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his tone. "I can handle it." You insisted.
He shook his head, eyes still locked on yours. "Y'don't get it. Been away too long already."
Your throat tightened. The room felt still, like the air between you had thickened.
"You're back now." You whispered.
He stared at you, hand finally settling at your waist as his fingers pressing just firm enough to ground you without throwing you off balance.
"Yeah. And m'not leavin' y'to do this alone."
Your breath hitched. It wasn't about the injury anymore. Not really. It was the exhaustion in his eyes, his thumb brushing against your hip, the look he was giving you. He'd fought like hell to be here. And now that he was, he wasn't letting go. Not even for something as simple as physical therapy.
"Okay." you said, giving in, leaning into him.
"Good."
The was the last of the conversation until you woke up the next morning. You tried to slip out of bed quietly, thinking maybe you could manage to get dress and go to PT without waking him. He needed to rest. But of course, before you even had both crutches under your arms, you heard the soft creak of floorboards behind you.
"Where d'you think you're goin'?"
You sighed, fighting the urge to roll your yes as you glanced over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway. Still rumpled from sleep, grey t-shirt hanging loose, hair messy from where he'd run a hand through it.
"I was just getting ready." You said. "Didn't wanna wake you."
His brow twitched, a small frown at the corner of his lips. He crossed the room, taking the crutch from you before you could argue, steadying it as he held it out again.
"You're not goin' anywhere without me. Told you." You opened your mouth to protest, but the look on his face made you shut up. So, you nodded instead, trying not to let your heart beat too fast.
By the time you made it to the rehab wing on base, Simon was walking half a step behind, watchful. Overbearing....... definitely in your personal space. The physical therapist glanced between the two of you when you checked in, clearly recognizing him but saying nothing.
But the moment you were a few exercises in—practicing weight-bearing steps between the bars—Simon's posture shifted. He didn't say a word, but you felt it. His eyes never left you... watching every shift, every grimace you tried to hide, like he could somehow take the pain away just by being there.
You tried to ignore it; tried to focus on the task at hand. But you knew how stubborn he could be. Which made it almost inevitable when someone else caught wind of the situation.
"You're hovering."
Price's unmistakable tone, cut through the room like a scalpel.
You glanced up from the parallel bars, where you'd just finished a set, and sure enough, there he was, eyebrow raised and standing next to Simon.
Simon didn't flinch, didn't even look at him. "Makin' sure she's doin' it right." He simply replied, eyes still fixed on you.
Price huffed under his breath, lips twitching into a tiny smirk. "You've been back.. what? Twelve hours?" He murmured, voice low enough that only Simon and you could hear. "And you're already glued to her side like you've got nothing better to do."
He still didn't react, but you caught the faintest change in his posture—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening just a bit.
"Nothin' more important."
That one sentence made your stomach twist. You felt Price's gaze look to you, his expression briefly softening before he shook his head, amused at the situation.
"Well, don't let me stop you, Lieutenant." He teased. "Just remember, she's got to learn how to walk without you at some point."
When he didn't get any further reaction or response from Simon, he walked off, chuckling under his breath as he gave you a curt nod.
You exhaled, wiping sweat from your brow, glancing over at Simon.
"You know you could've stayed home."
"Didn't want to."
It was simple. Final.
You swallowed hard. "Well, I guess I'm stuck with you then." You muttered, a teasing glint in your eyes.
He was lucky his balaclava was on. You were sure the physical therapist's mouth would have dropped to the floor if he saw your roommate do anything remotely of a smile.
"Damn right you are."
I'm already working on the next chapter and I can't wait for you all to see it!! 🤭
Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9; Pt. 10; Pt. 11 (Simon POV); Pt. 12; Pt. 13; Pt. 14
Masterlist
Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013 @sssophia0-0 @a-lil-bit-nuts @kalypsoox @nicolebarnes @jesskiddingg
Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Two
Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader
Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, canon-typical violence, abduction, forced proximity
Word Count: 4.4k
The skull-faced lieutenant takes you back to base. The two of you are forced to spend the night in the same space.
Chapter One // Chapter Three
ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist
The scream is a gunshot.
You flinch. Turn away. Cover your mouth with your hand.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
“You fucking motherfucker! I’m gonna fucking kill you! You—”
The man’s words are swallowed up by the echoing pop of a pistol unloading. Ghost yanks on your arm, but you’re frozen like a rabbit sensing a predator. Even after the world fell apart, you witnessed so much, but seeing such brutal execution twists your insides like tangled barbed wire.
“Walk,” Ghost commands, but your legs are unmovable like Redwood trees.
You’re sinking. The ground is opening up.
Danger. Danger.
“Hey.”
Another crack, followed by begging.
“Look at me.” There are large hands on your shoulders. Squeezing. Urging. “Look at me.”
Ghost’s voice is a firm directive, and you snap to attention. Your gaze, once distant, locks with his. Behind the mask are his eyes—a whiskey brown with gold flecks crowned by long, pale eyelashes.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he soothes, hands sliding away from your shoulders to rest against your ears.
He presses, silencing the world. When the next gunshot goes off, you hardly hear it. Just a muffled blip amongst the quiet. With every inhale and subsequent exhale, the buzzing rush of adrenaline softens, then crashes. It’s just a shiver of release. A dismissive wave of the hand.
And Ghost never looks away. Not once.
Focused and sharp, you’re unable to look away from Ghost’s intensity. Like a roiling river, his eye contact swallows you up, drowning you in its chaos. It allows you a moment to simply observe the man before you, to study what you can of his face. It isn’t much, just blackish smudges around the eyes and a prominent brow.
A curiosity blooms where there was no soil.
You’re so focused on him that you don’t realize the gunshots have stopped until Ghost drops his hands.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” you gasp, unsure of why you’ve just apologized to him.
Ghost is impassive. Unresponsive. He simply stares, arms at his sides, and that attention is almost worse than the gunshots. It is unnerving—but not in the creeping sense of nefarious interest. He may be silent, but in his silence, there is a question.
A curiosity. Blooming.
But whatever you’ve witnessed quickly passes.
Ghost is grabbing hold of your upper arm, tugging you forward. This time your legs surrender, moving with him but struggling to keep up with his long strides.
You pass one armored truck. Then another.
“Wait,” you say, but it’s a whisper lost to the breeze.
We’re taking her with us.
“Wait,” and this time it’s louder. It carries on the wind.
Survival. Survival is paramount. And this stranger is leading you to unknown places, likely to never return you to where you come from.
Digging your feet in, you attempt to come to a stop. Ghost hardly faulters. His strength overpowers, and you nearly topple forward to eat pavement.
“Wait!”
With a growl, Ghost whirls on you. “We’re on a tight schedule, love. Keep up.”
Another tug, this one not an annoyance but a brief bite of pain. Instinct flares, and you lash out, forming a fist. It lands against his chest, striking just to the right of his left shoulder.
It’s a dumb fucking move.
Ghost shoves you up against the side of one of the armored trucks, caging you between him and the metal exterior. “Want my attention that bad? Well, love. You’ve got it.” His chest heaves as if this one interaction is taking all his stamina.
“Take your fucking hands off me,” you growl, placing both hands flat on his chest and shoving with all your strength.
Ghost grunts, and shoves you right back, pinning you to the vehicle. “Behave,” he murmurs.
“Let me go.”
“No.”
You struggle against him, working your shoulders back and forth to shake off his hold. It’s fruitless. Pathetic. Lieutenant Skull Face is stronger—weight unyielding.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” you spit at him, just because it feels good.
Ghost ignores your outburst. “You’re coming back with us. Stop your bloody fussing.”
He talks to you like you’re a small child in need of a good scolding. It’s infuriating. You might be weaponless and without leverage, but the first thing you learned when defending yourself in a world like this is to never allow anyone to take you to a secondary location. Fight like hell when you can, and survive.
But fighting doesn’t always mean physical.
“I mean nothing to you. Just leave me,” you reply, adding a slight quiver to your voice.
Negotiating. Begging. It might work with him.
“That’s not an option.”
From his tone, it’s clear that Ghost is over this conversation. Your window is closing. Soon, each of these men will turn their attention to the trucks, which means they’ll be focused on you. If you want to escape, you need to escape now.
Ghost eases his hold, drawing back to take you with him.
You give one final attempt before you start swinging.
Grasping the back of his neck, you drag him back to you. There is no mouth for you to kiss, so you press your lips to where you believe his might be. You aim for just above the skull teeth. The material of the mask is surprisingly smooth. With your leverage of your hand at the back of his neck, you lightly rock your hips in a provocative gesture, hooking your leg up slightly to imitate grinding.
Ghost stiffens, clearly confused and startled by your actions. It lasts only a few fleeting seconds, and then he softens, his hands falling to your hips.
Sweet victory sings in your veins.
Men are all the same.
All you have to do is convince him to go to one of these vehicles alone. Climb on top if you can, but make do if you’re under him. Allow him a few thrusts. Moan a bit to make him think you want this. Then go for the fucking throat.
Ghost’s hands squeeze your hips, but it’s not to pull you closer. He starts to push you away. Rejecting. He’s rejecting you.
“Tempting offer,” he murmurs. “But we’re on a schedule.”
No. Fucking no.
This is your chance. Your one chance.
The world tilts, and you switch gears.
With a quick upward motion, you drive your knee into Ghost’s groin, nailing him where his pelvis meets his thigh.
“Fucking hell,” he coughs, staggering to the side, bending over in pain.
You dip beneath his arm, dashing toward the connecting street. The Jeep keys are lost to you, and you have no gun, but if you run fast enough, and lose them amongst the houses, you might have a chance to sneak back to the Jeep undetected and hotwire it home.
Legs pumping, you dash past the armored truck.
Freedom is close. It is calling out to you. Reaching—
Large, muscled arms wrap around you, hauling you backward. They don’t throw you to ground, but restrain you, holding you firmly against a solid body.
Fuck it. Fuck this.
It’s time for fists and teeth and claws.
Kicking and screaming, you raise hell. An arm loosens. Bending it, you bring your elbow down into his shoulder.
Ghost grunts, grasps your wrist, and yanks. He twists you around, seizing both of your arms, pinning them behind your back.
You immediately go limp.
It almost works.
Ghost staggers but recovers enough to ease into the movement, using the momentum to lift you up and into his arms.
Arms now free, you snarl, swiping at him with an open palm. Ghost promptly drops you.
You hit the ground. Hard.
With a groan, you push up from the pavement with the intent to flee. A boot presses against your back, and forces you down until you’re flat on your stomach. Seconds later and you’re zip-tied.
“That’s better,” grumbles Ghost.
Grabbing you by your forearms, he lifts you back onto your feet.
A slurry of profanities leaves your lips. “Bastard! Fucking bastard! Motherfucker! Cock sucking motherfucking bastard!”
You throw your body weight around, too, but Ghost remains firm, dragging you along toward the cluster of vehicles.
“You—you—shit eating…tit zit!”
Ghost chuckles. “Creative,” he muses like he appreciates it.
His amused demeanor only deflates your hope, melting you down until you decide it’s best to beg, to see if this man will show even a hint of mercy.
“Please,” you exhale, and you hate how desperate you sound. “Please. Just—just let me go.”
Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. Keeping his gaze forward, Ghost hauls you over to a Humvee. He opens the rear passenger door.
“Get in,” he nods. “Or I’ll toss you in.”
“Please,” you beg. “Please listen.”
“Wrong answer.”
With a quick bend of the knees, Ghost lifts you off the ground and fulfills his threat. You bounce on the seat and almost topple onto the floor.
This is it. There is no going back. You’re being taken elsewhere, and there is little you can do. Everything going forward has to be about you, and what you have to do to survive.
But then you remember Ben, and how his body is just…there. Discarded.
As Ghost starts to turn away, you lean forward, knowing that what you’re about to ask will likely be ignored.
“You have to bring him with us. Please.”
Ghost has no reason to speak to you—to entertain what you’ve just said. You expect him to slam the door in your face, to give you his back.
“Bring who?” replies Ghost. He sounds genuinely curious, and his body language isn’t hostile. He has one hand on the handle of the door and the other resting against the side of the Humvee.
“Ben. We can’t leave him here. It’s not right.”
Behind the balaclava, his gaze narrows. “Is that who you were with?” You nod. Ghost briefly glances over his shoulder and then turns his gaze back to you. “Were you his?”
Were you his? Is that jealously? Does Ghost feel threatened by a dead man?
“No,” you laugh softly. “No. But…”
“But what?” he prompts.
“He has—had a wife. Two daughters.” You pause, remembering how the two girls had cornered you during community movie night, listing all the books they wanted you to find. “People loved him. They’ll want closure.”
You hate these moments of silence, of Ghost simply staring at you before he answers.
“I can’t bring him with us,” he finally says.
“Then leave him somewhere where they’ll find him,” you urge. “Please.”
Ghost’s demeanor shifts. His hand falls away from the side of the vehicle. “You came from a bigger group?”
