6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?
7: Where did the title come from?
8: Did any real people or events inspire any part of it?
9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?
10: Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?
11: What do you like best about this fic?
12: What do you like least about this fic?
13: What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?
14: Is there anything you wanted readers to learn from reading this fic?
pairing: vash the stampede x fem!reader
warnings/tags: jealous insecure vash, you get hit on twice, vash's pov gets kinda depressing, takes place before and after and I know it’s hard enough to love me, stampede coded vash
word count: ~4.3k
Vash the Stampede is a complete enigma to you.
In the span of the four hours you’ve been following after the blonde, you’ve witnessed him get bullied and dragged around by a group of children who had unanimously decided to tie him up for fun, help a distressed woman find her poisonous pet gecko, and frantically try to explain his startling similarities to the humanoid typhoon to a threatening group of individuals who had cornered him on the street, loaded guns in their possession.
You watched him nervously laugh off their claims until they had left, one by one. Then he breathed a large sigh of relief, before meeting your eyes with a grin and two thumbs up.
He just can’t say no.
You’re still thinking about this troubling tendency of his when you slide off the rooftop, and twist through the alleys to the bar you had seen when you and Vash had first entered the town yesterday.
This time, he’s following you. He must have run out of people to help. All the way to the bar. And when you enter through the swinging entrance, you don’t need to turn around to hear the doors swing open again, not even seconds later.
Shouts ring throughout the bar, as several patrons happily greet him with a raised mug of beer and smiles. Already, he’s grown on people.
You slide onto a barstool. “I’ll have a drink,” you say, giving the idling bartender your order. The aged man proceeds to pull several bottles from the rack hanging behind him. You look over your shoulder to see Vash sitting down at a round table behind you. When he catches your gaze, he smiles, hand already lifting in an eager half wave as his fingers curl into air.
You don’t understand how he can look so happy to see you, as if you're an old friend he’s seeing for the first time in years, every time you meet his eyes. As if you haven’t been traveling together for the last few months. You've never stayed with an individual for longer than a week or two, other than your mother, but you know for sure Vash is strange. An outlier. You don’t understand how he constantly stays happy, upbeat and optimistic. No man is that happy, upbeat and optimistic. It’s suspicious.
The acrid scent of smoke and alcohol enters your nose before anything else, and then a hulking man with a bulbous nose is sidling up close to your side, despite the empty seats next to you. You ignore him as he gives you a long look up and down. The man in front of you mixing your drink gives him a distasteful glance.
A wide, crass grin stretches his face as he licks his lips.
“Yer a pretty thing, ain’t ya?”
You stare ahead. He’s not even worth brandishing your gun for.
He frowns when you don’t respond, trying again. “Whatcha doin’ in here, in this part of town? A lil’ lady like you is going to get eaten by the wolves.” He leans in close, and his breath fans against your cheek. You don’t bother to hide your distaste when he indiscreetly adjusts his pants. “I’ve got a place downtown…”
You’re going to shoot him, you decide.
Your hand goes to your side, but before you can remove your revolver, a blur of red rushes into the sliver of space between the two of you, forcibly separating the man from you. With his back to you, Vash lifts his hands in an act of surrender. The man tries to no avail to move towards you in either direction, but Vash swiftly meets him every time before he can step towards you.
“We—”
“What’s yer deal!?” The man asks angrily, drawing Vash close, hands fisted into his shirt, teeth gritted. Vash is taller than the man, so to see him tuck his knees inwards to be level with the man would be almost comical if you weren’t so annoyed.
A high pitched laugh escapes through his teeth. “Ahaha! About that—”
“She yours or somethin’!?”
Your already short patience stretches thin.
Panic floods his face as he glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Of course n—”
“Then it’s none of yer business anyhow,” he grouses, leaning in close. “Why dontcha butt out, and that way nobody gets hurt.”
“No,” Vash says firmly, unusually solemn, all pretenses of distress fading in a blink. He grabs the man’s arm with a steady hand of his own. “I can’t.”
You step to the side, and point your gun right at the man’s temple, already cocked. The bar quiets, eyes on your standoff. In your peripheral you can see multiple hands on belts, ready for a shootout. Vash’s eyes go wide, mouth agape as he looks at you. Then your gun. Then at you.
“Put him down,” you say plainly. “I’m not going to ask again.”
“Yeah, put him down Eli!” A voice exclaims.
Others voice their agreement.
The man blinks. Then he throws his head back and uproariously laughs, fist loosening on Vash’s shirt, letting him down with a slump. “Playing with guns, little girl? Why don’t you come on over, I’ll teach you the right way—”
You aim down, and pull the trigger.
A single shot rings through the bar. The man shrieks in agony as the bullet goes through his foot, clean. You watch him jump around on one foot, holding his other foot in his hands, crying out for help as blood gets everywhere. What a mess. The bartender only shakes his head as people begin to surround the hollering man. You think he might as well kill himself now. Not a single survival instinct. The last thing he should be doing after a bullet wound is moving around like a headless lizard.
You throw a sack of coins on the bar. The drink you hadn’t even gotten and damages to the floor. You grab Vash by the hood of his red coat and drag him out the bar as he gawks at you. You drop him outside and start towards the town’s caravan stop. In a few seconds, Vash has caught up with you, side by side.
He looks troubled. Lost in thought.
“I didn’t kill him,” you say. Although you probably would have not even three months ago. That would have ensured you wouldn’t be bothered in the town again by a handsy drunk.
You don’t know why you feel the need to explain yourself. You figure you can’t keep silent when he’s looking at you like that , waiting for some kind of explanation that you would usually never entertain.
“Should I have let him all over me?” You ask tonelessly.
The snaps him back to attention. “No! It’s just…” he sounds unsure, almost uneasy. “You were just…protecting yourself.”
You wonder what kind of life he’s led. To be able to be the way he is. A pacifist, in this world. Someone who refuses to pull the trigger on his .45 long colt unless absolutely necessary.
“Not everybody gets to choose to not kill,” you reply, not as curt as you could be. “Some people don’t have a choice.” Not everybody has the strength to protect themselves without violence. Sometimes, it’s just survival. The choice between you or them. Sometimes, it wasn’t anything more than that. No hard feelings. The second your hands had touched your revolver, you had gained your footing in the world. The gun, the great equalizer. And in your hands, death.
You never had a choice. And then you did.
Vash’s face falls. “I…I see.”
You find yourself searching for words, anything at all to wipe the miserable expression on his face away. “I didn’t kill him,” you say slowly. “But I could have.”
He lifts his head, blinking. “You… could have,” he repeats.
You don’t say that had the man come any closer, if he had touched you, you would’ve put a bullet in his head, right through his brain. And then you would’ve let the animals have him.
Vash slowly regains his smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you didn’t.”
Although the smile on his lips often seems more trained than instinctual, a defense tactic, you can’t deny that in the end, a smile suits his face much more.
“I can take care of myself,” you say, fixing your gaze straight ahead.
He hums. “I know.”
You sigh.
-
-
-
“Over here!” Tony exclaims, wildly waving at Vash for a pass.
Vash kicks the ball over, watching as the other children surround the freckled short boy, eager to steal the ball back to their side. They had divided the teams seven to three, the children citing that the team with Vash on their side had the upper hand, therefore it was only fair for the teams to be unevenly divided. Vash had no qualms with it, neither did Tony or Sonya, who had grabbed Vash by the arm (shorter frame pulling him down to her level) and declared that the next victory would be theirs.
He can’t help himself. He looks towards where you’ve been sitting by the benches in front of the town square’s fountain, watching him kick around a ball for the better half of the hour with the town kids, unmoving, except for the small curve of your lips. Vash can tell when your gaze is on him. Some eighth sense that also has him gravitating towards your orbit, unconsciously and consciously. His feet take him to you, wherever you are. Lucky for him, nowadays, he doesn’t need to walk more than a couple steps to reach you.
Usually you’d be gone, taking care of your own business while he explored the town or city, and its inhabitants, before the inevitable bounty hunter or criminal looked a bit too closely to his face, his red jacket, and made the connection. Maybe you’d stop by the sheriff’s office, flashing your identification badge, and then flip through recent wanted posters. Maybe you’d get a bite to eat. Then you’d just follow the bullets and the trail of destruction to easily meet up with him.
He never knew definitively. You had never really answered his curiosity with more than a noncommittal comment or two. It doesn’t matter now though, because now you stay with him.
The sun looks good on you. He doesn’t realize he’s staring at you until a ball hits him smack in the face and drops to the ground, leaving him with a sore, red face and a bruised nose. The kids startle to a stop, gawking at him with wide mouths. There’s silence, and then raucous laughter.
“Vash!”
“Is he okay?”
“C’mon Vash, you lost the ball!”
“It hit him in the face, did you see that?”
“That’s a foul! You did that on purpose Lock!”
“Nu-uh!”
He sees you shake your head, amused, and knows that the warmth he feels isn’t entirely from the sun.
Tony runs towards him, ball held against his chest, breathless. The blue cap he wears is askew. Vash fixes it for straight. “You alright, Vash?”
Vash runs a hand through his hair and laughs. “No harm done,” he says cheerfully. “Guess I wasn’t paying attention, sorry about that!”
Sonya looks concerned. “Don’t worry about that! It’s all Lock’s fault anyway!” She turns around, sticks a finger under her eye, pulling it down, and blows a raspberry. “You’re horrible Lock!”
The older boy returns it with a raspberry of his own, and then crosses his arms. “He should’ve been looking in the first place, instead of at his girlllllfriend!”
Sonya’s eyes are wide as he feels his face go red. He nervously tugs at the collar of his shirt. The kids gathered around him erupt into laughter again. A quick glance in your direction, and he sees the raise of your eyebrow, lips tight in suppressed laughter he wishes he was there to hear.
“Is it true?” She asks him, brown doe eyes wide. “Is she your—” her voice drops conspiratorially “— girlfriend?”
He sticks a hand in the girl’s hair and gives her a good natured ruffle as she giggles. “Something like that,” he says, despite the elation that fills his stomach, to avoid fully answering the question, as if speaking whatever fragile thing the two of you have into existence might permanently alter it.
Girlfriend.
What a mundane word for something as all consuming as the love he feels for you. He feels as if his chest might just burst with it all. But he can say that now, call you his in some way that makes him both terrified of overstepping his bounds and even more terrified of you leaving.
“Hey Vash,” Tony says, insistently tugging on the sleeve of his coat. “There’s a guy chattin’ up your girl!”
You aren’t happy. That he can see clearly. Your expression has shuttered as a man closes into you with a wide smirk, overtaking his view of you. The last thing Vash can see is your thoroughly unamused expression.
He’s not aware of his feet taking him towards you. He doesn’t think. All he sees is how the man rests a hand on the holster of the gun attached to his hip, as if flourishing it, and he’s moving.
“A good ole’ romp in the bed is what you need,” he hears the man remark vulgarly. “Promise, it’ll fix you right up.”
“No,” you reply bluntly.
His cocksure grin fades with a scowl. “Now, don’t be like that. Nobody likes stubborn broads. I’ll be sure to show you a good time.”
An arm reaches out to roughly grab you, but Vash reaches him first, the metal of his left hand wrapping around the man’s wrist, tightening. The man yelps.
Vash blinks at the noise. You stare, looking at him with your head slightly tilted to the side.
He tears his arm back so quickly it gives him whiplash. His hands are automatically raised in a show of harmlessness as he nervously laughs.
He hadn’t meant to grip him that tightly .
Unless… he had.
The man’s face is bright red in anger, looking at his left arm as if it’s the devil. “Who do you think you are!?”
Vash shifts ever so slightly to keep his arm out of view. It’s been a while since he’s been so self conscious. People asked questions, and sometimes they looked at him funny. It used to hurt his feelings, the way he was looked at as an outsider, even though he was. The rest of No Man’s Land wasn’t like the inhabitants of ship No. 3, who knew his origins. His identity as a plant.
Now it’s a constant reminder of it. Of Nai. Of their first of many confrontations a hundred years ago.
He’s not human, not like the man in front of him. Not like you.
You stand, asserting yourself into the space between him and the man. You give him a dismissive look, before grabbing him by the left hand, and turning on your heels, pulling him along. Your fingers squeeze his metallic fingers in a way that shoots sparks up his arm, right to his heart. As you drag him along the kids holler their goodbyes, and all he can do is smile, wave back, and follow. He’d follow you anywhere, he thinks, easily keeping up with your pace. To the ends of No Man’s Lands to space and back.
He wonders if you’re angry. If you’re annoyed at his intervention. He hadn’t meant to be so…forward. His body had moved before he could think.
But…you’re…you’re his now, aren’t you? You kissed him, held his face between your hands, and smiled. You don’t smile a lot, but you smile for him. He thinks that if anything, that means the most. When he told you he wasn’t human you readily accepted it, as if you had been expecting it. Then you asked him if it hurt when Nai had cut off his arm, and when he told you he hadn’t felt much of anything, really, from the shock, because he was a plant, you had frowned and told him to stop lying.
Now, the two of you sleep together. You let Vash hold you in his arms, and he tucks you into the crook of his neck, and you don’t even complain when he locks you in his embrace, even though you could. Even if you could leave. And on nights he can’t fall asleep, terrified that in the morning you’ll have been nothing but a fantasy, he counts your soft slow breaths in his neck until the sun rises, the seconds until you wake up and give him that sleepy smile he likes to think is reserved just for him.
So now Vash stands closer to you than he had ever previously dared. In larger cities with crowds, he’s right at your side in the bustle taking the brunt of the jostling as you lead the way. And when there are no locals to make conversation with, no children to entertain, he trails after you, wherever your whims take you. You like heights. Rooftops. High vantage points from where you can look down. He thinks it makes you feel safer. You’ve always been aware of his presence, even though you never used to acknowledge him. Now you do. Now you let him hold your hand, and he doesn’t feel like Vash the Stampede, whose sins stare back at him every time he catches his face in a reflection, but a man hopelessly in love.
You push him up against a wall in an abandoned alley, and he relishes in the close proximity, smiling dumbly when you lean into him. He’s not expecting you to kiss him, but it sure would be nice—
Until he remembers that you might be mad. That he had accidentally hurt that man. The yelp that had been twisted out of him. The smile promptly falls from his face.
“I—uh—”
“Are you okay?” You ask.
“Of course I am,” he says cheerily, but all he can think about is that man reaching for you, the gleam of desire in his eyes (directed towards you ), and his two whole arms (one more arm to hold you with), and there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, a wretched miserable thing that hovers a bit too close to the surface of his face. “Just fine!”
Your eyes narrow, just imperceptibly, while you scrutinize him in silence. His gaze momentarily darts away, fleeing, and then back, to see that you’re still staring at him, eyebrows furrowed as if you’re trying your best to think of something to say. Words don’t really come easy to you. Vash thinks it’s cute, that thinking silence of yours, where he can almost see the gears in your head turning as you struggle for an empathetic response after years of curt silences and dry one worded responses.
You purse your lips, bottom lip jutting out ever slightly.
Cute.
“Liar.” You glance down at his left arm, and Vash resists the urge to hide the prosthesis behind him.
A shadow falls on your face as you look down. “Is it me?”
“No!” He blurts out. Guilt churns in his gut, and he’s not sure if it’s because he hurt that man or because he isn’t sorry. He wants to say that he didn’t mean to, but that would be another lie. He hadn’t wanted to hurt him badly. Just… enough that he’d leave you alone. That he’d stop looking at you like that as if he wasn’t there. There was already someone by your side.
“I shouldn’t have hurt him,” he says finally. He can’t help himself when he adds, a touch defensively, “But he shouldn’t have been…” Vash feels a rush of heat reach his ears from your discerning gaze. “He…” almost touched you. He would’ve yanked you up, been rough with you, and just because you’re used to it doesn’t mean that it’s okay. Sometimes, he thinks you’re too used to it. Every night he counts the scars on your body with the same tenderness you’ve afforded him, that he doesn’t deserve, and he feels his heart weigh heavier.
Vash would never forgive himself if you got harmed on his watch.
You look up at him. “He…?”
He isn’t…getting ahead of himself is he?
He loves you, and not a night goes by where he doesn’t think it. He’s loved you since the night you pulled him close and kissed him. He’s loved you since the moment he realized that the silence wasn’t so bad, so lonely, when he had someone to share it with.
He had assumed he meant as much to you as you do to him—
Your lips twitch into a small smile, and the sight stops his thoughts. You step closer and bury your face into his neck. His arms automatically wrap around you as he relaxes into your body, smiling at the ground.
“I love you,” you murmur, so soft that even his ears strain to hear it. He doesn’t even have the time to feel giddy before you pull back, reach for his neck, and bring his lips to yours.
He’s eager to reciprocate. The worry that maybe he’s holding you tightly around the waist doesn’t even strike him until a second later, but by then you’re happily exhaling into his mouth, and raking your fingernails down the back of his neck until he’s shuddering into you.
You back him against the wall without a missed beat and he happily follows. One of your hands snakes down to his prosthetic, entwining your fingers together. He gives your hand a squeeze back and when you smile against his lips, he knows that it’s the most lovely sight he’s ever seen. The first time he had ever seen you smile, it had invoked the same amazement and wonder in him as seeing Rem’s red geraniums for the first time.
But you aren’t a flower to be gazed at and plucked by curious onlookers. This smile is just for him. And Vash thinks, once again, for the fifth time in a day that hasn’t ended, that as much as he loves you, he also doesn’t deserve you.
He’ll tell you again tonight. This time, while you’re awake. Not…everything. Not enough that it could scare you away. Just enough, like how he likes gazing at you when the sun hits your bare frame in the scarce mornings the two of you have a bed, or the way your eyes light when they meet his, after a few hours apart. How it makes him feel…
Like a child again. Happy. The world at his fingertips. In the bed he and Nai would share, watching clips of some old earth movie underneath the covers. In Rem’s hugs, his arms wrapped around her neck, clinging to her tightly, as if she might disappear if he opened his eyes. The sound of her laughter in his ears. Lovely and fleeting.
Pressed against him, all the warmth of your body and lips, a breathy moan builds up in his throat as you have your way with him. As selfish as it seems, he wants more. As much as you’re willing to give. As much as he dares to take. He likes the way you say his name, especially when you’re in the throes of pleasure, when you’re looking down at him with so much love that he’s choking on his words, and his chest aches with it.
Someone giggles.
You separate, your lips enticingly spit slicked and swollen, your thumb tracing the underneath of his right eye. You like his beauty mark, have remarked on it more than once, the color of his eyes, and every other part of him that makes him flush from head to toe. He knows he’s not much to look at, but every part of him, except his burdens, belong to you. And if you can find something worthwhile to look at when you look at him other than disgust and horror, then that’s more than enough.
He lets his arms fall from your waist as you step away, and he already misses your closeness.
“Children shouldn’t be eavesdropping,” you say coolly, but not coldly. There’s a glint in your eyes as heads pop up from the crates towards the back of the alley.
“We were just making sure everything was okay!” Tony exclaims, running up to you. He grins knowingly at Vash and attempts a wink.
You raise an eyebrow.
Sonya approaches, dragging Lock with her. “ And Lock wanted apologize for hittin’ Vash in the face!”
“Wha—!?” Lock sputters, looking at the girl in betrayal. “Sonya!” He squints at the ground. “...Sorry.”
Vash kneels down. “Apology accepted,” he says softly, a smile on his lips. He’s a good kid. So are all the kids in this town. Sonya with her ever present glowing smile. Tony and his mischievous wit. The blue cap he doesn’t go without. Lock and his grudges which hide a large, genuine heart. Billy and Mary and Kirk and everyone else.
Vash is almost tempted to stay a couple more nights, but he knows he can’t. Not with Nai having been spotted to the South. Another plant stolen, more fatal casualties. He has to leave before there are more. If he were a better person, he’d leave you behind. He stares at the ground.
He briefly feels the weight of your gaze. You gather the kids’ attention.
“You kids hungry?”
Tony and Sonya and Lock perk up.
“I am!” Tony says.
“You’re always hungry!” Sonya scowls.
“Are you the one with the money?” Lock asks. “Cuz’ Vash is broke.”
That draws a huff of laughter from you as Vash smiles sheepishly, pushing the worries plaguing his mind away for now. Until night falls upon No Man’s Land, and you’re peacefully sleeping in his arms. That’s when he’ll worry about whether or not he deserves to be happy with you.
Sonya reaches up to grab your hand with a big smile. You glance at him.
And I know it's hard enough to love me (But I woke up in a safe house)
pairing: vash the stampede x fem!reader
warnings/tags: babygirl vash, Depressing Pillow Talk, slighty nsfw towards the end, sharing one bed trope, title taken from let's get married (MITSKI VERS)
word count: ~4.2k
“My husband and I would like a room,” you say with a smile as you wrap your arms around Vash’s and lean into him. You feel his body startle at your touch, his gaze on top of your head as you play the part of the excited bride. You think he might pass out on you if you don’t get him to room, and fast. “We’re on our honeymoon.”
“In this shithole of a town?” The innkeeper asks with a raised eyebrow, looking from you to Vash, who only lets out a sheepish chuckle as he scratches the back of his head. Despite his sluggish breaths, his slow blinking gaze, and the red slowly staining his shirt.
You shrug, trying hard not to be impatient. “There are worse places.”
There are. You’ve survived them. Compared to the slums of December or September, this shabby, worn inn is paradise.
“Yer right ‘bout that,” he laughs, acquiescing, as he tosses a ring of keys into your hand and takes your pouch of money. Vash is slumped into you now, and you can tell he’s trying his hardest not to place the full weight of his body on you. To anyone else, it would look as if he was clinging to you, the picture of a loving couple.
“Cheers to the happy couple!” the man calls out, tipping his hat down as the two of you move to the stairs in front of you.
Vash grins brightly, and manages a cheery, polite, “Thank you!” as the two of you pass.
You can’t resist the huff of a laugh that escapes your lips as you make your way up the stairs, and then into the small, modest dust lined room.
Vash collapses on the bed with a sharp exhale, and you immediately move to take off his shirt but his hand stops you by the wrist before you can.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, eyelashes fluttering. His fingers tightens, just imperceptibly, (even on the brink of sleep, he’s overly conscious about his strength, you think). In a way, it feels like he’s wordlessly imploring you to stay. “Jus’ need sleep. Not gonn’ take long.”
You blink. His fingers loosen, and in a few seconds his breathing has evened out into steady breaths. You’re relieved. He’s already stopped bleeding. From the months you’ve traveled with him, known him, he’s healed quickly enough that any other person wouldn’t understand. You still don’t. Not fully. But you’ve never asked questions. And as long as he never asked you any questions, that was fine with you.
