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uyinq · 3 days ago

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THE CONTAINMENT INITIATIVE ☆ B.R

chapter 4 — aggressive evolution

[bob reynolds x AFAB! reader, psychic!reader, empath?reader, slow burn, fluff, angst, slow burn, eventual smut, messy co-dependent relationships]

❱❱ WORD COUNT ﹕3,800

❱❱ SUMMARY﹕ With the Void making itself known, it's time you get serious about your powers. Bucky and Yelena help you find an outlet, while Valentina closes in on you. Bob lets it be known how he feels about everything.

❱❱ WARNINGS ﹕ profanity, violence, trauma, eventual smut, psychological horror, mentions of: needles, injections, torture, and human testing

❱❱ NOTES ﹕ sentry is so UUURGGHH. i can fix him. i like fixing broken men. ill fix him!!!!! no beta read, i apologize for any errors i was half asleep while writing this

(divider from uzmacchiato)

★ chapters ﹒﹒ masterlist

★ tags - @coutureisart @jenneric2003 @tfamidoingwithmylife @disillusioniary @sadslasher13 @chimchoom @lewispullsman @articel1967 @jj-ma26 @hiraethmae @dark-silhouette

(ask to be tagged!) ࿐

“I let it in.”

The silence lasts too long.

Bucky doesn't move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you–watches the tremble in your fingers, the shallow drag of your breath, the way your shoulders curl in like you’re trying to make yourself small.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say eventually, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t call to it. It just… came.”

He nods. Once. But his jaw is tight.

“Did it hurt you?”

You shake your head once.

“No… no. I– I think it likes me.”

That finally gives him pause. After a few seconds, his eyes narrow. Not in disbelief or concern, but because he understands. He knows what it means when something awful decides you’re useful.

He takes a careful step foreward, gently taking your arm in his hand.

“We’re not waiting until Val finds out,” he says. “Tomorrow, we start. My way.”

“You’re doing it again.” Bucky’s voice is grating. You’ve heard it far too many times in the past hour. He dragged you out of the tower before the sun even came up, didn’t even tell you where you were going. Some construction site in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere.

You thought it was another training session with him. The kind where you sit on the ground and hold hands for half an hour. But no, Bucky has been whooping your ass and knocking your feet out from underneath you, over and over and over.

“Doing what, exactly?”

He circles you like you’re prey–not in a cruel way, but the way someone does when they refuse to let you keep lying to yourself.

“You’re not controlling it. You’re containing it. Big difference.”

You cross your arms. “So what, I’m supposed to let it explode out of me?”

“That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do,” he says, voice flat. “You’re not gonna learn how to use it until you stop being scared of it.”

He comes at you fast– not to hurt, just to pressure. You block. You swing. You fail. He knocks your legs out from under you like Yelena does.

You land hard, breath knocked from your lungs.

And that’s what does it.

The frustration. The weight of everything you’re feeling. The exhaustion, the guilt, the Void’s presence still coiled in your chest.

Your hands twitch.

You reach for the closest thing you can find– a long metal pole, sitting pretty in the dirt. You wrap your fingers around it, sit up quickly, and you swing. Hard.

Something buzzes under your skin, the pole cracking loudly against Bucky’s kneecap.

It all happens so fast you nearly miss it.

A jolt in your spine like lightning, a faint glow in your veins, then sparks shooting up the pole.

Bucky stumbles back, not from the force of the hit–but from the shock. His eyes are wide, one hand gripping his knee, the other lifted like he’s half-expecting you to strike again.

“What the hell was that?”

He breaks the silence first, gesturing at you as you drop the metal pole and move to your feet.

“I�� How am I supposed to know?”

“You’re the one that did it!”

Your hands are still trembling.

The glow is gone now, but your fingers feel like live wires–like something ancient and aching just woke up inside you and isn’t ready to sleep again.

“I didn’t mean to do it!” you bark back, a little too sharp, voice cracking on the edges. “It just… it happened.”

Bucky stares at the dropped pole for a beat, then at you. The breeze kicks up some dust between you, but neither of you move to break the tension.

“Okay, okay. Just… walk me through it. What happened?”

You rub at your forearm, heart still hammering against your ribs.

“I was mad,” you mutter. “At you. At everything. And then I grabbed the pole, and it felt… different. Like I was holding a lightning rod.”

“You channeled it,” Bucky murmurs, thinking out loud. “The energy–your power. Through something else instead of your body.”

Oh.

Oh…

Bucky finally relaxes his stance, shoulders still tense but no longer on edge. He steps closer, eyes scanning your face.

“You weren’t just holding that thing,” he says. “You were channeling through it. Like a conductor. And the second you got pissed off enough to stop thinking? It snapped into place.”

You look down at the pole in the dirt like it’s a cursed artifact. “So what? I’m supposed to carry a staff around like some kind of… fucked-up Jedi?”

“If it works, yeah. I don’t care if you swing around a glow stick,” he shrugs. “If it gives your power shape, it’s worth it.”

You let out a breathy laugh. Shaky. Almost manic.

This changes everything.

Because maybe–just maybe–you’re not just some broken empath caught in the crossfire of everyone else’s chaos. Maybe you’ve got a weapon of your own.

Maybe you are one.

Bucky watches you for a long moment. Then:

“We train with it tomorrow,” he says. “Same time. Don’t be late.”

Then he turns on his heel and limps off toward the rusted truck parked a few yards away–still rubbing his knee and muttering under his breath about a “psycho chick with a lightning stick.”

You smile.

And you pick the pole back up.

The gym is quiet–too quiet for how often Yelena curses during sparring.

You’re already on your back again, panting, one wrist pinned beneath Yelena’s knee.

“Again,” she says, voice low, irritated. “You’re pulling your punches.”

“No,” you wheeze. “You just have a vendetta.”

Yelena’s lip curls. She stands, offers her hand. “Get up and hit me like you mean it.”

You take her hand and let her pull you up, but your muscles are screaming. You’ve been at it for nearly an hour, sweat dripping down your temple, the weight of the metal staff in your hand getting heavier by the second.

You lunge.

She sidesteps.

You spin with the pole–clumsy, wide–but Yelena still blocks you with ease, catching the pole with her forearm and landing a sharp jab to your ribs.

Your frustration boils over.

Not just with her. With everything.

With the Void whispering in the dark. With Valentina’s eyes always on you. With this gnawing ache inside you that wants to break free.

You shove her back.

Yelena blinks–just for a second–but that’s all it takes.

Your hands spark again. The pole lights up like a fuse. The air around you cracks.

A pulse of energy blasts off the metal, like a shockwave made of light and raw feeling,and Yelena goes flying back a full ten feet.

She rolls, lands hard on her elbow, grunting.

Silence.

You stand frozen, the pole still crackling in your grip.

The observation window at the far end of the gym lights up.

One-way glass.

You know who’s behind it.

Yelena groans and pushes herself up, eyes locking on you with something close to awe. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one day,” she mutters, breathless.

You don’t answer. You’re looking at the glass.

You can feel her.

Valentina.

Then you remember where you are and wander over to Yelena, offering a hand to help her up.

“I’m sorry.” You mutter, eyes scanning her carefully as she pulls herself onto her feet. She laughs it off and rolls her shoulders back.

“Don’t be. That was good. Hurt like hell.”

That doesn’t make you feel any better.

Yelena notices. Of course she does.

She narrows her eyes at you, brushing dust off her elbow with a grunt. “Don’t do that.”

You blink. “Do what?”

“That face. Like you kicked a puppy. You didn’t hurt me–you surprised me. That’s different.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the gym doors hiss open before you get the chance.

Both your heads turn.

Valentina walks in, heels echoing against the floor like gunshots.

Her expression is unreadable–sharp eyes fixed on you, hands folded neatly behind her back. Too calm. Too calculated.

“Well,” she says, voice light but poisonous, “wasn’t that fun?”

You step back instinctively. Yelena moves in closer to your side.

Val stops a few paces from you both, gaze flicking to the scorched edge of the pole you dropped. “I’d say you’re improving,” she continues. “Though I doubt you even realize what you just did.”

You stiffen.

“I didn’t mean to–”

“That much is obvious,” Val says, smile thinning. “But we’re well past the point of hiding behind excuses, aren’t we?”

She glances at Yelena. “You can go.”

Yelena doesn’t move. She squares her shoulders, jaw flexing.

“I said go.”

There’s a beat. Then another.

Finally, Yelena steps away, brushing her knuckles gently against yours as she passes. You feel the weight of her glance over your shoulder–protective, warning.

Then she’s gone.

Valentina waits until the doors slide shut again before circling you. Slowly. Like a hawk.

“You’ve been holding back,” she says.

You flinch. “I’m trying to learn how to control it–”

“No,” she interrupts, voice cool. “You’re trying not to lose control. That’s not the same thing.”

She stops in front of you. “What I just saw? That was the real thing. That was instinct. Power without chains. You should lean into it.”

You shake your head. “It’s not safe.”

Her voice lowers. “It is if we teach you how to own it. Not fear it.”

Your stomach twists. The Void stirs–interested. Hungry.

Valentina smiles like she knows.

“You’re more than an empath. You’re a weapon. It’s time you start acting like one.”

The air feels stale the moment you walk in. Everyone's already seated in the boardroom. Yelena, with her arms crossed, Walker slouched in his chair, Ava flipping a pen between her fingers. Bob sits the way he always does: hunched over, polite, like someone still pretending he’s not a god under the skin.

Valentina enters last.

She doesn’t sit. Doesn’t need to. Her heels click once as she stops in front of the projection wall, and the lights dim automatically.

She clears her throat.

“We’re changing protocol. Effective immediately, she’s a part of the team. She’ll be field-ready in three weeks.”

You blink.

“What?” Bucky’s voice cuts first, sharp as a knife.

Valentina doesn’t flinch. “We’ve wasted enough time with training wheels. You’ve all seen what she can do now. This team needs something stronger. Sentry can’t always be our first line of defense.”

Yelena slams a palm flat against the table. “No. Absolutely not. We’re not letting you do this again.”

Val raises a brow, the barest hint of annoyance slipping through her practiced calm. “And what exactly do you think I’m doing, Yelena?”

“You’re weaponizing her. Just like you did with him.”

Everyone knows who she means.

You can feel it then–Bob stiffens beside you. Doesn't look up, just clasps his hands tighter in front of him. His shoulders curve in just slightly, like he’s bracing for impact.

Ava looks between you and Valentina like she’s watching a slow-motion car crash. Even Walker straightens in his seat.

Bucky pushes back his chair with a screech of metal. “We agreed,” he growls. “Training, not conditioning. Support, not programming.”

“She’s already stronger than most of you,” Val says. “I’m simply allowing her to prove it.”

“To whom?” Bob’s voice cuts through the room like a wire pulled too tight.

He still isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at you.

“To herself?” he continues, his voice quiet, almost flat. “To you? To the people she’ll tear through if something goes wrong?”

Valentina only tilts her head. “You turned out fine.”

“No, I didn’t,” he hisses.

The word lands harder than anything else that’s been said. Everyone falls silent again.

Bob finally looks up at her.

“I turned out useful.”

The room stills.

“I turned out good at following orders, at destroying what you asked me to destroy. I was useful until I stopped following orders and turned New York into a shadow.”

There’s no venom in his voice. Just the truth.

Then he looks at you again–really looks at you. Like he's begging you to read between the lines. Like he’s asking you to see what he became, and run the other way.

You want to puke. You want to cry. This whole briefing is about you, but you feel completely and utterly powerless. Like nothing you have to say matters.

But you say it anyway.

“I just want to help.” Valentina doesn’t flinch. She never does.

“Then do as you’re told,” she says, smooth and sharp like ice over steel.

It’s meant to be a final word. A dismissal.

But something’s shifted in the room.

You can feel it in Yelena’s stare, in the way Bucky’s jaw ticks like he’s clenching every word he wants to scream. In the quiet ache that lives in Bob’s eyes now, flickering gold at the edges like something just beneath the surface is threatening to break.

The silence stretches until Valentina turns, heels clicking, and the doors close with a hiss behind her.

Nobody speaks after she leaves.

Eventually, Walker mutters, “Jesus,” under his breath, and Ava throws her pen across the table. Yelena storms out.

You stay seated.

Bob’s still next to you. Still hunched, knuckles pale where they grip the edge of the table.

“Bob–” you start.

But he’s already pushing his chair back, already standing.

“Bob?”

You’re moving before you can stop yourself, nearly tripping over the wheels on your chair as you follow him into the hallway.

You’ve never seen him move so quickly, and it’s honestly irritating.

“Damnit, Bob, stop!”

He does–but only after another five strides down the hall. He stops so suddenly that you almost collide with his back.

He doesn’t look at you.

You circle around him, frustrated and breathless. “Hey. Talk to me.”

His jaw is tight. Eyes distant. There’s a flicker of gold at the edge of his irises, faint and fading.

“I told them this would happen,” he says finally. Quiet. Like the words weigh too much. “I told them the second she figured out what you could do, she’d find a way to use it.”

You blink, your heart pounding. “It’s not your fault, Bob.”

“Isn’t it?”

His voice comes out harsh, gold flaring in his irises as he steps forward, sudden and sharp.

You flinch– not because you're afraid of him, but because it’s the first time Bob’s ever raised his voice at you.

He sees it. Sees the way you tense, the way your fingers twitch like they might call your powers without you meaning to.

“You’re only here because of me. Because I needed something, someone to ground me. Now what?”

You know he’s starting to fade even before he straightens up, backing you up against the wall, nostrils flared and jaw clenched.

His voice stays low and controlled, but fraying around the edges. “Now she thinks she can use you the way she used me. Like we’re weapons waiting to be loaded.”

The gold in his eyes burns brighter, and the hallway seems narrower now.

Your back hits the wall. Not hard. Just enough for the tension to crack through your body like a taut wire.

“You think I don’t see it?” he hisses. “The way they look at you in briefings. The way she smiles when you do something new. That smile means you’re already halfway gone.”

“Bob.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. But it lands.

“No,” He replies, face inches away from yours as he holds your gaze. “You don’t get to suppress me right now.”

He takes a shaky breath, like he’s teetering on the edge.

“It’s not just her,” He whispers, a bit steadier now. “It’s Bucky and Yelena, too.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“What are you talking about?” you ask, but the words feel hollow. Because somewhere deep down, you already know.

“They’re watching you,” Bob says. “Every move you make. Every spark of power. Not because they’re worried you’ll get hurt, but because they’re afraid of what you’ll become.”

You want to argue. Want to say they care. That Bucky’s helping and Yelena’s training you to survive, not to cage you. But your throat closes around the words.

Because part of you has seen it, too. In the way Bucky's grip tightens when you lose focus. In the way Yelena’s teasing has turned sharp. In the way they look at you like you’re not fully you anymore.

You glance away. Bob doesn’t let you.

He grabs your chin, redirecting your gaze back to his.

“They're afraid because of what I became,” he says, voice shaking. “They think the same thing’s happening to you. But you’re not going to let them hold you back. Don’t let them hold you back.”

There’s something in his eyes– not cruel, not dark– but bright. Burning.

The golden shimmer behind his irises sharpens, flickers hotter. Like Sentry is rising, not to take over, but to defend.

Because he feels cornered. Because you feel cornered.

Because when Bob is too overwhelmed, Sentry steps in.

You realize it then– it’s still Bob. But it’s the part of him that’s all power and instinct, the part Valentina weaponized before he ever had the chance to choose.

You could stop him, you know that now. You could reach into the space between you and pull. You could say his name like a prayer or a plea. You could break the moment like glass.

But you don’t.

Because some part of you– the part they all keep trying to box in, muzzle, monitor– understands this version of him.

Not the broken soldier. Not the cautionary tale.

The storm.

The shimmer in his eyes deepens as he reads your silence not as fear, but permission. His hand, still at your chin, shifts and slides along your jaw, thumb ghosting your cheek.

He’s not smiling. Not leering.

He just looks.

Like he’s cataloging every crack in your armor and memorizing how to slip through.

“You’re not stopping me,” Sentry murmurs.

His voice is lower now. Steady. Like he’s not just talking to you, but to the echo of Bob inside him…the man who flinches and runs and wants too much.

“I don’t want to.”

The words hang there, heavier than they should be. They sound smaller when you say them. Like a confession. Like you’re scared of how much you mean it.

A flicker of gold catches in the light. Not a threat. Just a reaction. His pupils dilate, soaking you in.

He steps closer.

Your shoulders are still pressed to the wall, heart loud in your chest. But you don’t move, you don’t flinch.

“Stop letting everyone control you.” He whispers. It’s not sinister like the Void, it’s genuine guidance. Like he’s trying to mentor you.

“They’re trying to train you to be safe,” he whispers. “I want you to be free.”

A pause.

And then:

“I’ll never tell you to hold back.”

You should push him away.

You should pull Bob back to the surface, reach for the steadier version of him you know best– the one who whispers comfort into your hair, who makes you coffee when your hands won’t stop shaking. The one who tries so hard to be good.

But this?

This doesn’t feel bad.

Sentry steps in closer, and this time, your fingers twitch toward his. The contact is light, barely there, but it sparks something all the same. The same pulse you felt when your powers flared through the metal pole. That rush of something ancient and electric.

You let your eyes close. Just for a second.

It’s enough.

He breathes you in again, but it’s different this time. Slower. Like he’s grounding himself, not consuming you. Like he wants to feel tethered too.

“I feel you,” he whispers, so soft it almost breaks you. “Even when I’m buried. I feel you.”

Your lips part. But no sound comes out. Your voice isn’t working. Your brain’s too full of static and gold and want and fear.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he says.

“You don’t,” you breathe.

Then he leans forward. Not to kiss you, not quite.

His forehead presses to yours, and for the first time, he doesn’t feel like a weapon. Or a God, or a hero.

He just feels real.

Warmth builds between you, slow and steady this time, not like a flare but a current. The lights in the hallway hum louder. Your palms glow faintly where they touch. It’s not volatile. It’s steady.

Safe, even if it shouldn’t be.

You don’t know how long you stand there, forehead to forehead, tethered by something neither of you fully understand. But it’s quiet now. Charged, yes–but quiet. You can hear his breathing. Feel the tremble still lingering in his fingertips where they rest against your ribs.

Sentry… or Bob… or whatever blend of them this is now–he’s watching you like he’s memorizing you. Every flicker in your expression. Every uneven breath.

“You ground me,” he says, barely a whisper.

It’s not a declaration. It’s a confession. The kind that aches with truth.

You nod slowly, your hand lifting to cup his cheek.

Something flickers in his throat, like he wants to say your name but it might undo him. He leans in–not to press closer, but like he wants to share the same breath. As if you’re the last thread keeping him tethered to this version of himself. Not the monster. Not the myth. Just the man.

“You feel like…” he trails off, then laughs under his breath. It’s soft. Self-deprecating. “I don’t know what you feel like.”

“Then stop talking,” you whisper. “Just feel.”

You guide his hand up slightly, over your collarbone. He doesn't grip, doesn’t take, doesn’t claim. He asks without a word, and when your breath hitches just enough to answer him, he lets his hand settle there–gentle, reverent.

When he speaks again, it’s not Bob. It’s not Sentry. It’s the space between.

“You make me feel human.”

It punches the air right out of your lungs. Not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s honest. And there’s nothing more dangerous than a man with the power of a god who wants, more than anything, to be held.

Your hand curls into the front of his shirt. The fabric is still warm from the briefing room, from the rage he was trying to bury. And now he’s giving you all of it.

Slowly, you tug him forward. He comes willingly. No tension in his shoulders now. Just ache.

And when your lips meet, it’s not hot or heavy–it’s steady. Like something earned.

Like permission.

His hands tremble just slightly against your skin, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want you. But you stay close enough to remind him he doesn’t have to be sure… he just has to feel.

And he does.

Every second of it.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #thunderbolts fanfic #afab reader #the sentry x reader #the void x reader

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redvexillum · 8 hours ago

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Chapter 2 - Unclean Signal

A/N: Oh my, what will reader do now with Vox's new business partner?

TAGS/WARNING: f!reader, married to vox, vox does love reader, infidelity, non-sex repulsed alastor, alastor is in hell for a reason, soft alastor, jerk alastor, possessive, no use of y/n, vox tries, reader tries, alastor being alastor, alastor is a control freak, power imbalance, attempted handy

<- PREV | TABLE OF CONTENT

Unlike Valentino and Velvette, Vox’s other business partners, Alastor was the only one who appeared in your home every day without Vox. You would find him lounging on the balcony with a steaming cup of coffee, always the same red mug with a ridiculous print that read Oh Deer!—a pun you didn’t understand and never dared to ask about.

At first, his presence unsettled you. He wasn’t loud, not invasive in the obvious sense, but his silent occupation of your space felt like a violation of the fragile routine you clung to. Your smiles were tight and your greetings even tighter, whispered softly before you disappeared into the safety of your room. He never followed. He never demanded your attention. He would only look up, grin with an unreadable glint in his crimson eyes, raise a brow, and nod.

This pattern continued for weeks. You grew used to it. Not comfortable, but accustomed. Eventually, you stopped trying to pretend it was temporary. It became part of your new normal, the one where you spent most of your hours confined behind your bedroom door, your life shrinking smaller with each passing day.

That was why your heart nearly burst when Vox came home early.

For once, he walked through the bedroom door before you had fallen asleep. Sitting up in bed, heartbeat quickening, you chewed your lips in equal parts anticipation and anxiety. The silk of your nightgown clung to your skin, a deep royal blue that shimmered in the low light. The lace trim traced the curve of your breasts like a whispered invitation, and beneath, the sheer lingerie barely clung to your body at all. You had chosen it carefully, hoping tonight might be different, special.

You waited, twisting your fingers in your lap, watching as Vox stepped inside the bedroom with a long yawn. He wore baby blue pinstriped pajamas, looking soft and cozy and entirely unaware of the effort you had poured into tonight.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice dipped low and warm. “Long day?”

He groaned as he climbed into bed, his head tilting back against the pillow. “Fuck, yeah. Long as hell.”

You leaned toward him, letting your leg slide up to press against his, the hem of your nightgown slipping higher, revealing the smooth skin of your thigh.

His hands remained still. He didn’t touch you, but he didn’t pull away either. It was like touching a statue—present, but distant.

You let your hand drift down the centre of his torso, fingers gliding with feather-light teasing over the waistband of his pajama pants, until you grazed the base of his cock. It was soft. Waiting. Like him.

“Let me help you relax,” you offered, your voice barely above a whisper, tinged with longing.

Vox opened one eye, giving you a lazy, crooked smile. “Yeah? Been a while, doll, hasn’t it?”

Your heart fluttered with delicate joy. He was receptive. Finally, finally, something. “Yeah… it has,” you whispered, so softly the words nearly dissolved in the air between you. “So let me make you feel good, love.” Your lips pressed tenderly to the cool surface of his monitor-shaped head, a gesture that felt like both worship and plea.

Vox hummed in reply, his groan low and content, and his glowing eyes slowly dimmed as his lids drifted closed. Encouraged, you slid your hand beneath his waistband, your fingers gliding over his soft skin. You began to stroke him gently, slow and rhythmic, the way you remembered he liked. Up and down, your thumb brushing the sensitive slit, coaxing him with the kind of familiarity that once made his breath hitch and his hips buck into your palm.

“'S good,” he mumbled, the sound barely audible, more like a sigh as he relaxed into your touch.

But something was wrong.

You could feel it—he wasn’t hardening like he used to. In fact, he was softening. Your heart skipped, then sank. You paused, looking up at his face. The glowing screen was dim now, the logo bouncing in silence.

He was asleep.

He had fallen asleep.

Your hand froze against his body, the stillness between you so loud it rang in your ears. Slowly, carefully, you withdrew your touch. The warmth you had tried so desperately to build between you cooled like dying embers in a fireplace. You sat back on your knees, staring down at yourself. The silk of your nightgown clung to the curve of your breasts, the lace now looking cheap and desperate, your body aching with need that had nowhere to go.

Your vision blurred as hot tears welled and spilled down your cheeks unexpectedly. You couldn’t stop them. You didn’t even try. Your hands folded together in your lap, squeezing tightly, like if you held yourself hard enough you could stop your heart from shattering.

But the damage had already been done.

Insecurity flooded you. A quiet, creeping monster. It slithered beneath your skin, into your bones, whispering cruel things you had tried so hard to forget.

You were no one. You had always been no one.

Back then, before everything, you were just a small-town girl in Louisiana. You sang in smoky bars and roadside diners, your voice your only gift, and even that felt fragile. You had nothing. Just the will to be heard. The locals called you Canary, a sweet nickname for a voice that tried to brighten the lives of the tired, the drunk, the lonely.

And you had been content.

Your dreams had been small. A radio debut, maybe. Singing on air for your hometown. That would have been enough. But then he came.

