˚ෆ⊹ Got My Eye On You o̴̶̷̤ o̴̶̷̤

The mattress dipped next to your head. A cool, scarred palm pressed against your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back with a click of the tongue. Suguru. He’d started his mother-hen routine as soon as you’d admitted (stupidly, in hindsight) to feeling a little sick and had yet to give it up. Part of it must’ve been nostalgia. His daughters were in their late teens. It’d been years since he’d had anything soft and vulnerable to dote on. But, as you glared at him through watery eyes, you would’ve sworn there was something else there. An edge. A shadow. The slightest, barest hint of anger that there was anything on this planet that could hurt you other than him.

But then you blinked at it was gone, replaced by stoic neutrality as he snatched a bottle off the bedside table and twisted off the childproof cap. You felt something pressed being pressed against your lips and pursed them tighter, in response. Suguru sighed.

“It’s just medicine, sweetheart.”

 Yeah, right. You’d heard that one before.

Your voice was all grit. Driveway gravel lubricated with battery acid and strained through a sandpaper funnel. “…label.”

Suguru rolled his eyes, but handed the bottle over anyway. You forced yourself to sit up, lasting just long enough to scan over the bold-font logo and excessive use warnings that you would be gleeful ignoring before collapsing back onto your pillow and letting Suguru place the pill on your tongue. It tasted like chalk and misery, which was somehow still better than the god-awful herbal tea he gave you to help swallow.

Meanwhile, Satoru watched it all, unmoving and unblinking. He tended to do that whenever Suguru was pampering you – forget he was part of scene and relegate himself a silent, observant feature of the background. He only came back to himself when you sniffled, ducking your head to sneeze into your comforter. A smile pulled at the edges of his lips, one of his hands reaching up to ghost over the curve of your jaw. “You’re kind of hot like this. All helpless and whiney, I mean.”

He moved to cup your chin. Suguru caught his wrist. “Don’t even think about it.”

“That’s not fair,” he pouted. “How come som virus gets to be inside of her and I can’t?”

This question was swiftly and mercifully deemed too stupid to answer. Suguru pushed himself to his feet and Satoru sighed languidly, flopping onto the bed next to you. “It’s not like I’ll catch anything. World’s Strongest Sorcerer, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t get sick, idiot.”

“But what if it doe—”

You cut him off with a conveniently timed coughing fit. The ugly type – prolonged and hacking, forceful enough to leave you panting while your throat burnt. Satoru grinned. Before Suguru could stop him, he threw himself into you and licked a long stripe over your open mouth, then laughed as you groaned and swatted him away.

“See?” he asked, smirking at Suguru. “Nobody died.”

Suguru responded by pitching the bottle of pills at his co-kidnapper, nailing Satoru in the head with enough force to crack the plastic.

You used to fight. In the first few weeks, you would scream and throw things. You’d get physical too, but that barely put a scratch on him. He never retaliated, never got desperate enough to truly rough you around. The most he did was bind you down for a few hours. It took a few tries of trial and error to realize overpowering him was a lost cause. Despite not looking gaunt, he was far stronger than he looked. 

These days, you don’t fight. You don’t bend either. You may not curse him out anymore, but you don’t make small-talk with him. You don’t ask him about his day, what he’s been up to. You remain stubbornly silent. It was easier on your psyche to pretend you were making a concession, rather than admitting true defeat. 

It’s not like Choso is all that much of a talker. He hardly speaks a word, most days. All he does is just…watch. He never touches, or gropes or does anything you thought a kidnapper would do once they’ve finally gotten you right where they want you to be. Even at night, he doesn’t sleep next to you in bed. He’s far more content in sitting on a chair, forcing you to feel eyes prickle over your skin even when you’re snuggled underneath warm covers. His voyeuristic tendencies feel worse than if he forced you to snuggle with him. 

In a way, just watching makes everything a little more worse. You don’t know what he wants from you, but you know he wants something. You can feel it. There are these moments, every so often. If you blink, you’d miss it, but it’s there. A part of him breaks. Something darkens in his eyes, and then it’s gone. 