You stay on the bed, by his side for a few minutes, watching him. You take off his sunglasses and put them on the nightstand after wiping the blood off them. He’s an unusually pretty man. Too pretty for No Man’s Land. You trace his face with your eyes. The beauty mark right under his right eye to his parted pink lips. Then down to the rise and fall of his chest to the plates of the cybernetic prosthesis of his left arm.
Lost technology. Not many people had access to that kind of technology. Or the knowledge to build that arm, let alone repair it.
Standing, you give him one last glance, reload your revolver and tuck it into the holster at your side, before you leave in search of medical supplies to patch him up when he wakes. You scope out the town while at it. It’s small; a handful of residents armed to the teeth with guns, and even less children. There are pipes that run through the town that you assume are fed fresh water by a nearby plant. You locate a medical shop at the center of town.
You buy antiseptic, gauze, and a few other things, before making your way back to the inn. The innkeeper gives you a wink.
When you open the door to the room, Vash is awake.
The sound of his harsh breathing fills the air. His metal hand fisted into the sheets so tightly you think it might tear. You meet his frantic gaze, and almost immediately, he slumps in relief, eyes dropping to his lap.
You quietly shut the door. “Nightmare?”
Sometimes, in his sleep, you hear him call out for a woman named Rem.
He lets out a loud laugh. You pretend not to notice the shaky undertone of it. “I slept for longer than I thought!” His metallic hand curls and unfurls, catching on the dull light of the room. “I thought you…” he trails off, suddenly embarrassed. He looks away.
“I brought supplies.” You place the bag on the table, next to Vash’s nickel revolver. You turn back to him: “Strip.”
His arms immediately make a cross on his chest, as if he’s already stripped, face bright red.
“I can do it myself—!”
Vash the Stampede. The humanoid Typhoon. The Sixty Billion Double Dollar Man. The man you originally only followed after to collect the criminals who swarmed to him, like flies to corpses. The man who leaves a trail of calamity and disaster in his wake. The man who continuously, everyday, without fail, begged you to leave the criminals you captured alive. A constant enigma and a headache. A walking contradiction.
“I’ll leave the room,” you say. “Don’t take too long.”
You leave the room, leaning against the wall, and wait two minutes.
You open the door, and Vash jumps with a yelp, stripped to the waist, arms covering whatever he can manage.
Scars cover his entire torso, running all the way down his flesh arm to his hand. Deep scars, shallow scars, scars that have never entirely healed, leaving the skin dark pink and the flesh caved in. There are more scars than there is unblemished skin, missing chunks of skin replaced with metal plates and seams.
It's not a pretty sight, but you’ve never much cared for pretty.
His face is flushed. “I thought—”
“I lied.”
“!?”
You shut the door with your heel, and then grab the gauze and antiseptic. “Turn around.”
Wordlessly, he turns, ears reddening. You direct him to sit on the bed, and then you begin to apply the antiseptic. The two of you sit in silence. You, disinfecting his fresh wounds and wrapping his back, while you also ignore the way his body tenses at your touch, his pointedly straight gaze, the constant bob of his throat, as if he’s looking for the right words to say.
He reluctantly speaks up. “You’re…not hurt, are you?”
“I’m fine,” you reply. Just a few scrapes and a bruised arm from where you had landed wrong after trying to dodge multiple rounds of bullets from the latest batch of criminals that had schemed to capture the humanoid typhoon. After hauling them to the police, Vash hiding away, you had gained yourself a hefty paycheck before being run out of the city, a bleeding Vash in tow.
You’re nearly done. The wounds aren’t nearly as severe as they had been only a couple of hours ago. The skin has healed enough that it’s already forming a scar. You don’t know much about Vash the Stampede, but you know enough to understand that he isn’t human. Not completely.
But he smiles. He laughs. He detests the very violence that nurtured you. He likes pizza and donuts. He’s moved to tears almost as easily as he seems to get hurt. He’s good with children. They trust him. Children love him in a way they don’t you: pulling him down to their height, climbing him, leading him and all his long limbs along. The way he takes their words seriously, nodding with all the gravity of a legal proceeding as they talk about the weather, their favorite foods, the silly argument they got into with a sibling. He smiles, and when he turns that smile onto you, it makes you think of everything warm and how you had forgotten what it meant to be happy.
He may not be human, but he is. Everything good about humanity that had been lost and forsaken when mankind crashed onto this unforgiving, harsh planet.
You pull away, resisting the urge to press your fingers down on his skin, to trace the map of his scars and feel him shudder underneath you. He’s as warm as a furnace. The heat of his body stays with you. “How do you feel?”
He beams at you, one hand on his upper arm as he swings his arm around. “Perfect!”
You sigh. “Don’t push yourself now. Let me finish wrapping you.”
He retreats back to his original position, still smiling, all reservations about his partial nudity forgotten as he waits for you to finish.
Vash speaks. “You didn’t kill them.”
You glance up. You can only partially see his expression from your position behind him, but the pull of his lips is unmistakable. He’s smiling. And you don’t need to look at him to see it. That sweet smile of his that pulls at his eyes and softens his entire face.
Your hands still. You hadn’t killed them. The Archie Brothers, the two brothers infamous for targeting banks and other commercial properties, who had gotten wind of Vash being in the city and emptied hundreds of rounds into the bar the two of you had momentarily settled in for a quick drink. It’s not as if you could’ve killed them in the first place. Vash was nothing if not easygoing, but keeping the criminals you turned in for a paycheck alive was the one thing he firmly enforced. Going as far to shield their bodies with his own.
He’s so troublesome sometimes.
You want to ask if he would’ve let you in the first place. If you had a choice.
You force yourself to wind the bandage over his arm. “You must be rubbing off on me.”
Vash turns, faster than you anticipate, eyes wide. You can see the pale irises of his eyes. He’s delighted. “Really!?”
You blink, staring at him in silence. He goes red, jerking back, scuttling backwards with his hands like a crab until he reaches the end of the bed and then air. He falls back first, legs raised up in the air.
He sits up with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. “I…I guess I got a little ahead of myself…”
“...pffft.”
He straightens just as you dissolve into full blown laughter. And when your laughter dies down he’s looking at you, eyes wide, like he’s seeing you for the first time. You clear your throat and look away, embarrassed. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed in front of him.
“...Something on my face?”
He jumps, frantically waving. “No, no. I just thought,” he hesitates. “You should laugh more.”
Something in your chest gives. You can’t stand it. Not when he looks at you like that. Eyes shining, lips curved softly, face animated like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.
People like him aren’t supposed to survive No Man’s Land. They aren’t built to. But you’ve seen with your own eyes how capable Vash is. It didn’t take much to kill a man in these lawless lands, but you had never seen him miss his target. Your didn't need to take pride in your aim to know it was excellent. You just didn’t have the same consideration for criminals Vash did. A life or two wasn’t something you lost sleep over. Casualties happened. And if it was a criminal, then it was simply divine judgment.
You stand from the bed and walk towards the desk. You take a doughnut out of a brown paper bag and throw it to him.
“For me?” He exclaims, easily catching it, even though you had thrown it to him.
You don’t respond. He enthusiastically tears it in half, and offers you the bigger piece.
You shake your head, the quirk of your lips, fond. “I don’t like sweet things.”
“I see…” he says thoughtfully, as if he’s digesting the information. “That makes sense. You don’t normally eat…”
It strikes you that this is the most you’ve ever talked about yourself. You’re unusually talkative today, and he notices. You find that you don’t mind. It’s alarmingly easy to talk to him now.
In the handful of months you’ve been traveling together, you’ve learned that all the crimes attributed to him had been the work of his twin, a man called Million Knives. A man you had managed to steal a glimpse of only once before Vash had locked you in a closet before rushing away. You were still sore over that. Even though he retrieved you soon after, apologizing profusely, accepting your cold shoulder with grace. Until you couldn’t bear the way he trailed after you with a pathetically sad expression on his face, and told him to stop.
You never asked him for details. Of why his brother was terrorizing towns and cities, stealing plants and lives along the way. You’ve never pushed. You weren’t following the man to learn his life story. You were in it for the money.
Until one day, you realized he knew your exact bar order by heart. The kinds of alcohol you’d drink, and the kinds you wouldn’t touch. It was a small thing. But he looked so pleased when he placed the glass down, as he waited for you to drink it.
You knew his fear of you becoming potential collateral damage, but somewhere along the way you think you had grown on him. Somewhere along the nights listening to him cry out in his sleep for a woman named Rem, somewhere along watching the sliver of light heralding sunrise on the horizon together, somewhere in the silence in the dark of nights shared.
You think he’s grown on you too.
“Have you eaten?” He asks.
“Not hungry,” you reply, glancing out the window. Pitch black other than the glow of a single lone street lamp nearly a block down. “I’m going to sleep.” It wasn’t often you got to sleep on a bed, and you planned to make full use of it.
You go to the bathroom to wash up. When you walk out, Vash enters the room with a load of blankets. You look at him curiously.
“I asked the innkeeper for some blankets.” He laughs, recalling the conversation. “I said that my…” he trails off. “My…ah…wife…” Red paints his cheeks, and he looks away, raising the mound in his arms a bit higher to cover his face.
“...”
“...”
You watch as he makes his way to the other side of the room, keeping his gaze pointedly straight, and places the pile down.
“You’re sleeping on the floor?”
“That’s right!” Vash pats the floor a little too vigorously for your liking. “Just like usual!”
You look at the bed. It’s big enough for the two of you so you had assumed you’d be sharing it… You’ve never shared a bed together before, but you had no problems with it, not with Vash.
He darts into the bathroom quickly enough that you don’t have time to say anything else. You hear the water run, turn off the lights, and get underneath the covers.
Then you wait.
When he leaves the bathroom, he gingerly folds his red jacket and sets it down on the chair. You wait until he passes the bed to strike, grabbing him by the shirt, and hauling him down onto the bed.
He yelps, a surprised, high pitched, noise that tears out of his throat.
“We can share,” you say to him, his face inches apart from you. You can see his wide eyes, the bob of his throat working, pink lips parted as he stares at you, but your gaze is resolute.
And that’s that.
You figure that it might be easier for him to sleep if you aren’t facing him, so you turn to face the wall. You stare at the wall for ten minutes, waiting for him to settle into his side of the bed. Not even a faint rustle of the sheets. You wait a little longer. You can’t even hear him breathing.
You turn back around to face him and immediately he draws back even farther from his original position, on the tip of the bed where he’s precariously close to falling off.
A nervous chuckle. “I…”
“Sleep. I won’t say it again.” You study him, his slightly panicked expression, the grip of his metal hand fisted into the sheets. Oh. “Is it me?”
“N-nothing like that—!” He inches forward, just a little bit (still keeping his distance), puts his hand underneath the pillow, and squeezes his eyes tight. You watch him for a few seconds longer, specifically at the bead of sweat forming on the side of his temples. Your gaze drifts down, from the delicate slope of his nose to his lips.
You turn back around.
Silence settles in the room like a muffled blanket. You still can’t tell if he’s breathing or not, and for some reason, sleep doesn’t come to you as easily as it usually does. The bed is too soft.
You don’t know why you say it. Maybe it’s because you’re awake. Maybe it’s because you know Vash isn’t asleep.
“When I was a child, a plant saved me.”
A few heartbeats pass.
Vash’s voice is softly hesitant. It feels like something gentle and your stomach coils tight, as if in preparation for the inevitable recoil that always follows. “Were you sick?”
“I was.” The darkness reveals patterns in the wall, and your eyes go blurry with them. “The entire town was sick. Children were dying.” Religious fervor had taken ahold. Daily ritual acts of praying and calling out for salvation.
Taking you to your town’s plant when you were on the brink of death had been your mother’s first and final act of love. Afterwards, your mother often recounted in a drunken stupor that she was sure you were going to die. That it may have even been a mercy if you had. The plant cured you. Your mother was sure of it, the plant worshiping denizens of the town were sure of it. Nobody knew how. Nothing except for the fact that shortly after—
“The plant died the day after. I’ve never forgotten it.” You killed it. It was the first life you took.
It changed you. On a fundamental level. Something had happened to you on that day you can’t even remember. But that’s something you don’t think you can share. How sometimes, you don’t even need to dodge bullets.
That plant died, and now you are here, sharing a bed with a self proclaimed pacifist who refused to kill under any circumstances. A man who defied all logic and reasoning. A good man anyone would call misguided. A fool. An idealist.
In the end, lives would always demand sacrifice. It was either you, or them. It was kill, or be killed.
You don’t know what face he’s making behind you. Is he horrified to know that your life had ended before it started? That you were responsible for taking away the source of life for hundreds of people? That your existence was predicated on sacrifice and death before you even learned how to walk? You were at inherent odds with the idealism of pacifism. With him. Not out of choice, but because of circumstances out of your control.
Maybe a part of you wants him to hate you. Maybe a part of you is looking to be understood. But you thought that part of you had died long ago.
You shut your eyes, prepared to go to sleep.
Vash exhales. “I don’t…”
You open your eyes.
There’s a conviction in his voice you don’t understand. “You didn’t kill it.” You wonder how he can be so confident. “The plant saved you.” I know it did.
You face him once more. He’s closer than he was before, close enough to easily touch. “Sometimes,” you start, hating the way he’s smiling at you in a way that touches his eyes, framed in the pale moonlight. “You really make me mad.”
His jaw comically drops open. You watch as panic instantly overtakes his face until he realizes the lack of heat in your words. His lips push back together to form a pout. He says your name.
“Why is your brother stealing plants?”
Money. Power. Recognition. Those would seem to be the most likely answers, but you’ve seen the wreckage that Million Knives leaves in the wake of his destruction. It’s cruelty. It’s too calculated to be careless. It’s pure hatred. You can’t fathom a man like as Vash's brother. Twin brother.
But then that voice inside you speaks. Are you really any different?
Vash blinks, and then his face falls, gaze downcast. It feels odd to see him like this. You rarely catch him without a big, sheepish smile on his face nowadays, especially when he catches you looking at him, but you had seen him with a forlorn expression, shoulders slumped, in your early days of traveling together. When there were no children to demand a ride on his back, when the two of you momentarily passed an overcast shadow, in the darkness of the night when he thought nobody was looking.
You almost regret asking him in the first place. But he’s so close you can count his pale eyelashes, and you lose your train of thought.
“You could say it’s…” his mouth twists, “revenge.”
Revenge.
He’s not the first misanthrope in these lands. You think the occasional mass murderous thought, and you resist acting on it more often than you didn’t, the days before you met a blonde pacifist gunman. There’s only so much a human being can take.
You think of the kaleidoscope of scars that line his body. You only saw the ones on his upper body, but you don’t doubt the existence of countless others everywhere else.
It must’ve hurt. It must’ve been other people. People intent on capturing him. People who wanted to hurt him. You hate them all. Every single person that has permanently marked him a way that wasn’t theirs to do in the first place. You hate whoever severed his arm, whoever had repaid his kindness with violence.
Desire strikes you, hot and sudden. You want to count them all, trail your fingers over the heat of his body, the uneven layers of skin, and feel his breaths underneath you. You look at him, as his gaze lifts, remeeting your eyes, pleading for your understanding. Ball and chain to his brother. Shouldering the sins of family. You don’t understand it. Why he’s looking to you for acceptance, as if it’d even make a difference.
He is the only good thing in this harsh world, and you’ve found him.
“Maybe,” you tell him, as he hangs onto your every word. “We deserve it.”
You see the split second sadness weighing in his eyes, at your words, right before you curl your fingers into his shirt and pull him to your lips.
His eyes go wide, and something that sounds like a mixture of an exhale and gasp leaves his lips. You separate, your lips a hairbreadth away from his, as he stares at you.
“Is this okay?” You ask. If it wasn’t, you’d go back to sleep, and forget it ever happened in the first place. You made your move. It wasn’t reciprocated.
But then he nods, so vigorously that his blonde hair flops into his eyes.
You smile, and Vash lights up.
You kiss him again, drawing his face closer with your hand on his cheek. He complies with his entire body, closing the distance immediately, like if he can’t help himself. His lips are clumsy against yours, too eager, too desperate, wet and messy, as he pants into your mouth. Heat pools in your stomach, and you want more. You run your tongue over the seam of his lips, and he lets out a sigh of something that sounds reverently like your name against your mouth.
Then your tongue is in his mouth, and his flesh hand jumps. There’s a breathless, throaty whimper, the entire weight of his body pressing tight against you. So you can feel every part of him. How he’s willing to give you everything in the name of desire, of love. And when you pull away, his lips follow yours, spit slicked and swollen.
You easily lay him flat on his back as you move to straddle him. You kiss him again briefly, tenderly. Then you sit up and pull up his shirt, just enough to expose his torso. His metal fingers fist into the sheets when your finger goes to a scar of pink skin right about his hips, lightly following it to right below his chest.
He chokes with a shudder that wracks his body. You can feel him, heavy and hard pressing against you. The slight jump of his hips, barely restraining himself from rutting into you.
“It’s not…” Vash struggles with the words with heaving breaths, face bright red, embarrassment splayed out. He looks to the side. “A pretty sight.”
You think of heated irons and blistering pain. Thousands of blades slicing you open, needles penetrating flesh, blind white heat enveloping your body, and the mindless oblivion that would follow.
You realize you’ve been silent a beat too long when Vash looks like he’s preparing for your inevitable rejection.
“I’ve got scars too,” you say, finally. Quietly. You take his mechanical hand in yours and slowly slide him up underneath your shirt. “You want to see?”
Hayato Suo x Reader // Wind Breaker x My Happy Marriage AU
Summary: The first tranquil image of this man was highly misleading. Suo Hayato's calm facade hides a cheeky devil that loves to tease, and unfortunately - you are the perfect (blushing) target.
Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Making Out, OOC!Suo, Probably (Look, I Tried), Non-Graphic Torture, Implied/Reference Abuse
Word Count: 4,106
i.
The man before you is the most beautiful you've ever seen.
He's leaning his cheek on his fist, a scroll rolled out over his lap. Cherry blossoms fly around the courtyard in a colorful tornado, some crossing the threshold and dotting the bright wood.
The wind rises to ruffle his brown hair.
"Hello," He croons. "Might you be my new wife?"
Your mouth feels dry. Everything - your fist, your jaw - is clenched tightly. "I- uh, yes."
His smile is polite, close - lipped, and his one eye is closed as well.
You can't read his face and it disquiets you.
"Lovely to meet you," He says. "I am Suo Hayato."
ii.
The first tranquil image of this man was highly misleading.
Suo Hayato's calm facade hides a cheeky devil that loves to tease, and unfortunately - you are the perfect (blushing) target.
You try to avoid them as much as you can, but it's not always enough.
Suo stares at you across the breakfast table. He's always watching, observing.
It freaks you out, warms your cheeks. "What."
He leans his chin on his palm. "You're cute."
"Huh!" You almost choke. How can he say such a thing so nonchalantly!?
The smile never leaves his face. "I just think your cute. I'm happy to have such a cute little wife,"
You are not little, or cute, but what comes out instead is, "I'm not your wife."
"Yet," He hums. "But you will be. And I, for one, am looking forward to it."
You cough. "Sure."
At least the maid, Yurie, does not share her young master's penchant for teasing. You were worried at first, not that you'd tell anybody, that she would dislike you as the maids at your house had.
To be wrong was a startling relief.
iii.
You have a few dreamless nights before the nightmares return.
In your dreams there are no monsters - only your mother and her mother, pelting you with subtle insults and ignoring your pleas.
You awaken in the middle of the night, eyes wet.
Unable to sleep, you start to make your way to the kitchen.
Across the courtyard, in an open door, sits Suo beside a kettle of tea.
His eye is closed and he seems tranquil, enjoying the cool night breeze on his face.
You retreat.
You will not allow him to see such weakness.
iv.
"I was asked to attend a banquet by my superior," Suo says. “I'd like you to come."
"Alright," You say, despite the very idea making your sick. Your mind flickers with candlelit dinners and thinly veiled insults.
“We should go shopping," Suo continues. "Your kimonos are from last season, aren't they?"
"I ... suppose," You shift awkwardly and hope he doesn't notice. Shopping, too, is an incredibly sore spot for you.
"Wonderful! It's a date!"
"D-date!" You jerk to attention. "It's not a date!"
"Why not?" Suo says, pout in his voice. "The two of us are going to do something fun together, aren't we?"
"It's just shopping! That's more like - a mission! Yes, a mission."
Suo seems to think for a second. "No, I like date better."
You scoff in disbelief.
v.
The town is bustling, full of throngs of people moving to and fro like a rushing lake, some harking their wears, some enjoying the nice weather.
You stay close to Suo, careful not to get lost.
So close, you walk into his back when he stops.
"Hayato!" The person at the counter cheers. "And who is this?"
"My wife," Suo says easily.
"H-his fiancée!" You stutter.
"Same thing," He says. "This is Tsubaki. Their family has made kimonos for the Suos for generations, though I do prefer Tsubaki's unique patterns and eye for design."
Something about being preemptively called a Suo makes you cheeks warm despite yourself.
"What a flatter, am I right?" Tsubaki grins at you. "At your service!"
You give a polite nod. "Nice to meet you."
Fabric brushes against your shoulder and you turn to a kimono - a very expensive kimono, more expensive than anything you've owned - being held up beside you. "Hmm. No."
"Do you have any sort of patterns or colors you like?" Tsubaki asks. You realize too late that the question is directed to you.
You take your eyes from Suo to stare at them blankly. "Um?" Normally, your used to being told exactly what to wear, dressed up like a little doll at the mercy of others. "Surprise me?"
"Sure!" Tsubaki disappears further into the store.
Suo stands beside you, far too close. "Your in good hands. Tsubaki has excellent taste," You can feel the heat of his breath and lean away slightly on instinct. “I'm sure they'll find something amazing.”
"Okay," You say, trying to keep any hint of nervousness out of your voice.
“Though," He says, near the tips of your warming ears. "I'm sure you'll look wonderful either way."
You arch away from him. "Sure!"
Your thankful when Tsubaki comes around the corner. "What about this one? Would you like to try it on?"
You glance to Suo. "You can do whatever you wish," He says. "We'll probably end up buying a few, anyway."
You follow Tsubaki to the fitting room.
"Would you mind ... waiting outside, please?"
Tsubaki looks slightly confused. "Are you sure? It might be hard to get into some of them alone."
"I ... please."
"Of course."
In the mirror, you seem distorted. You're vaguely aware that you've seemingly gained some wight, a consequence of them feeding you well at the Suo household - but a potential target nonetheless. Your stretch marks ripple across your skin, shining lightly in the sunlight that sneaks though the top windows of the shop.
"It looks nice on you." Suo looks up when you walk out. "Do you like it?"
You pause. Do you? You don't know. "I -"
"You hesitated."
