King!Satoru never knew how to share. He's always gotten what he wanted when he demanded it. From women to jewels, this man received what he spoke of no matter what. Emperors from neighboring lands were intimidated by the spontaneous king. He's been known to act quite ruthlessly to those he deems lowly.
King!Satoru has never had a problem taking what he wanted. Especially when it came to a woman who caught his eye. So when Satoru had found you under the rubble and debris left behind by your fallen kingdom, he expected you to run into his arms and thank him. Instead, you ran into his arms and slapped him across the face. He was, for once in a long time, stunned. So much so that he didn't retaliate immediately. If it weren't for his guards, you might have taken his distraction as ample opportunity to attack even more.
King!Satoru immediately instructed his men to take you with them on their return home. You had a spark that no other woman has ever been brave enough to ignite within him. Satoru made sure the guards weren't too rough as they guided you into his castle. He quickly made haste to his room so he could change into comfortable robes and perhaps find some clothing you could change into. After all, your clothes had been tattered and dirtied as the buildings burned and crumpled to the ground around you.
King!Satoru was angry when he learned that his guards had put you in the dungeon. That's no place for a lady under his eye. He ordered some maids to prepare a room for you, and he traversed down to the dungeon and got you himself. Afterward, he wouldn't let anyone touch you or be alone with you again. Although, Satoru quickly realized he made a mistake giving you your own room. Luckily, it was right down the hall from his, unluckily you attempted to sneak out every night. Satoru would always sense when you had left bed, and he made quick haste of catching you before you could escape.
King!Satoru is in a panic when he lazily opens your bedroom door 3 hours after the full moon rose high in the sky, expecting to find you picking at the window locks, only to see your bedroom completely empty. He doesn't waste a moment more as he grabs his sword and shoes before running through the halls of his castle. He should have invested in stronger metal locks for his castle doors. Satoru is about to call out for his guards to prepare to search the grounds when he pauses mid-stride and takes a step back so he's looking into the kitchen. There you were, minding your sweet business as you prepared yourself a warm plate of food. Satoru would have sworn that a kitchen was no place for a lady of your position, but then he saw you doing something so mundane as cooking yourself a meal, and he melted.
King!Satoru doesn't interrupt your time and decides to turn around and go back to his room instead. He almost kicks his feet like a young girl when he hears you walk past his bedroom door to go back to your room. You had stopped trying to escape.
King!Satoru notices the relationship between the both of you growing stronger after that night. He saw you in a different light. You weren't just a woman he had won and brought back as a trophy. You meant a great deal to him. You were the sweet and normal he needed in his life. A bond formed between you both, for better or worse, and you quickly grew fond of the King. You ignored the whispers about your relationship with him, choosing not to acknowledge your growing feelings.
King!Satoru grew extremely protective of you in the past few months you had been with him. There was a voice in the back of his head constantly telling him that you were the one. For whatever reason, he just KNEW it.
You learn quickly that once you've gotten Satoru attached to you, he doesn't let go. He's clingy and needy, constantly protective and possessive, and he is the snarkiest man you've ever met. He's strong, too. You realize just how strong he is as you stand on the balcony of the castle, looking over the training grounds, and watch how easy it is for him to take down men one after another. The clench of your thighs tells you just how fast your feelings for him are developing. And, of course, Satoru notices too.
King!Satoru becomes much bolder around you after he catches on. He constantly flirted with you and made a great show of charming you. Despite his grand gestures and confident demeanor, he was a little nervous he was coming off too strong. Were your eye rolls fond or serious? Should he take a step back and stop being so flirtatious? Oh! Oh, you just..kissed his cheek. Annd~ he's melted into a puddle on the ground.
King!Satoru saw himself as a spontaneous and energetic man, and he loved himself a good ball. The women and men dressed so formally, dancing together and having their fun. And what made it better was that you were by his side now. This was your first royal gathering, thanks to your position by his side. He provided you with a beautiful gown, made sure it was your favorite color, and reassured you that you looked absolutely stunning. And, God's above, you did look gorgeous. Satoru tried not to stare too long at your exposed skin and kept his gaze on the hundreds of royal and wealthy in his ballroom.
King!Satoru kept his arm around your waist all night. But he couldn't believe his ears as you asked to dance. You didn't know a thing about dancing but.. they made it look easy, so why not? As soon as Satoru stepped on the marble flooring with you, a pit formed in your stomach. Your feet were uncoordinated as you stared down at your and Satorus feet. He kept one hand on your waist and the other in yours. The softness in his eyes, the love in his smile, it never went away as he watched you. Not when you stepped on his feet or even trip over your own heel.
King!Satoru would have thought by now that people knew not to mess with his precious woman. But all royals are dumb, except for him, of course. He glanced as he heard snickers from a few men, staring at your attempt at waltzing. Satorus blue gaze fell back down at you, and now he could feel the tremble in your hands travel up his wrist. His heart ached to see you so embarrassed, still trying to waltz with him. Satoru gently stepped forward, bringing your chests together, the linked hands expanded arm length out, and his grip on your waist moved to the small of your back. You could feel his cheek against your temple and his hot breath against your ear.
When he had asked you if you wanted them all dead, you merely thought it a joke. But he didn't snicker or laugh. His grip never loosened on you. Your weak smile faded as it sunk in that he was not playing a bad joke. You pulled back enough just to look at him and shook your head softly. He searched your gaze and sighed, gently breaking the link between your hands and cupping your face in his hands. Your cheeks flushed, and you placed your hands on his chest to steady your racing thoughts. Surely, he wasn't going to kiss you in the midst of this ball for everyone to see, right? Matter a fact, he was about to. If it weren't for the music ending and clapping erupting around the room.
King!Satoru knew you pulled away from nervousness and fluster, not shame or fear, but he just couldn't help himself from feeling irritated. He should have just pulled you in, no hesitation. Your lips looked so soft, and he just wanted to kiss them until your blood stained his lips. And, for sure, he shouldn't have tried such a thing in front of a ballroom of royalty. Such idiotic bastards don't deserve to see you so vulnerable and soft, needy, and desperate. Only him. Only Satoru is allowed to see you as such. But he was close to disregarding his own ball and whisking you away to the side.
Instead, King!Satoru waits patiently for the ball to end. But he's not so patient to escort all the guests out. No, he allows his guards that pleasure as Satoru gladly guides you out of the ballroom. Your laughter echoes off the walls of the castle as he carries you to his chambers. He's been craving your touch for months, yearning for a mere taste on his tongue, but your laughter was worth more than any stained sheet or tinted purity. Satoru takes his time, gently exploring your body and making you his. You didn't mind. Your body and soul lost to ecstacy the entire night until the morning came.