You’re waiting for the hammer to drop, and you’re not quite sure you’ll be able to put yourself back together when it does. 

The journey from the bathroom to the kitchen is a short one. Your hands trail over the empty walls of the house as you walk over carpeted floors. It’s familiar in the way a recurring dream is–one that repeats over and over again until you’re affixed with a strange type of anxiety. Maybe it has to do with the strange type of loneliness the house brings. Out here, there’s nothing but Choso and trees. 

Even wild animals were a rarity. You think the highlight of your week was a family of ducks traipsing through the front yard. One mama duck and her six adorable ducklings, waddling behind her. You had your eyes peeled through the window as you watched them for minutes. Other than them, you hadn’t seen another animal in weeks. Even the animals know to avoid this side of the forest. 

The kitchen is always stocked with everything you could possibly want or need. Fresh fruit and veggies always lingered in the fridge. The pantry was stocked with your favorite snacks and whatever else you possibly need. Your fingers glide over tomatoes and onions and carrots as you hum a song you forgot the words long ago. 

If you tried hard enough, you could pretend you were still living in your apartment, spending a lazy weekend in your pajamas. Choso never makes it hard to find familiarity. The bathroom is stocked with your usual shampoos and soaps. The covers in the bedroom impeccably match your old ones. Even the couches and furniture are decorated in your favorite color. Everything is meticulously recreated or recrafted. 

He must have studied you for months, maybe even a year. The thought he knew you far longer than you knew him used to terrify you. You used to wonder if you did see him before, but you just didn’t remember. It’s hard to believe, especially considering how odd he dresses and looks. The white robe and purple scarf look like they’re centuries-old fashion. His pigtails and that sharp line over his nose would make him a hard character to miss. The first time you saw him was when you woke up in this cabin with a light head all those months ago. 

Now, it’s easy to not think about those types of implications. That never got you far. 

Escaping never got you far, either. 

You have made one so far. You only count the time you escaped the seven foot gate. The rest were too laughingly pathetic to even mention. The glass was bullet proof, no matter how hard you threw the chairs or whatever you could find, there was hardly a scratch. The door held five bolts and locks, each harder to crack than the last. He almost always caught you when you rushed past the wooden fence, failing to climb over it in time. 

If you do get that far, there’s the forest stretching for miles in every direction. 

You can still remember the first night you spent in the woods. The scars on your skin were hard to ignore. In retrospect, you were an idiot. Somehow, you thought if you picked a direction and kept walking, you’d make it to civilization. You were woefully unprepared for any type of expedition. You were barefoot and your thin clothes barely fought against the frigid wind. You didn’t even think to pack food or water. The outdoors were never your specialty. The only thing that fueled you was futile hope. You escaped the house when the sun was high in the sky. You were still in that forest when the woods darkened and distant howls got closer and closer. 

You were exhausted, helpless, and lost when the coyotes caught up to you. They surrounded you in a circle, all with hungry eyes and snapping teeth. Their whimpers and growls promised to rip you apart into meaty chunks. They might’ve fulfilled their promise if Choso hadn’t arrived on time. 

To this day, you still can’t describe what happened. One second, a wild animal was dead set on pouncing on you, eager to swallow you whole, the next it was the one torn to shreds. A glimpse of a piercing-red arrow before it was dead. 

The other animals scattered after that. A part of you wanted to run with them, but you couldn’t do anything but slump on the grassy ground. You were exhausted and helpless, stuck looking up at your captor. 

For minutes, he didn’t speak a word. It felt like hours as he loomed above you, waiting for something you’d never give him. Then, he knelt down to your height. You felt a hint of fingers on your ankle. 

There was no yelling, no beratement. 

“Any injuries?” He had asked, his voice soft and quiet as always. He’s never once raised his voice at you. You always thought that was far scarier. 

You could only shake your head, letting him gather you into his arms before he returned you back to the cabin. For once, you don’t bother to fight him. Or maybe, the better reason is that you can’t bring yourself to, not after you saw what he’s capable of. Days after, you waited for a punishment that never came, a beating you’d never receive, a raise in tone that never arrived. 