You slump, but go back into the fitting room.
Again you emerge, bashfully asking, "How about this one?"
"How about it?" Suo asks, seemingly fishing for an answer.
"No!" calls Tsubaki from the front of the store. "Not it!"
You return with the final kimono of the stack, padding your way out of the fitting room.
Suo's eye widens a fraction and he swallows.
You instinctively sink into yourself at the intensity of his gaze.
"Now we're getting somewhere!" Tsubaki says, bouncing over and turning you around. Looking between the two of you, they say, "Hey, this kimono is the same color as your eyes, Hayato!"
You look down, meeting the slightly hooded eye of your fiancée.
Tsubaki's right.
"What do you think ... Suo?"
Suo's eyes flicker up, then down once more. For not the first time, you wish he was easier to read. "We're taking that one home Tsubaki.”
vi.
You try on a few more Kimonos before waving goodbye to Tsubaki.
The sun has risen higher and the streets seem even more crowded, if that where even possible.
Suo takes your hand.
His hand engulfs your own - unnaturally cold, fingers long.
You stop in your tracks with a sound like a record scratching.
"I don't want to lose you, dear," He says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world.
"You don't need to hold my hand, though!"
"Of course I do." He says.
The two of you continue, stopping at one of the small stalls for a snack.
It drips down your hand and your eyebrows furrow as you debate licking it up. You feel Suo's eye on you. It would be unladylike.
Suo chuckles at your hesitation. "I'll go get napkins from the stall."
You nod, taking another bite of your food.
For a moment, you feel something... calm.
"Hello there, pretty lady."
The man looms over you, casting a long shadow.
"You seem to be enjoying that treat. How’s about we go into that alleyway and I give you another?"
"I-I'm waiting for my fiancée - " You force out tightly.
He looks down. “I don’t see a ring on that finger. Maybe if I got a closer look?"
He moves to grab your hand and you yank it away, but he's faster.
"Excuse me?" It's Suo's voice - but it's different.The teasing is still there, but his voice is lower. Colder. A dark growl. "Would you kindly unhand my wife?”
"S-suo- " Falls out of your mouth, and you hate how pitiful you sound.
The man turns his head, but you can’t see beyond his large stature. “That’s your man? Why not hang with a real man instead of pretty boy over there?”
Your throat constricts.
And then the man crumples, holding his arm and screaming. Spikes of ice, swirling with snowflakes, split his arm.
"Were my instructions unclear? I told you to get your hands off of my wife."
The man turns to Suo, panting. He starts to run at him, but Suo simply sidesteps the man, flipping him onto his back.
“Are you hurt?" He walks over to you and you shrink away on instinct. His lips quirk in a thin line.
"N-no."
He holds out a hand. "Can I see?"
Reluctantly, you extend your arm. He takes it gingerly, eye darkening at the blooming bruise.
"I'm alright," You find yourself saying, more for him than for you.
He sighs. "If I had been even a moment later, you might not have been."
"But you came."
Suo doesn't respond, eye swirling with unidentifiable emotions. He releases his gentle hold on your arm. "Let's go home."
When he takes your hand again, you don't argue.
vii.
You let out a sharp exhale of pain and bring your finger to your mouth, the salty taste blooming on your tongue.
You feel stupid standing in the Suo estate kitchen in an inappropriately fancy kimono over a boiling pot of water.
You'd never cooked alone before, so you didn't exactly know why you'd thought you should try it now. You could hear the low hiss of voices in your head, and you squeezed your eyes shut before opening them determined.
You would pay him back for his kindness.
You went to retrieve another bandage, returning to continue your clunky cuts.
The result was ... very ugly.
You were not going to serve this to Suo. Knowing him, he'd probably tease you for it. The voices were getting louder.
You weren't fit to be a wife -
"Hmm? And what might you be doing?"
You jerk. "Suo! I - " Your eyes dart around. You'd lost track of time, and now he was already home before you could disregard the evidence. The familiar heat warmed your cheeks.
"Could it be?" He moves smoothly into the kitchen, eye closed and smile curling. "My darling wife has made something for me?"
"No!" You squeak, heat crawling up to your ears. "Y-your mistaken! I was just tasting something - "
"Oh? Well, I'd like a taste, too. As you can imagine, I'm properly famished after a hard day's work."
You open your mouth to refute it but can't.
"...Go sit." You grumble.
"Hmm?" He leans forward slightly, and your chest pounds.
"Go sit!" You snap.
You concentrate on plating his food and setting it in front of him, before moving back. Your blush-darkened fingers hold on to the tray for dear life.
He raises the spoon to his mouth in a delicate, measured moment, chewing slowly. You want to scream.
"Delicious!" He says, grinning, taking another bite. "You did this by yourself?"
You don't meet his eyes. "Yeah. Yurie is busy enough," I don't want to be a burden, you don’t say.
"It's kind of funny looking - " He says, smile unchanging.
" - Why you - "
"But it's really good!"
"It's no big deal," You say, avoiding his eyes.
"Oh, yeah?" He says, eyes falling to your hands. You immediately try to hide them in the sleeves of your kimono. "I'm grateful to have such a loving wife."
"Just eat." You grumble.
viii.
The night of the bequest arrives faster than you'd anticipated.
You arrive stiff, but begin to loosen up when the plum wine begins to flow and your fiancée's fellow soldiers - Haruka and Akihiko - begin to regale you with tales of your husbands great skill and fortitude.
You commiserate with Haruka about how teasing he is, and Akihiko how mysterious.
"He is rather mysterious," You agree, laughing along.
During the night you feel a hand sneak it's way around your waist, you look up at Suo with a quirked eyebrow.
He doesn't smell drunk and he doesn't move his hand.
You blush all the way down to your fingertips.
"Alright," Suo says eventually. "It's time for me to take my darling wife home."
He leaves relatively quickly, tugging you by the wrist.
"Suo?" Your brows furrow. "Is something wrong? Suo?"
He doesn't answer. This increases your worry. What had you done wrong?
"... Suo?" He turns around then, stepping forward and caging you against the wall.
"You seem to be enjoying discussing how "teasing" and "mysterious" I am with my colleagues."
There's a different quality in his voice that you can’t read again, different still from that day in the market.
He is smiling, though.
"B-but you are!" You squawk in your defense, eyes darting around and quickly realizing you have nowhere to run.
"I'd tell you if you only asked,"
"Would you really?" You look up at him with something akin to hope.
His eyes dart down, and he looks as he's contemplating something. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. "Yes."
"So - so - " You stutter when he gets closer. "Are you ... mad with me?"
His eyes dart to meet yours once more. "Mad with you?"
"It's just that we left so suddenly, and I didn't mean to embarrass you, if I did - "
Suo's lips claim yours and you freeze. They move hotly against yours and you struggle to keep up with the slow dance he's leading. All you can think to do is hold your shaking grasp on his kimono under his army uniform as he grasps you tightly by the waist and seems to try to eat you alive.
He runs his tongue along the seam of your lips, but you don't respond.
"Open," He murmurs, without breaking the kiss.
"Huh? Why - " But he's upon you again, tongue exploring your mouth as you quake against him. He finally pulls away connected by a translucent string, scanning your face - the tears gathering in your lashes, your scrunched nose, your kiss bruised lips.
He kisses down to your jaw, then nips.
"D-did you just bite me?" You stammer.
"Oh, love," He coos. "That was hardly a bite."
He presses more kisses to your neck and then bites, hard, and it draws a sound out of the back of your throat that mortifies you.
You want to melt into the wall. Your hand flies up to try to cover your mouth, but he catches you by the wrist - pinning it against the bricks.
"Uh uh. I want to hear," He says, biting down again.
You do, indeed, reward him with another sound that chokes into a gasp when his cooling tongue soothes over the bite.
He moves away, eyes falling to your lips once more.
"Oops!" Suo pulls away, a smug quality to his smile. "Got a bit carried away there, didn't I!"
You stare at him, wide eyed, heaving and disheveled. Your cheeks are on fire.
"Sorry, love," He says innocently, rubbing circles on your hip with his thumb, as if he hadn’t just kissed you senseless.
You can't meet his eyes. You don’t know what to say first, but what comes out: "D-did you have to bite me?"
"Oh?" He asks, eye glinting. "Absolutely."
ix.
You can't wipe this kiss ... er, well, kisses - from your mind.
It's all you can think about.
You feel like a silly school girl, unable to stop your mind from wondering to his darkened eye swimming with ... desire, you suppose.
You didn't know what you'd done to deserve such a look!
You weren't even a very good wife or anything!
Hell, until he'd kissed you like that - you'd never really known he'd ... you'd just thought you where to be married on paper and nothing more.
Ug, you could still feel his lips moving on yours.
You really hated this!
When you almost chopped your hand off again helping Yurie prepare a meal, you decided that you where going to confront him about this.
You stood in front of the door to his office.
You where going to confront him!
But ... how exactly?
What would you say?
You hear a familiar chuckle on the other side of the screen. "Are you going to just keep standing there, or are you going to come in?"
You, very ungracefully, slam the door open.
Suo smiles at you.
You stomp across the mat, sitting before him.
Your hands fidget in your lap, already starting to darken with a blush. "About - about the other day."
"You mean when I kissed you outside of the banquet?"
Despite your embarrassment, your happy he doesn't beat around the bush. "Yes. Um, why."
"Why?" He echoes, brow quirked.
"Yes, why."
He tilts his head. "Because I wanted to?" He says. "Can't I kiss my future bride?"
You slam your hand down. "Not like that you can't!"
"Did you like it?"
"I - " You stammer, eyes darting around.
"It's alright if you did," He coaxes.
"It ..." You shift. "Surprised me."
"Really? But I've been flirting with you this whole time!"
You squint at him. "You've been messing with me! You say weird things all the time! I never know when you’re joking or not!”
"I've been honest with you," He says. "Very honest. In fact, so honest I deserve another kiss."
"You can't just decide -! "
"Please?" He says. "If not now, then when? If I have to wait too long again, it's going to build up like last time - and I don't think you want that."
"Look!" You hold a hand out to stop him from approaching you. "You can do it again! Just ... less. It was a bit ... too much ..."
"Hmm," He puts a finger to his chin as if thinking. "You where shaking,"
"Shut up!" You snap.
You move forward on your knees to him with the intent of shutting him up but you falter half way when you catch him looking at you in that way again. It's intense, weighty.
"I - " You swallow. You gulp, looking down at his lips - you can feel his breath.
You will yourself to move.
"Young master, breakfast!" Yurie's voice chimes.
You fall forward into his lap and start to skitter backwards, but he catches your wrist.
"Oh! Is the mistress in there with you? Breakfast!"
"Coming!" Suo sings back, pressing his lips to the inside of your wrist as he looks up at you.
You quiver, looking down at him with wide eyes.
"Let's go eat," He says lowly. "Shall we?”
x.
One minute your shopping with Yurie, and the next minute you are gone.
When you awaken, a familiar stands over you face stands over you. "Mother?"
The woman looks down at you. "Mother, what are you - "
"There was no there way."
"What-what do you mean?"
"That man - he wouldn't let us see you, even when we called the marriage off."
"What?" You ask, mind racing. "Why would you do that?"
She frowns. "I do not need to explain myself to you."
"But I - "
"What? Love him?" She laughs. "Do you think he loves you?"
You pause. Could he? You remember the kimonos, and how he held your hand so gingerly, and the the kisses he'd spared after the first one that always turned searing. Yurie had laughed at the two of you, murmuring something about young love to herself.
"He does." You say, steadfast.
Something in your eyes glints and your Mother turns away.
"Well. It matters very little."
Suddenly you remember that look in his eye that day in the marketplace - the icy chill in his voice.
"Mother," You say, and she looks at you. "For your safety, I would request you return me to Suo. I ... I don’t want him to hurt you.”
She laughs again. "Bluffing won't save you dear." Her laughing cuts off, eyes dull and exhausted. "Not even I can do that."
xii.
The room they keep you in is dark, undisturbed - until the man in a suit and fedora comes.
He hurts you, plain and simple.
Your parents had done many things, but they had never laid a hand on you. The pain is unfamiliar and hard to bear.
And after what could have been days or hours, something strange happens.
The man moves to hurt you again and it bounces off. He tries again and his attack slides off of the iridescent bubble once more.
He seems satisfied with this, sporting a toothy smile that could make milk curdle.
He goes for another blow, then seizes. Icicles sprout from his chest.
The temperature of the very room drops, freezing the tears on your cheeks.
Your savior comes into view, eye hard and merciless. Cold air streams from his lips.
"Suo ... " You rasp, lips quirking. You are too weak to smile.
He gathers you into his arms immediately, holding you against him. "I'm sorry I took so long to find you, my love. But I'm here now."
"Everything ... " Pain flickers across your face. "...Hurts..."
He's clutching you so tightly. “I know, my heart, I know."
"Hayato - " You say, and you feel him freeze against you. "Hayato, I - "
"Shut up." He grits out.
"But, I - "
"Won't die here. Keep your eyes open for me."
"But I'm so tired," You say. "And..."
"You won't leave me," He snaps. "I won't let you."
"I won't," You agree, eyes lowering. "Hayato, I - "
"Shut up!"
"I ... love you..."
xiii.
Hayato is strange after that.
Both close and extremely far.
He stays silently glued to your side, even after he's sure your family is no longer powerful enough to take you from him, again, he still insists on coming with you to every shopping trip and excursion he can - asking you to postpone if otherwise.
He doesn't say those three words back.
You try not to be hurt about it, and continue on as normal as possible. Well, as normal as your injuries allow.
In time, your Mother's words begin to eat away at you.
Maybe you were mistaken after all.
You approach Hayato in the courtyard, taking a deep breath, saying his name.
He opens his eye to look up at you.
You take another deep breath, wring your hands. "I understand ... if after what my family has done - the grave insult they have caused ... if you do not wish to marry me anymore."
He looks truly taken aback, which would be funny in any other circumstance.
The brunt of his focus is heavy. "And if you left here? What would you do then?"
"I ... don't know," You admit, looking away. "But ... I wouldn't be a burden to you any longer."
"That's what you think I see you as?" He murmurs, more to himself than you.
You shift.
"Do you know," He asks, in a strangely hoarse voice. "Do you know how I felt when I saw you lying there? Beaten? Broken?"
You stay silent.
"It took everything in my being not to kill them all."
You glance to him and he's looking at you.
There is no remorse or regret in his eye.
"You don't deserve the love of any more monsters."
Your fists curl at your side. "You - you take that back."
His eye widens slightly at your tone.
“You - you saved me."
He starts to open his mouth, but you’re faster.
"I was afraid I was going to die there, all alone, in the dark, but you came for me!" You say, unshed tears in your eyes as you yell. "And you! You don't get to talk about the man I love like that!"
Hayato stays silent.
"And you - you love me too!" You accuse. "And you don't have to say it back, right now. Or at all, if you don't feel that way - ”
"I love you." He says, breathlessly.
"Oh," You says dumbly. "Oh."
His hands find your waist, pulling you into his lap. "Why do you sound so surprised? Didn't you say you knew?"
"Well, I wasn't - wasn't completely sure." You grumble. "And - and it's different hearing you - hearing you actually say it."
"I can say it again," He mummers, rubbing circles on your hip. "Until it becomes as natural as breathing."
You cover your face with your hands, wondering if your poor heart can take such a thing.
When you try out non-Gn reader for a change but they all consist of 'vulpotous curvy paper thin bodies" or "Small, frail figure dwarthed by even mineta, with your petite and fragile body meekly trying to cling to his large colossal arm " like wtf-
Reblogging so that all my readers can see this. If you show positive engagement by any means, I will love it. I have loved it, and I will continue to love it 💖✨
A shame that I have to actually finish my book before I get to read it. I enjoy writing it just as much but I am looking forward to finishing my first book and getting to read through it, even if I do know what's going to happen.
SYNOPSIS: Your arranged marriage is something you are unable to fight. Accepting your fate, you are surprised when your new husband just wants to treat you kindly.
A collection of moments following your marriage with Yamada Asaemon Shion.
CONTENT: Minors DO NOT interact! Female reader, arranged/forced marriage, physical and emotional abuse are mentioned/hinted at within reader's family, falling in love, two idiots in love, pining, food, alcohol (reader gets tipsy), poetry, blood, canon-typical violence, some angst, miscommunications, masturbation (male), kissing, smut, hand job, fingering, penetration, first time together, domesticity, humor, some banter, there are some notes at the end of this regarding the poems/stories used, as well as some translations!
WORD COUNT: ~ 16.8 k
NOTES: Thank you so much for your patience! This is not my best work writing-wise but it is definitely one that I will be coming back to. I hope you can find some joy in reading this fanfic! This works as a prequel for the couple from this fanfic!
Your name is something you should not give to a stranger. There is a distance to be kept when it comes to men. Suspicious people should be avoided at all costs.
As much as the boy in front of you fits the description of someone you should not interact with, you don’t turn away. His clothes are dirty and worn, he looks a little sickly and the scars that marr his face are prominent. He’s probably around your age, maybe a little older. You’ve just turned seven a few weeks ago.
“Do they hurt?”
He turns his head towards you, wary now. You wonder how he turned so accurately, facing you despite his eyes being closed. His hearing must be very good.
It’s dark outside already and you really should not be out here, sitting in front of the door like this but you felt caged in. You needed some fresh air and some sort of distraction. The gods seem to be kind to you tonight.
“Your scars, I mean,” trying again, you don’t feel upset over his obvious lack of desire to talk to you. No one really talks to the daimyō’s daughter, unless they mean trouble.
“No,” he murmurs, as he turns his head towards the trash you found him digging through just now when you decided to sit down in front of the house. Tentatively he turns his attention back to you. Is he embarrassed? Or perhaps is he asking for permission?
“Here,” you offer, stretching out a hand. The boy tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. His cheeks are a little sunken in and he looks exhausted but there is some sort of pull you feel towards him. A sort of quiet resilience that has found its home in the downturn of his pouty lips and carved its existence into the lines of his face.
A sigh of frustration leaves you and you tell him to come closer. When he obliges, you pull on his arm. He flinches and instinctively tries to free himself from your grasp but you’re stubborn as you put the small fruit in his hand.
“Eat some. I brought enough here with me since I had to sneak through the garden. There is nothing in the trash and it’s dirty,” you explain as you pat the space next to you on the little stone wall.
The boy holds the small fruit in his hand as he examines it with his fingers. “What is this?”
“A plum,” you tell him simply. “I pulled the stone out for you. You can just eat it.”
Hesitation cannot win over the feeling of his stomach twisting with hunger and he quickly puts it in his mouth to eat it. He squeezes his eyes shut even more than they’re already closed and there’s a frown on his face now.
“That’s sour!”
For a moment, you’re stunned. With just two words, he suddenly seemed his age and you can’t help but laugh at his reaction. “I like it when they’re still a bit sour. If you come back after some weeks have passed, then they’ll be a lot sweeter,” you explain, plopping half a plum into your mouth.
It’s not often that you get to talk to someone your age and maybe it’s not the most clever thing to invite a beggar back to your home but that doesn’t deter you the slightest bit. “What’s your name?” you ask the boy while you eat another plum, offering your name before waiting for his answer.
He takes a moment to think before he replies, “My name is Shion and you should be more careful out here alone.” There is almost a tinge of worry to his tone and the frown on his face makes you grin. Saying something like that makes him sound like a nagging old man.
With a kind of bitter sarcasm that is utterly unbefitting of someone so young, lacing your voice, you tell him, “It’s probably more dangerous for you, right here in front of my house, you know? You never know when-”
And as if you’d summoned trouble, you hear shuffling inside the house and the voice of your father echoes inside, the door not doing much to hide his anger. Quickly, you hand the small basket filled with plums to the boy and forcibly turn him around.
“You have to go - Hurry! I need to go inside before my father gets even more mad at me. Take these with you, boy! I will see you around!”
With that, you turn around and hurry off to the other side of the house. The boy is left on the street, looking dumbfounded.
There’s a tinge of sweetness within the aftertaste of the plum you had given to him just now.
It is a warm summer day when your father whispers harshly, telling you to keep your back straight. The past few days have passed by like a whirlwind. Talks of marriage have never been unfamiliar business to you - the only daughter of a prestigious daimyō. Your father, a friend of the shogun, as close as friendship within such a hierarchy gets, has always received his favor.
So it was only a matter of time until you’d get wed off to someone the shogun trusts, in hopes of strengthening this friendship.
It’s more of a business relationship, really, but you are not in a position to criticize this bond of theirs.
When the sliding door opens, your forehead is already pressed against the tatami flooring. The servants lead the Yamada Asaemon into the room and your father moves to stand up but the rustling next to you settles as soon as it begins and he bows as he kneels next to you. Not quite as deep as you do and not for as long either.
He is a man after all.
You don’t doubt that even if your father was the poorest farmer in this country, his pride would still stiffen his back so that he could bow no lower than 45°. Respect only goes one to that man, unless the shogun is involved.
The Yamada Asaemon must have signaled for him to stay seated, or else your father would have at least had the courtesy to get up and puff out his chest as he does. The soft thumping on the other side of the table lets you know that he has taken a seat himself.
Raising your head, you make sure to keep your gaze cast to the floor, your vision barely reaching toward the white fabric of his pants. His work attire - how official. A show of respect? Or perhaps an intimidation tactic?
“Had I been informed of your acceptance of my offer, I would have brought the lady a present from my travels. I apologize,” the man speaks up and the deep tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine and it makes your fingers feel numb.
The chance to answer is taken from you, as your father laughs, “It is forthcoming enough of you to come by so quickly right after your mission even after we took so much time to answer. I apologize. I hope the shogun was not offended by my leisure.”
When his hand settles on your shoulder, you feel as if someone put a heavy boulder on top of it. Its warmth feels uncomfortable through the already too-warm layers of your expensive kimono.
“We wanted to make sure that my daughter understands just how much of an honor this truly is,” he explains and it takes every ounce of patience you have to not grimace when he sends you a disapproving look.
They had ridiculed you. Made fun of you for being wed off to a man with a permanent ailment and your father had nearly beaten you senseless, as if it was your fault the shogun had set up the blind executioner with you. In your father’s eyes, this was a failure that was indeed caused by your lacking persona. He’d told you how this reflected poorly upon his relationship with the shogun.
“Do you know what this means? What this says about how much he values me? My daughter is worth nothing more than a crippled man!”
A crippled man who could cut you down this instant - is what you think to yourself. While you have never met the man face to face, he was the Yamada Asaemon who was assigned to your part of the town, protecting it from criminals. Daimyōs like your father would claim themselves to be the peacekeepers, while all they did was send their men to a certain death while filling their own stomachs with more food than the pigs they feed on could eat.