“Does that matter?”
Ghost shakes his head in annoyance. “It fucking bloody well matters.”
“They won’t come after you,” you insist. “They aren’t expecting us for hours. You’ll be long gone before they come looking.”
“You could be lying to me.”
Anger flares in your chest. You need him to understand. “I just want Ben to go home to his family. They deserve it!”
Ghost sighs, and shakes his head. “Watch your feet,” he mutters.
You turn your legs at the last second as the Humvee door slams shut.
Left alone in the vehicle, the reality of your situation starts to settle, to seep into your bloodstream. It shoots straight to your brain, slithering in the folds, sinking in until the anxiety becomes a roar. Your breath comes and goes in quick gasps.
Panic. You’re panicking.
You’re fucking panicking.
Sliding across the seat, you reach with wiggling fingers for the handle. With wrists bound and no way to truly see what you’re doing, you’re forced to seek with your hands, praying that you’ll find the handle before Ghost arrives.
Sweat forms, making it difficult to hang on to anything.
“Come on,” you sob, knowing that this is it.
You find the handle. Tug.
Nothing. It doesn’t budge.
“No,” you gasp, yanking and yanking and yanking again. “No.”
He’s locked you in.
Desperation fuels you, motivating you to try the other door, and then kicking with both feet until your knees hurt and your thighs burn.
When Ghost returns to the Humvee, he finds you on your back, staring blankly.
There are no tears. No panic. Only numbness.
“Sit up,” he says, voice flat.
You obediently comply, shifting until you’re sitting upright. Ghost hops in, forcing you to slide all the way to the other side of the bench seat. He settles in, nearly squishing you between him and the door. There’s no room to move. The two of you are thigh to thigh—touching.
“Ready to bloody go.” You glance to the left at the familiar Scottish voice.
“You and me both, Soap,” grumbles Ghost, shifting even further to the right to accommodate the new addition to the backseat.
The driver and front passenger doors open simultaneously, two soldiers sliding in.
“Back to base, Lieutenant Riley?” asks the driver.
He lifts his arm, pressing a few buttons on an overhead panel. Sewn into his uniform is that same azimuthal projection of the earth from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches. It’s so fucking familiar. It’s something from before—you know this, and yet you can’t place it. Beneath it is the flag of Mexico. Yet again, all in black. Leaning to the right, you peek over the seat. The soldier in the front passenger seat’s flag is three horizontal stripes but all in different shades of black or grey. There is no way for you to distinguish what country it belongs to.
“Affirmative,” answers Ghost.
Lieutenant Riley. That’s more of a name than Ghost. It’s a small piece, a fraction of information.
As you settle back against your seat, you don’t realize that Ghost has leaned toward you until he whispers in your ear. “It’s done.”
When you and Ben don’t show up, the rest of the convoy will come looking. They’ll find him, find the carnage, and wonder where you are. They’ll search, likely every building and street. Zac will certainly order it, and it’s entirely likely they’ll head back home only to return the next day, and perhaps even the next with the hope that you’ll show up.
But you’ll be long gone.
Elsewhere. Somewhere.
Ghost turns away from you, and doesn’t speak or even glance at you the rest of the trip, engaging in limited conversation with Soap.
You zone out. Stare at the landscape. Stomach turning sour.
The town disappears, giving way to trees and then highway.
It’s astounding how clear and uncongested the road is. You thought it strange when you and Ben were in the Jeep, how the roads themselves weren’t exactly maintained yet were somehow completely clear of cars. The few cars you did came across were pushed off to the side, allowing for a clear path. You dismissed it then, but you don’t dismiss it now as the Humvee carries you away from your life—your safety.
There is so little you know about the world as it currently exists.
After everything descended into chaos, you simply survived, weary of everyone, sometimes selling your body for food or shelter. Six years and you’ve been with the people are now, flourishing and unaware of everything happening beyond.
How much have Zac and the others kept from you? From the community? Or do they know about any of this at all?
These are the questions you ask yourself as time passes—as day becomes evenings becomes night.
The radio crackles. The soldier in the driver’s seat speaks.
“Base this is Bravo.”
A few seconds of silence. Then the radio comes alive.
“Received, Bravo. Go for Base.”
“Returning. Ten minutes.”
“Copy, Bravo. Returning.”
To the left of you, Soap groans. “Bloody fucking finally. Can stretch my damn legs. Take a piss.”
Ghost chuckles. “Eat a hot meal.”
Soap grunts in agreement. “Only thing missing is a warm cunt to stick my dick into.”
Ghost shakes his head as the two men up front laugh.
The soldier in the front passenger seat turns slightly, addressing Soap. “Might find a willing recruit,” he says, teasing.
“Bile yer heid,” laughs Soap, leaning forward to shove at him.
You remain still. Unmoving. Silent. They’re not thinking about you, and you don’t want to give them any reason to shift focus.
In the echoes of their laughter, the Humvee crests a hill. Through the windshield, bright spotlights appear, cutting through the dark. It’s difficult to see from where you sit. You lean to the left, brushing up against Ghost’s arm.
You draw back quickly, muttering an apology.
“You can look,” murmurs Ghost. His brow is soft as he leans towards Soap, giving you space to look out the windshield.
It’s a small gesture. A flicker of kindness.
Just like his hands over your ears. Or placing Ben in a place where someone will find him.
You fill the vacated space, gaze sweeping over the illuminated dark.
It’s a military base. Not makeshift or shuffled together, but a real one, like from the time before. Clean. Manufactured. Intimidating.
The Humvee rumbles up to the gates. The driver and guard exchange a few words before you hear a shout. A rattling reaches your ears, mimicking the stuttering of your heart. It’s enough to squash whatever hope you still cling to, smothering that ember until it’s snuffed out. Sinking back into your quiet, you turn inward, pressing yourself against the Humvee door until you feel smaller than dirt.
You keep your gaze downward, staring at your feet as the Humvee rolls through the gates. You don’t look up again until it comes to a stop.
“Stay here,” instructs Ghost as he slides out of the vehicle.
He shuts the door, turning away from you completely as if you’re not there at all. At some point in the trip, Soap lowered the window, and you’re able to shimmy over to the other side, listening in.
“Soap! Ghost!”
“Captain!”
Two strangers approach. One is a bit older, addressed as “captain” by Soap. The other is younger, handsome. They all clasp hands, greeting each other with a warmness that can only come from closeness and familiarity.
“Successful?”
“Brought three back for interrogation.”
“Good. And the rest?”
“Dead.”
“Good lad.”
Their voices drop slightly. Of what you can pick out from their conversation, it isn’t much. It’s just the newcomers’ names, Price and Gaz, and a brief mention about a secondary raid. Little else reaches your ears, and straining does nothing.
Leaning back against the seat, you tilt your head backward, staring up at the ceiling of the Humvee. Your arms ache, wrists sore, and you have to fucking pee.
“Who is that?”
The question is spoken loudly, closer than you thought from where the group was standing.
Your eyes snap open, body jolting up in the seat as you seek out the new voice. Ghost yanks the door open, reaching in to grasp your elbow. He helps you out and onto your feet. There is no room for resistance.
Outside the Humvee, you’re able to see the base more clearly. The convoy you were apart of is lined up in front of several low buildings. It’s late, but the base is still active, soldiers moving about as if it’s the middle of the day.
Soap laughs. “Go on, Lt.”
Ghost rolls his shoulders. “Found her while we were out.” Soap snorts and Ghost glares at him. “Running from the rubbish we eliminated.”
“She not with them?” asks Captain Price.
“No, Captain. She’s not with them.”
“The lass put up a fight though,” says Soap. “Kissed Lt here.”
“Hush, Soap,” mutters Ghost.
“When he rejected her, she kneed him in the groin.”
“Fucking hell,” laughs Gaz. “Really?”
Price’s mouth is a grim, thin line. “Why did you bring her?”
“The mandate.”
All four men sigh, but you have no idea what they’re talking about.
Captain Price nods. “Will she be any trouble?”
Ghost turns his attention on you. “Are you going to cause problems?”
You shake your head. “No. I’ll behave.”
Price affirms your answer with a quick smile. “Then the restraints aren’t necessary.”
Ghost makes a “turn around” gesture with his finger. You comply. There’s a quick tug, the pressure around your wrists releasing. As you turn around, you gently rub at the spots that have gone raw.
“It’s too late to travel,” sighs Price. “She’ll have to stay here for the night. Turn her over to processing tomorrow.”
Processing. Processing?
“We have any empty bunks?” asks Ghost.
“You want her with the general population?” counters Price.
“No,” answers Ghost automatically.
Price glances away, his gaze on the four low buildings nearby. “Take her to a private bunk. Bring her home in the morning.” He turns his gaze back to Ghost. “We’ll follow after.”
“It’ll be good to go home. Been weeks,” murmurs Gaz.
There’s a mutual, silent agreement among them that you pick up on but don’t understand. Your home is behind you, waiting, and yet it is unlikely you will see it again any time soon.
Ghost’s hand on your arm tightens, pulling you against him.
“I’ll take her there now.”
Price nods. A dismissal.
The three men turn and stride off, leaving you and Ghost next to the Humvee. Ghost leans in, head bent slightly in your direction. “Did you mean it? That you’ll behave?”
You lick your lips. Swallow. “Yes,” you breathe.
“Come with me then.”
Ghost’s hand eases before releasing completely. It’s the first amount of freedom you’ve had in hours, and you suddenly dread what that might mean.
Walking beside him, you follow his long strides. Ghost walks right past the four low buildings, passing a larger, communal area, before heading for a squat row of cabin-like dwellings. Ghost heads for the furthest on the end.
Each step is harrowing, dragging you closer and closer to an unknown fate. Ghost is at the door, pushing it open, stepping aside to allow you entrance. You talk past him, enter, come to a stop a few steps inside.
The doors shuts. You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see solid wood.
“What are you doing?” you ask, shuffling backward.
Ghost engages the lock on the door. “Keeping an eye on you.”
“Are—are you staying with me? In the room?”
“That a problem?” counters Ghost, as if your concern is silly.
“I’m guessing my answer to that question won’t matter.”
“No,” replies Ghost. “It won’t.”
You nod weakly, turning away to take a deep, calming breath.
The room itself is just a room, no larger than your average bedroom. There is a single, full bed in the corner, a plain wood desk, a chair, a bedside table, and a lamp. It is free of all other decoration. The bathroom isn’t separate, but blocked off by a half-wall. The sink and shower are in full view, and the half-wall hides the toilet. There is no privacy to be had with Ghost in the room with you.
Ghost grabs the chair from the desk, dragging it over to the door. He pushes it up against the wood, and drops into the seat with a deep sigh. The urge to pee grows. You won’t be able to hold it much longer.
“I have to pee.”
“Then pee.”
“With you in the room?”
Ghost crosses his arms over his chest, settling into the small chair like it’s comfortable. “I can’t see.”
“But you can hear,” you protest. “Can’t you just…step outside?”
Ghost rests the back of his head against the door. “It locks from the inside. I step out and you lock me out.”
“Even if I did, you could easily get back in.”
“True.”
“Then step out!”
“No.”
You could be a child about this. Stomp your feet. Moan and complain. But Ghost won’t budge and your bladder is about to burst.
With an annoyed groan, you go for the toilet, dropping down onto it and letting it all go. It feels so goddamn good even though your pride has taken a blown. You turn your head to the right, and find Ghost watching you over the top of the half-wall.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you gasp. “Creeping much?”
Ghost arches a singular eyebrow. “You really had to go.”
“Oh my God,” you breathe, reaching between your legs to wipe.
“Should shower,” mutters Ghost. “You’re covered in blood.”
You glance down at your top and the red that stains it. It’s not yours, and it thankfully isn’t Ben’s. It’s that fucker’s with the shitty teeth that knocked you to the ground. You want to be rid of him, rid of the grit and dirt and grime. But there is no curtain, and Ghost would see all of you.
“I’ll be fine,” you reply sharply, washing your hands.
Ghost leans forward. “There’s hot water here.”
“Just say you want to see me naked,” you retort, whirling on him.
With a sly swagger, Ghost drags his gaze up and down your body. “I could strip down. Join you.”
Your neck grows hot, and then your cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”
Ghost inclines his head. “Then shower.”
“Do I even have an option here?” you ask, shaking your hands over the sink.
“What do you think, love?”
You stride toward him, suddenly frustrated. “Stop answering my questions with questions.”
“Shower,” insists Ghost. “You’ll feel better.”
“And then what? You’ll join me in bed?”
“Likely.”
“You—”
“Keep the attitude and I’ll give you something else to moan about.” You quickly glance away, nervously tugging on the bottom of your top. “What?” he chides. “You were eager earlier.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“There she is,” and you hear the smile in it.
Is he purposefully pushing your buttons? Teasing you because you have no way to wiggle your way out?
“Are you staying here all night, Lieutenant Riley?”