King!Satoru couldn't thank God above enough, relentlessly thanking him for letting Satoru raid your home. Satoru lays on his satin sheets, holding you against his bare chest as you softly snore on top of him. He just watches you and thanks anyone who may listen that he's such a spoiled man. Without his ruthless reputation, he wouldn't have pocketed this sweet treasure in his arms, and she wouldn't have pocketed his heart in return.
satoru doesn’t ease you into it; he isn’t coy. he all but storms into your chambers, after dark but before you’ve snuffed the candles keeping the room light enough for your reading.
he doesn’t bother to tell you why, but you know—instinctively, because you know him and you know his advisors and you’re well used to his moods when they’ve been particularly nagging about his duties as king—what’s set him off. the indication that it’s worse than typical is that he keeps that odd eye jewelry perched upon his nose, chain gleaming yellow in the light of the flames as he stalks over to your lounging form upon the bed.
his arm finds your legs over the nightclothes you wear, wraps around them firmly to move them just enough for him to perch on the edge of your mattress. they don’t leave, even as you set aside your book—you expect him to lay his head on it, anticipating the typical song and dance of his pouting and whining as you push him away only to relent and let him hold you as you both drift off into slumber.
instead he hovers. even sitting he looms over you, hand tightening on your thigh and thumb rubbing soft, meaningless patterns through the fabric of your dressing gown that soothe the nerves set on edge by your inability to see the look in his eyes.
a beat passes. you wonder if he’s calmed.
but when he speaks it’s terse, low, with the kind of simmering rage he keeps close to his chest for only those pitiable few he despises utterly, and he dips his head to look over the frames of those onyx lenses and regard you with irises dark with something terrible.
“i will not give you a child.”
the statement bowls you over. your breath hitches, if only because of the way he stares—deadly serious, royal blue eyes glowing in the candlelight.
“wh—what?”
“i will not allow you to bear my children. i might be amenable to a ward, if you so desire. but i will not seed you,” his grip tightens on your thigh, “and it should go without saying that once we marry neither will any other.”
you haven’t a clue how to respond to such a thing.
he speaks as if it’s a confession; as if he’s betrayed you somehow. he holds you like you’ll disappear, or flee—and perhaps, had he told you this months ago when you’d been flighty and diffident with his affections, your rigidity might have led you to. but it is now, and you haven’t fled yet, and your beloved is nothing if not unconventional and shameless in his eccentricity.
you ponder on that too long.
“say something,” he demands, sounding almost small.
“why?” spills from your lips without thought; not petulant, or angry, but confused. not just by him—by you. you ought to be devastated, no? you ought to be angry. you assuredly are not.
“my bloodline is a scourge,” he tells you readily. “i will do everything within my power to wipe it out. therefore, i cannot have an heir. not even one.”
not even one. not a single child. the thought washes over you like the temperate water of the lake on your grounds back home, the very one you’d once played in regularly as a child. the very one your mother had once mentioned taking your own children to, someday; children who you never fantasized about, children who never had faces or names, children for whom you never set aside letters or dresses or trinkets.
not even in those teenage years spent with your current betrothed, the only man you’d ever thought of kissing and caressing you, had you once envisioned a life with children. they’d only appeared once you’d been brutally introduced to reality, and had to accept the promise of a life with a rich man who doesn’t love you.
a life which your king has gallantly shattered, and replaced with something far brighter.
“i will bear the burden of prevention,” he tells you soothingly, as if your silence has been about the effort of this request. “you needn’t worry that pretty mind over it. over any of this, my queen—“
“i am not yet your queen,” you interrupt, instinct bidding you to speak where your mind remains miles away.
“my bride,” he amends, ”look at me.”
you do.
“i want you,” he says, as if it’s some known truth of the universe, written in the stars. “i want you fervently, ardently. i won’t have another. but i will not give you my children. if you cannot take that slight, then so be it.”
the emotion that has been welling within you since the first words he'd spoken has become so intense it’s impossible to listen properly. you cannot name it without ruminating; you lay beneath him, eyes widening, not quite seeing—or hearing the words he continues to say—as you let it all sink in.
but when his hands fly to cradle your face, you’re snapped from the daze, attention suddenly brought back to the man before you.
“oh, oh, precious girl, don’t cry.” cry? his thumbs wipe away tears from your cheeks. you hadn’t even realized they’d been falling. “don’t cry”—he almost laughs, yet his voice breaks—“you’ll break my heart.“
“no,” you gasp, “no, my king, i’m hardly sad, i’m… relieved.”
that’s it. you’re relieved. he’s removed a heavy weight from your chest and you hadn’t even known of it. you will not have to bear him children. the assurance floods through your veins like liquid joy. not ten, not five, nor two nor even one; none whatsoever.
“relieved?” he repeats, blinking in surprise.
you’d never even considered the possibility. from the moment you’d known of your place in this world you’d resigned yourself to the role of childbearing. only now do you realize how much you had been dreading such a thing. only now do you understand the fear, and the relief.
“i… don’t believe i want children either.” the statement feels so final it ought to be terrifying, but it settles into your bones with a tangible rightness.
your betrothed regards you in shock. his hands fall from your face—and then they latch to your body, one on your thigh again and the other behind your neck, pulling you up and flush against him as he kisses you harshly.
“you’re so perfect,” he breathes into your mouth, unreactive yet pliant against him. “made for me, just for me, i swear—“
you kiss back, making his rambling cut off in a strangled growl as he only tugs you in closer and deepens the embrace. he’s still speaking, but it’s unintelligible; praise, certainly, muffled compliments and manic devotion. he’s relieved too, you realize. foolish to think him confident in this declaration. foolish, you’re coming to understand, to think him sane in any circumstance which might take you from him.
(if you are made for him then he is made for you, surely. this relief would be impossible for any other to give you.)
he pulls away when he realizes you’re still crying. you catch your breath, blink back the tears, let him fuss over you until your voice is solid enough to speak.
despite the relief, there is lingering hesitance; lingering fear. “you say you will bear the burden of prevention, but what of the burden of blame? they will talk, as the months go by. they will call me barren, unfit to be by your side; they will demand you take on a mistress—“
“i won’t,” your betrothed snarls, grip on your thigh almost painful with how fiercely his fingers tighten, “i would never, and i’ll cut down all those who speak ill of you.”
your laughter is disbelieving, wet with the traces of saltwater. “hardly a sound plan to run a court, my king. unless its intent is for running it to the ground.”