Thankfully, the voice inside your head is loud and clear. You can yell and scream and insult the man who had taken part in your birth as eloquently as you wished to. It is the only comfort you have. The only humor you can possibly find in such a predicament.
They exchange pleasantries, one man clearly far more genuine than the other, until your father nudges your side. “Go take a walk with your husband and then lead him back for some tea. We will have some things to discuss, which I shall prepare for this instant.”
Monetary things, surely. It seems your life as an entertainer continues from here on out, but your crowd seems to slowly shift. How miserable.
Getting up, you’re proud of how you manage not to stumble over the layers of fabric that seem to be draped endlessly over your body. “Let me lead you through the garden,” you speak demurely, still keeping your gaze low out of respect.
It is when you’re outside, the door shut behind you, and a few steps into the garden, that he speaks up. This time, it’s directed at you. For the first time today.
“Are you alright?”
It’s a simple question and the answer lays heavy on your tongue but you swallow it down. “Of course.”
“Would you look at me then?”
You stop walking, keeping your gaze no higher than his chest, “I am not sure if that is alright, my Lord.”
His tone now is much more mild and something in his tone tells you he is smiling. “You can drop the odd honorifics and titles. I am going to be your husband soon, am I not?” The rough pads of his fingers are gentle as he tugs you closer by the sleeve of your kimono, ever so slightly. Like a child asking for an adult’s attention.
“Or do you wish to annul the marriage? Perhaps, you have taken me into the garden so you could reject me dramatically, with a more illustrious scenery to fit the moment? Although I must admit, the visual aspects of such endeavors are usually lost on me,” the man tells you and when a soft gasp leaves your lips, you tilt your head up only to be met with a smile that makes your cheeks burn.
“Such jokes seem a little…of ill taste.”
“Even if I am the one making them? It is my ailment after all. Am I not allowed to make light of it?”
There is nothing clever you can quip back but your desire to do so anyway surprises you. Usually, you do well on holding back any snide comments but he makes it easy to let go of that control.
A defeated breath leaves your lips as you look at him. Carefully, his fingers travel along the end of your sleeve, grabbing your hand gently. His hand is warm, a little rough - from his sword, you assume - but the way it holds yours is very gentle.
“I hope you can forgive me for being this casual but I need you to know that I mean well with you. I know this arrangement isn’t ideal for you-”
You wonder if it is ideal for him.
“-and while I don’t know the exact circumstances of your life here…,” he tilts his head towards the main house, where your father must still be sitting inside, “I can at least promise that I will treat you as my equal. That is also all I wish for in return.”
He seems to know a lot about your family, even the parts that aren’t privy to the general public. Narrowing your eyes at him, you step a little closer, inquiring, “Why would you offer me this so selflessly? What do you gain from this arrangement?”
The man in front of you crosses his arms and a thoughtful expression crosses his face. He frowns slightly as he collects his thoughts and you think to yourself that he is quite handsome. On top of that, he seems to be as well-behaved as the ladies your mother would bring over would whisper to each other.
How ironic that you’d roll your eyes at their daydreams about the man and yet here you are, about to be married off to him.
“I think,” his voice snaps you out of your thoughts, “You are someone who I wish to treat well.”
The wind blows softly, moving the fabric of your kimono ever so slightly and conducting a symphony of leaves as it slips through the bushes and trees of the garden. Taken aback, you blink up at him for a few moments. You take a deep breath, lick your lips, and then open your mouth slightly.
Only to close it again.
Shion suppresses a laugh and you gape up at him, heat licking its way up your spine as he squeezes your hands gently. “I did step forward when the shogun offered this arrangement. Just as you have inevitably heard a lot about me, I have also heard a lot about the lady in return.”
He lets go of your hands but the warmth of his touch lingers on your skin and you almost feel saddened by the loss of physical contact. “I know the members of your family are the ones who are responsible for the uniforms of the Yamada Asaemon, as well as the clothing for the shogun, no?” he asks with a tilt of his head and you notice that he does this a lot. It’s cute and makes him seem a lot more approachable, coupled with that soft smile.
“The previous shogun took a liking to the work of my grandmother and appointed her as his personal seamstress. My mother takes care of the current shogun’s robes and I take care of the ones that all of the Yamada Asaemon wear,” you explain, despite your feeling that he might already know that.
Shion nods and smiles, “You were the one who sent me my uniform without the bell attached. I took the liberty to ask who was considerate enough to do such a thing.”
“So you decided to marry me because I didn’t attach a bell to your uniform?” you ask him, still lost on his motives. What a strange man.
It is then, that the peaceful conversation and the prospect of a proper reply is shattered by the voice of your father. It is almost impressive how the man manages to sound as if he had woven five layers of suppressed anger into his voice. You flinch and Shion’s expression falls slightly as he notices your change in posture.
With a soft sigh, he puts a guiding hand on your upper back for a short moment, redirecting you back towards the house as the both of you walk back. It’s quiet for a moment, the air thick with tension before he dispells it easily once more.
“I accepted the offer because I was curious if I could be a considerate husband towards such a kind person. Perhaps I also simply feel like I have a favor to return.”
A husband in return for a change in uniform design might be the oddest deal you have struck thus far.
You’re sitting across from your husband for the first time since your wedding. Right after the small ceremony, work had pulled him from your now shared home and you did not get the chance to spend any time with him.
Perhaps it was for the better. His absence had given you the chance to make yourself familiar with this house you’d be calling your home from now on. You’d wandered the corridors, made your feet familiar with the grass of the garden until it got too cold to do so, and listened to the way the empty branches danced with the wind as they parted from a few of their leaves. You wondered if they’ve held fruit this year. The trees seem familiar but you cannot put a name to them.
In those moments you had to yourself, it had been peaceful. This house feels more like a home than the grand estate of the daimyō - your father - ever did. Now you share this home with the man sitting across from you.
Your hands lay on top of the small table, your tea untouched.
Shion clears his throat and your head snaps up so you can face him, ready to listen to whatever he’s going to say.
“I am sorry for how uncomfortable this must be for you,” he says, sounding a little resigned. In turn, it makes you feel a little sorry.
“It’s not your fault!” you hurry to speak, your hand instinctively reaching out to offer some comfort but you’re unsure if he’d be okay with you touching his hand, so you drop it softly, letting it rest on the table again. “I am just not too sure what to say. This is my first time being married.”
Your words cause him to hold back a laugh and you feel heat climb into your cheeks. That was a dumb thing to say.
“What a coincidence,” he tells you and the lines at the corners of his eyes become more pronounced when he smiles, “It’s my first time being married as well.”
His joke eases the tension you’re feeling and you feel your shoulders loosen up a little. There is something very comforting about his smile and the lines of his face almost carry a sense of familiarity but you struggle to put your finger on the reason for it.
“How was your work today?” you ask, grabbing a hold of your cup and drinking your tea. Finally. It’s only lukewarm now but that doesn’t matter too much.
Shion looks amused. “Do you really wish to know? My work isn’t the best topic for a lighthearted conversation between newlyweds… Unless you are harboring a sadistic side I was not made aware of?”
You grimace. “Never mind then. Apologies for asking, you’re right.”
A low chuckle leaves his lips as he brings his cup to his lips. Your gaze is drawn to the lines of his throat as he drinks and your ears feel a little warm.
After he puts it down again, he speaks once more, “I have a student who is going to be appointed as one of the Yamada Asaemon soon. Today, I spent most of the day training with him. No violent business.”
A strange sense of relief settles in your chest and you nod. “That sounds nice… Is it difficult to be a teacher to somebody else? I tried teaching one of the other daimyōs’ daughters how to sew once but I fear I lack the patience to offer guidance of any sort.”
“So you’re the impatient type?”
“It depends,” you defend yourself quickly, “I can be patient if I want to be. Are you going to answer my question?”
“There it is - your patience,” Shion retorts and you feel irked, breathing in deeply, causing him to laugh.
“Anyway, it’s not so much that it is difficult, it just requires a willingness to understand the other. When teaching, you cannot apply the same words and actions to every pupil you teach. Not everybody is receptive to my ways of teaching.”
Humming in reply, you think out loud, “Are you a strict teacher?”
“I can be.”
“I cannot imagine that. Put on a frown for me, please. To stimulate my fantasy,” you plead, a little too excitedly before you cough and clear your throat, reining it in again.
His eyebrows pull together and yeah - he does look a little intimidating but soon enough a smile tugs on his lips and the muscles of his face fail him. He breaks the strict facial expression in favor of a charming, slightly awkward smile.
“Did that stimulate your fantasy?” he asks with raised brows and your teeth sink into your lower lip, as you’re trying to hold back your grin.
“Plenty. Thank you,” you reply, drinking the rest of your tea before getting up and grabbing a hold of his empty cup, carrying both of them to the kitchen before returning once more.
Instead of sitting down, you decide to walk towards the shelf that covers the entire wall on one side of the living room, standing in front of it as you have done plenty of times during the first few days here.
“Perhaps I can get someone to do the household chores soon-” Shion begins but you cut him off.
“There is no need. I enjoy playing house. My cooking may not be up to par but I fear you will just have to show me some of that patience of yours in that regard,” you smile. “We may have had servants at home but to be honest, that kind of lifestyle has never suited me much.”
“What kind of lifestyle suits you then?” Genuine curiosity resounds in his question and you hum softly in response.
“Perhaps we will just have to find out together,” you offer, reaching out to run a hand over the back of a little booklet. A scroll lays on top of it so you carefully pull it out.
“I apologize if this is an improper question to ask but why do you collect so much poetry and so many stories when you cannot read them by yourself?”
After offering up this question, you turn towards him again, slowly unraveling the scroll as you wait for his reply. Unsure, your eyes flit towards his form again before settling back on the calligraphy displayed on the scroll.
“Whenever I go out to the market, I stop by the place where they sell poetry. The vendors read it to me and I buy it if it appeals to me. It’s a simple explanation, really,” Shion explains. “Surely, you buy things you’re fond of a lot too, right? Even if they aren’t necessarily something you’re able to use a lot.”
"Even if it were something of the past,
With each day the white snow falls,
My love for you grows stronger,
Surpassing all that came before."
Your eyes wander over the words on the scroll carefully while you answer him absentmindedly, “I wasn’t allowed to buy what I desired. However, sometimes I would receive fabrics as a present, from a dear aunt of mine. That would be my personal little luxury.”
Shion frowns, “The daimyō is quite the strict man, isn’t he?”
“Imagine dealing with the shogun and then multiply that by twenty. Perhaps then you’ll get close to just how difficult he is to deal with.” Your eyes flit towards his face and you wonder, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not looking at you,” he refutes and you stay quiet for a moment.
“You are quite fond of these kinds of jokes, aren’t you?”
“I find them incredibly amusing,” he replies, smiling in a terribly boyish manner. Adorable, is what you think it is but you would not dare to say that out loud.
Clearing your throat, you read the poem on the scroll out loud in the way you were taught to do it - with an elegant tone and yet, carrying a tempo that commands attention. Your literary criticism is immediate, “This is a little sad, is it not? Why would one yearn for something that’s in the past… Wouldn’t that just break your heart?”
Shion thinks about your words for a moment before smiling softly. “Something from the past might just return to become a part of your present, no? Also, I do think it’s important to cherish beloved memories.”
His words hang in the room between the both of you and for a faint moment you get the feeling that he is waiting for something else but then he gets up before you can ask any further questions.
“Come on. Let’s go out and get some fresh air. We can continue our talks about the depths of feelings of the past outside,” Shion invites you and you huff, before following him.
“Don’t pour him sake,” Shion tells you and you sigh, switching over to pour sake into your own cup. It’s clear that you have had too much to drink tonight and Tenza is finding great humor in it.
He whisper-shouts your name, pulling on your kimono sleeve excitedly. “And then? What did Sensei say?”
Right. You were in the middle of your retelling of an uncomfortable encounter with a man on the street before you decided to be nice and pour Tenza some of the sake as well. It’s the first time you've had a drink like this. Before, you were not allowed to drink any alcohol but tonight, Shion brought out some sake for you two to share. Tenza decided to join, in search of some entertainment.
“He said ‘I suggest you keep your hands off my wife’ and looked at the guy all scary. Like this,” you giggle, leaning onto your hand, your elbow propped up onto the table as you try to imitate Shion’s expression from back then. It doesn’t look anything like any of his expressions at all and the grimace you’re pulling is so ridiculous, that Tenza snorts loudly.
The tips of Shion’s ears are a little flushed and he shifts awkwardly. His voice is gentle yet firm. “I could not let someone harass you,” he mumbles, drinking from his cup.
“I knew sensei was a protective person but love really does change-oof!” Tenza groans and reaches down to rub his shin, right where Shion just kicked him under the small desk.
“Training tomorrow will begin an hour earlier than usual. Go get some sleep,” Shion urges the young man with a voice so kind that his words almost seem harmless. Tenza’s mouth is caught in a permanent gasp now, at the consequences of his nosy actions. While his mentor can be a little strict, he was not used to him practically throwing him out of his home.
Grumbling, he gets up and bows to you, foregoing his bow towards his mentor. “Good night. Please prepare more stories of sensei’s gallant acts for the next time I come over,” he tells you, a grin pulling on his lips.
With a grin of your own, you reach out and ruffle his hair, breaking into a fit of giggles when he groans about you ruining it.
The world spins and you decide to rest your head on the table. You don’t know how much time passes as Shion leads Tenza back to the entrance to bid him goodbye. Their voices are far away and you close your eyes, feeling a little dizzy.
Cool fingers touch your forehead. “You had too much to drink,” your husband tells you gently, sounding a little amused. Still, there is a hint of worried care underlying his words.
“No such thing happened…,” you mumble and Shion huffs softly, sitting down next to you. Slowly, he traces his fingertips over your face, running them over the apples of your cheeks, along your brow bone before following the lines of your lips.
“Don’t touch my face,” comes your complaint, slurred and hard to understand with your cheek pressed against the table.
Your husband merely smiles but you don’t see it, your eyes still closed. “I am looking at you,” he says in a tone that is so tender that it causes you to take a peek at him. The smile on his lips is a sweet one, so gentle that it pulls on your heartstrings. His brows are drawn together as his fingers draw shapes over your face and it makes him look painfully emotional.
The thought of him not knowing what you look like twists something inside your chest and your throat feels as if you’ve tried to swallow a small rock.
“I am looking at you as well,” you tell him and it would have made for an intimate moment, were it not for how jumbled your words sound due to the alcohol. He laughs softly and cups your cheeks with his hands to turn your face towards him better. His hands are warm, the skin a little rough from the regular use of his sword but they offer a comfort and now something you dare to call familiarity, that you wish to hold onto.
“You look at me a lot.”
“Because you’re handsome,” you shoot back and he looks a little taken aback, the tips of his ears flushing red. With newfound bravery, generously sponsored by the alcohol coursing through your bloodstream, you reach out and cup his face in return. Running your thumb over his ear, you giggle.
“You’re pretty drunk. Let me help you get to bed,” with that he gently tugs your hand away from his face and you pout as he helps you up. Shion wraps his arm around you, helping you to get to your room.
Your hands hold onto the fabric of his kimono. There is something about the way he looked at you when you told him he’s handsome. You decide that you don’t like it. “I really think you are handsome. It’s not the sake,” you promise, tugging on the fabric of his robes.
He pulls you along gently, opening the door to your bedroom before entering with you. Shion helps you get ready for bed, as much as is appropriate. When you change into your clothes for the night, he even turns to face away from you. Watching his broad back, you snort.
“It’s not like you can see me, even if I were to be entirely naked,” you tell him. The tips of his ears are red again and he huffs, shuffling in place.
“It feels inappropriate,” he mumbles, keeping his back turned towards you. “Did you get dressed already?” It’s quiet for a moment and he clears his throat, “If it’s alright, I will turn around-”
Your fingers find the back of his robes, tugging him closer gently… Or are you the one moving closer to him? Shion isn’t sure and his feet feel heavy, yet oddly light, as if he doesn’t have any in the first place. Your arms are warm as they wrap around his middle. As far as he can tell, they’re bare.
“Now, this is inappropriate.”
“We are married,” you tell him, leaning against his back, your cheek rubbing against the spot between his shoulder blades fondly. He’d compare you to a cat if your proximity didn’t toss his thoughts into a big, disorganized pile inside his mind.
“It’s cold. You should get dressed,” he tells you, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. His breath is heavy and his tongue feels restless inside his mouth. It’s too hot and his body is yelling at him to simply take a step forward and a way from your body against his back.
He doesn’t.
You remove yourself from his back and he hears the rustling of fabric, coupled with your clumsy steps. “Don’t trip. Be careful,” he tells you and you simply hum, pulling on your robes to sleep in.
“I was wearing my kosode,” you tell him when he turns around and he nods, guiding you to your futon and helping you lay down as he sits by your side. “I wouldn’t hug you if I was indecent. Not even if it was because of the alcohol.”
With a sigh, he nods again and when he tries to stand up after having made sure you’re safe and sound in bed, you grab onto his clothes again. As he regards you with a raised brow, you feel odd. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or this strange tension that hangs in the air between you. Maybe that is due to the alcohol too. Perhaps, this is why your parents never let you drink before.
“Stay. I can read to you if you stay with me for a while longer,” you whisper and Shion faces you for a moment, quietly. It’s a little cheeky to offer such a thing this late at night - to ask someone to stay a while longer already has its implications but something like that, to him at least-
A smile tugs on his lips and he reaches forward, gently rubbing his thumb between your brows, chasing away the frown that he finds with such accuracy, that you truly wonder as to how easy he finds it to understand you without needing to see.
“What if the letters start dancing across the scroll?” he teases you for your tipsy state as he gets up to grab one of his poem collections for you to read out loud to him.
“Then we’ll just have to dance with them,” is all you offer and he huffs before leaving the room for a moment.
You hear him chuckling on his way down the hall to the living room.
“The old pond.
A frog leaps in -
The sound of the water.”
“So…the frog jumps into the pond?”
“You’re quite quick with your deductions, aren’t you?” Shion teases, and you raise your brow at him, pursing your lips in a dissatisfied pout.
“And you have bad taste in poetry. Why did you buy this? If you are in search of obvious retellings of natural happenings, I can be your source for that kind of information for the rest of your days,” you mumble, looking back at the scroll again as you lay on your tummy.
One of you visiting the other’s room with poetry or stories in hand has become a habit. You’ve been spending the past weeks reading to him - faithfully, every single evening. Both of you seem to regard this as an essential part of your days despite not talking about it. Just like how you avoid putting a name to the feelings that have blossomed in your chest.
Shion feels his chest tighten at your casual promise of a life together. The teasing lilt of his voice turns into a warm and comforting one as his hand reaches out to gently cup your cheek. His thumb strokes over your protruding lower lip until you stop pouting. “But can you be as picturesque with your words?” he asks and you grumble.
“How would you even rate that?”
It slips out before you can do anything about it, hours of frustration from trying to work your way around clever plays on kanji, as well as the haikus of Basho taking a toll on you.
“I am so sorry,” you say, trying to get up but your husband tugs on your yukata, urging you to stay on the comfortable futon.
“The old pond has always been peaceful. Quiet and undisturbed,” he speaks, undeterred by your antics and your little joke at his expense but you can tell that he is fighting off a smile. You being comfortable enough to join in on his neverending jokes about his ailment is causing him to feel a warmth that makes him feel unsure whether he wants to share it with you or lock it away inside himself for colder times.
“And then, a little frog comes along. It’s cheeky and doesn’t care about the current ways of the pond. So, mischievous as it is, it jumps into the calm little pond, causing a commotion. A big splash, a loud noise,” Shion murmurs softly, his fingers moving down your arm as he reaches for your hand.
Almost naturally, he laces his fingers between yours and concludes, “Ripples move all over the place as the frog breaks the surface of the water. The calm pond is no more.”
Shion’s attention is entirely on you now and you look up at him as he sits next to you on the futon. You take a moment to process his words, wiggling your fingers between his while you are deep in your thoughts.
“Is that kind of disturbance really that bad? Surely, for a pond that has never experienced anything, aside from its boring quiet life, something like that must be quite exciting, no?”
Amused, Shion lifts your hand to his lips, pressing gentle kisses against the tips of your fingers, one by one before he replies, “It’s quite exhilarating.”
A grin tugs on your lips. “So you’re the pond now?”
“Indeed, and you’re the cheeky little thing that decided to shake my life up a little.”
Pricks of warmth climb their way up to your neck and you suppress a shiver. “Is that so…,” you mumble quietly, feeling a little flustered at how happy he sounds about your presence in his life. It grows quiet once more as you return to the poem. Your husband keeps your hand in his and runs his thumb over the side of your finger.
A soft yawn escapes your lips and you blink tiredly, finally noticing how heavy your eyelids feel.
“The kanji for ‘frog’ can be read as ‘to return’,” Shion tells you and you look up at him for a moment, mulling over his words. His attention is fully on you and when he notices that you are lacking a reply, he almost seems a little…disappointed?
“Which also means, the little frog needs to return to her room for tonight,” he concludes and you sigh. With a nod, you get up and as per usual, he accompanies you to your bedroom. Despite how it is almost right next to his own; only a few steps away.
Leaning down, he kisses your forehead ever so gently before bidding you good night and returning to his room.
Your forehead feels warm throughout the entire night as your hand rests on top of it in an attempt to preserve the feeling of his lips against your skin for a moment longer.
Crimson stains your vision on a cold winter day, breaking the abundance of pure white that your eyes have gotten used to.
“Just help me get him inside. Quick!” Tenza all but shouts and you comply, your movements almost mechanical as you open the door fully, closing it behind him and leading him to the bedroom.
The smell of iron stings deep inside your nose and your ears feel as if they have been filled with cotton. When you part your lips to speak, nothing escapes your dry throat and you force yourself to swallow before trying anew, “W-What-”
“Shouldn’t we call a doctor?” you ask, your hands anxiously grabbing onto the fabric of your kimono. You want to reach out and help but you are afraid of hurting your husband even more. You’re not even sure where he is hurting. All you see is how his clothes are stained a deep red.
Nausea climbs its way up your throat but you force it down. Carefully, you help Tenza sit him down. The young man seems unsure what to do himself, sweat beading on his forehead. He’s in distress but he is trying to keep it together.
You feel pathetic.
The wound is on his back and once you know this, it seems clear as day. The back of his clothes is dripping blood and you wince. “I sent for the medic, he should be-”
“Go wait for him outside. Someone needs to guide him here. I will take care of Shion until then.”
Tenza hesitates, shuffling a little before he springs up and into action, leaving the room. Carefully, you brace Shion against your body, unsure of how to lay him down, so this seems like the best option.