“All. Night,” he replies, slowly pushing up from the chair. Ghost stalks over, observing you like prey. You take a step back and Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t.”
You freeze, staying perfectly still.
Ghost’s gloved hand brushes along the side of your arm. It’s a soft caress, one that makes you shiver. This man is your captor. He has torn you from your home, from the future you imagined for yourself, and smashed it under his fist. There is no reason for you to respond to him like this.
“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.”
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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.”
Unspoken Bond one-shot | husband!sukuna x wife!reader
Summary: Sukuna gets into a motorcycle accident and forgets who you are.
Genre: modern au, 18+, established relationship, memory-loss, fluff
Word Count: 2.1k
Fic warnings: ooc, profanity, sexually suggestive language
a/n: tysm to @univocalbaby for the idea!!!!
It’s the eighth day Sukuna’s been in the hospital following his motorcycle accident. You were thankful he lived through it and only broke a leg, but he’s unfortunately suffering from short term memory loss according to the doctor.
You haven’t been around him while he’s been awake yet. The only time he really was awake was when he briefly came to consciousness shortly after he arrived at the hospital.
You aren’t 100% clear on what had happened because you were going through every single emotion when the doctor was telling you, but apparently he woke up confused and tried to fight everyone that was on staff that night.. which led to them sedating him.
Multiple times.
Bless his heart, he probably deserved it given the fact that there’s been hospital security sitting outside the room 24/7 after that incident occurred. You only hoped the next time he woke up, he’d be a little calmer, more open to hearing out the nurses and doctors around him rather than trying to pummel them, again.
You’ve stayed by his side for the most part, only leaving the hospital room for an hour or two at a time to go shower or take a walk. You’ve also gone to his favorite bakery to grab his favorite donuts every morning in hopes that he’d wake up to something freshly made, although he has yet to do so.
You’re starting to think they gave him a horse tranquilizer, and just by looking at your big brute of a husband, you completely understand.
Luckily, the staff had no problem taking the sweets off your hands at the end of each night, you’re sure it also softened them up towards him as well.
Turns out the patient from hell on floor 27 has a sweet wife, so he can’t be that bad, right?
It’s currently 11:27 am and you decide to tidy up his room a bit. Some of the flowers that were first sent to him have begun to die, so you do away with those. You also try to clear up the counters and floor as much as you can.
Sukuna was quite the clean freak, even though he’s never complained or gotten mad at you for random clutter around the house, you just decide to clean up because you know it’ll bring him some clarity when he eventually does wake up.
Right when you finish, you hear a grouchy little ‘ahem’ from across the room and you can’t help but hold back laughter when you turn around to look at your husband who’s obviously been awake and watching you for quite some time now.
You don’t know if you’re just happy to see him awake or if it’s from the way he’s glaring absolute daggers at you, unable to move because one of his leg’s in a cast and propped up in a sling that’s hanging from the ceiling.
He clearly doesn’t remember who you are and you’re genuinely curious to see where it’ll go from here because he was a bit of an asshole when you first met him.
“You’re awake,” you offer him a smile as you walk up to him and you can tell Sukuna is trying so fucking hard to not stare at your chest, because you are a stranger to him at the moment.
“And who are you?” He huffs out, most likely offended that you didn’t notice he was awake until he made it known.
“Your wife,” you say– the moment you tell him that his eyes briefly scroll down because he really couldn’t help himself.
“Real cute, sweetheart,” he waves you off and looks out the window. “I don’t have one.”
“Yes, you do.” You giggle at how quick he was to dismiss your claims. It reminded you a lot of how snippy he was with you before you started dating– when he tried to convince himself and others around him that he didn’t like you even though he did.
“No, I don’t,” he sounds so sure of himself as he crosses his arms and leans back to look at you, a little smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.
You can tell he’s trying to flex his muscles in front of you– funny how the car accident wiped away his memory, but not his arrogance.
But you can’t complain too much, you married this asshole.
You also know him well enough to know the little smirk on his face could only lead to one thing, which is just ridiculous since he had just woken up.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” his voice was seducingly low as he began to basically undress you with his eyes.
“Oh yeah?” You raised your brows. “What is it that I'm trying to do then?” You consider crossing your arms as well but you already know that would be the final straw to him zeroing in your cleavage.
“You’re just another volunteer trying to fuck a patient,” he sneered and you nearly choke on air because he never fails to remind you how much of an idiot he can be sometimes. “Last time I checked, that’s against HIPAA.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever checked HIPAA at all, because that would not be the case here,” you groaned, shaking your head.
“And now you’re calling me stupid, you are never stepping foot in this hospital again.” He promises.
“I never called you that— what are you doing Kuna?”
He reached for the red button next to his bed and pressed it while holding eye contact with you, menacingly. “Nurse! There’s a little volunteer girl in my room that’s sexually harassing me.”
You stood there in absolute disbelief over how quick he was to snitch on you and it made you realize just how good you had it when he did remember he was married to you.
“You’re quite bold, you know that?” He says, smiling as he rests his head on the palm of his hand. “If you had just been a little nicer after getting caught, I would’ve given you my number. You’re actually pretty fuckin’ hot.” He concludes.
“Yeah? You probably don’t even remember it,” you spat back and you’re pretty sure he didn't, judging by the way he scoffed at you and looked back out the window.
He’s probably trying to remember it right now, but to no avail.
“Mr. Ryomen? Is everything okay?” A nurse hurriedly rushed into the room shortly after he tattled on you.
“That’s her,” he points his finger at you. “Take that box away from her and get her out of here.”
“Mr. Ryomen!” The nurses hissed at him, remembering how he brutalized one of her colleagues when he first got here. “Do not speak about your wife like that, she has been worried sick since you got here!”
You completely stopped trying to explain yourself once she came to your defense, thank god you decided to give the staff the donuts rather than just throwing them away. Sukuna also quickly realized how badly he had fucked up because not only were you his hot wife, but now you were also mad at him.
To his surprise, you ended up staying after the doctor explained everything that’s happened to him— which might as well be a punishment in itself since you barely spoke to him after that.
And it’s awkward seeing him trying to talk to you because he knows how much of an asshole he was being and he was honestly as nervous as he was when he was on his first date with you.
He did, however, “accidentally” drop the tv remote on the ground— making you grab it for him because he was looking at you with puppy-dog eyes, ultimately breaking the ice between you two because you felt bad for ignoring him.
You didn’t hand the remote back to him though and instead scooted your chair closer to his bed so you could lean your head against it. “Do you even like the show you’re watching right now?”
“Not really,” he shyly admits before clearing his throat. “Will you put on something I like? Please?”
“Of course,” you giggled and the sweetness in your voice made his chest flutter.
“What’s in the box you brought?” He nodded towards the counter in the corner of the room.
“Your favorite donuts,” you gave him a smile, remembering how he had tried to have them confiscated from you before kicking you out of the room all together. “I’ll give you one if you can actually remember what your favorite flavor is.”
“Not fucking fair,” he nearly lunged out of the hospital bed but was stopped by the cast on his leg. “Hand over the fucking box.”
“Nope. You never even apologized for trying to kick me out.”
“Fine, I’m sorry.” He says rather boyishly and glares at you for having the audacity to smile at his suffering.
You thought it was funny, what a sick woman you were.
You get up from your seat to grab the box in the corner of the hospital room. Before you sat back down on the chair, he had already scooted over as much as possible and patted the side of the bed so you’d sit with him instead.
“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he murmurs to himself the moment you opened the box in front of him.
“What? These are your favorite!” You remind him, even though he really wouldn’t know until he actually tried one.
“Mine or yours?” He picks one up and looks at the pink, sprinkled donut with disgust. “You’re messing with me.”
“Am not,” you rip a bite-sized piece off the donut and try to feed him, but he just stares at you– looking extremely skeptical. “C’mon just try it, I wouldn’t bring you anything you wouldn’t like.”
He quickly gives in because he honestly can’t say no to you.
And instead of admitting you were right and that he did like it, he instead asked you to feed him the rest because he remembered he was your husband and it was okay to ask you to do that. You were happy to do so of course, especially with him going back to his soft self.
For a moment, he couldn’t believe how easy it was for you to just.. take care of him.
Wiping the glaze from the side of his mouth, asking him how his stomach was feeling, rubbing his arm as he told you that he was feeling fine, you looking happy with the fact that he was feeling fine.
He doesn’t remember much about his life right now, but there was something deep down that knew what he had with you was something he’s spent his life searching for.
The fact that he just woke up one day to this was a shock to say at the least.
“How long have we been married?” He felt bad for asking, but wanted to know more about you.
“It’ll be 4 years 6 months from now. And we’ve been together for a total of 5 years.” you tell him and watch the wheels turn in his head.
“Wait– we got married that soon?!” He was baffled as he asked you to clarify.
“Yes we did,” you giggled at his reaction, it was how everyone else reacted. “You were the one who insisted. You got me this big rock too to make it even more convincing,” you remind him as you showed him the ring he proposed to you with.
He took your hand and inspected the ring. He didn’t remember how much he spent on it and honestly didn’t ever want to know because it was fucking huge.
“Your hands are soft,” he absent-mindedly mumbles to himself as he starts to rub your knuckles with his thumb. “Tell me more about us.”
And you do, for the next 4 hours.
30 minutes into the story telling, he got you to fully lay down with him on the hospital bed with your head on his chest, caressing your back because it honestly just felt natural for him to do so.
And about an hour in, he’s fully comfortable with you– laughing at all the fucked up stories you had of him that a normal person really shouldn’t be laughing at. But he was anything but normal.
After the 4 hours, he starts to fucking flirt with you because that also came naturally to him. You tell him he’s disgusting and make fun of his broken leg.
Your eyes then roll in the back of your head after he cheekily tells you that his leg was very much broken, “but this dick isn’t”.
And his memory might be gone for now, but neither of you were worried in the slightest. The chemistry was always there. You say you’ve known each other for five years, but after just spending five hours with you, he feels as if he’s known you his whole life.
Even if he were to never regain his memory again, you two weren’t going anywhere– your souls knew who they belonged to at the end of the day and that’s all that really mattered.
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Veil of Blood & Immortality
Summary: Laswell assigns you to Taskforce 141 cause you have a 'special' ability. Surrounded by vampires and cursed with the way your life is, the last thing you expected was to be attached to Simon Riley.
Masterlist
Deathless|Reader x Vampire|Simon
The hum of the plane's engines barely died down when your boots hit the tarmac. Night pressed heavy against the horizon, the air sharp with the bite of something charged. Something predatory. You adjusted the strap of the duffel slung over your shoulder, Laswell's last words still circling in your head:
"You're not there to make friends. You're there because you don't stay dead."
Taskforce 141. A name that echoed like a warning. Vampires, all of them. Some of the best - and worst - kind.
And there you were, not one of them.
Something... else.
They were already waiting when you approached the hangar. Four silhouettes standing against the dying light, the energy between them intense with something you couldn't quite name. Price was the first to step forward, expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.
"Laswell said you'd be coming." His eyes darting over you - assessing; calculating. You nodded in acknowledgment, offering no more than necessary.
The one next to him grinned faintly. "Soap." He introduced himself, Scottish accent thick. He gave you a once-over, not unfriendly, but curious. "Didn't think Laswell would be sendin' anyone... alive."
The last one had his arms crossed, eyes narrowed, but mumbled a 'Gaz', and that was it.
And then there was him.
You felt it before you saw him; felt the way the air seemed to stretch thin and tight. He wore a skull face balaclava, dark hood drawn low, shadows clinging to him like it was natural. When his eyes met yours, they burned reddish-gold behind the mask. Not subtle. Not polite.
Ghost.
He didn't move; didn't speak. Just stood there, gaze locked on you like he could strip the skin from your bones with nothing more than a glance. It took effort not to shift under it. Your pulse kicked hard in your throat, a warning from the instincts you spent lifetimes learning to ignore. And yet...... you held his stare anyway. Something deep inside your chest tightened.
The silence dragged on what felt like forever.
"Ghost." Price said, voice slicing through whatever invisible thread was between you. He turned away without a word, his steps quiet, purposeful, and vanished into the darkness of the base like he had never been there at all.
Soap gave a low whistle, breaking the tension. "He's not usually that quiet."
You took an even breath, eyes lingering where he disappeared before turning back to the others. Quiet wasn't the word you'd use for him.
No.
It was something dangerous. Something that felt a little too familiar even if you've never experienced it at all.
******************************************************
You didn't see Ghost again that night.
Not when Price walked you through the base layout, not when Soap cracked a few jokes in the hallway, and not when Gaz pointed out the secured armory like he expected you to ask for weapons you couldn't possibly handle. Ghost vanished into whatever shadowy corner he liked to haunt, and you told yourself you didn't care.
The rest of the base wasn't much better though. The moment word spread that a non-vampire had been stationed here, whispers started curling through the halls like smoke. You felt them trailing behind you wherever you went. The side glances, narrowed stares, and quiet scoffs . It was worse among the women. Vampires, sharp-featured and beautiful in that ageless, untouchable way, eyed you with piercing cold in their gazes. Curiosity edged with something more hostile. You weren't prey, but you weren't predator either. A thing outside the familiar food chain.