“for you, my heart? anything. i would raze this kingdom if it spoke your name without awe.”
that shouldn’t be comforting. it ought to be terrifying. instead you reach up to hold his cheek, and his eyes flutter closed at the contact.
i can't help but wonder about the "i'm gonna marry you but i don't want kids" with gojo. because he probably would be the one to bring it up
omg im sorry this took so long but,,,,, here we are 👀 as always linking the usurper!gojo tag and the masterlist for this au
warnings: the no kids talk!
it’s hardly subtle.
he doesn’t ease you into it; he isn’t coy. he all but storms into your chambers, after dark but before you’ve snuffed the candles keeping the room light enough for your reading.
he doesn’t bother to tell you why, but you know—instinctively, because you know him and you know his advisors and you’re well used to his moods when they’ve been particularly nagging about his duties as king—what’s set him off. the indication that it’s worse than typical is that he keeps that odd eye jewelry perched upon his nose, chain gleaming yellow in the light of the flames as he stalks over to your lounging form upon the bed.
his arm finds your legs over the nightclothes you wear, wraps around them firmly to move them just enough for him to perch on the edge of your mattress. they don’t leave, even as you set aside your book—you expect him to lay his head on it, anticipating the typical song and dance of his pouting and whining as you push him away only to relent and let him hold you as you both drift off into slumber.
instead he hovers. even sitting he looms over you, hand tightening on your thigh and thumb rubbing soft, meaningless patterns through the fabric of your dressing gown that soothe the nerves set on edge by your inability to see the look in his eyes.
a beat passes. you wonder if he’s calmed.
but when he speaks it’s terse, low, with the kind of simmering rage he keeps close to his chest for only those pitiable few he despises utterly, and he dips his head to look over the frames of those onyx lenses and regard you with irises dark with something terrible.
“i will not give you a child.”
the statement bowls you over. your breath hitches, if only because of the way he stares—deadly serious,
“wh—what?”
“i will not allow you to bear my children. i might be amenable to a ward, if you so desire. but i will not seed you,” his grip tightens on your thigh, “and it should go without saying that once we marry neither will any other.”
you haven’t a clue how to respond to such a thing.
he speaks as if it’s a confession; as if he’s betrayed you somehow. he holds you like you’ll disappear, or flee—and perhaps, had he told you this months ago when you’d been flighty and diffident with his affections, your rigidity might have led you to. but it is now, and you haven’t fled yet, and your beloved is nothing if not unconventional and shameless in his eccentricity.
you ponder on that too long.
“say something,” he demands, sounding almost small.
“why?” spills from your lips without thought; not petulant, or angry, but confused. not just by him—by you. you ought to be devastated, no? you ought to be angry. you assuredly are not.
“my bloodline as it has been for generations is a scourge,” he tells you readily. “i will do everything within my power to wipe it out. therefore, i cannot have an heir. not even one.”
not even one. not a single child. the thought washes over you like the temperate water of the lake on your grounds back home, the very one you’d once played in regularly as a child. the very one your mother had once mentioned taking your own children to, someday; children who you never fantasized about, children who never had faces or names, children who you never set aside letters or dresses or trinkets for to gift on birthdays.
not even in those teenage years spent with your current betrothed, the only man you’d ever thought of kissing and caressing you, had you once envisioned a life with children. they’d only appeared once you’d been brutally introduced to reality, and had to accept the promise of a life with a rich man who doesn’t love you.
a life which your king has gallantly shattered, and replaced with something far brighter.
“i will bear the burden of prevention,” he tells you soothingly, as if your silence has been about the effort of this request. “you needn’t worry that pretty mind over it. over any of this, my queen—“
“i am not yet your queen,” you interrupt, instinct bidding you to speak where your mind remains miles away.
“my bride,” he amends, ”look at me.”
you do.
“i want you,” he says, as if it’s some known truth of the universe, written in the stars. “i want you fervently, ardently. i won’t have another. but i will not give you my children. if you cannot take that slight, then so be it.”
the emotion that has been welling within you since the first words he'd spoken has become so intense it’s impossible to listen properly. you cannot name it without ruminating; you lay beneath him, eyes widening, not quite seeing—or hearing the words he continues to say—as you let it all sink in.
but when his hands fly to cradle your face, you’re snapped from the daze, attention suddenly brought back to the man before you.
“oh, oh, precious girl, don’t cry.” cry? his thumbs wipe away tears from your cheeks. you hadn’t even realized they’d been falling. “don’t cry”—he almost laughs, yet his voice breaks—“you’ll break my heart.“
“no,” you gasp, “no, my king, i’m hardly sad, i’m… relieved.”
that’s it. you’re relieved. he’s removed a heavy weight from your chest and you hadn’t even known of it. you will not have to bear him children. the assurance floods through your veins like liquid joy. not ten, not five, nor two nor even one; none whatsoever.
“relieved?” he repeats, blinking in surprise.
you’d never even considered the possibility. from the moment you’d known of your place in this world you’d resigned yourself to the role of childbearing. only now do you realize how much you had been dreading such a thing. only now do you understand the fear, and the relief.
“i… don’t believe i want children either.” the statement feels so final it ought to be terrifying, but it settles into your bones with a tangible rightness.
your betrothed regards you in shock. his hands fall from your face—and then they latch to your body, one on your thigh again and the other behind your neck, pulling you up and flush against him as he kisses you harshly.
“you’re so perfect,” he breathes into your mouth, unreactive yet pliant against him. “made for me, just for me, i swear—“
you kiss back, making his rambling cut off in a strangled growl as he only tugs you in closer and deepens the embrace. he’s still speaking, but it’s unintelligible; praise, certainly, muffled compliments and manic devotion. he’s relieved too, you realize. foolish to think him confident in this declaration. foolish, you’re coming to understand, to think him sane in any circumstance which might take you from him.
(if you are made for him then he is made for you, surely. this relief would be impossible for any other to give you.)
he pulls away when he realizes you’re still crying. you catch your breath, blink back the tears, let him fuss over you until your voice is solid enough to speak.
despite the relief, there is lingering hesitance; lingering fear. “you say you will bear the burden of prevention, but what of the burden of blame? they will talk, as the months go by. they will call me barren, unfit to be by your side; they will demand you take on a mistress—“
“i won’t,” your betrothed snarls, grip on your thigh almost painful with how fiercely his fingers tighten, “i would never, and i’ll cut down all those who speak ill of you.”
your laughter is disbelieving, wet with the traces of saltwater. “hardly a sound plan to run a court, my king. unless its intent is for running it to the ground.”
“for you, my heart? anything. i would raze this kingdom if it spoke your name without awe.”
that shouldn’t be comforting. it ought to be terrifying. instead you reach up to hold his cheek, and his eyes flutter closed at the contact.
in which crown prince gojo satoru, thought to be dead, returns to take back what’s rightfully his
the queen lets go of your hand for the first time since the captain of the guard had stormed into her room and told you all to flee. she orders her men to stand down; outnumbered as they are, it will be little more than a bloodbath. regally, she approaches, head held high, much to the amusement of the brute before her—his mouth stretches wide and he lifts a wicked sword, arm so long that he needn’t even step forward for the point to press beneath her chin.
“hello, auntie,” he says, grin flashing teeth sharp as the blade he points at your queen. “i hope you didn’t plan to run off before my coronation. we wouldn’t want to miss the festivities, now, would we?”
and you still want to disbelieve, yet with his free hand he reaches up, hooks his thumb beneath the cloth, and reveals a single brilliant blue eye—a gojo eye, the color of the sky and the sea, sign of the gods’ blessing, the physical marker of one born to rule. cold as steel and directed not at the queen but at you, stealing the breath from your lungs with the manic light within.
