˚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?

suguru moves slowly, like you’re made of glass. he pulls the blanket up over both of you, covering you to your chest. only then does he gently tug you into his arms. your body is stiff at first, trembling slightly.

“i’m right here,” he whispers against your hair. “we don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to. we can just lie like this.”

you shake your head, voice barely there. “i want to… i just… i feel so ugly right now. like if you see all of me you’ll change your mind.”

the words hit him harder than anything ever could.

suguru exhales shakily and presses his forehead to yours. “listen to me,” he says. “there is nothing about you that could make me change my mind. not one single thing.” his hand finds yours under the blanket and laces your fingers together. “you’re safe with me. always.”

it takes a long time for you to relax even a little. suguru spends it kissing your knuckles, your wrists, the inside of your elbow—every place he can reach without pushing. he whispers how beautiful you are, how much he loves the way you laugh, how your voice calms the noise in his head. he tells you he’s not in any rush. that he would wait forever if that’s what you need.

when you finally whisper “okay… you can touch me,” he still moves like you might break.

his hands are reverent. slow. he maps your body with gentle palms, never lingering too long in one place, always checking your face even in the dark. every time you tense he stops and kisses you until you melt again.

when he finally slides inside you, it’s careful and deep and so full of love it hurts. you’re still anxious, still hiding your face in his neck, but he holds you like you’re the most precious thing in his world.

“breathe, baby,” he murmurs, hips rocking slowly. “i’ve got you. just feel me. just us.”

you cum with a soft, broken sound, tears slipping down your cheeks. suguru follows right after, burying himself deep as he whispers your name like a prayer.

afterwards, he doesn’t pull out right away.

he stays wrapped around you, one hand stroking your back in slow circles while the other wipes your tears away with his thumb.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “i ruined it.”

“you didn’t ruin anything,” suguru says, pressing kisses to your damp cheeks, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. “you trusted me with something scary tonight. that’s the opposite of ruining it.” he pulls the blanket higher around your shoulders and tucks you against his chest. “i love you. every part of you. the anxious parts too. especially those.”

you let out a shaky breath and finally relax fully in his arms.

suguru keeps holding you long after your breathing evens out, heart aching with how much he loves you. he presses one last kiss to your forehead and whispers into the dark:

“i’ll keep you safe. always.”

Gojo Satoru's arm rested around your waist - heavy and possessive - white, satin-gloved fingers pressing into the delicate, sheer silk at your hip to steady you but also to remind the room that you belonged nowhere but against him. Beneath his hand, he toyed with you - catching a loose strand of hair, slipping beneath your gown - idle touches as he watched the spectacle below with dazzling blue eyes that seemed less like the sky and more like ice beneath sunlight. Beautiful enough to make men kneel. Cold enough to keep them there.

You tilted your face toward him as if drawn by animal instinct alone, blinking up at him through your lashes with a vacant, adoring look he enjoyed so much. The sort of look that made courtiers lower their eyes and guards shift uncomfortably in their armor. Enough to make Satoru smile as though you were the only honest thing left in his rotting court.

You knew better.

Your lips brushed along the clean line of his jaw, wandering sweetly, before trailing lower to the pale skin just beneath his ear. The kisses were left to feel aimless, thoughtless little things, like a pampered creature seeking shelter without understanding the danger ahead. His skin smelled faintly of expensive oils, winter air, and the sharp sweetness of unfinished wine. Beneath your moving lips, his pulse moved steadily. Calmly. As if the throne room were not holding its breath around him.

A light laugh left him, almost boyish yet bright enough to startle against all the red painting the room. His fingers caught your chin before you could press another kiss or two to his throat, drawing your face away from him with the tenderness of an owner gathering its pet's attention.

"Look," he purred, his breath fanning across your cheek to guide you to the sight before you.

The man below the throne trembled so violently that the medals pinned to his torn nobleman's coat gave a faint, pathetic clink. He had once been someone important within the capital. Another man who thought bloodline and title would mean something, before a king who had butchered his entire family just to place himself upon the throne. The poor man's forehead pressed to the marble with wet sobs, breathing raggedly into the spreading red left by those who had begged before him.

