pet peeve is when you look up fashion references from a specific era and you keep getting modern day '[era]-inspired' fashion like NO i want authenticity damn it. i can see your 2020 photo quality and your 2020 hair and your 2020 makeup. youre not fooling me.
hello i'm a historical fashion researcher and i have a lot of experience looking up things! this is a very widely experienced irritation and you're definitely not alone in this, but i am here to share everything i know!
so, ways to get around this:
turn off AI results. they're literally nonsense to us
don't use pinterest because the sources/provenance is often hard to trace
a standard internet search can be okay, but museum collections are the top tier (list of collections below this list)
instead of broad terms like victorian, regency, tudor, renaissance etc. try using the decade you're looking for. if you're not sure of what decade it is but have a vague image in your head, look on the fashion history timeline and just jump around until you find it. but even changing to e.g. 19th century will give better results than victorian
including terms like womenswear/menswear, daywear, formal wear, evening wear, court dress should increase the value of your search too
including "fashion plates" in your search can give you a nice impression of the intended silhouettes of the era. some of these might be a little stylised but will show you what was considered in vogue
for pre-fashion plate eras or things like makeup and styling, you'll have to look at portraiture or manuscripts. these are harder to actually find what you're looking for, but searching museum collections and limiting results to specific date ranges will be your friend
when looking at art, do bear in mind sometimes artists would paint fabric extra flow-y to show off their skills. it might not have been exactly like that in terms of fabric weight or drape. so, a pinch of salt required!
if you find something on image search where the provenance is dubious, reverse image search and you might find a source! i've been able to trace random pinterest images to real sources, but this does take a lot of time and effort and is often not worth the headache
some online resources and museum collections:
fashion history timeline is an invaluable resource if you're trying to get a feel for everything and should be your first port of call. it'll also link to good examples
the met has a vast number of extant examples of clothing, as well as fashion plates
costume institute fashion plates is a subcollection of the met for fashion plates (1800s-1922)
v&a also has many extant garments, fashion plates, and incredible articles on clothing and aesthetics. read the details of the objects because they'll often reveal a lot about the piece
lacma is good for C19th-20th pieces
nypl digital collection for photographs
national portrait gallery or similar for portraiture, or literally any museum in your country that has historical art
national museums scotland can be useful situationally but might be oddly specific
stout style history is a great collection for finding image references for fat people wearing historical clothes. survival bias of a lot of museum pieces tends towards smaller clothing that couldn't be repurposed, but this aims to counter that. it's not sortable, but is still a really nice resource
wikimedia commons is surprisingly handy! and the images, if you should need to link/repost them, are public domain
auction websites sound like a funny one to recommend. some won't have mannequins and some will. just look up historical garment auctions and you'll find some!
anyway, i hope this has been a good place to start for anyone interested! there are probably some i've missed because there are so many museums across the world and i don't know about all of them or can't remember them. but these are the ones i've used the most! (my specialisation/jobs i've had to research for have only really been in western fashion, so my resources reflect that)
Wikipedia has a list of fashion museums. Unfortunately, the page itself is only available in German, but the introductory paragraph is very short and after that, it's organised by country, and then it's a simple list. If you click on a museum's article, the website is usually linked in the overview table.
There's also Claire Hummel's fantastic historical fashion resource list, which probably overlaps with the sources above but is worth taking a look at anyway!
Hey there! As social media becomes more and more inhospitible for the local user, I wanted to post some useful/fun links to just about anything I can think of! Enjoy! Also, if you'd like an invite to the P!rated Games discord, lmk! ^_^
I AM CURRENTLY STILL UPDATING THIS POST AND I WILL REBLOG IT WHEN I ADD TO IT! Feel free to comment things I've missed, I'm sure there's way more than this came from!
WEB CENTRIC
CURLIE: THE COLLECTOR OF URLs (Curlie strives to be the largest human-edited directory of the Web. You can save sites and create your own mini webring!)
Internet Archive (A collection of over 818 Billion websites, books, movies, music, and more. Hosts the Wayback Machine, which can be used to access a multitude of sites, given they were indexed in time.)
Wiby (Human submission search engine for older webrings, as well as a how-to guide on how to develop your own search engine)
Unicode Text Converter (Easy way to make your text illegible to Google but be warned, it will make screen readers malfuction)
Embed Responsively (Easily convert links and embeds to work responsively within your site - perfect for neocities!)
Generator Land (Generate a list or prompt for just about anything!)
GifCities (Part of the Internet Archive, a special project done as part of the 20th anniversary in an effort to save data from GeoCities. Find a gif for just about anything!)
Animated Images (Another gif repository, though this one is easier to search and includes small animations.)
Gifs-Paradise (Another gif repository. I swear I collect these. Searchable and categorized.)
ASCII Art Archive (Database of ASCII Art, also known as text art)
Christopher Johnson's ASCII Art Collection (Another, arguably larger, ASCII Art database)
MelonLand (A web project and online arts community that celebrates homepages, virtual worlds, the world-wide-web and the digital lives that all netizins share, here at the dawn of the digital age. See their thoughts and the WEB REVIVAL they're starting.)
Sadgrl Webrings (Webrings brought to us by Sadgrl.Online - 60+ different ones to be exact) and Sadgrl Links (70+ links just like the ones in this post)
Districts at Neocities (Remember neighborhoods on Geocities? Imagine that but for Neocities!)
Neocities Banners (Banners from all across neocities. Blinkies, banners and more leading all over the web. Mostly 88x31, though there are bigger ones too. Technically counts as a webring.)
Blinkies.cafe (Site for blinkies where you can even make your own! I get most of my blinkies here and off DeviantArt.)
88x31 Collection (Possibly the largest collection I've seen for 88x31 buttons)
90's Cursor Effects (Want a funky cursor for your blog or website? Wanna be able to realtime preview what cursors would look like? Come get some code!)
The Malware Museum (Interact with malware and viruses from the 80s and 90s through emulation! No nasty virus interactions needed :D )
KNOWLEDGE BASES
Library Genesis - LIBGEN (Scientific journals - dedicated to archiving every science journal and their articles in existence.)
Information Mesh (A web platform celebrating the 30th anniversary of the World Wide Web that explores social, technical, cultural and legal facts throughout different interactive timelines.)
Web Design Museum (Over 2,000 sorted websites showing web design trends from '96 to '06.)
The History of the Web (A twice monthly newsletter about web history, and the incredible people that built it. Goes from 1989 to present.)
Field Guide to Web Accessibility (Principles and applications to every day web scenarios in order to make the web a more friendly place!)
CARI - Consumer Aesthetics Research Institute (an online community and collective association of researchers and designers dedicated to carrying on the important work of categorizing "consumer aesthetics" from the late midcentury, when work on the subject somewhat trailed off, through today.)
The Eye (Archive consisting of 140TB of books, websites, games, software, or anything else you can really think of.)
The Uncensored Library (A project from Reporters without Borders, where they use a loophole using Minecraft to distribute information.)
National Gallery of Art Public Domain (The National Gallery of Art has an open access policy for images of works of art in their permanent collection which the Gallery believes to be in the public domain. Images of these works are available for download free of charge for any use, whether commercial or non-commercial.)
Library of Congress Public Domain (Features items from the Library's digital collections that are free to use and reuse. The Library believes that this content is either in the public domain, has no known copyright, or has been cleared by the copyright owner for public use.)
Public Domain Review (an online journal and not-for-profit project dedicated to the exploration of curious and compelling works from the history of art, literature, and ideas.)
New York Public Library Public Domain (Our digitized collections are available as machine-readable data: over one million records for you to search, crawl and compute.)
Official articles from NASA (PubSpace is NASA's designated public access repository. It is a collection of NASA-funded scholarly publications within the STI Repository, aiming to increase access to federally funded research in accordance with NASA Public Access Policy.)
Universal Hint System (Wanna get some vague help for an older video game without getting spoiled? Check out these awesome hints!)
Smithsonian Open Access (Download, share, and reuse millions of 2D and 3D digital items from their 21 museums, 9 research centers, libraries, archives, and the National Zoo.)
Instructables (Wanna know how to make just about anything? Check here!)
QZAP Zine Archive (Archive of LGBT+ Zines, began in 2003 with zines dating back all the way to the 1970s. NSFW AT TIMES, BROWSE AT YOUR OWN RISK.)
P!racy Masterpost (Tumblr-based masterpost of game piracy, last updated 2021. A bit old but some of the stuff there is still good. If this link breaks, please contact me.)
P!rated Games Megathread (masterpost created by r/P!ratedGames includes required components as well as anything else you need. NOTE: PLEASE HAVE SOME SORT OF PROTECTION WHEN NAVIGATING THIS SITE)
Geocities Gallery (A website hosting a working archive for many abandoned Geocities Sites.)
Snipplr (Code Snippet repository. Great for coding issues.)
GeoCities (Archived) (Great for searching ancient webrings for gifs and website ideas. Not so great for downloads.)
Freeware Guide (Archived) (The Freeware-Guide died sometime in 2021 [we think March] but it's still full of VERY valuable information. Links are broken pretty much all the way through, but the names of software as well as what they do can be useful in finding them elsewhere thru some google searching)
Peelopaalu (Where I got a good handful of these links - AND THERE'S MORE!!!)
The Simple Site (More links to so much more cool stuff!)
ART TOOLS
Untitled - Paint (An in-browser version of classic Microsoft Paint!)
KidPix (In-browser version of classic KidPix for the public domain!)
Pixel Logic - A Guide to Pixel Art (Comprehensive guide to making cool art for $10 USD, updated semi-frequently and you get all new versions for free)
SAI - Bootlegged (A version of SAI with a multitude of brushes and textures pre-installed. Quite literally the only thing I use to draw aside from Clip Studio Paint.)
Stripe Generator (Need some easy stripes for an art piece? Can't be bothered to try and space stripes evenly? This is for you!)
Photopea (Free online photo editor supporting files for Adobe Photoshop, XCF, Sketch App, Adobe XD, and CorelDRAW, as well as many more!)
blender (A FOREVER free and Open Source software for 3D Modeling, full of tutorials and assets. I feel like most people don't know it's completely free to play with)
Vertex Meadow (A web-browser tool that renders 2D images as explorable 3D terrain. With it you can create detailed and unusual 3D environments to explore using a 2D paint-program-like interface.)
OpenGameArt (Need art for your game but you're not an artist? Consider checking here first [or just hire a real artist looking for work on here!])
MUSIC TOOLS AND DISCOVERY
BandLab (Social music platform that enables creators to make music and share their creative process with musicians and fans. Completely free with an option to set up stripe where you get 100% OF PROFITS. Available for apple/android/desktop)
JummBox (Free online beat-maker with a very simple interface that runs on your browser)
Mydora (Mydora is a continuous streaming player that gives you a deep dive into the lost archives of Myspace Music, based on some recovered data called the Dragon Hoard, with some additional metadata (most notably the locations and genres) from a different scan of Myspace conducted back in 2009. Contains 490,000+ songs, only a fraction of what was wiped out.)
Radiooooo (A place where people are able to play hit songs from the decade of their choosing from whatever country they wish.)
WFMU (Independent freeform radio broadcasting. Currently ongoing.)
Gnoosic (A sort-of music search engine that finds you songs/bands based off of your music taste.)
Khinsider (3.1 TB worth of video game soundtracks)
Radio.garden (Listen to thousands of radio stations all around the world.)
FUN STUFF
FrogLand (The purpose of Frogland is to show that the Internet can indeed provide a wealth of useful information and still be fun. Mainly, this site is dedicated to the many teachers out there who are finding new uses for the Internet as a tool for educating youngsters. Hopefully, it will inspire some young minds to find new interest in herpetology, biology, and environmental issues...not to mention providing some inspiration for young future computer "wizzes"! No longer active but still useful.)
Windows 98 icon Viewer (Want clear jpgs of all the Windows 98 symbols and icons? They're all here!)
GifyPet (Create your own embeded pet that people can play with and feed when they visit your page! See my version HERE [only works on desktop tho])
Ultimate Mushroom (Like the idea of picking mushrooms in your area but no idea what to look for? Check out this info hub!)
Gif Gallery (Another gif repositiory, only sorted by being numbered 1-100,000. Fun and silly, not so much useful unless you're looking for random gifs. Part of the MelonLand Webring)
Interesting DOS Programs (A host of DOS programming, guides and links.)
Internet Archive: MS-DOS Games (8,000 games right in your web browser! Your browser can play DOOM!)