Choso said nothing, but that never made you feel much better. His eyes darkened for weeks after that incident. Like he was in a trance no one could pull him out of. You forced yourself to walk on eggshells, your anxiety heightened to a state it’d never been before. 

During that time, you often wondered if the coyotes were the lesser evil. 

You’re brought back to the sounds of your pot bubbling and threatening to overflow onto the stove. You reach over and shut off the gas. Your dish is nearly ready. You just needed a few more spices before you could finally sit down and eat. 

You never offer Choso food, but you don’t think he eats, either. You’re unsure if he even sleeps, though you doubt it considering the purple circles over his eyes. That along with whatever he did to the coyotes makes you wonder how human he really is. He was always so awkward, like he didn’t know how to exist within his own body. There are some days where you’re sure he wants nothing more than to turn into stone, especially with the way he hunches over and the way his face stills. At times, he moves like a newborn kitten barely learning to walk, constantly wobbling and flopping all over the place. And yet, at certain times, his entire demeanor changes and he’s as graceful and silent as a leaf. You can’t tell which one is the act. 

The meal you cooked was a staple in your home–your real home. It was something your family would settle down for dinner, chattering and laughing through the entire meal. It was so loud, back home. There was never this type of silence. You think about your glistening childhood memories as you savour every last bite. 

When you moved out, you never had time to cook. You were always so busy with work or friends or anything else you paid attention to. Meals were less for enjoyment and more for fuel. Ironically, being trapped like this finally gave you time to enjoy the little things again. 

Choso wasn’t stingy. Anything you asked for, he brought you without question. Books you’ve never read were piled up in various corners simply because you mentioned them. Hobbies you always wanted to learn but never had the time for, were right at your fingertips. 

A small silver lining on an otherwise dark thundercloud. Not that it amounted to much.

As lackluster as your previous life was, freedom tasted sweeter than a pretty gilded cage. 

When you finish your meal, you put away the dishes. Slowly, you wash the plates, letting them pile up in the sink. You peel away the scraps of food, wiping off the porcelain until the dish shines brilliantly once more. 

You wonder about your family. Were they still looking for you? Did they think you were dead? If you were a better person, you would probably hope they were taking care of themselves and weren’t so worried about you. 

However, you are selfish. You hope they can barely eat because of how worried they are. You hope they think about you every day and night and every meal time, just like you are of them. You hope they never stop looking for you. 

But then you wonder how they’ll think about you sharing a cabin with a quiet man who may or may not be human. 

Maybe, it’s better if they stop looking. 

꧞꧞꧞

Choso returns to the cabin when the sun settles behind the trees, casting a golden glow over the purple-pink sky. 

There’s this hammer that looms above your head whenever Choso’s near. You can feel it hover above you, threatening to fall and smash your skull every time he looks at you. It becomes easier to ignore, but it never goes away. 

You don’t flinch when you hear the lock unlatch. You remain in your position, curled up on the couch, halfway through a book that was mildly engaging. His routine is the same as always. He’ll walk through the door, shuffle around a bit and just stare like you’re some exotic animal in a zoo. You should really be used to this but–

There’s a sharp inhale. You look up. 

He’s staring at you, but something’s off with his gaze. His eyes are wide as they can go. His posture is rigid, you can see how tense he is even as he’s tucked underneath those baggy clothes. He strangely looks like he’s in pain. 

The more humane part of you wants to ask what’s wrong. The more logical part of you reminds yourself he’s a kidnapper and a stalker. So, you wait for him to take the lead. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he flees. 

You watch as he disappears into the back of the house. A door slams shut and the house stills all over again. 

You stare at the door he retreated behind. No movement. Your book is utterly forgotten, laying abandoned in your lap as you adjust your position on the couch. 

Did he just run from you? You don’t know how else to explain what happened. You look down at your clothes, your hands, your legs, and a morbid part of you curiously wants to chase after him. 

Obviously, you don’t. Part of you is pretty relieved Choso decided to run off like that. It meant a peaceful evening without all the staring and analyzing. He might leave you alone tonight, too. A night without that familiar prickle crawling down your spine–it sounded like heaven. 