“not when everything i’ve wanted for so long is finally in reach.”
drabble
〉the reader and gojo spend years yearning/mourning while gojo is “dead”
drabble
〉usurper!gojo leads a coup
drabble
〉usurper!gojo finds the queen’s maid!reader after the coup
drabble
〉usurper!gojo sees the necklace reader still wears
one-shot
〉flower crowns: king!gojo and his attempts at courting
one-shot
〉shortcake crumbs: king!gojo is jealous of lord nanami
drabble
〉usurper!gojo doesn’t intend to have children
drabble
〉queen apparent!reader’s thoughts in the time between the coup and their marriage
one-shot
〉empty beds: king!gojo finds his bed empty after returning from a trip
satoru tries to keep it from you, as if your reach in the court isn’t threaded more firmly even than his own. as if the royal guards do not prefer your company to his, as if you’re such a fool you wouldn’t notice how he’s come to bed long after you’ve gone to sleep every day for the past week—he tells you it’s dull financial advising, you know it’s because he’s been busy torturing a man. an assassin, you’ve been told; a poisoner who hadn’t even made it out of the kitchen before being caught.
you also know he’s back earlier tonight because he’s executed another man—the one who hired the hit, one of his own cousins. ordinarily such a thing would be dealt with swiftly, except that the food found dosed had been not your husband’s but yours, and your king does not take kindly to threats against you. the maids had told you all of that days ago; it’s the guards that tell you he assembled the court without you, hours past sunset, and made a display of cutting down his own kin for your sake. ruthless, they tell you, savage, lest there be any doubt in his affections for you.
he comes back to your shared bedchamber without a drop of crimson on his clothes, but the satisfied air about him and the heavy drum of bloodlust you can see in his eye tell you that your information is correct. still, you greet him casually and don’t bring up your discontent as he removes his blindfold and makes himself comfortable on the bed, unabashedly peering at you while you sit at your vanity pretending to ready yourself for sleep. he’s silent with his staring, and you are silent as well, busy ruminating on how you’re feeling until you come to the conclusion that the only action of his which has sparked your ire is that he has chosen not to share them with you—no, you’re not bothered by his barbaric display, but rather that he did it without informing you. with your opinion found, you are ready to initiate the conversation.
“so?” you begin casually, gaze flitting up to meet his eye through the mirror. “are the conspirators dead, then?”
at first he gives no response, but when you turn in your seat to face him he rises to stand and strides over to you. lacing his fingers with yours, he pulls you to your feet—holds you close, leans down to press his forehead to yours.
“can’t get anything past you, hm? not with your brain.”
“well, are they?”
“yes. of course. they’ve hardly earned the title of conspirators frankly, not with that pitiful display.”
“mm.” you purse your lips and pull away, turning your back on him. “lovely to know that you’d accept my death if it were at the hands of a competent man.”
he follows you swiftly, eases his arms around your waist and rests his chin in the crook of your neck. his tone is easy, light—amused, perhaps. “i don’t believe i said anything of the sort.”
“i do not find this amusing, my king.” despite your tone, you reach up to thread your fingers through his hair, drawing a contented noise from him which he buries into your nape. “i’m displeased by you.”
“are you, now?” his lips quirk against your skin, and he shifts, his whole body moving so that he can trace kisses along your jaw. “i’ll simply have to please you, my queen.”
“satoru.” the name makes him pause. you tighten your hold on his hair, pull him to rest against your shoulder again in an attempt to halt him. “you killed your kin for me and attempted to hide it. did you truly think i wouldn’t find out?”
“not this quickly,” he grumbles, petulant, entirely unsuitable for a king who had just slit the throat of his own cousin before an audience.
“people chatter, especially when you require the attendance of the entire court. but since we are being honest, i knew of the whole ordeal the moment it happened—i do believe i was made aware of the poisoning before you were, my husband. so tell me, why did you torture a man for a week and choose not to inform your wife? why did you so courteously invite my companions to witness this execution but neglect to extend that invitation to me?”
he doesn’t speak for a moment. his breath comes hot against your neck, not quite a sigh but certainly a deep breath—then he turns his face into your hand, leaves a fleeting kiss against your palm, and lifts his head.
“they need to learn, hm? how would they have learned if i’d let this go?” his eyes are manic, the closest you’ve seen to what they’d been that night—yet the moment they meet yours they soften, reverence seeping in. he stands to his full height behind you, hand coming beneath your chin to tilt your face upward so that he can loom over you and press a kiss to your brow; he’s gentle with you, but the steel at the core of his tone is more than palpable. “i won’t show mercy, certainly not when it comes to those who wish to harm you. you cannot ask me to be forgiving with such things.”
you realize with those words that he believes you’re balking at the brutality, that he thinks you timid and soft. he thinks you don’t know what he does to maintain his power, as if you’re not intimately aware of the monster he’s had to become—as if you hadn’t come face-to-face with it, with his blade.
you think you probably shouldn’t be as endeared as you are. you certainly shouldn’t turn around, wrap your arms around his neck, and tug him down into a real kiss to reward his actions, yet you still do. it’s addicting how quickly he melts to your affections; you know how intimidating his size must be to so many but it’s impossible for you to fear it when he’d drop to his knees for you at a single word.
when you pull away he doesn’t let go—he whines at you, a wordless protest, and buries his head into your shoulder to nip at your skin.
“i’m not angry with you for refusing mercy,” you mutter to him, “i’m angry with you for lying to me. i am your queen, your partner. you will not do this again, you will tell me the next time you intend to cut down a man in my name.”
he pulls back and opens his mouth, eyes wide, but you cut him off by lunging upward to peck at the corner of his lips.
“it’s in your best interest to comply, husband. you cannot hide things from me.”
“i know, wife.” his sigh is love-struck. “i’m a fool to have tried.”
he doesn’t expect to see you when he does. of course he knows you’re the queen’s right hand (he remembers the first time he’d heard of it, the pride that welled up within him. not surprise, though; he’d always been enamored with your vicious, angry ambition and combined with your brilliant mind it had been plain to see even then just how far you’d rise) but he had thought you’d be back at your home estate for the winter—it’s southern, a far more pleasant climate in the colder months, and your mother tends to fall ill.
but then you come hurrying out of the corridor, hand held by the queen like a lifeline, and he can’t find it within him to care that he hadn’t intended for you to witness the violence of his coup. he hasn’t seen you in years. you’ve grown; your skirts graze the floor with length that would have tripped you in your youth, the neckline is lower than your mother ever would have allowed. you hold yourself like a court lady, the very picture of regal grace, and when he lifts his blindfold to see you clearly your eyes widen with immediate recognition.
he’s always loved your eyes, expressive but only to him. he’s happy to find that he hasn’t lost the ability to read them; there’s fear, certainly, but that hunger you’ve always held is still churning within them, and it rears its lovely head the moment he sees the pieces click into place in your mind—that he is the leader, that he remembers you, and that he is staring right at you all but openly declaring his intent. it’s only when the queen moves that he tears his gaze away, and he only does it because she breaks the line of sight with herself, eye contact impossible with her hiding you behind her body. it’s maternal; precious, he’d think, if he weren’t so irked by an inability to see you.