Tiled Backgrounds (Need some small jpegs for easy website bg tiling? Browse this collection sorted by color.)
cOOl & EMO tEXt cOnVERTer xXX (Flashing warning. Wanna type like you're in the 2000s? Need a funny Green Day lyric as a caption? This is probably the best place for you.)
0x40 (Flashing Warning. Anime images synced with music. Fun for parties, lol)
WebGL Fluid Simulation (In browser fluid simulator, great for art backgrounds and desktop wallpapers.)
Flashpoint (The biggest collection of preserved Flash Games and Animations)
NCase (Free games and open source projects from Nicky [THESE ARE REALLY COOL AND FUN, I HIGHLY RECOMMEND])
Your World of Text (A huge interactive text doc that anyone can add to anonymously.)
Text To Speech (TTS in more than 30 languages and over 180 voices.)
ASCII Art Generator (Make ASCII Art from any image.)
Petit Tube (Random Youtube videos with less than 10 views)
Noclip Website (Noclip around various video game maps in your browser!)
Monster Mash (Create and animate some monsters in browser! You can also download their files.)
I think some people forget that some literature and some media is meant to be deeply uncomfortable and unsettling. It's meant to make you have a very visceral reaction to it. If you genuinely can't handle these stories then you are under no obligation to consume them but acting as if they have no purpose or as if people don't have a right to tell these stories, stories that often relate to the darkest or most disturbing parts of life, then you should do some introspection.
Iâve read some things that deal in sad/dark/actually depressing and disturbing subject matter. Iâve loved them and the points they make without endorsing the events portrayed.
Itâs always disappointing to get online and see that the conversation is âX thing shouldnât existâ on the grounds that it made somebody feel badly. It was meant to make you feel that way and itâs normal that it did - itâs okay that you stop reading it or donât finish it but I am BEGGING you to consider why it made you uncomfortable and why the author felt the need (if the answer isnât immediately obvious, as it can be). There isnât shame in something putting you off so badly that you shelve it.
The sterilization of reality is a detriment to all who exist within it. To censor stories with painful themes is to erase the reality that such stories are based in some horrific truth and works to erase the reality that many people have endured.
This trend or whatever we want to call it has gotten so bad that I listened to an entire lecture from somebody about how awful a book was and how it shouldnât exist at all, how the author was a terrible person for concocting it and how it hurt people. When I asked what the book was, this person not only could barely recall the name but HAD NEVER READ IT. I bought the book. I read the book. It accomplished its task beautifully and I found it to be a cathartic experience. I also understood how it could make people so uncomfortable and would never judge anybody for setting it down.
Itâs okay not to like something and distance yourself from it. Remember that those rules apply only to you, though, because they speak only to your own psyche.
Periodic reminder that one of the many roles of fiction is microdosing on big scary feelings so you build resilience, empathy, understanding, and defense against the real thing.
Scar x Fem!Reader enemies to lovers
Summary:
A life of crime has made you an expert at sneaking into heavily guarded facilities. Now that you're finally calling your own shots, you find it easy to make a killing skimming Shimmer from Zaun's notorious chem-barons and selling it to topsiders. That is until a certain masked chirean catches you escaping the storehouse he and his fellow Firelights just set ablaze.
He doesn't take kindly to Shimmer dealers and you don't take kindly to brooding assholes who can't keep their noses out of other peoples business.
We are desperately starved for content on this guy. I do have an idea for an actual fic on this bat dude, and this is more for my own reference than anything else. This is very rambly, I must say.
Also a note, I haven't posted anything I've written in years, I've got random drabbles just saved in the vaults. Seeing as there isn't alot of Arcane fics I've been all that interested in reading, I might start posting them.
Mostly SFW, although some is suggestive. Talks of maternal death, anxiety, and drug addiction mentioned.
~ ~ ~
He's a anxious man, despite what he looks like. He wasn't this way just a few years ago, however. He used to be gung-ho about throwing his weight around in fights, the first the scrap and throwdown when necessary. He is larger than most men and knows it.
Since his daughter was born, his personality changed. he started to actually worry and care for safety, his and others. This need to protect his baby girl is what drove him to establish the Fire Lights alongside Ekko.
I think his baby momma probably died in child birth, being that doctors and medical care is hard to come by in the undercity. I think this was also a huge motivator for Scar to make some kind of meaningful changes to his town.
Possibly, he found the infant and couldn't locate any parents.
She also isn't seen on the memorial wall, or atleast another Chirean isn't. So she could be alive. I do like the idea of writing traumatic, drug addicted parents. So that could work for me, too. She ran off to be a shimmer addict somewhere and isn't involved in Scar or his daughters life, and Scar wouldn't let someone who isn't sober be around anyway.
(((OOOO SUPER LATE UPDATE
So, apparently according to LoL lore, it's his cousins baby, who died in the war. There's allegedly a voice line that says this but I couldn't find it. Someone in a comment also said it was actually his sisters kid and he only looks after HIM sometimes. Allegedlyyyy, and the boys name is Simba. Fanon > Canon on this imo, but this could be a cool write, too. )))
Scar probably feels a strong need to take care of those around him, a nervous need to make sure everyone is safe and fed. Taking extra care to learn how to care for more intense wounds, even with clawed hands, he'd be exceptionally careful.
I think he probably stores some extra rations, too. Like sweet treats stolen from topside that he secretly gives out to the kids when they're sad. I don't think he'd give it to them directly though, he'd be more of a tough love sorta father figure. I think he'd probably leave them under their pillow or somewhere they'll find it later.
Him and Ekko have definitely gone to a few bars before, as a reward for mission well done. Ekko definitely has some flirtatious charm but I think Scar probably isn't into the occasional, meaningless flings like his captain is. Just one hell of a wingman, at most. He's already got a kid at home.
He's good at observing, always watching and picking up on small things. His hearing isn't overly sensitive, but he can hear better and farther than most. Occasionally going out to covertly overhear a hushed conversation between some of Silco's goons. Following closely in the shadows to find out what Jinx's followers are up to now. His size makes it hard for him to not be noticed, even among the various races and creatures of the undercity, but he doesn't need to get that close anyways.
If he were to ever get with a romantic partner, I think it would probably take many years and close proximity for him to become fully comfortable. He'd be apprehensive about approaching, but if he did, it would be with small shows of appreciation. Little, pretty trinkets collected or traded for. He might even pull a couple strings with Ekko to have him make something, keeping tight-lipped about why or who it was for.
He might pull his special someone aside to personally show them a new sprout of the tree (that they've definitely already heard about by then from the kids at the sanctuary). Or to show a new weapon one of the kids learned how to craft. Maybe he'd drag that special someone off to a new mural that just popped up a few streets away. I think the biggest give away that he felt softly for someone is him softening his voice when talking to them. Trying to smoothen out the rough growl in his tone. Speaking quieter, only loud enough for them to hear and rounding out his shoulders to get closer to their height.
Scar would feel a massive sense of relief and a wave of unfamiliar calmness if that someone were to be caught taking care of/playing with the kids around the sanctuary. Of course, he'd keep his daughter extremely close, never wanted to waste a second with her. But, oh boy, if someone he was fond of shows his baby girl that same thoughtful care? He'd probably swoon and drool like a dog.
Speaking of this hulking bat creature drooling like a damn dog, he's vocal. The soft rasp of his voice in their ear, cooing whispered praises. He'd definitely never want to get overly rough with someone, I think. Those clawed hands have killed people before, there's a reason he has claw extensions as a weapon and he wouldn't want to use them against someone he cares for. He might even ball his hands into fists to keep his nails from digging into them.
He'd be so sweet on them, so gentle but so willing to fulfill their every need and want. He is not only large in stature, but long and wide in other places, too. A fun fact about bats is that, they're one of the few species that regularly engage in oral sex. Scar would be so very careful not to knock his sharp teeth against them, taking extra care to hold them still so he won't cause an accidental injury.
He's covered in a fine layer of fur, too! I think his skin if more of a pinkish/pale brown color, but the mousey grey fur helps him regulate his temperature a bit. He wouldn't feel very warm to the touch, but he wouldn't feel cold either.
Scar isn't overly sensitive to light or sound, but he much prefers a cool, dimly lit room. Scar definitely has a nightlight, not just for his daughters sake. He probably fashioned it to look like a fruit, or a flower or a bug. Maybe he keeps some of those glowing fungi in a jar and shakes it every once in a while for light, his daughter would giggle and find this very intriguing.
His race is Chirean, a native to Zaun and not a Vastaya. Vastaya are a hybridization of a magical being and a human, from what I could gather. LoL lore is different from Arcane lore, but there are overlaps and like 10+ years of lore to go through. The world building is crazy in depth and there is hours of content I still need to go through. I recommend watching some of the "Tales of Runeterra" playlist on YouTube if you're interested (I still need to watch it, as I've just been through a small bit of googling.)
On that note, I think he teaches his daughter what he knows of their history and culture. A little thing about the native fruit, a silly saying his mother would say to him when he was small. He'd definitely try his best to keep them connected, feeling a bit of shame that much of it was lost in the undercity's rot.
yakuza!getĆ suguru x tattoo artist!reader| 1/2 | wc; 12.9k
story summary; you're a tattoo artist hidden amidst the bustle of shinjuku city and renown with tourists. due to a misstep of your shady employee, you're visited one night at closing by an eerily beautiful man in a disheveled suit and no tie requesting an intricate back piece done traditionally. the undertaking slowly begins to unthread your life piece-by-piece the closer you get to him until there is no way out.
story warnings; dark content, yakuza au!, details about tattooing, traditional tattooing (tebori), money laundering, injuries to mc, implied death of oc, manipulation, power imbalance, a bunch of cultish shit, mc doesn't fuck around and is a hardass + sort of a bully to their employee, sex w/ injury, getĆ smokes, mc dogging on foreigners, implied stalking, prose + detail heavy, explicit sexual content, heavily implied homicide, graphic details of violence + wounds.
read the warnings! + mdni! events within this story are not indicative of my personal viewpoints.
thank you @ceruleansol for your earlier proofreading efforts! appreciative, as always!
a/n: this is part one of two. i strongly implore that you reblog & interact with this post! it helps out authors tremendously when you do!
A silvery peal called out to the little shop stifled in past-midnight silence. During regular business hours, it was a good sound to hear; it meant that your next client had parked their feet through the threshold behind a closed door and jittered a bell hanging by a red string. In this case, you hadn't been fast enough to flick off the neon signage anchored into the building outside, nor set the deadbolt to signal the shop had retired for the night.
You were still hard at work wiping down your workspace, the last appointment of the night having taken several hours longer than intended with a squeamish foreigner who couldn't bite his knuckles long enough for you to finish linework on his ankle.
"It's past midnight. Come back some other time," you said, inflectionless, unwilling to be deterred in your task. It didn't occur to you to even give this newcomer the time of day by looking at them. "I have all my information online. Email for appointment bookings."
"Oh, really? That's too bad," replied the stranger, voice traceless of the frustration you were accustomed to when turning people away at odd hours. "I was told this would be a better time to come by for a consultation."
That made you jolt upright, swiveling toward the man standing inside your shop. Strangely, you hadn't anticipated the way he sounded when he spokeâaffable, syrupy, and an elegant, fluid stroke on glazed canvasâto be so different from how he lookedâtall, lean, refined with a sort of edge to him that'd intrigue anyone in a room he walked into.
Apart from his appearance, something you couldn't be sure was real with him bathed in the faint neon-red glow from flickering bulbs filtering in through the windows, you were drawn to the somewhat disheveled suit he wore. It looked like something a salaryman uniformed himself in while sitting on his ass for twelve hours in one of Tokyo's skyscrapers.
He doesn't have a tie. That stood out to you at this late hour.
"I didn't tell you that." You suspected who did and let your voice rise above the pitch of the checkered wall clock and drone of an oscillating ceiling fan directly above you. "KĆji! Get out here!"
From the depths of your little shop, tucked away in the furthest corner behind a door painted the same morose gray as the walls flanking it, there was a great ruckusâa chair tipping over, a body smashing to the floor, and feet fumbling over and over again until a weaselly fellow skittered out into the parlor.
"Ye-yeah? What's up? Time toâ"
"Get this guy scheduled for a consultation for next month." Nothing prepared you for the way KĆji's color sank out of his cheeks and neck when you turned toward him. You pushed onward boldly, "I'm booked out for the next few weeks. Since you told him he could come by whenever, take responsibility and get him out."