Vox. The man in the tailored suit, visiting on a business trip, with a jaw that could cut glass and a smile that made your heart flutter even before he spoke. He had charm, poise, and promises that sounded like fairy tales. He told you he loved you the moment he heard your voice, and you believed him. He swept you into his world with glittering hands and gave you everything you thought you ever wanted.

Fame. Fortune. Adoration.

But more than anything, you wanted love. You had fallen in love with him.

You still were.

You told yourself you still were.

You had to be.

It began like any other day. Vox had already left before your eyes even fluttered open, leaving behind nothing but the cool imprint of his absence on the sheets. The silence of the penthouse pressed in around you like it always did. You followed your usual routine, getting ready with deliberate care, trying to craft some semblance of perfection. A picture-perfect wife, even if no one was watching.

When you stepped into the living room, there he was—Alastor. Just as he always was, seated in his usual spot on the balcony with a steaming cup of coffee, that strange red mug cradled between his long fingers. You offered him a shy smile, the kind born out of polite habit more than warmth. Your head dipped slightly, and your eyes avoided his gaze, ready to slip back to your room like a ghost.

But something changed.

He didn’t offer his usual curt nod. There was no polite distance today. Instead, he was suddenly there, in front of you, as though he had been carved out of the shadows themselves. One moment he was seated, and the next, he was blocking your path, his presence cold and looming despite the warmth of his smile.

You startled, instinctively stepping back. “Oh, h-hello,” you stammered, your voice small. Your hands quickly folded together, fingers twisting nervously. You bowed your head without thinking, the motion ingrained in you after Vox's many quiet warnings. Alastor was an overlord, a powerful one, and not all were merciful.

“My,” Alastor’s voice rang out, high and bright, touched with that ever-present mockery. It wasn’t what he said but the way he said it, like every word was a performance, like you were too pitiful not to be amusing.

You flinched when you felt his fingers—two warm, gloved fingertips—under your chin, urging your face upward. They were surprisingly gentle, coaxing rather than forcing. You resisted the instinct to look away, your lashes fluttering before your eyes finally met his.

“What made you cry, my sweet little Canary?”

The air stilled. You went cold.

That name. You hadn’t heard that name from anyone in years. He had said it when you first met, but you hadn’t linger on it for too long at the time. You had let it pass. Now, it crashed into you like a forgotten wave, pulling you back into memory.

You blinked at him, throat tightening. “I’m sorry?” you asked, dazed. Your hands flew to your cheeks as if they could hide the truth. You thought you had concealed the evidence. You powdered your face. You smiled in the mirror. You pressed your lips into that perfect shape Vox once said made you look “marketable.” But still, somehow, Alastor had seen through it all.

He knew.

You had cried that morning. You cried because the bed was cold again. Because Vox had not held you. Because the night before, you had tried to reach him, and he had drifted into sleep without even noticing your touch.

And you were so tired of pretending.

“Come,” Alastor said softly. His hand settled on your back with disarming care. You should have stepped away, but instead, your body moved as if bewitched. He led you to the love seat, and you sat without protest, your knees brushing his as he sat beside you.

He folded his hands neatly and tilted his head, still smiling, though his crimson eyes never left your face. “Considering I am your husband’s business partner, I believe it’s only right I look after his… wife.”

The way he said it—husband, wife—something about it crackled with static, like the word didn’t quite sit right in his mouth. Like he didn’t believe it.

You shook your head, flustered. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“No,” he interrupted brightly, his voice melodic, almost theatrical. “I insist.”

His words reminded you of old radio shows you used to listen to as a child, the ones where the announcer’s voice was clipped and fast, full of flair. Always delivering the news with a grin you could hear even through the static. There was a strange comfort to it, and a strange dread.

Because this voice was close. Too close.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen.

You never set out to betray anyone. But isolation was a cruel and silent killer, and you had been suffocating in it for far too long. Every day spent locked in that golden cage, every night curled beneath cold sheets that once smelled of love, every moment spent tiptoeing around Hell with lips sealed tight fearing smearing your husband's name. It had worn you thin.

You were tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of smiling. Tired of breaking behind closed doors with no one to see you shatter.

So when warmth finally came—real, tangible warmth—it undid you.

You tried to hold back. You tried to measure your words, choosing only the ones that painted you as foolish, and never Vox as cruel. You swallowed your pain like poison and smiled through it. You insisted it was your fault.

You were the silly one.

You were the one who wasn’t beautiful enough.

You were the one who just… wasn’t enough.

But as the minutes dragged on and your chest cracked wider, your words came faster, flooding out from some desperate, aching place you didn’t even realize was starving. And Alastor? He just listened. Fully, completely, as if he had all the time in the world. As if your voice weren’t noise, but something worthwhile.

His eyes never wandered. His expression never mocked. There was something reverent in the way he looked at you.

Then he said it.

He said you were beautiful.

That your voice was lovely. That the first time he heard you sing, he couldn’t breathe.

You blinked, stunned, lips parting in disbelief. “When did you hear me sing?”

He tilted his head, smile never fading. “Does it matter?” he said softly, voice dipped in honey and static. “The moment I heard you, I was… absolutely smitten.”

And… that did something to you.

To be wanted.

Truly, completely wanted.

Maybe that was your sin. The hunger for love. For warmth. For a hand reaching out when yours had been shaking in the dark for so long.

Before you could think, before you could stop yourself, your body leaned forward.

Your lips found his.

The contact was warm and trembling. Your wedding ring caught the light like a cruel reminder, a single tear frozen in metal. It pressed coldly against his chest, as if to mock you.

Then came the silence.

He didn’t kiss you back.

Realization hit you like a blow to the chest. Your breath stuttered as you jerked away, shame rising hot and choking up your throat. Your lips trembled. The sting of embarrassment burned at your eyes.

“I—I…” Your voice cracked, barely audible beneath the chaos in your mind.

Whore. Slut. Hussy.

You could already hear the screams. You could already see Vox’s face.

You should beg. You should plead. Apologize a thousand times and fall to your knees if that’s what it took.

But then…

Alastor’s hand slid behind your head, slow and certain, cradling you like something delicate. Like something precious.

And he kissed you.

Deeply.

Firmly.

Hungrily.

Like he had been waiting.

And just as your breath caught in your throat, just as your heart lunged into turmoil of guilt and longing, he whispered—

“Let me show you what it feels like… to be adored.”

NEXT ->

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54 notes · View notes

echo-exco · 2 days ago

Note

Wait I’m confused on Barbara, like she’s seen a LOT and is literally the oracle, how can she not notice readers off out state? I mean she took care of cass for some time (depending on the comics u read) so wouldn’t she see the red flags of readers personality in general? Also how did morashi hide info so well that not even BATMAN or ORACLE who’s whole job is knowing things not see it? I mean damain noticed some red flags about reader, it’s mentioned in his POV that he noticed that readers seemed to have dealt with being hurt before or smt??

Also can I be ur 🪼anon?

Well… that also depends.

Because, at first glance, healer!reader doesn’t give off that impression. She doesn’t come across as a broken, dangerous, or visibly traumatized child. She doesn’t have that “problem aura” like the rest of the family.

Damian noticed it not because she said anything, but because the more passive-aggressive he acted toward healer!reader, the more obvious it became that she genuinely didn’t care. She didn’t even register it as something hurtful. For someone like Damian, that’s unsettling.

But even he is caught up in his own emotional conflict, so he hasn’t fully connected the dots, at least, not yet.

Barbara, on the other hand, has barely seen her. And what little she has witnessed of healer!reader has been from a distance, or through observation rather than interaction. Healer!reader doesn’t confront, doesn’t question, she just stays away. When Bruce tells her she can’t be seen right now, or that there’s no time, she doesn’t insist, doesn’t ask, and definitely doesn’t push. She just accepts it.

Because she’s learned that if something is repeated enough times, then it must be true. When she’s told that now isn’t the time, or that she isn’t a priority… she simply assumes that must be the correct way to feel.

Healer!reader respects authority figures. There’s no trust in them, just habit. She might not fully understand why Alfred asks her to trust him… but she does understand that when an adult says “no,” then “no” is the only valid answer. There’s no room for questions.

Barbara might think it’s simply a case of a girl who never had a stable family. Maybe she imagines this is her first time in a real home, and that’s why she seems disconnected, disoriented, but trying to adapt.

Yes… Barbara would like to get to know her better. But just like Bruce, she’s busy dealing with a much bigger threat: Masashi.

And that’s the cruel irony of it all: Masashi managed to fool Bruce, Barbara, even Tim. None of them even know who Masashi really is, who he works with, what his true goals in the city are… nothing…

And that’s exactly what’s keeping them distant and frustrated.

Of course, Masashi didn’t do all of this on his own, he pulled it off with the help of two other people. I’ll just say one of them is Charlotte, though not in the way most people would expect (Charlotte deserves a better job, someone please get my girl out of there 😔).

Charlotte plays a role similar to Elise’s, and that role is what makes her so dangerous, and so useful, to Masashi.

It’s not just that the adults (and Tim) are distracted, it’s that healer!reader herself avoids them.

While Bruce, Barbara, and Tim have been investigating this criminal for MONTHS, Masashi is simply checking if it’s time to retrieve what belongs to him.

The whole thing is a plan orchestrated by Masashi. Distract the Batfam with her presence, knowing full well they probably won’t be able to properly care for healer!reader. Masashi knows perfectly well that healer!reader will most likely try to keep a low profile and stay away, just to avoid revealing anything about her powers or her past.

Overall, I do want to explore these perspectives later on! I haven’t forgotten about the other members of the batfam. I promise I’ll bring in all the other clear points of view on how they felt before and after discovering the truth about healer!reader.

And of course you can be my anon! I have no problem with you or anyone sending me asks! I’ll try to answer as quickly as possible, and even if I’m slow, I’ll be happy to reply to anything any of my readers want to share! <3

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just-dreaming-marvel · 2 days ago

Text

The Librarian & The Wolverine ~ The Rescue

THE LIBRARIAN & THE WOLVERINE MASTERLIST

< previous: The First Mission

Word Count: 6,220ish

Summary: Logan does whatever he can to make sure you are safe again.

Warning(s): mentions insecurities, time jumps, injuries, violence. nightmares, torture, kidnapping, PTSD

Notes: I hope you guys are enjoying this! Please share your thoughts with me on it. These two are so great to write for. Also, it's just going to be up and down from here on out. No more straight fluff chapters.

You woke up in a room that didn’t belong to any government facility you knew. You were restrained to a cold metal chair. There were medical equipment surrounding you, some of them were already attached. Your throat was dry and your vision blurred at the edges.

The door opened a moment later. Two figures walked in— a man in military-grade black and a woman in a lab coat. Her clipboard tapped softly against her thigh as she stopped beside your bed.

“Ah, you’re awake,” she noted.

You didn’t answer.

“Vitals are stable,” she looked over the machines connected to you. “Cognitive strength appears intact.”

“What—“ you rasped. “What is this?”

“You’ll come to understand in time. You’ve been chosen. Not harmed, not… yet. Just relocated. The government has great interest in your abilities.”

You struggled against the cuffs, vision sharpening now.

“You’re going to be so useful. Your ability to absorb and store information? Beautiful, powerful, and full of untapped potential.”

“We’re going to help your mind work even faster,” the man finally spoke up, stepping forward. “With the right enhancements, you’ll store every byte of classified data we feed you. Weapons programs. Mutant registries. Government secrets. Foreign intel. And when we ask for it? You’ll give it back.”

“You want to make me a…” nausea rose inside you, “a living vault.”

The woman smiled. “An archive. A perfect one. You will read what we tell you. And when we ask, you’ll tell us what we need.”

“I won’t! I won’t help you.”

“You won’t have a choice.” She gestured to the man, who lifted a syringe.

Your breath caught. “You— You can’t do this—“

“We already are.”

“No! No! Logan!”

And the needle pierced your neck.

~~~

They kept you underground. No windows. No clocks. No sense of day or night— just harsh fluorescent lights and the constant hum of machines. You were in and out. They hadn’t fed you information yet, they were preparing you for it. You kept chanting Logan’s name in your head over and over again, trying to keep you tethered some how. But it was getting harder.

One day, they brought in stacks of files and placed them under your hands. Almost instantly, your eyes went blank and your breath caught. The information from the files began feeding into your mind, filing and organizing itself away. While you— the real you— was being bushed back, filed away itself.

~~~

At first, they tried to keep Logan home. They tried to tell him it was too dangerous without a plan. But he didn’t care. Logan had to find you, it was his sole purpose now. He hadn’t slept since before they took you and basically hadn’t eaten in that long either.

Every lead, every scent, every trace they could find— Logan hunted down like an animal. He tore through outposts and left entire teams bleeding behind him. He didn’t speak unless it was to ask where you were.

Charles tried to keep him grounded. Jean tried to reason with him, but nothing worked. Because Logan could feel it— deep in his metal bones. You were in pain and it was only getting worse. He’d seen his fair share of government experiments and he couldn’t let them turn you into their weapon. Or worse, into a ghost of yourself.

~~~

Every question they asked, you answered— steady, flat, and completely devoid of emotion. You didn’t blink because you weren’t there. They rewired your neural pathways. You still remembered everything. You still analyzed and indexed. But now you did it for them. A living hard drive. You recited names and secrets. You exposed enemies and allies. Whatever they asked of you.

They replaced the files everyday, always checking to make sure you’ve got it all before doing do. The more information you took in, the farther your true self got pushed back.

~~~

Logan could smell you from a mile away. He crouched in the treelike, feral, eyes locked on the facility buried in the mountain. There were dozens of soldiers, automated defenses, and no visible entrances. They thought that would stop him. But they have no idea what they had brought down on themselves.

“Found her,” he whispered into his comm.

Then he dropped it, knowing the team would be there shortly. He wasn’t going to waste any time though. He reached an access point and began tearing through the soldiers like paper. Alarms wailed and lights flashed red, but he ignored it all. His only focus was you.

After fighting like hell, Logan burst into the chamber, tearing the doors clean off their hinges. And there you were. You were restrained to a metal chair with wires and tubes coiled around you with a stack of files under each hand. Your face was blank and too still.

His heart shattered. “Baby…”

He dropped to his knees in front of you and reached for your face— gently and terrified. You eyes were wide open. But they don’t focus or move. You were breathing but you’re not there.

He finally touched your cheek. “Hey. I’m here. I found you.”

You didn’t blink.

“Come back… Come on, sweetheart. It’s me.”

Still nothing.

Then, barely there, a murmur, “…Logan…”

“Yes, baby. I’m here. I got you.”

He ripped the cables from your skin and cradled your body against his chest. You didn’t resist or cling to him— simply limp and distant. He held you tighter and whispered over and over how he was will you and how you were save and he begged you to come back to him.

Logan carried you out of the facility. You don’t speak or move or blink. Your eyes were still open, but you were looking through everything.

Storm reached him first. “Oh my god— Is she…?”

“She’s breathing,” Logan stated, not slowing his pace. “She said my name once. But there’s been nothing besides that.”

Jean and Charles stepped forward from the Blackbird, already reading out with their powers to assess the damage.

“She’s alive,” Jean stated softly, mostly for herself. “But… she’s gone deep. Deeper than I’ve ever felt before. They used her mind like a network. She’s— it’s like she’s filed herself away.”

Charles’ face was pale and jaw tight. “She’s dissociating on a psychic level. Her consciousness is in full retreat. Like a mental coma.”

Logan stopped at the bottom of the jet, holding you tighter. “You’re not taking her.”

“Logan—“

“You are not taking her.”

Jean stepped forward carefully. “We’re not taking her away. But we have to get into her mind. We have to pull her back before she disappears completely.”

“She needs to feel safe.” Logan backed up. “You think putting her in a sterile white infirmary room is gonna fix this?”

“No,” Charles cut in. “But if we don’t reach her soon, there may be no one left to fix.”

Storm laid a hand on Logan’s arm. “She’s not herself. And you’ve done everything you could. But this part… this part isn’t something you can do.”

For a long moment, Logan just stood there— breathing hard and shaking, like he was still fighting. He looked down at you. You didn’t look back. Finally, his shoulder sagged. He walked up into the jet and laid you gently on the cot ready for you. When Jean and Charles moved to touch you, his growled.

“I stay with her.”

Charles looked at the broken man. “Of course.”

Logan sat on the ground beside you and took your hand. He leaned his head against your body. “I need you to come back. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll read every damn book in that library if it gets you to look at me again— really look… You’re not gone, darlin’. You’re not gone.”

Jean placed a hand to your temple, eyes closing. Charles closed his eyes as well. Jean gasped the second she connected. She’s not in a mind, but a vault. There were endless corridors in every direction, filled with bookshelves and data streams. Everything was expertly categorized and catalogued. It was all too neat and silent. She glanced to her left to find that Charles had joined her.

“She built this,” Jean murmured. “To protect herself.”

Charles nodded. “It’s not a prison. It’s a defense mechanism. She’s locked herself in the deepest part of her own mind and thrown away the key. Jean walked slowly down the corridor, reaching out to gently touch the books. All emotion had been stripped from them— labeled by dates. There were so many government secrets with a mix of your personal history.

They could hear Logan still begging for you to come back. Something shifted— a crack formed along the corridor walls.

Jean looked at Charles. “She heard him.”

“She’s listening. We need to keep pushing.”

Jean began to pull the books that had your history on them. The first time Logan held your hand. The night of the fire. The first kiss. The love confession. The vault trembled and then, from the end of the corridor, you appeared. But it wasn’t you. It was a fragile, flickering version.

You spoke without emotion. “I am the Archive. I exist to preserve and protect. Please do not attempt to disrupt the system.”

Jean stepped forward. “You’re not the Archive. You’re Y/N. And Logan is waiting for you.”

You flickered, hollow eyes meeting hers. “He’s… waiting?”

Charles came up and took your hand. “Yes. And he’s not leaving without you.”

You blinked once, then again. And the cracks continued.

~~~

Logan was still talking, whispering about the day he fell in love with the way you corrected his grammar. He was just about to chuckle to himself when your fingers twitched. He froze.

“Sweetheart?” He whispered.

You drew in a shaky breath— ragged and shallow. “…Lo—Logan…”

Logan laughed, half-choked, half-sobbed. “Yeah, baby. It’s me.”

You finally blinked and turned your head. “Logan…”

He pulled you into his arms and Jean and Charles moved back. He didn’t let you go the rest of the way.

~~~

You woke up in the infirmary. It took you a few seconds to realize where you were and that you weren’t alone. Logan was in the chair next to your bed, head bowed forward like he was trying to stay awake and lost the fight. His hand was still curled around yours. You tightened your fingers just slightly causing his eyes to snap open.

“Hey,” his voice was rough but gentle. He sat up and you could see the exhaustion and relief all over his face.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“You want water? I can get—“

“No.” You squeezed his hand tighter. “Just… stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You shifted slightly on the pillows. Every muscle ached and your head was still very fuzzy. “I remember… some of it… They took me.”

“I know.”

“They almost made me forget you and myself…”

He flinched.

“But I didn’t.”

“You said my name. That was the first thing. Back in that damn chair. I knew you were still in there.” He exhaled hard and leaned forward. “Darlin’, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t feel like me yet… Everything is… fuzzy.”

“That’s okay. We’ve got time. You take as long as you need.”

“I’m scared.”

“I am too.” He kissed your knuckles. “But I’m here and you’re here.”

“Can you… read to me?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.”

Logan reached under the chair and pulled out your worn copy of Persuasion by Jane Austen. He had it there so that he could read it for himself while he waited for you to wake. He began reading. You closed your eyes and let yourself just listen.

~~~

You slept more than you stayed awake. Jean and Hank told Logan that it was your mind trying to repair itself— that sleep was safety. When you are awake, you barely speak. Sometimes you looked at Logan like you didn’t trust what you were seeing. Other times you cried and you couldn’t explain why.

Logan never asked you to. He just held you and wiped the tears. “I’ve got you.”

You kept asking if this was real. And Logan told you over and over that it was. That you were safe now. Even when he could tell that you didn’t believe it, he kept telling you.

The first nightmare hit on the third night. You were screaming before you even woke— voice ragged and hands clawing at the wire you still thought were there. You hit Logan and bit him. You sobbed so hard your whole body shook. Logan didn’t flinch. He simply fought you gently and held you, trying to ground you.

“They’re gone,” he whispered. “You’re safe. They can’t touch you now. You’re not theirs.”

You didn’t stop crying for a long time and he didn’t let go.

Days later, you sat in the library, curled in one of the chairs you used to love. You had a book in your lap but your eyes couldn’t focus. The words kept slipping. You knew the words— your mind still remembered— but your body recoiled. The act of reading, once second nature, now made your hands tremble. Logan watched from the corner. You shut the book.

“I can’t,” you whispered, defeated.

He crossed the room and knelt in front of you. “Then I’ll read to you.”

You looked down, ashamed. “Do you still want me?” The words were so small, broken.

He reached for your hand. “More than anything. Even when it’s hard. Even if it’s never easy again. You’re not a job, sweetheart. You’re mine.”

You nodded and let him take the book.

~~~

One morning, a student knocked over a cart in the hallway and the loud crash made you jump, heart racing. You began to shut down— breath catching, eyes glazing over. But Logan was there in a heartbeat, hands gently holding your face.

“Deep breath,” he guided. “Right here. Just us.”

You breathed in and then out.

“That’s my girl.” He kissed your forehead. “Keep breathing. I got you.”

~~~

It was late. The halls of the mansion were dark and still. Logan couldn’t find you in the infirmary or the library. But when he came to his room, he found you sitting on the floor, knees tucked up to your chest, curled in on yourself like you were trying to be small. You were wearing one of his shirts, sleeves pulled over your hands. You didn’t look up when he entered.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asked gently.

You shook your head. He didn’t press. He just closed the door behind him, walked over slowly, and sunk to the floor beside you. You sat in silence for a while.

Then, you spoke up, voice thin and shaky, “I thought I was stronger than this.”

“You are,” he replied, sounding so sure.

You finally glanced at him. “I’m scared all the time. Of sounds. Of people looking at me too long. Of falling asleep and waking up back there. I can’t even read a full paragraph without panicking. I shelved one book and had to go lie down for an hour. I can’t help students. I can’t concentrate. I don’t feel like me anymore, Logan. I don’t know who I am without… control. Without knowing everything… without… reading.” You looked away. “And I can’t stop thinking… what if you stop wanting me? What if I never get past this?”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m broken.”

“No. You’re not.”

“You don’t understand—“

“I do. I know what it feels like to be ripped out of your own head. To wake up and not know what parts of you are yours anymore. To be scared that what they did made you unlovable.” He moved closer, taking your hand and pulling it to him. “But you are still you. Even when it’s hard. Even when you can’t feel it or keep questioning it. I see you, darlin’. I see you. Every piece of you.”

Tears spilled over before you could stop them. You folded into Logan like gravity was pulling you there. You bury your face in his chest and cry. Logan simply wrapped his arms around you and rocked you gently.

“You don’t have to hide the hard parts from me,” he murmured against your head. “You don’t have to be okay for me to love you.”

You cried harder. “I just want to feel whole again.”

“You will. Not tomorrow. Maybe not not week. But you will. And I’ll still be here. No matter what.”

~~~

The library was mostly empty. It was a quiet day— one of those afternoons where the students were either napping on the lawn or sparring in the Danger Room. But a few linger in the library. A girl, maybe twelve, stood hesitantly at the reference shelf. You were sitting behind the desk, just there. A book was opened din your lap— not to read but to feel the weight of it. One of Logan’s flannels were draped over your shoulders, sleeves rolled at the cuffs. Your heartbeat still skipped sometimes when a door slammed. And you still checked the exits without thinking. But you were in the library and that was something.

When the girl at the shelf sighed— frustrated— you spoke up before you could stop yourself. “Need help?”

She looked up, startled. “Uh… yeah. We’re supposed to write about resistance movements in Europe, but… I can’t even spell half of this stuff.”

You smiled, just slightly. “Try ‘Maquis’. M-A-Q-U-I-S. French resistance. I think you’ll like them.”

She perked up. “Is there a book about them?”

“There’s a few.” You stood slowly. “Come on. I’ll show you where they live.”

The girl followed you to the far wall. Your steady, not fast, still healing from the neural drain. But you walked with purpose. You find the book and hand it to her.

She grinned. “You’re really good at this.”

You rose an eyebrow. “At being a librarian?”

“At making it make sense.”

Across the library, Logan stood silent. He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching your every move. When you turn and catch his eye, he smiled. You tried not to be too embarrassed.

‘What?’ You mouthed.

He just shrugged. But he was already thinking of a dozen ways to tell the others— Jean, Ororo, Charles— that today, you came back. Even just for a moment.

~~~

You had finally done it. After weeks inside the mansion, you decided to take a quiet walk outside. The wind was soft and the sun was warm. You had a book in your hands, just for the weight. You were okay. Until, your chest seized and your breath hitched. Something slipped into your mind. It was subtle at first. A brush of thought. Then it hit, an unwelcome pressure. A mind not your own was inside your head.

You dropped the book and fell to your knees. Your vision blurred and the pressure spiked behind your eyes. Your hands flew up to your head.

“No— no no no no!” You scammed. “Get out! Get out!”