(he holds little affection for his aunt but of all his remaining family she likely is his favorite, and the least culpable in the plot to murder him all those years ago. he’s inclined to attribute it to the fact that she’s married into the family, warped but not formed by its toxic nature. he doesn’t intend to kill her—never had—but you’re beside her, and she’ll have to forgive him for how he hasn't much mental capacity to focus on anything else the moment he lays eyes on you)
he wishes he could speak with you now, wishes he had the time. but he can’t, because he doesn’t, and he knows that he wants you alone as soon as possible so he orders his men to take you to the queen’s quarters. then he realizes you’ll have a room there—he specifies that he means the queen’s bedchamber, leaving no room for ambiguity in his intentions.
he’s distracted in the hours afterwards. there’s much to do, he hasn’t even found his uncle to relieve his head from his shoulders, yet his mind can’t stop straying to the thought that you’re up there pacing and wondering.
it’s a long night. by the time he’s taken care of everything and finally has the opportunity to ascend the steps to where his men have locked you up, it’s nearly sunrise. he has little doubt that you’ll still be up anyway; it’d be a miracle if you were able to sleep for even a few minutes.
he’s thought about this moment for a long time. seeing you again for the first time, that hadn’t been so clear; he’d anticipated having to search for you, anticipated you hiding from him. but he’d known the whole time that eventually he’d be able to have this conversation, at least once, no matter what.
you still take him by surprise by hitting him when he enters.
you’ve managed to find the queen’s crown—why it’s in her bedchamber rather than safely locked away he doesn’t know, though in the fleeting millisecond he witnesses it in your hand he thinks it belongs there. a point hits his forehead with enough force to maim, slamming his head sideways, and he’s thankful he thought ahead enough to dismiss his guards before entering. he’s so shocked it takes him a moment to turn back to you, finding you standing there with the same amount of shock on your face as he’s feeling. his lips part in a grin as he reaches up to press his thumb against the split skin now bisecting his left brow, already bleeding profusely.
“wow, suddenly i’m very glad we locked you up.”
“are you insane?” you yelp as he takes a step towards you, stumbling back a step of your own and dropping the crown out of shock. “don’t come any closer.”
“aww.” he pouts. takes another step.
you step back again, eyes frantic. “i’m not joking, gojo, don’t come near me, at least not until you explain—”
“the assassination failed, years ago.” he obeys you, mostly because he thinks you might escape into the bathroom if he pushes you too far. “but with my parents dead, it was safer for my attempted murderers to think otherwise. i bided my time until i was strong enough to retake my throne, and ah… get revenge upon those murderers, i suppose. you were a bit of a surprise, i’ll admit—a fortunate one, to be fair. i’d been preparing to search for you, but here you are. right before me.”
“what did you do with her majesty,” you demand, ignoring the ending that he’s tagged on as you take another step away so that you’re out of his wingspan as he reaches out to touch you, and the sentiment is so sweet that he can’t help but smile.
“no concern for her husband, hm? the king? haven’t heard of him?”
your sneer makes him laugh outright. it's instinct to lean in and flick the middle of your forehead like a schoolboy. it stuns you; you blink in surprise, then again in indignation, but he’s giving you a real answer before you can voice an opinion.
“auntie’s fine, she’s hours away from the castle by now. headed back to her kingdom—that’s where you were going to go with her, yeah? lucky i found you before you slipped away, would’ve been a real pain to court you from there.”
“court me?”
“uncle’s well and truly dead, though. with no sons it’s far less messy, i am the most blatant heir to the throne. of course any number of my cousins—the living ones, anyway—could dispute my claim but that would certainly take a level of backbone i don’t believe any of them possess.”
“gojo, do not ignore me—”
he snickers. “that’ll be hilarious once you bear the name too.”
you let out a strangled noise, “you are—too presumptuous, you fiend!”
“fiend, you say! oh, that’s a new one. i like it, say it again.”
“you brute.” it’s quieter this time, accompanied by a quiver in your lower lip—he decides he’s toyed with you enough. the night has been harder for you than him, and the morning won’t be much better.
“brute, is it? i’ll have you know i spent hours in the garden picking flowers before coming to you.”
he watches the realization dawn on you. you take a step back, heel hitting the bed—he doesn’t follow anymore, but he does finally reveal the bouquet he’s been hiding behind his back. your jaw drops as your eyes fall on it.
he’s never been one for tradition. if you weren’t you, he probably wouldn’t have bothered with the customary manner of proposal. nothing else about the situation is traditional, though, so he considers it more a favor for you; a betrothal gift, a little bit of normalcy. and though he thinks his lineage is little more than a curse, he can’t help but think the blue morning glories of his family and the deep purple ones representing his status as reigning monarch look striking sitting next to your family’s dahlias.
your movements are slow and dreamlike as you take the flowers from his outstretched hand.
“you cannot be serious,” you say, falling to sit slumped on the bed with the bouquet in your hands.
“you wouldn’t believe how difficult it was to find dahlias on those grounds, couldn’t your ancestors have chosen a different one? couldn’t the gardeners have grown more?”
“i grew them.” it’s little more than a murmur, dazed, as your finger comes up to stroke at the petals of the pale pink flower. “for—for whatever match the queen would give me.”
there’s a rushing fury that fills him at that. it’s foolish; he’s won, and he’s the best suitor in the kingdom now if there even had been competition (or will be, once he’s coronated in the morning), there’s no reason to feel jealousy over someone who doesn’t even exist.
yet it’s that burning which bids him to pull the blindfold off quicker than he can truly think about it—compels him to drop to his knees before you even faster, drawing your attention as he lays his head in your lap and wraps an arm around your covered thighs under the pretense that it’s for support rather than to feel you. if he weren’t well aware of how you’d react, and less than eager to be shoved away, he might have lunged up and kissed you when your eyes lifted from the flowers to his uncovered gaze.
“you’re not serious,” you repeat. your eyes are wide as they stare down at him, terrified yet ablaze with that hungry fire he thinks he’d let consume him if it would make you happy.