Choso doesn’t return. When your eyes grow heavy and you’re no longer as interested in the book, you pack up. Outside, the sun disappears behind the trees. The sky blooms into a variety of pinks and purples. 

The floorboards creak under your weight as you travel to your bedroom. When you reach the silver handle, your eyes betray you. You glance at the door Choso disappeared through hours ago. You wait, straining your ears. You swear you can hear something emanating from the room. 

Crying? You weren’t sure. They were so faint, you could easily just be imagining it. 

Ignore it. Whatever he was doing there, it wasn’t any of your business. Nothing he does should interest you. You tighten your resolve and shut your door behind you. There’s no lock, but you never stop wishing you had one. 

Maybe that wish was futile. If Choso truly wanted to get in, would flimsy metal stop him? 

You change out of your clothes, shifting into something more casual, more appropriate for sleeping. As you fold up your clothes, you catch a spot of red on your discarded panties. 

You stare at it while something gnaws at your stomach. You hadn’t had your period in a while. For months, you’ve been in survival mode, constantly wary, constantly waiting for anything. All that stress made it hard for your body to maintain its usual cycles. 

It was probably a good thing your period came back, but that hardly gave you relief. In the morning, you would have to deal with the associated cramps as well as whatever bullshit Choso got up to. It sounded like a nightmare combination. 

A migraine threatens your temples. You decide to ignore it until tomorrow. It’s where you put the rest of your problems. What’s one more upcoming disaster? 

You crawl underneath sheets you always hated because of how similar they were to your previous bedroom sheets. What were they like now? Were they gathering dust, along with the rest of your items in your abandoned room? Or maybe they were packed away long ago, convinced their owner would never return. 

You hate your sheets, and it’s so much easier to hate your sheets as you drift off to sleep, willfully ignoring the hammer above you. 

꧞꧞꧞

You think you were having a nice dream. 

It was murky, blurred at the edges, like your brain wasn’t able to process it. You were sitting on a plane, looking down at the wispy clouds. You could hear the voices of people chatter all around you, but you could only stare out the window, at the sky, at the wing of the plane, at the expansive sky. 

You didn't know where the plane headed. You didn't care. It was so freeing living in the moment, not caring where you landed. 

Dreams don’t last forever. As hard as you try to cling on, your grip steadily loosens. Bit by bit, the dream began to fracture. Each piece breaks off like shattered glass, disappearing into obscurity. You descend into a dark room, back into reality. 

Something isn't right.

You feel good. Heat gathers into your belly. Instinctively, you arch towards feeling, but your thighs are being held in place by firm hands. 

You’re still half-asleep when you open your eyes and blindly look around the room. It takes a minute for them to adjust in the darkness. You almost miss the figure lodged right between your thighs, face buried in your pussy. 

 Your panties are off. Your dress is hiked up to your stomach and Choso is lapping away at your cunt.

He’s saying something, but you can’t hear him clearly because your ears are filled with ringing and the blood is pounding through your ears. You can feel him mouth something in your cunt until you’re able to practically feel the shape of his words on your sensitive skin I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry–

His tongue laps over your clit and a strangled whine breaks out from your throat. 

He stops his delirious movements. Slowly, he lifts his head up to meet your eyes. 

You wish he hadn’t. 

Your blood smears all over his lips and chin, you can smell the metal tang of it drift around the room. He’s already made a mess of the sheets. The stain would probably never wash away. His eyes are the worst part. Hollow. Bright. As wide as they could go. His pupils are blown out and there’s no hint of his iris. 

It reminds you of those coyotes Choso once saved you from, the ones with snarling teeth and soulless eyes.

Saved wasn’t the best word. He was storing you away for his own teeth. 

“I’m sorry.” He tells you and you wonder if this is how coyotes would sound like if they could speak. “But I–I can’t help myself. I can’t–you smelled so good I–” 

He cuts himself off in favor of diving into your pussy all over again. 

