Chapter Text
The incense burned too sweetly, clinging to the cedar beams of the house. It stifled him.
“Do not scowl so, Suguru,” his mother murmured from behind, her voice pitched with brittle reassurance. “It is a great honor. You should be proud. To be chosen, to be bound to him-”
“To a monster?” Getou’s laugh was sharp. He turned his head just enough to catch her eyes narrowing, her poppy-painted lips twitching with suppressed anger. “I am sold, Mother. Dressed in silk, painted like a doll, and sold. I'm only cattle to-”
Her fan snapped shut in her hand. For a heartbeat, her arm twitched—habit, instinct—but she froze, jaw clenching. It was his wedding day. She could not bruise property that was already being handed over.
“You will hold your tongue,” she hissed instead, her composure cracking. “Do you think I do not know what it costs me to give you away? Bite back your venom, if you have any dignity left.”
All Getou could do was turn his shoulder. What could not be spoken made the air between them tremble. His mother's final restraint broke in retreat as opposed to violence. She pulled the door sharply and slid it shut, the wood slamming like thunder against the frame. Getou was alone with his reflection.
The mirror revealed a beauty he despised. His lips, painted crimson, were too soft, too inviting. Too omegan. His dark hair had been combed back, fastened with combs of red lacquer and gilded pins that gleamed like fire in the lamplight. He looked less a man than an offering.
He lifted a hand, touching the curve of his own mouth, and hated how the paint did not smear. How perfect he appeared.
The silence broke when a voice came from beyond the door, unfamiliar and hushed with deference.
“Lord Getou.”
He straightened, his sleeve falling back into place. The panel slid open, revealing an attendant he had never seen before, head bowed low.
“Your… carriage awaits.”
Outside, wheels creaked against the stones. Not a carriage, but a lacquered, ox-drawn palanquin, draped in banners that shimmered with the emblem of the conquering clan.
Getou’s pulse tightened. He remembered the stories—whispered like curses in the dark when he was a boy. How a century ago the rightful royals were not overthrown but devoured, swallowed piece by piece in truculent ecstasy. How the throne was not taken, but consumed. How the Six Eyes became emperor in blood and ruin.
He had stopped listening to such tales as soon as he understood his fate. Eight years old, knees raw from kneeling, when he first heard the truth: promised to the curse.
Now, the promise had come to collect.
He bit his painted lip until the taste of iron burned beneath the sweetness. Then, silent and seething Getou rose. His sleeves trailed like shadows as he stepped forward, following the waiting servant into the air that reeked of incense and inevitability.
The courtyard was lined with servants—slaves, actually—whose faces were pale from the weight of rolled silks and lacquered boxes. Even though he would never see most of it again, every item they carried was a part of him.
Beneath his sleeve, his small hand clutched a worn rabbit plushie. He had named it Megumi years ago, though no one knew why. Age had not stolen him of it. In moments of dread, it was the only comfort left untouched.
Hands guided him carefully into the palanquin. The cushions smelled of cedar and lacquer, stiff and formal. He shifted until he felt secure, pressed back against the soft folds of fabric, Megumi clutched tight against his chest.
One last glance at the home he would never see again. No mother. No father. Not even a single nod from them as he departed. Good, he thought bitterly. They deserve slow, painful deaths for selling me off.
His mind wandered into darker fantasies, as if the curse had already claimed him. Perhaps, he imagined, if the emperor didn’t rip him limb from limb first, he could witness his parents broken, rung thin, and beheaded—then maybe he would know love. The thought made him shiver, but not with fear.
A harsh motion of wood on stone shook him from his reverie. The palanquin began to move.
Getou dug his nails into Megumi’s soft fabric, pressing until the stuffing shifted. He whispered a prayer under his breath, a plea or perhaps a curse. “Gods,” he murmured, “if you exist, forgive me… or disgrace me further. I do not care which.”
The world outside narrowed to the slats of the palanquin. Each step of the ox brought him closer to the capital, to the cursed palace, to the man who had waited centuries for him. Each step of the ox made his heart heavier.
The palanquin swayed with each step of the oxen, the creak of wheels and the groan of wood a rhythm he could not escape. The further they traveled, the more the air seemed to thicken, as though the land itself bent beneath the weight of its emperor.
He pressed his cheek against the sleeve hiding Megumi, eyes unfocused as the countryside slipped away. Villages passed in silence, doors shut, windows shuttered. No one watched the procession. Perhaps they dared not look upon those destined for the curse. Or perhaps they pitied him too much to watch.
The hours stretched, blurred.
When the palanquin finally slowed, Getou lifted his head. He drew in a breath and caught it in his throat.
The capital loomed ahead like something born from a fever dream. Black-tiled roofs coiled upward like the spines of dragons, golden finials gleaming under a dim, overcast sky. Towering walls, veined with moss and age, stretched so far they seemed to swallow the horizon.
And at its heart, the palace.
It rose in impossible tiers, each one higher, more gilded, and more alien than the last. Its walls were painted in deep vermilion, lacquered so bright they reflected the wan sunlight like blood. Curtains of silk banners, white emblazoned with the crest of the Six Eyes, fluttered like ghostly sentries.
Getou’s breath hitched despite himself. Every tale he had avoided as a boy now pressed close to his skin. He could almost see it. The echoes of the devoured royals in the stones, the taste of their screams caught in the air.
His nails dug into Megumi’s plush belly. It is not true, he told himself. They are only stories.
But when the palanquin passed beneath the first great gate, the air shifted, heavy and suffocating. His skin prickled, instincts screaming though he kept his face composed. It felt as though unseen eyes had turned upon him, following, weighing, waiting.
By the time the palanquin drew into the palace courtyard, Getou’s jaw ached from holding it clenched.
He did not look back again.
The palanquin rocked to its final halt, the creak of wood fading into silence. A servant slid the door aside, and cool air spilled in, thick with incense and the faint tang of iron from the palace gates.
Suguru shifted, smoothing his sleeves, fingers tightening on the hidden weight of Megumi before he stepped down. His sandals touched the stone, and immediately he heard it: the cheer of voices beyond the gate.
“The future empress!”
Lowborns, peasants gathered at the edges of the procession, shouting as they were commanded to shout. Suguru did not look back to see their faces. If they pitied him, if they sneered, if they only obeyed the lash—he would not know. He did not want to know.
He fixed his gaze on the palace.
The vast vermilion walls rose before him, white banners stitched with the sigil of the Six Eyes trembling faintly in the wind. He stared into the lacquered wood until his sight blurred, his mind retreating somewhere further and safer.
“Lord Getou.”
The voice drew him back. A woman approached, her steps measured, her form composed with ritual grace. Her hair was white, falling like silk to her waist. She knelt on the stones and lowered her head.
“I am Tamaki Chiyo,” she said softly. “Head servant of the palace, and attendant to His Majesty. I wish you a long life.”
Suguru inclined his head, forcing a smile onto lips painted red. Befriend her, he thought. If he was to survive in this den of curses, allies would be precious. He swallowed his contempt and stepped after her when she rose.
Chiyo moved ahead of him, slim and curving, her nails lacquered crimson, catching the light like fresh blood. She was… unique. That was a word he could use, at least.