“everything i’ve wanted,” he tells you again, as if that could possibly get across how desperate he’s been to make you his queen. “for so long.”
the first time your king sees the pendant is weeks after the uprising.
you wear it constantly, even at night, hiding it beneath your collar. once it had been to avoid scrutiny from a court still so very hostile to the man who gave it to you, even after his presumed death. now you’re acutely aware that the one you’re hiding it from is that very man. a difficult feat, when he insists upon spending his nights in your bed.
you no longer shove him off your lap when he lays his head upon your thighs after the pair of you retire for the night, instead you resign yourself to using it as a bookrest. he allows it. relishes it even, you might boldly presume from the satisfaction that surrounds his very being. as night after night goes on like this you grow less stiff, more used to him and his touch and his quiet contentment.
(if your hand finds its way to his hair on occasion, if you run nails against his scalp to pull a pleased sigh from him like a purr, then, well. there is none but the flickering candlelight to bear witness)
this very routine is what leads to your downfall. stiff from maintaining the position for so long, you shift, and sink down deeper into the plush pillows behind you. in the process the necklace slips upward, just enough for his peering eyes to catch sight of the pendant—and widen with recognition.
you lurch upward again to let it fall back beneath the collar of your nightdress, but it’s too late. he’s rising from his position in your lap, pushing himself to sit next to you lounging over your legs, mouth widening in a grin that can only be described as smug.
“is that—“
“no!” you yelp, and then wince immediately at the knowledge that you’ve only confirmed his suspicions. his grin only widens.
“let me see,” he demands excitedly.
you shake your head. when you lift a hand to cover where the chain disappears into your décolletage he pouts, laying his head down upon your bent knees, drawing circles with his finger against the clothed skin of your thigh. you wonder briefly how he might proceed—you get your answer when he suddenly wraps his arm around your legs and yanks you towards him, sending you falling back against those pillows as you’d initially intended and drawing a shriek from between your lips.
now he hovers above you, staring down, one hand hot on your calf as if solely to feel your bare skin. a beat later he bends down to capture your lips with his own.
he never kisses you long. he’s pulling away moments later, though he lingers as he always does. it leaves you a little stunned anyway, eyes still closed when his hand comes to wrap around yours and gently guide it away.
when you open your eyes he’s closer than before, staring down intently.
“let me see.” this time it isn’t a command—it’s a request, low and rumbling, laced with something soft. his thumb rubs against your palm before his hand disappears, drawing up to cup around your neck. your acquiescence is silent, but he hears it.
he traces the line of the chain along your collarbone to where it dips down beneath your cleavage, taking hold and gently pulling, but it snags. that’s all the excuse he needs to turn his attention to the ribbon keeping your collar together; he undoes it with ease and a keen, covetous eye that watches eagerly as the fabric loosens enough to fall over your shoulders. your breath hitches, hand flying up to catch his wrist, but it's loose. any more and you’d have stopped him (as it stands it’s certainly unneeded) but he skirts the line of your tolerance skillfully.
his touch is gentle, feather-light, as he eases the collar down just enough to tug the necklace free. the newly exposed skin prickles with gooseflesh, hot where he brushes it with his knuckles while retrieving his prize, and you’re absolutely certain he notices it all—especially the swell of your breast as you gasp shakily—but he’s doing a fair job of playing coy.
“i’ve seen the chain nearly every day,” he says, a little in awe. the pendant is small but decorated enough to be expensive; shaped like a heart, the tiny hinges are expertly hidden amongst the swirling inlays. it’s dwarfed in his palm. “how long?”
“years,” you breathe out, because it’s all you can manage, overwhelmed as you are with such sensations and emotions. your hand falls away. “ever since i heard news of your assassination.”
his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “that long? even when you thought me dead?”
“especially when i thought you dead.”
a rasping chuckle, clear disbelief and a quiet undertone of longing. he thumbs over the metal, warmed, you imagine, by your skin, and then reaches up with his free hand.
deft fingers pry the metal open with ease, revealing the secret within: a single blue eye, just the same hue as the ones which drink in the sight of you beneath him, crowned with white lashes. undeniably royal; undeniably his. though he—being the one who gifted it to you—knew full well what had been hidden away, you still find yourself going a little hot as he inspects it.
“ah,” he says quietly, fingernail pressing just barely against the miniature, voice smug. “we’ll have to have it edited to include your claim, hm?”
though you hadn’t any doubt what he’d been referring to, his hand pulls back to touch the scar bisecting his left brow—the very one caused by your hand, weeks ago on the night you’d reunited, when you’d thrown the queen’s crown at him in panic.
it’s been silent for too long. that thought makes you realize you’ve been staring, a bit entranced, and that he’s awaiting a response. you shift, and nod, humming your agreement as you don’t believe you can trust your voice. he knows, you can tell from the airy laugh and the way he leans in to press an affectionate kiss to your own brow.
when he pulls back, he lets go and watches, owllike, as the open pendant falls to rest over your heart; atop the widened collar of your nightdress, you’re quite certain it draws attention to your breast and indecently exposed décolletage, and you squirm a little under his heated gaze.
his lips pull back at the sight.
“you should leave it open. and stop tucking it beneath your corset.” the look in his eye—the true ones, though they're still for you alone to see—is greedy as he meets your wide gaze. “don’t hide me away, show me off. let me witness everything.”
(you refuse him, though he pouts and pleads and never lets up, until after your wedding—until you appear at court on his arm as his wife, proudly displaying the gift from so many years ago, brilliant blue unmistakable even as a mere recreation of oil and canvas and even with the real thing hidden behind his ridiculous lensed jewelry.
within weeks courtiers begin wearing their own versions, eyes of their lovers peering out from opulent frames. none could ever be quite so striking as the original)
in which king gojo satoru returns from a diplomatic mission to find his bed empty, and has qualms with it
gojo satoru x fem!reader
word count: 3k
reader: fem (she/her pronouns, fem terms, fem clothing including dresses)
tags: kinda hurt/comfort but mostly fluff, royal au, childhood friends to lovers, gojo picks up the reader, the end is a little bit intense emotionally but not super bad the reader just has intimacy issues and gojo confronts her abt it
usurper!gojo tag || masterlist
“embrace me,” he orders, muffled against your throat. it’s sullen, demanding, and you make no move to comply.
your husband whines wordlessly at you—it’s that noise which calms the tumultuous unease within you, an assurance that whatever mood he’d been in is quickly passing (or that your touch is so important he’ll cast aside any other thoughts in favor of pleading with you). he kisses up your throat, along your jaw, only to nose against your cheek like some affectionate cat. when he speaks it’s a beg; beseeching. “embrace me, wife.”
“talk to me, husband,” you retort. “your sulking is bad for my health. i was terrified.”
against your skin, his lips quirk into a teasing smile. “you’re adorable when you’re terrified.”
Someone has slipped into your room.
You’re asleep. You have been for hours, yet Satoru’s borderline paranoid insistence on you learning to defend yourself even while resting have led to a far less deep manner of slumber, and so you’re roused by the simple sound of the door opening and are made aware of this unwelcome visitor the moment they enter.