A thing that didn't belong.
One woman brushed past you in the hallway.... deliberately close. Her voice was low enough no one would have caught it. "Careful, little thing. Strays don't last long here."
You didn't flinch; didn't bother looking back. It was a dance you did before.... in other lifetimes... in other wars. Being the anomaly in the middle of monsters. The trick was knowing when to keep your attitude hidden.
For now.
The barracks were..... interesting. Vampires huddled in their own cliques, soldiers lounging with the kind of lazy, dangerous ease that came from knowing they could kill you faster than you could blink. You kept moving - silent, observant, ignoring the sharp eyes and fake smiles.
Laswell hadn't brought you here to make friends.
She'd brought you here to bleed.
Later, in the dim light of your quarters, you sat on the edge of the bed, unzipping the duffel at your feet. The noise of activity outside the door faded, though you could still hear the occasional echo of laughter, the low murmur of voices too fast for human ears. Your fingers brushed over the worn fabric inside the bag before closing around the hilt of a small, silver-bladed knife. You turned it over once... twice.
No one really knew what you really were. They could stare, whisper, bare their fangs all they wanted. Let them. You'd been surviving monsters long before any of them.
And for the first time in your life...
You weren't planning on running.
******************************************************
The briefing room smelled faintly of gun oil and blood - common scents mingling under the fluorescent lights. You leaned back in your chair, the edge of the table cool under your fingertips, watching as Price paced at the front, laying out the mission details.
Eyes flickered toward you every few sentences. Some subtle, some not.
"...Makarov's latest movement puts him just outside Verdansk." He continued, flipping through satellite images. "Recon intel shows he's pulling in rogue clans. Mercenary types. No allegiance except blood and coin."
Soap leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And let me guess... he wants to expand. Again."
"Exactly." Price glanced toward you then. "Which is why Laswell's sent us a specialist."
You felt every gaze settle on you. No one spoke, but the weight of expectation pressed deep. He didn't elaborate further..... he didn't need to. Your presence was the question mark hanging over everyone's heads.
But Soap was the first to break the silence, tossing a smirk. "So... specialist, huh? Mind tellin' us what exactly you're made of?"
The others shifted a bit, feigned disinterest that didn't fool you for a second. You tapped your fingers against the table a couple of times. "Something harder to kill than most."
His grin widened, but Gaz just studied you, chiming in. "That's not hard when most of us don't stay dead."
Across the table, Ghost hadn't moved. He hadn't looked at you since the moment you walked in, his hood pulled low, mask covered as usual. But you could feel the heat of his stare even when he wasn't. Like a pressure at the back of your neck or the point of a blade pressed against your skin.
Price cleared his throat. "Details on that aren't important right now. What is important is that she's part of the team. Get used to it." He gave you one last look - a warning and a reassurance - before the briefing wrapped up. Conversation rose and fell as everyone filed out, but you stayed seated.
And so did Ghost.
He lingered at the far end of the room, arms crossed, posture stiff. When you finally stood, his eyes tracked your movement, keen and unblinking. It was the first time you'd been this close since your arrival.
"Something on your mind?" You asked. His gaze didn't waver. He didn't even goddamn flinch. But his voice - his fucking voice - was captivating even with how jagged it sounded.
"Vampires hunt in packs." He simply stated. "Doesn't mean we trust the new wolf."
The implication wasn't subtle, and you fought the urge to furrow your brows. Instead, you held your eyes as you tried to keep your pulse steady.
"Good thing I've never needed a pack."
The aura shifted into that same feeling as before - ancient, involuntary, itching at your awareness. He turned, leaving the room and walking down the hall. He didn't know what the fuck it was about you that had him on edge.
Couldn't put a name to it........ didn't want to.
It wasn't just the way you didn't flinch when others stared, or how your eyes remained calm.... even around him. It wasn't even the fact that Laswell vouched for you without offering answers.
It was something deeper...
The second you'd stepped onto the tarmac, it hit him like a punch to the gut. That scent. That pull. It clawed at his skin. Unfamiliar, but terrifyingly... familiar. He didn't believe in mates. Never let himself entertain the idea, never let himself feel that vulnerable. He knew vampires could bond. Knew what happened to the ones who did. Ferals, the lot of them. Possessive. Reckless. Weak.
And yet....
When you'd met his gaze across the table, steady and unafraid, it took everything in him not to bare his teeth. He needed space.... distance... control. Anything to stop whatever this thing inside him was from snapping loose.
******************************************************
Later, when the sun was long swallowed by night, you leaned against the railing overlooking the training grounds. Footsteps approached, before Soap sidled up next to you, arms resting casually on the rail.
"Ya know.. Laswell says you've got a specific skill set." He glanced over, curiosity flashing across his eyes. "Still can't wrap my head around it. Ya don't smell like prey, but you're not one of us."
You gave him a half-smile. "That's the point."
He chuckled. "Doesn't scare me, if that's what you're wonderin'."
"It should." You arched a brow.
He barked out a laugh at the comment, shaking his head. But behind the easy grin, you could still feel the question hanging in the air.
What exactly were you?
Okay.... first chapter... intrigued?????
Like, comment, repost, give me feedback please :)
Again, only first chapter going up until I finish the other story!
Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @nappingmoon @kittygonap @ohdrey89 @chaos-4baby @skeletonsucker
Boxer!Sukuna who makes you kiss his gloves before every match for good luck.
-•-
His team had left the locker room and it was just the two of you now. You were sitting on a bench while he organized his bag. “I didn’t know you got so many freebies from your sponsorships.” In your hand, was a brand new boxing shoe that he received from UnderArmor for a sports shoot campaign.
“Eh, they’re not really what I need in the actual matches but I use them during training cause I don’t wanna waste ‘em.” He mumbled. He seemed to be more on edge than usual. During his last match, he lost by a landslide, having a sour taste in his mouth from the experience. He blamed you because you weren’t there to kiss his glove prior to the match.
You turn to look at him staring down at his gloves.
“Sukuna.”
“Yeah?” He turned to look at you. No smiles, just a deadpan expression. You walked towards him and held his face in your hands. You could tell he was nervous about the fight even though he had won so many before.
“Honey, what’s on your mind?” Your voice was sincere and comforting for him. “What if I’m in a slump? My last match was so bad. I’ve never lost like that. What if I’m on a losing streak now?”
You get on your tippy toes and kiss his cheek. “Sukuna, you’ve worked hard have you not?” He nods. “And you feel like you’ve trained well this time.” He nods again. “Then why are you so worried? Is it because you were distracted last time?”
He sighs and wraps his arms around you, burying his head in your neck in the process. “Look, I don’t know if you think it’s weird but when I see you outside the ring, I feel like I have a reason to win. It drives me to fight better. I had a really shitty day last time and when I didn’t see you I just didn’t feel like giving my all.”
Your heart felt like it was being torn to pieces after seeing your husband sulk. “I just felt burnt out. I was hoping that once I saw you then I’d feel better.”
You hugged him tighter and kissed his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sukuna, I promise I’ll never do that again.” You start rubbing your hand up and down his back in hopes to calm him down right before his match.
“Kiss my gloves for me?” He asks as he pulls away. You nod. He takes his boxing gloves out and places them in your hands. You leave a delicate kiss on each of them, your gloss leaving a small sparkly stain. He takes them from your hand and kisses them on the same spots as you did, maintaining eye contact with you throughout. “You’re my good luck charm, you know that?” He says as he strokes your head.
You show him a teethy grin and nod.
“And you’re mine.” Your reply made him smash his lips to yours. “I’ll be sure to win now that you’re here.” He mumbled against your lips.
-•-
No thoughts. Just boxer!sukuna
Took you Like a Shot
Pairings- Rich Frat/fuckboi Toru x Preppy Sorority reader
Summary- One VERY drunk encounter between your greatest rival ever - on your last day of college- leads to you being knocked up. Satoru Gojo, a fuckboy, fratboy, rich little jerk, has been a rival of yours since you all met in College, every damn grade you fought for he got with ease. He crashed every Sorority party you threw. The two of you are so infamous in your rivalry, your friend groups were rivals, and for some reason, life is playing some damn joke on you both. Now... you have to tell him the news - but how Satoru takes it surprises you. Can you both raise a baby together!? And do you even really know each other?
Contents/Warnings- gonna be flashbacks to the rivalry/that night, nerdjo but make him a fratboy, enemies to kind of begrudging partners, but then as the pregnancy progresses, they fall in love hehe (gojo is an idiot) MDNI - 4 parts (I THINK) in this chap-explicit sexual content, oral (m and f recieving) light angst, lots of feelings developing, Satoru is a lil shit but he's tryingg, cumplay, creampie, cervix kisses, mating press, flashbacks of their past rivalry- WC- this chap- 11k ( a lil longer one for ya) art in the banner by Yuana on X
Comments and reblogs so appreciated if you enjoyy <3 (extras here and here)
<<<Chapter One - Masterlist - Playlist- Chapter Three (soon)>>>
Chapter Two
One Week later
“Are you… are you high!?” You whisper, as Satoru Gojo steps out of the back seat of his car, grinning up at you, sunglasses covering his eyes, but when he tilted them down, they’re bloodshot, he winces as the sunny day hits them, his head pounding.
Maybe going to a party last night was a bad idea?
Fucking Suguru and Sukuna.
“What? No! Do they have good food here!?” He’s eyeing the restaurant eagerly, tummy audibly growling. “I’m starving.”
“Satoru, tell me you’re not blitzed before we meet my parents.” You hiss between your teeth, crossing your arms under your breasts, just drawing even his faded attention to them.
“Those tits, god they keep getting-”
“Nope. Answer me.”
He whistles, shaking his head, before he grins once more, lopsided and far too charming. “No way, sweets. Straight as… a whistle?”
“A whistle?” Your raised brow shows your obvious confusion, you lean over to sniff him, smelling no pot however.
“Damn baby, right here?” He’s chuckling at his own joke, he may look like a million bucks in this gray Armani suit, so damn gorgeous it’s ridiculous. “I’m fine I swear, and ooh… don’t you look good.”
“Um… thanks?” He lowers those glasses as you lead him over to the stairs. It's bustling and busy, nice but casual, not what Satoru was used to, but when you explain it’s your favorite place, he’s intrigued. “This way, you’ve met my parents, yeah?”
“A couple times.” He pauses as you step in front of him, staring at that ass in this fucking sundress, making his already fucked up state worse, as he remembers the first time he noticed that ass.
*****
Four years ago
“Well hello, pretty.” Came the slow drawl of the voice behind you, it’s your first day of college, you’re so nervous but excited, this was a big opportunity for a girl like you, a full ride scholarship so elite. You look around, seeing the white haired man whistling as he stares at your ass, his sunglasses perched on his straight nose.
“Gojo?” You ask then, since you all met Senior year of high school, he’d certainly never called you pretty.
His blue eyes lock on yours over his shades, blinking then, thin brows together. “When did you get such a nice ass?”
“A nice what!?” You turn now, shoving at his chest, which almost makes you blush at just how built he feels.
You remember seeing him shirtless playing basketball, dribbling that and dunking in school, but the two of you never talked, you were the new girl Senior year and quiet, he was as popular as it got. This year, you want to have a life, have friends, not just be the shy girl.
You have a plan.
And he certainly can’t fuck that up.
“I didn’t know it was you, shit, you been like… doing squats or-”
“Can we not talk about my ass? Also how was I pretty from the back?” He’s grinning, bright white snarky little grin.
“I bet it’s pretty from the back-” Smack. “Ow, what the hell!?”
“You are an ass, Satoru Gojo.” A crowd gathers, gasping as Satoru takes off his shades, a red mark on his face.
“Give a girl a compliment and she smacks you for it!? Prissy little brat.”
“I don’t want your pervy compliments, manwhore.” You hear the oohs and whispers rolling more and more, as he crosses his arms, smirking like the little shit he is.
“Pervy? No, you should be honored to have them by me, goody goody.”
“Conceited jerk! Ugh!”
“Little nerd!”
“Me!? Don’t you play Digimon!”
“Yeah but you play DnD.” You cross your arms now, glaring up at the tall handsome jerk of a man, in his stupid blue polo that brings out his eyes, very unfortunately.
“DnD is classy.”
“Okay dungeon master.”
“Ugh!” You both stomp off in different directions, as everyone disperses, already talking about the two of you, people who never noticed you in high school now saw the girl who slapped ‘the’ Satoru Gojo.
Satoru’s friends, Suguru and Sukuna come up to him then, as he rubs his cheeks, and he sees Utahime talking to you. “Oh great, she’s talking to the number one Gojo hater.”
“She smacked the shit out of you, dude.” Suguru snorts, clearly blitzed, where his eyes are white they’re bright red. Satoru rubs his cheek, as you walk off, that nice ass in those jeans jiggling just so, while your hips sway.
