"homecoming" : ̗̀➛
MDNI, suggestive themes, christopher nolan's odyssey spoilers, basically follows the plot of the ending of the film with my creative liberties (i don't own rights to this film nor do i take credit for its plot and how it is incorporated it into this fic) - super brief intermission for this surprise fic no one asked for bc it popped into my head the second i watched the film AGH | gojo fics
odysseus! satoru gojo x queen! reader
Synopsis: Satoru Gojo, hero of the Trojan War, finally returns home to his wife in Ithaca... only he must first disguise himself and rid his infested palace of all the suitors who have come to claim you in his absence before revealing his return to you.
to sum it up: after twenty years away, Satoru Gojo finally returns to you, his loving queen, who refused to remarry despite how long he was away.
WC: 11,552 (this was deadass supposed to be a quick thing whoops)
Warning(s): smut in the last section, fingering, descriptions of reunion sex & love making, a little angsty, mentions of violence, graphic depictions, spoilers from the odyssey but tale as old as time fr
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“The Queen would like to speak with you.”
Satoru Gojo feels his heart crack against his chest with the force of Poseidon’s rage splitting his crew's ship in two all those years ago, the very weight of your title, with the knowledge of your presence just slightly out of reach, sending the contents of his stomach churning.
Shrowded in tattered cloth, Satoru ducks his head, allowing the hood to further conceal his features from the handmaiden that beckons him to the cratered walls leading to you, blocking him out, separating himself just a mere few inches from the woman who he only just allowed himself to remember, the pain having crept back into his chest in with the slow, agonizing ache of lotus-starved consciousness.
Satoru rises slowly, moves across the stone as if each step pulls him further into the ground. He keeps his forearms hovering before him, his shoulders hunched to minimize his height, eyes bright enough to pierce the veil of frayed sanity holding his kingdom together shielded away from the light.
His son watches tense from where he sits afar, the soft crackle of fire filling the space occupied by Satoru's calculated, pensive steps.
The sun soaked palace is not how he remembered it all those years ago. The orientation of these stone walls are the same, it takes the same amount of steps to lead from the main hall to your guarded chambers. The lingering scent of the sea still drafts in through the cracks in the walls. The same chill that shocks his body when his knuckles brush the cool bronze plates lining his... crowded dining tables.
A spark of rage strikes his brow, forcing it to twitch at the very thought of those suitors clanging his challises loudly at dusk, feasting over his food, lusting over his wife in his absence. To think of how loyalty has soured with him gone, to think that men from across the Mediterranean have damned his glory, his respect, his very name for the chance to steal you away as their wife, to become king of his castle.
He will see to it that they will pay. They will all pay.
Satoru allows himself to peak upward when he hears the familiar rustle of your gowns as you rise, your sweet smell drifting through the intricate grating of your sliding walls soon following. His nose twitches, his heart lurches at the scent, the distant memory that springs to life in mere miliseconds.
The ivory haired warrior has conquered Troy, escaped the clutches of a wailing Cyclops, wrecked his ears and very soul with the screech of a siren's delicious song, watched his man love him, hate him, turn on him, and die just as Tyresius promised him before the gates of hell, where all of Satoru's mistakes stood before him in a crowd of soiled men hungry for vengeance, hungry for answers that death did not provide. Satoru has lived a thousand years within his mind, allowing the fruits of the earth to tear the memory of you, sweet you, from his head, along with the sting of a million miles separating you from him.
Satoru has looked into the very eyes of the gods' wrath, of death itself, and yet, his heart has never beat with such brutality the way it does now, when he allows himself a sliver of light to catch a glimpse of you as you stand before your barrier with your hands clasped polited before you. Satoru lets out a strained sigh, ducking his head once more, tearing his eyes away from your beauty, for he knows you too well. If he allows you even just a peak of his face, you'll know. You'd know your husband anywhere.
But even the slightest glance at you without being able to throw himself against your gates, ripping them open, and pulling you into his arms, smashing his lips against yours to make up for the two decades he spent away, he spent making you wait, chips away at Satoru's heart. He never thought himself to be much of a patient man before the gods forced him to know it up close, forced him to trust in fate rather than his own control.
You're encased in emerald that flutters around your ankles, gold necklaces stacked up the expanse of your lovely neck, flittering earrings shining in the firelight crackling behind you. You're a vision of grace, one that keeps these crumbling walls hardly intact. Raw beauty that spites the likes of Aphrodite, that lures men of ill intent to your doors like vermin.
But Satoru did not see your eyes. He couldn't bring himself to look into them, for he'd see the years of heartache he inspired, the grief that you have yet to accept, the life lost in your gaze.
He settles down to sit slowly, back pressing to the gate. He listens intently to every step you make. The way your sandled feet grace the floor, the way the flutter of your gown cuts through the air as you sit just inches away.
Satoru’s eyes flutter shut and his throat runs dry when you speak. “Hello, traveler,” you greet kindly despite the thick blanket of sorrow that lingers in your once airy tone.
Satoru gulps. His heart flips. Whispers of his name on your breath, that very same voice, flutter through his mind from a past long cherished, long abandoned, and he aches with anticipation. Fighting against his own will to remain disguised.
“Please, make yourself welcome. My maid will return to wash your feet so that you may rest in comfort.”
Satoru’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he presses his lips together to maintain strength. After twenty years, he’s finally made it home to you, but you still feel so far away. He attempts to evade the sting of your amiability, so distant and unfamiliar, driven by duty and generosity rather than love. Rather than knowledge.
He clears his throat. “You’re too kind, but that’s unnecessary. Please don’t waste your water on someone like me.” When he speaks, his voice is gravelly, worn, and hoarse with age and nerves and exhaustion and anger and desperation. All of which he keeps burrowed just at the surface, blanketed by the croak of exaggerated starvation.
He tenses slightly when you take a moment to respond, registering the sound of his weathered voice, toying with it in your mind. He prays you do not recognize him. He prays you’ve at least forgotten the sound of his weariness. “Someone like you?” you repeat slowly. “In Ithaca, we welcome all. We treat the needy and hungry as family. You would not impose. I insist.”
Still, so kind. So thoughtlessly, beautifully generous. It's that very generosity which pulled those men to your door, which allow them to trample over your grace.
At that moment, your elderly servant returns with a basin of water and cloth. Satoru recognizes her, sees the definition of wrinkles worn over her skin. He remembers her careful, maternal touch. How she always mended his split flesh after foolish accidents. If the ocean eyed warrior were less distracted by your warmth radiating just behind his back, he would have remembered the chunk of flesh that was torn away from his shin long ago during a hunting accident with a boar which she patched up herself. He would have been more cognizant of the way her cautious, trembling hands gently unwind the tassles of his sandles, removing the footwear from his person slowly.