It’s all you can do to keep still, even out your breath. Your mind conjures thoughts of your guards slaughtered just beyond your door, your maids and your ladies-in-waiting massacred in your vast array of rooms meant to be a sanctuary, your king returning home from his diplomatic trip east to find your own body not even in your shared bed but in the lonely one occupying the queen’s bedchamber, yours in name but so rarely used.
You hear the figure’s footsteps approach you; they sound large, imposing, though you dare not open your eyes until the ornate dagger beneath your pillow is in hand and the possible assassin close enough that it can do you any good.
Your fingers find the heavy hilt, wrap around it securely just as the mattress beneath you dips with the weight of the trespasser. The motions are ingrained in your body from weeks of practice with your husband; you lash out, knife against the intruder’s throat before they can realize you’re not asleep, aiming to slash at the throat—but then you pause, thankful that you’d opened your eyes to see the face of your attacker before you spilled their blood.
“Satoru?”
Hardly an assassin at all, your visitor is your husband, back far earlier than anticipated. He looms over you in silence, one knee braced on your bed against your side, arms hovering where they’d been prepared to embrace you but frozen by the blade you hold against his neck. His damned blindfold remains tied over his eyes preventing you from knowing where they might be focused or what they might reveal of his thoughts.
“Wh—you’re not expected to return until tomorrow evening.” You remove the knife from his neck. Immediately, those hands are on you, tugging your covers away to pull you to him. “You frightened me, I believed you to be an intruder.”
Still no answer. For a moment, you feel him breathe you in, certainly allowing himself to bask in your presence after weeks without. But then, in one swift motion, wielding that stunning strength which has left armies in ruin, he slings you over his shoulder and starts for the door.
“What are you doing?” you shriek, squirming in his grasp. “Put me down!”
It wasn’t as if you thought he’d do it. But you at least expected a response; your king is nothing if not loquacious (and you hardly say so praisingly) yet he remains stubbornly silent even with your struggling form in hand as he passes through your doorway. Your guards stand alert just beyond your door, averting their gaze regretfully as if unwilling to meet your eye. You can hardly blame them, for it isn’t as if one can refuse a king—in fact, considering moments before you’d thought them dead by your assassin, you’re a little relieved to see them alive and well—yet the gesture feels too little too late.
“My king—husband,” you try, breathless, because reminding Satoru that you are bound to him for the rest of your lives never fails to make him preen, “what on earth has gotten into you?”
No avail. Not even so much as an arrogant laugh at stealing his own queen from her bed. You’re insulted at first; even your desperate attempts to free yourself don’t spark any form of response beyond a tightening of his arm around your waist. Insult gives way to concern the longer it goes, as he leaves your bedchamber and all but sprints through the intricate series of rooms which make up the queen’s chambers. The first time he passes by a room you know to be occupied by one of your ladies-in-waiting you decide that your valiant struggles aren’t worth rousing every maid and courtier you’ve allowed to take up residence with you. You’d rather they not see your husband’s indecent displays. This, at least, has occurred so late in the night that even if one were to open their door they’d likely be too groggy to understand what they might witness, and there is so little in the way of light that they might not even be able to see a thing.
At least your newfound resignation allows you to appreciate certain things your previous efforts had made you miss—you’re so enamored by his strength, his agility, and it’s admittedly thrilling that he’s so capable of manipulating your form with such ease. An inappropriate appreciation, certainly, but you’re coming to terms with how inappropriate everything about him is. And if you cannot allow yourself to enjoy how your usurper husband can steal you from your bed then you’re not altogether certain what the point of marrying him would have been.
He turns down the corridor leading to the door that connects to the king’s chambers and it suddenly seems to make sense: he’s bringing you back to his room, to his bed, where he’s insisted upon you spending your nights despite the absurdity of such a thing (not that you mind entirely, not that you aren’t flattered by his unabashed infatuation with you even all these months after you’ve wed). The room in which you’d slept during his absence had been used as more of a dressing room than one for rest, yet it had felt too odd to be sleeping in your king’s room without him present and had moved there after the first night. And you’d expected to be awake for his return, not for him to show up nearly a day early long before sunrise.
The mirrored halls, labyrinthine as your own, are empty; he hasn’t filled them as you have, not yet, though at times he receives visitors you recognize as his fellow conspirators from his coup. To an extent you appreciate the privacy it allows, and he remains so confident in his own abilities that he doesn’t bother excessively with guards. It’s hardly an undeserved confidence, either. His height is so towering that he’s forced to duck beneath the doorframe to his bedroom in order to ensure you don’t hit your head on the top. Once the threshold is crossed it’s as if his whole body breathes a sigh of relief; tense muscles relaxing, grip on you becoming less fervent and more adoring.
Satoru throws you to the bed with little ceremony. He spares a single moment to rip the blindfold from his face and toss it into some unknown corner of the room and then joins you hastily, hands upon you again in an instant, throwing the covers over the pair of you as he tangles his legs with yours, buries his face into your shoulder, and lets out the first noise you’ve heard from him in weeks—a sigh, sweet and self-satisfied, which rumbles in his chest and somehow reassures you.
The way he cradles you is halfway to suffocating, as if he were attempting to burrow into you simply to be closer, and between the silence and the manhandling you think you might have been terrified if not for how gently he carried you. It’s contradictory, certainly, yet despite snatching you from your bed with little regard for your wishes his hands had been so tender with you, as if you were some delicate thing to be handled with care. Even now you can feel he’s being cautious, deliberate with how much of his weight he puts on you and careful not to give you too much. You find yourself endeared by that, almost compelled to melt into him with the upwell of fondness that rushes through you and dizzies your mind.
Except that you’re still not willing to give him what he wants, not if he’s continuing to be so obstinate. You can’t find a reason for his stalwart lack of speech other than pettiness; it’s normally a trial of perseverance to get the man to silence himself. So you remain still beneath him, denying him his desires and refusing to return the embrace, rather choosing to lie limp as he holds you.
He groans in annoyance, lifting himself up to stare down at you yet still not verbalizing anything. His hair is long enough that it brushes against your face like this, mere inches away, and even in the imposing inky black of the enormous bedchamber beyond his eyes seem to catch on the most fleeting light and almost gleam from within.
One of his hands removes itself from where it was shoved beneath your back to find your wrist and drop your own on the back of his head. You let it fall, raising one eyebrow in simultaneous question and challenge that you can only hope he can see as clearly as you can see the exasperation in his eye—along with something else, something notably more desperate. Feral.
You don’t censor yourself despite that, pushing forward to explain yourself. “You’re grown, my king. You can speak rather than silently demanding things of me.”
Satoru’s eyes are drawn to your moving lips, the ice within them thawing and giving way to easy veneration. His lower lip pouts. His head falls back down and he nuzzles into you as his hold on you tightens.
“Embrace me,” he orders, muffled against your throat. It’s sullen, demanding, and you make no move to comply.