KĆji's eyes were so much bigger, the whites of them showing, knuckles turning stark when his hand grasped your forearm, and he hinged forward at his waist, bowing so low you thought he'd fall forward.
"Thank you so much for your patience." KĆji sprung back up, feet popping into the air as he whisked you away into the back office, still repeatedly dipping his head to this man. "Please, give us a couple of minutes, and we'll be right with you."
"No worries." The suit guy smiled at you, catching your gaze before the gray door was pulled shut in your face. "Take your time."
Inside the dinky space, surrounded by unsteady towers of boxes brimming with all the things your second-floor apartment couldn't handle without making the walls burst at the seams, KĆji still had a hold on you. This time, however, both his hands gripped your arms, hot and clammy on your bare skin.
"You can't tell him to leave." KĆji hesitated to take any stance against you, any tone that could be implicated as threatening or domineering. Even through his quivering breaths, he tried to sound firm.
You looked at him incredulously, neck craning back in hopes it got the message across. It was easy enough to sweep away his hands. "The fuck, I can. It's my shop. Tell him to get out."
KĆji let his posture sag, whittling deep into himself as his fingers came together to pick at minuscule slithers of skin that left raw spots around his nails. He shook his head. "Not someone like him."
"KĆjiâ"
He was trying hard not to stick the underside of a fingernail between his teeth. A couple months ago, he had told you he wanted to kick the habit because he couldn't stand looking at his hands. This job and his natural disposition worked against himâlong hours pouring over finances and bookkeeping, tucked away in a tiny room with a humming desk fan and no windows, would be enough to drive anyone's anxiety through the roof.
It wasn't ideal for him, you knew that, and suggested that he move his workstation around the shop or to the front-end counter as long as he didn't disturb the flow you kept going with clients. Worse than the isolation was his aversion to handling any potential customer interaction.
That's what made this so odd to you, so strange that he simply reiterated time and time again, "We can't kick him out," anytime you'd try to get anything else in word wise.
You had to back up, put some pressure against the new pulse in your temples. KĆji let his gaze flutter around the room, never steadying on your face for long enough for you to get a better read on him. His hair and neck were soaked with sweat. Beads of it dripped from his brow onto his shoes, leaving glistening, branching paths behind that never quite dried before more took their place.
It came to you then, just as a guess but one with enough certainty that dread wound itself against your spine and made you fidget.
"Is thatâis he part of a gang?"
KĆji did a lot of work to keep his eyes off of you, still, lips thin and wet with sweat that he lapped away.
No confirmation was a confirmationâyou launched yourself at him, wringing fistfuls of his stiff button-up until it was tight against him. You felt the heat of his body through the fabric wrapped around your hands.
He was shorter than the man in the parlor, but still taller than you. His feet stayed planted on the floor as you brought his face down to your height. "Did you fucking tell the yakuza about my shop, KĆji?! Is he here because of you?!"
"No, no! Not me! Not me!" KĆji wailed, crumbling beneath your bulbous stare. "Not on purpose! I swear! I swear! It was an accident. I was at lunch with⊠some friends, and I mentioned that I was working here. I guess word got around!"
"So, you're having lunch with criminals now?!" You wanted to wring his neck. It was physically impossible to bring yourself any closer to him without tasting the salty drops on his skin. "Are you insane?!"
Since the start of KĆji's employment years ago, you knew that he was a leery character, and having him on board to handle the more mundane, unsavory parts of running a business wasn't your best call to judgment. Still, he was efficiently organized in a way that made sense. He was fast and dedicated enough in doing things right that you stopped asking yourself questions about what antics he did on the side.
Up until now, he had never brought anything from the outside in to disrupt your status quo, the fine-tuned, well-oiled gears that kept your business running and clientele coming around like revolving doors. This was an entirely different ordeal, though, and you didn't know how to handle it.
You let KĆji whimper around your fists for a while longer, releasing him only once you were ready for a deep breath.
"I don't care." you said, taking a wide step away from him as your fingers scouted through all of the pockets on your person. There was one stick of gum left in your hoodie that went straight into your mouth. "I don't care. Stop being a fucking wuss and fix your mistake. Get him out of my shop."
KĆji gasped, scuttling closer to you just as his skinny, knobby knees bent inward and trembled. The weight of his body nearly toppled you when he went down to the floor, hands on your clothes. "No, no. Please. If youâif you turn him away, he'll tell the others, and who knows what'll happen to⊠us."
The selfish little imp actually meant himself.
It killed you to acknowledge that he wasn't wrong. You knew as much about the movements and customs of crime syndicates in Japan as anyone else, probably even less than the regular citizen, but they were still criminals with tight fists on the economy and underground.
All it would take is one bad remark and everything you had worked for would be razed to the ground.
"Who is he?" You pushed him off by the shoulders. "Who is that guy?"
You didn't like his silence, how his face warped, and his eyes fell to the white tips of your shoes. "KĆji."
Slowly, he answered, "He's the kingpin of the Uzumaki-kai."
"Goddamnit."
He stayed sniveling on the floor while you scrambled around the back office, turning over boxes and water-stained folders for particular papers you needed to go forward. Once you had them, you blotted the tip of an ink pen on your tongue, ripping a piece of white printer paper out from the tray and beginning a frantic scrawl that you weren't even sure was discernible.
You weren't in that room with KĆji for more than twenty minutes, reemerging into the parlor to find himâGetĆ Suguru, boss of the Uzumaki-kaiâstill waiting for you exactly where you'd left him. Only now, the smile he greeted you with was smug, shoulders lax against the door with one foot hiked up on it.
He had heard the entire thing, all of your shouts and KĆji's perilous pleas. The walls weren't as thick as you wished they were.
"You should find a different artist who specializes in the kind of work you want." you said, spreading your array of papers out on the front counter. The pen dotted your tongue once more before touching them, a messy signature left behind on black condemning lines.
"I've looked at your portfolio online." He had come closer, eyes set on the motions of your pen flying across paper. "It's the best I've seen in Tokyo."
There was something in his words that rang sweet and untrue. With Tokyo being one of the foremost tourist magnets in the world, attracting domestic business and foreign intrigue, competition amongst tattoo shops during peak seasons was staggering. You were part of the cluster of shops preferring to bring in international clientele because they were lured with anything quick and easy and cheap.
Simply put, they were your revolving door. KĆji monitored your shop's social media presence well, eyeballing analytics, trends, and patterns in the algorithm, so you stayed a persistent pest on the front page most days. Whatever moves he pulled worked, filled the books until you were writing in last second, twenty-minute appointments against the seams in your spiral bound to keep tabs.
You'd see anywhere from eight to twelve clients on the worst of days, most of them coming from overseas to tour the city or countryside. Every one of them chose premade designs from a catalog you kept nearby, all work you had committed to muscle memory and knew so well you could do the line work without a stencil and let your mind float somewhere else.
These foreigners wanted memorability, everlasting art imbued with stories from their exotic balmy summertime getaway where they stayed in air-conditioned hotels and shops and harassed the locals because it gave them a swell of adrenaline, a sense of adventure from the belief that they were in possession of more culture now than they had been before.
They tried to talk to you about those things because when they'd first see you, stepping under the chiming little bell, there was a brightness in their eyes of knowing you weren't someone who belongedâjust like them. After so many years in the business, you were conversationally fluent in several languages but pretended not to be for all of two or three.
"I'll do it, butâ" You pulled yourself from that reverie, pen flipping through your fingers for him to take. "You have to sign a bunch of waivers and there are conditions."
GetĆ had waited for you in well-tempered silence for several minutes and maintained that even now with a neutral expression. "Can you explain them to me?"
"The waivers are pretty standard," you said, shifting your weight against the counter. "The first three are making sure you understand the risk of scarring, infection, colors bleeding together. Fourth one is a liability waiver."
When you reached the final piece of paper buried beneath all the rest, the one you had handwritten and hastily signed, his eyes were gleaming with intrigue.
"What's this?"
There wasn't much to it, really, just a single paragraph on a bleach-white background, one blank line below your signature with enough room for a timestamp after it.
You made sure it was in his hand before you spoke again. "This is a rigid waiver agreeing that if I do your tattoo, you can't tell anyone you're associated with about this shop.
GetĆ wore an aloof smile. "What are you implying? I never saidâ"
"Stop trying to make me sound fucking stupid." You winced after the fact, not intending for it to have come out so aggressive. "Either sign it or leave, please. If anyone finds out you came here, it could ruin my business."
All but the ticking wall clock, a jarring neon against a backdrop of dark walls, and the ceiling fan with its monotonous beat from spinning blades had kept your shop from catapulting into silence.
You hadn't realized it until now, not until GetĆ had taken many long moments to examine the papers you'd given him and wordlessly signed them, that your chest was starting to ache from how hard your heart rammed your ribs.
You couldn't believe this was happening.
A snare formed in your throat once he finished printing the date and time on your special waiver, pen aside, papers stacked together as he tapped them on the countertop so they were neat.
He held them out to you, still with a beguiling smile that betrayed everything he represented. "Could I get copies? I'd like them for myself too."
You smeared sweaty palms down the back of your sweatpants, flexing out your fingers over and over until you felt sure enough that you could handle those papers without trembling. This must've been how KĆji felt when he had walked in earlier.
"I'll be back." Your bow was stiff and slight, probably an affront, but he let you go, turning to find a home on one of your low couches in the corner and started perusing the pages of your catalog displayed crookedly on an acrylic table in front of him.
It was all you could do to not slam the office door behind you, to intentionally scare the soul straight out of Koji's ass for putting you in this hard spot. If he weren't such an integral part of keeping this place afloat, you'd have fired him agesâyears ago.
"I need copies," was everything you needed to say to make KĆji rifle through his arsenal of ridiculous expressions. He shrank under your stare, sliding deeper into his seat behind his desk. "You still need to be back here at eleven."
"Yes, I know." he mumbled, handing you fresh copies after stapling them together. You let the warmth sit on your hands for a while. "Do you want me to leave?"
Truthfully, you didn't want to be alone with GetĆ. You wanted to yell at KĆji a little more.
"Yeah. Get out of here."
And he ran.
A part of you hoped that GetĆ would've gotten bored with how long this entire process had been just to sign some flimsy agreements and listen to you pitch a fit at your employee. You prayed that the fleeting glance KĆji had made to the corner of the room was to check, not to confirm.
You stepped out into your workspace, boldly expecting to see it bathed in nothingness and shadowsâbut he was still there.
GetĆ let the tip of his shoe, a pointy closed-toe, jerk with the sounds of your wall clock. His leg was crossed, your catalog still splayed across his thigh as he looked at your preset designs, work made to appease the masses and feed into their fiction of Japan. You had half the hope that he'd be turned off by them and change his mind.
"What you're offering here and what's on your website are completely different."
This guy was observant.
You didn't like that.
"I get a lot of travelers." It crossed your mind to rip the book out of his hands. "They're the ones who make up the bulk of my business. My website hosts my professional work. It's what I prefer to do."
He didn't look up, continuing to leaf through the pages with long, lithe fingers. "So, you cater to foreigners, then?"
"My shop is small. It's just me and KĆji here. This place has to stay running somehow." You weren't sure why you were explaining yourself to him. "If that's something that bothers you, I can shred these papers, and you can find another artist."
GetĆ let his smile return, closing the catalog to drop it back onto the table. As though to challenge your stubbornness, he took the copies from you and skimmed them one more time.
"Thank you." He moved those aside too, now wholly focused on you. "Do you have time tonight to hear out my ideas?"
You were facing the wall clock now; it was almost two in the morning. If he wanted something more complex, it would take hours to work up a sketch for him. And that was being so bold to believe he'd like it on the first try.
"Got a deposit?" you asked. "Nonrefundable, of course."
He paid you what you wanted right then and there, to your complete astonishment. The price you had given him was astronomical, an act of spontaneity that you decided you'd pose to him as a joke if he got mad or guarded with severity.
No questions.
No doubt.
Just the warm clip of folded yen from his pocket that he didn't even look over. The yakuza were historically a stingy bunch, but he didn't even do a second sweep, didn't try to double back on you, and didn't seem to care.
"Let me get my stuff." You left the cash off to the side on the acrylic table. It was your equivalent of a cat showing its belly good-naturedly.
The money was still there when you returned with a tablet stuck under the sweat of your armpit and two mugs of tea, an act of hospitality you didn't often invoke mostly because you didn't care. These were dire circumstances, though, and you couldn't put it out of your mind (or nerves) that you were walking on thin ice laden with eggshells.