“Just told her she had a nice ass.” He grumbles, Sukuna and Suguru lean their heads to the side, whistling, earning you looking back at the three men.
“Really!?” You cross your arms, and they all snort in laughter.
“They’re pigs, I know. Hey, we should sign up for the sorority, don’t you think!?” Utahime asks, you bite your lip nervously.
“A sorority?”
“You’d do great, baby.”
“Shoko!” You both hug her, as she sucks on the tip of her cigarette, looking back at the boys and laughing a bit.
“They’re still staring at your ass.”
“My god!” You take off your hoodie then, wrapping it around your hips, flipping the three of them off, Sukuna and Suguru laugh, but Satoru’s just staring, blue eyes far, far too much to handle.
Blue eyes you fell into when you first saw him.
Before he opened his mouth, that is.
*****
Present Day
The memories fade off, when you head up the stairs to the rooftop restaurant where you were meeting your parents for lunch, and you hear a low whistle as you step up each stair. You turn, hand on the railing while the breeze whips your dress around just a bit, when you see him staring right at your ass.
“Satoru!”
“It’s getting bigger, pregnancy is kind of hot on you.” You gasp now, as he’s licking his lower lip, eyes traveling up your body.
“I’ll smack you!” You whisper, turning and leaning close, while his hand now comes to rest on your waist, feeling far, far too good.
“It’s a compliment, Pookie, relax.”
“I’m not your ‘Pookie’ and-” He pinches your ass now, earning his smack, but this time he dodges, before casually strolling up the stairs, hands in his pockets, as you’re fuming and stomping along next to him.
“You’re a brat.”
“A brat!?”
“Never could take a compliment for shit.”
“A big ass isn’t-”
“There you two are!” Your parents wave you two over then, and Satoru puts an arm around you with ease, waving and grinning, hand precariously close to the ass that has driven him insane since the first day of college.
“Hey guys!” You greet, grinning but whispering through your teeth. “I’m gonna kick your ass later.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time now.”
“Gojo! What a… surprise.” Your mom looks at you curiously, you haven’t told them yet, but surely seeing you with Satoru Gojo was a shock. He smiles with ease, taking her hand and kissing it with a wink, as if he’s a gentleman and not someone who just pinched your ass.
“Hey there, Gojo.” Your dad says now, shaking his hand, and you both sit across from them, as the pretty waitress flirts right with Satoru, he ignores her and has an arm draped around your waist.
He plays a very good boyfriend.
Maybe his arm feels a little too good?
Pregnancy hormones, surely.
“You don’t want mimosas?” Your mom asks curiously then, as the waitress offers the bottomless special, you shake your head, and Satoru’s blue eyes assess you carefully, your hand flitting to your stomach.
You already were sacrificing, sure it’s just drinks, but he’d gotten blitzed the fuck out last night, something about that feels off to him. He can’t pinpoint or place it, when you take his hand in yours, it feels too good, your warm hand so tiny compared to his own huge hands, he falters for a moment, mind all over the place until he sees the shock on your parents faces.
Oh shit.
You just told them!
“Pregnant!?” Your mom says far too loudly, and you see the curiosity of those around you, shushing her then. “What!? How?”
“You wanna know how? Take a guess mom.” Your eyes narrow, and then your mom sighs, as your dad still blinks in shock.
“With… Gojo?” Her assessment turns to Satoru then, who’s gulping down his own icy drink, some rainbow frozen concoction, so fast his head hurts, he holds it then, whimpering.
“Brain freeze, ouchie!” He’s screaming out, earning more looks, as your mom turns back to you, watching the six foot four man waving his arms like he’s caught on fire, a question on her lips.
“Him though? Honey…” You sigh then, standing up and cupping Satoru’s face then.
“Open up.” He opens his mouth now, as you press your thumb against the roof of his mouth, to the avid attention of the entirety of the rooftop now, when Gojo sighs in relief, blue eyes fluttering open, meeting yours.
“S’better!” He mumbles, you laugh then, you can’t help it, damn him if he’s not amusing and… freaking cute, pouting like a puppy around your finger.
“It’s a trick I learned.” He’s tempted to suck on your finger then, so much he kind of does, making you heat up, pulling back and wiping his drool off your dress, as you both sit back down, and your parents look at each other.
“Oh.” They both say then, making the two of you blink in confusion.
“Oh what?” You ask.
“I guess I see it now.” Your dad’s words fill you both with confusion, but you have to admit, it works in your favor, too.
“Yes we are… together.” You say softly, scooching your chair a little closer, when Satoru’s hand rests on your thigh, burning your skin with the contact.
Pregnancy hormones, right?
Nothing else… yeah?
“We are, and she’d like to keep it.” Gojo’s soft words surprise you, making you meet his gaze, wondering then- “Gonna be a Satoru junior!”
“Satoru junior!? What if it’s a girl?”
“Still Satoru. Oh wait, Satoruette.”
“Oh god,we are not naming it Satoruette!”
Your parents laugh then, and the tension eases, soon your dad is talking to Satoru, and they’re speaking on sports, of course Satoru was also a star basketball player, amongst everything else. That’s one area you never were not missing too much, you cheered of course but it was not really your passion, also every game seemed to be some argument between you two.
“Are you sure about this, kids are a big responsibility, especially financially.” Your mom’s words hit you hard, you know that of course, and don’t take it lightly. “We can help some but things are a little tight-”
“No mom, no. This isn’t for that, though you can totally buy them some cute little toys or clothes if you want.” Her eyes get misty, as your hands join over the table. “This is just to tell you. I can do this mom.”
“But honey, your career…”
“I can do it. I know I can.” She sighs now, leaning over and brushing your cheek, Satoru watches the affection then and hears her words.
“Then I’m proud of you, I always am.”
God, what would Satoru do if he heard those words?
His parents barely gave him affection growing up, always on this island or this cruise, this country or that destination, never acknowledging how hard Satoru worked, just informing him of his duty. Taking over the business, college was useless to a family like the Gojos, maybe a nice decoration for that sky high office building just waiting with his name on it.
No straight A’s, no winning games, nothing got one tenth of the affection you just got for something that’s essentially not the best thing at your age. No, your mom is proud of you, and he watches your tears flow down your cheeks, realizing he’s seen you cry a few times now, but never in four years, while you’re smiling tremulously at her.
“Thank you mom. I needed that.” You’re on her side of the table, hugging, as your dad clears his throat a bit.
“Gonna make an honest woman out of her?”
“Dad! Satoru, don’t listen. Old fashioned man.” You tease, wiping off your cheeks and smiling so brightly, the sun hits your skin, skin that’s just glowing, and it makes his breath catch for a moment.
You’re beautiful.
He always knew you were banging hot, a little pretty brat, but he never realized until that moment, with everything glowing about you, that you’re beautiful too, an inner beauty that makes his fogged brain clear for just a moment. The crush he’d had for so long suddenly shifts into something more, even moreso than after the night you two shared that led to this moment.
“Are you okay, they’re a little extra.” He notices you’re right then, looking over to your parents and shaking his head.
“They’re great actually.” The sincerity in his voice hits deeply, you smile over at your parents, then back at him.
“They are, huh?” You grin, so clearly devoted to your family.
How must that feel to be?
So loved.
“So… dinner in a few hours with your parents, right? Should I dress a certain way?” Satoru’s demeanor shifts, you frown a bit at it, touching his shoulder. “You okay, this is a lot.”
“I’m fine.” He needs another hit of that blunt or ten before he deals with his parents, however.
“Are you gonna continue basketball, Gojo?” Your dad asks, Satoru sighs, frowning and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“I can’t.” His words make you sick as you’re struggling to just keep water down, have you already fucked his dreams up?
“The baby…”
“No, no.” His hand sits on yours with far too much ease, like it’s been there in that spot for as long as you can remember, squeezing it. “Nothing to do with that. The family business.”
“Oh… I’m sorry, you were amazing though.” He smirks just a bit at that, you sure would never have said that back then.
“Ya think so?” You nod then.
“I was a shitty cheerleader.” He smiles.
“You were.”
“Hey!” You shove him playful\y, as the food is brought out, Satoru has ordered an obscene amount of food, already digging in. “Remember nationals?”
“Oh god yeah.”
Three years ago
Satoru and the team had almost won nationals already, and you and the cheerleading squad are on the sidelines, about to head into the center of the loud basketball court, the rubber of your cheer sneakers sliding just so, squeaky over the floor as you all prepare. Satoru has a bunch of girls all over him, snapping selfies, as he’d already secured their guarantee, so of course he was the MVP of the team.
You watched him avidly, how good he was, not that you’d admit it, especially as your fists go to your hips, preparing for the routine, and Satoru’s chuckling just a bit at you, smug expression on his stupid pretty face. You can’t stand him then, when he cups his hands over his face, shouting your name.
“You can do it.” He’s mocking, one thing you were not good at was fucking cheerleading. You couldn’t flip for shit and were afraid of heights, this was a terrible combination.
Some people laugh, as your friends pat your back, encouraging you. When the routine begins, and you’re up in the air, standing stiff, you panic, the room starts spinning damn near. You feel yourself lose balance, falling in front of a court with thousands of people watching.
And one loudly laughing.
You can’t cry, you can’t cry.
You brush off the helpful hands of your friends, hopping up and immediately regretting it, your entire body aches, and you see a bruise already forming along your knee, scraped up and dripping blood.
And he laughed at you.
God you can’t stand him.
You limp off when Satoru sobers up, seeing you’re clearly hurt, and runs towards you, pausing you before you run right out of there. “Funny, huh? You get a good laugh at me?”
You glare at him, eyes watery then, and he falters, instantly feeling terrible, he didn’t think you hurt yourself, and the fall was comical. It’s what you both did, make fun of each other, laugh and point when one of you fucked up, but even the side of your face has a blossoming bruise, which he touches, earning your trembling lip.
He’s never seen you cry.
“Are you crying?”
“Really, came here to mock me even now!?”
“No I…”
“I am not crying, and I’ll be fine. I quit.” You’re limping off, even when Satoru’s hands hit your waist, feeling far too good.
You shove it down, shove it all down.
“You quit, competitive ass no way.”
“I do.”
“C-can I carry you, to get it checked? The doc is here-”
“Carry me, what kind of joke is that, to make you look even better? The basketball court is full of quiet murmurs, many worried about you, and cooes of how sweet Satoru is. His blue eyes light up with fire as they narrow.
“You think I am asking to help so I look good.”
“You always care how you look. And you look perfect, you have the perfect life, and here I am - falling in front of a room - to you fucking laughing. I’m good.” You pull back from him, wincing in pain as your knee is swelling even more.
“You’re being a stubborn brat, you have to get checked. What if you-”
“Tell them I quit, if you wanna do anything for me. You won’t have to see me as often either, works out.”
“I…”
“Congrats on the win, I’m sure.” He watches you limp away, your friends running after you, eventually he walks back, your face haunting him.
Maybe if he didn’t taunt you?
Maybe if he didn’t laugh…
You clearly got hurt, thrown off maybe because of him, and he’s just left there, quietly informing the team you quit. When he’s back to his team, even they look at him a little seriously, his coach coming to tell him about sportsmanship, and how he shouldn’t laugh like that.
Satoru tried to apologize the next time he saw you, but instead of the banter, with your leg wrapped up, you turned and said nothing to him.
Shit he fucked up.
*****
Present Day
You are walking Satoru to his car, as you both have a few hours to go, while his mind whirls with regret, with memories of you. You had brought up nationals as a joke at how bad you were, but all it did was make him remember just how fucking horrible he was to you.
“What’s wrong, intense huh?” You look at him with concern he doesn’t really deserve, your dress blowing just a bit, earning you clutching some of the thin material in a fist.
“I was an ass that day. Nationals.” You look down now, taking a little breath, shaking your head.
“It probably looked funny-”
“No. I was an ass. I’m… sorry.” Your pretty face is frozen in shock, mouth wide open while you try to comprehend his words.
“You’re apologizing for something like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh…” You both stand there for a bit, when you remember how upset you were, god you two didn’t talk for months, a gnawing feeling growing.
Do you know him truly?
“Thank you for that. But, it’s the past, we shouldn’t dwell.” Your hand is soft on his shoulder.
“Pregnancy making you a mush.”
“Says you, apologizing for your past, like some Eboneezer Scrooge.”
“Pshh.” You both laugh a bit, before you clear your throat, dispelling some of the tension between the two of you.
“I’ll see you soon, Satoru.”
“Sounds good.”
Doesn’t sound good, his parents are not something he wants having you scrutinized, the cozy vibes of today will be long, long gone, he already knows.
******
“Holy shit… you’re… rich rich.” Satoru snorts, rolling his eyes as you two use the brass lion knocker that evening, twilight making the sky a myriad of purples and pinks, casting the softest glow.