"You are... too kind," he mumbles in response to you, as well as to the servant before him.
She moves to bring a soaked cloth to his scarred shin, but when her hand drags his leg forward by the back of his ankle, the strangely familiar callous of his heel brushing her palms, she jumps when her eyes land on the brutish, healed wound, the battered flesh she sewed all those years ago.
She jumps. The water topples over and splatters down the stairs. Satoru's son jolts at the sight, and Satoru's eyes jerk up in slow panic at the commotion.
His eyes go wide when they meet hers accidentally, and he watches as stun gradually morphs her expression, the light catching emotionally in her glistening gaze. Satoru acts quickly, his scarred hand shooting forward to knowingly graze her chin, an urgent fire in his crystal hues.
She shudders a breath of disbelief, awed smile catching her lips. Satoru shakes his head, the corners of his lips curving with nostalgia, and she blinks in her stupor before nodding slowly in understanding, scrambling to get more water.
"It is not kindness. Just humanity. Acknowledgement," you argue softly, and Satoru ducks his head once more as an amused, warm smile tugs at his lips, for you always deny your goodness even when it is presented before you. Satoru hums, allowing his cloak to shield his face once more, tugging the fabric forward. "What is your name?"
"...Senon," he lies.
"Senon," you try the name on your tongue warmly, scooching slightly forward. "Where are you from, Senon?"
"...I am a veteran of the Trojan war. I've... traveled very far."
He hears you pause, feels you tense behind him.
You bring yourself closer to the gate, eyes glittering with mourning as your brows pull together in a hopeful tug. You have been wearing your grief on your sleeve for twenty years now, the very mention of the war that stole your love away bringing a lump to your throat and making something hard and hot and unforgiving settle in your chest. Your breath hitches as you inhale, and he hears you swallow, feels the ghost of your breath.
Gods, he's missed you. He misses the breath warm against his lips. He misses your sighs against his heated, balmy skin.
He's so close, but still not quite home.
"A veteran...?" you whisper. "Then... you knew my - my husband?"
Your voice falters under the mere word, shattering into something momenterily fragile and week. Satoru clenches his jaw. He wants to assure you of his safety so badly. He wants to tell you that he is here. That you have to wait no longer, but he would be lying. The fight is not yet won, and his home - you, his son - are not yet saved.
He must wait. Play his cards correctly.
Satoru angles his head slightly to the left, into your direction. "I did," he says. "Very well."
You lick your lips, failing to hide your hope. Not even trying to. "And? What of him...? Do you... is there any word of..."
"He's alive."
You gasp out.
"And he will return. He swears it." He swears it.
"Then where is he?" you urge, abandoning your poise, voice dipping into something heated and desperate and drastic, yet achingly quiet, as though you are afraid to let your hope ring out too loudly for the fear that it will be crushed. "How is it that you were able to return before him? Do you know where he is?"
"He's close," he says.
"Close?" you almost laugh, eyes wide. "How close? It's been years. I've waited - how close?"
Oh, you are so sweet. You are still the same, after all those years. So fiercely loyal. So unapologetically in love. Satoru was truly blessed in this life to have been able to take you as his wife, to know that you have waited so long knowing, praying that he would one day fight his way back to you against all odds, against all unfavorable winds.
"I don't know," he elects to say. He feels you sink. "But I know that he will return."
"How," you shake. "How do you know? When was the last time you saw him, last spoke to him? How could you know that he is coming, that he is close, if he is still not here?" you ask.
He is here, he wants to say. He's here for you. He's come home to you. He will fight for you.
"The Satoru Gojo I know would have fought with all his life to make it back to me," you shudder out, and Satoru aches, for if only you knew. If only he could show you.
"He still is," Satoru says. "Fighting his way back."
"Then where. Is he," you ask once more.
Satoru sighs softly, looking down at his crooked, scarred hands, a reminder of the years away, of the war that waged within the walls of Troy and against his mind for years to come. “He’ll be here when you need him most,” he answers.
You scoff a sound that Satoru knows so well, your irritation bleeding through the devastation over word of your husband always being just out of reach. You attempt to fight the tears that have come so easily in his absence. You look away for a moment as your eyes sting, your nose scrunching and brows curling.
You catch sight of your son sitting afar in the corner, the eyes of his father shining brightly throughout the room, eying your interaction with this stranger. You assume that he was startled by the commotion of your maid fumbling the bowl of water, your mind too clouded by this stranger’s apparent closeness to your husband to see the knowing tension in your boy’s eyes.
Twenty years. Twenty years have dragged by with no word of your husband but a cloaked stranger’s distance promise. Twenty years since you’ve gazed into the sapphire ocean in Satoru’s eyes. Twenty years since you’ve felt those warm hands caress over your own, traveling teasingly up your arms and over your skin, bringing you close, his voice whispering declarations of passion in your ear. Twenty years since you’ve heard his laugh, since you’ve seen his pretty smile wrinkle his eyes and cheeks, since his humor has poured through the halls in thunderous echoes.
Twenty years without his prideful performances, without the familiar bend of a bow that only he can mold to his will, with his muscles tensing with focus and concentration as he strings his weapon, finishing with the triumphant pluck of a taut string for show.
Twenty years without his sound reign. His wisdom. His control. His heart.
Twenty years not knowing whether your husband is alive or dead. If he’ll ever come back to you.
“Promise me,” you recall him pleading with you in the intimacy of your bedroom all those years ago, before he left for the war.
His large hands had clutched your face, his eyes holding your gaze assertively as your chin wrinkles and your lip trembles. Ocean pools attempt to ease you as he looks into your (e/c) eyes, his thumb smoothing over the curve of your cheek.
“Promise me that if I don’t come back, you’ll remarry.”
The sentiment offended you then just as it offends you now. You frown, nose flaring as your hand instinctively raises to slap him. It’s a swift clap against his jaw that startles him, wide eyes blinking before something soft and tender melts over his gaze despite the subtle sting buzzing over his cheek. So stubborn.
“How dare you ask me to do that, Satoru?” you growl, eyes glistening over. Satoru smiles sadly, with all the world’s knowledge brewing behind his eyes. You shake your head, raising your own hands to hold his face in turn. Snowy lashes flutter, his pupils expanding as you bring yourself closer. “You promise me you will come back.”
Ever the ordinarily sure man, Satoru hesitates. He brings his forehead to yours, and you whimper out something broken, your nose brushing, your hands keeping one another connected. You’ve seen your husband overcome the impossible. You’ve seen his wonderful strength. You’ve seen his power.
But here, before you, with uncertainty lying ahead, he is just a man. Unsure.
“What if I can’t, baby?” he murmurs as though it pains him to say, but it is the reality. Many men die overseas at war. Even more die trying to get back home. “I’ll fight with everything I can to come back to you, but what if I can’t?”