"It isn't anything fancy." You put your things down before handing him his mug. "It's from some random box I grabbed at the store."
GetĆ gave his thanks and took it from you, first sips coming as soon as he could bring his lips to it. He made no mention about the flavor or quality, didn't look at it with any amount of suspicion. It simply rested there against his palms while he waited patiently.
He was defeating every stereotype of yakuza that you had adopted from the movies and media. If it weren't for KĆji being a scummy little rat who liked hanging around trash in his off time and believing all of his reactions from a while ago, you'd be convinced that GetĆ wasn't affiliated at all.
A businessman with questionable practices, maybe, but not a greater part of the underbelly of society.
"It's a sort of complicated idea." He rearranged his legs so they were spread wide, back sinking into the worn green leather. Another sip. "Tell me if I should slow down."
True to his word, the tattoo he wanted was ambitious, terrifyingly ambitious, and something better left to a specialized skill set, not someone who bounced around between commercialized brand characters and bastardized interpretations of The Great Wave by Hokusai.
"I'd like the dragon to be white." GetĆ was partway through his explanation, now sitting forward on the edge of the couch, an elbow pointed down on a thigh to cradle his cheek. He was invested. "The eyes, hm, yellow or gold. You can choose what'd go best for the inside of its mouth. I want the head of it in the top leftâ"
"Hold on." You sighed, managing a lukewarm drink from your tea. "So, to go about the white, there are a couple of options: we leave that space empty, so it'll be your skin tone. Most people get dragons that are red or green or black. It'd be better to try that if youâ"
"It has to be white." He looked at you the same, but his words were razored in a way so slight yet unmistakable. "What else can be done?"
"Well"âthe leather creaked against your back the deeper you dug into itâ"I could do white ink. I could get it opaque, but the problem with it is that it fades drastically; you'd need it retouched every couple of years."
"I see." His smile was wider. "I like that idea. Let's go with that."
You frowned. "You do know that white ink is expensive, right? So the price is going to jack up, and there's more pain involved since I'll have to apply more pressure."
"That's fine with me."
More specifics for the work he wanted flooded in: He wanted to start with his back, covering every bit of surface from his neck down to his tailbone. Afterward, he would branch out to both arms and finish the design over his breasts. It certainly aligned with artistry you've seen done by yakuza tattooists; the entire point of them was to be seen by those who mattered, easily concealed to those who didn't.
Most of the real estate was going to the white dragon with gold eyes first, the rest of it going to freestyle characters from fiction such as kuchisake-onna and religious iconography that he pursued with quite a bit of insistence.
You sketched until four in the morning, arranging characters and wispy, dreamy clouds. Long whiskers floated away from the dragon's snout, while the teeth you gave it were more comically blunt and human-like rather than jagged and threatening, a detail he seemed particularly delighted to see.
"What's with the Buddhist symbols?" You had to bring out your laptop to research those, settling on a few he gave a nod to. "Are you some kind of priest? This is a pretty specific scene you're giving me."
"It came to me in a dream." he said.
What a weirdo. Your fingers ached and cramped by the time you finished the draft, stylus leaving deep impressions in your skin that you were sure had knocked bone a few times.
From up close, you weren't too partial to how it looked like an amalgam of things surrounding all of the labor you put into specifics of the dragon, but when you moved it away, it came together like some hazy dreamscape.
"I should tell you why I chose you in the first place," was what he said when you spun the tablet around for him.
You had the device facing you again, pen notched through your fingers to apply some simple colors to the design. "I thought it was because you were enamored with me and my online portfolio."
GetĆ stared at you, humoring your joke with a smile even though you didn't see it. He stayed slouched over his thighs, fist moving to the side of his head to keep him upright.
"I'm looking for this to be done traditionally."
The tablet flattened on your lap, stylus rolling off of it onto the floor. You couldn't believe you didn't think of this. If he really was part of a crime syndicate, of course he would want all of the work done traditionally.
"That's going to bring in a whole host of problems." You let your thumb hover dangerously close to the trash bin button in the top right of the screen. "First of all, the overall cost of this is going up by twice what I've already quoted you."
"No worries." GetĆ shrugged his shoulders. "I've done my research."
But you weren't done. "Healing time will be reduced, but some of my clients have told me it's more painful than a machine."
"I'm not 'some' of those clients." he rejoined.
You were suddenly wishing your tea wasn't cold so you could disappear into it for a while. The tablet ran hot on your thighs, dragging your eyes back down to the drawing, thoughts flitting through what it'd mean for business, expenses in versus expenses out, and how committing to this would solidify you as a yakuza artist.
It would be inescapable and follow your reputation into the ground if GetĆ ever spread word about it.
"This back piece is going to take me a really long time to do for you. A machine cuts that time in half." Maybe you could beg him to change his mind.
He wouldn't budge. "Yes, I'm well aware."
"So"âfine then, you'd give him something to reconsiderâ"you know for the sake of longevity that traditional isn't going to be the best? Machines are able to apply more force into the skin and move faster. Because you'll be relying on me instead of a machine, your line work will start to bleed within a few years and your color is going to fade pretty significantly, too."
If he was dissuaded, GetĆ never let on because he grinned. "You were the right choice, after all."
That ended the discussion and your night. Your eyes felt dry in their sockets, rolling them towards the wall where you read a big black number â5â on its clear plastic face. GetĆ didn't share that same urgency. He hadn't even checked a watch or a phone the entire time he was with you.
"Remember," you said, your tone daring, "you signed an agreement to not tell anyone about this place. I expect you to keep your word."
"Of course. I wouldn't consider breaking it in my wildest dreams." Effortless and gentle, he said this to you with fondness that felt oddly misplaced. "After all, we prefer choosing our artists. And, now, you're mine. I'll see you soon."
You locked the door after him without saying anything, losing track of his body through the window as he went somewhere under the shadows cast by taller buildings close by.
This time, you made sure to flip off the neon signage that had been glowing outside all night long.
The Uzumaki-kai had started out under a different name in the forties, one seemingly redacted from all publications shortly after the change. It had a tumultuous history with frequent power shifts and internal disputes that had left it nearly eradicated by the seventies until Yorimitsu Asahi climbed to the peak of the hierarchy. Within ten years, membership tripled, revenue increased into the billions, and nearly all records of their exploits had dropped off the edge.
KĆji had hit a dead end in his research for you, an attempt to give you some peace of mind in what you were dealing with. The idea was to hit the ground running, so when GetĆ came back around, you'd have some vague notion of what to expect. But all you were able to do was skim the surface of an, allegedly, power-hungry and morally depraved bunch of men and women.
The most recent details of their movements dated back two years ago, whereas the more credible sources haven't reported anything for nearly seven. In the earlier articles by a journalist gone undercover, they had a significant hand in the economy, mainly through casinos, prostitution, and ties to religious institutions.
You had to let out a groan because KĆji hit a wallâagain. All of the latest news you could find were just sensationalist reprints about how they were actively scouting people, or giving charity to orphans, and where the yakuza ranked in the world amongst other crime syndicates.
"Hey." GetĆ was standing in front of you, just on the other side of your counter. "Ready to get this started?"
Snapping shut your laptop had been an instinctual response. A flush of adrenaline in your veins was chased away by the cold creep of fear reaching up your spine. This wasn't the same as mom catching you watching porn or a teacher hovering close enough to see you cheat.
This was the chill of knowing you were digging into things you shouldn't be.
"Welâwelcome back." You didn't mean it but bowed your head low anyway. "I never got a chance to schedule you in. It'll take me a while to set up, if you'd want to come back another day."
GetĆ had his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed just like the last time, and looked around the small square footage of your shop. It was big enough to arrange a few compact pieces of furniture in the corner, give breathing space for a couple of bodies in the middle while you worked on them, and the front-end counter where you sat.
You made use of decorative shelving to display all the things that customers wanted to see: bottles of ink, strange art, little trinkets to give the place some interest so you wouldn't have to be. Everything else was shoved into the back office to clog up KĆji's space or upstairs in your apartment where you could fit it.
"No." GetĆ took a walk over to one of the shelves, a collection of inks you had arranged by color family. "I'd like to start today. I can wait for you to set up."
"Okay." You licked your lips. "Yup. That's fine. KĆji!"
With KĆji's help, what would've taken you close to an hour to prepare for GetĆ was whittled down to about thirty minutes. Just one look and the smarmy guy took on a more diminutive attitude, convincing you that if you were to walk away and come back, he'd probably be spit-shining the tops of GetĆ's shoes.
At least he wasn't sweating all over the floor again. You could watch the fragile flattery without completely twisting in disgust.
"One thing you didn't do last time was confirm that you were happy with the sketch." You had KĆji fetch your tablet and bring it up to show him. "Also, I refuse to start unless you have payment upfront. That was something else we didn't discuss."
"Thâthat's a joke." KĆji sputtered.
You looked straight at GetĆ. "You're yakuza asking me for an extremely elaborate piece done traditionally with a lot of white ink. I have a right to want to protect my time and resources."
"I agree. The sketch is perfect." GetĆ said, fluid strides bringing him less than a couple of feet away. "Do you prefer cash or card?"
You were seeing him in the daylight, not awash in flickering neon or shrinking away into shadows, and he was absolutely breathtaking. It made you think how easy it'd be to lure someone into the Uzumaki-kai by his looks alone.
Payment had been seamless enough, a quick transaction that KĆji verified before scuttling out of the shop for the evening. You were left with this man, this dangerous, handsome man, to undress in front of you, casually peeling layers of his suit away until the first slithers of pale skin sent your gaze to the instrument in your fingers.
GetĆ only removed his jacket and button-up since his back piece alone would take months to complete, a damning thing to realize once you thought about it.
This just felt too real.
This was really happening, and all you wanted to do was blame KĆji for putting you in this position.
"So, what you're going to do is lie down." You slipped on a pair of disposable gloves and gestured to the massage table behind him. A white sheet had been placed over the black leather underneath. "If you need extra padding, let me know. Since we're building this entire piece around the white dragon, that's what I'm focusing on for now."
He leaned his weight against the table, hands back in his pockets. You tried keeping your eyes off his chest, off of his defined pectorals and abdomen, away from the thickness of his arms. The knowing smile inching onto his lips proved that you had failed.
"I'm going to be using a projector to position the image on your back, draw it out with a marker, and start with the needles." You could finally show him the thing in your hand. It was a long glazed stick with a metal ferrule attaching a row of sterile needles at the tip. "You'll feel me stretch your skin and start poking. It makes a weird sound because of how it needs to be angled, how it goes into the skin."
You took a breath, and he actually laughed.
"That was a mouthful." He hinged forward, bringing his face closer to the rod. "Not quite as 'traditional' as I thought it would be."
"There are modern adaptations to everything. It used to be bamboo, this is made from persimmon." you said, lowering the instrument onto a silver tray next to all the others of varying sizes. "What makes it traditional is the technique applied. I guarantee your buddies aren't going to back-alley places in Japan and having someone stab their backs with unsterilized needles tied to a piece of wood."
His dark eyes followed your path to the projector, watching you flip the switch and cast an image of the dragon on the table. "You never know. Some of them just don't know any better. They don't always have the best show of judgment. They need guidance."
You had something to say to that but thought better of all your organs and didn't. "Cool. Get on the table so we can start."
The landscape of his back was as defined and lovely as the front of him. You waited until the white dragon was scaled down to the appropriate size and positioned over him to touch his skin, letting your fingertips soak up all his warmth.
"We'll see how far I get today," you were saying, dragging a narrow marker tip across the broad sprawl of him. "It's going to take me longer than it usually does, and I don't really go longer than eight-hour appointments."
"There's plenty of time." This guy had infinite patience, it seemed.
And when the time came for the first prods with your needles, you paused to ask, "Need a break? Want some background noise?"
"I'm talking to you," he said, pulling a few straggling pieces of ebony hair over his shoulder. "Thatâs enough for me." It sounded ridiculous when he said it and worse when it replayed in your head. "What made you want to practice traditionally?"
You were already in several jabs, wiping down between them to keep a visual of what you were doing. "My mentor is one of the best traditional artists in Japan. I learned everything from him. He used to work in Osaka, I'm not sure about now. I lost contact with him years ago."
"That's too bad." he said. "Have you thought about looking for him?"
The last thing you were interested in was talking about finding people with yakuza, so after a few more pokes along the middle of his back, dipping into that pretty region that made his waist look so waspy, you decided to flip the script.