~~~

Logan felt it before he heard your screams. He ran through the halls at full speed, blowing past students and furniture. You were in the garden, on your knees, hyperventilating. You were curled in on yourself like your skull was going to split in two.

Logan dropped beside you, voice low and urgent. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“They’re in my head again— Logan! They’re in— I can’t— I can’t!”

He lifted you into his arms and pressed your head to his chest. “No one’s in there now. Just me. Just me, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

Behind him, Jean rushed through the doorway, pale. “I didn’t mean to,” she stammered. “I didn’t even realize— I was scanning the grounds and I must’ve— Logan, I’m sorry—“

Logan’s head snapped towards her, eyes full of ice.

~~~

Logan gathered all of them. Jean, Charles, Emma, and any other telepathy with regular access to the mansion. He paced in front of them, hands clenched.

“She just started walking outside again,” he voice was low but razor-sharp. “Just started. Like today. And someone pushed into her head like it was a hallway.”

Jean swallowed. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“I don’t care. Accident or not, you don’t touch her mind. You don’t scan her, brush her, or think too hard in her direction. Not without her permission. Not unless she asks.”

Emma sighed. “We can’t always avoid passive contact. We’re trained to keep our fields contained, but—“

“Then train harder. Because if it happens again? I don’t care who you are. I’ll treat you like any other threat.”

“He’s right,” Charles spoke up, calm and firm. “She is still recovering from a psychic violation more invasive than any of us can truly understand. We must respect her mental space. No exceptions.”

Jean nodded. “I’ll make sure everyone understands. And I’ll apologize to her again.”

Logan didn’t respond. He was already halfway out the door.

~~~

You were curled up in Logan’s bed, still shaken and quiet. But you were holding his flannel against your chest like it could anchor you.

When Logan came in, you whispered, “Was it really an accident?”

“Yeah,” he replied, coming to sit beside you. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”

“I panicked.”

“You had every right to.”

You looked up at him. “Did you tell them?”

“I told them and made sure they heard me.” He brushed his knuckles down your cheek. “No one touches your mind again without your say-so. Ever.”

~~~

Later that night, you were still jittery. Logan was beside you. Reading, but not really— his focus was mostly on you. You rolled onto your side.

“I don’t want to feel like this,” you whispered.

“I know,” he replied. He closed the book. “You wanna try something? Something Jean taught me a while back?”

You nodded. He took your hands and gently pulled you up to sit across from him. He let his hands wrapped around yours.

“Close your eyes.”

You obeyed.

“Now listen to me. Just my voice. We’re gonna ground you, alright? Five things.”

You breathed in and out.

“Name five things you can feel.”

Your voice was shaky. “The blanket. Your hands. My shirt. The sheet. The mattress.”

“Good, baby. Now four things you can hear.”

“The breeze outside. Your breathing. The clock. The paper from your book— it buzzes.”

“Three things you can smell.”

You smiled faintly. “Your cologne. Coffee. And… old paper.”

His lips twitched up. “Two things you can taste.”

“My toothpaste… and… coffee.”

“Okay, darlin’, now one thing you can see.”

You opened your eyes, just enough. “You.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “Still here… still yours.”

~~~

You started to work in the library for one hour a day. In the early morning, when the halls were quiet and the students were still tricking down for breakfast. The smell of books, old wood, and sun filtering through high windows was enough to help your breath settle.

The first thing you did was dust the shelves. Section by section. No sorting or cataloguing. You moved your hands gently along the familiar spines, like you were re-learning a language. Logan didn’t follow you in during that hour. He sat outside the door, reading a book he won’t admit that he’s re-reading just because you once said it was underrated.

~~~

The second week, you began shelving again. Only returns for now. You don’t touch the recommendation board that you used to keep updated or reorganize the new arrivals. But when students dropped books into the return bin, you sorted them one at a time. Some of the students left notes with them.

“I liked this one. Thanks for showing it to me.”

“Can you help me find another with a strong girl lead?”

You didn’t answer aloud yet. But you tucked the notes into a little drawer in your desk.

~~~

The third week, you were in the library more during open hours now. At first, the students tiptoed around you. But the moment you recommended a book to a group of students working on a project, everything shifted.

“Miss?” A new student nervously approached. “I don’t really like reading but Mr. Logan said you could find something even I’d like.”

You glanced at Logan, who leaned in the doorway not even pretending he didn’t send the student.

You smiled at the student. “How do you feel about ghosts?”

By Friday of that week, the recommendation board had two new entires in your handwriting. Logan stood across the room, reading the board over and over like it was sacred. Because to him, it was.

~~~

The fourth week is when you began to work full days. The library had been buzzing the entire week. Students trickled in and out, teacher stopped by. Even Charles paused in the doorway with a proud little smile. You helped with essays, made book recommendations, and repaired books.

Now the week was over and you were exhausted. You made it halfway through Logan’s door before your knees buckled. He caught you in one smooth, steady motion— arms wrapping around you without question.

“Whoa, there,” he mumbled. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” you murmured, already leaning onto him heavily.

He chuckled. “You’re cooked.”

“Thoroughly.”

He smiled. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you off your feet.”

Before you knew it, you were on his bed in one of his old t-shirts and flannel pajama pants. He disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with a warm plate, a thermos of tea, a water bottle, and an ice pack.

“Dinner of champions,” he commented, setting everything down. “You barely ate lunch.”

“I was busy,” you mumbled, tired.

“You’re always busy.” He settled the ice pack gently against your lower back. “Doesn’t mean you don’t need takin’ care of.”

You didn’t argue. Logan fed you a few bites— not because you couldn’t do it yourself, but because it made him smile and you were too tired to resist how gentle he was tonight.

“You made it,” he said after a while.

“Made it?”

“You got through the week. Every single day. That’s worth something.”

You sighed, leaning against his chest and closing your eyes. “I’m proud of myself. But I’m so tired.”

“I know. You’ve been carrying a lot.”

“How are you so good at this whole ‘supportive partner’ thing?”

He chuckled, kissing your head. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my image.”

“Too late.”

~~~

The next evening, you were in search of Logan. You followed the soft hum of something old-school playing on the speakers in the kitchen. You rounded the corner and paused in the doorway. Logan was at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows and apron on. The picture of domestic competence that you never expected to see.

He looked over his shoulder, lips curing up. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You smiled. “You’re cooking?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve cooked for you before.”

You stepped inside, the music playing low. “What’s the occasion?”

He shrugged, tossing a few vegetables into a skillet. “Figured you deserved a night that didn’t revolve around trauma. Just good food, soft music, and, well, me.”

You laughed, warm and light. “That sounds perfect.”

He gestured to the counter. “Sit. I’ll finish up.”

You perched yourself on the counter behind him and watched him move around the kitchen. You just let yourself enjoy the moment.

~~~

Dinner was simple, but surprisingly very good. You ate across from each other at the tiny table tucked near the window. He lit a candle between the two of you.

You raised a teasing brow. “Romantic, are we?”

He shrugged, but his ears reddened. “Maybe.”

You finished eating with your foot nudged against his under the table.

~~~

The two of you were working on cleaning the dishes with another song came on— slower and sweeter. You hummed softly, swaying a little at the sink. Logan came up behind you, towel for drying still in hand, and leaned in close.

“C’mon,” he urged.

“What?”

He offered you his hand, eyes softening. “Dance with me.”

You hesitated for a breath but then took it. His hand slid around your waist. Your fingers found his shoulder. The two of you moved slowly, turning in time with the soft melody.

“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted quietly.

“Neither do I,” he pulled you just a little closer. “Don’t matter.”

“Doesn’t.”

He chuckled. “Doesn’t.”

You closed your eyes and let the world blur around you. You let his warmth and the music carry you somewhere far from everything that every hurt. Your cheek rested against his shoulder.

“You feeling’ okay?” He murmured.

“I am now.”

~~~

You were surprised it hadn’t happened earlier in your relationship. It began wit his breathing. You woke up to the sound of it— harsh and fast and uneven. Logan twisted beside you, the sheets tangled around his legs, chest heaving. A growl ripped from his throat, low and feral. Then his claws unsheathed.

“Logan,” you whispered, sitting up. “It’s okay. Hey, it’s just a dream—“

But before you could touch his arm, he lashed out. Metal flashed close to your face and suddenly pain bloomed in your shoulder. You gasped— more from the shock than the actual wound itself. It’s shallow, but your hand flew to the bleeding skin just beneath your collarbone. He woke instantly, eyes wide and wild.

“No,” he rasped, breath catching. “No, no, no— what did I— fuck!”

You tried to speak and to reach him, but he was already scrambling out of the bed. He was already backing away.

“Logan,” you said gently, trying to mask the pain. “It was an accident.”

“I hurt you.”

“It was a dream. You didn’t—“

“That doesn’t matter!” His voice cracked as his shaky hands finally retracted the claws. “I said I’d never hurt you. I said— I said I’d never be that person again.”

Your vision blurred. “You’re not. Logan, you’re not.”

But he was already pulling on his jacket— panic in every line of his body. He refused to look at you. “I need— I need air. And time.”

He was gone before you could beg him to stay.

~~~

Jean and Charles could feel what had happened. You were already trying to bandage yourself in the infirmary when Storm found you.

“He went into the woods,” she told you.

You nodded numbly. “Did he say anything?”

“Only that he was afraid he’d do worse next time.”

“He won’t.”

“I know that. And you know that. But he doesn’t.”

~~~

You found him on a ridge above the lake, crouched low with his knees to his chest. When he looked up at you, his eyes were rimmed red. His fists clenched in the dirt like he was trying to bury himself in it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said hoarsely.

“This is exactly where I should be.”

“I hurt you.”

“You love me.”

He flinched.

You stepped closer. “I’m okay. It wasn’t dep.”

“That’s not the point. What if one day it is? What if one day I…”

You knelt in front of him, taking one of his hands in both of yours. “You’ve never laid a finger on me in anger. Not once. You don’t hurt me.”

His eyes locked on yours— desperate to believe you.

You placed his palm against your chest, over your heat. “This is where you live. Right here.”

He let out a ragged breath and then broke. You held him close while he cried.

~~~

The next night, you came back from brushing your teeth to find Logan already curled up dup on the floor. He had a thin blanket and a pillow, with his body turned away from the bed.

You paused in the doorway. “Logan?”

“Just for tonight.” His voice was rough.

You didn’t push. But you lied in bed and stared at the ceiling for hours, listening to him breath just a few feet away. The distance between you two was heavier than any wound.

~~~

Logan was already on the floor the next night when you entered. In the same spot and posture. You stood at the edge of the bed.

“You don’t have to—“

“I do.”

You knelt beside him. “Logan, you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“That’s not the point. I still did.”

You reached for him but he flinched. Your throat closed as you slipped into bed alone again.

~~~

It was the fifth night that became your breaking point. Logan was already on the floor. You stood at the door, waiting for him to break first but he didn’t.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you whispered. “Logan, I need you. And you won’t even look at me.”

Logan didn’t say thing and so you walked out. He didn’t stop you.

~~~

The bed in your room felt wrong. It was too big and too cold. You curled up on your side, waiting to hear the sound of him coming. But he never came and you cried into your pillow.

~~~

The week that followed was painful— for the both of you and everyone around you.

Day One

You passed him in the hallway. He slowed when he saw you. Like he wanted to say something but didn’t. You kept walking.

Day Three

You heard him in the Danger Room while Hank was doing a quick examination of your shoulder, just to be safe. Logan was tearing into the training bots like they had personally offend him. When he limped past the library later, all sweaty, he didn’t look in. You watched him from behind your desk.

Day Four

Jean gently asked if you were okay. You lied and said yes. You knew she could see right through you, but she didn’t push.

Day Six

You almost knocked on his door. Almost. You stood there for ten whole minutes, hand hovering near the wood. But you walked away again. And he heard every footstep.

Day Seven

You found one of his flannels under your bed. It still faintly smells like him. That night, you wore it to bed.

~~~

Logan hadn’t slept. He lied on the floor because he thought he deserved it. He thought it was safer and that distance was kindness. But every time he closed his eyes, he heard you leave again. He whispered your name into the dark. Every night. Over and over again.

~~~

Logan stood by the window in Charles’ office, arms folded tight and jaw locked. Charles watched him from behind his desk, calm as ever, but with that knowing look. The one that said he had already heard Logan’s thoughts.

“You call me here to lecture me?” Logan muttered.

“No,” Charles replied simply. “I called you here because you’ve been bleeding more in the Danger Room than on the battlefield and you haven’t spoken to Y/N in a week.”

Logan didn’t move.

“She walks through the mansion like a ghost, Logan. The students are asking if she’s sick again. Jean asked me if she should start forcing her to check in more. All Y/N says is that she’s fine.”

“She deserves someone who won’t hurt her in her sleep.”

“She deserves someone who won’t disappear the moment she needs comfort. She thought you were that person.”

Logan turned slowly. “I hurt her, Charles.”

“I know.”

“I swore I wouldn’t and I did.”

“You didn’t mean to. She knows that.”

He began to pace. “It doesn’t matter what I meant. What if next time I don’t wake up? What if I— What if I go full animal in my sleep and she pays the price?”

“And what happens when you do similar damage by keeping this distance?”

“… I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Just show up.”

He dropped into a chair in front of Charles’ desk, rubbing his face with both hands. “She’s sleeping in that big bed alone. I know it. And I’m just down the hall, pretending I’m not a coward.”

“You’re not a coward. You’re in love and you’re terrified.”

“I should’ve followed her…”