The palace walls swallowed him. Within, the world gleamed in pale hues—white and light blue, flawless, without dust or imperfection. The faint smell of incense clung to the beams, mingling with the sharper scent of freshly polished floors.
Through a lattice window, Suguru caught a glimpse of a garden: willows trailing their branches into a pond, carp flickering beneath the surface. For a fleeting moment, he longed to lose himself there, to step into the quiet shade and breathe something that was not ceremony and fate.
But Chiyo’s footsteps halted before a lacquered door. She slid it open and glided inside. Suguru followed, his own steps heavier, weighted by the day.
The room was soft with lamplight. At its center stood a grand vanity of polished wood, mirrors framed in gilded metal. Chiyo gestured gracefully, and he obeyed, seating himself before his reflection.
She worked in silence at first, slender fingers adjusting the combs in his hair, straightening what had already been arranged by trembling hands at home. Her touch was delicate, almost gentle, and she murmured, “You are beautiful, my lord.”
Suguru’s mouth curved, faint and fleeting. He almost believed her.
Then her grip tightened.
Long nails dug into his shoulders, sudden and sharp. The smile dropped from his lips as his eyes widened.
“It is a shame,” she whispered, her tone low, almost bitter, “that you will be the next one in His Majesty’s arms.”
Her breath ghosted hot against his ear as her fingers pressed harder, leaving crescents even through the fine silk of his robes.
“A lowborn,” she spat, though her voice never rose above a hiss, “and yet he marries. He will please you. Believe me, I am… familiar with it.”
Suguru froze. The weight of her words pressed heavier than her nails.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the pressure lifted. She straightened, her face composed once more, and without another word she turned and swept from the room. The door slid shut, the echo of it final.
Suguru stared at himself in the mirror, his throat burning. His reflection swam, blurred.
He did not cry.
He would not.
The things streaking down his cheeks were not tears. They could not be.
With stiff fingers, he drew Megumi from his sleeve. The grey cotton rabbit, worn thin at the seams, sagged against his palm. He fidgeted with it, kneading the fabric between his hands, his lips pressing against its threadbare head.
“Megumi,” he whispered, voice breaking for the first time that day.
The rabbit said nothing, and still, it was the only answer he wanted.
Suguru sat frozen before the vanity, the silence pressing down on him until it roared in his ears. His chest tightened, shallow breaths refusing to steady.
The first woman he had met in this wretched palace hated him. Not only hated him, but claimed to have shared his future husband’s bed. He felt his stomach turn, hollow and burning all at once.
His throat caught. He sniffled, and the tears he had denied now streaked freely, smudging the painted rouge at his lips, the careful powder at his cheeks. He didn’t care. He pressed his sleeve to his face, dragging away the evidence, but the redness only spread.
“Damn these people…” His voice cracked, thin and nasally from the weight of his crying. “Damn this palace. Damn my family to the hells too.”
His hand tightened around Megumi. The rabbit’s worn ears folded in his grip as he rubbed the fraying seams, seeking comfort in its silence. He pressed his forehead to the toy and whispered, words tumbling broken between breaths.
“Only you,” he murmured. “Only you wouldn’t betray me… right, Megumi?” His voice shook, quieter now, almost a plea. “If anyone tried to harm me, you’d stay. Through thick and thin… you’d stay.”
The rabbit sagged in his hands, mute and unchanging. Still, Suguru’s lips curved into something faint and pained, a bitter smile through the tears.
He clutched Megumi tighter, as if the rabbit could anchor him, as if its threadbare cotton could shield him from the curse that awaited beyond the door.
Suguru’s pout still lingered on his lips when the door slid open without warning. He flinched, clutching Megumi tight to his chest.
A servant stumbled in, breathless, robes disheveled. “My lord- his Majesty will be here soon-” Her words faltered as her eyes caught his reflection in the vanity. She gasped.
“Your face! The paint—what have you done?”
Suguru blinked at her, throat too tight to speak. He bowed his head and whispered, “Forgive me…”
“Quiet,” she hissed, rushing forward with her sleeves raised, as if she could blot away the damage. But then she froze, her head turning, her body rigid as she strained to listen.
Silence.
Then—footsteps.
Heavy. Deliberate. Each one growing louder, closer, until they filled the corridor like thunder rolling toward him.
The servant’s face drained of color. She dropped to her knees so fast her palms smacked the floor. Suguru’s head snapped downward instinctively, forehead nearly touching the tatami. His breath rattled in his chest.
The door slammed open.
The air itself seemed to shift. A deep voice cut through the chamber like a blade:
“Leave us.”
The servant scattered without a word, robes whispering against the floorboards as she fled. The door clattered shut behind her, sealing Suguru in. Alone.
This is where I die.
He had known it since he was a child. Since the moment his body betrayed him, announcing his secondary gender to the world. Since the day his family signed away his life.
His fingers crushed Megumi to his chest.
The footsteps drew closer, slow and unhurried. And then—words, low and certain, echoing like an oath.
“Six long centuries waiting for this. Waiting for you.”
Suguru did not lift his head. He could not. His body trembled with terror, and shamefully, he felt the humiliating urge to soil his own garments.
The hem of white robes stopped before him. A faint shadow fell across his bowed form. Then, impossibly gentle, two vast hands cupped his face and tilted it upward.
Suguru’s breath stuttered. Violet eyes, wide and fearful, locked onto the impossible blue above him.
The emperor’s gaze was human—and not. His eyes were oceans, moons, endless sky all at once, too bright, too knowing. No beast as the tales described him, but something far worse: a man who had swallowed eternity whole.
His hair, white as snow, framed a face both beautiful and terrible. He was larger than life, towering at least seven, perhaps eight feet, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the room.
Suguru could not look away.
The curse had a face. And it was smiling at him.
Suguru stared up at him, wide-eyed, caught between horror and fascination. The emperor’s presence was overwhelming — not just his height or breadth, but the sense of something immense restrained within mortal flesh.
His eyes darted over details he wished he hadn’t noticed: the sharpness of his canines when he smiled, too long and too white. The faint suggestion of muscle even beneath his layered robes, the way the fabric strained slightly over his frame. He was built for violence, for possession, for everything the stories had whispered.
“Hm,” the emperor murmured, head tilting as if appraising him. “You’re a bit slimmer in this form…”
Suguru’s breath caught. This form?
Before he could speak, the emperor’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Ah, forgive me. It was rude to intrude before we were properly introduced… and wed, no?” His tone was almost playful, as if they shared some secret joke Suguru did not understand.
“Stand,” he commanded.
Suguru rose at once, sleeve brushing the floor as he did. His instincts screamed at him to obey. He kept his eyes lowered, though his thoughts spun bitterly: Fickle. Spoiled. He must be. The Gojo family is wealthy beyond reason — they give their children everything. Perhaps even curses as toys. Perhaps even eternity.
For a fleeting moment, Suguru wondered about his parents. Were they alive? Were they as cursed as their son, or had the emperor already swallowed them whole?
The man before him leaned down, smile widening. “I am Gojo Satoru. But I imagine my name has reached you long before my face. Getou… or should I say, Gojo Suguru now?”
The title landed heavy, a chain already tightened. Suguru stumbled over his words. “Y-you may call me anything, your Majes—”
“Husband.”