You finally move. Your thighs press together, trying to push him out. That barely deters Choso. His hands tighten their grip on your flesh, keeping your legs apart so he can finish consuming his meal. 

Your hand lashes out, fingers finding the loosened locks of his black hair. You pull with all your might, but he ignores that too. He licks a stripe up and down your pussy. Filthy wet noises fill the room. 

You hate that you find yourself giving in. Your back arches as he continues eating you out like his life depends on it. Pleasure shoots up your spine as his serpentine tongue flicks over your clit before delving into your hole. 

Your weak pleas only seem to further spur him on. The grip on his hair loosens ever so slightly as you fight the urge to bring him closer to your cunt. 

He makes that decision for you, licking his way deeper into your pussy, savoring his meal. 

Cumming feels like a relief more than anything. Your body accepts the endless waves of pleasure as you jerk within his grasp, toes curling up as your orgasm fizzles through you. It feels like it lasts for centuries as your body seizes up and your back arches up off the mattress. 

When it finally passes, you slump back down to earth, brain foggy and exhausted. Your breaths are labored, interrupted by your shuddering sobs. 

Choso pulls back from your battered cunt. You can barely watch as he reaches his hand up to wipe away his chin, never breaking eye-contact with you. His gaze is no longer so hollow and unrestrained. He’s sated. 

For now. 

You close your eyes when he crawls over your body, lowering himself next to you. Neither of you care about the metallic scent crowding the room or the fact that the sheets are utterly ruined. You turn away when you feel him bury his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in. Trepid fingers rub circles into your trembling shoulders. An act of comfort. You want to laugh if you weren’t certain you’d cry. 

At least the coyotes would just rip you apart. Choso would rip you to pieces and be cruel enough to stitch you back together. 

You’re teetering on the brink of exhaustion, half-wishing you’d fall back asleep so you don’t have to listen to his creepy mutterings and the evidence of what he did lingering all around you. 

You wait for the rage, the horror, the pure disgust to settle in. You want to yell at him, to truly curse him out. Perhaps today, if you really fought, you might be lucky to rip out his eye, maybe even knock out a tooth. 

You open your mouth. 

“Choso?” You ask, voice devoid of any malice. He hums at your voice. 

“I hate the color of my sheets.” You say instead of any truth, because it’s easier to hate your sheets. 

He brings you closer to his chest. You think he’s saying something, maybe he’s offering to get you new ones. You never hear his answer. The exhaustion finally consumes you, letting you go limp. 

Suguru was supposed to stop by tonight. However, he had to take care of his "nuisance," as he called his wife. A rather bitter claim, considering the way he'd held you against his chest earlier, his arms wound around you, gentle yet trapping all the same. Keeping you there as Satoru sat beneath your exposed slit. Panties had become a clothing option removed around year three or four, and he tentatively lapped at your juices while Suguru's fingers brushed through your hair. You could still hear his voice, soft and warm despite the cruelty hidden beneath. A thick finger had tilted your chin upward until your weary, blissed-out gaze met his half-lidded violet one.

"If I could stay here with you all day, I would, but duty calls, my dove."

You only wished you were the bird he claimed you to be. At least then you would have wings. The horizon would belong to you instead of them. A treat to imagine sometimes, usually on nights when sleep refused to come despite the drugs in your system fighting for your body to rest. Endless skies painted in baby blues and golden rays. Freedom so vast it hollowed your chest with longing. Anything would be better than a cage, even an endless sleep.

You supposed it was a mercy that Suguru wasn't here tonight. No risk of being dragged from your crate and into their bed in the dead hours of the morning. No Satoru burying his face against your throat, his voice dissolving into desperate little whimpers as he begged you not to leave him with his cock nestled deep inside you. Sometimes you wondered if he was searching for the woman he had once loved. Not you. Not the person you'd become after your wedding night, after discovering what kind of monster you had married.

You should have run. Should have thrown yourself from the hotel balcony and trusted the pavement more than the man waiting at the end of the aisle. Instead, you stayed. Or perhaps you were simply too pathetic to leap.