“You still can.”

~~~

You sat up with a yawn the next morning. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and suddenly tripped. You stumbled forward with a startled gasp, catching yourself on the nightstand before you fell flat. Your eyes snapped down.

“Logan?!”

There he is, curled at the side of your bed. On the floor, asleep. He had a blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon, boots kicked off by the wall. His brows were furrowed even in his sleep. You knelt down beside him. His eyes opened slowly, hazy with sleep and something fragile underneath.

“What are you doing?” You whispered.

“Couldn’t stay away any longer.”

What didn’t you wake me?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t think I deserved to.”

You shook your head. “Logan…”

“I missed you. I missed you so bad I was shaking.”

You leaned down and kissed his cheek. “I tripped over you.”

He huffed a laugh, short and embarrassed. “Romantic, huh?”

You nodded. “Deeply… come back to bed.” You could see the hesitation in his eyes. You held out your hand. “Please.”

Logan slid his fingers through yours and lets you pull him up. You led him to the bed and he climbed in beside you. You curled into him immediately and his arms wrapped around you just as quickly.

“No more running,” you whispered against his collarbone, pressing a kiss to it.

“No more.”

next: The Relapse >

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sabo-has-my-heart · 2 days ago

Text

Let Me Take Care Of You

Zoro

Warnings: mentions of nudity, chronic pain

Word Count: 920

Normally it wasn’t too bad, or at least, you’d gotten used to it, but some days you could barely get out of bed, some days you could barely move, some days, you sobbed into your pillow because you felt so useless. Not that Zoro would ever call you useless, or even thought you were useless. Laying in bed, Zoro slowly, gently helped you into a sitting position, despite the pain. Normally he’d let you lie there, let you sleep and try to recover, but you still needed to eat and drink something. A few tears escaped as he held a spoon up to your mouth, feeding you soup. Despite your protests that you could at least eat on your own, he insisted on feeding you.

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re gonna be okay.” Zoro said, putting the bowl down and wiping away your tears.

“I… I know I’ll be okay in a few days but I just… I’m so useless. Why do you stay with me? Stay with someone who’s so much trouble?” you asked, more tears starting to fall. Zoro just chuckled and shook his head.

“Who said you cause me trouble? Who ever said you were useless? I’ll kick their ass for making you feel that way.” Zoro said, gently pulling you into his lap, trying to cause you as little pain as possible while still comforting you.

“I… no one has to say it, it’s obvious how much I inconvenience you, how I can’t do anything.” you sobbed, head laying against his chest, managing to slowly wrap your arms around him.

“Stop that, stop saying that you’re an inconvenience, that you cause me trouble or that you’re useless. You’re amazing. You’re my partner, the one I love. You could never cause me trouble.” Zoro swore, rubbing your back soothingly, the other on your head, holding you close.

“But I… I can’t do anything. I can’t even get out of bed on my own. You… you sit there feeding me, you carry me wherever I need to go, you… I can’t do anything on my own.” you argued, still stubbornly thinking that you were worthless.

“I said to stop saying that shit. I feed you because I want to, because I’m hoping that it’ll help you feel better, because I hate it when you’re in pain, I carry you because I like holding you in my arms, and you can do things, even on your bad days, you can make me feel happy, make me feel loved.” Zoro said, wanting, hoping to make you understand how much of a burden you weren’t, how you were still the most wonderful person in the world, with or without being able to do things for him. You stayed silent, not sure how to argue with that, not sure you wanted to argue with him about that. Clearly he saw something special in you, he was Zoro, he wasn’t someone who lied to people just to make them feel better, meaning that for some reason, he saw something special about you.

“Come on, I know something that might help.” he said, picking you up and carrying you to the bathroom. He’d already prepared a bath, the water still nice and warm, undressing the both of you before getting in, still holding you. It wasn’t anything particularly ‘special’. No rose petals or bubbles, not bath bombs or scented candles, but to be honest, that was fine with you, the warm water was relaxing. Slowly, you leaned your head back, letting it rest on Zoro’s shoulder, letting the warmth soothe your pains.

“If I can’t take away your pain, then I’ll do everything in my power to try to lessen it, to make things easier for you. I’ll do whatever it takes to make things better.” he promised, gently kissing your shoulder, “I might not be a doctor or anything, I can’t stop the pain or make it go away, but I’ll do whatever I can to help, to make you feel less pain.” Zoro added, running his hands over your body in a light pseudo massage, hoping it would help. He didn’t know much about what you were going through, didn’t know what would actually help, but he’d try his best.

As soon as the water had cooled, he was helping you dry off before carrying you back to bed, curling up next to you, still careful about you moving too much.

“Let me take care of you, let me take care of everything for you. Let me help with your pain, help keep you from feeling pain.” Zoro asked, almost pleading, or at least as close to pleading as Zoro ever got. You just smiled and nodded, feeling a little happier to have him there.

“Alright, I… if it means that much to you to take care of me, then I’ll let you do so, but only so long as it doesn’t cause you trouble. Promise me you’ll tell me the moment I become too much trouble. Pinky swear.” you said, making the man smile. Zoro took your pinky with his, despite the fact that he thought it was silly.

“Pinky swear. You know I’d never lie to you.” he said before snuggling closer to you, the both of you quickly falling asleep for one of Zoro’s infamous naps, he’d take care of you, he’d never think you were worthless or troublesome, because he loved you and he loved taking care of you, even if he wasn’t as good at it as he wished he was.

#one piece zoro #one piece #op zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro roronoa #roronoa zoro #zoro #zoro x reader #zoro roronoa x reader #pirate hunter zoro x reader #pirate hunter zoro #king of hell zoro x reader #king of hell zoro

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theemptywallet · 2 days ago

Note

Hii hello!! May I please submit a Banhammer x reader Angst/ comfort?

Reader is a criminal who hates him!! But Banhammer loves them with all his heart.

Reader gets injured during an attempt to escape and Banhammer helps them get patched up and the Reader confesses they were scared of being killed off and they secretly loved him back.

Cant catch me.

a reader×banhammer angst comfort!

tw for minimal blood and violence.

· · ─────── · ☾· ─────── · ·

Life had done you dirty.

You spawned into the world, fueled only by desperation. Every day, you pick-pocketed any amount of bux you could in Crossroads just to put some scraps on the table. People looked down on those like you, of course. In their eyes, you were nothing but filthy vermin, selfishly stealing from others’ pockets. Maybe they would understand if they had to experience the feeling og an empty stomach on a cold night, or watching other kids complaining about the smallest of things while you grew up with nothing but the clothes on your back. You envied the lives of those who didn't have to worry about whether food would be on the table that night—envied those with well-stitched garments on them.

“Tch..they didn’t even get my nose right…” You sneered as you ripped the wanted poster off the wall of the alley and crumpled it. You had garnered some notoriety around the area for theft and some sort of assault crime. You scoffed under your breath. Despite your situation, you hardly ever resorted to violence. After all, staying low was much safer and efficient. People were just hellbent on making you look like a monster.

You slipped through the crowd like fog, hand sliding into some inphernal’s back pocket and then out again before they could even blink. Another turn, another wallet. Easy and efficient. With the amount of bux you were pocketing, you just might be able to afford a decent meal tonight…or maybe buy a jacket to better cover your face in future thievery? You were still scheming to find your next victim when your attention was suddenly diverted to a commotion nearby.

“Hey, is that…” someone muttered.

“Why would he be here?” another replied.

Inphernals were moving. Fast. Not casually like shoppers…more like they were scattering? You squinted your eyes, pulling your hood a little lower, blending within the crowd of confused inphernals.

“Banhammer’s in the area”

That whisper passed around the crowd, and your blood turned icy cold once it reached your ears. Fuck. You purposely chose to be in the market, as Banhammer never went there. You avoided that warden like the plague. Despised him. The way he brutally brought inphernals like you to the Banlands for just trying to survive in this hellhole of a world. You hated that. The coldness in your blood turned into boiling rage the moment your eyes landed on him. With caution, you swiftly slip away from the crowd before the warden spots you. You had some close calls of Banhammer going for your throat. You’ve heard rumours of him preferring to play with his prey before inevitably bringing them to the Banlands. Cocky bastard. However, you knew better than to engage with him, as you’ve seen how incredibly powerful he is. One thing you’ve always pondered about was why he had never been able to apprehend you. In every close encounter you have had with him, Banhammer could have easily captured you. Sure, you were skilled from your daily sneaking and thieving, but you were definitely no match for the warden of Banlands himself… or was he doing this on purpose? So he could keep you on edge and living in fear for the next time you encounter him? Bastard.

At the same time, you admired him. You envied his strength. Unlike you, he used his skill to bring justice, while you…well… Your scrawny body was littered with scars and your ribcage was visible. You had been wearing the same thing for swords know how long. On the other hand, Banhammer was jacked. Could probably snap you in half like a twig if he wanted to! He had armour that shone brighter than your future and was sturdier than your mental state.

You inched toward a corner, trying to take a peek. And then you saw him. Advancing. Nearer. Towering over the crowd and moving calmly, methodically like a predator that knew no one could stop him. Inphernals moved out of his way before he even neared them. And of course, he spotted you.

Panic bloomed like rot in your chest.

You bolted and weaved through the back alleys- all your routes you knew at the back of your hands. If you were fast enough, you could be out of his range before he -

“Well.. It's you.”

You'd bumped into someone while turning into a corner. Slammed straight into someone. You didn't even need to look up to know who it was. There was no point in running now.

Banlands was a cruel place, worse than the rumours, a broken wasteland under one red sky, air buzzing with chains eerily rattling on the floors. The chains placed around your wrists felt heavy, familiar.

You weren't meant to be here. No one ever comes back once brought to Banlands. They just disappear. No, you were meant to survive, no matter what it takes, not… disappear. One of Banhammer’s subordinates was keeping an eye on you. Just one. With no time to waste, you wrenched your body towards them and head butted them. They stumbled, and you took the chance, using your legs to kick them down, immobilising them.ba quickly pocketed the key to your chains from the subordinate's jacket with your teeth. Bolting off, you ran away before they had the chance to get back up. With minimal struggle, you stuck the key in the chain locks and unlocked them. You were nearing the fence. Yes! Once you cross that border, you will finally be free. You cross over the rocky terrain and make your way.

But something always has to go wrong in your life.

Before you knew it, a deafening shot burst in your eardrums. You spin with impact, and blood gushes out of your waist. Like someone stuck straight up lava into your waist. It burns as you clutch the wound on your waist, and blood seeps through your fingers. You fell backwards and your back hit the floor with a loud thud on impact. You desperately clawed at the floor, trying to pull yourself up, to escape. But no matter how you move, you couldn't. Your vision was fading. A guard had spotted you trying to escape and shot you.

“Stop! Don't fire! I'll handle this," you heard a gruff, shaky voice cry out.

You didn't bother to look up.

“Go on," you rasped, voice shaking. "Kill me. That's all I'm worth now."

Banhammer didn't answer.

Instead, his shadow fell over you. Surprisingly warm hands reached down. You flinched violently.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You’re hurt.”

“Really? Why don't you fix it before you kill me? Isn't that more satisfying for you, you sadist?"

He didn't snap back. Instead, he knelt over you. Gently, lifting you into his arms. Your head fell weakly against his shoulder. His grip was solid, steady, but slightly trembling. You hated how warm it felt.

Next thing you knew, you woke up in a prison cell. But the cell wasn't locked. You touched your waist and felt the cool touch of bandages. All patched up.

“You know, you're a good person, right?”

You jerked your head up and sat up immediately. A sharp pain shot down your body, and you winced, holding your hip. Banhammer sees this and holds you, steadying you like you were fragile glass pieces

He looked at you. And for once, you were not looking at the proud and arrogant Banhammer. There was grief and weariness behind his eyes.

"Why didn't you just get it over with?"

"I couldn't.."

You raised a brow.

Every time you escaped, every time you ran, every time you cursed and spat my name, I still cared. I never wanted to kill you."

Your lip quivers, traitorously,

"I hated you."

“I know. "

You looked away, too afraid to look at him.

“I don't want to die. I kept running because I thought, if you caught me, I wouldn't come back."

His gaze softened. "You'll always come back."

"I can't die loving someone who would choose the system over me.” You choked out

"I already chose you.”

For the first time in your life, you let your guard down. Like no one was out there to get you. Like you were safe for once. Your shoulders heaved.

He shifts nearer to you. Gently resting your head against his chest. He adjusted your position, shifting you to his side so that you faced him, your noses nearly touching his. He could see the features of your face, your lashes casting a faint shadow on your cheek. Despite your rugged appearance, you were so beautiful to him.

"You don't need to do this anymore. To barely scrape by and survive. I can help you." He rasped.

You let out a chuckle. Maybe.

“I guess it's much better than seeing my face being messed up on wanted posters.”

Banhammer lets out a deep chuckle as he ruffles your hair. He squeezed your hand, nearly crushing it.

You did not need to run anymore.

im not great at doing banhammer fics so im sorry if it sounds off

ondjdskskks im on holidays now so I may be able to write more

school starts on 30 June tho omgbfjd

#phighting x reader #phighting #phighting!#banhammer phighting #writing #my fic #× reader #reader × banhammer #emptywalletyaps #phight

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thesafeplaceweneed · 2 days ago

Text

Shadow and Little flame

I am really happy you liked the first part! And I am sorry for taking so long, but school is killing me. I have so much work to do with basically no time left to chill or write. But I will try!

Part 1

Part 2

The Autumn forest near the Spring border was unusually quiet. Beron’s power was pulsing beneath the surface through every living being. It was the place where Vanserra’s name causes suspicion and fear, and Y/N hated every part of being the cause of fear. She moved like a whisper in the wind with Azriel trailing behind her, the glamouring spells covering them both. His shadows kept whispering to him, but he never paid attention to them keeping his focus on the Autumn princess in front of him.

“If you’re trying to be intimidating with your silence you should really try harder,” I said without looking back at him. “I was raised by Beron.”

Azriel didn’t answer, he couldn’t because he knew she was right, but he would never admit it to her. Yes, he tried to be intimidating and normally his silence and deep stare would work. He had another reason be not say a word though and it was her voice. He hated her with passion but something in her voice calmed him and his shadows. And he hated her for that even more.

“We’re at Spring.” I said and stopped to look around. “We need to be careful now. Tamlin let his guards down but keeps patrolling his lands.” I didn’t wait for him to answer. I expected no answer at all. “Hybern is sending his supplies through the south port. If we cut it now, we can delay them for at least a week or two.” I turned to him only to find him studying me closely.

“Why are you really helping us?” He asked and I furrowed my eyebrows at first. Then I chuckled darkly and crossed my arms.

“I think it’s pretty obvious why.” I glared at him. “But I understand that your thick skull can’t grasp it, so I will tell you again.” I took a step closer to him raising my head slightly. “I want Hybern dead.”

“Doesn’t sound like answer to me. Sounds like your personal vengeance.” He took a step closer to me as well trying to intimidate me with his height.

“Vengeance is my answer.” I chuckled again. “You of all people should understand.”

Azriel grabbed my neck forcing me to raise my head to him again. I showed no fear and waited for his next move. I could burn him from the inside out if I wanted to.

“You and I are nothing alike.” He growled.

“Are we, Shadowsinger?” I whispered. “Tell me what you want to do to my brother for what happened to Morrigan.” He let go of my neck and without a word walked away. I didn’t care where he went to, but I was sure I felt something tickle my ankle. I looked down only to find one of his shadows leaving me and going after its master. I let my flame dance around my fingers for a second to calm down.

He came back a second later, so I crossed my arms while glaring at him. He said nothing only stalked to me. “Hey!” I snapped when he grabbed my arm only to winnow us to the port. I pulled my arm away from him. He turned away from me and looked at the port. I went to stand next to him and looked down. “Good luck.”

Azriel looked at me and furrowed his eyebrows. “Why don’t you use your little flame and be useful for once?” He snickered.

I crossed my arms and shook my head. “Sorry to break it to you, but I can’t do that.” I glared at him. “Why do you think I needed you to go with me? You though I brought you along just because I like your presence?” I chuckled, uncrossed my arms and took a step closer. “They say you’re smart, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel said nothing, only winnowed down there. Y/N stayed hidden on the cliff above the port watching Azriel moved like a smoke in the wind. Only his shadows were visible from her view. She had never seen anything like that before. Even if he was killing people and destroying their supplies he moved with a grace. Once again, she felt something curling around her ankle. Not bothering to check what it was, because she already knew she would find one of his shadows there. Azriel was making sure she stayed in the place not only because he didn’t trust her but because of the tiny voice back in his head telling him to make sure she was safe.

#azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel imagine #acotar #shadow and little flame

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vibratingskull · 22 hours ago

Text

The first step to mend always hurts

Part1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36

Tags : Reader is disabled, fluff, self-doubts, therapy, support, ED mention, Cunni, Thrawn is a voracious puss eater

You go back to work, trying to remain amicable to Konstantine, and soon enough your first therapy rendez vous come up with Thrawn to support you

Thrawn x F!reader

“What?!” Admiral Konstantine sneers.

You try really hard not to sigh or raise your voice at the face of your superior. Seated behind his desk, a datapad neglectfully lying on the cold metal next to his glass of alcohol, half empty by now, he observes you like you’re spouting nonsense to his face.

“I said, I will need the Relentless and the Chimaera to meet, Sir.”

“And what might be the reasons for that outrageous demand?”

“Medical reasons.”

“We have a med bay on board of the Relentless, you are going nowhere.” He decides.

“I already spoke to Grand Admiral Thrawn, and he agreed.” You politely let him know.

You see his nostrils flaring and his eyebrow frowning in disgust and indignation.

“Oh! So you took the liberty to ask directly to the big hat before informing your own Admiral and superior, I see.” He is pissed off.

You remain silent, letting him agitate himself in his chair, pestering about his godly authority being bypassed by a mere Commander. You internally sigh, after years of service under his lead, Admiral Konstantine didn’t find favour in your eyes, remaining a little man in a uniform too big for him, but not his ego.

“You tend to take your ease a little too much since you started to buddy-up with the Grand Admiral Thrawn, maybe a reminder of your true position would do all of us good for your future work.”

You merely raise an eyebrow in response.

Oh, if only he knew the true nature of your relationship with Thrawn, he would choke.

He keeps going.

“I saw plenty of your species in my time, little officers agglomerating around bigger fishes in the hope their power would shine on them too. But it will not work with me, Commander. You will go back to your post while I think of an appropriate sentence for your transgression. It is time discipline gets back on the ISD and among the troops. Your behavior is simply unacceptable.”

“I take it your response is a ‘no’.” You just note.

“What you suggest is grotesque and simply impossible. Do you think we will force two entire ISDs to meet for you to go see a doctor?”

“I never suggested we force them to comply with my agenda; on the contrary, my appointment has been determined by the ISD’s road route. We decided on a date when the two will join organically on the campaign.”

“That could not happen for months”

“The Relentless is part of Grand Admiral Thrawn’s fleet, they will inevitably join their forces, more often than you’re ready to accept.”

He grumbles lowly, seething at the mouth. He hates it when the Relentless join back the Chimaera to resume a campaign because Thrawn is the ultimate authority, and you came to understand Konstantine loves his little power when he is away from the Chiss.

“My answer is still no.” He finally decides.

“Then I will let you explain to the Grand Admiral why his orders won’t be obeyed.”

“You are still under my authority.”

“The Grand Admiral’s powers surpass you. In the end, we are all his officers.”

At that point you see the thought of throwing his mug at your face crosses his mind.

He restrains himself.

“I will personally give him my opinion about this whole situation, reminding him very… politely that the Navy has priorities to follow.” He says, a thin layer of venom transpiring through his voice.

A beeping sound resonates in the office.

“Look who’s calling me!” He says assuredly, but you hear a point of stress, “I can guide him back to reason here and now! You are not needed anymore, go back to your post.”

He shushes you out of the room with disdained hand movement. You bow your head slightly and exit the office, readjusting your hat on your head.

If he wants to argue with Thrawn after all, that is his problem.

You look at your chrono. Thrawn’s leave ended literally 30 minutes ago, and his first order of business is keeping Konstantine in a straight line.

Poor Thrawn.

Managing people like Konstantine and Pryce must be so exhausting…

You go back to the bridge with assured steps as the Relentless is speeding back to Lothal via Hyperspace.

------------------------------------------

You hold the datacard in your hand, playing with it nervously as you cower on your seat.

“Everything is going to be fine.” Thrawn assures you. “They are professionals.”

“I am terribly nervous.” You admit.

Less than a day after the Relentless and the Chimaera joined back the fleet, Thrawn called you to notice your therapy appointment was today. Whatever argument between Thrawn and Konstantine took place, Konstantine lost.

You’re grateful to Thrawn for planning your appointment because, at the first signs of difficulties, you would have gone back on your word, given how stressed it makes you feel.

But Thrawn took care of everything, and as he promised he is with you for the first session.

Despite his cramped agenda.

“I’m sorry to force you to come with me…” You feel the first shudders coming.

“It was your condition for you to go to therapy.” He dismisses it like it is nothing.

“Oh my god, I’m so stressed…” You feel sickness lying at the bottom of your stomach, ready to rise at any inconvenience.

“There is no need to be stressed. Did you eat today?”

You wince. With your stomach in knots, eating is the last thing on your mind.

“No. I couldn’t…”

“I guessed it.” And he takes out something from his large pocket, “Eat.”

He hands you a bright colored, exotic fruit that you take without conviction. You start peeling it with your nails, not at all hungry.

“I saw the results of your latest medical examination, and you lost weight again. Do you eat properly on the Relentless?” He continues, suspicious.

“I eat.” You promise.

“Properly?” He insists.

“... I eat.” You repeat, lowering your head before him.

You hear him take a deep breath. You purse your lips in silence, ready for the berating.

“I also saw your latest athletic scores.” He keeps his voice steady, “You are still not back up to the Imperial standards, but you have made undeniable progress. I am proud of you.”

You turn to him with eyes round and mouth agape.

He doesn’t berate you? No patronizing speech?

“You are?” You ask incredulously.

“Of course. You worked really hard to get back on level with everyone else. I can only encourage you to pursue your efforts and support you.” He responds softly. “Eat.”

You wince at the fruit you were just rotating in your hand to precisely not eat it.

“Do it for me.”

You sigh and bite into the flesh of the fruit. It is fresh and juicy, and tastes delicious. You moan with delectation as you feel a drop of juice running down your chin.

“I want you to follow a proper diet, EDs are as dangerous as any other disorders.” Thrawn summoned you, “I will ask the med droids to give you a diet plan, and I expect you to follow it. Can I count on you?”

You gulp.

“I don’t even have an ED, you're dramatizing.”

“You are on the verge of getting one. This is also why therapy is an excellent means to heal both the body and the spirit.” He preaches gently.

You finish the fruit, licking your hand full of juice droplets.

“Why didn’t you go to therapy then?” You ask.

“I never felt the need.”

“Did you, now? I thought you saw your fair share of atrocities.” You do not dare pronounce the word brother, but he understood it by himself.

“I suffered immensely at his disparition.” He admits, “But I knew therapy could never heal the wounds he left on my heart, that it was simply… Inadequate for my temperament. So I carried on as I always did.” And he closes himself back as an oyster.

So he suffered in silence.

How many wounds did he suffer without ever sharing his pain? How many years of anguish did he amass under his flesh?

“I am sorry, Thrawn…” You try, “I just wish… I just want you to know you can tell me anything.” You seize his hand delicately and squeeze it.

He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses it with so much tenderness you feel your heart melt.

“One day, Cha’cah.” He promises, “One day I will tell you everything. But today is not a good day for it. We are here for you.”

You look at his profile, his regal features, his calm and assured expression, but his eyes are strangely dark and feverish.

He is also sweating.

“Are you alright?” You ask, taking your hand off his grip to take his temperature at his forehead.

“I already took two showers since this morning.” He lets out with a slightly annoyed sigh.

“But why? Are you ill? Are you in any pain?”

He turns his head to you with his dark eyes full of meaning.

Oh… Oh

“You are having a crisis right now?” You ask, flushing terribly at the memories of his first rut together.

“It started early this morning, but being with you in a small, closed space is quite… challenging.”

“Oh no. Thrawn, I am so sorry, if you need to leave because you’re too uncomfortable, I understand perfectly. I can do it, no need for you to suffer like that, I-”

“Nonsense.” He cuts you short, pulling slightly on his collar, “I promised you.”

“Yes, you did… Before a new crisis arose!” You insist.

“Do not trouble yourself for me. It is not as dire as it was at our apartment.” He argues.

You heart flutters.

‘Our apartment’.

“Do… Do my panties… help at least?” You ask, flushing even more in embarrassment.

“Indeed, they do. It is quite a relief to be able to inhale your pheromones when I take care of myself, it eases a lot of the tension.” He reveals without any shame.

You’re going TO DIE of embarrassment. A sudden picture of Thrawn masturbating in his large bed with your panties pressed to his nose, deeply inhaling your scent, flashes in your mind, and you squirm in your seat.

“Good, good…” You let out with a small voice, gulping.

He turns his head slightly to you as you look at the wall in front of you, taking great care not to cross his gaze.

“You know…” He starts with a low, deep voice, “They are really efficient, but they wear off so quickly. I will soon need another batch for my needs.” He whispers in your ear softly, his breath blowing on the outer shell of your ear. “How do you suggest we remedy it?”

You shudder immediately at the magnitude of that voice.

“Thrawn!” You whisper indignantly like someone could hear you, “We are in a waiting room of a doctor!”

“There is nobody else, only us, cheo Cha’cah.” He tilts his head, amused.

“This is so improper, Grand Admiral!” You squeal.

He only chuckles, straightening back on his seat.

“I am playing with you, Cha’cah.”

“Please don’t.” You stutter, your cheeks on fire.

You remain silent for a minute, where you could only hear your heart pounding in your chest. You breathe deep, trying to calm down.

“Where are we going next?” You ask, trying to ease the thick atmosphere, “What are the orders?”

“The Relentless will remain over Lothal while the Chimaera will hunt down the Wyvern.” He explains, “I already ordered Konstantine to let you embark the Chimaera.”

Ah yes, the Wyvern, the ISD the Rebellion managed to steal from the Empire…

“Why?” You inquire.

“Someone giving the orders clearly seemed to know you, maybe even personally. I want you to help us identify patterns and profiles.”

This makes sense. You remember that rebel voice, calling your name when you only gave your family name. Whoever they are, they gained access to some private intel on officers.

“Are you sure they didn’t simply learn my name with the files available on the Wyvern?”

“That is also a possibility, but I want to try every lead possible. Stealing an ISD is an unprecedented feat, and it requires grand measures.”

You nod silently.

It appears you will remain on the Chimaera for some time.

With Thrawn.

Together.

You feel your heart pounding again.

After ten months away from each other, you spent a week together, and now you’ll move in with him for an undisclosed period of time.

You’re so glad, even if it is only for work, you will be with him.

“Miss (F/n)?” The doctor passes the sliding door.

You both enter the office, which is cold and austere, with only metal everywhere except for the bed and the armchair of the therapist.

You sit down in front of the desk, giving her the datacard that she immediately clicks into her datapad to start reading it.

You gulp as you see her eyes traveling up and down her screen in silence, taking note of your medical exams, your health record, and the notes of the therapist who saw you three times at the hospital. You dig your nails into your seat. Thrawn is cool and calm next to you, awaiting her judgment patiently.

“What do you hope for coming to see me, miss (F/n)?” She finally asks, her reading finished.

“To heal.” You dumbly respond.

“Healing is a broad word holding different meanings from person to person. What does it mean to you?”

You lose all your words.

What does healing mean to you? Do you wish to be reborn? To simply mute the pain and be numb to it? Another thing?