The correction was immediate, sharp, yet delivered with a smile.
Suguru swallowed hard. “…Yes. Husband.”
A single finger traced his lip, down the curve of his cheek, then rested beneath his eye, as if marking him. Suguru’s heart thudded painfully in his chest, his hands tightening around Megumi hidden in his sleeve.
“I would have your makeup fixed,” Satoru murmured, his tone dipping briefly into dissatisfaction, “but… I want us wed as humanly possible.” His smile returned, wolfish.
Then his hand slid to grasp Suguru’s, engulfing it entirely. He tugged him forward, his grip both warm and inescapable.
“Come,” he said simply. “My people await.”
The door opened, and the pale-blue corridors stretched ahead, lantern light flickering against white walls. Suguru’s feet moved because they had no choice, each step carrying him closer to the crowd, to the ceremony, to the curse that had waited six long centuries to claim him.
The great doors of the palace groaned open, and Suguru was pulled into a sea of light and sound.
The courtyard below was flooded with people—lowborns and nobles alike pressed together, their cheers rising like a wave as soon as they caught sight of the emperor. “Long live His Majesty!” they shouted, their voices echoing against the pale stone walls. But Suguru could not tell if their cries were genuine or hollow. His gaze remained fixed on the polished tiles beneath his feet, refusing to give the crowd the satisfaction of his expression.
He felt the pressure of Gojo’s hand still enclosing his own, impossibly warm, dragging him forward as though he were no more than a ceremonial ornament. His nails dug lightly into Megumi’s soft ear, hidden within his sleeve, the only anchor he had.
The sky above was overcast, yet the banners of white and blue strung across the palace gates shone vividly. Incense burned in tall braziers, curling smoke into the air, carrying with it the scent of sandalwood and something metallic. He wondered bitterly if it was the smell of blood that lingered in this place, masked by perfume.
At the center of the courtyard, before the cheering masses, stood a raised dais draped in silks. Upon it rested an altar carved with lotus blossoms, the imperial crest etched deep into the stone. A priest in golden robes bowed low as the emperor ascended the steps, tugging Suguru along in his wake.
Suguru’s stomach lurched. He could feel every pair of eyes on him—the omega, the offering, the prize.
When they reached the altar, Gojo finally released his hand, only to place a firm grip on his shoulder, pressing him down to kneel beside him. Suguru obeyed, though his knees trembled against the cold stone.
“Today,” the priest’s voice rang out, solemn and rehearsed, “the line of heaven’s eyes binds itself to the chosen one, the omega born of mortal blood. By this union, fortune shall flow, and the empire shall prosper.”
Suguru bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. Fortune shall flow. As if I am livestock to be bred, a jewel to be traded.
He could hear the crowd erupting again, cheers of approval, of worship, of hunger for the spectacle.
The priest turned to him. “Do you, Getou Suguru, take His Majesty as your eternal lord and husband?”
Suguru’s throat burned. He wanted to spit, to scream, to demand why no one else had been condemned to this fate. But he could feel the emperor’s eyes on him, heavy, patient, expectant—as though he had all the centuries in the world to wait for this answer.
“I do,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind.
“And you, His Majesty, do you take this omega as your eternal spouse?”
Gojo’s lips curled into a slow grin. “For six hundred years, I have already done so.”
The priest faltered for only a moment before recovering and raising his arms. “Then by the blessing of the gods and the decree of heaven, let it be sealed.”
A ceremonial veil of white silk was draped over their shoulders, binding them together. The crowd roared with approval, the sound deafening, suffocating.
Suguru dared a glance upward. The emperor’s hand had already found his, fingers lacing tight, unyielding. His eyes gleamed with something inhuman, a blue too deep, too endless.
The bells rang, marking the end of the ritual. The empire cheered.
And Suguru could only feel the weight of shackles beneath the veil.
The feast hall was a cavern of opulence. Lanterns lined the tall beams, their golden glow spilling down across lacquered tables groaning under the weight of delicacies—roasted duck lacquered in honey, steaming bowls of rice and lotus root, whole fish glittering with scales of silver, endless trays of pickled vegetables, fruits carved into blossoms. The scent was overwhelming: sweet, oily, spiced with foreign herbs brought by tribute from conquered lands.
Musicians plucked at shamisen strings in the corner, their notes weaving through the hum of voices. Nobles from every corner of the empire lined the tables, their silks brighter than the banners overhead, their faces turned toward the newly bound pair. Every laugh, every whisper, seemed to slice Suguru’s ears.
He sat stiffly beside the emperor at the head table, his sleeves falling heavy in his lap. The veil had been removed, but its weight still lingered on his shoulders. He kept his head low, refusing to meet the hungry eyes that watched him.
Gojo, by contrast, was entirely at ease. He leaned against the armrest of his throne-like seat, one elbow propped up lazily, his long legs stretched out as though the empire itself were nothing more than his plaything. He accepted the ceremonial cup of sake with a faint smirk, lifting it in a mock-toast toward the nobles. The hall erupted in cheers at the gesture.
Suguru could feel the eyes returning to him. A cup of sake was pressed into his hands by a servant, the porcelain cool against his clammy skin. He hesitated.
“Drink,” Gojo’s voice cut through the hall, pitched low for his ears alone. There was no force in it, not yet, but the command sank into him nonetheless.
Suguru raised the cup, his hands trembling just slightly, and sipped. The liquid burned down his throat, bitter and sweet all at once. He set it down quickly, fingers tightening inside his sleeve where Megumi was hidden.
A noblewoman leaned forward from the tables below, her face painted flawlessly, her voice sweet as syrup. “His Majesty has chosen a beautiful empress. Surely the gods have smiled upon us all.”
More voices joined in, praising his beauty, his fortune, his new duty. Words that felt like needles.
Suguru forced the faintest smile, lowering his head in a shallow nod, though bile churned in his stomach. He thought of his mother’s eyes, cold and calculating, of his father’s silence. They would call this honor. They would call me ungrateful for not smiling wider.
Gojo chuckled softly beside him, the sound carrying far enough for the nearest tables to hear. “Of course he’s beautiful,” he said, his tone infuriatingly casual, as though commenting on the weather. “Do you think I would have waited six centuries for anything less?”
The hall erupted in laughter, toasts raised, the people drinking as though the words were some grand jest. Suguru’s hands curled into fists beneath the table. Six centuries. What could that possibly mean? He dared not ask—not here.
As the musicians shifted to a livelier song, dancers spilled into the hall, their robes swirling like flames. The nobles clapped in rhythm, the feast descending into revelry. Yet Suguru felt none of it, only the suffocating closeness of the emperor’s presence beside him.
Gojo leaned in, his lips brushing close to Suguru’s ear, unseen by anyone else. His voice was soft, coaxing, almost indulgent.
“Smile a little wider, my bride. They want to see how lucky I am.”
Suguru’s jaw tightened. He kept his face angled down, lips pressed thin, refusing to give the man—or the crowd—that satisfaction.
Gojo only smirked, leaning back into his seat, his long fingers drumming lazily against the table.
The feast raged on, but for Suguru, every bite of food, every laugh, every cheer felt like a nail sealing his coffin shut.