“I won’t remarry,” you hiss. “I’ll never remarry.”
“This home will need a king of I’m gone too long.”
“It will already have one. You.”
“(Y/n)…”
“I won’t.”
He smiled again, full of love and despair. “You’re stubborn.”
“You’re worse,” you bite, and Satoru huffs a weak laugh, closing his eyes, feeling you close against him. “Toru, what if we just run away?”
His eyes peel open, meeting yours as he lifts his forehead from you slightly. A desperate craze holds your gaze as you speak.
“You wouldn’t have to fight in this silly war. We could take Telemachus and go. Get a ship. Take the loyal. Chase the escaping sun on the horizon.”
Satoru clenches his jaw, allowing himself to imagine your fantasy. He feels the imaginary salten wind toss through his white strands as he holds you to his chest, your head tucked under his chin as you watch the sun set behind the line of the sea.
“You know it’s not possible,” he tells you longingly. “I’d rather be killed in war, or trying to return to you than for mutiny. I won't soil my legacy or yours, or my son’s for a dream. I have to go, my love. It’s my responsibility.”
You, of course, know this is true. That does not prevent you from trembling with sadness as you stare into your husband’s eyes, knowing from just a glance that he will be gone for a very, very long time.
“I’d rather you not be killed at all,” you say in a hushed voice. He frowns.
"(Y/n), I'll do everything I can," he promises urgently. "We'll win the war, and I will rage against the gods to return to you."
"Gods do not want your rage, Satoru. Rage is what will anger them in turn. Trust them as you trust me," you say. You catch the hesitant look in Satoru's eye. You release him to fumble with your nightgown, unpinning the golden brooch that frequents your sleeve. He keeps his hands on you, touching, tracing, watching tenderly.
You bring the brooch to his eye level, holding it tight in your grip. He glances down at it: a brooch of the goddess Athena shimmering in the firelight.
“Take this with you. Keep it on your person. Wear it always. Athena will look after you as I long to. I’ll be with you throughout your journey, and so will she.”
Your words are whispered against the bow of his pink lips as his hands pull you back in closer, eyes lidded as your skin brushes. He nods slowly against you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.
Your mind plays that night on repeat as you listen to this stranger's broken words. You replay the way Satory climbed over you in a haze of dizzy kisses, a long night of passion following that still could not account for how long he would be away.
You miss him terribly.
"I've needed him for twenty years," you tell the beggar who you do not know is your husband. "What is keeping him from me now, if you are here and not him?"
...What could Satoru tell you?
That on the night of Agamemnon's infiltration of Troy, he watched a city light ablaze at the hand of him and his men? That he watched women's knees drop to the dirt as his comrades held swords to their throats? Their pitched screams haunting him to this day, before the merciless slice of a blade cut their cries short?
What could he tell his grievihg wife, desperate for answers, that Satoru Gojo's conscience could not bear the weight of what he'd done to those people - so much so that he allowed the tides to pull himself and his men further away from you while he thought that he was bringing them back home by his own accord? Untethered to Agamemnon's curse of glory?
He feels the blister of fear hot against his skin. Sees the shadows of the dead marching in the back of his mind when he is ripped from his sleep. Remembers the face of that young girl as his men dragged her to the top of a temple's stairs, hands firmly outstretching her arms as she begged for her life at Satoru's feet. And he could do nothing but watch as her head was sliced from her body, and could do nothing but fear as the very same face came to him in the guise of Athena, haunting him, forcing him to remember the blood that stains his hands.
How could he have brought himself back to you, knowing that he had done to the Trojans what he would slaughter millions for if the very same had been done to Ithaca, to you?
Your breaths grow shaky as you listen to the stranger's weathered, intimate tale of your husband's perspective of the war, of all that he and his men did in the sake of Helen's name. Anger bubbles beneath you as you envision the tolls this violence has taken on your husband, who never shied away from battle, but always wore his heart on his sleeve like armor.
The tears come as easily as they have for the past twenty years. You pinch your lips together, fighting sobs as you listen, such familiarity in the beggar's voice that reminds you so much of him, so much of the fact that he is still not here with you.
And if he isn't now, he never will be.
You tear yourself away from the stranger with finality, bidding him a bitter good night as you retreat to wail. As you retreat to succumb to the reality that you know your husband wanted you to live, to the reality that Satoru has manipulated you into fulfilling.
You will seek a new husband.
And your husband will come. He will make sure of it.
"Just a little longer, baby," he murmurs to himself, to the space you just left. "I promise. I'm here."
ׂ╰┈➤
Suitors crowd the very room that Satoru occupied the previous night. He sits on a stump of stone stairs in the very back, cloak shading his figure as he eyes the monsters who seek to take you for their own. His brows angle, a potent rage simmering in the silent stun of your presentation.
There you are, at the front of the room, looking like a vision the very gods sculpted themselves. Your pain is raw on your expression as you stare resentfully out at the sea of suitors before you with your husband's bow gripped tight in your hands.
Before the suitors, in the middle of the room, lies a row of bound pairs of axes, one before the other, lined up in front of a wooden board. Those who were around to witness Satoru Gojo's old performances of strength and accuracy recognize this set up, for it is the very same party trick that the old king used to showcase during warm nights after filling dinners, when the wine has numbed his cares and the bashful look in his wife's eye encouraged him to parade his strength about.
Telemachus, his son, lingers in the corner beside an old, blind friend, his jaw set as he ruminates over the last twenty years. Satoru, having mistakenly unveiled his identity to his son when he approached his old, weak hunting dog, and the very animal relinquished life the moment his master returned to him with the touch of his warm hand against his fur, keeps his eyes elsewhere to preserve himself from others. Telemachus knew instantly then, recalling that his father's pet was waiting for his master to return home before giving into death.
Satoru had ordered for all the weapons to be stored away by entrusted servants, and for the room to be boarded shut when all the suitors gathered. He knew what was coming. He knew by the determination of his wife's depart from his conversation with her.
And he is ready. Finally ready to reclaim what is his, to return home rightfully.
"I will marry any one of you in this room," your voice booms out, ringing against the stone. "If you are able to complete my challenge."
You hold out your husband's bow, attempting not to break away at the feel of its weathered wood in your hands, the memory of the man you love before those who wish to wipe him away.
The room is still, hanging onto your every word, and Satoru’s eyes gleam at the sight of his prized possession in your dainty palms.
“Whoever can string this bow,” you begin. “And shoot an arrow through these six pairs of axes, hitting the wood behind them, is the man I will take as my husband… and the new king of Ithaca.”
Murmurs rise. Chuckles of the unknowing ring out confidently. The silence of those who are knowing is steady.
Satoru grins.
“Who’s first?” you ask.
The low rumble of voices eventually evens out into hesitant silence before the first suitor steps up arrogantly.