You purse your lips silently, thinking, when Thrawn's hand comes holding yours, tensed around the seat. You look up to his sincere eyes to see his undying support and love.

“I think for now… I just wish to stop suffering.” You decide.

She tilts her head, looking at you.

“I ask that question because for some enlisted, they realize the response to their problems was to quit the Navy ultimately.” Her gaze travels to her Grand Admiral, his hand still on yours, “I suppose you do not wish that, Grand Admiral?”

“What I wish for is not what matters; what matters is her healing journey.” He responds coldly.

She raises her hand peacefully to ease the tension.

“I was simply making sure. Did you already do therapy before, miss?”

“No.”

“Do you know how we proceed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish the Grand Admiral to remain during our appointments?”

“He can?” You blink.

“He is the Grand Admiral.”

“I… No. I would rather not.” You turn to him with “sorry” spelled in your eyes, but he thinly smiles at you, comforting you.

“Could you remain silent about my presence here?” Thrawn asks

“I am tied by professional confidentiality.” She nods, “I will not speak of you, Grand Admiral.”

He nods back lightly when his comlink rings. He takes a look at it before shutting it down.

“I am called on the bridge.” He turns to you to await your reaction.

You smile gently at him, squeezing his hand, remaining discreet in front of a stranger. He squeezes your hand back gently, looking straight into your eyes with a tight smile, and exits the office. You look at him with questions in your eyes.

Wasn’t his hand trembling when he took yours? He seemed worse than in the waiting room.

You hope the crisis isn’t too hard…

“Alright, I will explain one or two things and then I will dive deeper into some matters for today.” she announces.

When you go out one hour later, your brain is fried, full of info. Your comlink rings.

It’s Thrawn.

“Come to my office.”

-------------------------------------------

“Thrawn?” You call, passing the head in his office.

He is sitting in his chair, strangely tense and straight, his shoulders appear so… Stiff.

“How was it?” He asks.

You stop dead in your tracks. What kind of voice is that? You hear compassion, but there is something underlying, something hidden in plain sight, veiled and dangerous.

Something predatory.

“Great? I think… She mostly spoke for today. Explaining things.” The door closes behind you.

“Good.” You hear him take a painful breath, like his lungs are compressed. “I hope you will be at ease for your next appointment.”

He keeps worrying about you, but you’re worrying about him.

You gulp.

“Are you alright?”

“I am at war with myself.” He mysteriously lets out.

So you were right. His state degraded, his rut slowly gnawing at his common sense.

“Do you want me to help?” You immediately ask, ready to jump into action, ready to serve your man.

You hear a faint chuckle coming from him.

“I do not want to force you into anything, Cha’cah.”

“You called for me.” You retort.

“A moment of weakness.”

“Then you’re in an even worse state than we realized.” You start unbuttoning your green jacket nonchalantly, before extending your hand to him with a gentle smile.

He remains still, unmoving, silent, but his burning eyes darted at you.

Only you.

“I do not think this is a good idea.” He slowly says, with an unmistakable tension in his voice.

“We already talked about it. You called for me and I am here. Take my hand, love.” You try the pet name to sweeten him.

And it apparently works, after a visible shudder in his shoulders, he slowly gets up, skirts his desk elegantly, and walks up slowly to you to grip your hand. He intertwines your fingers and squeezes your hands.

He is undeniably hotter than usual, warming up your own body by sheer proximity. He trembles too, very lightly, but it is here.

“What are you afraid of?” You ask him, whispering.

You’re forced to raise your head to look up to him because of how tall he is. His forehead is crossed by a line of tension and you see him gulp, a thin veil of sweat at his temples.

“I do not want to hurt you.” He confesses, his red eyes diving into yours. “If I ever did it, I could never pardon myself.”

“You’re not going to hurt me, Thrawn. I am a big girl.”

“You do not know what you are talking about.” He whispers back.

“Try me.”

“I should not.”

“Then why call me?”

He freezes imperceptibly. Clearly he hadn’t made peace with his condition and is still working on the idea of asking for your help.

That man, you swear… Always trying to bear the load alone!

You’ll need to sweeten him into action.

You raise on your tiptoes to capture his lips. He doesn’t react, which is a testimony to his headspace. He was never afraid of casual physical affection before, but today, he seems closed off, even to you.

You part your hands to circle them around his neck, you peck his lips repeatedly.

Muah! Muah! Muah!

His hands came to your hips, barely holding them like a feather touch.

“Will you not kiss me at the very least?” You pout.

He finally responds, opening his lips to yours, and you enter his mouth to hug and dance with his tongue. You sigh, satisfied against his lips, brushing your breast against his large chest.

His skin is burning under your touch, you scent sweat mixed with his natural musk.

His hands get more daring as the kiss deepens, one of them comes at the back of your head to prevent you from parting from his lips, and the other sneakily slides under your black tank top. You moan seductively, waving your body against his tall one, kissing him languorously, squeezing him in your arms, his large, warm hand fists in your hair, and caressing your back, delicately at first, then with more and more evident signs of urgency.

He pushes you against a wall and traps you against his chest. You hear his purr starting in his chest and throat.

You do not complain. Far from that.

You love that sound.

You love being trapped against his hot, warm body. Being at his complete mercy.

It is exciting.

The kiss gets more demanding and urgent, and you let him take the reins.

He bites your lower lip before parting from you, leaving you both panting.

“What do you need, Thrawn? Tell me.” You encourage him to put his desire into words.

“I need… You.” He finally admits.

It looks like it cost him to admit such a thing; he doesn't relinquish control and power easily. Conceding such a thing must be a huge blow to his Chiss pride. Being vulnerable is an admission of weakness for him, and he cannot be weak.

Not him! Not with all he has to accomplish.

“You have me. Whole. Body and soul.” You kiss his nose and hear his purr getting higher. “What do you want to do?”

What is his relation to desire? How does he feel it in his flesh? Is it a rare occurrence or a constant in his life? How can you help him navigate it? Your mind is racing while you wait for his response, which takes its sweet time to come.

But you wait patiently, you do not want to pressure him.

“I would like to taste you.” His hands come to your cheek to pull into an infinitely tender kiss before he dives back his rubies in your eyes, “Would you allow it? Would you let me eat you out?” Enthusiasm seems to win him over as a starved curiosity appears to devour him.

You’ve never done that…

That calms down your ardor spectacularly.

No guys you’ve been with were ever interested to go down on you while you regularly sucked them off. Or they promised they would take care of you another time, saying sweet nothing to your ears, letting you do all the work as some kind of kings.

It was kinda expected, that’s how things work: You take care of them until they get hard, you do the deed, cuts to the next day. That’s your role as a girlfriend. That’s how it works.

“I, huh…”

You’re not so sure to be down for that. You purse your lips, biting the inside of your cheek. He looks at you, or rather devours you with his rubies, hanging on to your lips, you feel hope and great anticipation bubbling under his hot skin.

“I… Wouldn’t you prefer I suck you off?” You propose, after a wince, trying to correct the direction of this conversation.

“No.” He responds without missing a beat, “I want to eat you. I need it.” He hammers each and every word home, detaches them each for you to clearly understand. “Please, Cha’cah?”

“Are you sure? Is it not kinda… beneath you?”

He frowns like he doesn’t understand a word you are saying.

“This is a pressing desire, Cha’cah. I really want it.”

His fine mask of calm and sternness is firmly in place, but his eyes… Fixing you, mad with desire, excitement, and expectations.

You kinda cornered yourself with this one, you realize. His thumbs gently brush your cheeks, his tall body pressing you tight against the wall, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

“I…” You start, noticing his eyes lighting up as you speak, full of hope.

You don’t have the heart to turn him down, not when he has such expressive eyes…

You bite your lips, feeling you’re going to regret this.

“Alright… ?”

He remains mute before sighing in relief, like it was eating him inside. He captures your lips again, languorously kissing you like your first kiss, before leaning forward to seize your legs and carry you bridal style towards his desk. You cannot help a yelp of surprise. He carries you like you weigh nothing; you feel so light in his arms, like a little girl.

He lays you down on his desk and immediately sits down on his chair, between your hanging legs, and opens his white jacket wide. By reflex, you close your thighs as you tense your back.

“Make yourself comfortable, Cha’cah.” He says, already breathless with anticipation, “Let me take care of everything and enjoy.” You hear the distinct sound of purring starting to get louder and louder.

“This is not too late for a blow job!” You try to deter him with enthusiasm to tempt him.

But he simply pushes you down gently with his hand, not hearing a word you’re saying. He seems deaf to anything, his sharp mind fogged by the rut and fixated only on what you promised him. He has the expression he wears when he is winning a battle, a thin, lopsided, smug grin on his lips, eyes sharp and focused on the prize.

You gulp, terrified.

You lay down his desk, fiddling with your fingers.

You feel his expert hands making quick work of your pants, sliding them down your legs. He leans forwards to kiss your venus mont delicately, leaving butterfly kisses on the sensitive thin skin making you clench your pussy in reaction. It feels like he is worshiping something holy.

It is weird to be the subject of worship, you purse your lips nervously, usually it’s you on your knees and not the other way around.

He only fingered you last time because you helped him first.

But today?

Why would he want to go down on you without you reciprocating? Nobody does that!

Not your previous partners. No one.

“Hum, here?” You try to stop that immoral situation, getting back into a sitting position. “Maybe a Grand Admiral’s office isn’t a proper place to do it, maybe we-”

“Stop questioning everything. I will eat you in my office, on my desk, and wherever I wish.” He cuts you with feverish eyes and a voice heavy with meaning that makes you shut up.

He pushes you back down and hooks your panties to slide them along your legs. Your legs are still firmly closed, and you feel his large hands slide between the flesh of your thighs to open them to him. You can’t help an embarrassed moan as he opens them easily with his superior strength, exposing you to his gaze. You immediately hide your sex under your hands by instinct. You feel him grope your hips and pull you towards him and the edge of the desk.

“Ah!” you yelp.

“Relax, cheo Cha’cah. Let me take care of everything.” He seizes your dangling legs and throws them on his shoulders.

His hands snake their way all up your legs, caressing your flesh sensually until he reaches your hands that he delicately cups and pulls away, holding your wrists firmly in his fist. You moan pitifully and try to close your legs back, only managing to cage his head between your knees.

That’s when the cold realization that you cannot hide from him hits you, your breath gets stuck in your throat, and you feel panic slowly rising.

You then feel warm fingers grazing your pussy lips incredibly softly but you cannot help a shudder at the touch.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh…” Thrawn whispers, “Have faith in me, Cha’cah. I will take such good care of you. You are going to enjoy yourself in excess and satisfy me on the same occasion.” You hear in his voice he is completely entranced by what he is seeing.

You gulp, feeling the fire of his gaze burning your sensitive flesh as he observes you like he is observing a canvas of a grand master. You feel your legs start trembling under such thorough inspection. Not even your gynecologist looks at you so rigorously! You refrain a lament as he trails your slit with the ghost of a touch, before flicking your clit with his thumb, delighting himself in the irrepressible tremor of your body, his purring intensifying.

“I… It’s just… Nobody ever… looked at me that close. That is so embarrassing…” You confess, your cheek burning with shame.

“Nobody took the time to honor such a wonder of nature?” He kisses your thigh, peppering sweet pecks on your flesh, “This is such a shame, this is an integral part of the entertainment. I will make sure this mistake is thoroughly corrected by the time I am done with you.” He promises with such a deep and melodious voice that you shudder again. “I will show you what true devotion feels like, I will have you see hyperspace in your daze, I will have you trembling and leaking between my hands.” He sounds more and more unhinged and impatient as he speaks.

You imagine him licking his lips before the complete course meal you represent for him. You brace yourself for what is coming, looking at the ceiling, contemplating your life and how you ended up half-naked on the desk of your Grand Admiral.

“Let me revel in what you have to offer, my love.” His voice drops another octave, a growling sound resonating in his chest.

He grips your thighs between his large hands properly to keep them well apart, and you fight the desire to hide yourself again, despite what your conscience screams at you.

To hide that dirty part of you.

He blows on your exposed pussy earning a yelp from you, you hear him chuckle before feeling the flat of his tongue against your cunny. You shake terribly with a helpless yap as he starts licking you with enthusiasm, alternating between licks and kisses on your pussy. He trails your slit up and down with the tip of his tongue, titillating your entrance expertly, before rising up to flick your clit.

By reflex and instinct, again you jerk your hips away, trying to get away, but you feel his large hands gripping your legs and pulling you harshly back towards him and his eager mouth.

“You will not escape me, my love.” He growls, like a pissed off predator.

He doesn’t waste any time and dive back in your pussy, and your moans escape you uncontrollably so you press your two hands on your treacherous mouth, silencing yourself. He immediately bites into your thighs.

“No. You do not get to remain silent under my care.” He growls, “Remove your hands or I will have you screaming.”

You gulp. Trembling, you remove your hands to grip the edges of the desk, digging your nails into the metal. He kisses you where he bitten you, like a sorry gesture, and dives back in your pussy. He thoroughly laps at you, purring like he is enjoying himself.

But how could he enjoy himself? You are not touching him in any way, how doing…that could bring him enjoyment?

Men don’t derive pleasure from touching their women.

But you hear his purr deepens as he accelerates his ministrations on your pussy. Weird…

That’s not how it is usually done.

But here he is, eating you out with enthusiasm and ebullience, sparing no effort to have you moan and mewl under his touch. He himself isn’t shy of his groans, eating you out voraciously, forcing undignified pleas from you, moaning in unisson.

“Oh Maker, Thrawn!” You let out between two strangled mewls.

“Yes, Cha’cah. Sing for me, my love. Sing me your pleasure, I want to hear everything!” He slurps greedily, “I feel you getting wetter and wetter, this is exactly what I want, you are doing wonderful.” He praises you.

He sounds so… Satisfied. With his deep voice, purr, and growl, he looks like he is savoring the present moment. And you.

You dig your nails in the metal so much they hurt, your hand terribly tensed around the desk. You feel your own slick rolling down your ass and the cold desk, and surely Thrawn’s laps. You hope you are not ruining his pristine uniform…

Gone is your refined and elegant man, between your legs is an avid animal devouring you like its last meal, you hear him make the most indecent sounds and they go straight to your pussy.

“You taste divine, Cha’cah,” He exclaims between two long and slow licks, “What you are offering me is a real delight. I wish I had come to you sooner, tasting you is such an enthralling experience.”

You moan between your closed lips, the back of your hand against your mouth. The pleasure is spreading through every nerve ending by waves, your legs are now shaking irrepressibly and your pussy is gaping around the void, infuriatingly empty.

“You little moans go straight to my cock, Cha’cah. I am getting so hard just by hearing you, just by tasting you.” He growls hungrily, laving at you with such diligence, “You are relieving me of so much discomfort, this is exactly what I needed today.”

But how? How pleasuring you could relieve him in any way? A man gets relief under a woman's touch, not the other way around.

He spreads your folds wide apart with two fingers and takes a big lap at your hidden flesh before focusing on your nervous bud. He takes it in his mouth, sucking on it like a lollipop, making it roll between his lips, flitting his tongue, flicking it swiftly and spreading little shockwaves through your pearl. Your slick is now leaking in abundance, soiling your vulva and Thrawn lips and jaw, but he doesn’t mind in the least, quite contrary. He is owning it like everything he does and actually sees it as proof of your pleasure and the price of all his efforts.

“Relax, my love. You are so tense under my hands, you should enjoy yourself. This is supposed to be pleasurable for you, too.”

It is pleasurable for you. Immensely. But that goes against absolutely everything that has been taught to you, and you cannot help but feel dirty for enjoying yourself.

“I’m trying!” You push the unwilling words out of your throat, “It’s just… I’ve never done that! We don’t… do that here!”

“That is a shame, my love. I will help you reach higher pleasures, just for you. Just let me work and relax.”

And he doubles down in his efforts, licking, sucking, lapping, laving, gliding at your little clit getting all puffy and excitable. He purrs deeply as he flickers your bud at high speed, having you a shaking mess, dripping and drooling, helpless under the skillful touch of your man.

He enters you with his tongue, waving it against your G spot, grazing and brushing it with his tip, tonguefucking you expertly.

This is so immoral.

This is so dirty.

This is so…

But why?

Why is he so good at this? Why does it bring you so much pleasure?

Why?

“Oh maker…” You whine, “Ple-please slow down… I-I will…”

“No, my love. Give me a formidable and powerful orgasm.” He encourages you, accelerating his work on your sensitive mound of flesh.

He stopped being nice and gentle long ago, he is eating you out like a ravenous beast, devouring you like all reason abandoned him.

What noises coming from him are hardly worthy of a Grand Admiral, but they’re so… Exciting! Teasing that animal part of your brain, making you cream like crazy against his swollen lips, licking you clean avidly. He forces you to chant for his ears, pushing all the most undignified sounds out of your mouth without any regard for your dignity.

Your formerly gaping pussy is now clenching hard on the void, dripping in abundance, all your nerves on fire, you convulse on the desk under each teasing touch. Your blood flows suddenly south, making your pussy lips and inner muscles puffy and gorging themself with blood, making them soft and fluffy.

The shockwaves of pleasure getting more and more intense, more and more close, like a hurrying tsunami rolling furiously towards the shore, ready to drown you. You brace yourself for it, but you couldn’t have predicted how hard it hit.

The tsunami crashes upon you, destroying everything in its wake, overwhelming you under a sea of marvelous sensations, tensing your whole body furiously. The scream of his name escapes you inadvertently, your eyes rolling inside your head. Behind your closed eyelids you see hyperspace lanes glowing brightly among shining stars, like grand fireworks flashing in the clear night sky.

Thrawn suddenly stands up and pumps his painfully hard cock over you, and cums all over your vulva and venus mount with a groan finishing in a deep, satisfied sigh.

Your whole body suddenly relaxes, all your muscles at once, with a “oof” so much that the back of your head hits the desk. Your chest rises up and down rapidly to catch your breath as you feel a trickle of sweat on your forehead.

“Grandiose, Cha’cah.” He says, panting with his deep and dulcet voice, “This. This is giving me what I want.” He praises you, disheveled, his two hands on each side of your waist, looming over you with his gleaming red eyes devouring you.

You gulp.

You remain still, eyes closed, registering what the heck just happened here. You try to close your legs back, but only imprison Thrawn’s hips between them. You feel his marge hands caressing your thighs and he leans forward to kiss where your womb would be very respectfully. He peppers kisses very delicately, brushing his nose against the thin skin while purring deeply.

You gasp for air, still not finding your words, your mind frozen and in a mess after such an orgasm.

“You came very hard for me, Cha’cah, thank you.” He admires, pushing back your panties over your wet pussy to soak it and take it for himself later, he raises his head back to you with a thin complimentary smile on his swollen lips, “This was a fantastic experience.”

You realize your mouth is half open and close it, wiping the drool that escaped your mouth all over your jaw. Did he make you lose all your composure just like that?

You feel so... dirty.

How could you enjoy yourself like that?

And how could you cum harder than any other men ever did? At that immoral act?

Thrawn buttons up his pants and takes out a towel to clean your lower stomach of his seed.

“Cha’cah? You are eerily silent, is everything alright?” He calls for you.

You flare your nostrils, chastising yourself.

You rise in a seating position, almost hitting Thrawn’s jaw with your head, but he takes a step back.

You raise your head to him with a bright joyfull smile.

“Everything is great, Grand Admiral! I just promised Konstantine to came back immediately after my rendez-vous.” You explain with glee.

“Oh.” He simply responds. “Of course, you may go.”

He seems almost displeased, like he wished for you to remain and cuddle with you.

But you need to go.

You need to flee.

You dress back up, kiss him swiftly on the cheek, and escape from his office with your false smile plastered for everyone to see.

And you run away.

@bluechiss @justanothersadperson93 @thrawnspetgoose @twilekchiss @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching@obbicrystaleo@empresskrennic@davesrightshoe @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @princesslunamoon19 @Janjtje @helrose8 @sparepartsthrowaway

#thrawn x reader #thrawn x you #thrawn x y/n #thrawn x f!reader #thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #mitth'raw'nuruodo #thrawn smut #fanfic #vibratingskull

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ozymandiasdirge · 1 year ago

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sometimes i get obsessed with thinking about law turning rocinante’s death into an act of martyrdom. into “he died to take down doflamingo, he died to protect the will of d., he died knowing i would finish it for him. he died trying to be good. he died a saint for a righteous cause and what kind of ungrateful monster would i be if i didn’t take revenge for him.”

because otherwise he has to face the truth that rocinante did not care about any of that when he was dying, he died so that law could be free. but then thinking that it was all for him would mean putting more guilt on his shoulders than he already does, so he has to reframe it as something else so he can keep going at all.

#one piece #sorry sometimes i just think about #those three days after minion island where law was walking through the snow and just #couldnt stop crying but he knew he had to keep running and also was still dying of his extremely painful terminal illness #and having to operate on himself alone in a cave while hours??? minutes??? away from dying of that disease #while trying to use powers he didn’t understand #at thirteen years old. ✌🏼✌🏼✌🏼ending it all

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pttucker · 2 years ago

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[A new helper has been summoned to the game!] I saw the little girl sitting on the head of the dragon and funnily enough, felt a bit tearful. "Ahjussi!" The helpers that Yoo Joonghyuk called finally reached the battlefield. There were a total of three 'reinforcements' that Yoo Joonghyuk invited. Beast Master Shin Yoosung, Steel Sword Lee Hyunsung and… "Hyunsung-ssi! Please take Dokja-ssi out of here!" Ariadne's web shot through the air and placed me on Lee Hyunsung's back. A woman in a cat suit was running through the sky with the Hermes Walking Method. It was the incarnation of Olympus, Yoo Sangah.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! The gang’s all here! Well, as many of the gang that could come, anyway. The fact that they ended up having to toss a coin to determine who would go to Dokja’s side because they all wanted to help him. 😭 Including Han Sooyoung! Dokja, stop it! Don’t just assume Sangah is lying to you about her wanting to come help. You don’t know that she chose to stay away, you’re just once again assuming that someone dislikes you. The fact that Sangah & Sooyoung were actually trying to figure out how to help him before Joonghyuk even sent the message due to the Good or Bad Luck, Disaster or Happiness Fortune... 😭 Oh man, Dokja wondering in the previous chapter who Joonghyuk would even know a this point in time. Has that guy even made any connections? HE’S CONNECTED TO YOUR PARTY THROUGH YOU, DOKJA. Your weird little family that you’ve put together who loves you so much. 😭 Heck, even Bihyung seems to have given them the lowdown as to what all was going on and what to expect before they were dropped into this mess. Really doubt Dokgak would have done that. “Funnily enough, felt a bit tearful.” Oh Dokja. 😭💖 And Hyunsung once going on about how he lost Dokja again in his weird Hyunsung way. He's too precious. They all love him so much.

#I’m HOPING that the reason Dokja didn’t even try to call his own party #is because he was given only ten minutes to find people #and then because he’d used up all his slots while YJH still had his available #(if I’m understanding the game correctly anyway)#I’m HOPING it’s not because Dokja was being typical Dokja assuming they were off doing their own thing and couldn't be bothered #or maybe because he feared that they might die against such powerful opponents #whereas yjh is more willing to risk others especially if he feels it’s a last resort #(I mean the game supposedly doesn’t actually kill people but things always seem to go awry when Dokja is involved…)#orv novel chapters 264-265 #orv #orv liveblog #orv spoilers #omniscient reader's viewpoint #kdj crew #kdj

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nezuscribe · 8 months ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

pairing: gojo x fem!reader

part two

summary: gojo satoru was the most notorious man across the land. he was the strongest soldier the north had ever produced, the most brilliant of minds, and somebody who slept his way through the noble ranks. his parents set him up in a marriage agreement with you, hoping that a tie with a ring would help save his image. you know gojo never wanted this, and you try to act as if that was normal. but soon, without you or even him realizing it, he comes to the conclusion that while he never wanted this marriage - he's beginning to want you.

warnings: 18+ mdni: arranged marriage, angst, slight no comfort, gojo is emotionally constipated for a bit, heavy making out, eating out (fem! receiving), fingering, (naoya)

word count: 19.7k (sorry)

note: inspired by this drabble. i'm so happy this behemoth of a fic is done!! art credit: _3aem

jjk masterlist + series masterlist

Gojo Satoru was the most powerful man alive.

Not only physically, though some people chalked him up to being half god, but his name held even more control. The Gojo family of the North was as old as the gods themselves, and they’ve been making sure it’s been kept that way. They owned so much land that you would walk to the ends of the earth and circle back around and it would probably still be theirs. They had armies of unfathomable sizes under their command, so much riches that they could probably buy an entire nation and still have plenty to spend.

His presence was just as large as his name created him to be. Any ball he went to, all eyes would fall on him. On the battlefield, men feared to see the flash of white hair, knowing that his strength was unbridled.

And his physical beauty? Most people assumed he was blessed by the gods himself. Gojo had a certain look that just made your knees weak, your heart palpitate, and your cheeks heated up. The handful of times you’ve seen him from afar you’ve been able to understand why all the girls (and some of the guys) yearned for his attention. His eyes were a piercing blue as if somebody had held a mirror to the sky when creating them. His hair had grown whiter with the years, as white as the snow that sunk deep into the grounds of the north. Gojo had the build of a soldier, and he towered over most people. His bulky build was intimidating, but you heard some girls whisper behind their hands about how he must look underneath all those ceremonial garments.

The lord of the North was power itself.

Which would make you, by martial association, the North's most powerful lady.

And for somebody who grew up with the same respect as a stable boy, it was all too much too soon.

And yes, while on paper you still had your father's last name and legacy tied to it, you weren’t really a daughter to your parents. Your mother, though you had to call her by her name whenever you weren’t in public, seeing how she wasn’t really your mother, made sure it was kept that way. Your other three half-sisters should have been in your spot, either one of them more true to the family name than you. But seeing how they’re already married, you were the final resort.

Gojo Satoru, though you’ve seen him countless times (something common because of how close in ranks your families were), had only acknowledged you a couple of times. You didn’t care much, never did, because that's what you were used to. After all, it was a common fact that you were what they nicknamed “the bastard daughter” of the West.

But it didn’t seem to matter much to his parents, as they offered their son up to you in a marriage arrangement.

And who were you to turn that down?

They, his parents, assured you that their son was looking forward to this union. He was the one to offer it, they said, which you were skeptical of but weren’t stupid enough to question. You knew how much Gojo Satoru was tarnishing their reputation with his promiscuous ways, but as long as he was okay with this arrangement you couldn’t find any part of you that would disagree with it.

After all, you knew that this marriage wasn’t out of love, fascination, or even a mutual understanding, but because of the strength your own family (more so your father) held, and how you were the only feasible option for a bride.

So, after weeks of rocking back and forth on agreements, paperwork, dress rehearsals, and grueling dancing lessons (and still no sight of the man himself), you found yourself standing at the end of the aisle, your arm linked around your fathers as a large smile plasters itself on your face.

Ever since you were young you had convinced yourself that the only man who would want to taint his name enough to marry you would have to be either a troll or an ogre, so that fact that your future spouse was human was better than anything you could have asked for.

And you’re not daft. As your heart hammered loudly against the limited space of your chest, waiting for your cue to start walking, you reminded yourself that this was just a mutual agreement. It’s hard for people at your level to marry for love, but even then, you can’t help but hope that you can make a decent friendship out of this.

You glanced at your father next to you, catching his eyes as he nodded once, staring ahead of him into the small crowd of just your two families, and patted your arm.

You still remember the music playing, the instruments harmonizing together as you took a tentative step forward, feeling warm under the eyes of people you didn’t know, but you kept reminding yourself that this was the best thing that could’ve happened to you. Either you died as an old maid in the little room you had near the kitchens at your old home or got married to some warlord who wanted an entire village as family.