Suguru had lost count of the courses. The table before him was a battlefield of untouched food, bowls and platters replenished the moment they were cleared. The nobles devoured everything with greedy ease, their laughter rising in drunken waves.
He had forced himself to swallow only a few bites. Each morsel seemed to turn to ash on his tongue, lodging like a stone in his throat. Even sake did little to dull the bitterness, though he kept the cup near his lips to avoid more attention.
But attention came regardless.
“My, such delicate hands,” one elder noble crooned across the table. His sharp little eyes flicked to Gojo with a sly smile. “His Majesty has chosen a flower too rare for these mortal gardens.”
Another chimed in, her voice sugary but her words cutting. “A flower, yes, but perhaps one too fragile. Will it endure the storms of the imperial court, I wonder?”
Soft chuckles rippled down the line of seats.
Suguru lowered his gaze, fingers tightening beneath his sleeves until his nails pressed crescents into his palms. He wanted to spit venom, to call them jackals in brocade, but his tongue stayed leashed.
Gojo didn’t miss the exchange. He leaned forward leisurely, one elbow still propped on the armrest, sake cup dangling from his long fingers. His grin widened, teeth glinting sharp in the lanternlight.
“Fragile? Mm… you mistake him. Flowers bloom best with the right hands to tend them.” His gaze slid to Suguru, slow and deliberate, before returning to the nobles. “And my hands do not falter.”
A roar of laughter went up again, louder this time, sake sloshing, sleeves swaying as cups were raised.
Suguru’s ears burned crimson. He wanted to vanish, to tear himself away from the smothering spectacle. Instead, he shifted his hand under the table until his fingers brushed the hidden plush tucked in his sleeve. He squeezed Megumi tightly, grounding himself in the rabbit’s worn cotton.
Another noble—a man with a foxlike grin—bowed from across the hall. “Then we shall trust His Majesty to nurture his new bride. May the empire prosper under such a union!”
The hall erupted in cheers, voices blending into a thunderous wall of sound.
Suguru could feel it pressing against him, suffocating. He sipped the sake again, not to please them, but to drown the tremor rising in his throat.
The dancers spun faster now, sleeves and skirts blurring into rivers of color. The musicians’ strings thrummed like heartbeats, the air thick with the stench of roasted meats, incense, sweat, and sake. It was dizzying.
Suguru closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. But even there, behind the dark of his lashes, he felt Gojo’s gaze burning.
The emperor was already observing when he opened them again, his chin resting languidly in his palm like a cat enjoying the sight of its cornered prey.
Gojo let the revelry stretch just long enough for Suguru to think he might drown in it—then, suddenly, he stood.
The room silenced in an instant, as though breath itself had been stolen. All eyes turned to the emperor.
Gojo lifted his cup once more, blue eyes gleaming under the lanternlight. His voice rang out clear, smooth, unhurried:
“My people, tonight you have witnessed history. Your emperor has taken his empress.”
A deafening cheer rose like a tidal wave, crashing over the hall. Gojo drank deeply, draining the cup, and then set it down with a soft clink.
He glanced to Suguru, one corner of his mouth curling upward. Then, without breaking that gaze, he spoke again—loud enough for all to hear:
“And now, my empress and I shall retire.”
The crowd roared, laughter and clapping swelling like thunder.
Suguru’s blood ran cold. His body froze even as Gojo’s long fingers brushed against his hand beneath the table, possessive, inevitable.
The feast did not end. It simply blurred into chaos behind him, fading into noise, as the emperor rose to claim what had been promised.
When Gojo stood, the hall opened up like the sea, with aristocrats bowing their heads as if in prayer. The musicians hesitated, then stopped completely, leaving a strange silence.
At first, Suguru did not rise. His legs were immobile and felt like they were carved out of stone. The stitched ears of the little rabbit dug into his wrist as he tightened his grip on Megumi under his sleeve. He felt even more dread at the prospect of leaving the dazzling chaos of the feast behind because the emperor's chambers were the one place he could not flee.
Gojo’s hand came to rest against his shoulder. A deceptively light touch. But to Suguru it felt like the weight of chains.
“Come, little bride,” the emperor murmured, tone smooth and unyielding.
Suguru forced himself to stand after swallowing, his throat raw. Every step he took was heavy and precise, the silk of his robes rustling against the polished floors. Even though he was aware of the nobles' gazes piercing him like spears, he dared not look up at them. Some watched with scorn, some with a hunger that made his skin crawl, and most of them were omegan nobles and heirs who wished they were in his place rather than a lowborn ingrate.
He hated them. He hated his family. He hated himself.
But most of all, he hated the tall figure walking beside him, white robes gliding effortlessly, stride as casual as though he were not dragging another soul to their own execution.
The great doors of the hall swung open, attendants bowing low as the emperor and his new empress passed. The cheers behind them muffled into the night air, but still followed like a haunting echo. Suguru longed to turn, to see the garden once more, to search for some corner of beauty to cling to. But he knew better.
His body carried him forward, though his spirit screamed for stillness. The lanterns lining the corridor cast pools of golden light that stretched into the distance. The silence between them was unbearable. Suguru could hear only the faint rustle of robes, the click of Gojo’s sandals, and the beating of his own heart.
Every step was a death sentence counted aloud.
At last, they reached the end of the corridor where another set of doors loomed tall, lacquered black and gilded with the crest of the Gojo line. Two guards stepped aside without a word, lowering their heads. The doors opened wide.
At the threshold, Suguru froze. Inside, the air was thicker, sweeter, and slightly scented with incense. It pricked his senses and induced instincts he hated. It must be an aphrodisiac. His body was aware of it. It was feared by his body.
Gojo’s hand returned, this time taking his own, fingers long and steady, grip unbreakable.
“My bride,” the emperor whispered, voice curling like smoke into Suguru’s ear. “Do not falter now.”
And with that, Suguru was pulled inside.
The doors slammed shut behind them.
The chamber was vast, but Suguru felt suffocated. The walls seemed to close in with every heartbeat, though he knew it was the figure at his side that robbed the air from his lungs. He flinched when Gojo’s fingers brushed the clasp of his robe. With one languid tug, the silk slid from his shoulders, spilling soundlessly to the polished floor in a dark pool. Suguru clenched his fists, fighting the urge to cover himself, though the under-robe still shielded most of his form.
The brush of lips against his neck startled him, softer than he had braced for. Too soft. That was what terrified him most—Gojo wasn’t cruel, not outwardly. No, the curse’s gentleness felt deliberate, practiced, like a hunter stroking a hare's soft fur before snapping its neck. His breath caught when the kiss traveled lower, grazing the slope of his shoulder.
“I was wondering what you were fidgeting with,” Gojo murmured, his words vibrating against Suguru’s skin.
Suguru stiffened as the emperor leaned, pale eyes flicking down. His secret, the one comfort he clung to, was no longer hidden. The small, worn rabbit was half-crushed in his grip, ears bent from his frantic clutch. He hugged it tighter, as if the cotton thing could shield him from the world.
“I—I’m sorry, your ma—” The correction tangled in his throat. “...Husband…” His voice cracked, and he winced at the way it sounded: small, weak, his omega nature betraying him.