“I’ll go,” he grits. You nod, pressing your lips together, before handing the bow off to your son, who passes it to the eager man.
Tension fills the room as he props the bow upright, pinching the string between his fingers, and stretching it up, up, up.
He grunts, hand trembling, string hovering inches away from the tip of the bow. He remains struggling that way for a moment, bent on one knee, before giving in with a huff, the string snapping back to the floor.
A rumble of laughter erupts and you roll your eyes. “Not enough protein in the diet, huh?” some man shouts out, further encouraging guffaws and chuckles.
The suitor scoffs and turns away with the flick of a dismissive hand, pride wounded. Then comes the next suitor, believing he can show the previous up.
He takes the bow. Kneels down. Brings the string up, up, up. It stretches, he grits his teeth and trembles, cheeks flushing, before stumbling with the snap of the string back to the ground.
More laughter.
“It’s impossible!” he hisses. “No one could do it!”
“My husband could,” you cut in, and the room goes silent once more with resentment and a sudden urge to prove you wrong, to prove that any one of them could take Satoru Gojo’s place. "Who's next?" you raise your brows challengingly.
Satoru swoons. Oh, how he loves you. How he will make up for all the time spent away once he proves himself worthy again, once he rids his home of the plague that is these stupid men.
One by one, suitor after suitor lines up to try and fail miserably at stringing the bow that only Satoru is known to be capable of stringing. The laughter soon dips into gradual panic, and the realization that the task truly is impossible settles in, the challenge unbeatable for all those who are not the very owner of the weapon himself.
"My queen, we get it," one suitor speaks up bravely, wearing a mask of vulnerability and sympathy that Satoru assumes is meant to gain your good graces. The ivory haired warrior scowls and your eyes turn to the man talking.
Dark hair and eyes. A handsome smile. Something snaky behind his eyes that he attempts to soften for you. He steps forward.
"We know what this means. Nearly all of us have attempted to beat this challenge that none of us could ever overcome. We understand what you are trying to say, that we will never fill Satoru Gojo's shoes. But if I may offer myself up as a man who will try, knowing the great shadow that looms over me. Knowing that I will fail. I will do all that I can to please you, to mend this kingdom. I may not be able to win your challenge, but I am eager to win your heart."
No one says a word. Telemachus' eyes fly around the hardened faces of the suitors, discouraged by their own failure, and the mischief of the man who just spoke up. He swallows, and you merely look the man in the eye, doing all you can to remain polite. To stand tall. To give him a chance, when what you truly wish to do is lock the doors behind you and set the entire room ablaze.
Satoru has had enough.
Slowly, he rises, his cloak fluttering around his figure. He is cautious to keep his posture slightly slumped, his head bowd, and his voice low. As if unsure.
"I haven't tried yet."
All heads turn to the back of the room where the former king stands as a beggar. The silence is piercing before it is interrupted by an outburst of laughter, laughter that makes the suitors' inadequacy feel much lighter.
The suitor who had just spoken freely to you chortles particularly loud. "You? A beggar?!" he sputters. "What could possibly make you think that you would succeed if none of us could? You're nothing," he spits.
You watch the beggar slowly step past the man taunting him, his footsteps echoing throughout the space. Your brows knit with curiousity, and something you don't quite allow yourself to acknowledge gnaws at the back of your mind.
The dark haired suitor scoffs as the beggar stands before him, throwing his arm out in disdain. "Your majesty, you can't possibly-"
You raise your hand, and the man immediately cuts himself off. You keep your eyes on the cloaked face before you, the way this stranger approaches so humbly, so surprisingly willing to try after watching everyone fall short of what your husband was - is.
Something is... off here. You can't quite name it, but your heart knows.
The beggar stands still, presenting only himself before you. No titles. No land. No pride. Merely his own hands, a veteran's status, and a face you have yet to see.
You inhale slowly, something scratching at the back of your throat as you lower your hand. You nod toward Telemachus, who holds the bow toward his father.
"Please. By all means," you encourage him. "Good luck."
Satoru reaches his hand out and wraps his worn fingers around the wood soundly. He expels a long, gentle breath as he reunites with the weapon, taking it carefully out of his son's hands, who slowly backs away to stand at the far end of the room, knowing what is to come.
You notice. You notice every movement that occurs from this moment forward.
Sunkissed hands trace over the intricate detailing, following the curve of the bow as he sinks slowly down to his knee. Memories of hunts, of teaching children archery, of battle come to his mind as he methodically fiddles with the bow, then soon comes the memory of his performances in the banquet hall. The roar of triumph. The raise of his bow in the air. Your proud grin and flushed cheeks.
Satoru breathes in. Taking his time. You hang onto each second, brows coming together as you watch this stranger touch your husband's bow just as he would, pinching that string between all thick digits.
Suddenly, arms curve inward and biceps puff. Veins bulge in the strangers muscular forearms and hands as he clutches the top of the bow with one and the string with the other, arching his body inward as the weapon curves and stretches under his force.
Your heart drops.
The beggar gives way for a moment, releasing the string due to misuse, and takes a breath. A rumble of further laughter comes once more as the suitors prepare to throw more doubt at the man, but the room goes silent again when the beggar repeats the action. Only this time, he twists the bow backwards.
He stretches the string. He curves the bow inward. His muscles flex, and his shoulders round. The bow folds, the room freezes, the string catches, and connects.
The bow is strung.
The breath leaves you as your knees suddenly go weak. Your mind spins, dizziness overcoming you, and before you can allow your emotions to get the best of your senses, he does it.
He grips the wooden arch in one hand and plucks the string with the other, a resounding single, daunting note ringing out into the space.
A predator warning its prey for what is to come.
And with the force of his pluck, you almost faint. For you know this motion. You know this presentation. You know those hands, those veins and the way that body curves to match his weapon's mold.
Your husband has returned.
You gasp out a shuddering sigh before retreating back to your chambers. You have no time to think, to process, for you know what is coming the second that bow is strung.
The room is heavy with shock as Satoru rises to his feet, taking the arrow, hooking it, and shooting it through the axes. The arrow flies with a sharp whistle and hits the target in one shot.
Telemachus, who has only heard stories of such demonstrations, lets a grin slip onto his face. The room remains eerily still in the man's victory, and his shoulders gradually ease back, his posture straightening to reveal his true height.
You make it to your doors, hand on either one as you watch from the top of the steps. Your world goes quiet. The beggar you spoke to the previous night stands suddenly tall, and his cloak slips away from his face with such stature.
Sapphire pools. The same ones that have haunted you every night for two decades meet your gaze.
Tears stray past your lashes, dribbling down your cheeks like shooting stars as you take in his face, your heartbeat and his steady breath the only things your ears can catch.