"Your Grace," he stammered, the words scraping out of him in sharp little bursts, you almost felt bad, "I - I only said you should not take a madwoman as your queen, much less a - "

You could imagine the word he meant. The madwoman title didn't even cause a small flicker in your act upon the king's lap. You had worn the name for so long now it had become another ribbon tied sweetly around your throat. Let them think you're hollow. A cracked cup was not worth poisoning. A fool was allowed to breathe as long as she entertained the king.

And you did.

Your eyes widened as if you did not understand the insult. Your head tipped slightly to the side, lips parting around a small, confused sound. Satoru's attention settled on you at once - far too quick, and sharper than any blade in the room. So you gave him what he wanted. A sweet, innocent smile. The flutter of your lashes. One hand rising to press against your own cheek, as though you were trying to remember what a crazed person was supposed to be.

Below you, the nobleman began to sob louder.

The knight standing behind him did not wait for another command. Steel left its sheath with a clean, singing sound that sliced through the silence before the blade itself ever touched flesh. You only watched because looking away would mean there was something sane left in you to recoil. The sword flashed once beneath the chandelier light, and then the man's pleading ended in an awful choke. His body folded forward, as if sleep had finally claimed him, but the red beneath him spread wider as his head rolled towards the stairs below the throne.

Mercy.

Satoru had always been kinder to those who insulted him. Quick deaths for treason. Clean deaths for cowardice. But when it came to you, to careless words spoken about the darling creature he intended to make queen, his imagination grew far more sinister.

You clapped once, lightly, the sound small and out of place in the vast room. Then you brought your hands to your lips to smile around them, sweet as morning dew, yet empty as a porcelain mask.

You played your part. Swallowed down pride that threatened to bubble within you.

"Woof," you said softly. "Woof, woof."

As if your noises sang directly to his heart, because Satoru graced your temple with a soft kiss. A ripple of discomfort moved through the court. You felt the mood shift more than heard the subtle protests, the shift of silk, armor, breath, and worst of all, fear. But Satoru only melted. Kisses moved along your cheek to your throat before you had the chance to lower your hands, warm lips pressing to the delicate skin as he pulled you closer against his chest. His arms locked around you with strength that made your ribs remember how fragile they were. For a moment, you felt the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the faint exhaustion tucked into the curve of his posture. With his pale face buried near your neck and his hand dragging over your back, slipping beneath the silk. He seemed like someone in that moment. Not a tyrant, nor the king with blood drying beneath his throne. Just Satoru, tired and clinging, hiding his ruin in the hollow of your shoulder.

A foolish part of you wanted to believe that man had once existed.

A wiser part knew better.

Because over the broad line of Satoru's shoulder, past the ivory throne carved with old beings and even older threats, beyond the corpse being dragged to the mass grave, stood Geto Suguru.

He lingered beneath the statue of Tengen, half-shadowed by the candlelight, his dark hair falling neatly over one shoulder while his hands tucked neatly within the sleeves of his robes. He looked calm. Gentle, even. His violet eyes held unreadable warmth that had fooled better people than you. Anyone else might have mistaken him for the last merciful soul in the room.

You knew him as the hand inside the puppet.

If Satoru was the blade, Suguru was the whisper that guided it. He did not need a crown or throne. Men like him ruled from the cages of the room, from the pause before a decision, from the quiet words that made monsters feel righteous.

His eyes settled on you - on the king holding you as though the world would end if you slipped from his grasp for a mere second. Your smile stayed loose and silly, body soft against Satoru's strong arms keeping you pliant, one hand curling into his embroidered collar as though seeking comfort, allowing your cheek to rest against him, gaze going hazy and unfocused.

Posing as harmless.

Suguru's expression shifted by a breath, subtle enough to miss if you weren't already watching for it. He had seen that tiny, treacherous proof that there was still someone alive inside the fool.