The orchids that surrounded the venue still infiltrate your nose as you think about it, the way the silk of your dress felt against your skin that had been scrubbed raw earlier that morning.

And there you saw him, standing at the end of the aisle. At that moment you realized how much of a mistake this was,

Because the man that stood there, the man who you were about to marry, seemed like he’d rather be dead than be your husband.

—

You blink out of your trance, sitting up straighter in your seat as you mindlessly stop tearing up pieces of your bread, rubbing your fingers together to get rid of the remnants of flour.

The dining hall was huge, far bigger than the one back home. Though you rarely ate there, you could still remember it, and it definitely wasn’t as big as this. Yet, despite its size, you felt like you were a little grain of rice in its vastness.

The Gojo estate itself was humongous. His parents resided in a smaller house near the ocean now that you’ve moved in, but you would bet that the word humble they used to describe it was anything but humbling. You’ve been here for weeks and yet you feel like you’ve only discovered half of what this place has to offer.

There were guards at every corner, but at this point, you’re convinced they're just for decoration. If your husband is as decorated a warrior as they say he is, he could protect this entire estate with no help necessary.

You stare at your plate, at the array of food prepared just for you, different sorts of cured meats, loaves of bread, cheeses, fruits, and juices from all over, and still, you feel no hunger.

Months ago you’d be ecstatic to see how much your life has changed. You get new clothes that fit you, food whenever you desire, people at your beck and call. Your room is no longer that cramped space you’d been given to hide you away from the rest of your family, but twice the size of your father's old bedroom. You wake up earlier and sleep later, do whatever you want, but none of it feels deserved.

The only thing you can bring yourself to think about is how the last time you saw your husband was the night of the wedding. The look on his face when you made your empty vows to one another, his faint lingering kiss on your cheek. You can blink your eyes and still see the way he left, his jaw clenched as he ignored the calls from his parents. How, even here, rumors seemed to follow you.

Safe to say, you spent your meals alone.

Not only that, but your rooms were entirely separate as well. You were told that you had to consummate the night of your marriage, but from what you’ve heard, your husband sleeps in an entirely different wing of the estate, with walls and corridors between the two of you.

You tried taking your mind off of things, pretending as if this was normal.

Most days you’d walk around, trying to familiarize yourself with the layout of the grounds. You’d walk the gardens a couple times each week, try to memorize the way back to different places, and stay in the library the other half of the time.

A part of you was happy to at least be away from that miserable home, but it felt like swapping one prison for a slightly better one. Your maids were kind, of course, but you didn’t know anybody here. They treat you like a lady of noble ranking, as expected from being the wife of the Lord in the North, but you’d rather be given an apron and start working around instead of this mind-numbing boredom of just sitting around.

You stare at your plate, chewing on a grape slowly.

Looking up you see the sun filtering in through the large windows, illuminating the long table that sits like an empty grave. Clicking your tongue you pick up another grape, slumping in your seat as you look up.

This is just the way things will be.

—

“Alina?”

You call out from your vanity, staring at your maid as she’s picking out different earrings for you to pick from for dinner.

It’s a couple of days later, and still no word from Gojo. But that doesn’t mean that you haven’t stopped for a single second to not think about your supposed husband.

You try not to care, pretend that you’re lucky that he’s not bothering you or going out of his way to remind you of this unfortunate situation, but above anything you just feel alone.

The maid looks up, a curl falling from her tight bun as she smiles at you in the mirror.

“Yes, my lady?” She stands up straighter, flattening out the wrinkles from her apron tied around her waist as she begins walking towards you with the jewelry.

“Is this…is this normal?” You crane your neck around to look at the different pairs she’s holding up, nudging your head to the red ones that shine bright, and watch as she sets them down on your desk, resting her hand on your hip as she stares at you quizzically.

“What do you mean?” She asks as you begin taking your earrings off, putting the new ones on yourself. In the beginning, she protested, saying that a woman of your caliber shouldn’t have to do such measly tasks. But the more you protested, she eventually gave up.

“Do husbands and wives usually sleep separately?” you say, feeling your chest contract in embarrassment at the stupidness of your question.

You watch as she swallows thickly, avoiding eye contact as she sets on fixing some parts of your hair.

Staring patiently through the vanity mirror as you watch her work, Alina wets her lips, her eyes downcast as if not wanting to answer.

“Was there somebody else he preferred to marry?” You decide to ask, twisting that knife that you knew was lodged in her side, one that was stopping her from talking, and watch as her eyes widen slightly in shock.

“If you don’t answer I’m just going to keep asking more uncomfortable questions,” you warn and Alina snorts softly, shoving your shoulder a little bit as you crack a smile.

She moves around, picking up a necklace, and begins clasping it behind your neck.

“I…I don’t know. He’s always been pretty secretive and,” she looks at you briefly, “Selective. I don’t mean to speak ill of my lord but it would be stupid not to acknowledge his old ways. But we never heard of a specific girl.”

Alina places a gentle hand on your shoulder, a sad smile on her face.

“You’re lucky my lady,” she says, her voice hushed, “Most wives don’t have the freedom to say their husbands don’t care what they do. Had you married that Zenin, you’d be pregnant by now.”

You shudder out a breath, nodding once more.

“I’ll see you after dinner, my lady,” she says, moving out of the way as you stare quietly at the floor before leaving silently.

—-

Tonight for dinner the cooks made you a wide array of different dishes, all from the Northern shore. There are different types of fish, each cooked in various ways. It looks delectable, a feast fit for a king.

You feel awful, though, seeing that you can’t eat any of it.

The last time you had fish your face swelled up and couldn’t breathe properly, so that family physician told you to steer away from it. But you’re here now, and it somehow slipped your mind to ever mention this little fact to them, so you’re awkwardly poking around some of the vegetables under the fish, looking for something to eat.

You pile some potatoes and carrots on your plate, scraping off any bits of fish on them as you hold this wasn’t your last meal.

The only sound that fills the room is your fork and knife sometimes hitting the porcelain plate, and you look up every now and then as you chew, looking at the paintings on the wall.

You’re so focused on a portrait of an old man that you don’t even notice the figure standing at the entrance of the dining hall, not until you hear a muted curse.

You look up instantly, your fork and knife dropping to the plate as you stare at the man in front of you, eyes wide at the sight of your husband.

He stands there, blinking slowly as you stare back.

You could swear time has never moved so slowly before.

You can hear him mutter a quiet shit under his breath, not knowing if he should make this worse by turning around and leaving or if he should join you.

He’s wearing a simple tunic, his face a little flushed, hairline beaded with sweat. Did he just come out of training? He must often do that, you decide, seeing how he must’ve felt comfortable enough walking in here without any clothing of import.

His eyes seem to track your little movements; the way your chest rises and falls in a slow movement, the way your fingers have frozen in mid-air, lips slightly parting. Your eyes dart around the room, everybody seeming to have tensed up.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but you’ve never been so moved to silence. It seemed as if years of learned vocabulary slipped your mind within an instant, and no matter how hard you tried, nothing was coming back.

Gojo looks behind his shoulder, at the large double doors he entered through, deep in thought. This would be the first time the two of you had seen each other in weeks, and his tirade of avoiding you has come to an end. It looks like an entire battle is being fought in his mind, and you don’t know what to do.

Suddenly, you watch as he shakes his head, deciding to give in and join you for dinner.

The seconds go by like hours as he walks up to the seat at the other end of the table, staring at his seat for a brief second before he pushes it out and sits there.

You don’t know what to do.

Servants and maids quickly swarm the room, setting up his plate, cutlery, food, and drinks. It was all so hectic and rushed, but you were glad that it offered some sort of noise in the drowning silence.

A part of you wants to say something about the fish but you know this isn’t the right time.

In the flurry of movements you allow yourself to discretely look at him a little better, seeing how the last time you saw him was so brief and hurried.

The man radiates a different sort of aura you’ve never experienced before. While your father was one of the most powerful men in the West, Gojo was the strongest throughout the majority of the North and East. His frame took up the entire chair, his muscular shoulders and arms visible even through the loose fabric that was draped over him. You feel a little disappointed, knowing that if you were a different girl you’d probably be able to enjoy all of this.

You try to make yourself seem indifferent, moving some of the vegetables in your plate around, but secretly just trying to shovel them down as fast as humanly possible to get out of this thick atmosphere.

One of the men who was setting up some of the plates in front of Gojo takes notice of this, a smile overtaking his face as you briefly look up from your plate, startled to see the man walking closer to you.

“My lady, I’m so happy to see you enjoying our Northern delicacy!” He claps his hands together as you stare at him with wide eyes, your mouth still full of potatoes as you try chewing faster to get it all down before he gets closer to you.

His eyes wrinkle around the edges, his graying mustache trimmed ever so carefully, and you can tell he’s trying to loosen up the tension, but you stare in abject horror as he stands at your foot of the table.

“Would you like some more?” He motions to the fish that lay untouched in front of you, and you glance over to Gojo, hoping that maybe he is focused on his meal, only for your heart to sink at the fact that he is staring at you.

“...y-yes,” you croak out, wiping some of the carrot remnants from the corners of your lips as you give him a wobbly smile, “It’s alright, I can serve myself,” you exclaim, trying to thwart him off as he quickly waves this aside, shaking his head as he grabs the tray, beginning to portion some hefty pieces of fish onto your plate.

You don’t have the heart to tell this jolly man that this amount of fish would kill you within an instant, or even that he was wasting this all on you, so you just sit there, giving him a tight-lipped smile as you try not to breathe it in too much.

“Is that enough, my lady?” He asks, setting the tray down as you look at your plate now full of different sorts of sea creatures you swallow slowly, looking back up at him as you give a wobbly smile.

“This is great,” you muster up and watch as an even larger smile takes over his face, and you feel awful for it, “Thank you so much,” you tell him, watching as he bows lowly, excusing himself as he, and the other servants, leave the room,

Leaving you and Gojo alone.

You’re grateful that he’s already dug into his meal, not looking at a struggling you that’s moving the fish around with your fork as you try to find the last bits of vegetables you had saved up for yourself.

The smell itself is enough to make your stomach turn, and you wince, reaching for your cup of wine to wash some of the nausea down.

“You have very good wine,” you say suddenly, against your will, and have an out-of-body experience as you realize what you just did.

Gojo looks up from his plate, a little startled as he looks at you and the goblet in your hand, his white brows furrowed.

He nods once, not saying anything, and you feel the strange need to continue, somehow enjoying the feeling of stabbing yourself in the foot.

“Our wine back home tasted like cow piss,” your eyes widened at your slip of crass language, “Er - not piss, um, urine…?” You wince even more, feeling as if a ghost with awful intentions had taken control over your body, “Not that I’ve had cow piss - urine!” You correct yourself, “But I imagine that if I had…that, um, it would taste like o-our wine back home...”

He’s staring at you, unblinking, and you smile awkwardly, raising the cup to him as a sort of cheers gesture.

You count twenty seconds of silence in your head as you set the cup down, playing with your fork as you glance back up at him. Gojo looks as if he is regretting his decision to stay, his fingers tapping on his knife in a hurried sort of way.

“I don’t really like wine,” you continue, feeling like the only thing that could stop you now was if somebody were to bludgeon you to death, “I like juice more. Oh, well, but I guess…wine is juice…?” you mutter to yourself, contradicting your own words mid-sentence, “Back home we had this mulberry juice and it tasted nice. Kind of like your wine,” he’s not even looking at you and so your words die, quieting down as you sink back into your seat, hoping it could eat you entirely.

“Do you like wine?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, smiling faintly, awkwardly, “Or juice? Or… mulberries…?”

He shakes his head, still not staring at you.

“Did you have a good-”

“I prefer eating in silence.” Gojo finally said, raising his head slightly as he stared directly at you, watching as your mouth clamped shut.

Your smile grows small, eyes falling to the table to hide the embarrassment in them. You give him a brief nod, mumbling a quiet apology under your breath as you begin moving some pieces of carrot around on your plate.

You can hear the clinking of his utensils against his plate, wishing you could somehow fit an entire fish down your esophagus to escape this moment.

You give it a couple of seconds, counting the groves in the wood of the table, and rise, stomach empty, heart churning as you finally excuse yourself.

It only takes you minutes to find your room, quicker than last night, and allow yourself to sink against your bed, rubbing your skin raw of the rouge Alina had applied an hour earlier.

—-

You don’t tell anybody of the awful encounter with the man that’s legally your husband, but you’re sure that those there to observe have already begun talking about it. You try to pretend nothing happened, but Alina could pick up on your closed-off demeanor that night, her hands gentler than usual when helping you take off your garments, her eyes filled with concern.

“How was dinner, my lady?” She asked, staring at you as you waved off her worries, mustering up a lame excuse of a smile as you took off your silk shrug, avoiding any sort of eye contact as you slipped into your nightly garments.

“It was good,” your words are void of emotion, “I had fish.”

The following days are empty of any sight of your husband, but you’ve grown to find that normal. It doesn’t help that you can’t stop thinking about how idiotic you acted, your big mouth never knowing when to stop, tossing and turning in your bed at your excuse of an interaction.

You continue with your old routine of walking around the estate, sometimes trying to track down Alina and your other maids, seeing if maybe they had some free time to spend with you. You know there’s a town nearby, the girls often talk about how they go there sometimes at night, but you’re too afraid of going out alone, not used to that sort of thing.

Sometimes you sit out near the fields with a book, twisting the ring that’s searing into your finger, mindlessly taking in the words on the page. Other days you walk around the gardens, picking out some flowers for the vase in your room. On the days when you’re feeling really adventurous, you’d go near the east wing, where you’ve heard Gojo’s room is, and look at what sort of things lie there. But most times you chicken out, going back near your side just as quickly as you went.

You never see him at dinner again, knowing he wasn’t about to put himself through that torture again, so you go back to eating in silence, sometimes pretending that the chairs were full of people and that you were in one of those balls you longed to go to as a kid.

They seem to keep bringing fish out for you, and it’s in so many days deep that you’re in this sort of limbo where you can’t tell them you’re deathly allergic to it without feeling awful for all the work they’ve put in just to realize it’s gone to waste, so those nights, tonight, for example, you try finding as many vegetables as you can.

The roasted asparagus and beets are lovely, but there was only so much of it. And you find yourself getting a little bit sick of it too, your stomach-churning as you try to chug as much water as you can to get rid of the dirt after-taste that the beets have.

You thank the cooks and the servants as you leave for the night, your stomach still relatively empty as you get to your room, telling Alina to leave early for the night as you get ready for bed by yourself, wanting to be with yourself just for a little bit.

You lay on your bed, staring emptily at the ceiling, one hand on your stomach as if gurgling, still hungry for more. You try to sleep, trying to pretend like you were at your old home, those nights when this would be normal, but it’s no use. You’ve been too spoiled at the Gojo estate, and no matter how much you try to ignore the pang of hunger, it continues to bite you back.

So you find yourself twisting off of the warm comfort of your bed, sitting in silence as you contemplate what you’re about to do, but give in, lighting a candle as you slide into some slippers, leaving your room as you try to find your way down to the kitchens.

Thankfully, it’s well into the night when everybody is asleep, so this embarrassing walk of shame is only seen by the guards on duty. You walk down the testing staircase, careful to look around the corners for anybody there, but you’re alone.

You make your way to the kitchens, not hard to find seeing that they’re near the dining hall, and you peep your head inside, a sigh of relief escaping your lips to find that it’s completely deserted.

At your old home, your room was behind the kitchens. You grew up in a small room, nearly the size of a broom cupboard, but you made do with what you had. One benefit of this situation was that you were raised by the smell of different sorts of food, by people who specialized in the art of cooking. You knew how to make meals that nobody else in your family could even imagine, which you’re grateful for right now as you fumble around the kitchen, trying to find where they put different ingredients.

You rummage through the cupboards, finding some eggs, bread, cheeses, and seasonings. You’re able to find the pots and pans a few feet away and start assembling everything for a little omelet.

In your hurry of trying to be quiet and careful, you somehow manage to miss the large shadow figure that’s standing near the doorway, observing you.

You crack the eggs into a bowl, beating them together with a fork you found, too tired to look for an actual whisk, turning around to throw the eggshells away when a cry of surprise escapes your lips.

“Oh!” Your heart nearly falls right out of your ribcage, your hands flying to your chest as you find yourself staring at him, cheeks heating the way they seem to do whenever you’re looking at your husband.

His blue eyes are tracking you, watching what you do, brows furrowed slightly as the two of you can’t do anything but stare at each other.

“I…” You can’t find anything to say, looking at him and then behind your shoulder, to the things you have found, and swallow thickly, wetting your lips as you straighten your back up, suddenly aware of just how flimsy and bedroom-worthy your outfit is.

You can only stare at the ways his arms are crossed over his chest, biceps bulging, and lips pressed into a thin line. It seems like he wasn’t planning on seeing you here, yet another moment in which he’s probably going to regret somehow finding you in such a large estate.

“I’m making an omelet,” you finally say, your words falling like a whisper from your lips as you point to the eggshells now discarded in the trash, “I tried to be quiet…” you shake your head, eyes dropping from his heavy gaze for a second as you glance back up at him, lips upturned in an apologetic smile, “...sorry.”

Gojo doesn’t say much, you’ve noticed that, but now you’re wondering if he has some sort of impediment that stops him from speaking to specific people.

His chest rises briefly as he inhales, his white hair a little tussled as if he were sleeping. It doesn’t make sense why he’d be awoken, though. The kitchens are a far walk from the east wing…?

“I wasn’t asleep,” he finally says as if reading your mind, his voice deep as you feel it rattle your bones.

You nod once, not knowing what to do with the information.

“Well…um,” you fidget with your fingers, “good, that’s good.” You nod once, as if that was all you were going to say, and look at the slight wrinkles in his clothes, crossing your arms over your chest, feeling naked with the way you’re not wearing any undergarments under your little nightly dress.

“I’ll call for a cook,” Gojo murmurs, looking you up and down one final time as he turns to leave, seemingly done with this conversation.

You sputter, shaking your head as you watch him turn to look at you through a confused stare.

“No! Sorry…no, no need,” you say quickly, taking one step forward as if to stop him, “Please, it’s alright. I can cook myself,” you motion once more to your eggs and little station, noting the way he’s looking at you strangely, and so you feel the need to continue talking, perhaps one of your worst flaws.

Gojo looks at you finally, his fingers tapping on his arm.

You notice that he’s not wearing his wedding ring, your chest filling with a strange feeling as you try to hide your ring-clad finger. “Do you not like their cooking?” He asks, and it takes a second for you to blink out of your stupor, a weird sensation in your throat as you shake your head slowly, trying to pull your eyes away from his hand.

“I do,” you assure him, the words falling thickly from your lips, a lump in your chest, “I just feel bad waking them up right now,” you shrug as if you weren’t feeling any of these strange emotions, “And as I said, I can cook…so…”

He nods, seemingly not believing you, not picking up on the storm that happening inside your head at the fact that he’s not wearing his wedding ring. You have to remind yourself that this isn’t an actual marriage, the ring was only for show.

“Did you not eat dinner?” He continues, pressing, and your eyes widen slightly.

You’ve always been terrible at lying, never able to do so. Even when your father's wife continued to drill you on who ate the candies from a party when you were younger, showing her your chocolate-stained fingers that you had hidden behind your back, not even a minute into the interrogation.

“I did,” you say slowly, rubbing up and down your arms to warm them up from the chill breeze that seems to have picked up from the open windows, “The beets and asparagus were very nice,” you agree, not knowing what else to say without blowing this weird secret you’ve been holding onto.

His brow raised slightly, lips pursing slightly.

“And the fish?”

You swallow once again, fidgeting with the fabric of your slip, your hands, your ring, and you don’t notice the way his eyes fall to the gold on your finger, darting back to your face when he notices you staring at him.

“I…” you feel your face heating up beyond human measures, laughing awkwardly as you tug at your necklace chain, wishing that you hadn’t made that stupid decision to leave your comfortable bed, should’ve listened to your gut instead of your stomach, cursing your past self for being so rash, “I, um, I can’t…eat…fish.”

Gojo’s stoic face, so sure and confident, seems to falter for a brief second.

His arms tighten over his chest.

“...what?” He eventually asks after a couple of seconds of mind-bending silence, his head tipping in utter confusion as you sway from side to side on your feet, chewing your lips raw as you wish the ground could open up and never spit you back out.

“The fish always looks great, don’t get me wrong,” you say quickly as if that’s going to do anything, “But I can’t eat fish. Otherwise I’ll swell right up and um, die…probably,” you wince at how bad you are at talking to people, your husband especially.

He lets out a little puff of air that sounds like a shocked scoff, eyes falling to the floor as he shakes his head, not understanding what you are saying.

“But they’ve been cooking fish almost…four times a week?”

You nod, smiling awkwardly, looking at the painting of a fish on the wall as you look back at him.

“They have,” you affirm, leaning against a counter as he stays frozen in his spot at the door.

“And you…you can’t have fish?” Gojo questions incredulously.

“I’ll swell right up,” you repeat with a little smile that he doesn’t mirror, clearly not a man of humor, and you drop your hands to your side, “...kind of like a pufferfish.” You add quietly, looking at the ground as you say it.

He coughs, his hand covering his mouth as you glance up at him, only to see him trying to hide the shocked laugh that had escaped him.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” He finally continues, and you hate the way all your hard work of just saying quiet isn’t working and is in fact, coming back to bite you in the ass.

You shrug once more, shoving a grain of rice that was on the floor with the tip of your shoe.

“The first time it happened I figured I’d just tell them next time, but then that man kept on giving me more fish so I felt bad and I just never said anything.”

Gojo stares at you, his eyes squinting together as if he were figuring out an enigma, a war strategy that even his best generals couldn’t get a grasp of.

You look away, feeling like a fire was being lit under your skin.

“Alright,” you say, clapping your hands together as your stomach grumbles once again, reminding you that it is still in desperate need of food, “I’ll be done soon. And I’ll clean up,” you promise, but you doubt he even cares as you begin to inch away from him.

You watch as a strand of hair falls into his face, watch as he goes to move, never breaking his eye contact with you, until he looks behind you at the eggs and bread, and then to the window behind you, the moon as bright as ever.

He nods a final time, looking over you a final time before he exits.

You make sure he’s far gone, letting out a heavy breath as you hold yourself up by the table, eyes wide at the fact that you had spoken more than two words to the man who seemed to despise your entire existence.

You go back to your eggs, whisking them in silence as your mind reels.

—

Gojo is there, for dinner, the following night.

You enter the dining room to see him at the end of the table, already eating, and glances up briefly when he sees you walk in.

Trying to hide the shock on your face you quickly look away, finding the way to your side of the table as you look around to see what they’ve given you tonight. A sigh of fleeting relief escapes your lips at the lack of fish, glad you’ll be going to sleep full of food tonight.

You serve yourself, piling roasted meats and potatoes onto your plate as you fill your cup with water, not trusting wine after the last time you had it in his presence, and pretend that everything is normal as you pick up your knife and fork.

His words rang in your mind from the last time, the fact that he ate in silence, so you forced yourself to clam up, knowing that it was probably from the best and save you from any more mortification.

Your eyes fleet up now and then, grateful that he’s never looking up when you do, and give yourself some time to really take him in. Maybe in another universe where everything was normal, this could’ve just been another regular thing, and you try pretending that it is.

He’s probably only here because of a timing issue, you tell yourself, maybe this was the only time in the middle of training, state affairs, or other things that he was able to have dinner tonight. Yes, yes, that has to be it.

You look back down at your plate, chewing as quietly as possible, missing the way he lifted his head to look up at you.

—

Dinner with Gojo becomes a strange weekly occurrence.

The two of you eat in silence a couple of times a week, and every time it happens you’re so sure it’s going to be the last.

On one of the nights you find yourself accompanied by the man you decide that the silence is more choking than whatever it is you find yourself saying.

“Have you been notified about this…gathering in a couple of weeks?”

This gathering was something you were told about that morning by Alina. One of the smaller families allied to the North, the Tokoshi’s, had invited you and your husband to join.

“Yes,” Gojo says, and you’re a little surprised that he didn’t just give you a faint nod, “It shouldn’t be too big.”

He cuts off a piece of his lamb, dipping it in some of the gravy as he glances up at you.

You try to hide your excitement, not only from the fact that he’s spoken to you but also from the fact that this was an actual ball you would be able to go to. You knew that marrying him meant attending more of these sorts of events, but seeing how this was your first one, it was hard to not act a little giddy.

“You have a lovely library,” you speak after carefully chewing through some of your food, your pointer finger resting on your fork as your legs crossed.

Gojo glances up at you, those mesmerizing blue eyes finding yours from across the long table.

“At my old home,” you pause briefly, wondering how he feels when you refer to his estate as your other home, “I wasn’t allowed to go into our library unless my tutors asked to have some of our sessions there. So I just wanted to say thank you for letting me - um, go there,” your words quiet down at the end, looking at the roasted pig in front of you momentarily as you wonder what you were even trying to get.

He takes a sip of his wine.

“The grounds are as much mine as they are yours,” he says, but his words sound rehearsed as if he were told to say this.

“Even the east wing?”

You regretted it the moment you asked it.

Shit.

Gojo opens his mouth and then shuts it. You chew on the inside of your cheek, waiting for him to speak, to say something, anything, but it reverts to that same silence that floods your senses and makes you aware of every other sound in the room.

Your burst of what you attempted at comedy seemed to keep coming back instantly in your face, a form of punishment for somebody who never knew how to make uncomfortable situations better.

Suddenly, all of your appetite is lost. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you can only chide yourself, the food in front of you, no matter how good it looked, felt like it would taste like ash on your tongue. You kept feeding this burning fire that was your marriage, expecting your hay-like words to act like water.

There’s a thick tension in the room, and you look around, blinking slowly as you fidget with your fingers.

You try to go back to eating.

You were wrong,

That initial silence was better.

—-

That night you found yourself back in the kitchens.

You’re wiping at your cheeks, hoping that the therapeutic motions of baking can help alleviate some of your many turmoils.

When you were younger, you were used to silence. People normally avoided you, and those who didn’t weren’t ever your age. The cooks at your old estate were kind, but they were usually too busy to entertain a little girl. You would usually help the maids out with their washing and folding, rather doing something than nothing. You would listen in on their gossip and stories, always happy to be included.

You assumed that it would be the same here.

But the maids assured you that a lady of such high rank shouldn’t be meddling in such lowly tasks, and the cooks here were cooking for such a larger number of people that you knew you couldn’t bother them the way you used to.