Skin tanned and aged by the merciless beat of the sun. Snowy hair bright and graceful, slipping down to his ears, swiping across his forehead in ivory tendrils. Sharp cheekbones, facial stucture matured, hardened, a beard that garaces his once clean shaven face, and his heart on his sleeve.
Your love incarnate. Disguised as a beggar. Nothing but a man before you, once more seeking your hand the only way he knows how.
He's come back to you.
"You're..." a suitor begins. "You're him. You're Satoru Gojo-"
An arrow pierces his neck before he can finish his sentence, and when everyone focuses, they see the stance for battle that Satoru has taken. Ocean eyes ablaze, arrows hidden under his cloak, teeth grinding.
One down. The rest to go.
A breathless grin breaks across your face, your teary eyes blurring your vision as you close the doors shut before you, granting your husband complete free reign. To kill every last one of them.
Satoru's focus is the sharpest it has every been as his arrows fly and strike through the flesh of one man after another. Chaos breaks out as suitors attempt to search for weapons that were hidden from them. Servants fly to the boarded doors, banging helplessly, pleading for escape as Satoru lays waste to every man he sees.
His hair flies about his face as he whips his head around, locating each incoming attack and stopping it before it could reach him. His pupils are shrunken, face straight and seemingly calm, eyes edged with a hint of insanity and anger.
These men think they can walk into his home? Make themselves cozy within his walls? Drink his wine? Kick his son and dog around? Pursue his wife, the very love of his life, the greatest thing to ever happen to him, and walk away without punishment? Without paying?
Satoru's teeth bear as he reaches forward to grab one pair of the bound axes from the challenge, swinging it around to thrust into an attacking suitors face, the blades chopping away at his flesh, knocking him dead and backward onto the ground. He uses the hilt of the axes to thrust backward, plowing into another suitor's gut blindly, sending him rocketing back into the stone walls.
Satoru huffs. Not a fucking chance.
Droplets of blood splatter as the suitor who spoke freely to you orders for someone to find and retrieve the weapons. One disloyal servant manages to thrust himself out of the wooden barred doors and run for the storage room, a tip having been provided by another servant. Telemachus pursues, engaging in a brawl with the bald headed man as punches are thrown. The servant manages to send Telemachus flying across the room and to the floor with a bloody nose as he thrusts a hole into the wooden floor below, leading into the room where Satoru's murder spree transpires.
He throws spears through the hole, equipping some suitors with weapons to corner the King of Itchaca. Satoru persists, rocketing arrows left and right, when he feels sharp blades pierce his shoulder blades from behind, the long weapons trapping him inside a small circle at a distance.
Telemachus, eager to assist his war hero father, scrambles to his feet and tackles the servant once more. He plunges his fist into his face, pinning him against the wall of weapons. The blue eyed boy stretches his arm to reach for another spear, which he hastily grabs and tosses through the hole for his father to catch. The servant finds an opening, reaching behind him for a dagger, and thrusting it into Telemachus' side. The boy hisses and stumbles back, and the war between the loyal and disloyal persists.
Satoru catches the spear tossed overhead to him and slices it through the air, knocking the other spears into a strayed direction, allowing him the freedom to use his bow once more before thrusting the spear into the hearts of other men.
Above, Telemachus scrambles beneath the weight of the servant pinning him down. His eyes shoot up to the table next to him, spotting a sword dangling off the edge of the wood. Just as the servant raises the dagger high above the boy's face, he narrowly dodges, mustering up all the strength he can find to flip himself over, rolling over to the side as the dagger comes down to split the wood. Telemachus jumps for the sword on the table as the servant rises to his feet, and in a flash, he pulls a swift move, sweeping the blade under the servant's neck stealthily, watching as blood sprays and the body falls limp at his feet.
Beneath him, broken spears impale Satoru's back, but he moves on, three weapons wielded in his hands, alternating between each like a monster as men continue to follow around him. A spear thrusts for your honor. An arrow flies for his son's safety. Two axes slice for his home.
And as blood trickles through the crevices and cracks of stone, heaps of bodies scatter the ground. Those who no longer wish to fight, who no longer desire to risk their lives for an unbeatable battle against and unbeatable foe, drop to their knees and the weapons they happened upon, ducking their heads in homage.
It is not over until Satoru finally corners the dark haired suitor who was mouthy enough to present himself to you in isolation, using the hilt of the axes to thrust against his chest and pin him down to the floor. He stares up in horror as blazing sapphire eyes glare down at him wide, disconnected, furious.
The king's chest rises and falls slowly, his cloth now half ripped from his exposed body. His skin is bare, pectorals swelling and falling with his heavy breaths, lines of blood trickling down his well defined abdominals from the wounds that pierce his flesh. His foot raises to press down into the suitor's shoulder, all of Ithaca's might and Troy's victory hovering over the man who thought he could stand a chance, who spoke far more than he could ever take action. A pitiful coward who Satoru recognizes from youth, who once wanted to follow his footsteps into battle at such a young age.
He grew into a pathetic excuse for a man.
Satoru bends over, leaning in close as the suitor watches with frightened, blown eyes. "My wife," he grits out huskily. "would sooner see you in Hades than by her side. And I'll be sure to fulfill her wishes."
With that, Satoru raises his spear gripped in his right hand and thrusts it down into the man's chest with a strained rumble in his throat.
With the leading suitor dead, all other contendors go mute and drop their weapons in defeat. The ivory haired man slowly lifts his foot from the corpse before him, lowering his arms at his sides to turn around. Before him, the sight of all those who attempted to kill him moments ago now kneeling in a crescent around the room greets him.
The hilts of spears thud into the ground, the rhythm of victory, the beat of recognition for the king's homecoming. Satoru stumbles slightly, muscles stinging under to pierce of spears. He looks around, and finally drops his weapons to the ground with a resounding clang.
He won. The King has finally come home.
But Satoru cares not for the men who kneel at his feet. He cares not for the walls he has reclaimed, for the title he has settled back into, for the fame that his name brings.
What he cares for now lies behind those deep, wooden doors just at the other side of the room.
He shuffles, slightly dazed from bloodlust and domination. The remainders of his cloak drop softly to the ground, revealing him in all of his six foot three mass, all of his rippling, sweat drenched, blood smeared muscles. The very sight of him speaks volumes, exudes power, and strength unbridled.
But he does not care for such things as he trudges toward your doors, limping in a trance. He can hardly feel the little blades sheathed into his skin as he walks, for his mind is fuzzy with adrenaline and the image of you that he can now savor, hold, treasure.
Telemachus rushes back through the busted doors in search of his father, finding that he has already won, and that he is already making his way toward his mother.
Satoru stops before the few steps leading up to your doors. They slide open cautiously, revealing you standing there, awe scribbled over your gorgeous features.
You're as beautiful as the day he left you behind.