Gojo hummed, pleased, as though the word itself was a caress. With care that mocked his terror, he pried Suguru’s fingers open one by one. The rabbit slipped free from his grasp. He watched helplessly as Gojo placed it gently upon the bed, as though honoring it. Yet the loss of it hollowed him.
The silence stretched until Gojo’s hand slid lower, cupping the flat of Suguru’s stomach with unnerving familiarity. His thumb traced lazy circles over the spot where his womb lay, buried and unseen, yet made a target by the very hand that touched him.
“Are you afraid, Suguru?” The emperor’s voice was quiet, lilting, though there was steel beneath it.
Suguru’s lips parted, trembling. The truth forced itself out before he could cage it.
“Deathly…” he whispered, the word cracking like brittle porcelain.
A low chuckle rumbled from Gojo’s chest, reverberating against Suguru’s back as he leaned closer, breath ghosting his ear. His hand never left Suguru’s stomach, heavy, claiming.
“Good,” Gojo said softly. “Then you understand the weight of what you are to me.”
Suguru shook uncontrollably as Satoru’s calloused hands traced across his body, every touch sparking an unwanted fire that made his stomach twist. Pleasure warred with revulsion, his own omega nature betraying him as slick gathered, perfuming the air with a sweetness he despised. His chest heaved, desperate to cry out, yet no sound came—only silence, as though fear itself had stolen his voice. He was prey caught in the coils of a predator, powerless while the emperor explored his trembling flesh.
Fingers drifted lower, brushing his wet folds, and a strangled whimper slipped from Suguru’s lips. Satoru chuckled, a dark sound that rumbled from deep in his chest. “Your body is far more honest than your tongue, little fox,” he drawled, cruel amusement threading his tone. “It knows to yield, even if your mind resists.”
Humiliation scorched through Suguru. He tried to shut himself away, to press his thighs together, but Satoru’s hands clamped hard at his hips, keeping him spread wide. “Please…” Suguru gasped, the plea breaking apart on his tongue. For what—mercy? Completion? He no longer knew. His thoughts tangled, unraveling under the haze of sensation.
When Satoru’s thumb circled the nub of his clit, Suguru cried out, back arching helplessly as ecstasy cut through his dread. His cock throbbed, leaking, betraying him further, while the heat of Satoru’s own arousal pressed threateningly against him. Fear clawed up his ribs, his womb spasming with a hollow ache that terrified him.
“I thought you wanted to kill me,” Suguru rasped, voice torn and shaking. “Not…” He couldn’t finish, couldn’t shape the words for the obscenity that trembled in his mind.
Sharp teeth grazed his throat, the emperor’s smirk hot against his pulse. “Kill you?” he purred. “No, my bride. I’ve waited too long for you. You are to bear my children.”
Suguru’s whole body shuddered at the promise. The words were worse than any blade, a declaration of the future he couldn’t escape—bred like a beast, bound to the emperor’s will. Horror gripped him, but so too did a shameful pulse of heat, an instinctual thrill that curled low in his belly.
No… gods, no. His body betrayed him again, clenching in anticipation even as his mind recoiled. He prayed desperately that he might endure the act without breaking entirely, that his body might survive what it was never meant to withstand. Yet the darker part of him—an omega’s treacherous core—answered the call, keening for completion, aching to be filled.
Satoru’s fingers pressed inside him, drawing a strangled moan from Suguru’s throat. His hips jerked traitorously into the touch, desperate though he loathed himself for it.
Suguru shuddered and whimpered as Gojo’s hands roamed his body with a terrifying familiarity, every touch sinking like claws beneath his skin. He felt defiled, laid bare, his most sacred places claimed by the emperor’s ruthless fingers. “Please, husband,” he choked, the hated title catching in his throat, “I am untouched. I know nothing of… of bedding an alpha.” His toes curled, nails digging crescents into the sheets as if the fabric could anchor him against the tide of dread and the betrayal of his own body.
Gojo hummed, a low, velvety sound that slithered down Suguru’s spine. “Untouched?” he repeated, as though savoring the revelation. His lips curved in a smile Suguru couldn’t see but could feel like teeth at his throat. “How exquisite. My bride, still unspoiled. Do not fear, little fox. I will teach you how to please your emperor.”
His fingers teased lower, parting Suguru’s slick folds with a maddening patience, stroking until Suguru squirmed against his will. A gasp tore from him, his back arching as unwanted pleasure sliced through the haze of terror. His cock pulsed, dripping steadily, betraying his shame with every bead that wet his stomach. Behind him, he felt the heavy heat of Gojo’s own erection, pressing, looming, promising a claiming that would leave no part of him untouched. His womb clenched in terror—and in a shameful ache he despised.
“I… I am not a toy for you to break!” Suguru cried, voice trembling as his body leaned traitorously into the alpha’s touch. “You cannot just—just—” His words faltered, unable to name the violation he knew was coming. He was lowborn, disgraced, unworthy of any alpha’s desire, let alone the emperor’s. How could such hunger be directed at him?
Gojo’s laugh was dark, cutting, cruel. “Cannot I?” he purred against Suguru’s ear, hot breath making his skin crawl. “You are mine. My omega, my bride, my possession. There is nothing I cannot take.” To seal the words, he thrust two fingers deep into Suguru’s tight heat. The sudden invasion ripped a cry from his lips, his walls spasming desperately around the intrusion.
Tears stung his eyes as he trembled, the burn of the stretch fighting with the dizzying sparks of pleasure it dragged out of him. He was so tight, so virginal, every inch resisting even as instinct screamed to yield. “Please, husband,” he whimpered, his hips twitching in confusion, torn between the instinct to flee and the primal pull to be filled. “It hurts…”
“Shh,” Gojo soothed mockingly, pumping his fingers in a steady rhythm, stretching him further. “It will hurt, yes—but then it will feel good. And when it does, you will beg. You will crave my cock, my knot, my seed. You will beg to be bred, little fox.”
Suguru let out a broken sound, caught between a sob and a moan, his body trembling beneath the emperor’s weight. He knew, with dreadful certainty, that Gojo spoke truth. His body would betray him, would learn to crave this, to yield, to obey. Already his traitorous walls fluttered around the fingers curling inside him, milking them shamelessly as if pleading for more.
When Gojo brushed that secret spot within him, Suguru cried out again, stars bursting behind his eyes. His cock throbbed, leaking helplessly, shame burning hotter than any flame. He prayed to gods that felt impossibly far away—that he might endure the night, that he might survive the ruin of his innocence.
But as Gojo worked him open, as his body canted and clenched and keened despite his protests, Suguru knew he was already lost. His body was no longer his own. He belonged to the emperor now, utterly, completely, inescapably. And the worst of it—the part that gutted him most—was the dark, traitorous part of his soul that wanted it.
Suguru whimpered, fingers clawing at Gojo’s wrists in a futile attempt to pull them away. “Please—” The plea broke off into a strangled choke as a large hand clamped around his throat. His air vanished, cut off as the emperor’s fingers plunged faster and deeper into his slick heat. The obscene sound of it filled the chamber, wet and unrelenting.
“Did I not tell you to be silent?” Gojo murmured against his ear, voice a lazy rumble edged with steel.