So you find yourself with a lot to say but nobody to say it to. The jokes and ideas that pop into your head fall flat because the old ladies who helped clean the bedsheets and used to laugh hearing them are no longer here. In those moments you’re with Alina or your other maids are sparse, and so you sometimes imagine that if you speak more when Gojo is around, he might warm up to you.

You also had to remind yourself that your track record with men wasn’t the best either. Those fleeting crushes on some of the other boys who you’d see at balls always ended with them scurrying away from you as if you were the plague. The only other marriage offer you’d gotten was from a man who had struggled with finding a woman who could keep up with his awful ways. So the fact that Gojo Satoru, the most well-known man in the realm, didn’t want much to do with you wasn’t shocking.

And Alina was right. A lot of wives aren’t as lucky to say their husbands don’t care, but you wondered how it would’ve been if he did. You exclaimed to her a couple of nights ago that you should’ve just married Naoya, but deep inside you knew that’s not what you wanted. A part of you knew ever since you agreed to this arrangement that you wouldn’t be getting an actual husband out of it.

You sniffle, your eyes blurry. You don’t like crying in front of people, and so you allow yourself to do so in the pale moonlight of the kitchen, the only sound other than your ragged breathing being the repeated sound of flour falling softly in your mixing bowl.

Baking was something that nobody ever could judge you about. You were good at it, and you knew you could do it with no error. Your cakes and pastries always turned out well, save for the minor problems you ran into as a kid, but you sometimes act like you’re baking for a group of people, about to take it out to see a sea of smiling faces who are happy to see you and your deserts.

“I thought you only cooked when they served fish for dinner.”

A voice, one that’s seared into your memory, says from behind you.

It takes everything in you not to jump from surprise, and it takes even more willpower not to turn around.

You quickly wipe at your cheeks, breathing in to make sure your voice won’t come out in bits and pieces. You keep your back to your husband, continuing to sift your flour in the bowl, a continual motion like waves hitting against the dock.

“I’m baking,” you specify, cringing at the way you sound like you’re fighting a nasty cold.

Gojo doesn’t say anything for a beat and does nothing to move. You’re glad he doesn’t, too scared that if he saw your puffy eyes or your tear-stained cheeks he’d begin to think that you have no backbone at all. It felt almost pathetic to have the world's strongest warrior see you recover from crying alone.

He hums in the back of his throat at your words, and you wonder what he looks like right now.

“I doubt these walls have seen a lady of such high rank before,” he comments, and you look up briefly from the mountain of white building up in the bowl, “They must whisper to themselves once you leave.”

You let out a little puff of air, something resembling a soulless laugh.

“Everyone whispers to themselves after I leave,” you say, reaching for a whisk, “I’ve heard more whispers than my own name.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you quickly try to wipe at the corners of your eyes.

“You come down here a lot,” it’s posed as a question, but Gojo says it like a statement. He must have eyes everywhere, reporting to him what you’re doing. You wouldn’t be shocked, but you just nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you begin to whisk your dry ingredients together.

“I hope it’s okay,” you throw in a pinch of salt as you mix, “I like the kitchen.”

He let out a little breath as if he was about to chuckle, but then he got confused. You decide to spare him the endless questions that must be going on in his head, wondering why somebody in your position would prefer the kitchens rather than anywhere else.

“My bedroom used to be behind a kitchen. I’d have to go through the pantry just to reach it,” you turn briefly to grab your bowl with the wet ingredients, pouring it slowly into your flour and sugar mixture, mixing it in slowly and carefully.

“My father’s wife wanted me out of sight. That estate had never used one of its actual bedrooms to sleep the daughter of a whore,” you can hear him inhale sharply, “I woke up to the sounds of people shouting for different ingredients, to pots and pans clanging against each other. I learned how to cook and bake when I was young, and I usually helped them cook the food my family would eat for dinner.”

When your batter is all mixed through you go to find the pan you have buttered and dusted with sugar, pouring it in as you wipe off the side of the bowl that had some remnants of batter dripping from it.

“They never asked me to, but I liked it. I liked feeling useful,” you peek over to your side, seeing him leaning against the wall adjacent to you, silent as a mouse.

You walk over to the other side of the kitchen with your pan, careful with the lid to the brick oven, heated with the fire you had lit an hour ago, and slide your cake pan into it, closing it shut as you stand up straight.

Finally, you look over at him.

His eyes rake over your face, lingering on the circles underneath your eyes, the redness that stained the whites of them. He’s clad in the simple tunic and breeches he had worn to dinner hours ago, his large shoulders leaning on the wall as his arms lay crossed over his chest.

“I won’t go to the east wing,” you say in a whisper, your voice quiet but heavy as it falls from your lips as a promise, trying to muster up a smile but it comes out wobbly, “I was just trying to make you laugh.”

His lips looked pinker than usual as if he had been chewing on them, something you often did when you were deep in thought. His white hair had been messily pushed back as if his fingers had been combing through them continuously.

“These grounds are yours,” Gojo says, his words thick from his throat. His exhale and inhale mirror the way you breathe, your two chests rising as though living with the same lungs.

You shrug, a melancholy look on your face as you shake your head.

“Maybe if I was your wife,” your words are said without any malice, “But I’m just another person who sleeps here.”

Gojo tilts his head slightly as if your statement had somehow wrenched itself into his mind, weighing it down. Even in the limited light, you could see the way he looked at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m sorry about all of this. I know I took away your chance to marry somebody you actually wanted, but my father told me you were okay with the arrangement. I wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise,” you twist your wedding ring around your finger mindlessly, a little habit you’ve grown over the weeks here, “I never wanted to be selfish, and I truthfully never wanted a husband. I just wanted a friend.”

—

Ever since that night, you eat your meals in your room.

Alina protested, saying it’s not right to eat alone, but you told her not to think about it, saying how you liked the silence.

You mustered up the courage to ask some of the coachmen to take you to the nearby town, starting by looking around at the little shops, keeping a hood over your head in case somebody saw a new stranger.

Sometimes you’d go inside the shops, finding little trinkets that you thought your maids might like, or ornaments that might help fill up the empty spots around your room. You’ve never been able to decorate before with how small your old room was, so you decided to take advantage of its space.

When you’re walking around you sometimes see Gojo, either in the training yard or walking around with one of his advisors. There have been moments when the two of you catch each other's stares from across the room, but you’re always the first to look away, making sure you’re going in a different direction than him.

You knew that you’d have to talk to him eventually, especially with the gathering that was coming up at the Tokoshi manor, but each night you pretended it was another day away, instead of one day closer.

Your maids came bustling in and out of your room more often than usual with preparations for the night that was closing in, shoving you into different dresses, not satisfied until they found the right one.

Alina noticed your shift in demeanor, never picking and prodding at it, but silently observing. You could tell she knew something was wrong, but you didn’t know how to put exactly what you were feeling in words.

It didn’t help that the closer you got to the night of the event Gojo seemed to be everywhere you were. The gardens, the library, the field, the stables. He probably just had business to attend to, but it didn’t help that whenever he saw you it looked like he wanted to say something. It also didn’t help that you’d scurry away when you saw him open his mouth.

The weeks turned into days, the days into a day, and that day into hours and you found yourself perched uncomfortably on a chair as three different women attended to your face, hair, and accessories.

You watch them work silently, taking in all the jewelry and makeup that you’ve been looking forward to wearing. It’s nothing too drastic, but that

girl who longed to wear pretty things inside of you is gleaming right now.

“…Lord Gojo requested for her to wear another pair of earrings,” one of your maids says, looking at the earrings Alina had picked out for you.

Your ears perk up at the mention of his name, watching Alina as she perks an eyebrow up.

“When did he request that?”

The older lady looks at you in the mirror and then at Alina.

“A couple of nights ago,” she shows Alina another pair, a sapphire one that seems to gleam brightly, “he dropped them off when she was…away…” the maid trails off, noticing the fact that you were eavesdropping.

Your eyes dart away as if that would help, but she quickly changes the topic, and you huff in annoyance as Alina sends you a knowing look.

“Your husband is a strange man,” Alina mutters in your ear as you giggle quietly, rolling your eyes as she playfully shoves your shoulder.

You don’t say anything in retaliation, and sit back as you put in your new earrings, grateful that they still complimented the color of your dress, and try to pretend you are going down for dinner rather than a gathering with people you didn’t know.

You’ve been learning this entire week how to properly hold a spoon and fork, and how to cut your food appropriately. You’ve been taking dancing lessons, discovered how to properly greet people, and even learned how to gracefully enter and exit a horse-drawn carriage. All things you should’ve probably learned earlier, but were never able to.

Alina helps you out of the chair when they are all done, giving you a second to look into the mirror. The dress they had wrangled you into was beautiful, your hair done in the way you liked. You thanked them all, expressing your endless gratitude for their hard work.

You take a deep breath as you exit the room and go out into the hall, leading yourself down the stairs and through multiple corridors, trying to calm down your palpitating heart.

It takes a few minutes but you find yourself at the front of the manor, standing alone and looking around, trying to see if you were at the wrong place. But in the distance, you can see the coachmen and the carriage, the door shut, still waiting for you.

You take a tentative step forward, nearing the entranceway that leads outside, but feel a soft touch hovering above your elbow.

It’s strange how he usually finds you before you find him, but as somebody who’s trained to know and find things before others do, you suppose it makes sense. You glance to your side, already expecting to see those cerulean eyes as you look up.

Gojo looks good, somehow better than usual.

He’s clad in dark blue garments, intricate with Northern design, and your eyes look up and down his entire body. His usual muscular build seems to be outlined by the stretch of his overcoat, the way the fabric is sitting snugly over his chest.

He seems to be doing the same, though. You can feel his gaze drop to your dress, to the way your lips are a little redder than usual, your hair done in a way that suits your face. His eyes linger on your ears, and there’s a small, barely noticeable tug to the corners of his lips.

“Ready?” Gojo asks, the first time he’s spoken in a couple of weeks, and you hum.

He takes his hand away from your elbow as he rests it on the small of your back, and you feel heat travel from his fingertips through the fabric, through your corset, your undergarments, and straight to your skin.

They bring the carriage out a little closer, a coachman opening the door for you. You brace yourself, heaving your dress upwards as you go to grasp the rail on the side.

But Gojo moves swiftly, offering you his glove-clad hand as you look over at him in surprise, taking it after a moment of hesitation, and haul yourself inside.

It’s far bigger than the one you usually take to town, and you settle for a corner on the left-hand side near the window. The walls of the carriage are lined with this sort of fabric that feels like it’s lighter than a cloud, colored the traditional blue of the Gojo family. You’d guess it could fit at least an entire family comfortably, so you’re not too worried about the underskirt of your dress taking up too much space.

You watch Gojo follow you in. He looks around, having to duck his head (and a lot of his back) as he sits in front of you, pushing the strands of hair that had fallen into his face.

The two of you sit in awkward silence, your gaze settled on the door that they shut after Gojo entered, and your eyes quickly fall to your hands resting in your lap, neatly folded.

The carriage starts a little bit later, the wheels humming to life as the coachmen yip at the horses to start. The sudden rocking movement that you’ve become familiar with sways you side to side, and suddenly you're totally aware of the fact that you’re alone in a limited space with the man you’ve been avoiding for the better half of two weeks.

You can feel his stare boring into the side of your head, can hear the way his breathing is coming out strangely as if he wanted to talk, but kept stopping himself off before he could say a word.

“Did you like the earrings?” Gojo finally asks, and you glance up, eyes narrowing for a second in confusion as realization suddenly comes rushing in.

“Hm? O-oh, yes!” You quickly stutter out, your hands flying to your ears as if you forgot they were there, “Yes, thank you. They were beautiful. They kind of looked like the inside of a belly button,” you say.

Your husband blinks, brows furrowed slightly as you think about what you had just said, eyes wide in shock.

“Er…well, gods, no, not bellybuttons,” your head falls to your hands as you shake your head profusely, “Sorry, they don’t look like belly buttons-”

But you stop when you hear a small laugh from him, quiet as he looks away for a second, a tiny slightly visible grin on his face as he looks back at you.

“Did you know that sometimes,” his eyes are a little upturned as if he fighting back an actual smile, “I make a bet with myself about what you’re going to say?”

You smile slightly, your head cocking to the side.

“Have you ever won?”

Gojo chuckles, and your eyes suddenly fall to his hand, at the way he’s fidgeting with his ring, his wedding ring, the same way you seem to do whenever you’re thinking about everything and anything all at once.

“Not once.”

You grin, and though you still feel this heavy weight of unspoken things resting in the middle of you two, you decide not to acknowledge it at the moment. Things unsaid, unheard, weaved through the air, tying you and him together like a tapestry.

You fidget with your skirt, looking out the window at the moving scenery.

Gojo breathes deeply through his nose, his pointed finger tapping on his thigh.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he finally says, and your eyes dart away from the trees and the sky to look over at him.

His bottom lip is caught underneath his teeth, his blue eyes shining with a different hue. He takes up a lot of room with just his size alone, but it looks like he’s trying to make himself seem less intimidating, less of a warrior, and more of a…person.

You don’t say anything, opting to stay quiet to see what it is that he is trying to formulate into words.

“That night,” Gojo twists his ring back and forth with his thumb, “I…” It’s weird to see somebody so sure of themself struggle to speak, and your brows crease in the middle, not knowing what it was he was trying to get at.

“I wanted to tell you that you too had a right to a good husband. Somebody who didn't rush you into a marriage because of his own mistakes…somebody you wanted.”

Where is he going with this?

You suddenly feel your throat dry up, swallowing thickly as Gojo looks out the window momentarily before looking back at you.

“My parents never told me who I’d be marrying,” Gojo explains, his voice hoarse, “I figured out the day of the wedding,” he twisted his wedding ring, looking at the way it shined, “And I wanted to hate you,”

His words punch you square in the gut, but you can only bring yourself to keep on looking at him.

“I wanted to hate you so much because it would be easier to act like this wasn’t my fault if I could…but,” he sighs, his chest rising and falling, “I don’t think it’s possible to hate you.”

Your lip trembles slgihtly, a sheen over your eyes. What is he doing?

“I’ve been raised in a way most people our age aren’t. My parents wanted me to be the strongest so was put into training since I was four, and I think this entire time I’ve been trying to approach you like a…military strategy. You were this map in my head that no matter how I approached it nothing made sense. But that night, in the kitchen, everything finally did.”

Your eyes flitter downwards so that he couldn’t see the waver in them

“You didn’t deserve how you were treated in your old life, nor this new one,” his hand covers his chest, and you feel lightheaded, “And I promise to you I’ll do everything in my power to make this one better. If you don’t want me as a husband, than as a friend.

“I’d like to be your friend, if you’d allow me,” he whispers thickly, his voice heavy. He fidgets with his fingers, moving them together and back out again, and you notice how he does this a lot whenever you’re near.

Your heart is beating so quickly that you feel like it's going to stop, and your mind is working so hectically that you don’t know what to think. This is the same man who looked at you as if you had torn down the moon and stars when he saw you the first time, the man who never seemed to be that interested in what it is you had to say. The very same person who would’ve rather married a broomstick than you.

…right?

And yet he’s here, asking to be your friend. Something that nobody has ever asked before, something that people wouldn’t ever dare to murmur out loud to you. He had no beneficial gain from doing this, no ally that he would please if he offered to be your friend.

Your heart twists because why does he look like he cares about what you say? His eyes are creased slightly around the edges, his lips pressed together as if he were preparing for whatever outcome it was to what you said.

Nobody has ever told you those things, the things that made years of pain and hurt strummed into one beat that your heart never wanted to drum to. This man, your husband, Gojo, was supposed to be another cog in that old machine, one that hummed and spurred like it was about to eat you alive.

But the more you look at him, the more you let your unspoken words speak in silence for you, you realise that he isn’t lying.

You open your mouth to speak but are cut off when the carriage comes to a sudden halt.

The two of you look at each other and then to the door, watching as it opens up, greeted to the sight of a large manor with multiple people walking in hand in hand. You swallow your bile, not knowing what to say, deciding to flee instead of face him like you should’ve.

—

The gathering itself was far more boring than you imagined it to be.

You and Gojo had the mutual understanding to act more…well, like a couple, than you actually were. You didn’t comment on the way his arm circled around your waist a couple of minutes into making your rounds talking with people or the endearing way he referred to you as my wife.

You’re glad that he doesn’t do anything to talk about what he had told you in the carriage whenever the two of you were alone, acting like nothing was wrong and everything was normal as he inquired about your day.

You told him brief things, still trying to shove his words out of your mind, but it was no use. I’d like to be your friend, your mind kept repeating, and you were too scared of brining it up in case he had changed his mind in between those minutes of quiet.

People you had never seen before congratulated you on your new marriage, their brows raised in that excited way as they motioned to your stomach, hinting at a special little someone who might be joining your lives soon.

“Soon!” You said with a curt laugh, glancing momentarily at Gojo only to see him already looking at you, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

He made sure not to stay with people who were strangers to you for too long, not wanting to bore you to death, and allowed you to take in more of the well-lit and vastly decorated manor.

Though its size was incomparable to the Gojo estate, it was still massive. The Tokoshi family had been a family with the Gojo one for centuries, so there was no question that the riches they had amassed over the years by being trading partners with them had culminated in this.

Gojo told you earlier in the carriage, before everything else, how the young Tokoshi couple were good people. They liked to throw parties a couple of times a year, inviting only a select few. He liked them far more than a lot of the other people he had been forced to grow up with over the years.

You look at the dining hall, at the corridors with openings that allow you to look outside without the glare of glass. His arm never left your body, holding you close to him as he let you walk around, your mouth hanging open slightly as you craned your neck to look at everything. Candles were lit everywhere, the bouquets of different assortments of flowers decorating the stone flower holders carved into the walls.

You mentioned to him in the privacy of the carriage, that you hadn’t ever been able to experience a party of this sort of caliber before. You could see how he wanted to ask more questions, but you could see the answers already formulating his head as to why.

“We probably look like one of those couples where the wife’s dying and the husband takes her out to see the stars one last time,” you whisper to him, still looking around in a stunned sort of way at the beauty of it all.

Gojo’s head ducks down a bit, trying to hide the chuckle that had broken out and made its way onto his face. He coughs into his fist as if that was the issue, but you look over at him to see the humor in his eyes.

“Did you lose your bet again?” You ask, glancing at him from the corner of your eyes as he looks like he’s fighting the grin that’s threatening to take over.

“I’m always losing that bet,” he tells you.

Though he doesn’t do anything to bring up his conversation, you can see it in the way he looks at you, as if he’s still teetering on an edge, wanting to know what you were thinking in that frazzled mind of yours.

You decide to push past it.

“Can I get in on it?” You ask, turning slightly so that you face him, very aware of the fact that his hand hasn’t moved from its spot on your waist.

You try not to think about it, reminding yourself that it’s just for show, but you can’t stop the feeling of heat that travels wherever it is he seems to touch you. His hand is larger than an average one, his fingers moving mindlessly up and down on your corseted stomach.

“Do you need the extra coin?” His voice is carrying a strange tone…is he teasing you?

But again, you try not to think about it, it’s all for show, (you also try not to think too much of the fact that you’re pretty separated from everybody else).

“No, I just need coin,” you explain, fixing one of the medallions on his chest that had been slightly slanted, “I have nearly nothing left.”

Gojo moves barely away from you, his eyes searching yours as if to find the joke.

“Have you run through my family gold already?” His voice is still toying, but now it’s filled with a little confusion.

“No, of course not,” you snort, rolling your eyes as you tilt your chin up to look at him better, “I haven’t touched any of your gold. I just ran through mine.”

His brows quirks upward, mouth parting slightly.

“You’ve emptied the gold your family sent up?”

It’s your turn to be confused.

“What gold?” You ask, moving away from him, his hand falling to his side, and you suddenly miss his warmth.

You remember your father talking about how the Gojo family had rejected your initial dowry, saying something along the lines of outlandish practices, but aside from that, you weren’t told about any other sort of money that was supposed to be sent with you.

He pinches the bridges of his nose, sighing deeply.

“The gold that they sent with you? It wasn’t supposed to be a lot but it was supposed to suffice for the journey here.”

You blink owlishly at him.

“What gold have you run through?” He specifies, plastering on a fake smile when he catches the eyes of somebody behind you, but then focuses his stare back to you.

“Well…” you shrug, “My gold.”

Gojo looks like he’s about to make a new bet, one that’s with every time you’ve almost given him an aneurysm trying to figure out your strange riddles and rhymes that are supposed to be actual words.

“I used to make some gold at my old home,” you explain, keeping your voice low in case somebody was somewhere that you hadn’t seen, but realizing that Gojo was lost, you continued, “The stable boy gave me some of his salary if I took care of the horses and cleaned the stables. Sometimes he’d give me extra if I could haul in the large bags of hay.”

He scoffs, shaking his head slightly.

“Why?” That seems to be a question he’s been asking lately.

You shrug again, feeling his hand circle back around your waist as some people come near you,

“I needed new clothes and my shoes had holes in them. My father’s wife didn’t let him give me much, so I tried to fill in the gaps.”

You smile at one of the couples that are coming near you, going back into your other persona as you begin chatting with them. Gojo pulls you in tighter to his side, staying silent. You don’t notice the way he hasn’t stopped staring at you, nor the way his heart seems to have churned so painfully in his chest.

—

The night progresses and you find yourself inside the dining hall, being shown to your seats by one of the maids, finding your name next to Gojo’s on a name card.

The two of you sit down, watching the people the file in, the sound of laughter filling the room, the clinking of china against each other filling in the rest of the silence. You take it all in with a smile, looking every and at everyone.

“I hope I’m not embarrassing you,” you whisper as you lean closer to Gojo, an apologetic smile on your face as you sit further into your seat, “This is all just so new to me.”

You don’t see the ways his eyes soften, his hand inching closer to yours as he shakes his head.

“You’re not embarrassing me,” he murmurs back, leaning his head closer to yours, wanting his words only to be heard by you, “I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” The smile that makes its way onto your face could power the universe, and Gojo feels like the wind had been knocked from his lungs, far worse than in training when somebody's foot slams into his chest.

“I am!” Your enthusiastic and hurried words are hushed, but he can still hear the way you’re trying to hide your joy. The small talk is horrific,” he laughs a little bit, “but still I love it.”

He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by the sound of a knife hitting glass.

“Everyone! Give me your time, just for a moment!” Miyo Tokoshi, whom you spoke to briefly, stands up, his chair behind him.

All eyes in the room fall on him, people still smiling, their teeth glimmering in the light.

“I cannot express my joy to be in a room with you all tonight,” he says, looking around the room, making sure he saw everyone for a split second. “And my wife and I couldn’t be more ecstatic to host the first gathering of the season!”

You look at the woman sitting next to him, Lana, who you had also met momentarily, is gleaming at him, her face full of genuine adoration. She, along with everybody else, claps, laughing joyfully.

You wonder if this is what a real husband and wife should look like, and you look briefly over to Gojo, your mind reeling with the charade the two of you have been playing this entire night.

“And we couldn’t be happier to welcome the first couple of the year,” he exclaims, pointing his glass over to you and Gojo, saying your name and then your husbands as he claps his hand softly against his wrist, “May every moment you spend together be better than the last. We wish the two of nothing but a lifetime of happiness and prosperity.

Gojo raised his glass to him, his hand grasping yours as he lifted it to his lips, planting a kiss on the back of it.

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing with the linger of his lips on your skin, the last time that happened on the night of your wedding, and watching him grasp it even tighter when he sets it back down, weaving his fingers through yours.

Stop, you chide, raising your glass as well, a shaky smile on your face, it’s just an act.

He winks at the two of you, nodding once more as he focuses his stare somewhere down the table, obstructed by where you are sitting.

“And to the future couple! Naoya and Freya!”

Gojo turned his head immediately to look at you, watching the color drain from your face, and before you knew it, the man, Naoya, was standing up, a hand over his chest in faux gratitude as he thanked the host.

You could never mistake that hair, the feline look in his eyes as he scanned across the room, a slimy smile on his face. You watch as it grows even wider when he finally catches his prey when he finally sees you, and you feel nauseous, like you’re about to throw up all those little crackers they had given you earlier that evening.

The hand holding yours squeezes, knowing he can’t say anything right now, and you swallow thickly, eyes darting over to his as you feel your head about to sway.

Naoya’s here. The man you turned down for Gojo.

The rest of Tokoshi’s speech is muted to you. It feels like your head is being held underwater, and you feel sweat dotting your forehead, your chest, and your palms. You can feel Gojo’s eyes on the side of your head and can tell he’s trying to tell you something silently.

The clinking of glass brings you out of your haze, looking up mindlessly as you haphazardly clink yours against Gojo’s, rubbing a hand down your face as if that would help.

You're grateful for the flurry of movements and noises, everybody talking to somebody, the people beginning to serve themselves the wide array of food places in front of them.

Gojo squeezes your hand one more time, and you finally look over at him, trying to muster up a smile but with how queasy you feel and the way your head spinning, it probably looks like you’re about to be sick all over him.

“I’ll be okay,” you say through clenched teeth.

Gojo nods, his thumb rubbing up and down your hand in a soothing way. It’s just for show.

“I’m sorry my palms are sweating,” you laugh mirthlessly, and he squeezes it again, you’re sure he’s only doing this because of the extra attention of the two of you ever since they realized you and Naoya were in the same room, “you don’t have to keep holding it.”

“Do you want me to let go?” He asks, and you stop poking around at the turnips on your plate.

No.

“N-no,” you croak out, desperate for his touch that’s grounding you, “No, please.”

Gojo nods, his thumb not stopping its comforting motion of moving up and down.

“Don’t worry,” he mutters, leaning closer to you as you duck your head so that your ears are near his lips, “My hands get sweaty too.”

You laugh quietly and it sounds like wind chimes. You look at Gojo and watch as his lips tug upwards into a soft smile, one you had never seen before, and one you thought you never would.

—

You tried to hide away the rest of the party, but Gojo didn’t seem to mind.

When it was time to leave you accepted the gracious hug of the hosting couple, promising them that you’d come back for a more private dinner, and let Gojo lead you out into the courtyard where all the carriages were held.

You slept the entire ride home, not wanting to mess anything up by taking, and you’re happy that Gojo didn’t bother you. You felt groggy when you returned to the estate, grateful for Gojo’s steady hand as he helped you out of the carriage. The two of you looked like you wanted to say something, but couldn’t, so you bid each other good night and went your separate ways.

Separate except for one brief moment.

You were walking away and up the stairs when you suddenly stopped, remembering what it was that you wanted to tell him. You call out his name, watching as he turns, white brows slightly furrowed.

“I…” you start but realize you didn’t exactly have a plan for what you wanted to say. He gives you his patience, not looking annoyed or frustrated when you try to think of the right words to string together.