"What about you? Did you just dream about joining a gang, or�"
He shifted his cheek to his arms, looking along his nose at your hunched shoulders. "Would you believe me if I gave you an answer?"
You dabbed his skin. "Probably not."
There wasn't much of a lull in conversation before he was onto the next topic, steering away from the niceties onto the real things he wanted to ask. You had been around the block a time or two; you knew the look people got when they had certain questions stewing inside their heads.
The only thing that ever stopped them was the devastatingly desperate aversion to kicking up dust and drama in public, and probably because they weren't yakuza.
GetĆ was the opposite in this scenario, so you lost.
"Where are you from?" There it was.
You sucked in a breath. "Gifu prefecture."
"That's not what I meant." He was still observing you with all the self-possession of a saint, but also unflinching obstinance that you couldn't get out of by hijacking the conversation again. "You weren't born in Japan, were you? Isn't it pretty bold of you to play off foreigners' lack of awareness for profit?"
As you swiped at the traces of ink and blood that coalesced into a single ugly bead, you noticed he hadn't winced once the entire time you pushed ink.
Would he if you stabbed him a little harder?
"That's a long story." Stab. Stab. Stab. His expression remained beautiful and pristine. "I don't feel like answering it."
The game of twenty questions spilled over from one session into the next, weeks apart, yet GetĆ always remembered where you both left off like he was troubling himself to commit all the contents of a crumpled-up list to memory. Sometimes, between a peaceful interlude that rendered conversation bare, the flawless terrain of his back stretched between your fingers as your needles sunk deep, you'd think to yourself that had he been any other manâyou'd be impressed by the effort.
Unlike other scenarios that leaned in your favor, boorish foreign men left unanswered when they'd talk about your bodyâwhere were you hiding tattoos? Under your clothes? Can we see? They'd laugh with one another because they almost always traveled in groups. Questions morphed into ugliness when they translated silence to incompetence; quips turned lewd and derogatory, but you no longer existed to them because you couldn't talk back.
That luxury of feigning ignorance wasn't packaged with GetĆ, having had lured that nugget of trivia out of you by the end of his first session. He never said those things about you, never let his inquisitiveness or eyes roam like you already had him. It was disgusting how being beneath his stare made you feel so vulnerable, stripped down to nothing but your underwear without that ever happening, without him ever having touched you.
You told yourself you'd be relieved the second this piece was finally finished, and he'd be gone from your shop for good.
"How long have you been a tattoo artist?"
But, still, for now, this little game with him continued, and he led the way.
"About ten years." No one had asked you that before, so it took you a few seconds for you to respond. Even then, you weren't entirely certain that was right. "Yeah, probably about ten years."
"Hm." GetĆ was in the habit of making that sound to quite a few of your answers. "You don't look it."
You jolted upright in your chair, fingers lifting away from his back just as you gave your tongue a reproachful click. All it would take would be one hard open-palm slap right against the sorest spot on his back to put him in a world of hurt and permanently fuck up the ink under his skin. You'd absolutely have your throat slit or neck snapped at the gallows, but it would be well worth the risk at this moment.
"What the hell is thatâ"
GetĆ's mellifluous laughter made your anger whittle to heat behind the ears before any words even made it out of his mouth. He tried keeping his back still. "Haha, sorry, that came out wrong. I meant: you look too young to have been doing this for ten years."
Good recovery. Smooth man.
You weren't nearly as amicable. "Aren't you too old to be playing pretend with a bunch of other guys?"
He let air out hard through his nostrils, lips pulling his smile wide enough for you to see the wet glisten on his white teeth.
"Fair enough."
Time crept along like that for the pair of you, multiple sessions coming and going with inconsequential banter that was always more upsetting to you than it ever was to him. Somewhere along the way, you had been convinced that GetĆ was unflappableâimpossible to rouse to anger, regardless of the times your clap-backs had taken a personal edge, aiming to bury deeper than any of your needles could reach.
It was enough when he'd frown, his pretty mouth pressed firm and drawn down. Oddly, when he'd look at you like that, it was reminiscent of something wholly unsettling, pulled from some deep recess in your memory that you couldn't quite put a finger on until it happened again one evening.
You had taken things a bit too far, reminding yourself that it was better to keep your distance from him. All it would take was one wrong comment on one bad day for this rapport to come crashing down on you with every bit of the same force as a tsunami, ruining everything you had built.
GetĆ had decided he needed a break, something uncharacteristic in the months you had spent with him as your client, and got up from the table. He couldn't go far without covering his back, so he stayed wedged between the inside and outside, trapped in the door and setting off the delicate, jangling bell overhead more times than you were comfortable with.
He had looked at you before walking away, though, that frown marring his visage, weighing down his beauty with cavernous shadows around his mouth. You acted like KĆji in that moment, feeble and pathetic, withering into a smaller version of yourself so maybe he'd show mercy.
Between those tense minutes, until he returned to the massage table, you figured out what made his disapproval so familiar.
It was like burdening the weight of a disappointed parent, like knowing you had failed another test in school, and your teacher was delivering results with that same sort of dissatisfaction while peeking over their glasses at you.
You felt like you were being reprimanded in the way only someone with influence on your life could have.
It really rubbed you the wrong way.
"Sorry." It was a hard word for you to say. GetĆ was on his stomach again, cheek pressed atop his arms so he could look at you. "Sometimes, I get carried away. Guess that's what I get for spending all my time with KĆji."
Cue a loud sneeze from the back office.
His placid smile was a relief to see. "You should get out more often and see other guys."
There was no disputing that fact. Besides your mainly male clientele, KĆji was the only man you were in any regular contact with. Life had a way of keeping people apart, widening the gaps of time from months into years, wearing away at those delicate threads of friendship until they were all but frayed and irreplaceable.
It was simply the natural progression of adulthood, and it was boring and terribly lonely. Tattooing made your life easier, numbed you to becoming just another downtrodden drunk hunched over a glass full of glowing gold, lusting after the bare minimum of affection from anyone.
This job kept your head above water, just enough so you could forget all of that and spend your time exactly how you wanted toâ
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
His question hit you full throttle, stealing the breath from your lungs as though he had landed a fist into your gut. It was just a few nonchalant words, an easy way to keep the conversation flowing, yet it had set your heart aflutter. You heard the rhythm of it ricocheting in your skull. It was suddenly so much harder to hold his skin taut, fingertips slipping inside the nitrile gloves you wore.
"A boyfriend?" A word that sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar, flustering you. "I don't have the time for that."
GetĆ shifted on the bed, something he usually didn't do without warning you beforehand. You let him get situated, taking that moment to also change your gloves beneath the table after patting them dry on your thighs. The skin around your fingertips had swelled and indented from moisture, further augmenting agitation.
He was gazing ahead now, narrow chin cradled in a slot made by his fingers. You couldn't tell what he was looking at since you kept so much stuff mounted on the walls to detract attention from you. It could've been anything.
You did think his vision aligned with your catalog of preset designs, though, leaving you just a little more self-conscious than his question had already made you.
When he did say something, his smile didn't quite reach how despondent he sounded, "It seems like no one has the time anymore. We've all lost our way."
GetĆ came by astonishingly early one day with the earthiness of a good brew wafting all around him. The shop had been open less than an hour, giving you just enough time to unlock the entrance and flip on all the signage before he walked in.
The little bell signaled him, both your eyes and nose lured by the cheery sound of it as well as the scent. You had expected to see KĆji at first; it wasn't unlike him to show up before his scheduled shift. Years of cubicle servitude had a way of battering people into automated drones. Workers like him might as well have been walking on conveyor belts their entire livesâgoing somewhere without actually getting anywhere.
KĆji also only survived off of his thirty-two-ounce thermos sloshing with coffee. Sometimes he'd share with you so you wouldn't need to deplete the shop's supply or climb two flights of stairs to your apartment to make some, but more often than not, he was halfway through that gigantic flask by midafternoon.
So to see that it was GetĆ taking languid strides up to your counter with two coffee cups, palms wrapped around slithers of cardboard to keep his skin from blistering, you had to correct a grimace.
"GetĆ." You used his name tentatively, always sparingly. It tasted unwelcome on your tongue, like the smoky bitterness of charred meat or the tang of vomit that burned through your nostrils and made your mouth salivate. "I didn't have you down for today. I have other clients coming in later."
"I'm sure they don't mind rescheduling." He smiled as usual, but the finality behind his words sent quakes down your spine. "I don't know how you take your coffee, so I just asked for cream and sugar. I'm more partial to tea, but sometimes it just doesn't give the kick I'm looking for."
You meticulously avoided his fingers as he handed over one of the cups. The lid was marked with your initials, an act of thoughtfulness you would've been moved by had heâonce againâbeen anyone else.
For GetĆ, he simply watched you with a tired, satiated smile as though the very notion of buying you coffee was worthy of some ovation. For you, seeing those black lines smear and spear outward across the white lid as dainty wisps of steam escaped wherever they could felt damning.
"How is it?" he asked, lips caressing the lifted rim of his own beverage. "You can be honest."
He sipped at the same time as you, pacing himself so your cups tilted simultaneously, eyes locked on tight, evaluating your slightest flinch. A hot trickle reached your tongue and crawled down your throat, feeling as though it were blooming out into your lungs and veins. It was known by him as well, like sharing the same experience, tipping the same cup and tasting those faint traces of one another, emulating warmth against your lips and in your mouth, lessening whatever uneasy longing he had started to spur inside of you.
You didn't know if the shudder that rattled down along your back came from the penetrating depths of his dark eyes or the bitter drink sinking into your cheeks, making you pucker.
Time forwarded for you again after that. The wall clock continued its eternal rotation, bustling bodies passed your shop, and you had lost those few seconds as though trapped in a dream.
"Did I add too much sugar?" GetĆ acted the same, perfectly pleasant smile seeming more like a fastened feature to you these days. "You sort of winced."
You set the cup down, ducking away from the front counter to collect your things out of the back office.
"It was actually too bitter for me."
KĆji came through the threshold about an hour later with some semblance of urgency, nearly knocking the door wide enough for it to slam into the wall. All of the color bled out of his cheeks, leaving his face a ghostly hue once he realized he was on the receiving end of GetĆ's stare. You were hunkered over his back, hands at work with the long stick and needles.
"If you break something, it's coming out of your paycheck." you drawled, so thoroughly enveloped by the black tracks left behind from your ink that you didn't notice KĆji's uneasiness turn into dewy skin and a beading forehead.
"Iâcan I talk to you in the back for a second?" KĆji hung onto every word, testing the sound of them while gauging GetĆ's quiet expressions. "There'sâyou need to see something."
"KĆji, seriously?" You didn't think you needed to point out GetĆ, or the fact that you were pulling ink from a glob on your glove. "Just tell me later, dude."
His face stretched as though wounded. "It's important. I swear. I wouldn't be asking ifâ"
"Is there a reason why you can't say it in front of me?" GetĆ had his nose pointed at KĆji, arm turned red beneath his cheek as he simpered. "Nothing's stopping you from telling us both right here, right now."
The scrawny man melted into himself, fingers fiddling together in a brave attempt to keep his teeth off of his nails and open sores on his cuticles. Whatever thing he had wanted to say was abandoned in that moment, stifled in his throat by a few words from the man on your massage table.
Your fingers halted, hovering over GetĆ's back as you took in the tone of his remarks to your employee, contemplating with a frown to threaten to throw him out.
"Don't talk to him like that." The leather underneath you groaned as you sat up straight on your stool. "This is my shop. You're not going to disrespect my employâKĆji!"
He had already rushed away behind the somber gray door into the back office.
"KĆji!" You swiveled away from GetĆ, instrument an afterthought on the silver tray at your side. Seconds later, you swung back around. "You need to leave."
GetĆ, who had watched the entire thing from his arms, suddenly lifted his head and shoulders up, face weighed by surprise.
"What?" His eyes were wide. "Come again?"
You didn't falter. "Get the hell out of my shop. We're done for today."
His confusion mellowed into something undefinable, an expression you couldn't read with eyes that tracked across your face as though trying to catch a bluff. Nothing familiar remained in his gaze, the cold snare he held you in for several seconds, the depths of him black as coal and empty. For those few beats, until he looked away, you had held your breath without realizing it and heard blood gushing in your ears.
"You live in the apartment above here, right? On the second floor?" GetĆ still had his back to you, fingers fussing with the buttons on the front of his white shirt. "You should be careful."