The beeping continued as your thoughts drifted through a haze of exhaustion. When you stirred again, your mouth felt stuffed with cotton. Satoru must have put too much in your kibble last night. Yet something felt off. After seven years of hell, one learned to recognize the smallest inconsistencies. You couldn't taste the lingering graininess. Nor the taste of the chalky bitterness of crushed multivitamins. All you could hear was that soft, rhythmic beep from a machine nearby.

For a moment, you wondered if you'd finally gone mad. Perhaps this was what happened when a bird spent too long in a cage.

Then other sounds emerged from the fog.

Voices. Footsteps. The distant murmur of nurses drifting through a hallway.

Your eyes fluttered open.

Fluorescent lights glared overhead, nothing like the perpetual twilight of the basement you'd come to know so intimately. Beneath you was not the cold metal flooring of the crate but the soft embrace of a mattress, swallowing you in warmth, like Suguru's waiting arms. The air smelled sterile and clean, yet beneath the antiseptic lingered the overwhelming fragrance of flowers. Bouquets crowded every available surface, vibrant bursts of life pressed into a room that felt strangely unreal.

A hospital.

Before you could fully process the realization, another sound reached you. Familiar footsteps.

"Visiting hours are over, Satoru!" a nurse called after him, irritation dripping off the tongue. You wished you could tell her not to waste the effort.

You could practically picture the careless shrug he'd offer in response. The charming smile. The complete disregard for rules that were never meant for men like him. Because knowing Satoru, he probably brushed right past her without a second glance. And knowing Satoru, he probably believed he owned the place.

Perhaps he did.

The Gojo family owned enough of the city to make the distinction meaningless. And Satoru Gojo sat comfortably at the center of it all.

You squeezed your eyes shut, counting sheep in an attempt to calm your racing heart. One. Two. Three. Anything to avoid confronting whatever strange dream this was. A hospital? Had you done something in your sleep?

The click of the door interrupted your counting. You stumbled somewhere between sheep twenty-three and twenty-seven. You'd have to start over. Ever the nuisance, Satoru somehow managed to invade even your sheep counting.

"Hey, baby."

Your ears perked at the softness in his voice. You'd grown so accustomed to his exaggerated baby-talk over the years that normal speech sounded almost foreign coming from him.

"I brought you more flowers. I don't want you to miss a year of us together. Happy year three."

You heard the quiet clack of a vase settling onto what little space remained. A moment later, the mattress dipped beside you. A careful gesture, as if the bed might break from his presence. Or you might too. An arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you close, mindful of IV lines and wires. You felt him shake. Once. Twice. Almost in time with your counting of sheep. Maybe he knew you were awake. Maybe he thought enough comfort might coax you back to him. A moment later, something warm dampened your hairline.

Tears.

You refused to process them. Satoru had cried before. Thrown tantrums. Pouted. Begged. Sulked when you forced yourself behind the couch, and he could no longer reach you, forcing him to call for Suguru to deal a punishment. This type of tear was different, far more raw than the version you've seen. As if you'd taken a beak to his ribs and pecked straight through his heart, splitting it open just for you.

"Suguru says it's time to move on. Says you and I were only arranged, that I shouldn't have gotten so attached."

Silence settled between you, and despite everything, your chest loosened.

You hated that it did.

Hated that hearing his voice still felt like coming home. How your body relaxed into him. As if some part of you recognized him as safety.

When he was the reason you needed saving.

You tried to remember the bites, the bruises, the cage, the crate, the years. You tried to remember every violation against your human rights disguised as affection, everything that should have filled you with disgust. Yet all you could feel was the way he clung to you now. Broken. Loving.

His face nuzzled against your temple. Wet kisses pressed against your skin, not heated and open-mouthed like usual, but damp from the tears spilling freely down his cheeks. You could almost picture those impossibly blue eyes glistening.

Maybe it had all been a nightmare.

A horrible, twisted nightmare.

"Suguru says we'll get rid of the crate," he whispered, his voice cracking as his lanky body trembled beside you. "If you come home with us."

The words shattered the fragile hope forming inside your chest.

If it had all been a nightmare, then why did he know about the crate?

And why would you trust a man like him?