“Yeah, the ‘richest in the state’.” He finds it all far too pretentious, but you can’t help but feel a mixture of intimidation, and awe, the high iron gates and gorgeous mansion in front of you, in the prettiest white with light blue there was, as if it was molded for Satoru’s color.
Could anything replicate his eye color?
Why are you thinking that way!?
“Are they alright with this?” You ask quietly, hearing the footsteps head towards the door, ever so slowly.
“They are… well you’ll see.” The tone, while he’s still blitzed the fuck out clearly, perhaps more, is dark for a simple dinner. “I already told them.”
“Oh… you did?”
“Yeah, when I found out, trust me, throwing you to the wolves is an understatement of my parents.” The door opens, after an uncomfortable long moment, the butler opens it and bows at his waist.
“Master Gojo, come come.” He claps his hands, nose literally up in the air like some damn commercial for ‘grey poupon’ or some shit. Satoru’s family home is even more beautiful on the interior, floors polished to a glassy sheen, white marble of course, along with dual winding steps, in crushed white velvet with mahogany rails.
Everything in here is impeccable, sparkling, chandeliers over head with the insanely high ceilings, you tilt your head back, to see the intricate work decorating it, swirls of gold and blue, like you’d see in old royalty. It doesn’t fit a damn LA home, as rich as the area is, no it’s damn near Versailles.
You swallow down a sudden lump of anxiety, when Satoru’s hand squeezes yours, gently, and you look at him. His eyes are slightly glazed, his jaw is tight, his grip reassuring, but the way he looks around, like he himself is uncomfortable in his own home, makes you realize how much he truly hates this place.
You never considered someone so privileged could feel this way, his utter disgust is clear as day. “I know, it’s overboard.”
“No, I mean it’s beautiful…” Your words trail off, because the butler has already led you to the dining hall, where a table so long it could fit fifty people is set for the four of you. You spot his mother and father at the end of the table, their expressions unreadable, but you know they’re sizing you up.
The chandeliers are dimmer here, the walls lined with paintings that belong in a damn art gallery, including a giant painting of Gojo, his father and you’re assuming his grandfather, so giant they take over the entire room. The atmosphere is so thick with tension in the air that you could feel your lungs crave fresh air.
Is this where he grew up?
The smell of surely a five star meal wafts over to you, but your stomach feels like it’s in knots, when you see the elaborate display, and you see Satoru’s mother. She’s got long silky white locks, but dark eyes, elegant and beautiful as she stands up, while his father has the exact shade of blue, Satoru is clearly the perfect mix of the two gorgeous people.
“Ah, Satoru, and you…” She addresses your name, a cold smile as she gestures for you to sit. “Come have dinner.”
“Pleased to meet you all, thank you.” You say politely, even as this feeling of being… in some petri dish under a microscope takes over. Satoru’s plopping down, making his father’s brows lower.
“Can’t pull out her seat?” He demands, and Satoru sighs, but you’re already sitting down.
“This looks so delicious, thank you.” You try to ease the tension, while you all follow into polite, menial conversation, their words feel practiced and hollow.
You think of your upbringing, a little cozy home, far from rich or fancy, but your mom cooked every night. And that little old kitchen table they still have, the one long past its prime, was filled with laughter, tears, or sometimes even lively debates between the three of you.
Not this.
“So, let’s cut to it.” You hear, while you’re nibbling on a bite of probably the best filet mignon you’ve had, but your fork clatters to your plate at his father’s words.
“Really, couldn’t give it twenty minutes?” Satoru’s words are icy cold.
You tense as you sit at the table, scrutinized to a tee, his mother and father’s eyes cooly assessing you up and down. “You have an amazing degree, lots of community activism, some sports it seems.”
“You… researched me?” You ask, his father shrugs.
“Of course we did, we need to know if you’re good stock.”
You nearly spit out your drink, Satoru’s jaw tenses so much you see a thin blue vein popping out from his jaw, pulsing under that skin. “She’s not an animal, the fuck you mean good stock. Are we breeding corgis?”
“You know what he meant.” His mom says, dabbing a handkerchief on her lips and sighing, leaning back to look at you. “She’s beautiful, and clearly intelligent, no record ever, unlike your long one.”
“Whatever a couple charges. And… so what, then she’s okay for your standard then?” Gojo says with a glare, as you heat up in embarrassment.
“She seems like she may be good quality, though her family isn’t exactly up to par.” You throw down your napkin then, standing, and Satoru curses, knowing you sure weren’t letting that slip. He murmurs your name, but you’re far gone.
“My parents are the best there are in the world.”
“They’re poor.”
“Poor!? They aren’t on the streets, they live in a fucking superb.”
“Bad language, check that off.” His mom murmurs, and Satoru blinks at their audacity, watching as his former rival - was it former? - fire sign brat - about to go unhinged, was so enjoyable his lips twitch in humor.
“Is there a checklist you’re keeping for me?” You demand, they look at Satoru then.
“She seems angry, is that usual?” His mom asks, earning Satoru’s smirk.
“She’s fiery is all.”
“Talk to me like I’m a person, stop acting like I’m a picture, someone who fits your son in your eyes.” They both falter a bit, watching while you’re crossing your arms now, he hears your heels click on the floor, echoing while he can clearly see the fury raging on your pretty face.
“We don’t disapprove.” His father says then, making you pause, as well as Satoru for a moment. “She… sorry, you seem like you have your life together. Squeaky clean, dean’s list, high up journalism opportunity. We are supportive of the two of you getting married.”
“Married!?” The two of you shout at once, you plop back down in your seat in shock, sipping water while they look at each other, then the two of you.
“Of course you’ll get married, the sooner the better before-”
“It’s not 1810, we won’t be getting married.” Satoru cuts in. “In the future perhaps, but it’s common for people to not marry.”
“That’s unacceptable for your position, and you know it. What sort of scandal would that cause?”
“Scandal this, image that, fuck it.” Satoru downs the glass of wine in front of him, shaking his head now as he answers his mother. “I’ll take care of the baby, but we aren’t getting married for your image.”
“I highly encourage you to change your mind, a marriage and baby would look good for the corporation.” Satoru rolls his eyes at his father’s words.
“Everything for the image, huh?” He smiles sadly, eyes hollow, and you realize then and there that you’ve never really known a damn thing about Satoru Gojo.
You pictured it, the rich boy he was, flaunting his wealth in shirts worth your bills for the month, how cocky and conceited he seemed, how foolish. But now it all starts clicking together like little puzzle pieces you can finally press together. How could he handle parents like this?
“We will help support the heir, regardless.” His mother says, a little softer, you watch as Satoru stands then, hands gripping the table tightly.
“I don’t need help, and we are not royalty, as close as you think we are, don’t call it the ‘heir’ please. I think I’m… full though. You?” He holds out a hand and you nod, placing yours in his, while his parents stand across the elegant banquet table as well, stiff and stuck up… and just cold.
“Satoru, we aren’t displeased you’re having the child, just the way you’re going about it. It’s uncouth.” His father’s words make him squeeze the fuck out of your hand, while he pulls you to stand.
“Uncouth huh?”
“You’re uncouth all together, you always are. When you’re supposed to be the pride of the family.” You glare now, yanking Satoru around, until you stand directly in front of his parents.
“Guess what, I’m proud of him, even if you aren’t, okay?” They gasp at your audacity, but Satoru just blinks, staring at you.
“You’re a mouthy little girl, aren’t you?” You laugh then, right at his mother, shaking your head.
“You’re going to be grandparents, you should focus on becoming good ones, huh? Not financially, either. Focus on being someone we can feel good about you being in their lives, about the coming over.”
“Well, we won’t watch the baby. We could pay for a nanny-”
“No.” You cut his mother off again. “All due respect Mr. and Mrs. Gojo, you need to get it together if you want to be in this baby’s life. No nannies, no being uppity, you need to support your son, okay?”
“We-”
“No, I mean really support him. He got straight A’s, he was a star basketball player, leader of his fraternity, now he’s stepping up to care for his baby. What more did you need to be proud of!?”
Satoru speaks your name again, tugging at you, while his parents frown then, staring at each other. “We should go.”
“Thank you for dinner, Mr. and Mrs Gojo. I hope I can see you all again.” You say now, holding out your hand, firmly shaking each of theirs, before you let Satoru pull you away, steps echoing through the elegant halls on those marble floors. Pretentious statues staring at you both the whole way, you can feel him, seething. “Shit, I said too much, I’m sorry…”
“Will you stop?” He’s pulled you past the door man now, until the two of you are finally outside, so he can breathe.
“How do you even handle them?” Your question makes Satoru laugh, without humor, while you all stand in front of the Gojo mansion, the night breeze swirling around the two of you, the moon so full and bright it’s illuminating his perfect skin.
“How do I handle them…” He’s shrugging a broad shoulder now, as the two of you wait for the car to arrive. “I didn’t have to very often, they weren’t around.”
“No wonder you…”
“No wonder I what?” He whispers, raising a thin brow now, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I shouldn’t say anything.”
“No, when have you ever held back, hmm little preppy ass brat?” It’s your turn to glare, crossing your arms.
“I wasn’t attacking you here, I was trying to be understanding, to… just try to get you, okay?”
“Why, do ya feel bad for me?”
“No!” You do though, shit. You feel horrible that those are his parents, not that they are cruel, they don’t care about him as anything other than a figurehead.
“Don’t feel bad, I have everything I ever wanted, right?” He uses your own words in the past against you, making you falter, blinking rapidly. “What’s that display, though, playing a girlfriend so well?”
“What display?”
“That you’re ‘proud of me’ or whatever.” He’s mumbling now, looking away from you, making the clenching in your tummy worse. “That’s feeling sorry.”
“That’s defending you, okay?” His eyes catch yours, more feelings than you ever expected to see from Satoru Gojo, eyes that were arrogant were swirling with more emotions than you could fathom.
“I don’t need you to.” You scoff now, shaking your head, biting on a lower lip he’s dying to kiss, a mouth he wants to devour, with every puff of breath in the cool night, he sees goosebumps along your shoulders and arms. He should offer you his fucking jacket, he should…
You’re touching his face, hand cool on his heated cheek, as you glare right up at him, making him ache to pull you against him. “If we are going to raise a baby together, we need to do a lot better than them. And we can do better, okay? I know you can.”
Satoru exhales at your words, blinking back emotions. “How do you know?”
“I just know, you’ll be more involved, you’re not like them, alright? You’re arrogant, you annoy me, you're a perverted little shit.” He laughs a bit, softly now, big hand wrapping your delicate wrist, easing off his face, but not letting it go. “But you’re not them, you’re just… Satoru.”
“Shit.” He pulls you against his hard chest, making you both falter, your own eyes darting to his lips, far too close when he leans down.
If he kisses you, you’ll melt.
“Say something dumb or pervy.” You whisper, he grins now, shaking his head, while his hand slips down your waist.
“There’s been one thing on my mind looking at you-” The car pulls up now, and he clears his throat, hands slipping down your cool arms. “Time for you to go home. Do you want me to ride with you?”
You nod then, sliding into the back of the black car with him, as he sends the address to the driver’s gps, leaning back, arm over the seat, so close to you, his long legs spread wide, brushing on your still chilled skin. You feel the warmth of him, as you fall into an uncomfortable silence, you can’t stop wondering about him, the boy you thought you knew.
You turn your head to find him staring right at you, openly, not the ogling stare of before, no it was so different. Contemplative, studying, heating you up everywhere it touches like his hands themselves are touching you, burning a trail everywhere they land, in the quiet dark of the car.
“What is it?” You murmur, biting back a moan when his hand touches your thigh, feeling so good you almost fail at concealing it.
“Beautiful, that’s what I’ve thought all day.” Your cheeks heat up, you look away then, words you’d never expect Satoru to say.
“What?”
“You’re beautiful. Okay?” His fingers brush your hair back, off your collarbone, trailing them across it then, as your chest rises and falls with every breath. “I can’t stop thinking about it, shit I always knew you’re drop dead gorgeous, but I guess today is the first moment I thought it.”
“You can’t-”
“I do mean it. Glowing, fuck.” He’s too close then, and you’re gulping, throat suddenly dry, inhaling that hundred dollar a spray cologne, intoxicating as it fills your senses.
“Satoru…” He’s exhaling, breath hot against your lips, lips you’ve bitten to death in attempts to hold back, what’s glimmering to the surface.
“We hate each other, I don’t want that, not for this baby.”
You blink rapidly, your own hand slipping up his chest, feeling his heart race as it does. “I don’t want it either. I want them to have loving parents, even if we’re not together.”
Together.
Satoru’s never dated, he’s had women in and out of his bed since he turned eighteen, sometimes multiple girls in one night, chasing some feeling that he has never gotten, except with you. But even after that night, he never contemplated it, dating someone, being with them, was he worthy of that, especially with you? He couldn’t even give you his jacket.
Suddenly he takes it off, making you giggle when he wraps you with it. “It’s not cold inside the car, silly.”