Every ounce of courage you had gathered just moments before was suddenly sucked dry, stolen from your bones and spine, making your posture crumble on the stool. Dread wrapped around you like freezing, creeping tendrils that made the fine hairs on your neck stick out, put a knot in your throat that might as well have been his fist.
"Howâhow do you know that, GetĆ?" You were halfway out of your seat, fingers resting against cool metal and close to your arsenal of needles mounted to persimmon dowels. "Are you watching me?"
"Mm, not quite." He turned around while finishing the last buttons, expression void of that easygoing smile and mirthful glint in his eye that you had come to rely on from him. Without it, it was like you were freefalling into the unknown without a net to catch your back. "You should fire that assistant of yours soon."
"KĆji?" You had thought that same thing many times, but hearing it from someone else was an insult. "He's been here for years. He does his job. Who do you think you are to come in here, harass my employee, and tell me to fire him? This is my shop. Before you're anyone, you're a client who I have every right to refund and turn the fuck away."
"I suppose that's true." GetĆ said, rounding the table, coming into such close proximity to you that you could smell faint remnants of coffee on his clothes and breath, saw the late morning glow filtering in through the windows give his eyes a golden glint. "It's only a suggestion, but you should take it. I don't want to see you take the fall for things he meddles in."
You frowned. "What does that mean?"
He showed you one of his good-tempered smiles instead of answering, an easy way to stop the conversation before it could snowball into something else, dragging you deeper into his world more than what you already are.
There was a part of you convinced that he wanted to submerge you into that gross underbelly with him all the way, steal you below the surface, take you away from everything you'd ever known. But when the light would return to his eyes, just like now, and he looked upon you with such fondness, trying to smother your inquiries with lips pressed thin and tight so as to seal all his secrets behind them, you weren't so sure what his intentions were.
Some of his weight was suddenly on your shoulder, collected in the palm of his hand cradling the roundness of it. His fingertips pushed into the fabric, pressed divots into your skin and burned where he squeezed.
"Take care of yourself." GetĆ said, surprising you one last time by using that same hand, the very peaks of his knuckles to skim your cheek on his way past. "I'll see you soon."
Firing KĆji was never an option, no matter what he involved himself with after work. There would be no business for you to spin signage for in the mornings, a studio to keep tidy, leather chairs to polish and preserve, and no stuttering neon light to bask under in the late hours of silence before returning upstairs to your bed.
Long ago, you had decided it made more sense to simply not see what didn't involve you directly, what didn't benefit you, because it was easier than acknowledging that the person you'd chosen to run everything in the background probably wasn't ideal. You'd known for years that his dealings outside your shop erred on the wrong side of the law, most likely, but it didn't matter as long as you didn't have to know exactly what it was.
As long as no one found him out, traced his employment to your tattoo shop, and turned your revolving door of clientele into thin, dwindling trickles, you'd force yourself to forgive him for whatever misdeeds he committed. He came into work on time every single day with his coffee flask and messenger bag, made no complaints about his workload and worn-in swivel chair that sometimes squealed when it turned, and didn't try to usurp the business from you.
He was the perfect employee and still was, even weeks following the incident with GetĆ. Every attempt you had made since then to get information out of him about that day was thwarted, distracted by numbers, stock invoices, client bookings, and asking if you wanted yakisoba from the little old lady down the road for lunch.
KĆji had decided you were untrustworthy now, a fact you were well aware of and unsure of how to handle. Less because he was your only employeeâand, regrettably, the closest confidant you had in your life at allâbut more that the entire ordeal left you uneasy and bothered.
He was doing something he shouldn't be, and GetĆ already knew about it and where you lived. Things weren't adding up, and you were the only one left in the dark.
One Sunday afternoon off left you with plenty of time to mull it over while packing around armfuls of groceries. A mid-autumn breeze was fabricated by cars passing through the city, throwing your hair in disarray, catching crisp bursts of air under your collar to leave you colder than you had been seconds ago. Your body was lulled into a relaxed state from the wind rocking your body left and right, pulled by the invisible force of it.
Your eyes stuck to the crosswalk sign, waiting for it to turn green, for the cluster of scuttering bodies to trot their way across and clear the area so they weren't stranded there until the next rotation. Their idle chatter hardly registered to you while you stood there next to themâcolors of clothing, small domes of umbrellas, the drone of passing car engines felt so far away and surreal to you.
Everything seemed to vanish except your heartbeat when the light finally changed, eyes drifting down toward something that had an inexplicable pull on you, first as a slither of all black that grew tall and eventually into the shape of a body. You felt like you were searching through a sea of pines for that one glimpse at something that had caught your attention.
It was then that you realized what had you so engrossed was the unfaltering stare of another. You nearly collided with a man in a beige coat two feet ahead of you when you saw that it was GetĆ standing at the other end of the crosswalk.
Why is he here? Is he following me? You didn't give yourself the time to ruminate before ducking low behind a group of teenagers eagerly discussing their new idol obsession. A couple of the girls were in gyaru fashion, something you'd expect on a day trip to Harajuku, not on the west side of Tokyo near Shinjuku.
They paid little mind to you lingering entirely too close to them, using the shelf of a boy's shoulder to hazard a peek out at the scene until you had reached the end of the crosswalk with them. They dispersed in all different directions, sharing casual partings before you could think of where to go next, legs suddenly snared to the concrete when GetĆ called out from nearby.
"Hey, what a coincidence to see you here."
"Is it, really?" You tried remembering where you were in Shinjuku.
The red-light district, KabukichĆ, the typical yakuza stomping grounds, wasn't far from here. It was one of those things that was easy to forget once the novelty of living in the area wore away, but it always meant something to someone else. That group of kids flashed in your mind briefly. It might've been their first time exploring a place like Shinjuku by themselves.
GetĆ came closer with his hands buried deep in his pants, the other half of a black sweatsuit that was too large for his frame. You tried to keep your eyes moving around a thinning crowd, steeped in uncertainty of how different interacting with him on the streets would be to piercing his back with needles.
"Are you heading home?" He saw your discomfort before the bags on your arms, his tone softening in the same way you expected it would for a frightened animal. "Do you need help carryingâ"
"Hey, Suguru!" Another man showed himself through the intermix of bountiful bodies, his shape hidden beneath similarly slouchy, loose folds of clothing. His voice carried a similar pitch as the other, albeit inelegant and insouciant, with a head that was fully white and eyes so terrifyingly blue you guessed he had to be mixed with something.
For those few seconds you spared him a glance, you were set awash in a sensation of familiarityâa distant type of it. The same sort you'd expect to have while watching a movie with the appearance of an actor that startled you because you knew you had seen him from somewhere, but you couldn't place just exactly where.
If it hadn't been for his petulant seeming disposition on arrival and slothful bearings that ruined his posture and any semblance of class based on his bizarre, exotic beautyâyou would have thought he was a model or someone of status, at the very least. His voice was annoying, however, and somewhat nasally as he complained about being left behind when GetĆ had noticed you skulking from afar.
GetĆ handled him benignly, almost disinterestedly, despite all of the speaking that coalesced into something even you stopped caring about. You made up your mind to use the distraction as a way to get out of this brush in public, spun on rubber soles, and almost began away until GetĆ broke apart from him and took the straps on one of your bags.
"Hold on"âhe didn't let go despite how your features purposefully deformed from his nearness, a brazen attempt to look ugly to himâ"you're a long way from home. Let me carry a few bags to help you out. GojĆ, I'll see you around."
"Whaaaaat?! Seriously?" complained the other, making a whale of a noise that didn't match his relaxed stance. His bones seemed to collapse into the heaps of fabric he had stuck his arms through that day.
You tried putting opposite pressure on your bag to reclaim it from GetĆ, though he got what he wanted in the end. "I don't want to trouble you. I can carry these myself."
"It's no trouble." GetĆ insisted, still with obscene patience that overwhelmed your dogged determination to avoid causing an awkward shift between the two men.
As it was natural in Japan, jumpers and coats and pretty umbrellas wove through your motley bunch without being too distracted by the scene. They all had somewhere to go, somewhere to be, however truly inconsequential their destination was. It would've demanded too much of their concentration and willpower to look at everyone who made a ruckus in the streets of Shinjuku, but maybe they paid a little more attention because GetĆ and GojĆ were beautiful, and you were like the hapless protagonist in a drama.
In that moment, however, you felt equal parts unfortunate that GetĆ bunched his long fluid strides to shorter ones to mime the pace of yours as he walked away from GojĆ alongside you, all but two of your bags on his arms, and equal parts secretly enthralled by the experience and that you had been chosen over whatever former objective the two men shared.
"What was the point of us coming to Shinjuku if you're just leaving me here?! You suck!" GojĆ's voice was carried by the false autumnal breeze whirled up by cars and gas exhausts, loud and strange because the urgency behind it had dropped off long ago. Now, it just sounded like he was calling after you both in casual parting like someone would from their doorstep down the road.
On that same fake wind, somewhere farther away but still close enough to see the uneven tips of GojĆâs white hair fluttering out away from his scalp, you could've sworn you heard the shape of your nameâthe pronunciation of it unmistakableâwith all the same inflection GetĆ uttered when using it with you, weaponizing it so your ears would perk and be forced to hear him.
"I'm not doing any more of your tattoo until next week. I hope you know that." You had walked most of the way with him back to the studio. Seas of somber, dark concrete crosswalks with white lines and faceless beings in sometimes nice clothes had shrunk from a hearty basin of converging intersections to a gentle downstream trickle of interweaving streets that housed residences and hidden businesses. "Sunday is my only day off. I don't make exceptions for anyone."
GetĆ stayed with you the entire time, his movements a little more sluggish than you were used to seeing since you didn't have the same leg reach as him. He could probably open up his arms and touch buildings on either side of the street with the blunt nails on his long fingers.
You wondered, briefly, to your shame, if he could wrap himself around you twice if you were to do it first.
"I know," he said, an affable smile in his eyes and curved onto his lips. The look of him grew even brighter when he noticed you were staring, your face blemished by creases and lines and uneasy, fluttering eyeballs that conveyed your distrust and intrigue all at once. "What? You don't believe me? My back is still healing from the last session. I think you went deeper with the needles than previous times. It's taking longer."
You probably did bury ink deeper into the pretty flesh on his back because he upset your employeeâyour only employee, your safeguard to a successful business.
"Remember, you signed a waiver about infection. If there's too much redness and swelling, you should get it looked at." It wasn't often any interest to you to give unsolicited advice outside the shop, but GetĆ was your special exception. "I'm not going to touch your back again until that's completely ruled out. Besides, the dragon is done, so now we're just adding all your weird folklore and buddhist iconography."
"Hard to believe we've made it all these months." he said, now standing with you outside the building you rented for your studio and second-floor apartment. Despite the nylon straps on his arms digging cavernous divots into his black sleeves, he didn't act as though he were carrying around bags of lead like you felt you with yours. "I couldn't have chosen a better artist. I wasn't lying when I said your online portfolio was one of the best I'd seen in Tokyo, by the way."
What he said still sounded so sweetly untrue, but you unlocked the old door with a grimy brass key and let him inside to take his shoes off in the entryway and climb the stairs behind you to the second floor.
"I never have guests, so I don't really have anything for you. Coffee? Tea? Water? I may have some orange juice left." Every inch of tiny countertop and kitchen floor was swallowed by plastic totes and your bodies. It didn't occur to you at that moment to try putting some things away first to make more room, so you stumbled through the mess for your one-cup coffee machine that doubled as your tea kettle. "Sorry for the mess, I guess. I spend most of my time working, so I don't get the chance to clean up very often."
GetĆ betrayed no emotion, didn't seem afflicted in the slightest by the state of your apartment, and kept the curl of his smile fastened all the time. "Tea is fine. I'll just take whatever is easiest for you."
Minutes later, he politely sipped from the rim of your favorite mug, one hip implanted into the edge of the counter, staved off from helping you unload your groceries because you told him it'd be weird for a yakuza boss to do that. He still tried to take some boxes of stuff and stick them in your cabinets when you weren't looking, though.
âDid you tell that guy about me?â The sound of your voice, sudden and suspicious, was enough to startle GetĆ into a wide-eyed stare. He asked you what you meant, so you told him, âThat guy back at the intersection you were with. Who was he? He knew my name. I saw him. Is he one of your gang friends?â
The alarm sank out of his expression, tension in his shoulders along with it. Despite the severity of your questions, he barely seemed to register them seriously and resumed stacking things on shelves to clear the countertops.
âGetĆ.â you pressed.