Suguru squeaked, body seizing as panic collided with the blinding sparks of unwanted pleasure. His back arched sharply, his toes curling as a sudden, humiliating climax tore through him. Slick gushed between his thighs, wetting the emperor’s hand. He squirted, his body betraying him in the most shameful way. Only when he was trembling and broken open did Gojo’s grip finally relent.
Suguru gulped down air in greedy, wheezing gasps, coughing until his throat burned. Tears blurred his vision. “Please…” he rasped, his voice hoarse, but the plea was swallowed by fear when something thick and hot pressed heavily against his folds.
Gojo leaned close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Did I not tell you to be silent, little fox?” His voice was deceptively soft, but the weight of command beneath it made Suguru’s blood run cold. “You would do well to heed your emperor’s words.”
“Y-yes, husband,” Suguru gasped out, nodding frantically. His voice cracked, small and weak. “I am sorry… I will be good.” The words tasted like ash, humiliating on his tongue. Yet he forced them out, knowing obedience was his only fragile shield.
Gojo rewarded him with the lightest press of lips against his cheek. A fleeting kiss, almost tender. The confusing brush of affection made Suguru’s chest ache with something he dared not name—fearful hope that maybe, if he obeyed perfectly, Gojo’s cruelty would not consume him whole.
But that fragile thought shattered as the broad head of Gojo’s cock nudged against his entrance. The thickness of it dwarfed the stretch of fingers, hot and unyielding as it pressed into his slick folds. Suguru’s breath hitched sharply, terror and shame curling together like knives in his belly.
His womb fluttered traitorously, clenching at the promise of being filled. His body wanted, even as his heart recoiled. He squeezed his eyes shut, fresh tears leaking down his flushed cheeks.
Gojo chuckled low, savoring the sight of him trembling. “Such a pretty little vessel,” he murmured, guiding the heavy length against Suguru’s entrance with agonizing patience. “Do you feel it, bride? Your body already begs for me.”
“No…” Suguru whispered, shaking his head weakly. “Please, I’m not ready, I—I—” His words dissolved into a broken cry as pressure gave way to burning stretch. The crown of Gojo’s cock breached him, forcing his virgin body open around the impossible girth.
Every muscle locked tight, his nails tearing into the sheets as his body shuddered under the violation. Pain lanced sharp and hot through him, but beneath it—horribly—came the sparks of relief, of instinct, of a deep omega pull that craved what was happening.
Gojo hushed him with another squeeze of his throat, cutting his protests into strangled gasps. “You are ready,” he said simply, mercilessly. “You were made for this. Made for me.”
Suguru sobbed silently, tears streaking down his face as the emperor pushed deeper, inexorable and unyielding. Each inch stole another piece of him, yet his body clenched greedily, slick pouring from him in humiliating excess. He was drowning, lost to terror and sensation, yet powerless to resist.
As Gojo bottomed out with a satisfied groan, Suguru could only pray—to gods who felt cruelly deaf—that he would survive the night.
It hurt. Gods, it hurt.
Suguru’s cry broke into a thin, agonized whine as the emperor pushed slowly, inexorably deeper into his untouched body. The stretch was unbearable, burning, as if Gojo’s cock would split him in two. His fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles whitening, but the bed offered no escape. Inch by thick inch, the alpha forced his way inside, and all Suguru could do was writhe beneath him.
Gojo kissed the bruises blooming along his throat, lips deceptively soft as they pressed to the trembling skin. His tongue traced the line of Suguru’s scent gland before dragging a slow, possessive lick over it. The touch made Suguru shudder, his body sparking with reluctant pleasure even as it convulsed around the intrusion.
“Ahhh… h-husband…” Suguru gasped, his voice breaking around the hated word. Tears spilled freely down his cheeks, dampening the pillow. The pain was overwhelming, blinding—but beneath it, traitorous shivers of pleasure tangled through his core. His cock throbbed against his belly, leaking in spite of his shame.
“Shh, little one.” Gojo’s voice was a low rumble, a dark, soothing purr against his ear. He kissed the corner of Suguru’s jaw as though offering comfort, even as his hips pressed deeper. “You’re doing so well for me. Taking me beautifully. Such a good little omega… my omega.”
The words curled like smoke in his mind, coaxing his instincts to unfurl. His sex clenched helplessly around Gojo’s length, slick dripping down his thighs in humiliating excess. He wanted to scream that he wasn’t eager, that he wasn’t obedient—but his body told a different story.
The final thrust seated Gojo fully inside him, pelvis pressed firm against Suguru’s ass. The stretch felt impossible; his belly bulged faintly, distended by the sheer size. The pain was searing, but beneath it lay something worse—a deep, shameful fullness that his body embraced.
Suguru sobbed softly, clinging to the sheets. He felt stuffed, overfilled, violated. And yet his inner walls fluttered greedily, holding the alpha in place as though begging him not to leave.
Gojo chuckled low, satisfied. “Perfect,” he murmured, kissing Suguru’s temple. “So tight, so sweet. You were made for this, weren’t you?” His hand slid to Suguru’s stomach, palm pressing against the bulge his cock created. “Look how well you take me. You’ll be beautiful carrying my children.”
Suguru’s eyes flew wide, horror flooding him at the words. He shook his head weakly, but the motion was betrayed by the whimper that escaped when Gojo shifted his hips, rocking slowly, deliberately inside him. The drag of thick flesh against his stretched walls made stars burst behind his eyelids.
“N-no… I can’t… I’m not…” The protest crumbled into a strangled moan as his womb clenched tight around the intruder, instinct welcoming the very thing his heart rejected.
Gojo only hushed him with a soft kiss to his damp cheek. “Don’t think, little fox. Just feel.”
And then he began to move—slow, patient thrusts that wrung cries from Suguru’s throat. Each roll of his hips forced more slick to gush from the omega’s body, proof of betrayal staining the sheets. Pain and pleasure blurred together until Suguru could no longer tell them apart.
He was filled, stretched, claimed. His body was no longer his own.
Suguru knew, with a hollow certainty, that he would never leave this chamber unchanged. He was marked, bound, owned. His body trembled, his mind fractured, and yet—horribly—his omega instincts purred under the dominance, clinging to the emperor’s heat.
All he could do was whimper, shake, and pray the gods would grant him the strength to endure.
He was Gojo’s now. Utterly. Completely.
Suguru let out a shaky, drawn-out moan as his body slowly began to adjust to the massive intrusion stretching him open. The pain dulled into a deep, throbbing ache, his slick flowing faster now, coating his thighs and Gojo’s pelvis in a humiliating mess. Every push forward made the obscene squelch of his cunt louder, every retreat left him clenching helplessly around the emperor’s cock.
“Gods…” he whimpered, arching when calloused fingers brushed his swollen clit. The rough pads rubbed tight, deliberate circles, forcing his body to spark alive with reluctant pleasure. His cunt twitched and fluttered, betraying him, growing softer, greedier, as if it was begging to be split again and again.
Gojo’s thrusts steadied into a merciless rhythm, deep and claiming, his voice a low rumble against Suguru’s ear. “Listen to yourself,” he drawled, hips snapping forward with a wet smack. “Soaked… so sloppy already. My little bride can’t even take a cock without dripping like this?”