Your husband whines wordlessly at you—it’s that noise which calms the tumultuous unease within you, an assurance that whatever mood he’d been in is quickly passing (or that your touch is so important he’ll cast aside any other thoughts in favor of pleading with you). He kisses up your throat, along your jaw, only to nose against your cheek like some affectionate cat. When he speaks it’s a beg; beseeching. “Embrace me, wife.”
“Talk to me, husband,” you retort. “Your sulking is bad for my health. I was terrified.”
Against your skin, his lips quirk into a teasing smile. “You’re adorable when you’re terrified.”
“I nearly slit your throat.”
“With the knife I gifted you.” The words are crooned, a bit covetous; you wonder sometimes, when he says such things in such ways, about his sanity. You don’t think the phrase madly in love has applied to anyone more than him, though you might be just as deranged as he for how you adore it. “I wouldn't have let you, though. It’s sweet of you to worry,” his hands tighten swiftly where they rest against your skin, pinching hard enough to make you jump before releasing, “but you’re still no match for me.”
“No?”
“No.” He kisses you without pulling away, lips brushing past your cheek to press passionately against yours. “Though I’d very much like to see you try.”
You speak your response into his mouth, refusing his silent attempts to deepen the kiss. “You haven’t yet apologized for frightening me.”
Huffing at you, he removes his arms from your body and pushes himself up to hover over you again. He stays like that, staring intently as if simply watching you will suffice for what you’re demanding. You let him at first—then as the seconds pass grow tired of waiting, and open your mouth to pester him again only to be silenced by his own.
It’s fast, there and then gone, too quick for you to respond. He so likes those kisses, a perfect way to keep you quiet, but tonight he isn’t satisfied with it; he does it again when you inhale, then once more afterwards though you haven’t even indicated any further intent to speak. And then he moves on, pressing lips to your nose and your cheekbones and your forehead, dotting them across the bridge of your nose and along your jaw, featherlight and relentless.
He refuses to let up, covering your face with kisses as if to make up for each one he’d have given you if he’d been here. You attempt to dodge, out of sheer obstinacy, but he doesn’t allow you to. So you change course, lift your hands to embrace him as he’d begged you before—yet he catches you, using a single grip to pin both above you as his ministrations expand and he presses kisses to your neck, down your throat, along your collarbone.
“Imagine you’re me, hmm?” he murmurs, words barely comprehensible through his affections. “Lamenting after weeks without your company, rushing home faster than my party simply to see you sooner, arriving to my chambers expecting to find my darling wife awaiting my return”—he pulls up suddenly, heedless to your discontented whimper at the loss of his touch which peeters off the moment you see the way he’s looking at you; that feral tinge has returned to his eye, infused into the soft devotion he always regards you with—”only to find my bed empty, my exquisite queen missing. How might you feel, do you suppose?”
He's always been loose with his compliments but something about the way he says them now, so matter-of-factly and laced with a seriousness so uncharacteristic of him rather than a teasing tone, makes your face burn. Still you respond, unwilling to let the question stand unanswered. “Ah… concerned, I’d imagine.”
“Concerned?”
“Distressed. Fearful of misdeed.”
“You frightened me, too, then, did you not?”
“I apologize. You weren’t supposed to be back tonight, I hadn't thought there was any harm in it. But I'm safe, and I'm here with you now.”
He blinks. For a moment you wonder if he’ll really apologize now—a foolish thought, you know your king better than that. Instead he pushes on. “Now consider that you leave your chambers, and you demand to know where she is, only to be told that she has refused to sleep in your bed and has instead insisted upon taking residence in an entirely different room. What then? Tell me, my love, what is so wrong with this bed?”
You swallow thickly, watch his eyes dart down to the bob of your throat before returning. He lifts an eyebrow in expectation, but your mouth is so dry you can’t find it within you to say what he wants to hear. Both wrists still held in his grip, he rubs his thumb against one, quietly contemplative as he scans your face—and this, you decide, is too much. You turn away, hiding your face, unable to take the way he peers at you.
“Why do you still pull away?” It’s barely audible. In fact you wonder if the question is meant for you at all, or if it had been entirely for him. His free hand comes to your face, gentle as it cradles your cheek and turns you towards him, forcing you to meet his stare. This time his words are undoubtedly for you. “Have I… misinterpreted? Is this truly too much? You say it is, call me too bold, but you never insist upon it. You seem happy and yet the moment you have time away from me you run, behind my back. You know I would do anything for you, yes? Even… let you go? If that is what you want.”
You can’t find the words to reply right away, can’t parse it all out within you fast enough. You realize quite suddenly that you’ve been unfair—selfish, even—in your passing acceptance of his pursuits. Simply because that has been easy, simply because it would be difficult to be even a fraction as bold as he. Simply because you do like his boldness, and you do like the way he chases you, and he does it so relentlessly that you’ve never found it necessary for you to return it. You’d have to retrain yourself to speak candidly, to reach out for his touch, and even behind closed doors such things are arduous. Yet now you see it—now he lets you see it, the chip in his armor, the one you’ve caused with your avoidance, the one you have the ability to mend. And you decide that you will.
The time that it takes to think all of that through, however, is too much. Satoru pulls back; his hand releases yours, his head turns away, his eyes no longer visible. It’s panic that makes you move, panic caused by the way his body turns to remove itself from you. In all the time you’ve spent with him since the coup he’s never pulled away like this.
You hook your leg over him, yanking him back down and clumsily swapping your positions. He lays in bed now, eyes wide with surprise as he stares up at you, and you straddle him with hands bracing yourself on his chest. The kiss you give him is an attempt to find peace of mind but it hardly works—too desperate to prove him wrong with your actions, too caught up in the sensations, your mind fogs. At least he kisses back, hands finding home on your thighs and pulling you close as he melts, though that’s perhaps part of the problem.
The words still don’t come when you pull away, and the way he regards you now is even worse than before, pure exaltation in his eyes as he looks up at you. On impulse you lean in again, brushing lips to that white scar bisecting his brow, and though his eyes flutter closed with the motion it doesn’t help the way you’re feeling in the slightest—a little restless, a little undone, far too seen for comfort. You bury your head into his shoulder in an attempt to quell it, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath yours as he turns his face into you and breathes you in.
“It was too large,” you manage to say, small and quiet.
“Hm?”
“The bed. It’s too large when you’re not here. Cold. Empty.” You squeeze your eyes shut tight. His hand comes up to your head, stroking softly there, and of everything that seems to finally help. shoving your head even further into his neck, you say even quieter, “I miss you, husband, when you’re gone. I miss you so terribly it becomes difficult to bear.”
His laugh rumbles through you. It’s assured, arrogant, just like always—it melts away the lingering remains of that unease you’re still sifting through and allows you to finally relax on top of him, easing your legs down to lay tucked into the crook of his arm while he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Then I’ll just have to remain here for your sake, wife.”