âNo.â He closed the cabinet once he finished and came to you, undaunted by the obstacles spaced out on the floor. âI didn't tell him about you. I've kept my word. He's an annoying shit who likes snooping around my business.â
âThen, how did heâŠâ
You receded into your thoughts, now trying harder than before to recall who that man was. His identity was tilted there on the edge of your memory, one word or phrase or image away from awestruck revelation. When it finally happened, seconds later, GetĆ was in front of you, heavy hands on your upper arms as though keeping you upright, and face bright with intrigue.
âWait. Wait. Wait!â You cried out. âGojĆ as in financial GojĆ? As in one of the richest families in Japan, GojĆ? Gold spoon baby GojĆ?â
GetĆ gave a jubilant laugh as though delighted by you figuring it out on your own. His hands rose higher on your arms, capping your shoulders in warm weight that felt as refreshing as it did unusual. You couldn't remember the last time someone had touched you like that.
âHe's my best friendâmy only one. I'm not surprised he was able to figure out I was getting work done at your shop.â He said lightly, but doing nothing to assuage your doubt. âI know you don't believe it, but he's good to know if you need help. I'll give you his number so youââ
âI don't want it.â you said with feeble resolve. âItâs already a pain in the ass enough to have yakuza hanging around all the time. I don't need some trust fund baby to know where I live, too.â
Your heart wasn't in those words, finding that all you could concentrate on was the space of his palms encapsulating your shoulders, deft fingers leaving marks in your clothes as though trying to feel your skin through fabric. He didn't allow himself to roam you, but the taut muscles in his hands revealed a sort of composed restraint that was close to snapping.
He said your name once; a low, raspy sound in his throat that seemed so much like him yet unlike anything you had heard leave his mouth before. His eyes were darkened by his lashes, mesmerizing you in some dreamlike haze that only intensified when he stooped his head to kiss you.
His lips found rhythm with yours; slow, at first, to test the feeling and how much either of you actually wanted this. You responded with quiet sounds, a sigh and a moan, followed by the spread of your arms reaching around his neck to bring him closer, feel him more.
GetĆ backed your body against the countertop and leaned forward on his hands behind you to press down harder into the kiss. The blunt edges of your fingernails dove through black downy hairs on the back of his neck, trailing further down the ridges of his spine, molding to the ridges of his vertebrae that pushed up below the surface of his skin.
Goose flesh marked him all over, breath stuttering in your mouth like he was stifling pleasurable sounds of his own. You expected more self-control from a man of his status, yet there he was melting into you and sucking the air from your lungs while tasting your tongue with the roughness of his.
There was an ache between your legs, unabated heat which you had forgotten could be stimulated by another person. You weren't ashamed to take care of yourself when the need arose, although even those instances were far and few between and lacked this same urgencyâthis need to have another person wrapped up in you, touching you, devouring you.
You thought about how bad of an idea this was, how KĆji would react if he knew how weak your willpower truly was. It made sense to expect someone like GetĆ to exert his influence over you like this, for him to give into his every impulse without fear of consequence because there simply was none for him. He was above needing to restrain his inhibitions if that's what he wanted in the end.
âI can make you feel good.â He said apart from your lips, now pressed into the underside of your jaw after stretching out the neckline of your shirt. âTell me what you want. I'll do it. I've wanted you since the beginning.â
What would happen if you told him to strip off your pants and get on his knees? Would the kingpin of the Uzumaki-kai obey someone lesser and bow and swallow the nectar from your body? Would he laugh at your brazen attempt, call you a wretch and drag you away for trying to make a mockery of him?
âJust⊠touch me.â Those words were not your own.
âWhere?â GetĆâs hands left the countertop to pile underneath your shirt, hands a light caress against the skin on your lower back. The heat of them made you flinch. âHere? Tell me where you want me.â
Something about this was too surreal, stirred unease in your chest and hundreds of quivering butterflies in your gut. It had come on as suddenly and dimmed the lust in your groin, lifted the fog from your eyes and cotton in your brain. It left you pliant in his arms, yet far away in mind as you searched those deeper recesses of yourself for an answer.
GetĆ noticed the disconnect and passionless kiss, your lips barely taking shape against his, and lifted his hands off of you.
âWhat's wrong?â He asked.
âIââ Something about you. âI don't know. This is just unprofessional. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it.â
There was still darkness in his eyes, emotions shimmering through them despite an effortless smile he secured on his face. It was an eerie mask this time around, but your vulnerability and reddened, bruised neck kept you from saying anything on it.
âI should be the one apologizing.â GetĆ said with that unshakable calmness of his. âI didn't have the intention to push myself on you. I just thoughtâŠâ He tilted his head a little left, tempting you to lean with him. âI thought we wanted the same thing.â
You couldn't answer that truthfully because then this would never end and he'd wind up in your bed. Had he been any other man, you'd have stripped him down to nothing and let him ravage you as he said he would.
But, you couldn't because he was your client.
You couldn't because of who he was.
You couldn't because he liked to keep his secrets close to his chest, and while you had your neck exposedâwarm, sucking lips at your jaw and on the small swells in your throat when you'd swallowâyou realized you couldn't trust him not to sink his teeth in and rip out gore and stringy sinew and let you bleed out on the floor.
He knew that distrust, had probably seen in everyone heâd ever known, yet he kept that smile which had grown stiff.
âIt's not a good idea, GetĆ.â Because there's something off about you. You're a wolf masquerading as a shepherd. âOf all people, you should know that.â
GetĆ said nothing else as he was led downstairs and let out into the brisk evening air. Briefly, you worried he would feel the chill through this baggy sweatshirt and had to think better of fetching him a scarf for the trip back to wherever he belonged.
You stayed behind the door near the stairs, leaning through it far enough for him to reach out and stroke your face with the peaks of his knuckles. It was a fleeting touch, perhaps an attempt to not overstep as he had before.
And then, just before he pulled away, he said something familiar, âI'll see you soon.â
a/n: so i started this project late last year, i think. i put it aside after i started working on my original android x reader oneshot (which is posted and y'all should read it *hint**hint*) but i'm picking this back up to finish it.
originally, i was going to post this in its entirety once it was finished (est. 20k-22k), but decided just to get this out of my face and do the other half separately. if y'all wanna see the second half and conclusion to this please reblog and interact with this!! if i don't really gauge any interest in it, i don't really see the point in putting my time into finishing it.
the second half has the sex scene and all the drama and stuff.
yakuza!getĆ suguru x tattoo artist!reader | 2/2 | wc; 26.5k
story summary; you're a tattoo artist hidden amidst the bustle of shinjuku city and renown with tourists. due to a misstep of your shady employee, you're visited one night at closing by an eerily beautiful man in a disheveled suit and no tie requesting an intricate back piece done traditionally. the undertaking slowly begins to unthread your life piece-by-piece the closer you get to him until there is no way out.
story warnings; dividers are used to break up scenes, dark content, yakuza au!, details about tattooing, traditional tattooing (tebori), money laundering, injuries to mc, implied death of oc, manipulation, power imbalance, a bunch of cultish shit, mc doesn't fuck around and is a hardass + sort of a bully to their employee, mild dubcon, sex w/ injury, getĆ smokes, mc dogging on foreigners, implied stalking, prose + detail heavy, explicit sexual content, heavily implied homicide, graphic details of violence + wounds + blood.
read the warnings! + 18 content! the events within this story are not indicative of my personal viewpoints.
thank you @hantaslittlearsonist for your tremendous efforts with proofreading this beast! w/o you, this project probably still wouldn't be finished. @vincentvalenfine for beta reading the smut scene, it really helped me get through the rest of it!
a/n; here is the second part and conclusion of p&i! please remember to reblog and interact with this post bc this took me months to finish! đ
âDon't hold your breath.â
No matter where you wandered in the tattooing world, that phrase was carried across tongues in mumbled, vice-like tones with spittle on the lips and all the subdued ire learned through generations of mothers and their ancestral vernacular.Â
You had spoken it in many languages without ever knowing how your clientâs mothers would actually utter it. But, you thought about their voices clapping like thunder, a hammer striking molten flecks into the air off of steel, perhaps softer and melancholic like being swathed in fine silks and gossamer, even pitiless and unloving such as lying on a slab of black obsidian because you believed it would feel colder than anything.
These foreigners always gaped at your command of such a simple phrase, suddenly in a humorous mood while they demanded you say other things, just shy of patting some part of their bodies like gesturing to a dog. You would do it since now you had to tell them to sit still, their movements having unsteadied your hand, dislodged your focus and sucked your spirit back from wherever it had gone in the interim.Â
With enough effort, they would eventually lapse into excitable silence that was neither comfortable nor tranquilâyou could see they had questions about you, not about the imagery they had paid you to emblazon on their flesh. The best of them, with enough sensibility to read the room and your disconnect, would simply simmer in their inquisitiveness and move on.Â
It was the ill-mannered and capricious others who you remembered glumly because they wanted to unfurl you, find some seams they could pluck apart to see inside of you, to ascertain that you were realâthat you were just like them, as it would never be enough that you simply existed.Â
Don't hold your breath.
You started telling yourself that every time the little bell hanging over the entrance gave its shrill peal; a ceremonious announcement of all who ventured inside from the street.Â
A doorbell once existed in place of the jangling thing above, but the sound of it had been too jarring and disrupted your flow with body-wide tremors, weakening your grip and forcing your hands off a clientâs skin until the sound stopped bouncing off your bones and in your skull.Â
KĆji was the one who had implemented the bell, later on unprompted, going as far as to come in on his Sunday off to install it while you slept upstairs in the apartment. He had hoped you'd lose the urge to use your combined lunchtimes to crankily complain about the monotonous tone.Â
It had worked for quite a few years, meanwhile you found new things around the studio that bothered you more to take its place, further solidifying KĆjiâs belief that you were simply meant to be perpetually ill at ease.Â
Don't hold your breath.
The unhappiness surrounding the bell had resurfaced over the past weeks for reasons unbeknownst to KĆji, yet unexplained by you. When the gold metal would jingle and he'd be around to see you physically tighten, your tattooing hand a frozen mass hovering inches above a patch of skin you had just inked.Â
You'd hold the breath you told yourself you wouldn't, a swell of anticipatory silence filling the parlor and meaning very little to anyone else but you. KĆji would not emerge from the back office, that somber gray door painted exactly the same color as the walls, blending into it, further camouflaging him and isolating him from you unless the need arose.Â
Clients liked to swivel their heads around to witness the newcomer, curious to know what other types your business attracted.
The locals would be satisfied with swift and sweeping glances while trying to be as nondescript as possible in your chair because you could never be sure of the types who wandered into tattoo establishments.Â
Foreigners always seemed to take offense to other customers showing up while they were still getting work done, unsubtle in the way their stares locked on hard, as though extracting every bit of history and essence from the person with just a look.Â
GetĆ liked the challenge of going toe-to-toe with foreigners, concealing the disdain that you saw crimping at one corner of his mouth with a masterful smile. A relaxed and pacifying smile to said foreigners, their stares turned soft and reverent while he held them. All this despite the chasm of cultural barriers and separation of tongues and originâno one kept an ego for long, not once did a client of yours find the confidence to confront him.
Encounters with GetĆ left them disorientated and nonplussed, yet not angry as they were handed their aftercare instructions in their language, a receipt stapled to the upper left corner, and ushered out with an urgent gesture. The door was bolted after them, ensuring the time GetĆ had in your chair would go undisturbed. Although, you had half the mind to bring KĆji out from the back to work at the counter so you wouldn't be alone with him.
But, KĆji hadn't trusted you since that incident several months agoâwhere he had stormed in, disrupting the flow of your session with GetĆ, fire on his heels and something enormous to say. In hindsight, you wished you had done differently, lent him your ear in a time of need instead of acting so agreeably for GetĆ, because now you ate lunch alone and he seldom left that frowzy back office until his hours were done and the shop had closed.
âSomething on your mind?â GetĆ had taken up the habit of prying these days, as if your business was now his to know. He had chosen to invite himself into your inner world.