“I wanted to see you,” he rasps and you think you misheard. Shifting, you hold him in your embrace, his chest pressed against yours as you grab the thick blanket by your side. Pushing his uniform off his shoulders, you try not to react to the cut on his back. Using the blanket, you apply pressure on his wound. It doesn’t work too well.
“It’ll be okay…” you mumble, not sure whether you are trying to comfort him or reassure yourself. His head is resting on top of your shoulder, his fingers twisting into the fabric of your kimono. You had put on the purple one with the intricate patterns that could be felt by his curious hands. The fondness he expressed over this kimono did not escape you.
You had put it on for when you’d welcome him back. If you had hugged him, would he have been surprised? Would he have hugged you back, delighted by your affection? How long would it have taken him to realize what you’re wearing? Your husband has a sharp mind - you doubt it would have taken long.
Now the soft purple is ruined, stained murky red. Like an overripe plum thrown to the ground and stepped on until there was only a puddle of mush and juice left.
A wave of nausea hits you again, your hands pressing against his back with firmness, ignoring the wetness against your fingertips.
Tenza’s voice cuts through the deafening, high-pitched sound that has crawled its way into your ears as it chases away any and all thoughts, and relief floods you as your eyes lock onto the doctor he brings in tow. The older man seems calm enough at the sight of the wound, once you remove the bedsheet, that you feel a bit of it seeping into you as well.
It would be okay.
The doctor redirects your attention to the task of making sure that Shion stays awake as he works on cleaning the wound and stitching it up. Tenza scurries about the place, grabbing water and supplies from all over the place and he seems glad not to have to sit there in silence.
His replies are sluggish, his head heavy on your shoulder but he answers, despite how strained he sounds. You try your best to not look at the stitches.
You hold onto Shion, asking him questions about his trip - What did he eat? How was the weather? Did he find something exciting and new?
Pushing those thoughts away, you carefully lay him down on his front, not daring to put any strain on his back. The doctor informs you about the things you should be aware of, instructing you on how to clean the wound and how to aid in his recovery. Tenza gets up to guide him out and when he sends a questioning look filled with worry your way, you simply shake your head and wave your hand to shoo him away.
Once it’s done and finished, Tenza helps you change Shion into a comfortable kimono and your eyes find no joy in roaming over his body. All those little scars littering his body cause your thoughts to spiral. How much has he endured in the past? How much would he have to endure in the future?
The young man has had enough of a strenuous day as is.
“You can go home for today. I can handle the rest,” you tell him, still holding your husband in your arms. The look he gives you is not one that screams that he believes you much but his fatigue wins over his desire to help you and a mere nod ends up being his reply to your words.
“I will return after I finish reporting this to the others,” he tells you before he leaves and the moment he closes the door, it’s as if he’s sealed you inside a vacuum. You don’t know how you maneuver Shion onto the futon on his stomach but by the time you’ve snapped back into reality, he’s situated comfortably on it, pillows cushioning the parts of him that need it.
—
It takes a few days for him to get back into a condition where you don’t fear that his fever might turn his brain into charcoal. The snow has settled outside but the cold that seeps into your body every night as you lay next to him, waiting for him to wake up, is not due to the cold weather outside.
Your relief is endless when you enter his room in the morning to see him sitting up on his futon. He looks a little tired and a touch more pale than he usually does but he seems to not be waiting in front of death’s door anymore.
Quickly, you hurry to his side, kneeling next to him. Your hands hover over his body, unsure where to hold onto, the desire to help him in any way you can thrumming within your limbs. “How are you feeling?” you ask carefully, your hands moving to busy themselves by smoothing out the sleeves of his robe.
Your fingertips burn with a desire to touch him, to make sure this is real.
Shifting a little, he carefully rolls his shoulders back, hissing at the hot flash of pain. Immediately, one of your hands lands on his back, gently resting below the injury and offering support. “Don’t move too much. The injury is still not fully closed up.”
A raspy sigh leaves his lips. “I am sorry for causing you trouble,” he mutters, his voice strained from days of not talking. His brows are furrowed and his breathing is still a little heavy. A frown that mirrors his own makes its home on your expression.
“You are my husband. There is no such thing as causing me trouble,” you utter, gently flicking your finger against his forehead. He could easily move out of the way but he takes it in stride, the frown on his face giving way to a softer expression.
“Then allow me to rephrase that: Thank you for taking care of me,” he tells you and you smile gently. Your hand stays on his lower back, your thumb rubbing back and forth over his skin.
“I was a little afraid that you wouldn’t wake up again. It’s silly and I know that but…,” Withdrawing your hands from his body, you fix the blanket over his legs. “That day I thought you’d bleed out in my arms, Shion. I am not a doctor, so coming to me first - in that kind of state…”
The only thing that hangs in the air between the both of you is silence before his hand moves to take one of your own, gently untangling the blanket from your fingers. You didn’t notice that you had been grasping onto the fabric way too tightly. His hand holds yours firmly enough to reassure you of his presence.
“I wouldn’t leave you alone like that,” he tells you quietly, squeezing gently. When you look back up at him again, he smiles warmly, His fingers move to tease your palm softly, tickling you, as he asks, “Who else would explain all of those poems to you?”
Slowly, your frown slowly melts into an amused expression and you shake your head. “They don’t make sense. Trust me, I have spent enough time complaining about them while you were resting.”
Shion’s eyebrows quirk up at that. “Did you read to me while I was asleep?”
For a moment, there is no reply from you. He’s left in the dark and the only thing that reminds him of your presence is the weight of your hand in his.
You clear your throat, “I thought it would be rude to just stop reading to you.” Anxiously, your fingers press into his hand ever so slightly. “I wanted you to know that you’re not alone.”
You don’t notice that he has gotten closer to you until his forehead bumps against your temple softly, and his hand finds the back of your neck. “Thank you. I don’t deserve you, my lovely wife,” he whispers tenderly.
Turning your face towards him a little more, you sigh softly, your forehead pressed against his as your breaths intermingle. “You need to be more careful from now on. This house is too big for me to live in by myself,” you complain and he laughs softly. His lips are so close to yours that you feel your cheeks heat up beyond a level you consider comfortable.
“I need a bath,” he mutters, scrunching up his nose. These past few days you’d wipe him down but for someone who is as clean and as thorough about his hygiene as he is, this must be a nightmare. There is no way he can go by himself though. Not with how hurt he is.
You shift and move away slightly. He seems reluctant about letting you go but does so regardless. Cleaning up the supplies that you have kept around his futon, you watch how he shifts in discomfort. “Are you alright?”
“I will help you wash up,” you announce and the grimace he pulls makes you laugh. Firmly, you grab onto his upper arm where he is not hurt, carefully helping him up onto his feet. On the way to the bath, you support his weight, thankful for the fact that the houses of the Yamada Asaemon all have their own private baths. Helping him wash up in a public bath would have proven to be very complicated.
“It’s healing up nicely,” you answer calmly, feeling a little emotionally detached whenever you look at it. The nausea that would take over whenever you’d look at it, left after the fourth day of taking care of him. There were more important things to deal with and it had faded into the background.
Steam envelops you merely a few minutes later. Your husband is sitting on a wooden stool in front of you, only covered by a simple tenugui. Carefully, you remove the bandages on top of his injury. With bated breath, Shion waits for a reaction but it never comes. Tentatively he asks, “Is it bad?”
The thought of you getting used to violence like that in any way deeply aggravates Shion. He feels a little helpless and it seems to show. Your wet fingers meet his face when you tilt his head back so gently that it fills him with the desire to reward every single one of your fingertips that have bestowed such a tender touch upon him.
“Are you alright?” you ask, your fingers moving to gently trace over his eyebrows, fixing them in place before following along the lines of his scars. There is something about them that makes you feel weirdly nostalgic in a way that causes something to stir in your chest but you pour water on that warmth, preventing the spark that might offset something.
The way you are right now is alright.
“It just feels a little unfamiliar to be this exposed in front of you,” he tells you, his breath warm against your face and it is only then that you realize that you have been leaning down to be closer to his face.
The way his lashes brush against the top of his cheeks makes you want to lean even closer but you clear your throat, straightening your back again before allowing him to tilt his head forward once more.
“You’re covered up. I wouldn’t mind either way. We are married and eventually, we’d come into contact with each other like this,” stating this firmly, you move on to wash his hair. His ears are flushed a soft red but the bath is warm so you pay it no mind.
Surprised at his hair’s softness, you find yourself taking much more time than necessary to run your fingers through the tufts of silvery white, separating the strands before pushing them back together again. Your fingertips push into his scalp in a gentle massage.
When your nails join in on the fun and you tug on his hair a little, a sharp intake of breath echoes through the little room and your fingers leave his scalp.
Turning away, you grab a hold of the little bucket and scoop water into it. Once you turn back, your husband’s ears are still decorated with that healthy flush that now spreads to his shoulders.
“I would like to let you soak in the tub for a bit but it seems your fever is coming back,” you mumble, washing his body clean with water before helping him dry himself off with a soft towel.
Handing him his robe, you turn away to let him get dressed once more, albeit you tell him to not pull the upper part of the robe up. Instead, Shion leaves it down, the garment tied around his waist securely as the both of you walk back to his room. It’s cold and the way he shivers ever so slightly pushes you to walk a bit quicker.
Once you arrive, he settles on his futon and you get to work. With practiced movements, you put the ointment on his wound before dressing it carefully to ensure that nothing would be able to mess with the healing process.
It’s an action you don’t think about at all when you lean forward to press a kiss on top of the bandage. Shion startles slightly, turning his head towards you. You realize and freeze. “Don’t look at me,” you mumble, feeling a sudden sense of embarrassment flood your body.
He turns around to face you, your embarrassment no hindrance to him as he pulls you into a hug. “I am not looking at you,” he mumbles back cheekily, his hands pressing you closer against his body. His upper body is warm against you and very naked but the need for comfort outweighs your bashfulness and you carefully wrap your arms around him, mindful of his injury.
Something as simple as a hug shouldn’t cause you to feel a feeling as bittersweet as the one that pulses within your chest right now but you don’t remember the last time someone had held you like this.
You don’t think anyone ever has.
He sighs. “I am sorry for being reckless.”
If Shion can feel the way your shoulders tremble and how your wet lashes brush against his skin, he does a good job not commenting on it. All he does is hold you tightly as he whispers, mere inches away from your ear, “I am really happy that I got to return to you. While I was gone, I was really anxious about how you were doing back home.”
Pressing his lips against the top of your head, he sighs softly, confessing, “I missed you.”
Your breath is warm against his shoulder as you stay like this for a while. He holds you until the trembling subsides and you part with a shaky exhale. With care, you reach out to pull up his yukata, helping him get his arms inside the sleeves before draping it over his shoulders.
It’s late. The darkness slowly settles outside as stars creep out of their homes and show themselves in the night sky. Shion gets comfortable on his futon, laying on his stomach as per your orders while you go ahead and grab something to read to him.
You return with a new story for him - no poetry this time - wanting to have an excuse to spend more time with him. Rationally, you know you don’t need an excuse to spend time with your husband who is more than generous enough to let you waste all of his free time but still, this is the method of your choosing, your very own way of circling around your feelings.
It’s easier to push them aside if you don’t verbalize them - if they don’t hang in the air between you and make it difficult to breathe. Suddenly those silly poems make a little more sense and the longing described feels more palpable.
The cold doesn’t seem to be a problem to you anymore. You feel too warm.
You discard the haori that you had worn over your kimono all day long to shield you from the cold. Instead of putting it away, you carefully cover Shion’s back and shoulders with it, mantling his body with it like a blanket.
Bemusedly, he pulls it closer around himself. “It smells like lavender, just like you do,” he breathes out, sounding a little exhausted as he settles, laying his head atop his pillow. Snickering at how docile he looks, you settle on his futon as well, right next to him on your tummy.
Your fingers move to comb back a particularly messy patch of hair right at the top of his forehead, your eyes surrounded by tiny folds as deep as your affection for the sweet man as you smile fondly. Absent-mindedly, your fingers make their way through his hair, over the nape of his neck, and down his arm until they find his fingers, and then they travel back up to his shoulder.
Today, it’s difficult to keep your hands to yourself but he seems to be alright with that. So you don’t, and simply continue touching him, while you begin to read.
“The days and months are travelers of eternity, just like the years that come and go. For those who pass their lives afloat on boats, or face old age leading horses tight by the bridle, their journeying is life, their journeying is home.”
Shion listens to you, letting out a soft hum of acknowledgement here and there. His face twitches in reaction to the words every now and then when he scrunches up his nose at some of the details, or when he smiles at how you dramatize certain passages.
By the time you reach the end of the book, your voice is lower than usual, much more intimate and quiet. The way your fingers casually trace over the nape of his neck, right where his hair meets his skin, has his skin burning. Flipping his pillow over, he buries one side of his face against the cool material in hopes of bringing comfort to the heat that wells up inside him.
Swiftly, you move in to press a lingering kiss against the top of his head, before whispering a quick “Good night”. With that, you’re off and once the door is closed, a soft sigh leaves Shion.
Intrigued by his antics, you turn your head towards him once you finish the book, putting it away. Leaning closer, you pout as your fingers rub at his neck gently. “You must be tired, hm? Let me head off for tonight.”
As he shifts to get more comfortable, he notices that you’ve left your haori with him. Brows furrowed, he presses the soft fabric closer to his nose, breathing in deeply. It doesn’t just smell of lavender but it smells of you.
It makes him feel an intense sense of yearning and his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth. His hips feel restless as the minutes pass by and his fingers tighten their hold on the haori while his other hand moves a little lower along the front of his body as he leans more onto his side.
The sting of his injury causes him to take in a sharp breath - or rather, it’s the feeling of his hand pressing against the mortifying hardness that is slowly arising underneath his yukata as he hastily pushes the fabric aside. He wishes the pain were more severe. It might have prevented such a shameful situation.
Perhaps the mix of pain and desperation can wash away the shame that threatens to burn his ears as your voice still seems to echo within them, contorting in ways his mind conjures up. You have never made the kind of sounds that plague him at this very moment, that urge him to move his hand and his hips in an attempt to ease this ache. Shion is troubled by this sudden revelation of his mind's creativity.
He wonders what you’d sound like if he worshiped at your feet. If he showed proof of his gratitude, right between your legs. Over and over again, until your cries die out and turn into soft murmurs, until your skin is warmed by his reverence.
Shion returns your haori a few days later in a hurried manner, his face turned away from yours as he hands it to you rather passively before leaving. It’s freshly cleaned and the smell of lavender is nowhere to be found.
It smells like nothing.
It is when the leaves start turning green again and you get to describe the various shades of the flowers blooming in your garden to your husband, that you feel the desire for there to be more within this. How much closer can one really get when they’re married?
Shion treats you well. Not once has he gone back on his promises and you have more than you could wish for. Not only are you well-fed and warm, but you are also free to do what you want and he treats you kindly.
Yet, every kind word of his leaves you with a deep ache.
It is also during that same spring that Shion starts to avoid you.
At first, it’s just the small things. He flinches away from your casual touches. You chalk it up to a miscalculation on your side. Perhaps he is not that comfortable with it after all.
Within your presence, he starts to look increasingly uncomfortable. He is in deep thought most of the time around you, and he doesn’t realize you’ve been calling his name many times in a row, trying to grab his attention.
And then, he blatantly begins to avoid you. The hours you’d spend reading his beloved poetry and long-winded stories to him dwindle down to the smallest fraction of an hour until he tells you that he’s too tired for your shared reading time.
Long pages remain unread, the new stories you’d bought stay hidden within the beautiful fabric you had wrapped them up in to surprise him with, and your nights feel a little colder now, despite the weather warming up.
It is on a warm spring day, that Tenza refuses to leave until you promise him to visit the sakura matsuri later that week. It feels like only yesterday when the plum blossoms in your garden had started to bloom and yet, it was already cherry blossom season. “Bring Shion-sensei with you!” is the last thing he tells you.
It’s not that easy.
Frustration sinks its claws deep into your heart. It’s not as if he doesn’t talk to you anymore or as if he is unkind. He shares with you the same kindness as he did when you got married but that is precisely what irks you.
Back then, you barely knew each other. Back then, you were just happy to have gotten out of that household, away from your father. Back then, you did not harbor this many difficult feelings for this man and it is only when your eyes sting and your lower lip begins to tremble, that you get up.
Distance is not a wall, it can be minimized, one step at a time. Even if it were a wall - you didn’t climb over the manor walls when you were younger for nothing. You’d climb over any wall he would build.
Your feet carry you to his room, a route you’re awfully familiar with by now. Softly, you knock as you take a deep breath. Once your husband bids you inside, you enter.
“Did he phrase it like that when asking for our presence? How cheeky,” Shion mumbles, his hands working to polish his sword with an uchiko ball. There is no humor in his tone like there used to be and the straight, confident posture you put up falters ever so slightly.
“Tenza asked for us to go watch the cherry blossoms with him.”
“I want to go,” you tell him and he nods, still not stopping his work, not turning towards you either.
“Together,” you add and he stops, carefully putting down his katana as he finally turns towards you. You continue, “Please, come along. It will be fun. I have been working on a kimono recently and it would be a good opportunity to wear it.”
“You are free to do so. You know you needn’t ask me for permission, as long as there is someone to keep you safe.”
Shion looks like he might deny you, his brows furrowed, his expression stuck in that internal conflict that has nestled somewhere inside his mind. You wish you had the courage to talk about it, to pester him more whenever he tells you that it’s nothing.
The shuffling of your feet as your toes grow restless against the tatami mats is loud enough for him to relent. A night out might also distract you a little and lift your spirits. Recently, you have been rather quiet and it makes him feel guilty.
He wouldn’t dare pinpoint himself as the cause of the shift in your behavior but he is aware that his recent changes have made you… Uncomfortable, perhaps. Shion doesn’t know what exactly you are feeling but he doesn’t dare to ask. He doesn’t have the right to do so.
With a nod, he complies, “Alright. We can head out together then. It’s at the end of the week, right?”
You didn’t notice that you had been holding your breath, so the first breath you take after his reply feels exhilarating. “Yes! I will ask Tenza where he wants to meet up that day and I will also take care of the rest. Thank you!”
As you hurry out of his room, Shion smiles gently, the pitter-patter of your feet against the floor accompanying him as he picks his tools back up.
—
When the day arrives and he is washing his face as you wander about, getting ready, he is reminded of a poem the old lady at the market has read to him once.
"Even though we may be apart,
if I am to hear that you pine for me
as the Inaba mountain pines,
I shall return to you."
Reaching up, he ruffles up his hair, frustrated by the resurgence of this memory. It is ridiculous to think that you have seemed so excited for him to join because it is him in particular.
The more, the merrier - that is what you’d say whenever you’d invite the other Yamada Asaemon over for dinner, or whenever you’d tell Tenza to tag along for your walks together. Futile, is what it is, to hope and pray and spend his day interpreting your awkward shifting when he’d sent you away that first night, telling you that he was too tired to have you read to him.
Futile, to search for meaning in the way your tone has changed around him. It is especially futile to think about how you’d react if he were to reach out and claim your lips.
His face feels warm.
Your hand is cold as it touches the nape of his neck and he flinches. Dumbstruck, you stand there for a moment. He’s never been one to be surprised by your presence. He had chalked it up to his heightened senses, due to his lack of vision and you’d thought it a good enough explanation. On top of that, he was a seasoned fighter.
“You’re warm… And you seem a little out of it,” you mumble gently, the awkwardness of the past few weeks forgotten in light of the possibility of him being sick. “Are you coming down with a fever?”
“I am alright,” he tells you, sounding a little flustered. Ever so softly, you reach out to lay the back of your hand against his forehead. It doesn’t seem to be a fever but his skin is a little warmer than you’re used to.
With a soft sigh, you let him know, “If you are feeling unwell, we can stay at home, you know?” You take your hand off his forehead but he grabs a hold of it mid-air, tugging it towards his lips. Pressing a gentle kiss against where you had just touched his skin, he breathes deeply.
“I want to go together.”
A tingling sensation spreads over your skin and you smile. “Alright. Let me go grab your kimono.”
“I can get it myself. My closet is right there,” Shion points towards the closet in his room but you huff in reply, pulling your hand out of his hold.
“Now, don’t tell me I spent all week hurrying to finish your kimono, just for you to want to wear one of your old ones. How terribly unkind.” You’re pouting and it weaves itself into your manner of speech in a way that Shion finds so charming that it tugs on the corners of his lips.
“The kimono you were referring to a few days ago when you told me about this…was mine?”
“I have plenty of my own that I have made over the years. Since we have gotten married I have made even more. On top of that, you make sure to gift me fancy fabrics every time we go out, so I wanted to repay that favor,” you tell him, the end of it sounding a little flustered, and he smiles warmly.
“I will gladly wear it then,” he tells you and you smile, content now as you go to retrieve it. You leave most of the work to him, your back turned to him as a way of giving him privacy. It is only the details that you busy yourself with, helping him fix up the obi in a nice way, as well as smoothing out the odd wrinkle or two.
A happy smile tugs on your lips. “Is it comfortable?”
Shion runs his hand over the sleeves, his brows furrowing ever so slightly. “This is incredibly soft,” he mumbles softly, almost in awe. You smile triumphantly.
“I found this fabric the other day when I was out with Tenza. I wanted to make sure you get to enjoy the clothes you wear. Just for your knowledge, the color is really pretty too. A dark blue. It reminded me of the night sky so I just had to take it with me,” you explain proudly and he smiles.
“Thank you,” is all he replies but it’s filled with enough tenderness to make up for the lack of colorful words.
You feel at ease, for the first time in weeks, as the both of you walk towards the designated spot for your meeting with Tenza. Once you meet up with him and some of the other Yamada Asaemon, you feel the rest of your awkwardness dissipate.
It was fine this way. Shion could spend his evening with his colleagues and you could just stay with Sagiri and Tenza, trying out the different foods Tenza would carry over from the stalls to the blanket you were sitting on.
So that is what you do for the entire duration of the little festival. Your hand rests on Sagiri’s arm as the both of you move from one food stall to the next. She doesn’t ask any questions, seemingly knowing that there is something going on which must be solved between you and your husband.
She offers you a gentle squeeze as she rests her hand on top of yours, trying to comfort you. You smile at her but it looks awkward and wrong. The way Shion seemed more approachable again today worries you. If you return home and he ends up going back to his avoidant behavior, you don’t think you’ll know what to do.
You walk back to where the others are sitting.
It is only when everybody is knocked out from either the alcohol, too much food, or long-winded talks, that your group goes silent. Only soft conversations happen here and there. You’re seated on a soft blanket, the cherry trees blossoming around you, their petals illuminated by the moon as they drift onto the grass.