“I…I would like to be your friend too,” you finally say, and watch as a smile forms on his face, his pink lips tugging upwards in a way that made his eyes shine, the way your earrings did in the candlelight.

He rakes his hand through his snow-white locks, pushing them away from his face.

“I’ll see you at breakfast then,” Gojo says, and you dip your head down in a small smile.

You give him a small wave, disappearing as you round the corner.

And since then, you found him joining you not only for breakfast or the sparse dinners but for any meal he possibly could.

Gojo talked more, about anything and everything, and you did the same.

You realized that he was actually an open person the closer you got to him, seeing that he too was capable of laughing and making jokes, his teasing eyes growing more frequent the closer your chairs got to the dinner table until you eventually just sat side-by-side, growing tired of shouting at each other across its length.

On the days he wasn’t busy with strategizing or talking to other lords, he’d walk around the estate with you, telling you stories from his childhood, the times he’d run amock around the halls. Other times the two of you would go into town, looking at the different stores together.

You could tell he was trying, could see it in the way he glanced at you from time to time to make sure that you were doing well.

He’d accompany you to the library if you asked him to, and you’d go down sometimes to the training yard just to see him. Gojo would never tell you how much he tried to show off when you were there and knew he never had to. You could see the way he tried to appear even stronger when fighting with one of the other men, the poor soldier coming out with bruises and cuts all over his body.

Over many weeks, you find yourself looking forward to spending time with him, and a part of your cracked self begins mending itself again.

It felt like after years of searching for somebody, somebody found you.

On one of the nights when his sparring had gone on for far longer than it usually does, you decided to head down to the training yard after your night bath, tugging on a large robe over yourself as you walked the familiar stone steps down to where you knew he was.

You could hear them before you saw them, a cacophony of fists hitting skin, groans, shouts from one another. There was a little perch from where you could watch what was happening below, and you usually hid yourself in a corner so that they wouldn’t see you.

You’d rest on a pillar, arms crossed over your shoulder as you looked at the men below. Gojo was always easy to find, the flurry of white hair a tall-tale sign of where he was. You had watched him before, but you never got tired of it. You found it almost inhuman the way his movements seemed to flow like water, the way his hits were precise and direct.

Gojo truly was the best warrior the North had ever seen, and sometimes you forget that you’re married to a man who brought down entire armies with just his bare fists.

You watch as he jests with one of his friends, his chest rising a little bit at an irregular pace, slightly out of breath, but happy to be there. He turns to one of the guys behind him to say something, but his eyes immediately track upwards to the figure trying to stay hidden, you and a wide smile break out on his face.

He waves at you, and it gets the attention of the other men there. They all turn to see where you are, their boyish grins and calls making you roll your eyes at their antics, your face heating up slightly as you wave back at them.

Gojo says something to the person next to him, and you hear the man shout at the other ones to wrap it up for the night. Some of them wave goodbye to you as they begin exiting, going back to their common rooms.

You make a move to lean slightly over the railing, your arms crossed over the wood as you peer down at the ground where Gojo remained alone, finding him to already be looking up at you.

“Care to come down?” He juts his chin at the staircase to your left, the one that leads down to the courtyard, and you nod, disappearing behind the stone pillars as you take the steps leading downwards.

You’ve been here a couple of times, as per your own request. You wanted to see what they did during training, what the training yard actually looked like from the ground. You lift the ends of your dress up slightly as you near the bottom, rounding the corner to see Gojo standing in the middle.

He’s waiting for you, his eyes tracking your movements as you come near to him.

His nose twitches slightly, his eyes squinting as he lifts his head in the air, suddenly picking up the scent of something unusual.

“What’s that smell?” Gojo asks as you come to him, his eyes looking over your body as if it were emitting from you.

You scoff, appalled, and then suddenly remember that Alina had applied some lavender oil to you after your bath.

“If it’s a good smell then me,” you cross your arms over your chest, nose wrinkling in disgust as you take in his smell of sweat and grime, “If bad then you.”

Gojo snorts, coming closer to you as he continues sniffing, exaggerating the sound. You step away from him slightly, the smell of sweat overpowering, and he takes notice of this.

“What?” He inquires, annoyed that you are moving away from him, and he takes a step closer.

“What do you mean what?” You tease, moving again as he tries to smell the air, “You smell like an army of unshowered men. I just took a bath.”

Gojo seems offended at this, trying to move back closer to you but you side-step him, apparently serious about this.

“You really won’t let me come near you?” He sounds like you’ve kicked him down, his cheeks stained pink from earlier, and you laugh slightly, shaking your head.

“I really won’t,” you affirm, shoving the back of your wrist to him to show him that what he was smelling was in fact you, “See? Lavender oil.”

Gojo just seems to be getting more annoyed the more you try to evade him, his blue eyes swirling with an idea as you look at him in worry.

“No, the smell is coming from somewhere else.” He argues, changing his footing so that he stands right in front of you and you let out a shocked laugh, not expecting this as you take a step back.

You don’t know where else he can smell the lavender oil. Alina dotted it to your wrists and your neck, but surely can’t differentiate the difference in location…right?

“Come here,” he almost whines, “I’m not going to rub off my smell onto you.”

You laugh again out loud, picking up the skirt of your dress as you try to outrun him slightly.

“You will!” You insist, motioning to the sheen of sweat on his body, “You reek of sweat. I swear it’s just lavender oil!”

He groans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at this inconvenience.

“You’re killing me right now,” Gojo dramatically grabs his chest, “You won’t let me smell this strange aroma and it’s killing me,” his face breaking into a little pout as you laugh even louder, shocked at how petulant he was being. Your laughing seemed to spur him on even more, running towards you as you ran backward, hoping you didn’t trip on the fabric of your dress.

“You have a plethora of bottles of lavender oil in your own room,” you argue, “this isn’t something innovative that you’ve never smelled before.”

Gojo shakes his head, and your heart flutters at the way his smile is so playful and teasing, the way some of his hair falls into his face in that messy way when he’s usually training and not caring about his appearance.

“It’ll only take a second,” he reasons and you shake your head no, your eyes both shining with playful laughter.

The courtyards lead out into the large fields of the Gojo estate, and you look behind yourself at the opening. It’s night, there’s nobody around. Nobody would judge you for running away from your sweaty husband.

You look back at him, see the gleam in his eyes, and know that he’s not going to back down.

He can see the thoughts forming in your head, can assume them before they’re even created, and so he’s straight on your heels as you sprint away from him, a large smile on your face as you squeal out loud.

“Please!” You shout over your shoulder, running down the little hill as the moon lights the way for you, “I just took a bath! Leave me alone!”

You can hear the grass rustling beneath your feet, your screams of laughter contagious as you try to outrun the fastest person ever, and try not to slow yourself down by looking over your shoulder to see where he is.

But after a couple of seconds of running you realize that the only footsteps you hear are your own, and you pause momentarily to look behind you and are surprised to see that he’s not there.

Did he not come after you?

You look around the field, the large blades of grass looking like waves that move with the wind, and whip your head around every time you hear a twig snap.

You're a little bit further away from the manor itself, and the only thing you can see besides its large stone walls are the torches lit outside. You can make out the guards who are standing outside, but no sign of Gojo.

You try to catch your breath, confused as to where he could’ve gone when a force stronger than a horse running at full speed slams into your side.

The scream you let out echoes around the field, and you brace yourself for the harsh impact of hitting the ground. With your eyes squeezed shut you wait for the flash of pain, but peek them open to see Gojo framing your head with one of his hands, his body shielding you from the impact as he lays on top of you.

“How…?” You scream, your chest moving up and down with your fit of giggles, trying to push him off of you, “You’re a beast!” You cry out, moving your head to the side as he laughs along with you, his chest rumbling with the movement.

You shove his face away with the palm of your hands, shoving your wrist into his nose as if that would satiate him.

“I took a bath you behemoth!” You whine, thinking about the dirt and mud that must be staining your skin and dress right now, “Are you so void of any good fragrance in your life that you must hunt me down for it?”

Gojo tsks, shaking his head as he swats your wrist aside.

He’s also slightly out of breath, most likely because he ran across and entire field from another entranceway that you weren’t aware of to catch you off guard, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how close to two of you are together.

His hand is still cradling your head, the other one holding your hips. Truthfully he doesn’t even smell bad, which is frustrating that it’s just another one of his many talents.

He judges your jaw up with his nose, and you helplessly comply, your heart hammering wildly as he leans in closer to the skin of your neck, taking in a whiff as he looks back up to you, his eyes gleaming.

Gojo’s hand on your hip moves up slightly to hold your waist, not hard, but to stop you from squirming around.

“It smells different here,” he nudges your neck with his nose again, and your breathing hitches, “Smells sweeter.”

You swallow thickly, blinking slowly as you crane your neck slightly upwards to give him more room. It’s like your body is moving on its own, and you’re not to sure how you know what to do, but you just do.

“That’s not possible,” you try to argue, trying your best to keep your voice from wavering, “You just lack the nose for good oils.”

Gojo laughs lowly, shaking his head at your antics as he braces his knees on either side of your thighs, caging you in.

“I have a very keen sense of smell,” he boasts and you snort, looking away as he pinches your hip to which you yelp.

His hand moves away from your head and to your shoulder, to where your nightgown had slightly slipped off and runs a thumb down a patch of your skin where it was slightly raised, a faint scar on your collarbone.

“Where’d you get this?” His voice is slightly hushed, and you look down from your chin to where he is talking about.

“Hm?” You look around, see that he’s pointing to the tiniest little scar, and chuckle slightly, “Oh, that?” Your eyes squint as you try to remember, “I tried to climb up a tree once when I was little and fell.” Gojo huffs out a little laugh, his eyes still focused on your skin as you chew on the inside of your cheek.

“It probably looks far worse compared to anything you have,” you say sarcastically, “The family physician kept saying I wasn’t going to make it through the night.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes at your antics as he raises himself, moving away from you as he sits back down on the grass. You miss his warmth, the way his heat radiated onto you like a furnace.

“I don’t know how you keep surviving between your inability to consume fish and your near-death occurrences,” Gojo’s voice holds a teasing tone and you smile, moving up so that you’re facing him.

You rest your weight back on your hands, kicking your legs out in front of you as your skirt flows around the grass. A while ago you would’ve felt improper sitting like this in front of anyone, but you don’t seem to care all that much when it’s Gojo.

“I showed you my battle would,” you say, putting one leg on top of the other, “What’s your worst one?” You ask, tilting your head to the side in questioning.

Gojo purses his lip, thinking.

You imagine that he’d tell you or probably motion to where it was, but a second later you watch, shocked, as he tugs his tunic upwards, your face heating as he rises it slightly so that you can see a part of his stomach.

You hate how utterly built he is.

His skin is pulled taught over the smooth stomach of his abs, his chest huge with pure muscle, his arms, bulging through the sleeves. It’s something you thought you’d get used to, something you told yourself to stop ogling at, but never could.

But you shift your focus to a large scar that runs across his chest, from the bottom of his hip under his arm. It still looks relatively new, and the scar itself still pink. You could see the way it was jagged, not one smooth line, and gods, fuck, why do you want to touch it?

“Well,” you try to think of something witty to say, seeing the way he’s looking at you as if waiting for it, “Clearly not as bad as mine, but it comes in as a close second.”

He throws his head back as he laughs, his muscles contracting as he does so. You feel flushed, not able to look away from the scar, knowing that you were merely compensating for not knowing what to say.

“I know,” he says eventually with a shrug, looking down as he surveys the scar, “It’s not as bad as it could’ve been.”

You pout slightly, thinking.

“Does it hurt?”

He looks up at you, at the way you can’t take your eyes away from it, and shakes his head.

“Not anymore,” he sits up a little straighter, closer to you as you watch him move, “Sometimes I can feel it sting, but it’s barely noticeable.”

You beg to differ.

The two of you don’t say anything and a part of you has decided that silence is bad for you. Because before you can really think about what you’re doing, you push yourself upwards, leaning in closer to him as you try to get a better look at it.

He doesn’t say anything, but if only you could see the way he could barely use his lungs to breath right now you’d make some sly remark about how the best warrior of the North was growing shy from just a look.

But suddenly you’re not looking anymore as you shuffle in a little closer, your fingers reaching upwards to touch the skin.

You can hear the wind move around you, the grass rustiling as your fingers run across the scar. His abs flex at the coldness of your hand, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. You’re studying it intently, wondering what sort of weapon could’ve caused this.

Gojo’s size dwarfs over yours, but you don’t seem to mind. Your lips as slightly pursed as you take it in.

“Did you fight a bear?” You finally ask, peeking up to look at him.

You’re startled by the way the flush on his cheeks has grown even more red, or the way you can’t see the blues in his eyes anymore. Has he always looked like that?

Gojo shakes his head, taking in a shaky breath, looking at the top of your head as you go back to looking at the scar.

“Nearly,” he tries to joke, but his voice is weak, laced with need, “But I doubt a bear would even want to be compared to the man who gave me the scar.”

You look up, your brow quirked in curiosity.

“Who?” You ask, shocked at how quiet your voice came out.

Gojo smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tongue clicks against his teeth, his hand rising up to grab yours, pulling it away from his chest. He can’t bear to have you touching him like that anymore, not trusting himself to restrain the pure desire that bubbling inside his veins.

“Naoya,” he says hushed, watching as your lips part and eyes widen.

There’s a beat of silence, a moment when you think you can hear your heart beating in the same rhythm his is.

Your hand curls into itself, shock taking over your features as your eyes drop to his scar and then back up to him. You find yourself wanting to say everything and anything, but can’t somehow find the words that you’re looking for. Gojo beats you to it, thankfully.

“I’ve been having this recurring dream ever since I fought him of that same moment over and over again when he cut me open. But it’s changed, recently,” He sits up straighter, so close to you that your chests are almost touching, “And I keep seeing him marrying you, what would’ve happened if you had said yes.”

“And gods, fuck,” he ducks his head down, raking an agitated hand through his hair, making it even more messy, “I…” He chokes on his breath, looking back at you, and suddenly you see the glossiness in his eyes, the way that tears brim his waterline.

And suddenly you see the Gojo Satoru, the Lord in the North, the most powerful man alive, cry.

“I keep reprimanding Naoya in my head about how awful he is, about how I’d kill nearly every person alive if he ever touched you, b-but I was just as awful. I think about the first time I saw you, about the first weeks you were here. I think about how you must’ve felt, how alone you were. Every day…” he wipes messily at his cheeks, his lips wobbling, “Every day I wake up and think of you. I think about your face, your smile, your eyes, your lips, the way your nose scrunches, that line between your brows when you're confused, and every night I go to sleep hoping that this was all an awful dream and I haven’t ruined your life, but then I wake up, and it starts all over again.”

“I know I’m a selfish man,” Gojo says with a wet chuckle, his cheeks wet with tears, “I know I shouldn’t, but I want you to myself, I want you forever. I want to be your friend, I want to be the person you sleep next to, the person you go to when you want to talk about your little stories. I want to hear your jokes and I want to see you laugh. I want to hold your hand, I want to put that ring on your finger every morning, and I want to propose to you each night.”

He shakes his head, swallowing his cries down, the moon lighting the tear tracks that start from his eyes and end at his chin.

“But I know you don’t want that. You told me that you wanted a friend, but…” he shrugged, his smile sad, aching, longing, “I think along the way of being your friend I realized I wanted to be your husband too.”

“I understand if you want to leave. I’ll tell my parents the truth, they’ll understand. I have a house ready for you near the sea, one away from your family, where you can start over.”

The wind rustles the hills, and you look at the field, watch the way it moves in tandem with the life around it.

You can feel the tears forming in your eyes, and know that even if you blink them away it’ll do nothing to actually hide them. There’s a burning feeling in your chest, one that you’ve never felt before, one that rings with Gojo’s words.

You run your fingers through the grass, looking up at him with a certain fire in your eyes.

“What if I don’t want that?”

He blinks slowly.

“I,” Gojo sniffs, nodding profusely, hoping you don’t see the way he crumbles, “I understand, I promise I do. The house is a couple days-”

“No,” you cut him off firmly, wiping your palms furisuly across your cheeks, to rid them of the pesky tears, shaking your head, “What if I don’t want that?” You move up to him, reaching your hand down his tunic, your fingers moving against is chest as you dig out the gold chain that’s wrapped around his neck.

The one that holds his ring, the one he told you about one night that keeps it safe whenever he’s training.

“What if I want this?” Your voice is cracking, and you tug the chain tighter.

“What if I want all those things? What if I want you to love me?” The ring shines in the moonlight, mirroring her pair thats wrapped around your finger, “I want to be your friend,” you stress, your brows strewn together as tears overflow from your waterline, “And I want to know what things you like. I want to walk with you all around the earth and walk back home again. I want to sleep next to you. I want to make you laugh, and I want you to make me smile. I want you to be my husband so that I can be your wife,” you cry out, your chest heaving up and down as he wraps his arms around your back, pulling you into his lap as he tries to quickly wipe your tears away.

“I want you too, Satoru,” you whisper, broken with your wet sniffles, a wet laugh escaping your lips when you see him crack at the way you said his name with so much care, your thumbs gliding across his cheeks.

You slide closer into him, your legs splitting across his huge thighs as he hugs you tenderly to him, his head resting on your chest so that he can hear your heartbeat, make sure that this wasn’t just another dream.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs against your bosom, looking up at you with glistening eyes.

“Then fight for me,” you whisper, your hands on either side of his face, “Give me all those things. Give me more,” you smile when his arms wrap around your waist a little tighter, his hands holding you up, “And I’ll do the same.”

He nods, holding your hand that was still holding onto his ring to his chest, one hand moving to your back, and in the mess of tears and broken laughs the two of you seem to move together, meeting each other in the middle as your lips find each other in the dark shadows of night.

You gasp when his lips capture yours, and he moves towards the sound, wanting to hold it, keep it forever.

Gojo moves slowly, knowing that this is your first time, and cups your jaw, helping you move along with him as you lips slot and lock against each other. It’s messy and with no order, your chin staining with sweat as you moan against him, feeling delirious without the touch of him.

You know this isn’t the easiest position for him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He groans against you, his eyes squeezing shut, trying to memorize your taste in case the world ended tomorrow and this was his last meal.

“Is this-” You cut him off when you swoop in again, his laughter cut short by your needienss, the way you paw at his chest, your hands winding up to his hair as you tug harshly on the soft strands.

He moans at this, at the way you grind mindlessly on his thigh, your need for each other bleeding out into the open.

“I love you,” he murmurs against you, kissing down your chin and then back up to you, his tongue swiping against your lips, savroing your whine, “I love you so much,” he says to everybody, hoping even those on mountains oceans away could hear, “I love you, my wife,” and you giggle, eyes bright when you hear those words.

“Say it again,” you ask, your nails drawing little shapes on his nape, and you see him break into a smile.

“My wife,” he repeats with a peck to your cheek, “My beautiful wife,” he kisses the tip of your nose, smiling at the way it scrunhed up slightly, just the way he adored, “My wife,” he kisses your jaw, “My wife,” your giggling nonstop and he hopes to bottle up the sound and hear it on his deathbed.

His hands travel back down to your hips, adusjsting you slightly so that you wouldn’t feelt he embarrassing hardening of his dick just from kissing you, and moves his lips down to your neck, hearing the way there’s a hitch in your laughter.

“Why’d you stop?” he nudges his nose at that spot pf your neck that still smells like lavender, his favroite scent in the world, “Hm?” Gojo hums against that spot, licking a wet stripe up it, sucking at the skin, feeling the way you arch into his chest.

“Y-your reeking s-scent infiltrated my nose,” you murmur, biting on your lip as he pinches your waist.

“Yeah?” Gojo continued to tease you, sliding the sleeve of your dress down, giving you more access to the skin of your collarbone, “Want me to stop?”

“No!” You cry, totally against your better judgement, moaning when he sucks another mark into the skin, biting it, and then presses a soft kiss to it as an apology, “Please, please, don’t stop.”

He chuckles darkly, shifting you around so that you are lying back down on the ground, his body framing yours as he continues tugging down your dress, going slow in case you ever wanted him to stop.

His fingers are quick at untying the string that holds you bodice together, unravelingit all until it falls off and he’s greeted to the sight of your heaving chest, the way your naked breasts rise and fall.

Gojo blinks for a moment, forgetting how to move.

“W-what?” You ask, a little self-conscience as he continues to stare at your chest, “Do they look wonky?” You move your hands to cover up but a deep gutteral growl escapes his lips, pinning your hands back.

“Beautiful,” he bites out, moving his head down, pressing a wet kiss in between the valley of your breasts, “You look like a fuckin’ statue,” he says, “You’re s-so beautiful.” Gojo repeats, and you can’t protest with the way he praises you, nor the way his lips hover over a nipple, finally leaning in fully as he sucks on it.

“F-fuck!” You cry out at the sensation, your fingers lost in his hair as you keep him there, back arching off the ground, “That, that feels…good,” you can’t speak, not with the way his tongue slides across your nipple, pressing little kisses around you areola.

His other hand goes to your other one, making sure she’s not feeling lonely, his thumb flicking over your sensitive nipples as you whine even louder.

Gojo switches and you feel your breath shudder in an embarrassing whimper, your eeys squeezing shut when he bites at you, wanting to mark you up for those wretched gods to see and feel humanly jealous over.

“So soft,” he murmurs against your skin, almost in awe, “feels like silk.”

You would’ve had a witty joke about this, you know you did, but you can’t fathom to think about anything other than the way his lips feel on your tits, the way he seems like he’d die had he not been here sooner.

But he then raises his head, and you whine in protest. Gojo almost break at the way you’re looking up at him, the way yor lips tremble from sheer desire.

“Want more?” He presses, his hands, warmer than the fire that’s burning in your belly, trailing down, down to where your dress was slightly parting, “Here?”

“Y-yes, fuck,” you moan, parting your legs to make room for him, not knowing what this feeling was but knowing that he was the only one who could soothe it, “Need it so bad Sa-satoru,”

His eyes roll back, swallowing his primal groan at the way you plead for him, and nods, pressing a kiss against your stomach before his hitches the fabric upwards, sliding down your body so that his face is closer to that heat.

You know you should feel more shame, but you feel like you’re going to die if your husband doesn’t do something soon.

Gojo’s hand travels up your calf, trailing up your thigh, and suddenly stops.

You go to beg, plead, for him, but cut yourself off when his lips find your inner thighs, pressign wet and messy kisses to them, getting dangerously close to where you felt like you were leaking.

“You’re divine,” he whispers against your skin, hands wrapping around your thighs as he pulls them apart, “Fuckin’ divine.”

His lips suddenly find there, you glistening cunt, and you mewl out for him.

“Satoru,” your chest is heaving like you can’t find any air, “T-there, please, there,” and fuck the way you’re begging him is so sweet that he can’t find it in himself to tease you.

His fingers seperate your wet lips, groaning when he sees just how much you’re dripping, and licks a tentative stripe upwards, your surprised gasp at how good it felt going straight to his cock.

Gojo carefully slides a finger through your tight walls, feeling the way you tighten around that, and lets his lips travel to your clit, pressing small kisses to it before he begins to suck. You clench around him, and your toes curl at the way he begins to pump it in and out, your essence soaking his skin.

“So wet sweetheart,” he groans swapping his finger for his thumb at your clit, his tongue diving into your walls as he nearly cums from your saccharine taste alone, “S-shit, fuck, you taste like fucking heaven.”

Your thighs tighten arund his head, but he craves the feeling, his tongue eating you out at such a fast pace that you begin to wonder if you need this more or him.

“O-oh gods,” your grips his head tightly, can’t find the sympathy in yourself to feel bad, “‘Toru, oh, oh my, don’t stop!

That coil in your stomach grows more taunt with each second.

He alternates, adding in another thick finger, feeling the way you try to stretch for him. He glides in and out of you with ease, but he wonders what you’d look like on his thick cock, how you’d preen as he split you open with his girth.

“Sweet,” he moans against you, his voice vibrating against your pulsing walls, “You’re so fuckin’ sweet.”

You nod at something, whatever he just said, not fulling understanding anything around you as he continue to stimulate your clit, sucking on it, his teeth gliding across it with a little bite, and you moan out even louder.

“I…” you can’t think, can’t breathe, “F-fcuk, ‘Toru, something, something’s happening,” you don’t know what this feeling is, this electric, all-consuming feeling that’s zapping through your body, making it numb yet aware of everything at the same time.

“I know, I know,” Gojo praised you, one of his hands holding your stomach down, the added pressure making you whine, “You’re doing so good for me, you’re there, come on come for me,” his hand travels up your body, finding yours as he weaves your fingers together.

“Shit, shit,” you mewl, “I’m coming, fuck, c-coming!” You cry out, your back arching off of the ground as your legs grow slack around his shoulders, your walls pulsing around him as that string tightens for the final time and then finally breaks.

You can see white as your eyes rolls back into your head, squeezing his hand as tightly as you can, your yes dotting with tears. Your climax was all consuming, making you gush around his fingers and tongue, seeming to be never-ending, your body shaking in his hold.

Gojo presses one final kiss to your cunt, licking off your release from his fingers, groaning at the taste, and lets you catch your breath.

When you’re finally able to crack your eyes open, you peek them over to Gojo, seeing the way he tilts his head back, your cum still glistening on his chin and cheek, and whine out in embarrassment.

“What?” He asks, eyes teasing when you go to hide your face in your hands.

“I can’t,” your words are muffled, “I can’t believe I just…”

Gojo kisses your forehead, wiping some of the tears from your eyes away as he kisses your brow bone.

“How do you feel?” He asks, his eyes scanning over your body, glistening with sweat, and you take in a gulp of air.

“Good,” you say finally with a soft smile, “Really good.”

You look from his little grin, one that you peck at, your thumb rubbing up and down his jaw, and then look down, to the obvious bulge that’s hiding behind his training trousers.

You’ve never seen a cock before but fuck he’s massive.

“What…” you trail off, sitting up slightly, and he helps balance you, “What about you?” you paw at his stomach, right before it leads down, and he lets out a shuddered whine.

“As much as I-” he bites his tongue, feeling like he’s going to cum if you continue to look at him like that, “As much as I want to…not here,” he looks around at the field, shaking his head as a definite no, “Not here.”

You go to protest, but he stops you, biting your fingers gently as you yelp, shoving his head away with little force as he chuckles.

You let him wrap your dress around you again, tying some of the knots so that it doesn’t open up when you’re standing, and let the silence wash over the two of you calm your beating down heart down.

He plays with the ring around your finger, and you watch as the ring around his neck moves with his little breaths.

“I want to sleep in your bed,” you say, and his blue eyes find yours.

“You’re crazy if you don’t think I’m letting you sleep anywhere else,” he says in a shocked sort of way and you laugh, looking over to the side for a brief moment, and then look back at him.

“Do you really love me?”

Your words as whispered, but it feels like the wind picked them up and scattered them all around the field, around the river, the ancient stones, and right into Gojo’s heart.

“I really love you,” he whispers back, kissing your eyelids, in between your brows, your forehead, the back of your hand, and murmurs the words, “my wife,” to nobody and to everybody at the same time.

You smile, pulling him down by that necklace of his so that you can plant a soft kiss against his lips.

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