“I suck, I’m an idiot and… I am not a gentleman, at all.”
“Satoru…” He shakes his head as you cut him off.
“No, it’s true. I was fucked up before an important day for us, and I couldn’t even give you my jacket tonight when I saw you freezing.” You pull it closer, when he’s brushing a hand under it, right on your waist, sending shivers down your spine.
“You’re doing fine all things considered, I wasn’t kidding. I am proud that you stepped up, it means a lot to me, okay?”
“Don’t be so nice.” You glare, making him moan softly at how sexy you always are when you do.
“You’re being nice, too.”
“I know. Everything I’m thinking, though baby?” He’s got his other hand entangled in your hair, and you can’t stop the soft cry from escaping your lips. “It's filthy.”
“Filthy, huh?” Your voice is just a breathy whisper, he can't stop thinking just how cute you are.
“You can’t begin to imagine what I’m thinking. Seeing these rock hard all fucking day, so full already.” He’s gripping your tits then, squishing one in his palm, and a thumb brushing over it, making your hips roll, pressing your eager cunt against the seat, dying for the friction, while he’s so close you can taste him. “They want to get sucked on, don’t they sweetheart?”
You nod wordlessly, earning Satoru’s moan as he presses you down on the seat then, his own jacket falling under you, hand pushing down your dress, revealing your pretty breasts to his view. You gasp when he brushes his thumb on them, bare, lowering his snowy head, and you’re frozen there, trying to remember all the years you hated him, he hated you.
Why can’t you think of anything but how bad you want him?
“Shouldn’t I take care of you, too? Don’t you ache baby?” He’s murmuring, mouth hovering, as he just barely brushes his lips on them.
“S-sensitive…” He presses another kiss, and your hands entangle in his silky locks, cunt so wet it’s making your panties sticky.
“Sensitive, then do you want me to make them feel good?”
“Should we… ah!” He’s lapping at your nipple with his talented tongue, swirling your nipple, and your moan fills the car, to the point you’re sure poor Kiyotaka could hear you, making you slam a hand on your mouth. Satoru chuckles, little shit that he is, lapping at the other one.
“You want it so bad, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He sucks your nipple into his hot mouth, you can’t stand just how good it feels, your hand entangling in his locks, pulling him off, as your chest heaves with your labored breaths, and he hovers an inch above you.
“Is it just… sex then? Do we just have amazing sex?” He smirks now.
“It was amazing? That’s the first I heard.”
“You know it was, arrogant ass. For me I mean.”
You falter a bit, you’re sure Satoru’s more experienced, you’ve watched him have more girls on him at once than men you’ve known. Satoru sees your hesitance, pressing a kiss on your lower lip now, nipping it slowly with his teeth, unleashing the heat in your core, until you’re throbbing with need.
“You felt so good wrapped around me.” You whine out at that, as he presses kisses to each corner of your mouth, gripping your breast again, heavy weight over you, his words and caresses making you pulse now. “Felt you cumming, so tight, think I don’t wanna be back inside you?”
“Shit… this is insane.” You’re shaking your head, when he kisses down your neck, back arching up for more. “If we are going to… we’d have to be exclusive, for the safety of the baby. So you really better think about this. At least while I’m pregnant.”
As if Satoru had been with anyone since you.
“I wouldn’t put the baby at risk.” Your eyes lock, noses brushing against each other, while he touches your tummy, feeling the slight roundness just barely already, making him lose his mind.
“While I’m pregnant I mean… if you do want anyone else and want this to stop… just tell me so I know?” He nods, unable to say the words, that he just wants you.
“Guess what?” His husky voice resonates in your ears, like he’s speaking to your pussy directly.
“W-what?”
“I can cum so deep inside your tight little cunt, all you want. ” His words fuck your brain, what was left of it, his fingers brushing on your slick heat now. “Fuck, you’re soaked, you like that thought huh.”
“It’s just hormones, mnh!” He’s laughing at your attempt.
“Hormones hmm?” You nod weakly, then cry out as he sinks two fingers in your pussy, pressing up in those gummy walls, that spot that has you weak, seeing fucking stars.
“Fuck you for hitting it so quick-ah!” He’s smirking as he watches you, the sounds of your squelching wetness filling his ears, making him feral.
“Wanna cum on my fingers or my mouth?” Your lips part, brows together, uncomprehending his words.
“Y-you eat girls out?” He chuckles then, curling his fingers up inside you just so, as your slick pools down his hand, already gripping him like a vise.
“Do I seem so selfish?” You take several shaky breaths, eyes rolling back as he hits some spot even you don’t know about, bringing you higher and higher. “Think I don’t wanna bury my face between your thighs?”
“It’s… intimate…”
“You’re cute.” He’s kissing lower, lower, your thighs trembling when the car comes to a stop, and Satoru’s fingers are coated in your slick when he pulls them out, dripping off his fingers, when he sucks on them, making your jaw drop. “Fuck you taste s’good.”
“Jesus, hormones and you are dangerous.” He’s smirking, when you sit up, biting on your lip once more. “Do you wanna come inside?”
“Cum inside that pussy?” You roll your eyes.
“Oh never mind…”
“No, no, no! I do!” He follows you out of the car, while your hands tremble, trying to unlock the door, you both barely get in before your lips are all over each other, you keep thinking, this is insane.
Insane.
It’s just the situation, why he’s ripping that dress off you, leaving you naked and bare to him completely in moments with practiced hands, moaning softly when he sees your body fully, that night he hadn’t seen all of you. His hands grip your hips then, yanking you up like it’s nothing, right into his arms. You cling to him, kissing him desperately, still fully clothed, while he presses you on the door.
“Fuck me, please.” Your desperate plea alone makes him leak precum, while he stares at your gorgeous frame.
“You’re begging me? Never thought I’d see the day, preppy little brat.” Your glare just makes him harder, as you shove at him now.
“Satoru!”
“You’re demanding pregnant, aren’t you?”
“Oh my god just… shut up please…” You slam your lips on his, grinding shamelessly against his belt, that hits your clit just so, making him drop that persona for just a minute, how sexy you are, how good you feel. “God just fuck me.”
“Room?” You point weakly as he carries you, and you’re thrown right on your bed, he stands up then, pulling off his dress shirt, revealing that perfect body, glowing slightly with the moonlight filtering through your blinds. You sit up, yanking on his belt with shaky hands, yanking his pants down and revealing how hard he already is under his boxers.
Your body violently responds when you see how much he wants you, for some reason that means more than it should, than two people making the best of such an insane situation, tugging his boxers down until his cock springs free. You’re lapping at his pretty blushed tip before he can think, eyes looking up at him from lowered lashes, making him whimper from just that.
Satoru whimpering triggers something in you yourself, you’re sucking his veiny length, as his hands entangle in your hair, his head falling back, abdomen flexing while you take him deeper. “B-baby, fuck… taking it that good, huh?”
He’s mad you’ve ever done it.
He’s mad anyone’s even seen your eyes at this angle. God he can’t stop thinking how pretty they are, even as his cock throbs inside your hot mouth, and you suck him so fucking hungry. He can’t stop thinking of how gorgeous you are, how he’s not sure he even deserves this from you, like he’s in some fucking dream, sweet thoughts mixing with the wet sounds of you sucking him up.
He’s feeling the suction, your hot wet mouth so eager, when you touch your throbbing, needy clit, running it in circles, while you sit there serving him, feeling him lose it with every stroke. His eyes flutter shut for a moment as he fucks into your tight throat, feeling so good when his tip brushes the roof of your mouth, leaking pearly pre cum.
“Fuck, you’re so hungry for it, aren’t you?” You pull back with a pop now, when he swipes the drool off your chin, and your hand strokes him, earning another sweet little whimper.
“Shh. Just fuck me.” You whisper, pulling back and turning, on all fours with that sexy ass in the air. He pauses, dying to fuck you, but dying to taste you more, you gasp when Satoru flips you on your back, and you blush in the dark room. “Don’t you wanna…”
“I said I was eating you out. Gonna deny me the meal? Ya that mean?” You’re stammering as he kisses down your tummy, shoving your thighs apart, lapping a stripe up your slit, you’re pulling his hair so hard it hurts, screaming out, just making his cock throb harder.
“Toru I haven’t had anyone… do that…” He pulls back now, and your hands ease, when he sees something he never saw in you before, the confident, feisty little brat that you are.
You’re nervous.
He eases up a bit, resting on his elbows, pressing kisses against your inner thighs as he inhales you, god you smell even better than before, taste even better than he remembers. “I love to do it, if you want.”
You exhale in relief, nodding shyly then, another thing he wouldn’t associate with you- shy. The girl who just ripped down his pants, sucking him like a pro, is nervous to get pleased this way. “I want it, fuck I want it bad. Just a little… you’re seeing all of me, like all.”
“I am seeing so much of this pretty pussy.” He presses a kiss higher up, breath ghosting your sensitive clit when he parts your lips, watching arousal drool out of your cunt. “Prettiest, actually.”
“N-no…”
“Mmhmm.” He licks you again, and something far too intimate forms, when Satoru Gojo is buried between your thighs, worshipping you with his talented tongue in long, slow strokes. “Fuck you’re so wet…”
“Hormones?” He just grins, you feel his teeth against your pussy, when your body relaxes for him, when you spread your thighs, letting him see you, while he presses his cock against the mattress.
“Hormones.” He slips his tongue up to your clit then, and you don’t hold back anymore, a few more strokes and you’re grinding on his face, making his groan vibrate against your sensitive clit. “Mmm…”
“There, there oh my god!” Did Satoru Gojo have to be the best at everything? Did he have to ruin you when his blue eyes watch your face contort in pleasure?
“There you go, you like it right… here.” Satoru slips two fingers in your slutty little hole, pressing up as he flicks his tongue, and you’re clinging to him now, while he works you with a tongue far too talented, you’re instantly jealous of every girl that’s had Satoru like this.
Wild thoughts, stop that.
“Loosen up, just feel it sweetheart.” He says now, feeling you tense around him, and you nod then, eyes rolling back when he fucks those fingers into you, scissoring them in and out, while flicking his tongue right on your clit, twitching in response. “Let go f’me, huh pretty?”
“Mnh!” You shatter at his urging, his mouth, his teeth, tongue, all of it merging and destroying your surroundings, you’re cumming so intense you cannot see anymore, and Satoru’s eagerly drinking you up. “Satoru!”
“Mmm…” He’s lapping all the wetness that’s gushing out of you, fingers easing out to grip your hips, while your thighs tighten on either side of his head. “That’s it, so greedy f’me, want more?”
“Please!” You’re fucking his face now, god he can’t get enough, burying his face against you, shaking his head side to side, while you’re so sensitive the next orgasm comes so quickly, you’re yanking him up, kissing his lips and reaching down, stroking his cock once more, watching snowy lashes flutter.
“God, you’re so ready aren’t you?” You just nod, and when Satoru presses his tip past that tight ring of muscles, sinking deeper, it’s even more intense.
You’re fully sober this time, with swirling blue eyes looking right at you, as he slides in your tight cunt, which struggles to take him at first, even after so much play, Satoru is huge, certainly bigger than you’re used to. You grip his shoulders, manicured nails pressing in, when he rocks his hips just so, kissing your lips, letting your taste mix between the two of you.
“God you’re so wet, fuck…” He’s enamored by you, lifting a thigh then, pulling back and jerking his hips so he’s shoved deeper, your cry drank by his eager lips, that can’t rip themselves from yours.
How is he supposed to ever be with someone now?
You feel like heaven, he won’t say that corny shit, but it’s all he can describe it to, watching your pretty face as he fucks into you slowly, and both of you freeze for just a moment. He grips your hand in his, entwining his fingers as he lays it over your head, your heart races as your pussy struggles to take more, greedy for his every stretch, every stroke.
“S’good I… ah- please, more!” You’re begging him, shameless as you do, when he slams his cock in deep, tip kissing your cervix, your head falls back, his lips devouring your neck while he bends over you.
“Taking this cock like you’re made for it.” Satoru hears your cunt sucking him in, so wet it’s squishing loudly, mixing with the slapping of your skin, as he starts to go faster, watching your eyes nearly black as they dilate. “There you go, look at you. So greedy.”
“Ngh…” You can’t form words anymore, not when he feels better than that night, not when he’s fucking every thought, worry and woe away, you can’t even remember what brought you here. You can’t remember anything, think of anything but his cock, slamming deeper and deeper, his tip dragging on that spot now on your walls. “There, there!”
“You’re so bossy, what a brat.” You can’t scowl, but he knows you wish you could, as he grins down and does just that, eyes hungry while they watch you falling apart under him, pulling back then, groaning as he watches his cock bulging your tummy, making him more sensitive inside you. “Look, so fucking hot, I’m so big in you, aren’t I baby?”
“C-conceited… mmm, y-yes…” He turns your chin, making you blush, where you watch his shape inside you.