“The plum blossoms in our garden are this pretty too,” you murmur softly. Shion, who is sitting next to you, hums in reply.
“They are almost the same color, right? Both are popular topics for poetry after all.”
“I think plum blossoms are prettier,” you tell him firmly and he huffs softly. His fingers bump into yours on top of the blanket but neither of you move to change anything about that. Turning your head to look his way, you’re startled by how close his face is to yours. It’s quiet for a moment and you feel awkward.
Behind you, Tenza and Sagiri are eagerly mumbling. You catch a few words such as “kiss” and “romantic”, and heat flares up inside your chest. It feels as if Shion is playing pretend in front of everybody tonight. As if everything is alright.
But it’s not.
Getting up quickly, you dust yourself off. “We should head home. It’s late,” you declare, your tone tinged with a sense of detachment that causes Shion to purse his lips but he nods, following suit regardless. He gets up, grabbing what little you had brought along before bidding everybody goodbye and following you.
Brisk is the pace you set, your geta clacking against the floor rhythmically. Shion follows you, two steps behind you as he keeps his attention on you regardless of any distance between you. It’s noticeable and only upsets you more.
Shion tries to strike up a conversation twice. Once, by bringing up the sweets you had tried with Sagiri and the second time by asking about the view. Both times, your replies are curt and to the point, your desire to not talk to him evident.
He doesn’t say anything else.
You step inside the house first, discarding your geta and getting ready to head to your room for tonight. Your endeavor is cut short when you’re pulled back into your husband’s arms, your back against his chest.
“I am sorry if I upset you.” His words are met with silence from you and his arms tighten their hold around you in response as he whispers, “Talk to me. Please.”
“I don’t want to,” is all you reply, grabbing a firm hold of his arms and freeing yourself from his hold. Never one to get overly physical, he lets go of you easily but is persistent regardless when he follows you through the house.
When you open the door to your room, step inside, and turn around to close it, he’s quick to nudge his foot between the sliding door and the frame. Neither of you anticipates just how much power you put into sliding the door shut.
A gasp leaves you when he hisses and pulls his foot away. Immediately, you open the door and pull him inside. “Sit down and let me take a look,” you mumble, guiding him towards your futon. “I am so sorry, I really didn’t mean to. I just wanted to-”
“To shut your stupid husband out. I know,” Shion replies as he sits down, a gentle smile tugging on his lips. Regarding him with furrowed brows, you sigh softly as you sit down and grab his foot, squeezing gently.
“Does it hurt?”
“Tenza would stomp on my foot with more force than that during training back when he started. I will be fine,” he reassures you, allowing you to drop his foot on the soft futon. “I am sorry for upsetting you. That was not my intention.”
“Then what was your intention?” It’s a fair question and Shion knows this but despite his desire to tell you everything, he keeps quiet.
“I don’t mind if you aren’t by my side at all times,” you continue, “I was content just being your wife in name but when you go ahead and build up my hopes, treat me with so much care, and familiarity, just to turn around and avoid me-”
Shion feels his heart sink when your words are interrupted by a choked sob and his hands move to cup your cheeks. A Yamada Asaemon’s hands never tremble, for it would be detrimental to the techniques they use for their executions. He swings his blade with firmness, confident in the path he has chosen to tread in this life.
All of his confidence is washed away by the teardrops that run down your cheeks, his thumbs trembling as they wipe them away. Apologies are all that he manages to utter before he pulls you in for a hug.
He breathes in deeply as he holds you. “I was unaware that keeping my distance would affect you so,” leaning down, he buries his face against the side of your neck. “I suffer whenever you aren’t close but when you are close to me I suffer twice as bad. I love you deeply and I have loved you since I can remember.”
Pursing your lips, you sniffle, finding comfort in rubbing your damp cheek against the soft material of his kimono. Allowing for his words to sink in for a moment, you ask, “Is that why you were avoiding me?”
“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he murmurs softly and your breath hitches when you feel his lips against your throat. Shion takes a deep breath, “I was enduring.”
A wry smile tugs on his lips, hidden away from your sight. He huffs, finding humor in his suffering and you tremble when his warm breath washes over your skin. “The self-control I take such pride in seems to crumble so easily when you’re around me.”
His hands find your waist and his fingertips press into the fabric of your kimono with such desperation and yet, he holds back. As always. “That night…when you read to me and forgot your haori…,” he continues, going lower until his lips are just shy of touching the bit of collarbone that presents itself to him.
“It smelled so much like you that I felt intoxicated by it. Your voice kept ringing in my ears and I was aching to touch you but I couldn’t.” His voice gives way to a shuddering breath when your hands cup his cheeks.
“But you can,” you tell him, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. If this was a man’s desire - no, your husband’s desire for you, then you wish for it to swallow you whole and mold you anew.
“I’ve yearned for you to touch me,” you whisper and your breath hitches when you feel attention fully on you as he leans back from your embrace.
“I know,” comes your reply. He doesn’t fault you and neither do you blame him in any way.
“You should have told me.”
“I will make up for the lost time,” Shion promises, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead, “I will leave no inch of you untouched. You won’t ever have to ache for me the way I do for you.”
When you lean forward to press your lips against his - not in that tentative and careful way you used to, whenever you’d kiss his cheek but ardently, with a need that shakes him to his core - only then do you feel his hesitance disappear.
His hands find your waist with a firmness that you have grown familiar with and you smile against his lips, your breathing still stilted by your earlier tears. Shion notices and leans back to kiss your cheeks, right where your tears are drying.
“I love you,” he tells you again, “I love how your voice sounds in the late hours of the night whenever you read to me. The way you smell makes me feel weak, especially when the smell of your favorite sweet treats lingers on you. Whenever I am away from you, I find myself thinking about you endlessly until I come back home.”
Grabbing a gentle hold of your hand, he pulls it up to his lips, leaving a kiss on each fingertip. “I adore these hands that cause my skin to burn beneath their touch.”
“I wouldn’t want to burn you,” you whisper bemused. A smile tugs on his lips and he lets go of your hand in favor of pulling you close.
“I wish you’d burn me terribly. The pain might distract me from my longing,” Shion whispers, his breath warm against your lips. His voice is quiet and you don’t dare to breathe in fear of sending it away with the wind. “May I kiss you?”
With a soft laugh, you pull him closer, your lips meeting his in a passionate kiss. Gently exploring the other, your lips move together, falling into a comfortable, warm rhythm. You’re both a little clumsy, inexperienced, and hurried by your need but it’s sweet nonetheless and it fills the empty cup in your heart ever so slightly.
But a sip like that would not quell your thirst. Not anymore.
Your hands find the obi that they had neatly tied to hold his kimono earlier. Shion lets out a soft breath at the feeling of it untying and your hands diving beneath the fabric of his kimono. “We don’t have to-”
“I can share my affections with you but this is a bit…,” he mumbles, his cheeks red and you cup his cheeks.
“I want to touch you,” you urge, firmly and in a way that won’t allow for him to question if you are doing this out of your own desire. “Don’t you think you’ve denied me your affections long enough?”
Leaning forward, you press a gentle kiss against his lips before telling him, “If this is too hasty for you, I am willing to wait. I love you.”
The expression on his face is barely visible to you through the little moonlight that shines into your room. It’s one you haven’t seen on him before and you don’t get to decipher it for long before he moves forward to kiss you once more.
This time, he dives in to taste you, his tongue exploring yours as you engage in a heated kiss. His body presses into yours and you don’t know when it is that your back meets the futon underneath you but you don’t care enough to spend another second wondering about it.
Traveling lower, his lips find your jaw, then your throat, and your collarbone right after. The trail of kisses he leaves is hot against your skin and you find yourself feeling entirely too warm in your intricate kimono. Relief floods you when you feel his hands settle on your obi and your own hands move to help him out with the complicated bow.
Once the bow is untied and the belt is discarded, his hands move to glide over your shoulders, parting the fabric from your skin.
To his chagrin, his palms slide over another layer of fabric. A frustrated sound leaves him and you huff, amused by his antics. “Please tell me there aren’t any more layers to this. I wasn’t aware that my wife’s real identity was that of an onion.”
“Your wife likes to stay atop the latest fashion trends. There is no way I’d compromise my comfort and wear a kosode on top of my hadajuban. I’d be sweating way too much,” you explain, slipping your arms out of the fabric of your kimono and letting it fall down around you.
You could clean it later.
“Unfortunately, I think you’ll be working up a sweat regardless,” Shion teases as his hands work to untie your inner robes with such dexterity that it almost makes you feel impressed.
Your hands move to rid him of his robes and once the both of you are entirely bare, with no fabric between you to separate your bodies, you feel shyness creep up inside you. Hesitantly, your hand reaches out to brush over his chest and the way he shudders causes your touch to be firmer - more explorative and sure in its approach.
Your other hand moves to settle on his shoulder as he kneels between your legs and he allows you to acquaint yourself with his body. His own hands are resting on your thighs, balled into fists.
“You can touch me too,” you whisper, leaning forward to kiss him for a short moment, feeling as if your chest would burst if you didn’t release all of this pent-up affection. Moving your hands to his, your fingers gently uncurl his fingers from their firsts, leading them to your waist. They settle on your naked skin and he shudders visibly. A soft laugh leaves you.
An embarrassed smile finds its place on his lips and he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. “I am sorry but now that I get to touch you, it feels a little overwhelming,” comes his soft explanation and you smile.
Your breath gets caught in your throat when his hands slide over the curves of your waist, tracing your skin up to your chest. Carefully, his thumbs brush over your nipples, circling the sensitive nubs until they perk up under his attention. The rise of his chest speaks for his delightment and he leans lower, still hovering over you but moving lower to take your nipple into his mouth.
It’s an unfamiliar sensation, different compared to your touch. His mouth is hot, his tongue wet and soft when it licks over and around your nipple before there’s a slight sucking sensation. It sends a hot tingle down your stomach and you gasp softly, your hand finding purchase on his shoulder while the other settles on the back of his head.
Strands of silver slip between your fingers and you tug gently while his lips leave your chest, the cool air of the room brushing against your wet nipple and sending a shudder through your body. You think you can feel him smiling against your tummy as he works his way lower, down to your pelvis.
His hands are gentle as they explore your curves. Sliding along your hips before grabbing a hold of your thighs, squeezing to feel your flesh between his fingers. You wonder how all of this feels for him.
Settling on his knees between your legs, he leans back over you. Meeting him halfway, you lean up to kiss him again. The initial eagerness has died out and what you are left with is a warm simmer between your legs. One of his hands slides between your thighs, his fingers exploring eagerly. A soft gasp tears itself free from your lips and Shion asks, in a whisper, if you are alright with what he is doing.
You nod and pull him a little closer until his lips rest against your collarbone once more. His breath is heavy as he slides his fingers over your folds, cupping your mound before dipping between your lips. There’s a stutter in his breathing once he gathers some of your wetness.
A smile tugs on your lips. “What? Surprised?” you tease, moving your hips a little so that his fingers glide back and forth between your folds. He follows your motions, thankful for the bit of guidance you seem to be offering.
“Just new to this,” he murmurs, playfully nipping at your throat. “It’s a little difficult to really get a feeling for it unless you indulge in the real thing. The few drunken words of others can only provide so much information.”
Your soft laugh reaches his ears and he moves upwards until his lips meet yours once more. “So you’ve been receiving private lessons, hm?” you tease and he chuckles, his thumb finding your clit and circling the swollen nub slowly, applying gentle pressure. Meanwhile, two of his fingers dip between your folds, finding you unbearably warm and wet for him as he slides them in and then out again steadily.
The soft gasp that leaves you sends a tingling sensation up Shion’s spine and he gulps.
“They were rather unpleasant lessons, although the knowledge I have gained seems to be proving useful,” your husband shoots back with more wit than you wish he’d have right now.
A little impatient, despite your desire to take your time, your hand moves to wander across his chest, tracing the defined lines of his abs. The muscles move under your fingertips, taut and firm as you continue lower until you reach his cock.
The way your husband bucks his hips into your touch and the way his breath hitches in his throat when your fingers wrap around him diffuses your anxieties. He has half the heart to tell you that you don’t have to touch him, that this is about you but you manage to chase all of those thoughts out of his mind once you begin to stroke him.
A little too slow for his liking and a little too gentle. Even so, he doesn’t stop you or complain. His hand wraps around yours and he squeezes it gently. “A little more firmly,” he tells you and his words are so airy that it knocks the wind out of you. All you manage is a slow nod as you follow his instructions, picking up on how he seems to like it. His hands rest on your hips, one of them still wet with your desire.
You wonder if he’d touch himself like this when thinking of you - if his breath felt as hot against his pillow as it does on your skin, and if his thighs trembled ever so slightly, just as they do now.
Tugging on your wrists, he coaxes you to let go of him. Reluctantly, you follow along, immediately missing the weight of him in your hands. Was it that unpleasant for him?
As if he’s read your mind, he presses a kiss against your temple and explains, “I want you to feel good too.” Breathing out softly, you shake your head. You were ready to protest but how could you, when he says something like that?
Shifting on top of you, he moves his lips lower along your body but you stop him in this endeavor, cupping his cheeks as you pull him back up to kiss you once more. “Please,” his voice comes in such a deep, parched tone that seems to rumble inside his chest; you find it hard to focus on what he is saying. “Let me have a taste.”
And as much as you want to give in - the fantasy of his lips caressing places you wouldn’t dare ask him to kiss making you feel a heat unlike anything else - you simply wrap your legs around his hips, keeping him right where he is.
“There will be time for that later,” you tell him, and the way he swallows at that, the movement of his adam’s apple faintly visible under the light that the moon provides, tugs on the corners of your lips and makes you pull him a little closer.
“You’re terrible,” Shion mumbles, his lips finding their home on your face, over and over again, wandering from your cheek to your temple, and then up to your forehead, “Have I not waited long enough?”
Pushing his hips right up against yours, you shudder at the warm weight of his cock that settles on top of your tummy. “I think there are more pressing matters,” you argue, shifting to change the angle of your hips. A soft sigh falls from your lips when he pulls back a little before sliding back, the underside of his cock rubbing back and forth over your clit as he slides it through your folds.
His chest is pressed against yours, the weight on top of you comfortable as it presses you deeper into the sheets. Warm lips find yours once more and you have lost count of how many kisses you have shared tonight. It doesn’t matter since there will be too many to count soon anyway. You’d make sure of that.
When he finally sinks into you, it’s not as violent of a sensation as you expected it to be. Not as harsh and unrelenting as the women in your life would whisper when the men were gone.
It’s warm, almost unendurably so and yet, you wish to cling onto this warmth. The stretch isn’t painful - a bit uncomfortable at most. You’re more focused on how he feels inside you and how you find it difficult to tell which heartbeat belongs to you, his heart thrumming in his chest that is right up against yours.
Bottoming out inside you, Shion lets out a soft groan. His forehead meets yours and your breaths intermingle. “I love you,” he sighs, relieved to finally be able to say it freely and you smile up at him fondly, cupping his cheeks.
“I love you,” comes your echo to his confession before your back arches and you push up against him more when he finally moves. The drag of his length inside you burns in a way which your fingers could never hope to replicate and your toes flex, your heels arching off the futon.
A choked sound of Shion’s has your head tipping back, your eyes fluttering shut at how good and right he feels buried inside you. Your eyes burn behind your eyelids and you’re only aware of the tears that escape the corners of your eyes when Shion kisses them away.
“Are you hurting? Should we stop?” he asks, his tone ever so gentle but it’s a little strained and you think you see his cheeks flushed with such a beautiful color that you make a mental note to explore this particular hue in the morning hours, accompanied by the light of the morning sun.
The shake of your head is immediate and you whisper a soft “No”. Putting your hand on top of his that is cupping your cheek, you turn your head to press a kiss to his palm and you get to watch as the firm, upright man on top of you melts, his expression twisting into one that you finally understand.
A suppressed chuckle leaves you in the form of a shaky breath and it’s wobbly as your lips tremble. “Feels good,” is all you manage to speak and he smiles down at you fondly, prompting you to return his smile. Your cheeks hurt.
The need for conversation subsides as he begins to rock his hips into yours again, pushing himself deeper with each thrust. Your thighs begin to tremble when one of his hands slips between your bodies to find your clit, circling it once more with his thumb to help push you over the edge.
Moans, heavy breathing, and the sounds of his skin meeting yours over and over again fill the room, echoing inside your four walls in a way that would usually make your ears burn with shame. Right now, you’re freed from any sort of feeling of that sort.
Your nails dig into his back, pulling him closer as his hips move insistently and his lips lavish your throat with soft bites that he caresses with his tongue to soothe the pain. All it takes is a particular grind of his hips and his name leaves you as a choked sound, your vision turning white as you close your eyes.
It feels like all the air leaves your lungs and you feel dizzy, your walls pulsing around his shaft as your body trembles in his hold, the soft tremors continuing until he removes his thumb from you and stops the onslaught of his mouth on your body. Shaky breaths are all that leave your lips for a few moments as you finally fill your lungs greedily.
Forehead bumping against his shoulder, you keep Shion close, the quick rhythmic up and down of his chest soothing your quivering body. The man above you is breathing heavily, way more out of breath than he’d be after one of those training sessions you were allowed to watch.
A breathless chuckle leaves him as he presses a little closer and it is only then, when you feel the wet sensation between your thighs that drips down your folds and onto the sheets, accompanied by a squelching sound that shoots heat into your cheeks, that you realize he has spilled himself inside you.
“You are beautiful,” he whispers, cupping your cheeks with a tenderness that has never before been yours to claim from anyone. The way the folds around his eyes join in on his expression of joy as his cheeks push up against them while he smiles has you feeling a warmth that you wish to never miss again.
Blurry is your vision as you watch him pull out of you, making do by wiping the excess of your combined essence with the corner of his futon’s cover, before he lays down next to you. Your sniffling reaches his ears and he laughs joyfully, pulling you closer. “Cry as much as you wish to. I will be right here to wipe your tears,” he promises, chasing your tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “Although I do prefer you smiling and laughing.”
Wrapping your arms around him, you move as close as possible, resting your head against his chest. It’s quiet for a while; comfortable. Your breath evens out and you relax against him as his fingers trace shapes into the skin of your back. You’re too tired to decipher what kind of shapes they are.
After a while, you speak up and laugh softly at the way Shion startles ever so slightly. He must have thought you were already asleep.
“Does this mean I can come to your room and read to you again?” you ask mischievously, looking up at him with an unbearably cheesy smile pulling on your lips. You’re glad he can’t see it.
Shion smiles down at you warmly before pressing his lips against your forehead. Lingering there, he whispers,
“You may read to me in our room. Every single evening, for as long as you wish to stay with me. Every poem or story that piques your interest.”
“It could never be long enough.”
“For as long as I wish to stay?” you ask teasingly, shifting to press your lips against his jaw. “That is going to be a long time.”
A few months later it’s still warm, despite the late hour.
Too warm to stay inside, which is why you are sitting outside on the engawa, humming softly as you try not to spill the juicy goodness of your fruits onto your yukata.
“Don’t eat too quickly or you might not be able to sleep.”
Tilting your head back, you look up to see your husband hovering over you as he stands right behind you. There’s a teasing smile on his lips and the light of the setting sun illuminates his skin nicely. He looks warm.
“Oh, come on now. I am not eating that quickly,” you shoot back, opening up another plum to remove its stone, just to throw it into one of the bushes. A product of nature returning to nature. No harm done.
He chuckles, sitting down next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Couldn’t find any shut-eye inside? I could give you a few tips.”
You snort inelegantly.
“It’s too stuffy and warm inside the house,” you explain, munching away on your plums. Resting one hand on the wood of the engawa, you lean back onto it. Autumn is around the corner but it’s still very warm. The ongoing heat rewards you with sweet plums so it’s a little easier to forgive the weather for now.
“You know, when I was a child I used to steal plums from my father’s trees.”
Shion tilts his head at you in a way that compels you to reach out and pinch his cheek but you hold back. “I know,” and the smile he gives you with that reply tugs your expression into one of cautious confusion.
“Did I tell you about that before?” comes your question, which your husband denies with a shake of his head. He holds a hand out to you, palm facing up. Removing the stone from a plum, you hand it to him.
“I got to eat them as well,” he explains and you look at him for a few moments, your gaze tracing the scars on his face and the way he eats the plum. Brows furrowing, he sticks out his tongue and mumbles that it’s sour and it is only then that you finally realize.
Putting your head in your hands you laugh, dumbstruck. Shion raises a brow at you, feeling a little anxious about how you’re feeling. While he did poke fun at you just now, he’s not sure if it’s all that funny to you. Maybe you’d feel differently about him now, or perhaps you’d-
“It’s not sour,” you tell him and he laughs at how you sound as if he knocked the wind out of you with one simple statement. Your shoulder bumps into his as you lean closer, grabbing a hold of his hand that rests on his lap. He intertwines his fingers with yours, bringing your hands up to his lips to press a soft kiss against your fingertips.
“You’re right. It’s sweet.”
NOTES:
Tenugui - a type of traditional Japanese towel
Hadajuban - traditional sort of underwearn, worn underneath kimono
Kosode - the direct predecessor of the kimono, short sleeved and worn underneath intricate kimono in some places when the switch from kosode to kimono happened
Engawa - A wooden terrace
—
The first poem is by Ariwara no Narihira, taken out of the KOKINSHŪ.
Frog poem is by Matsuo Bashō
“蛙 (kawazu) - Frog can also be read as (kaeru) which can be translated as “to return”, meaning that Shion was joking here about himself being the pond and the reader being the frog. She returned to him after their initial meeting
The story the reader reads to Shion is “The Narrow Road to the Deep North” written by Matsuo Bashō.
The poem where Shion is getting ready for the festival is by Ariwara no Yukihira from Hyakunin Isshu: Poem 16.
you're ugly, you're disgusting - give me 200 horses
Suo Hayato x Reader // Mythology AU
Summary: To marry you, a suitor must beat you in hand-to-hand combat. Or do whatever the fuck Suo did instead.
Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, OOC!Suo, Probably (Look, I Tried), Misogyny
Word Count: 1, 953
i.
Contrary to popular belief whispered throughout the steppe, you do not hate men.
But, by god, are they a stupid bunch.
There is this story your Father liked to tell after a few drinks, of you, as a toddler, gripping a snake by the throat and happily slamming him into the ground, repeatedly.
So why are men always surprised when they end up in the same spot?
Your most recent challenger groans from the ground, dust settling around him.
"Three...two...one!"
The fight master holds up your hand once more and you grin.
Behind you, there is familiar laughter and clapping, your Father waving you back to the cushioned seat near him.
"That's my daughter! A force to be reckoned with!"
He claps a hand on your back and shakes you a little and you smirk.