You shiver, tears staining your (s/c) cheeks as you stare into your husband's eyes. You ask yourself if this is a trick of the gods, of the light, or of your mind, but as your eyes momentarily sweep over the damage he has done, taking into the kneeled stances of the surviving suitors, you finally breathe.
Your husband came back to you after all those years.
You tremble with soft cries as Satoru stares at you with all the love and relief the world has to afar. His eyes have softened, his pupils growing in your presence, and he carefully reaches back into his pants, lifting his hand to reveal the golden brooch that he promised he'd bring back to you after keeping it on his person at all times.
You blubber out a laugh, overjoyed, overwhelmed, and you rush to your husband. The moment your arms reach out to him longingly, he submits to the exhastion and collapses to his knees with a warm grin and creased eyes. You follow him instantly, dropping to your knees in turn and gathering his body, bringing him close to you. You lay him over your knee as you cry gently, droplets of your tears dotting onto his skin as he looks up at you like you've hung the moon and the stars. His hands grip your waist and upper arm as you prop him up to meet your gaze.
"Satoru," you whisper tenderly, his name no longer a hush that torments your dreams at night. Your shaky fingers trace over his skin as his always did yours, experimentally stroking over his white beard, tracing the lines beside his eyes, his sharp nose, his pink bowed lips. Your heart races, your skin flushed, your mind at ease.
"Hi, baby," he beams despite himself and his wounds, all sap and softness in your embrace, a stark contrast to the raging monster he was moments before. "I'm home."
You laugh, or sob - you aren't sure, disbelievingly. "My love. My Toru," you coo, stroking his lengthened hair. "You came back to me."
"Of course I did," he mumbles, reaching a bloody hand to your cheek. "I'm sorry I took so long."
You shake your head, uncaring of the time anymore. Your husband is here, after so very long, and that's all that matters. "I thought you were never coming back,” you croak.
"I know, pretty. I know," he soothes, brushing a piece of your hair from your face. "But I'm here now. It's been a long journey, but I'm here. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere ever again."
"You better not," you sniff. "I won't let you. Twenty years, Satoru. I spent twenty years without you."
"I know," his eyes crinkle with happiness, a weight surging from his chest now that he has made it back into your embrace. "I know. It was torture. I know I left you waiting so long. I'm so sorry," he apologizes again. "I carried you with me the whole time. I couldn't rest until I made it back to you. I'm yours. Here. Always."
You don't wait any longer. You've waited long enough.
Your heads both move in unison, your hands hold his face as your lips meet in a hungry, desperate lock. Your body slumps, and Satoru lifts himself higher to chase the taste of your salty lips, years of anguish slipping away at the very contact.
Satoru almost forgot your sweetness. The sugary taste that always lingers in your mouth as though you were made of pomegranate and sugar, as if his tongue was made to taste you. His fingers curl into your hair, eyes lashes fluttering blissfully against his cheek, brow arching as your lips glide together like the sway of a perfect wave.
You cry into the kiss, and Satoru presses in deeper.
Telemachus smiles warmly from afar, clutching his side, forgetting his wounds. The suitors turn their gazes away shamefully, and Satoru shamelessly marks his territory, kisses you as though it is the last time to make up for all the damage he's caused you. Your kiss so addicting, more addicting than the Lotus Calypso fed him and the insatiable song of the sirens, that he has no plans to part from you any time soon.
The two of you are nothing but heated breaths and smacks of lips, sniffles and gentle chuckles.
A string of saliva connects you when Satoru mistakenly parts, the curve of his shoulder shooting lightning up his back from the arrows still embedded there. He hisses with a wince, and you watch him with concerned eyes, looking over his state.
He catches the worry in your expression, and smiles warm again, only ecstatic to see your face before him and not in his tormented nightmares of failing to reach you. You frown as his thumb slides down your cheek and over your chin, light shimmering in his gaze.
"Do you like the rugged look or should I shave?"
You laugh loud, unrestrained, free, for you have longed to here such stupid jokes told at the most inappropriate times for as long as you can remember. You duck back down to kiss Satoru's lips as his head falls back against your knee.
"You're perfect," you whisper against him.
ׂ╰┈➤
You can't put words to the way Satoru looks at you as you finish cleaning the cut on his neck, the wounds on his back having been patched by the servant who washed his feet the previous night.
A thick film of heat occupies your once vacant bedroom, firelight crackling against the distant walls. Celebrations have long concluded, the night's recognition of the king's return and all his accomplishments cut short by your urgency to disinfect Satoru's wounds.
He lay with his back against the wall of your bed, eyes watching every movement you make as you dab cloth over his soothed gash, his face clean shaven and fresh thanks to your steady hand. You sit upon his lap, warm thighs straddling him, your night gown spilling over the exposed spaces of your skin, barefeet tickling the silk comforters.
Satoru feels as though stuck in a dream, watching your calmed face as you bring the cloth away from his skin, placing it back into the water on the side table beside you. You feel your husband's eyes following you, his warm palm soothing over the skin of your bare thigh, his gaze hazy, his body warm under yours.
He is still adjusting to his return, not fulling trusting that he is finally safe and sound within well earned royalty, and renewed by his lovely wife's touch. His son, once a baby, is now over twenty years old, and when he looked in his eyes earlier that day, he saw himself. Brave. Responsible. Noble.
His family has grown up without him.
The king can't quite name what he feels right now, but he knows that a good chunk of it is love as his eyes graze over the signals of beautiful age on your face. How you've managed to keep everything together in his absence continues to baffle him, but he shouldn't be surprised. After all, he's never met a woman quite like you.
Gods, he loves you. He loves the way your lashes curl and the way your teeth sink into your soft lips. He loves the way your hair falls and the way your skin melts in the orange hue of fire. He loves the way your thighs squeeze over him as if he never left, as he if he will never leave again, and he's sure that he won't. After twenty years away, Satoru plans to stay buried beneath your body for his long as he possibly can, unmoving. Sound.
"I'm sorry."
You look up at the sound of his gentle voice, his soft tone ringing out like a whisper in the dark. You tilt your head slightly, abandoning the cloth to turn your attention to your long awaited husband and king.
"Honey, you've apologized so many times," you sigh, smoothing a hand over his chest. You feel Satoru jolt beneath you, feel the way he still reacclimates to your touch, afraid that it isn't real. "It's not your fault that you were away so long. The gods were angry. So were you."
"It is my fault," he denies. "I made them angry. I let my pride get in the way. I let it ruin me. I let it kill my men, and steal away my life with you... with our son..."
"Satoru," you say his name tenderly, yet assertively. He looks you in the eye, brow curving pensively. "You can't take back all those years. What happened is in the past. I don't care about any of that anymore now that you're here."
"You should," he argues. "Look at what I left you to deal with."