Your heart kicked hard and silent, but you only masked the anxiety with a playful, mindless giggle before tucking your face away. Hiding away before either of them could decide how much of you was still worth breaking.

───────── ♛ ─────────

A handful of years ago, buried somewhere in your childhood, you first met Gojo Satoru. Your father had been summoned to the capital then, a rare privilege for a man like him, born into a family of non-sorcerers, yet became a sorcerer whose hands could heal the wounded. Even things that seemed irreparable, a shattered bone, a cut-off arm, anything could be reattached if needed within a certain time constraint.

However, you could never see the real magic. Not gifted with such power.

When your father got called to noble houses, you were typically directed to the kitchen or the servant's quarters instead, hand-fed cookies from older maids, and guided through laundry you were not meant to do, but the work was always there. Who knew, maybe you'd be hired as a maid for one of the clan's estates. You, or more like all non-sorcerers, were not meant to achieve much higher than that. Only if you are married to the wealthy.

Not after the Great War. The history books had been very clear about that.

Greed had ruined the human race. Curses had followed with the growth of modern society. And sorcerers, kind as gods, had stepped in to save what remained. You were meant to be grateful, to bow, and most of all to feel fortunate that your father's work had earned you a place so close to sorcerers.

Like Icarus granted his wings, just know not to fly too close to the sun.

Especially now with the six eyes reborn.

You remembered wondering, as you sat alone on a garden bench in the middle of a sprawling green maze with hints of jasmine flowers spreading their scent. An old fairy tale sat open on your lap, whether you might be lucky enough to see one of the royals or even an advisor from one of the great clans that brought peace after the war. Your eyes fell to the picture on the page, it looked hand-drawn with a beautiful princess draped in the arms of a silver knight who had come to rescue her from her tower. Only when you read more across the page, he was not a knight at all, but a prince in shining armor in disguise to woo the princess. A small part of you swooned at the idea of it all; such luxuries would surely not happen to you.

Between reading and the spurt of little giggles that would occasionally spill (especially at the kiss scene, how scandalous!) A maid stopped before you with her head bowed low. A butler stood close behind her, back straight and silent, with a wobbly smile pulled at both their lips. They asked you to follow them, and that your father was already made aware.

You took your book, who knows when you'll have a moment's rest to read a good story.

However, you should have left it behind; it was going to be trashed anyway.

You followed them through the halls so vast they felt like a city all on their own, the blue and gold accents across the satin white walls. The floors were white marble, so bright you could see your smile in them, small and nervous, trying very hard to look pretty like the princess in the book.

Before you were allowed to meet whoever had requested you, they cleaned you up and changed you into a frilly white dress made for a princess. The maid gave you advice while she fixed your hair, her fingers quick and mostly careful until they caught on a small tangle. Pain pricked across your scalp, sharp enough to make your eyes burn, but you sank your teeth into your lower lip and kept the tears tucked inside.

Princesses do not cry.

Princesses do not ruin their pretty dresses.

"Don't leave unless you're told," the maid said as she bit into a hair ribbon, a soft baby blue, "The crown does not take kindly to disrespect."

You only met her sharp gaze in the mirror with a little nod as she finished doing your hair, tossing your clothes along with other belongings into the trash as you made way to leave. Your fairy tale was left behind. You should have left it on the bench; maybe it would have found a new home.

You were led through another set of halls, each one wider and somehow brighter than the last, until the palace felt much less like a building and more like a world someone had trapped indoors. The maid's hand hovered close to your shoulder without ever quite touching you, guiding you forward with little nods and nervous glances, while the butler walked a few steps behind, silent as a shadow.

At last, they brought you to a pair of tall white doors carved with curling vines and old, watchful birds. Beyond them waited a room so large it took your breath away.