The man with the eyepatch and expensive clothes lowers his cup of honey wine, a tranquil smile adoring his features. "Your fighting technique is quite impressive."
You look over at him, up then down. His robes make it hard to tell what kind of stature he has, hard to tell what kind of fighter he might be.
"Most men still challenge me afterwards. I hardly receive compliments."
"Fight you?" He laughs, and the small jewel attached to the eyepatch quivers. "I would most certainly lose."
You give him a look out of the side of your face. Somehow, you know he's bluffing. He might put up a good fight at the very least, and that in itself would be a miracle.
"You are wise, Suo! My daughter is well versed in combat!"
You watch this Suo for his reaction. He shows you nothing, taking another sip of wine.
"You see, my daughter has one rule for suitors! They must beat her in hand-to-hand combat!"
"Oh?" He says, sounding genuinely interested. This, too, is rare. "And what happens when they lose, as that man did?"
"They owe me a horse." You say, chin raised, daring him to speak ill of your methods as many often do.
"Huh." He says. "How many horses do you have?"
"1,000." You say, smirk curving on the corner of your lips.
"Wow," He says, sounding genuinely impressed. "That is quite amazing!"
"And a hassle! We hardly have room for them all," Your Father laughs.
ii.
The arrow sings through the breeze, hitting its perfect mark.
You're almost boring to watch with your accuracy and skill.
The Merchant speaks to your Father under a richly colored tarp.
"You must forgive my daughter," You hear when you go to pick up more arrows. "She worries for me."
"It's cute," Suo replies.
Your face wrinkles in confusion and he laughs.
"Don't let my daughter hear you say that," Your Father leans over, whispering conspiratorially. "She might bite your head off."
"Right," You say loudly, another arrow piercing the bullseye. "Like that would be the optimal way of killing someone."
The smile on Suo's face remains, despite your dark joke.
iii.
The other girl scoffs and storms away, leaving your handmaiden and best friend Líu.
"What happened?"
Liú gives you a one armed shrug, putting another cloth into the basket at her hip. "Well, I told her I had my first time with my husband the other day,"
Your eyes widen. “How … how was it?”
“Somewhat underwhelming,” Líu admits. “I think she was expecting more of a story?"
You had the heard stories girls gossiped in the night. Sometimes horrifying, sometimes filthy, seldom in between.You supposed you had been wondering, even if you never asked.
"Don't get me wrong, I love my husband but ... it was just fine."
"'Just fine', huh.” You laugh, eyes crinkling. “So I suppose there really is no reason to stop throwing them into the dirt, then?”
Liú laughs. "I suppose not. But getting married wouldn't be the end of the world, either. Whichever you choose, I know it'll be true to you.”
"You have a lot of faith in me.” You say, puffing your chest.
“Of course!”
iv.
Another day, another victory.
The man hits the dust and you're already turning around to walk away, not seeing him scramble to grab a saucer from a plate and fling it at you.
But you do see the hand cast out before you, blocking your vision.
"Come now," Says Suo, smile taking an odd sort of edge. "There's no need to be a sore loser!"
"You have good reflexes, Merchant," You say.
"Thank you!" Suo drops the saucer into your outstretched hand.
"Though, you absolutely stole my thunder."
"Sorry," He says, scratching his cheek. "My hand moved on my own."
"You're going to have to make it up to me," You say, still smirking. "Tomorrow. Archery grounds."
v.
Suo is just as much of a challenge as you had predicted.
You often tie.
You await his return to visit your Father and give him a new challenge each time.
He's fantastic with a polearm, but often lets go of the arrow too early.
Your horses adore him, even the most stubborn old girls allowing him to feed them carrots.
He tells you stories of his travels, and in exchange you regale him with your exploits.
vi.
"Your next challenger..." Your Mother says. "He's a good man."
"They often are?" You say with a quirk of the brow. You feel the trap closing in on you, even if you do not know what it is for.
She sighs, seeing that such a method would not work on you. "I want you to throw the match."
"What?!"
You look to your Father, who says nothing.
Your Mother continues. "He comes from a good family and - "
"What of our honor!"
"This is honorable!"
You look again to your Father, who simply shrugs. "It is your decision in the end. I trust our judgment."
You stand in front of the man considering the conversation from earlier.
“100 Horses.” He is saying. “I bet I could beat you.”
“The men before you said the same.”
He spits. “The men before me were nothing.”
You do not throw the match.
vii.
On a later visit, you and Suo are returning from a hunt, when you tell that story.
You wait for his reply.
"Hm. Good."
You're surprised.
"Hmm?”
"I just thought you would have taken more of a ... business minded approach?"
"I think it was merciful," He said. "Any fighter worth their salt would have been able to tell if you threw a fight."
"Have you ever thrown a fight?" You ask. "Is that how you lost your eye?"
"Nothing nearly as interesting as that," He says smoothly.
"Aww," You smirk.
"Is there an interesting reason you started fighting your suitors?"
"Because I have to," You say automatically, then seal your lips. It dawns on you that nobody has asked you that question before. "Well..."
You look up into the sky as you think. He doesn't need an answer, you know. And he doesn't deserve an explanation. But you've already started thinking. On one hand, it's instinctual - you cannot help but not go down easily.
"My grandmother ... was taken from her home by a foreign prince, my grandfather. And on her deathbed, she longed for it."
Suo is silent, waiting. He watches you intently.
"She made me promise as a little girl for that never to be my fate. To never let any man possess me. "
Suo looks at you for a long time. "I cannot claim to completely understand, but I do empathize."
You make a sound in response.
“Though. It is a lot of weight to put on a child.”
viii.
"So," Liú says. "Is there something going on with you and that Merchant?"
You stop cleaning your sword for a second to look up at her, "You mean something other than friendly competition?"
"There are rumors,"
"You know how I feel about rumors."
"I do!” She say, plopping down next to you. “Which is why I came to you instead,"
"Suo is great competition. More than the likes I've ever seen before."
"And that's it?"
You pause. "Should there be more?"
"No," Liu says with a loose shrug. "There doesn't have to be."
ix.
It's a sharp second, like a pinprick - attacks you suddenly like a bird of prey..
The sunlight hits Suo's hair just right and it's like it glows.
A terror grips you by the back of the neck.
You shove the feeling away and decide to deal with it another time.
x.
And then the rumors start.
The rumors that the reason your so object to marriage is that you are in a secret relationship with your Father.
You balk. It's ridiculous! Why would anybody believe such a thing!
Your surprised when your Father calls you to his tent, full of onlookers.
"You must get married."
You laugh. "You're going to let some silly rumor decide for you!? You might as well let it run your court as well!"
"No," He says. "I've let this charade go on for far too long. It's not fit for a young woman to remain unmarried like this."
"You're joking."
His face is unmoving. You realize he is not relenting.
"Father. Father! You can't just offer my hand to some stranger! ... Please!"
He closes his eyes. "One year. You have one year to choose."
xi.
When Suo returns, he cannot find you.
"She rides every day," Your Father tells him. "From dawn till dusk."
When you return, you give him a smirk that doesn't meet your eyes.
"What happened?"
You start to tell him, the emotions swimming in your eyes, but instead say, "Ride with me."
The moon illuminates your shadows.
You approach a shimmering lake, looking at its surface. "My father wishes for me to get married."
"Ah."
"I -" You are crying. The tears that squeeze out of your eyes are of desperation. "I know of none who would wish to marry me of their own accord, so I am to be promised to a stranger."
Suo is silent.
"I have fought my whole life for my freedom and now I will be remembered for my failure!"
"You didn't fail."
You look at him, crystalline tears still falling.
"You never lost."
"But I did!" You say. "Because I fell for somebody!"
"Falling in love is not losing," He says. "And knowing you, knowing the decisions you make - the person you fell for would probably never have you give up on yourself. If they do, it isn't love."
"You don't understand!” You snap, fists forming at your side.”I do not know if I'll ever be able to love them like anyone else! I respect them! But what if it is not love? What if it is all I am capable of? You do not wish a life with me!"
"That is not for you to decide," Suo says, then after a moment, “Fight me.”
“What?”
“A King once told me that fighting is a conversation of one’s souls. You have something to tell me, don’t you? Fight me.”
You begin to walk from behind your horse. “You have to be serious.”
He nods. “I will.”
“Even if you think you can’t win.”
He begins to stand in a fighting position. “I’ll try.”
You shift into your fighting position. "Then come!"
The two of you lunge at each other. He’s faster than you are, and reflects most of your attacks, but when you finally manage to grapple him he hits the ground hard. The two of you dance along the moonlit shore to a rhythm nobody else will ever hear.
The two of you fall to the ground at the same time, panting and sweating.
at this point this isn't really a kink fic, sorry anon i got carried away!!!
the machinist and the faerie - gojo x reader (8.5k)
the woods feel more home than any cottage ever could; and for the white-haired not quite mortal boy who was the playmate of your youth that goes double.
warnings: not sfw, minors dni. fantasy au. faerie gojo with praise kink. childhood friends to lovers. virgin reader, fingering, piv sex. afab reader with neutral pronouns, with a few references to marriage and ‘carrying on a family line’.
Your parents warn you never to go deeper than a hair’s breadth into the forest that edges your cottage. They watch you, when you’re a small child with poor impulse control, from the doorway of said cottage – call out to you, or run out when your toddling seems like it’s going to lead you too far in. They scold you with their carefully guarded words, always saying the same thing;
“It’s dangerous,” they tell you. “There’s no telling what kind of things you might encounter in there. We’ll tell you why when you’re older - but for now, little one, heed our advice. And stay away.”
When you’re a little older, they tell you more – they tell you the stories of the children from the village who go into the forest and never return. They tell you the stories of a poet who sees something so beautiful (or perhaps so hideous) that he spends his life wandering the forest for another glimpse of it, until he fades to bone and dust and nothing. They tell you of a beautiful lady from town who shares one kiss with an elfin knight she meets in the forest, and finds herself never satisfied with the life of a mortal, until she too goes into its dark depths and is not seen again.
The stories are somewhat sanitised, you find out, through whispers of the village children who do not like to play too close to where you live. They do not like to play with you at all; they think you strange, for your family’s superstitions and their insistence on living so close to what terrifies all of everyone else who lives near.
They think the gifts your mother hangs around your neck (for protection, she insists) are witchcraft more than they are charms; they call her so much, wonder aloud if perhaps there is something wrong with you too--
So you learn to play alone. You learn to make up entire universes in your head, and sit in the sun-warmed grass behind the cottage (never too close to the forest) and whisper to yourself furtively, imagining yourself a princess or a dragon or a knight in turn.
But children grow up and they grow wilful, and though the village holds little glamour for you, at twelve years old with skinned knees and tangled hair, the forest seems to represent a wealth of possibility.
Your parents no longer watch you; they trust you, now. They think that their stories and their warnings have sunk down deep into your very being – that you will heed them, and stay away from the tempting darkness and deep that lingers just on the edge of your universe. They have forgotten, then, what it is like to be twelve years old and so very alone in the world.
You slip into the forest one day when your father is in the small workshop that he makes little wooden trinkets to sell at markets within, and your mother is in town fetching a length of fabric to make new aprons. You do it with little preparation, not wishing to give your plans away. You stand as if merely to stretch your legs, and you let your feet carry you towards it, and before you can let out the breath you hadn’t realised you had been holding you are beneath a canopy of green leaves with the scent of earth all around you.
The thing that the adults don’t realise, you think, as you venture yet further and deeper into the unknown, is that the forest is a dream for someone like you. Somewhere entirely untouched by the hand of grown-ups, where you can dream whatever dreams you would like without a nagging voice disproving them. A place where anything could happen.
You are happy to be utterly alone; you are happy to be able to play your games and sing your songs softly and daydream without another soul near.
You do not see the bright blue eyes watching you from the shadows, or the mass of pale hair, or think for a moment that there is any child in the whole world (your world, of course, having narrowed to the confines of the gnarled oak trees) except you. And for that time, you are correct, and you leave the forest when the skies start to dim and lie to your parents about how you must have been just out of sight when they scanned the land for you.
You go back.
How could you not, having discovered exactly what real freedom felt like?
You go back the next day, and the next – and your parents trust you to be smart and not to go into the forest, and you always pat down your clothes and smooth your face in the hopes that no stray twig or streak of mud will tell of your guilt before you go back into your house.
It is two weeks of this before Gojo reveals himself to you. He does it with little fanfare; one day, you are sat cross-legged in a clearing with tongue poking from the side of your mouth as you string daisies together – and then there is a pair of bare feet in front of you and a curious voice ringing out;
“You shouldn’t pick those, you know!”
You look up to see this intruder to your peaceful fantastical world, and for a moment all thoughts go out of your head.
Eyes that blue and shifting do not belong on a human child. Hair that pale white does not belong on a human child. And though he is, perhaps, your age . . . there’s a bearing to him that suggests otherwise.
You want to snap back that you’ll do what you want, that you have no need of some silly boy to come and give you orders – but you see this boy-creature for the first time and all of the stories you have ever been told come rushing to the forefront of your mind.
“Why not?” You ask him, instead.
(At twelve years old, you are too bold for your own good, and even knowing that this boy is nothing like you is not enough to deter you from your dogged curiosity).
But the boy looks delighted you’ve responded. He crouches in front of you and reaches out to touch one of the daisies that has not fallen victim to your culling; he’s gentle with it, like it’s a breathing thing.
“The land doesn’t like it,” he tells you. “Silly! Everyone knows that.”
You wrinkle your brow and scrunch your nose and he laughs like the pealing of a bell.
“The land?” You ask. “I don’t think it feels it.”
“Of course it does!” This one is almost a scoff; the arrogant nature of a boy who has never been told he is wrong. “It feels everything.”
“Then surely we ought to stop walking upon it, too.” You counter-offer. The boy’s eyes gleam, like he’s unused to being challenged. You’ve amused this faerie child then, you think – and you wonder on those stories of poets and scholars, and wonder too if perhaps it is enough to spare you.
“That’s pedantic,” he says. “The earth is made for walking upon. The daisies do not grow to be plucked and chained!”
But he does not seem dangerous. He seems . . . you think, despite the way he’s trading verbal jabs with you, that he seems lonely – and you think of the rustles you have sometimes heard in the forest and the sensation of being viewed from afar. You deflect the conversation.
“Have you been watching me?”
It throws him pause. A cloud passes over his face. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again.
(You recall your mother telling you that faeries are unable to tell lies when asked a direct question).
“ . . . Yes,” he says, eventually.
You smile at him, bright and wide.
“You can play with me,” you tell him. “If you want.”
And his face lights up like he’s never had an offer the like, this creature that lives in the forbidden parts of your life. This thing you’re supposed to be scared of, that your parents warn you about, that the children in the village live in fear of. His face lights up, and he is just . . .
He is merely your ilk. He is small, and lonely, and dreaming.
He is just like you.
He tells you his name is Gojo, and you do not push any further because the tales have taught you that a name is something powerful in realms like this one. In return, you give him only your first name, and you keep your family’s name and the sweet nicknames your parents call you and everything else held close to your chest so that you have some weapon against him, if the tales do one day prove to be true.
But you turn thirteen, and then fourteen, and Gojo is still your friend and your playmate and he never raises so much as his voice at you in anger.
(He raises his voice in excitement, in bright exclamations, in joking laughter – but never, ever in anger. You flinch from him once, when your friendship is new and he reaches out to touch your shoulder, and his entire face seems to fall in on itself before he can catch it. It’s natural to fear him, considering what the stories tell you – but Gojo, you think, is afraid of being feared like that).
The other children in the village leave behind games and stories; but you have never really been like them, as much as you like to pretend. You do not get tired of the wind in your hair and the grass beneath your feet and trading snatches of narrative with Gojo as if the two of you are writing some kind of book together, and years and years pass and you remain a little too wild and a little too strange for anyone but him.
Your parents speak to you in worried tones. They talk to you of your marriage prospects, of your prospects for work, of the future that seems to creep closer and closer to you despite how you long for the world to stop, just for a little while.
You do take up work, for you are not that uncaring of a child – you would not ask your parents to keep you for nothing. You apprentice a tailor, and you draw chalk patterns on fabric and run silvery huge scissors through it to make the shapes that will turn into clothes, but you have no real aptitude for the sewing. Still, the tailor is pleased with your dogged dedication to trying, and you bring home your keep to your parents -
And head out into the forest on an evening, saying that you are going into town to meet friends you have made.
Gojo always sends you home before real nightfall comes, but you snatch moments together all the same – and you realise, at seventeen, that the heat in your stomach and the fluttering in your heart when Gojo’s loping form emerges from the bushes is more than mere friendship.
At nineteen, he has grown into a man. His hair is still unruly pale, falling into those brilliant blue eyes no matter how often he runs his elegant fingers through it. His shoulders have broadened, any awkward gangliness come to a stop. He was pretty as a boy, but as a young man . . . you think it no wonder that maidens and knights alike in stories find themselves so utterly bewitched by faeries they meet.
Sometimes you catch him looking at you and you wonder if he feels the same.
For this is not a friendship that should have come to be; you know that much. Gojo does not speak much of where he comes from, and you are polite enough to not outright ask him and force him to lay it bare (and perhaps you are afraid, a little, of what he might confess) – but he drops hints, all the same. And you learn that his kind have little care for mortals like you.
But when you see him looking at you out of the corner of those eyes like the sky and sea all at once, your heart skips a beat nevertheless.
You have never felt as understood, as at home, as much like you belong, as you do with Gojo. A hand on your shoulder (once an ordinary, playful gesture) suddenly has more meaning than ever before; a quirk of his lips makes you giddy and light-headed. You skirt around the issue until one balmy midsummer evening, when you decide to throw all of your caution to the wind.
Gojo is asking you about your day at the tailor’s, fascinated as always by all of the little ways that humankind works without the help of magic that he has grown so accustomed to. You are trying to describe the great industrial sewing machine that is the centrepiece of the workroom, as you have so many times before; trying to explain how the pedal makes the needle punch, without the knowledge of why exactly it does such. And Gojo is staring at you, utterly engrossed in the way your hands move and listening harder to the words you say than anyone in the real, waking world outside of the forest ever does – and you seize your chance with both hands, and you lean in and you kiss him.
It’s your first kiss.
You don’t know how to do it; you don’t know the angle at which to hold your head to present your noses from clanging together, nor do you know what to do with your teeth – your hands move to cling to his shoulders, but they are awkward in how they dig into more muscle than you’re expecting to find. You don’t know whether to close your eyes or not, though the moment your lips meet his you squeeze them shut anyway so as not to see if disgust fills his gaze instead.
(Or if, indeed, it is pity that colours them. Pity, you think, may be worse than any other option).
Nothing. There is no response from Gojo at all, and you draw back all warm and breathless with your heart hammering like a battle drumbeat in your chest. You stare at Gojo with all of your cards laid out on the table; your soul laid utterly bare for him.
He whispers your name like he can’t believe what’s happening, but you can still not read the tone. There’s a quietness to it that’s almost fear, that sets your back prickling.
“What have you done?” He asks you, hand coming up to his mouth, fingertips ghosting over the places your own lips just learnt for the first time.
You feel your face crumple. A cold pit at the centre of your stomach, like you are a bruised peach fallen from a tree.
You think of those longing looks and lingering touches and Gojo by your side for years and years and years.
“Don’t you . . . don’t you feel the same?”
Your voice is whisper quiet, but it’s not that which makes Gojo flinch as if you have struck him. You know what you’re doing.
It is a direct question. A ‘yes’, or a ‘no’.
And by birth, by virtue of what he is, Gojo is not allowed to lie in response to it.
Those eyes so wide and blue and fathomless. He’s so beautiful, now. He stands up, his gaze still stuck on you even as it seems like he folds in on himself and despair begins to fray away at his edges.
“You shouldn’t have asked me,” he says, raggedly. “You shouldn’t have done it.”
“Don’t you?” You repeat, a little more forcefully.
Gojo’s eyes flicker closed. He breathes it out into the universe, even as he turns away from you. Even as you’re rooted to the spot as he disappears once more into the thickets of trees that you sometimes think feel more your home than the cottage you were raised in.
There’s a finality to the syllable. A quiet resignation; it sounds like the last word of a dying man, though you know Gojo will live your lifetime a hundred times over.
Even as he disappears, the word seems to stay suspended in the breeze, hovering in the echelons of your mind and echoing through your ears despite how it hadn’t been louder than a breath.
Don’t you feel the same? You’d asked, knowing that it would make everything between you shift and willing to gamble on the chance that perhaps he did.
And Gojo’s response.
(It did change everything. It does change everything. You’d gotten the answer you wanted – but oh, it came at a price).
“Yes.”
You come to regret the question.
You come back from the tailor’s the next day, ready to tell Gojo about how the machine had gotten stuck and you’d watched the tailor pry it open and seen the insides of it, all silver and bronze cogs and wheels and wires like the organs in the belly of some non-living creature.
But Gojo is not there, in the clearing that you two have made your home. All of the forest has been a playground, but this clearing has always been somewhere special; a home base, that the two of you have mapped every single inch of. Gojo taught you the names of every flower and leaf and bush and tree that grows here. Your feet have tramped across every blade of grass a hundred times over; you have tended to bruises and scrapes, fallen asleep in drowsy golden light on hot days and shivered in your staunch refusal during winter to not have time with your best friend.
But it is most familiar with Gojo at its centre, his smile wide and bright and his eyes glowing with excitement.
And he is missing from the picture.
You think of what happened the evening before; you think of the ultimatum you issued him in the form of a question, and though fear gnaws at your guts, you convince yourself that perhaps he just had other matters to attend to tonight.
Tomorrow, then, you tell yourself – tomorrow, Gojo will be here, and everything will be as it has been.
He is not.
And he is not the next night, or the next, or the next week.
The next month.
You do not stop going into the woods. You do not stop waiting for him to return, even as the seasons shift. Even as time marches on and you grow older and the first and second and third winter that you have not seen Gojo pass, you cannot stop your feet bringing you into the clearing and looking about yourself for his laughing face and his too-tall frame and those eyes that you dream about every night without fail.
You become more than the apprentice. You learn how the insides of the sewing machine work; you learn, too, to tame it as one tames an unwieldy beast. You do not have the nimble fingers for embroidery, or the artistic sense for design – but the big creature in the middle of the workroom becomes your domain, and you long to tell Gojo exactly what it is that makes the needle punch through the fabric in perfectly neat stitches. You know that, now. You have so much to tell him about – but he remains out of reach, too far away, and sometimes you wonder if he was ever real at all.
You think about going to the village doctor about it, even; but then, you have to check yourself. The village people accept you a little more now that you work among them, but there is still a distrust of the child who never came to the village square to play and lived perhaps too close to the domain of the fair folk.