"I never gave up hope," you counter. "I always knew you were coming back. Everyone told me you were dead. I didn't believe them."
You reach for his hand, pulling it from your thigh to press to your chest. His palm flattens over your heart, the precious thump pounding against his touch. You see the way he sinks into the feeling, jaw tight.
"I felt you in my heart. All these years."
His eyes flicker back up to you, darker now. "Baby, I'm so sorry I left you alone."
"Satoru, you have to stop apologizing. I'm not angry anymore. I'm happy. I'm relieved," you urge, holding his hand to you soundly. "My husband is back. That's all I care about now."
"You should care about more," he says solemnly.
You furrow your brows. "Did you find someone else out there while you were gone?"
Your husband's eyes go wide at the sentiment, disgust crossing his features momentarily. "What?"
"Well, did you?" you raise a brow.
"Baby," Satoru starts. "There's no one else across the oceans for me but you. I only ever thought of you when I allowed myself to remember. When I didn't block out the pain of being away. How could you even as me that?"
You know there's weight to the things Satoru says, but you don't press it any further. You'd rather not discuss all that happened to him when he wasn't with you. "Then why do you keep talking like I shouldn't forgive you?"
"...Because..."
"Because you haven't forgiven yourself for everything that happened."
He presses his lips together and shakes his head. You know him well.
"My love," you shift, bringing his hand from your chest to clutch between your palms as you look at him. "You've crossed the sea. You've watched your comrades fall. You've burdened the weight of thousands on your shoulders. You almost lost yourself and you found your way back. To your mind. To your home. To your son. To me," you speak passionately. Satoru watches you with great emotion, his nose flaring as you keep his gaze. "You must extend yourself grace. If you can't forgive yourself for everything, or believe that I could forgive you, then what of all that you've been through? What of me?"
Satoru's lips curve downward. "What of you?" he repeats.
You gulp. "I don't want to think about what we lost any more than we have, Toru. I don't want you to look at me and be sad... I want to start building our life again from where we've just picked up. What of me if you can't look past your own guilt to see that all I care about is having you with me again?"
Somehow, even as Satoru torments himself for his sins, you still look at him and see the man you love instead of all his mistakes. You don't blame him for what he took from you. You don't resent him for all his time spent so far away.
He does not understand how, except for the fact that he loves you so very dearly, and you love him in turn. He refuses to argue with you on his first night back, especially if you insist on leaving it all behind when the two of you are in each other's company the way you used to be.
Satoru's other hand slide up to your chin, caresses just beneath your bottom lip. Dark pupils observe you sweetly, his heart aching with want as he watches the way your plush lip drags beneath the pad of his thumb when he touches you. "What of you?" he says again. "You're everything, (Y/n). You're all that's been keeping me together. Just because I'm burrowed in self deprocation doesn't mean you're any less of the woman you have always been to me," he tells you earnestly.
You feel his hand shift in yours to clutch tightly in return, your other hand still holding over his.
"I love you," he says for the first time in twenty years. You fall apart. "You have been and always will be my perfect girl. My queen. Don't ever question where you stand in my mind. Our separation has tormented me for decades. I haven't been able to sleep. My soul ached to be away from you, baby. I love you. You're everything right about this world, about me. Don't forget that."
You breathe in sharp, thighs squeezing, heart lurching for more closeness, for your husband's praise, for his love. You are nothing but sap at his hands as his fingers graze your lips, trailing down to your neck slowly, past your clavicle, over your exposed collarbone. Satoru watches, mesmorized, as goosebumps sprout over your skin. And you feel that familiar tension, the way he hardens beneath you, the way his body presses firm and sound to yours, needing more. For just one touch isn't enough.
He's spent too long away from you. It's been too long since he has been able to savor you in the intimacy of your bed, in the privacy of your chambers, where no one exists but your intertwined souls as he makes love to you in a way that has you seeing stars and planets in orbit, that ruins you for any other man.
And how could you ever want any other man, when you have Satoru?
His hair is messy in that well loved way, from your hands gripping into them during messy kisses, and the freshness of a bath. He looks so much older, much more mature, but still as breathtakingly handsome as ever with lines of stubble tracing his face, white lashes blinking slowly, and dark pupils shrinking the outter ring of blue orbs. His chest is exposed to you, shirtless, and your hands trickle down his heated skin, exploring every scar that you do not recognize, every bump and ridge that you've missed in time.
His exterior has somehow physically hardened, his shape having been beaten into perfection by the gods' brutality. You wince as the pads of your fingers follow every unsaid story of his faded wounds, and you hear his heavy breath grow more weighted under your feather light touch.
Satoru brings you in closer by your chin, lids low, eyes hungry and desperate to make you happy again. To feel you again. "Do you still love me, pretty?"
He knows the answer, and you know he knows as well, but you do not hesitate to give him what he wants. "Of course I do," you murmur, "I've wanted you to come back and kill every last one of those suitors the second they arrived. I have and only will ever love you."
"Yeah?" he hums. You nod, entranced. He smiles. "That's my girl. I'd do it all over for you again in a heartbeat. No one touches my wife."
"I missed you so much, Satoru," you exhale as your noses brush, your eyes falling closed as his scent invades you.
"I missed you too. So much. You don't even know," he says, wrecked.
"I missed your hands. Missed the way they touch me."
"Mhm?" his hand slips from yours to slide back up your thigh. Your lips part as his touch creeps higher and higher, sending vibrations shooting through your body. His fingers reach past the silk that adorns you, creeping between your legs lovingly as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "What else did you miss, my love? Tell me. Tell your king."
"Missed the way you talk to me," you moan softly. "Missed your voice."
"And I missed those pretty sounds you make," he groans, slipping his hand lower. His thick fingers brush your thinly clothed core, dragging lightly against the ball of nerves that swells knowingly, needily at his slightest presence. You gasp softly against him, leaning further into him, and he hums lovingly. "Just like that," he murmurs, kissing your cheek. "You always sound so beautiful when I touch you. Gods, it's a crime to have been pulled away from this."
"Toru," you whine, your hips grinding desperately down against him. Satoru's breath hitches, something low and unsteady rumbling out against you as you grip his shoulders. "Please don't make me wait any longer."
He wastes no time, hastily tugging your undergarments aside, but doing so with care. "Oh, baby, I won't. I won't torture you anymore. You've been so strong. So good. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll make up for everything. I'm here."
You let his hands grab your waist and carefully flip you over. Your head sinks into the silk sheets and your undergarments are completely discarded, a string of your arousal stretching along with their removal. Satoru hovers over you, soft, primal, and curves down to unite your lips.
You whimper softly, winding your arms around his neck and pulling him flush against you. His warm chest presses to yours, your gown hiking up over your hips, your bottom half bare to the man you love as his fingers slip down your stomach and curve over your swollen clit.