Suguru’s eyes widened, shame burning hot under his skin. “N-no… I—ahhh!” His denial was ripped apart when Gojo’s thumb pressed harder into his clit, forcing a strangled moan from his throat.
“That’s the truth, isn’t it?” Gojo pressed, his words weaving around Suguru like chains. “Your body loves this. Loves me. You can lie with your pretty lips all you want, but your cunt…” He gave a sharp thrust, grinding deep inside, “your cunt is honest. Always begging.”
Suguru shook his head weakly, tears streaking his cheeks, though his hips betrayed him by rocking back into each punishing stroke. “H-husband… please, I—”
“Please what?” Gojo interrupted smoothly, breath hot and commanding. “Please stop? Or please more? You don’t even know, do you?” His tone softened just enough to sting with false sweetness. “Poor little thing… so confused, so overwhelmed. But I’ll make it simple for you.”
He leaned down, kissing Suguru’s tear-stained cheek before growling against his scent gland. “You were made for this. For me. Your body exists to take your emperor’s cock, to keep me satisfied. Every whimper, every tear, every drop of slick proves it. Isn’t that right, my little fox?”
Suguru let out a broken sob, his walls tightening in betrayal around the knot swelling at his entrance. His heart thundered in his chest—shame, fear, and something darker twisting together until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
Gojo’s thrusts slowed, grinding deep as if to savor the way Suguru pulsed around him. His fingers never left his clit, coaxing sparks of unwilling pleasure until Suguru was trembling, gasping, completely unraveling. “Say it,” Gojo urged, voice calm but laced with iron. “Say you’re mine. Say you belong here, under me, with me inside you.”
Suguru’s throat closed around the words, shame and pride fighting to the bitter end, but his body… his body had already betrayed him. His slick dripped steadily, his cock leaked untouched between their bodies, his cunt clenched desperately as if begging to keep its tormentor buried inside.
Gojo chuckled darkly, nipping at his neck. “That’s fine. You don’t have to say it yet. Your body already has.”
And with that, he rolled his hips, pressing his thick knot harder at Suguru’s rim, intent on forcing his claim deeper, making it impossible to deny.
Gojo’s thrusts turned deliberate, brutal in their depth, the swell of his knot grinding insistently at Suguru’s rim. Each push forced a helpless cry from the omega’s throat, his body shuddering and clenching around the intrusion that threatened to lock them together forever.
“Say it,” Gojo ordered, voice steady and sharp as steel. His fingers still worked Suguru’s clit mercilessly, dragging him closer and closer to the edge. “Say you’re mine.”
Suguru shook his head weakly, tears spilling fresh. “I… I c-can’t—ahhh!” The protest dissolved into a keening moan as Gojo slammed forward, his knot wedging harder, stretching him wider.
“You can,” Gojo countered smoothly, tone almost tender. He kissed along Suguru’s wet cheek, his jaw, the pulse thundering in his throat. “You will. Because it’s the truth. Every inch of you belongs to me—your body, your heat, even these tears.” His tongue darted out to lick one away, savoring the salt like a victory. “Especially your cunt, squeezing me so sweetly. Begging.”
Suguru’s walls spasmed violently at the words, his cock spurting weakly between their bodies. The shame of it cracked something inside him, and when Gojo ground in again, forcing the swollen knot halfway past his trembling rim, Suguru broke.
“I-I’m yours!” he cried, the words raw, strangled. “I’m yours, husband, please—ahhh, please!”
Gojo’s answering growl was low and triumphant. With a final, crushing thrust, he forced his knot past the resistance, locking them together. Suguru screamed, back arching violently as the thick bulb stretched him wide and lodged deep, sealing them in an unbreakable bond.
Immediately, he felt it—the hot flood of Gojo’s release, thick and endless, pouring straight into his womb. Rope after rope of molten seed painted his insides, the force of it making his belly swell faintly, making him feel utterly filled, utterly owned. His cunt milked it greedily, convulsing around the knot with instinctive submission, wringing his alpha for every drop.
Suguru sobbed, but it was no longer pain alone. The claiming lit up something primal inside him, a deep, hidden part of his omega core that purred in surrender. His thighs trembled, slick dripping down in a mess, but his mind… his mind was floating.
Gojo nuzzled against his scent gland, licking possessively, soothing the bruises he had marked earlier. “There you are,” he murmured, almost fond. “My good little bride. My sweet omega. You were made for this, weren’t you?”
Suguru sighed, a soft, shuddering exhale that melted into a contented hum. The ache and burn of the knot became a dull throb, bearable under the warmth of Gojo’s weight and the soothing dominance in his voice. His inner omega purred, tamed and content, and he could only yield—soft, pliant, adoring.
Gentle kisses rained along his cheek, his jaw, his temple, each one sealing the claim. Suguru’s hazy eyes fluttered open just long enough to meet his husband’s gaze, wide and reverent. “H-husband…” he whispered, voice cracked but full of awe. “Thank you… for claiming me.”
The words surprised even him, but once spoken, they felt right. A prayer. A vow.
Gojo chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to his damp hairline. His seed still pumped lazily into Suguru’s womb, his knot locked tight. “Spoiled little thing,” he teased, a touch of warmth under the dominance. “Falling asleep already, when we’ve only just begun.”
Suguru’s only answer was a blissful sigh, his body sinking deeper into the bed, into his alpha’s embrace. He was floating, the world distant, his mind fogged by heat and exhaustion and the overwhelming certainty of belonging. For the first time, he felt safe. Secure. Whole.
He was Gojo’s. Entirely. And as the emperor’s heartbeat lulled him into sleep, Suguru’s lips curved in a faint, secret smile. He would be good. He would learn. He would endure. He would be the best bride Gojo had ever had.
And with that final thought, he slipped into the darkness of sleep, pliant in his husband’s arms.
Suguru woke with a start, his body jerking upright as if he’d just remembered where he was. A sharp hiss left his lips as soreness rippled through every inch of him. His legs felt like lead, his hips protested even the smallest movement, and his throat was scratchy as though he’d swallowed gravel.
But oddly enough, he also felt… refreshed. Rested. Alive.
Gojo hadn’t eaten his insides during the night—though, Suguru thought bitterly, the emperor had certainly eaten him in another way altogether. He groaned and hunched over, burying his face in his hands as the vivid memories of last night crashed through him.
The sheets smelled unmistakably of both their scents, a heady blend of alpha musk and his own slick. They’d been changed, he realized, the blankets freshly laid, his body scrubbed clean. He froze.
Gojo must have bathed him.
The image made Suguru’s face burn scarlet. Him, limp as a ragdoll, floating in steaming water while the emperor’s strong hands rinsed and touched every part of him… He buried his face deeper in his palms and groaned. “I’m such a harlot…”
He dared a glance down at himself. His chest was covered in red bites, his throat mottled with angry marks, his skin sore to the touch. And below the waist? He wasn’t even going to describe that mess. He pouted, lips pulling into a miserable little curve, before sighing so dramatically that it echoed in the chamber.
Had Gojo kissed and bitten him in his sleep too? He must have. The nerve. The audacity.