If you were to go to the doctor, and tell them about the beautiful but so very not mortal boy you played with and told stories too and loved, any semblance of trust you may have found yourself with would be shattered. So you are quiet and calm and you never give away how your heart beats fast in your chest only when you think of the wind and the grass and the woods that have always felt like home.
Suitors attempt to woo you. But they are never possessed of Gojo’s silvery pale hair, or his brilliant eyes, or his laugh or his teasing wicked smile. They dull in comparison to him; a stone beside a pearl.
The stones, at least, stay in your hands while the pearl slipped too smooth through your fingers.
Your parents notice when you’re walked home from the tailor’s by admirers; tell you this one’s rumours and that one’s faults, coo in delight when it is the child of the town’s judge, knowing the family to be wealthy.
They never walk you home more than once, and you fend off advances thinking only of Gojo even though it has been years since you have seen him.
(The irony is not lost on you, when you think of that folk tale of the young maiden who spent a night in a faerie ring and could never think of anything but that again, until she wasted away in her bed through wanting. You sometimes think that you want to see Gojo again so badly that it’s like a physical ache).
They grow tired of having their child at home. You provide far more to the household income than they do, now – but the principle of you, unmarried and approaching an age where you will be considered no longer a prospect, casting a sour light on their rearing of you . . .
Your parents have been loving if cautious your whole life, but as time goes on they begin to needle and pick at you. Your hair. Your clothes. Your bearing.
“We had such high hopes for you,” they say, sighing, and it hurts like stitches being snipped. Your parents fading away from you.
You are a burden on them, and sometimes you go into the woods on an evening before true night has fallen and think about lying there, in the clearing, and waiting for the things that come when the moon is high to take you away.
(The only reason you do not are Gojo’s warnings; Gojo’s insistence you should always leave before then, and the fear in his face when it seemed that you did not want to. Even no longer in your life, you are unable to shake the hold that he has on you. You do not want to disappoint him).
But simmering resentments are bound to come to a head, and the simmering resentment of your family when it came to the presence of their child who ought to have been long married and raising children is no different, and one night your father drops over dinner thus;
“You haven’t been inclined to do it yourself, so I’ve arranged a marriage for you.”
Your head snaps up from the plate before you, to meet your father’s cold eyes. They never used to be so cold.
“What?”
“You heard him.” Your mother’s eyes are trained on the fine embroidered tablecloth given to you by your employer as a gift on the first year anniversary of your working for them. “It’s getting embarrassing, having you still here. People think there’s something wrong with you.”
“I’m . . . I’m not going to marry some stranger,” you say, when the lump in your throat has been swallowed down. “That’s not your decision to make.”
“We’re your parents,” that’s your father, his voice commanding. “It’s time for you to fly the nest. It’s time for you to carry on the family bloodline.”
“I don’t think that’s for you to decide, Father.”
“You live under our roof, in our house--” He raises his voice, slams his fist down on the aged wood of the table. “You know the things they say about you in town, don’t you?”
“And you know,” you try and counter, “that none of them are true.”
“Do I?” His eyes bore into you. “Maybe there is something strange about you. Maybe that’s why you’re still here.”
Your mother’s eyes dart up and look at you pleadingly.
“Darling,” she says, trying to wheedle. But too much coldness and too many needles of her insults have lodged themselves into your heart; you know that this pleading is falsehood designed to make you bend to what your parents want.
You won’t marry. Not ever. Not when you’re still in love with something you should never have so much as spoken to. Time and distance do not bend your heart’s wants for a moment.
“It’s your duty,” your father hisses. Tears are gathering in the back of your throat, and you try to maintain some dignity and stop your voice from waving like reeds when you speak.
“No,” you say. “No. I won’t do it.”
Your mother says your name in an attempt to placate, but your eyes are burning fury as you stare at your father and see a man that you don’t know staring back.
“You’ll do it or you’ll leave the house and not come back,” your father returns, just as stone-cold stubborn as you yourself. Your mother whispers his name and tugs at his sleeve – but the edict that issues forth from his mouth makes a sudden certainty settle about you with a chill.
“Then I’ll leave,” you say, and you stand yourself from the dinner table.
You do not head for the little room upstairs that you sequester your few belongings in. You turn from the dinner table and go for the door.
You hear clatters from behind you as your parents follow, but you are suddenly hit with a clarity that you’ve never felt. You do not belong with them. You do not belong anywhere but where you’ve always known you do, deep in your heart. You’re not wearing shoes when your feet sink onto the grass, and your mother calls your name as she watches you walk the length of the cottage’s fields and head for the forest.
“Don’t!” She says. There’s real terror in her tone, now. She’s right to be afraid, you think. You have no intention of ever coming out again.
You wonder how your father feels, watching his only child (the only one to carry his bloodline, the one who is shirking their duty and responsibility with every padding footstep) slip into the forest that all are so afraid of. You do not care if watching you do this makes them realise that all of those other times you’ve said you were playing by the back of the cottage, or in the village, or a hundred other places have been lies. You do not care for anything except how your feet follow the same path you’ve trodden a hundred times before.
The daisies have closed their flowers in time for nightfall. Gojo would be hurrying you out of the forest by now.
But Gojo is not here to offer his protection any more.
You find the clearing that feels like home. Since yesterday, a small ring of mushrooms has sprouted in its centre. You recognise their colour, their spots, the shape of them – poisonous. But that doesn’t matter either; any ring of any kind is bad news, here in the forest where mortals lose their wits and become characters in stories more than people.
You look at it for only a moment before you talk towards it.
If you give yourself over to them, you think, perhaps they can tell you something of Gojo before they break your mind and your bones or set you out as bait for the Wild Hunt. Maybe you will even get to see him again.
There’s just enough space in the centre of the circle for two people to stand comfortably. You are on the edge when you feel it.
Something barrels into you, and you’re tackled to the ground beneath something heavy and large and real with your foot still half in the air in preparation to give yourself over to the fair folk.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
You know that voice; deep and musical and just a touch whiny, just a touch over-familiar and arrogant. “Do you realise what you almost did?”
You stare up at the man above you. Features that have burnt themselves into your mind, but with little changes that assure you that Gojo has finished growing up in the same way you have. The same familiar strands of silvery moonlight hair, the same eyes like fractured stars glittering at you in a perfect face.
How often have you dreamed of those eyes?
“Gojo,” you say, struck a little dumb to finally see him again after all of the seasons that have past. “You came.”
“Of course I came,” he says. “You were going to do something very stupid, and I know you’re not.” He looks at you, and his face softens, and you are children and best friends all over again and you realise with a painful pang that you have never ever for a moment stopped loving him. “Well. Not in this way, anyway.”
“You asked me a long time ago,” Gojo says, sitting beside you on the ground, “if I’d been watching you. I answered truthfully then, and . . . I’ll answer truthfully now. Yes.”
“I learnt how the sewing machine works,” you tell him, and he gives you one of those wide, bright smiles you loved – you love so much.
“I missed you,” he says.
“I missed you,” you return. “I came every day.”
“I know,” Gojo replies, and then he pokes you in the arm. “It was a little pathetic, honestly.” He winks. “Not that I didn’t like you being pathetic over me.”
You take a deep breath before you address the real elephant in the room; the one that’s hung over you for years and years. You’ve gone over that meeting, the one with the kiss, a hundred times in your dreams since then. Tried to do it differently. Wished and cursed over it.
“Why did you run?” You ask. “Why didn’t you ever come back?”
His eyebrows furrow.
“Can’t you guess?” He asks you. There’s patience at war with frustration in his tone. “I thought it was obvious.”
“It’s because of the question, isn’t it?” Your throat is dry. “Manipulation.”
Gojo stares at you.
“I’m going to have to rethink what I said about you being stupid,” he said – and for that, he wins a hard tap on the arm. Now is not the time for jokes, you hope your expression says – and Gojo quietens, and you think he got the message.
“I won’t say I was thrilled to hear the question,” he says. “I don’t like being forced to give answer like that, and I thought that our . . . relationship was at a point where you’d never ask me something so blatant. But . . . I didn’t come back because. Well. I.”
It’s another question he can give nothing but truth in reply to, and this particular truth is making his face heat. It’s unusual, to see Gojo like this; he’s always been so sure and certain of himself. The Gojo you knew was a boy who had never had ‘no’ said to him and carried himself with all of the arrogance that such demanded.
This Gojo is older. Wiser, perhaps.
“I knew if I gave in,” he says, “you’d never get to go home again.”
“Gojo,” you say, softly. You lay a hand on his arm. “I am home again. Finally.”
There’s a tenderness in his eyes that you’d seen before only in stolen glances. His hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb sliding along the apple of your cheeks.
“You have a family,” he says, all quiet. “You deserved to live out that life. I didn’t want to steal all of those joys away from you. My realm . . .”
“I’ve never fitted in,” you breathe to him. “The others have never really believed me one of them. I have felt displaced everywhere my whole life, except when I’m with you.”
He looks at you, and there is that smile again – the one you love, the one you’ve missed, the one that is seared entirely onto your soul. The needle of your heartbeat has stitched him there forever.
“I have never felt more at home than by your side,” he admits. “In my realm . . . Well. I suppose there’s no hiding that I’m a man of some importance, is there? But with you . . . with you, I didn’t have to be the heir. I didn’t have to be the prince. I could just be-- I could just be Gojo.”
“I’m never going to call you ‘your majesty’,” you tell him, and Gojo (Prince Gojo) laughs.
“I would never expect you to bow before my kingship,” he says. “You’re far too proud. I’d have had to lead you to your execution first.”
“Will you?” You ask him. “Have me executed? Is that what faeries do to mortal trespassers in their domain? If I’d stepped into the circle--”
He shakes his head.
“I don’t want to think of it.” He grips suddenly, tightly against your arms. “You have no idea what could have happened to you.” He swallows. “I’m a selfish creature. I want you in my realm. I want you for myself. I want, I want, I want . . .”
“I want you,” you breathe in return.
His tongue flickers to wet his lips, and there’s hunger in his eyes as they slide up and down your form.
(You do not want to admit to anyone the nights you have spent thinking of Gojo’s eyes and Gojo’s hands, in these long lonely expanse of years. You do not want to admit that you thought of them and let your hand slip between your thighs and touched yourself and wished it were him. But the way that Gojo is looking at you right now, you think perhaps he may have done the same).
“If I went beside you,” he says, “If we stepped into the circle together and I made it clear you were my intended, beloved, betrothed, to be by my side forever-- then they’d have no choice but to accept you.”
You stare up at him. You had expected to end this night dead or worse. You had not expected to have this offer put in front of you.
(Your father would not need to worry for his bloodline, you think, dimly. Though perhaps with faerie blood running merrily through their veins, he would rather there be no children at all).
“I’d go with you.” You say to him.
“Would you?” He cups your face. “It’s not easy. It’s selfish of me to even ask-- my life is not simple. My darling . . . there’d never be real peace for us.”
“I’d do it for you by my side.”
This time around, it is Gojo who begins the kiss – who presses his lips hungry and needy against yours. And this time around, you know how to kiss back, and it is clear that Gojo does too. He tugs at your lower lip with his teeth, begs entrance to your mouth with his tongue, and devours you body in the way that the thought of him has devoured your soul.
You lose sense of anything but Gojo before you, and the feel of his hands as one cups the back of your head and the other pulls you towards him as if the smallest iota of distance is a problem to be solved.
When he breaks for air, his chest is heaving and his lips are swollen.
“Let me have you to myself for one night,” he says. His eyes and hair are wild. His gaze is wild. His smile is one of a conqueror; arrogant and breathtakingly beautiful. “Before I share you with my court . . . let us spend one night out here in the woods that we met, and let me have you.”
“Perhaps if the having is mutual,” you reply, and Gojo laughs a wild, wild laugh, and then he is kissing you again.
Gojo has more experience than you; this much is clear in the way he touches you and the surprisingly gentle way he relieves you of your garments, the soft cadence of his voice as he murmurs;
“I’ve dreamed about you like this – you’re even prettier in the flesh--”
You’re nervous, but Gojo murmurs gentle praises still. Tells you about the softness of your thighs and how warm your skin feels beneath his palm and how beautiful you are, how he is going to take care of you entirely. His fingertips skim your bare skin, palms grazing your nipples as your back arches and you whimper and he smiles.
“So responsive,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect--”
He returns to your nipples with his mouth, lowers them and sucks one into his mouth in a way that makes your thighs clench. Even the earth beneath your back is soft, as if it knows that there’s a moment too important to be interrupted by errant twigs and discomfort. Gojo sucks and licks at your nipple, sending shock waves of pleasure down to the place between your thighs and making you gasp out his name. Teeth dig only gently into the supple flesh, and that intensifies the shock waves threefold.
It is not just your nipples he sucks and kisses and licks – he does the same across the hollows of your throat and collarbones, your wrists and the shell of your ear and places you never realised would make you feel so burning hot to be touched before Gojo set upon them with a wicked mouth.
“So pretty with my marks on you,” he tells you, in a thick voice. You feel his own hardness pressing against your thigh – and still, Gojo maintains an air of patience to make sure that you are ready and comfortable and pleasured.
It’s at odds with the arrogant persona he wears, of a prince who is given whatever he wants – but it is a Gojo you know, one you are familiar with, and one that makes your heart full.
When his fingers drag up your thighs and urge them to part, he whispers in praise again;
“You’re so wet for me. You’re doing so well.”
The praise feels all the sweeter for coming from Gojo’s mouth, his lips like rose petals as he seals them over your own at the same time as his fingers delve between your slick-wet folds. This time, you cry into his mouth in surprise at just how much better someone else’s fingers feel between your legs than yours ever have.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” He murmurs, kissing, sucking on your lower lip. “You feel so good on my fingers, too – I know you’ll feel better inside, if I may--”
One finger pushes inside, the copious slick making the intrusion easier than even when you’ve been alone and fantasising. The reality of Gojo’s long fingers inside of you feel better than any daydream ever could, and as his finger crooks and he gently stretches you open, two syllables fall from your mouth in a haze of pleasure.
“G-Gojo—”
He looks down at you so tenderly.
“Satoru,” he whispers. “Satoru Gojo. That’s my name.”
You blink hazily up at him, this faerie prince who you have loved for what feels like a lifetime. You correct your own whimpers of pleasure, your voice pitching and breaking.
“Satoru—”
He pumps the finger in and out of you slowly, stoking the fires within you like a poker in a flame. He kisses you and murmurs your name in between the kisses – and though you could give him your full name in return, it no longer feels right. You do not feel as though you belong to anything but Gojo – Satoru – and the woods.
Satoru does not ask. You think he knows it too.
Two fingers, curling and stroking within you – finding a spot inside of your tight walls that you have never been able to reach yourself but that Satoru manipulates with ease. He presses against it over and over with the thrust of his fingers, and your hips begin to rock up to meet him with soft whimpers and moans.
“That’s right,” he breathes. “You’re even more beautiful like this.”
You think you must be sweaty and wild-eyed, but it doesn’t matter. Not when his fingers feel like sin inside of you and you can’t bring yourself to care about anything but chasing that hot ball of fire that Satoru has put start to within you. You have to let it explode, you think – you have to chase the peak until it washes over you.
His thumb strokes across your clit and you break for him.
Your cry is of his name, distorted by burning hot slack-jawed pleasure that washes over you like great waves on a shoreline. You feel yourself clench around him, your sex pulsing yet more slick over the fingers buried inside of you as Satoru continues to rock his fingers gently to allow you to ride out every last pulse of rapture that the digits have brought you.
“You can’t imagine what you looked like, when you came--” Satoru breathes, staring at you like he has never seen anything like you in his life. “You can’t imagine how you make me feel--”
“Kiss me,” you beg him, and he is more than happy to oblige and bend and kiss you so sweetly that your heart aches for him. When he breaks the kiss, breathing hard, you’re reminded of the thing pressing into your thigh with his own desire. He has given you pleasure tonight, but . . . you want to feel him completely. You want to bring him to the same hills and peaks that he has brought you.
Relationships are about giving to one another, and sharing, you think. And Satoru has shared so much with you tonight – his name, and his lineage, and the cold, hard truth. You want to share what you have to give with him.
“Satoru,” you whisper, and the name still seems a novelty dropping from your lips for him, one that gives him smiles and brightens his eyes. “I want you to-- I want us to--”
“Are you sure?” He asks you. “I know you haven’t--”
“I want you in every way,” you say, all certainty. You are certain about this. You have never been more certain about anything in your life. “Please.”
“You really do want me to have you,” he teases, but he is moving above you – shedding his shirt, to reveal a body that is just as pale as the rest of his skin and just as beautiful. “Who am I to say ‘no’ to a request from the one I hold most dear?”
The way he phrases it makes you giddy, but you bite back the smiles and the laughter when you see his cock for the first time, flushed and hard and leaking from the tip.
His fingers fitted inside you, but this--
He sees the anxiety that pulls at your features and gives you a soft smile, a reassuring touch to your hair.
“You’ve done so well already,” he says, heaping compliments upon you. “If you need me to stop, say so – but, my darling, if you don’t mind me saying . . . You’ll take me with ease, and you’ll do it well.”
“I want it,” you say to him, and Satoru smiles as he places himself between your thighs on his knees and big hands fasten about your hips, gently pulling you up towards him. He slides his cock between the lips of your sex, wetting it even further in your slick – and you gasp and sigh and moan softly as the feel of it pulsing hot and stiff. The knowledge of what he is rubbing against you and where he is going to put it serves only to reignite the sparks of pleasure that have already exploded once tonight – and as Satoru teases more, merely rubbing and rutting against you, you huff out a noise of impatience with any anxieties about it fitting inside of you already dissipating.
Satoru clicks his tongue at you childishly.
“Have some patience,” he tells you, with a lazy slyness. “Be good for me--”
“I’ve had patience,” you tell him. “I came here every day for years, did I not?”
“Ah! Your invocation of that is cruel but fair, I suppose.”
“Then I’ve been waiting for this for years, too,” you tell him, though your brain feels like a mass of gelatine and making your mouth form words seems a challenge when all you want is that rolling pleasure again, but this time joined with Satoru. “So . . . give me it--”
“Who am I to deny my beloved anything?”
Satoru takes his time sliding into you. Your fingers clench about his shoulders at the initial sting of his head stretching you out – a soreness that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but is nonetheless new. But once the initial stretch is over, the wet pop of his head finally fitting inside of you . . . there is nothing but the strange half pain-pleasure of being opened up and being filled.
“There we are,” Satoru murmurs, but his own voice is starting to shake. “Taking me so well. So pretty. So good.” He slides further into you, his pale eyelashes fluttering as your body welcomes his cock as if it was made to harbour it. You feel right, bound together like this. As if this is how it has always been writ to be.
“Big,” you breathe, and Satoru preens for it. “Feels good--”
“Yes,” Satoru agrees. He bottoms out inside of you, and the two of you have chests pressed against one another and twin matching heartbeats like one soul in two bodies. “Good. Right. Meant to be.”
Fated.
He tries, a few times, to shape more praise and compliments for you, and ease whatever anxieties he may think you have – but with him inside you on the floor of the woods, you have no anxiety. This is always how it was supposed to go.
There’s nothing but the wet noise of his cock driving in and out of you and the slap of skin on skin and both of you, breathing heavy and whimpering and moaning and speaking in only that language which comes when two people who love one another give themselves over to the earthly pleasures.
He feels so good and right – his mouth seeks yours out for hungrier, messier kisses. His pale hair is slicked to his forehead with sweat as powerful hips pump into you, and you know your own brow is beaded with such too. Heat suffuses every inch of you, but none so much as inside, where the two of you meld and pleasure mounts insurmountable once again.
You reach your peak, this time, with Satoru’s cock buried inside of you. Clenching and pulsing and dragging him further and further into you, your thighs locking about his hips and your feet finding purchase in the curve of his lower back.
The tightening of your sex around him and the noises that come flying from your throat (noises that speak only of pleasure, of fulfilment of the promise of years and years without him) push Satoru over the edge too, and he spills himself inside of you with a whimper of your name that makes your toes curl and your heart know it has finally found a real home.
His hips stutter as every drop of his release is fucked into you, and then he simply stays there, inside of you and on top of you, gazing down at you like he’s seeing you for the very first time.
“I love you,” he says – and though you are surprised that he is the first one to say it, it’s hardly unwelcome. You smile up at him, all sated and pleased and finally finally home.
“I love you, Satoru Gojo,” you say. And then;
“But you’re heavy on top of me, and I’d rather be held.”
Night has well-fallen around you, and this time Satoru Gojo does not bid you leave for your safety, for his body is coiled around yours and nobody would ever bother a faerie prince and his lover lest they feel his wrath.
It’s the golden fingers of dawn that wake you; the sun warming your bare shoulders. Satoru is already awake, beside you – those beautiful eyes full of love and adoration and all of the things you have always wanted them to be.
“Beloved,” he says to you, and he kisses you hungry and magical and perfect. When he pulls back, he grins at you and plucks a twig from behind your ear. “The perils of sleeping rough.”
“I love you,” you tell him, and his cheeks pink again. To think that you’re the one capable of making this being blush. To think that you’re the one capable of making Satoru blush.
“I love you,” he says – and he leans forward and presses a kiss onto the tip of your nose. “Have you changed your mind? Because if you have, I’m not saying I’m going to be mad, but--”
You laugh.
“No,” you say, as the two of you stand up and you pull back on the clothes you were wearing last night. “No, I could never. I belong with you.”
“I think there’s something of my kind in my blood, you know,” he says, taking your hand, smoothing his thumb over your palm. “The woods call to us like they call to you.”
“They don’t call to me half as much as your presence does,” you tell him, and he winks at you in a way that makes your heart skip a beat.
“Flatterer,” he says. “Come.”
You take the faerie prince’s hand and let him lead you to the outside of the ring of mushrooms. There is no doubt in your heart. You feel more free now than you have in all of your life.
“Last chance,” Satoru says, coyly, looking at you from under his pale lashes.
“Are you getting cold feet?”
He looks down at your bare feet, matching his own.
“No,” he says. “The ground is warm.”
You step into the ring first.
The ballad the poets write about you, they call “The Machinist and the Faerie”. Satoru makes every bard play it for you at every opportunity, and every bard has a different name for you, a different face, a different life. Satoru corrects them all with a wide smile and a grin and a boyish bounce on the throne he has taken.
You like this story better than the warning fables you were told as a child.
“Only,” you tell the latest bard, a young woman bright of eye and bright of hair and bright of voice. “I think they all make the faerie prince far too learned for a man who doesn’t understand the purpose of sewing machine oil. Childish has the same syllable count as clever, does it not?”
Gojo thinks your rewritten version of your love ballad much less fun.