“Gotta see this while we can, gonna be so round soon.” His words should bother you, but they don’t. He’s imagining it with you, and it takes him over. “I’ll be easier then with you.”
“Gonna take it e-easy?” You’ve got your thighs up high now, Satoru watches your little hole swallowing him, cock coated in your slick, so wet it’s dripping down his balls, that smack against your ass, harder and deeper now.
“Well I won’t be able to do this.” He’s folding you in half, leaning over you to cup your face with huge hands, slamming deeper than you’ve ever felt, so deep it damn near hurts, but you’re craving it, dying for it, hands gripping his shoulders helplessly while you lose yourself in his eyes.
Insane blue, pupils shrunk to pinpoints, while he hovers over you, breaths mingling together in the night, you’re folded so in half your knees damn near touch the bed. “So d-deep…”
“You can take it, like a good girl. Slutty pussy, listen to her.” You’re too fucked out to get offended, let him call it a slutty pussy, it’s what it was, after all.
“Ngh- Close, close.” He’s slamming his cock harder, tempo increasing as she soaks him so much he almost slips out, only for you to whine desperately, nails leaving crescent moons against his arms, he hisses in pain and pleasure, kissing you deeply, tongues dripping, messy and desperate.
“Fuck…” He’s close, he realizes, a man who could go forever, you’ve already cum, but he wants you cumming over and over until you’re a sobbing, pretty little mess for him, but you feel far too fucking perfect wrapped around him. “Want to cum with me? Want me to fill your slutty hole?”
His dirty words just make your walls flutter, earning his soft whine, right against your ear, his hands gripping your waist bruisingly. You nod weakly, whispering in his ear now - ‘Cum in me’
“Oh god, fuck yes. Want all my cum, don’t you?” You look up, intoxicated by him, losing your mind completely while he’s working you, pulling back to press on your thighs, feral grin spreading across his pretty face. “You’ll take it so fucking good like this.”
“Satoru!” You scream when he thrusts his hips just so, slamming that cervix, forcing you to cum again, to the point your ears are ringing, body on fire for him, every memory of you both thrown out the damn window.
“Beg for it.”
“No!”
“Beg.” He’s smirking, and you shake your head, clenching around him and watching him lose control, his cheeks flushed, lips parted in a gasp.
“You beg to cum in me.”
“No.” You both laugh, then the motion itself brings Satoru to the edge, tightening impossibly around him. “Fuck it, please, let me fill this pussy.”
“You really begged I- ah!” He’s glaring, slamming his cock deep, stuffing your cunt so full.
“That’s it, milk me huh?” You’re too far out, your pussy is milking him with your aftershocks, when he’s pumping you with those hot white ropes, endless sticky, gooey cum. You’re so full from it coating your walls, warm and hot and perfect, all the way even in your tummy. “There you go, taking s’much fuckin cum.”
“S’much I… Satoru.” His cum alone has you addicted, he pulls back now, watching his cock slowly pumping cum in and out of your hole, watching the way it trickles down his huge cock, glistening and mixing with you.
“You took me so well.” His praise is too much, it’s all too much, while Satoru eases back, on his elbows, hovering just so. “God you’re fucking pretty like this, so fucked out.”
You bury your face. “Am not fucked out.”
“No, need more?”
“I’m… we…”
“That’s what I thought.” He eases back, pulling away fully, seeing the mess of both of your fluids fall over the bed, pulling your pussy lips apart, watching it all pour out, drip by drip. “How is this little thing gonna push something out?”
“They stretch silly!”
“Well, clearly, took me so good.” He’s fingering the sticky cum, desperate and feral, cock glimmering from you, damn near ready to fuck into you again.
For a moment you both stare, Satoru’s scooping it out, before sucking on it, your breath is rapid at the motion, his cheeks hollowing, tilting your chin up. “Satoru you’re… a whole freak.”
“Open.” You tentatively do, allowing him to open mouth kiss you, his cum and yours in your mouth, but you crave it, so much you’re pulling him desperate. “You’re gonna be freaky just for me, aren’t you?”
“Shh.” He’s chuckling watching you drink up his cum, while you come down from your high, when he brushes your hair back, you struggle with just how much you feel, how badly you want more.
You’ve never felt anything like this.
How can you and Satoru have this?
“Um… is poor Kiyotaka waiting?” You manage to say softly, to diffuse the feelings threatening to bubble to the surface. Satoru rolls his pretty eyes.
“He gets paid good to wait!”
“Oh jesus. Let’s not keep him waiting forever.”
“Ya kicking me out? Rude. I had you cum how many times?” You giggle, that sound clutching him, pulling him by the goddamn heartstrings.
“I need sleep, and don’t you have a trip coming?”
“Shit… you remembered.”
“You all always took that trip.”
“What did you do during spring break?” He slips on his clothes, as you grab a robe, throwing it over yourself and wrapping it with a tie.
“Study.”
“Boring.” He eyes the books by your bed then, along with a fresh bag of hot cheetos, he laughs softly at that, touching the baby books curiously. “Cravings?”
“God yes, bad too.”
“I wonder… will you be showing more when I get back?” You heat up at his question, brushing back messy hair, while Satoru buttons up his shirt.
“Will that suck for you, physically?” He hears the worry, which seems ridiculous, fuck you’d just be sexier.
“Shit no. You’ll look hot.”
You’re fiddling with the ties of your robes now, his words and your wobbly leg a lethal combination. “You think?”
“Fuck yeah, milf and all.”
“Shit.” You pull him down, kissing him again, he’s gripping your terry cloth robe, yanking you to him, while the fan above you both serves no purpose, the both of you are so overheated. “Thank you, I needed it. All of it.”
“The dick is that good?”
“Psh, go on.” You turn him now, shoving him.
“I feel used!? I feel like a booty call! For a horny pregnant girl.”
“You got me pregnant, so.” You pinch his ass, he gasps, feigning upset, only making your smile brighter, your heart lighter.
Then you realize.
You’re gonna miss him, shit, a guy you couldn’t stand is starting to become… comfortable, enjoyable and clearly your body…
She’s a wreck for him.
“Satoru please if you want to be with someone else, let me know.” He is sucking you off his fingers as you speak, he turns and raises a brow.
“I would let you know. But… I think having you take all my cum? Pretty fucking elite.”
“A-plus?” Your lips twitch, and his white teeth glint.
“4.3 GPA pussy.”
You both laugh, and soon you’re standing by your door, trying to not think so much, to just let it be. So you both have fun, so you…
Fuck you already want him again, what’s that.
“If you masturbate thinking of me, video it would you?”
There he is.
Fuckboi Gojo isn’t gone, he just fucked your brains out.
“Oh god. No, go on.”
Satoru chuckles a bit, slipping on his coat now, as you both stand in the doorway, your mind rushing, feeling him trickle out of you, knowing this is batshit, knowing it’s just sex. Right, sex, that’s it… agreement, sex, some sort of understanding, that’s all that this was.
Don’t get too attached, don’t fall into his blue eyes.
“Thanks for today, though.”
“Thanks for the dick or-”
“Jesus do you stop?” You shove at him now, and he pulls you against him, far, far too close. “Thank you for being here.”
His jokes calm, as he sees it, how serious you are, so unsure when you look down, and he tilts your chin up. “Of course, I’ll be back for the next ultrasound, okay?”
“Okay.” You both stand there, kissing after sex, what’s it mean?
Don’t you hate each other?
“Gonna miss me, hmm?”
“No way.” You peck a kiss on his lips though, before you can stop yourself, leaving him blinking on the porch, when you get off your tiptoes, and turn to the door. “Be safe and don’t be late for it.”
You shut the door then, leaving him aching to go back inside, to be inside you, fuck he’d stay in your heat all the time if he could, fill you over and over until you’re so full of him you can’t take it. He pauses before he turns around, wondering then, should he go on this trip?
Should he just stay?
He shakes himself out of the spell you’ve cast, as his friends start texting him, wanting to know if he’ll be ready tomorrow, he texts them back, slipping in the back of the car, where Kiyotaka is taking a nap. Satoru leans forward, with a ‘boo’ damn near earning a smack as he wakes him up, the tired man panicking.
“Relax, you’re fine buddy.” He smacks his narrow shoulder, making Kiyotaka jerk just a bit, before exhaling.
“You were in there a long time, Mr. Gojo.” He says with yawn, focusing now, putting the car on with a purr of the engine.
“Yeah I was.”
“Not as long as most of your… escapades.” Satoru glares at him now, blue eyes narrowing as his driver clears his throat.
“Are you saying I busted quick, Ijichi?”
“Sir I-”
“Hah did you bust quick?” Satoru realizes somehow he has called Suguru, and hears Sukuna cackling in the background.
“Oh fuck you three, mmkay I lasted like a champ… kind of.”
“How long was he in there?” Sukuna asks, and Ijichi looks back at Gojo, who’s shaking his head and mouthing a plea.
“I was merely kidding, Mr. Gojo was in there so long I fell asleep.”
“Thank you, as I said.”
It wasn’t that quick was it?
You sure came enough for him, god he feels you all over his fingers, his mouth, you’re soaked into his goddamn taste buds- how could you think for a minute that he’d want anyone else? He knows his reputation, but how do you not know the level of obsession you send him to more and more every time he sees you, since he’s been inside of you twice.
This was more intimate.
His hand had gripped yours, he’d looked into your eyes as he lapped at your pretty pussy, you’d taken him so good, too. Your cries are echoing in his head as he realizes his friend is talking. “Huh?”
“Pussy that good? Share with your friends, hmm?” Satoru scoffs at Sukuna, rolling his eyes.
“You wish, I’m not telling you two shit.”
“So special? Are you down so bad?” Suguru teases, making Satoru’s jaw tense just a bit.
It was just your hormones, it’s the situation, it’s just sex.
Right?
Right… no.
No sex doesn’t do this to him, this is…What is it? Is it because you’re having his baby, is it his feelings that have pent up so long for you?
“Probably not coming on our yearly trip.” He hears, clearing his throat.
“I’m not gonna miss it, think I’m old and tied down now?” His friends laugh, but his heart aches, thinking of how fucking bad he’ll miss you already.
You fix the bed, flushing as you see the rumpled sheets and blankets, before laying down in bed, covering your face as the memories hit. His touch, his tongue, his eyes just staring into yours. Was it because it was easy for the two of you, because you’re pregnant already? Convenience?
You can’t stop wracking your mind.
Not seeing him for almost a month…
Fratboy Gojo🙄: Good night, sweet dreams about this dick.
You glare at the screen.
You don’t respond, seeing him typing and typing.
Fratboy Gojo🙄: I’ll keep in touch, please if… you need to talk I’ll have my phone, okay?
You sigh now, turning on your side, while Gojo watches those three dots, finally walking into his penthouse, mind wandering to you. He wants you… in his bed, he wants to stay, to ignore his best friends, ignore the tradition. Your pussy is… a demon surely, making him hard just thinking of it again.
Sorority Brat 💦😻: I don’t wanna bother you, I’ll be fine.
Satoru frowns at that.
Fratboy Gojo🙄 I want to know how you are.
His own vulnerability makes him feel sick damn near, but you heart the message, making him simp like some idiot with a dopey grin.
Sorority Brat 💦😻Then I will keep you updated, I hope you have a lot of fun.
Guilt gnaws at him, leaving you alone, to go on some trip, while your body would surely go through more changes. He doesn’t even want to miss it, but he can’t just… he has to still have his life, right? For now, was it just… sex to you because you’re horny, and he’s there?
Did it mean more?
Sorority Brat 💦😻 Good night, Satoru.
You watch him heart the message, as your hand drifts to your tummy, thinking about the little growing baby inside you. It almost feels surreal, as do the feelings for Satoru Gojo.
Fratboy Gojo🙄 Good night, Sweets.
this one took a bit but it WAS a little longer- I'd expect chap three to be long as well! I will post a preview of that tomorrow as it's already in the works ;) (will time skip one month!) I hope you all enjoy, ty for being patient! ILYSM
Taglist #1- @jannythewriter-pt2 @gojosoups @lycoris-radiata-4-sale @cutiepi-iee @poisonousspiderlily @closerbutnevertogether @myahfig4 @shokosbunny @coq1myun @rinny27 @abibliolife @coq1myun @megumisthirdog @p4lli @turtlebangtan @webshooterrr9 @aldebrana @msqudo18 @s0ulsnatchaaa @ovela @midnaamethyste @nearlyfuckingwitches @shibataimu @msniks @missthatgirl @fantasy1nightmare0 @maddyhehehehhe @yourst3pm0mmy @haithamsbb @rentheannihilator @ilovebeansyay @lemonswirlz @dilfkentolover @evelynxxo @bkgnotsuma @suki91 @burntasian @nakiich @hyunjinsruinedpainting @miniv1x3n @minascasket @ihrtmack @contaminatedcupcake @girlwithn0j0b @tokyi999 @vamqyx @queenofthekill @verriees @vullzo @jkslaugh97
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