Your soft moans spill into Satoru's lips as his tongue slants past, plunging eagerly into your mouth. The muscle swirls around your own, your tongues tangling in a desperate, greedy dance, the smack of lips rising into the air as Satoru begins to work little circles over your clit.
"Yeah, sweetheart, I'd never forget," he breaks away to grumble against your mouth as you whine, your thighs curving outward to grant him more access. He swoons, taking the opportunity to drag out his touch, slowing his circular motion with two, fat fingers, collecting your sweet juices over his fingertips. He ducks to kiss your jaw. "I'd never forget what makes you whine like that."
"Satoru."
You call his name out like a prayer, and the said man can not help but answer. He's longed for this. Starved for this.
"I'm here," he assures you again, his pace dizzying, his lips gliding down to the sensitive space of your neck. "I'm here. I promise. I'll take care of you."
The squelch of your fruit eases the tension of years when he inserts two of his fingers. Their sheer width stretch you out from years of lack of use, and you groan out something throaty, clinging tight to Satoru as he lavs warm kisses over your skin. His teeth graze your neck as he sucks hot kisses over it, feeling you squirm with delight and hold him tighter, mindful of his wounds.
"Fuck, still so wet for me," he marvels, burying his face in your neck as he sheathes his fingers slowly in and out of your slippery folds, his lashes fluttering with ecstacy. "Oh baby, you have no idea much I've thought of this."
Your thighs tremble around his hand, your body too weak for his dominance and touch. You know you won't last long, for the strength of his fingers ache so deliciously that you can't even think straight. All you can think of is your husband, and how such things were a far off fantasy merely two nights ago.
But now, he hugs you close, marking your skin, fingering your warm pussy like it was made for him, splitting you apart with just the power of his index and middle digits, undoing you in order to mend you both again. "Talk to me, (Y/n)," he huffs into you. "Tell me what else you missed. Please baby, I need to know."
"Mmmm, missed - missed your fingers so fucking much," you mewl, head tossing back as he peppers kissed across your chest.
"I know, honey, you have them now, don't you?" he teases slightly. "What else? What else can your husband do for you?"
You moan at his title, at what he is to you, at the way his fingers curl against that spongey spot inside and hit just a little bit deeper as they plunge into your walls, gliding in and out eagerly. You leak over his palm freely, soaked. The sound lands raw on your ears, and Satoru releases a muffled groand, addicted to the sensation he feared he would never experience again.
"Oh gods, Toru, missed your - hah - missed your mouth," you whine as his lips trail lower, his other hand curving around the hem of your gown to expose your breasts. They spill free, and Satoru lifts his head to gaze down at you. Your head slightly tossed back, your mouth agape, your eyes barely open, brows pinched with pleasure, and your chest bare before him.
"You're ethereal," he breathes, ducking back down to lick a long strip from your nipple to the bottom of your chin. You whine, hips bucking, walls squeezing. "Oh, honey, do that again. Please. Need to feel you. Squeeze me like you love it."
His pace goes faster, his fingers transitioning from a slow and steady rock to a fastened rocket into your core. You squelch loudly around him, moaning out, and Satoru moans in turn.
He ducks back down to you, taking your nipple between his lips and sucking softly. His tongue rolls around the bud as his cheeks hollow, slurping greedily at the plush fat, toying you gently between his teeth. Your back arches, and his free hand follows to hold the position, fingering you swiftly as he sucks at your pretty tits.
You're a piece of art. A masterpiece. Satoru thinks so when he looks up to watch the way your face pinches in that familiar pleasure, the way the breath floats from your chest, and your pussy clamps hard down on his fingers before you gush around them, spilling syrupy release over your bed and onto his palm. He moans freely, marking your breasts as you writhe and squirm beneath him, his hand keeping your back arched against him.
Is this the afterlife? Is the Elysium? Has he achieved immortal bliss?
He believes so as his wife's perfect pussy cums all over his hand for the first time in decades, and his length aches to cum after, unable to stand the pressure of your intimate reunion.
He breaks away from your tit to smash his lips against yours again, fumbling blindly with his pants, grinding his lower half against you as you prolong your high.
"What else did you miss?" he breathes raggedly against you as you see stars and cling to his neck.
There is not much for you to say when the night drags on, and his pants are discarded to free his massive length. You'd almost forgotten the sheer size of it, how it curves at just the right angle, how his tip shines an angry pink, glistening with pre cum as it twitches against your thigh, his lips leaving marks over every patch of skin they can find.
Satoru, ordinarily the talkative type in bed with you, can hardly find the words when his dick presses into you, past your slimy folds, and eases into your tight, hot cavern. You cry out with the sting of his long awaited intrusion, and he kisses away the pain, your lips slick with spit and your own cum from when your husband licked your cunt clean after fingering you over and over.
You're stuffed full when he finally, eventually bottoms out. Tears brim your eyes from both the penetration and the reality of your connection, for it's been so long since you've had sex with your husband. Since he's been home to ease your needs. Since he's filled you up, made you take him all with his starry eyes holding yours.
"I'm here," he says continuously, as though he needs the words to engrain themselves in your mind, so you don't have to worry about him disappearing anymore.
Tears trickle down your cheeks as he pushes in deeper, brushing your cervix, your walls snug around him. He kisses you again, repeatedly, gripping your hips tight, knocking his forehead against yours. You feel the expansion of his girth inside you. You feel every beloved ridge and curve. You feel him throbbing as you tighten, refusing to release him, holding on to the unimagineable pleasure of his intrusion.
You're already spilling around his length, wetting him down to his balls and upper thighs, and Satoru loves every second. Savors it. Treasures it.
"Satoru!" you bellow, throat raw as he pistons in and out of you, thrusting deep and heavy, keeping a slow, agonizing pace. He wants to feel every second, every drop of your release, every snug squeeze of your beautiful walls, every drag of his cock against your pillowy pussy, which went so long without his attention.
Well, no more. He's here to make it better. To love you. To hold you. To make you feel good. To rip that sadness away indefinitely.
"That's it, baby," he praises hot against your ear, voice thick with tension and pleasure. He groans, jaw slack, brows scrunched, eyes heavy as his nose tucks against your pulse. "That's it. Let me make you feel good. Missed this pussy so much, honey. Missed you so much. Let your husband take that pain away."
And he does.
The night drags on in a haze of sweat and fluid and pleasure. Your fingers graze his scars as he makes powerful love to you, acknowledging all that he's done to make it back, all that he's done to be the man that hovers over you, pieced together by your touch.
And as you lay wrapped up in his limbs as the sun peaks over the horizon, the thick scent of sex and Satoru lingering in the air, you thank Athena for bringing your husband back to you.
You thank the sea for granting you such mercy.