It must have been a study, even a woman's waiting area for guests and tea parties, based on the size alone. Though to your own little eyes it seemed more like a playroom made for a child who had never been told no. Toys lay scattered across the polished floor in careless little kingdoms: wooden horses tipped onto their sides, painted soldiers abandoned mid-war, silk balls, puzzle boxes with their golden locks left open. A black piano sat gleaming in the corner, its lid polished enough to catch the watery afternoon light spilling through the tall windows. Those windows stretched nearly from floor to ceiling, pale curtains shifting softly to accommodate the breeze that slipped through. Making the whole room feel larger than your cottage, maybe even larger than your humble neighborhood in the city. But that might just be an exaggeration.

You bowed when the maid bowed, her hand still resting on your head to keep you low.

Lower and lower, until the frills of your dress brushed along the white marble floors, and your fingers curled into all that useless silk. Before you stood Prince Gojo Satoru, owner of the Six Eyes, the future king, whom all adults seemed to please. As if in fear of what he could become. The previous owner of the Six Eyes was a hero. What will his tale be?

One of the few royals blessed after generations of silence, and the biggest sign that the gods still favored sorcerers best.

You did not know what a blessing was supposed to look like.

Only knew his eyes were very blue.

Not the friendly blue like the painted pictures in your storybooks or the little glass beads sewn on your dress, but a sharp, wintery blue that seemed to catch every clumsy part of you at once.

It only made you want to shrink more into yourself.

Somewhere nearby, a page turned with a dry, whispering sound.

You didn't lift your head. Not like the maid's hand had moved yet. But your gaze slipped from your own sparkly shoes to catch polished black boots by one of the couches, the hem of dark blue robes, the pale curl of steam rising from a porcelain teacup.

Only when the prince gave a small, careless wave of his hand were you allowed to look.

He was pretty in the way expensive things were pretty. Untouched. Bright. Kept far away from dirty fingers. His hair was white as new snow piled along your cottage roof in winter, soft-looking and strange beneath the golden light. His mouth held the faint curve of someone already bored, and his gaze did not simply look at you. It pinned you there, like a flower pressed beneath glass.

And beside him sat another boy with a warm smile tucked carefully behind the rim of his teacup. He watched you over the porcelain edge with an expression so gentle that, for one foolish moment, you thought he might be kind.

You should have brought your book.

The thought came suddenly, small and desperate. Maybe the dark-haired boy would have liked it. Maybe the prince would have asked you about it instead of staring at you as if deciding what sort of creature you were. You tried to catch the cover of the dark-haired one's book, the looping letters stamped across the front, but they had been written in a language you were not allowed to read. Old, forbidden words. That was what adults called them when they took certain books from non-sorcerer hands.

To protect the weak from harmful ideas.

That was what they always said.

Prince Satoru began asking you questions.

At first, you thought they were meant to be friendly. His voice had a bright, lazy swing to it, the sort of voice that made every word sound like part of a game. But each question was stranger than the last. Could you play the piano? Could you read the court script? Did you know the rules of shogi? Had you ever ridden? Fenced? Spoken another language? Could you identify cursed tools by sight? Could you recite the noble houses by rank?

Each little no fell out of your mouth softer than the last.

No, Your Highness.

No, Your Highness.

No, Your Highness.

His smile thinned. Not enough to become cruel, but enough for your stomach to curl in on itself like a frightened bug. You clutched your dress harder, feeling the slick fabric bunch beneath your damp fingers. The room was warm, sunlit, and golden, but your hands had gone cold.

"Suguru," the prince drawled at last, turning his head toward the dark-haired boy as though you were no longer interesting enough to address directly. "She can't even play piano. No better than a puppy."

Puppy.

Your cheeks warmed.

He was right, which made it worse. You could not play piano. You could not read the pretty letters on the books stacked beside his couch. You did not know the rules to the games set out on the low table. You had games of your own, of course. Little ones made from pebbles and sticks and scraps of ribbon. You could teach him how to build mud palaces after rain. You could show him how to press flowers between old pages, or how to play house beneath the laundry lines when the sheets turned white and billowing in the wind.

But something told you princes did not care for games that left dirt beneath their nails.