Suguru flopped back into the pillows, staring up at the carved ceiling. “Does this mean I’m pregnant already?” he muttered to himself, voice high-pitched with nervous energy. He’d been taught the mechanics of childbearing, of course, but how fast did it work? Would he wake up with a round belly tomorrow? The thought made him squirm anxiously, pressing his hands over his stomach as though waiting for it to move.
His mind spiraled. He was a whore, a harlot, a spoiled bride who moaned like a courtesan on his first night. And now he might be pregnant too. What a record.
He sighed again, puffing his cheeks out this time. “So boring…” His eyes shifted toward the sunlight filtering through the tall windows, catching sight of the sprawling gardens beyond. Bright flowers, glittering fountains, and neatly trimmed hedges beckoned him like a forbidden paradise.
“Yes,” Suguru whispered to himself, sitting up with a determined pout. “I’ll explore the gardens. Better than sitting here waiting to be eaten alive again.”
His legs wobbled when he tried to stand, the soreness making him wince and hobble like an old man. “Gods, I can’t walk like this…” he grumbled, half-laughing at his own pathetic state.
And yet, he shuffled toward the wardrobe with as much dignity as he could muster. If he was going to sneak into the gardens, he’d do it looking presentable—bite marks and ruined innocence or not.
Suguru hummed softly as he pulled open the massive wardrobe, eyes widening at the sea of fabric within. Silks, brocades, velvets—garments so refined he was almost afraid to touch them. His fingers trailed reverently over embroidered hems before stopping on a robe of deep violet, its golden etchings glinting like fire in the light. “Mmm. This one doesn’t look too ridiculous,” he muttered, tugging it free with more force than necessary.
Before he dressed, his gaze fell to the bedside where his rabbit plush lay abandoned. He gasped. “Megumi!” He picked it up quickly, brushing invisible dust from its ears with all the indignation of a wronged mother hen. “How dare he throw you like that? Hmph. Discarding my baby so rudely…” His lips pulled into a pout as he smoothed down the rabbit’s fur, then tucked it safely under the sleeve of his robe like contraband. “Don’t worry, Megumi. I’ll protect you from that brute.”
Once satisfied, he slipped from his chamber, his soft footsteps muffled by the grand carpets lining the halls. The palace was eerily quiet compared to last night. Where before there had been celebration, laughter, music, now there was a hush that made the air feel heavy.
He caught glimpses of servants here and there, their hushed voices cutting off the moment their eyes landed on him. Every time, they bowed, silent and stiff. Suguru said nothing in return. What could he say? Chastise them? That would only paint him as a lowborn omega with too much pride. Cry to Satoru? Then he’d only earn whispers of being a whore. He clenched Megumi tighter under his sleeve, lips pursing as he marched on with forced dignity.
At last, the garden doors opened before him, and Suguru gasped aloud. The sight stole his breath. It was far lovelier in person than he’d imagined. lush trees, flowering vines tumbling over carved trellises, fountains that glittered like liquid diamonds, and the sweet scent of blossoms drifting on the breeze.
Childlike delight bloomed in his chest, and he quickened his pace, practically scampering across the path until he reached the pond. Without a second thought, he dropped to his knees at the edge, rolling up his golden-etched sleeves with clumsy urgency. He stepped into the water, yelping at the freezing cold as it bit at his calves.
“Oh!” He laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head, but he didn’t leave. His lower robes darkened as the water crept higher, soaking the expensive fabric, but he only shrugged. “Satoru can replace them. If he’s rich enough to ruin me, he’s rich enough to replace a robe.”
Crouching low, he leaned forward, hands outstretched as little fish darted beneath the surface, their scales flashing like tiny coins. Frogs leapt from lilypads to escape him, splashing ripples across the pond. Suguru giggled under his breath, sleeves dripping, hair falling loose around his face.
Suguru stayed crouched in the pond, sleeves dripping as he cupped his hands toward a darting fish. His laughter was soft, almost secret, and for a moment he forgot himself. But the spell shattered at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from behind.
He startled violently, like a rabbit hearing the snap of a twig. His wide eyes snapped up to see Satoru standing at the edge of the garden path, arms crossed loosely, his expression carved into that infuriatingly amused smirk.
“Playing fisherman, little fox?” Gojo drawled, voice smooth as silk. “Out of the pond, now. You’ll catch cold.”
Suguru blinked up at him, heart hammering. For a fleeting, strange moment, he felt something he almost never dared—anger. His lips moved before his brain caught up, mumbling, “I don’t want to…”
Satoru’s head tilted, pale hair falling into his eyes, sharp and curious. “What was that?” His voice was light, but it had the weight of steel beneath it. He’d heard every word. Suguru knew it. But of course, the emperor wanted him to squirm, to repeat himself.
Suguru swallowed, raising his chin in a small show of disobedience.“I said… I want to play a little longer.”
The curse’s chuckle rumbled low in his chest as he dismissed the words with a wave of his hand. “Enough. You’ll need to be clean and presentable for our outing tonight. My empress cannot be seen like some..." he looked Suguru up and down." ...dripping street urchin. You are mine, and you will look the part: demure and sophisticated.”
The reprimand stung worse than the cold pond water. Suguru’s shoulders stiffened. He turned his face away, lips pressing into a tight line before the words slipped out sharp and reckless:
“Then perhaps my emperor should’ve been untouched and pure for his omega, instead of bedding the head maiden, Chiyo.”
The world seemed to stop. Even the pond stilled, as if nature itself was shocked into silence. Suguru’s heart plummeted. His eyes widened. What had he just said?
He spun, trying to retreat deeper into the pond, but he barely made it a step before a strong hand seized his wrist. He yelped, shrieking as Gojo yanked him bodily from the water, robes clinging and dripping. Panic burst from his chest as he stumbled against the alpha’s towering frame.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, husband!” he pleaded frantically, words tumbling over themselves. “I-I didn’t mean it, it’s just- maybe I’m pregnant already and the baby made me angry!”
That gave Gojo pause. And then—he laughed. A real laugh, rich and sharp, echoing through the garden. Suguru blinked up, cheeks burning scarlet. Had he said something foolish?
“Pregnant already?” Gojo wiped at a tear in his eye, still chuckling. “Ah, conception doesn’t work quite so fast. It will take months for our child to grow inside you.” he poked the omegas flat tummy.
Suguru’s stomach twisted. He lowered his gaze, mumbling an apology, his cheeks still hot.
The emperor leaned down, catching his lips in a firm kiss that silenced him. When he pulled back, his expression was softened, but his words Dripped with warning. “Next time, little bride, I won’t be so lenient.”
Then, in the same breath, he gathered Suguru against his chest, one large hand stroking through the raven strands of his hair. His tone shifted again, smooth, almost casual: “We’ll have dinner first, then we’ll go out. You’ll look lovely by my side.”
Suguru hesitated, then returned the embrace slowly, shyly. It had been so long since he’d been held like this—warmth and strength surrounding him, a steady heartbeat in his ear. He wanted to melt into it. But beneath that calm, he could feel Satoru’s jaw clenching and unclenching, the subtle hum of suppressed anger thrumming in his chest.
Suguru clutched him tighter, a small, instinctive plea for safety. But a heavy dread settled in his stomach, a whisper of intuition that tonight’s dinner would not be a simple outing.