Suguru lowered his teacup. For the first time, he looked at you properly. Not kindly, though his expression softened into something close enough that your lonely little heart wanted to believe in it.

"Be nice, Satoru," he said mildly, turning a page with careful fingers. "You could always play pretend."

Pretend.

You brightened before you could stop yourself.

You knew pretend. You played house all the time. You could be the mama and the papa. Could set chipped teacups on overturned crates and tuck flower petals into broken bowls and make a whole little life from nothing at all. Pretend was easy. Safe. Pretend was where princes came on white horses and carried princesses away from towers, smiling as if the world had been made just for them.

Except Satoru's pretend did not begin with a tower.

It began in the courtyard, beneath a sky too blue and bright to match the dread settling in your gut. The grass was trimmed short and perfect beneath your little shoes. White stone paths cut through the green in clean, obedient lines. Somewhere, water trickled from a fountain shaped like an open-mouthed lion. Somewhere else, hidden birds sang as though nothing terrible could happen in a place so beautiful.

Satoru walked ahead of you with a rifle slung over one narrow shoulder. It looked too large for him, too heavy and serious for a boy with soft white hair and bored blue eyes. But he carried it easily, like another toy from his room of playthings.

The first rabbit froze near the hedges.

You saw its little body go still, ears lifted, nose trembling. For one hopeful second, you thought Satoru might only point it out to you. Might laugh. Maybe even tell you its name.

The shot cracked through the courtyard.

Birds burst from the trees in a frantic cloud. The rabbit dropped at once, a small brown shape against the perfect grass, and the sound that left you was too tiny to be called a scream.

Satoru glanced back at you.

He was smiling, like a prince from your storybook - bright, with a lightness to his voice.

"Go on, puppy," he said, a sneer lay in his words. "Retrieve."

Your feet did not move at first. They had become useless things, rooted to the stone path while your heart beat so loudly you wondered if he could hear its echo. The rabbit lay very still. The white lace at your sleeves fluttered in the breeze.

Satoru's smile did not change, but his eyes sharpened, as if growing more annoyed.

So you went, stepping off the neat stone path and into the damp grass. You bent down slowly, holding your breath as your fingers closed around fur still soft and warm with the last of its life. Blood touched your palm, bright and sticky, and behind you, the prince laughed, delighted as though this were only another game of make-believe. Because you were young, because your father was somewhere in the palace, because princesses did not cry and the crown did not take kindly to disrespect, you carried the rabbit back to him in both trembling hands. Just like a good little puppy.

"You think I want it?" Satoru asked, his hand ruffling your hair almost fondly before his eyes turned sharper as they lowered to you. "Bury it. Be a good puppy."

You looked around, the question trembling on your tongue. With what? Where? But Satoru only tilted his head, and the smile slipped from his mouth as quickly as sunlight passing behind a cloud. "Go on," he said, voice flattening. "I don't have all day."

So you used your hands. The nails that had been cleaned and polished with a clear, glossy shine were soon packed with damp soil as you dropped to your knees and clawed at the earth. You buried the rabbit with trembling hands, your breath hitching when another shot split through the courtyard. Then another. And another. Each time, you followed after him like a little hound, your pretty new dress staining with dirt, grass, and blood until the lace at your hem had lost any trace of innocence.

By the end of that rather unfortunate playdate, your knees ached, your palms were filthy, and your stomach felt hollow from holding back tears. It was Geto Suguru who finally called you over. He bent slightly, dark robes falling neatly around him, and tipped a few coins into your dirty palm with a smile so gentle it made the gesture worse.

"Good work today, puppy."

You would wish, later, that it had ended there.

Your father said nothing on the way home. The coins felt heavy in your palm, and when you tried to give them to him, he only shook his head.

You had earned them, after all.

The dress was folded away and left untouched. You didn't like looking at the soiled garment. Still, whenever the prince called for you, someone would bring it out again, and you would wear it because princesses did not cry, the crown did not like disrespect, and puppies came when called.