Since kissing you in your apartment back then, the trajectory of your relationship had changed, simultaneously softened and intensified, encouraging him to look upon you in a strange new way. âI have some time this afternoon, why don't we take a break and grab lunch? You like that noodle bar down the street, right?â
It had all started so subtly.Â
First with amended coffee orders until you could no longer complain that something was wrong with it, having figured out what you liked. Next, he would do things like this: ask you out to lunch, suggest a walk because he needed a smoke break, stay a while after a session was finished for a cup of tea as he claimed the cheap boxed stuff you grabbed without thinking was better than most.Â
He had learned you weren't the sort to respond well to prosaic compliments, let alone any heartfelt ones. You withered from the heat of his hands when he'd try to skim your cheek with a crooked knuckle, flick away strands of hair from your eyes, lay his hand flat against your tight shoulder or your stiff back.Â
One day, he tried to kiss you again, stooping towards your face with his lips halfway over yours before you had swung yourself out of the way under the guise of fetching him something to drink. It had happened in a singularly fluid motion that seized him in astonishment which then ripened to admiration and something else you never saw, but felt.Â
A raw, penetrating stare that struck the back of your neck with needles and cold sweat on your scalp. That day, you never turned around to see that look in full effect and it had all but dissipated once you returned to the parlor with a pair of steeping tea bags.
âIs this the same tea you always buy?â you told him that it was, receiving his well-tempered smile as proof he was satisfied. âGreat. I've really come to enjoy sitting down with you after our sessions. It almost feels familiar to me, like tea with something sweet after dinner with my family. I think that's something you'd be able to appreciate as well.â
By âfamilyâ, you could only assume he had meant other yakuza members since that's how they seemed to like to talk about one another.Â
You always thought it was strange that the yakuza could pretend to be brothers and sisters, yet a misstep or wayward action was compensated by severing a part of their body or indiscriminate death. Perhaps it was because you knew nothing of what âfamilyâ meant, but it all sounded awfully barbarous.
âI'm your tattoo artist, GetĆ.â You felt the need to remind him often enough that it had become automated. âWeâre almost done with your line-work. After that, all that's left is the color. This arrangement will be over and I'll need to move onto my other clients. I hope you'll keep up your end of the deal and keep my shop quiet.â
GetĆ moved the white string in his mug in a fluid, almost purposeful motion that had you fascinated. He had come to sit beside you on the low sofa, green leatherâsupple, smelling old and mildly earthyâcreaking under his weight. At the time, you couldn't tell him to sit across from you as was professional to do; the words had clammed up in your throat.Â
âIs that really what you want?â GetĆ asked tonelessly, his smile long gone as though dealt a cruel wound. âDo you really want this to be over? I haven't told anyone about you or this shopâI don't want anyone to know. You're my tattoo artist. I've already told you that I want you.â
Few men in Japan were as brazen as GetĆ was, so you couldnât be trusted to react correctly solely that you weren't sure how to.Â
You had always lived invisibly, attempted to slide under the radar in a country that was clearly not home yet you lacked belonging anywhere else. However, you had learned that this was the place to be to accept the emptiness of your life, where no one would ever see you or bother you because no one else wanted to stand out, either.Â
Outside of your shop, you didn't matter.
The streets were disorganized with rowdy foreigners, overworked salarymen halfway drunk out of their fucking minds by eight at night. Flirty students tried to fit in, and young adults already so disillusioned by the current state of things they stared on glassy-eyed, wandered meaninglessly. They stifled the world with headphones regurgitating some stupid shit about self-love and âten tactics to reach successâ and âhow to get a boyfriend/girlfriend in three datesâ.Â
You didn't know how to handle someone like GetĆ who never tried to hide who he was, become part of the wallpaper of society, and didn't hide his interest in you. It was because of that very same reason that your doubts had rooted and bloomed into an uneasiness that felt more intuitive than situational.Â
âWhy won't you look at me?â you told him you didn't know what he meant. He said, âI haven't seen you look me in the eyes in weeks. Are you trying to avoid me? Have I done something to scare you?â
How were you supposed to answer that?
âNo,â you sucked in a breath and let it out. âThat's not it. I don't know, GetĆ. I'm just confused about how I feel about everything. About being your artist. About you. About us. I feel like I'm stuck in a maze and I just keep hitting dead-ends everywhere I go. Like there's no way out.â
To this confession, his smile returned shaped like something wholly sweet, comforting, and tantalizing to you. You were able to look as far as his lips, admiring the length of his jaw, the proximity between his mouth and tip of his chin, how perplexingly youthful yet mature his skin appeared to you.Â
He was a man who treated himself like his own God.Â
âYou feel lost, I know you do.â He set aside his tea and turned toward you fully, arm falling across the back of the couch near your shoulders. His fingers curled in your sleeve, but scantly felt you through it. âI picked up on that when we first met, with how guarded you were. I know that you feel displaced, far away from anywhere you can call home. Itâs been that way for a long time, hasn't it? You've been alone for a long time, haven't you?â
You considered all the things that still needed doing in the shop: inks put away, surfaces disinfected, tools sterilized and reordered. You needed to turn over the signs outside, KĆji needed to be told to leave because he was probably absorbed in a purchasing order, the old coffee needed to be dumped out in the sink.Â
âI care about you.â For some reason, you flinched when he said those words so soothingly. Warmth ebbed from them. âI feel like I've become protective over you because I understand you. I know what it's like to feel abandoned in this world with no one to have your back. I know what it's like to go through life without guidanceâlike you've just been thrown out to the streets to fend for yourself with the feral dogs and scum. I know more than most what that's like.â
His long fingers put divots in your shirt, pushed the fabric into your skin and cradled you into the side of his body. Every thought in your head was jumbled, like puzzle pieces haphazardly shaken inside a box, the voice inside of you went silent, your heartbeat eclipsing it.Â
âI don't think you know me as well as you think you do, GetĆ.â You said. Meanwhile, he let his chin rest atop your head and caressed languid strokes along the length of your arm. Up and down. His silky hair brushed your face, the scent undefinable yet fresh, whereas his clothes smelled vaguely watery and of lotus.Â
GetĆ moved his chin to press his lips into your scalp, rooting through all your hair with his nose as if chasing a high. âI think I know more about you than you're willing to admit. You don't need to be scared. I won't let anything happen to you. You're family, after all.â
âGetĆââ
âLook at me.â He led your face up his with an empty hand and leaned down to kiss you, tender yet fleeting. âI'll take care of you. Trust me in the way I know you want to. Believe in me. You know I won't ever lead you astray.â
He poured into you in a way no man ever had, unlike anything you had ever experienced. This didn't feel like the same man who you'd shared a brief, passionate exchange with in your apartment not so long ago. Whoever this man was, he knew how to consume and would do so until he was satiated; who had no interest in being malleable for anyone else other than himself. He remembered where to lay his hands on you to make you weak, melt into him, absorb his fervor as part of your own.Â
You only reacquainted with stirrings of common sense when his hands climbed under your clothes and pressed into your skin. The kisses became messy as he stroked higher along your spine, seeming to step along each vertebrae, and below the waistband of your pants where he felt for the globes of your ass.Â
âMmn. KĆjiâs still here, GetĆ.â You managed to part yourself from his lips, only for him to lick up into your mouth and hold your words hostage for as long as he could. âSeriously. GetĆ. Listen to me.â
He withdrew from you slowly, drawing out the caresses and wet sounds in a way so mind-numbingly erotic you'd nearly forgotten your worries.Â
âI thought you fired him.â He felt his way around to your front, the fabric of your shirt piling around his wrist as though he meant to expose you to the air in the shop.Â
Your midriff was cold, his lips were hot and moist and slippery on yours. He said, âI think you'll regret not getting rid of him.â
Mysteriously, KĆji emerged from the back office moments later with his briefcase and empty thermos. He froze like a startled deer once he spied GetĆ sitting with his legs spread wide and one of your decorative pillows laid across his middle, arms draped halfway off the back of the couch, face weighed long in undoubtable annoyance.Â
It was probably the most emotion that KĆji had ever witnessed from GetĆ up until that point, whereas the other wanted nothing more than to puff away on a few dozen cigarettes. KĆji found you particularly invested in arranging the special acrylic shelf you had dedicated to your array of inks.Â
âI'm heading out,â KĆji announced slowly, meekly as if afraid speaking too loudly would rouse GetĆ into some irrepressible fury. âI'll see you next week, same time as always.â
You intentionally swapped tones of blue with green with yellow into orange so you had something to focus on at that moment. A convincing ruse of busywork that KĆji wouldn't question because he never really tried to pull apart the method and the madness behind the things you did.Â
âOkay, cool,â you said. âI'll be here, or somewhere, if you still need to talk about anything. Whatever it may be.â
It was an unusually generous thing for you to say, but not so foreign that you believed it'd arouse any suspicion in KĆji. However, the gesture went unreciprocated and he said nothing to alleviate the creeping sensation of unease not too dissimilar from the kind you had felt with GetĆ. It set your stomach alight with multitudes of wings fluttering around your viscera, all trying to find an exit and free themselves.
âI don'tââ KĆji passed a cursory look towards GetĆ, a snappy movement enough to make his head spin. âI don't think so. At least, not anymore. I'll be off.â
Once he left, you became aware of the stillness within the parlorâa silence equally suffocating and anticipatory, filling your ears with static and muddling your brain. Your concentration wavered further when the leather squeaked and the cushions refilled with air, hissing gently. GetĆ came up behind you and held you by the shoulders, his breath moistening your skin as he buried his face into your neck.
âYou need to go, GetĆ.â If he didn't, you could envision yourself melting into his chest while he surrounded you, fondling your body under each layer of clothing until he found where he really wanted to be. After that, all those years of mental fortitude would come undone, suffusing you in throes of shame and guilt knowing that the effort and the isolation had meant nothing because it just took one man tasting you, swallowing you, for it all to fall apart.Â
âI'm not kidding. Go home.â you sounded miserable saying it.
He lingered for a while, hiding underneath your jaw where you couldn't see the expression he wore.Â
That was when he bit you.
GetĆ sank his blunt, white teeth into your neck and sucked a dark, raw bruise there, laving the spot with his tongue like he believed his saliva would heal the wound he had just caused.Â
It was beautiful work, enough so that he traced two fingers along its irregular shape to feel the shallow impressions where his teeth had been. None of the marks bled despite the heat radiating off them, though it did throb faintly under the neckline of your garment where the fabric rubbed you and suddenly felt coarse and scratchy.
You thought that it must've been a punishment despite GetĆ tangling a hand in your hair, gently tilting you back for a kiss. There was tension in your neck that made it hard to mold against his lips, and pieces of jet-black hair floated above your heavy eyelids, making you wince.Â
âI'll see you soon.â He steadied you in his arms as he said this, but pushed deeper into the kiss and delved for your tongue. Your hands coiled and misshaped the front of his shirt, creasing it, smearing it with sweat from your palms to reveal all the apprehensions you could never bring yourself to voice.
GetĆ knew you had surrendered to him and reveled the taste of victory for a little longer.Â
The white dragon on Geto's back was alive and writhing, as though in flight, above a sea of soft peach flesh.Â
It couldn't go very farâyou had decided its tragic tale as you injected ink into its bellyâbecause the expanse of pale orange and faint yellow and shimmering white sea of flesh where it traveled eventually led to nowhere, a fruitless pursuit of freedom that made it succumb to the most hollow loneliness and grief which anchored it to the sea where it would float listlessly, endlessly.
Although it had relented to its fate, the dragon would never allow itself to be undermined by lesser beings and so, while drifting aimlessly through an equally vast and cramped world, locked its jaws in a perpetual snarl, its claws rounded viciously, and serpentine body coiled around itself protectively.Â
You wondered how long the dragon could survive like that.Â
How could it stand to go on living, to endure unending nothingness? It would never escape from that peach sea, from a prison of anotherâs design. Could it survive solely off its own pride? Feast upon whatever fantasies of food, water, and love as its only sustenance indefinitely? Is it possible that it could be spared by the sea lapping up from waves, spraying its beautifully pale iridescence with salt and turning it to stone? It was bittersweet to think of the dragon that way, statuesque and frozen in perpetual motion.
âWhat are you thinking about?â GetĆ seldom enjoyed long stretches of silence when you were together with him. There wasn't a need to keep talking, but when the conversation waned and your voice softened, he knew your mind had receded to somewhere else and he'd have to coax you back. âTell me about it.â
His sincerity seemed to come in waves. During moments like this one, he sounded truly invested in your inner world, the way everything could fall apart around you yet you'd never lose focus, and similarly, what made your brain tick. Other instances, you doubted he wanted to know the vibrancy of that inside place from a position of care.Â
He wore a convincing mask; this wolf shepherding sheep in a manâs skin.Â
âI'm just thinking about where to put the ink next, GetĆ.â You said, impassively. While, on one hand, partially true since the line work for the dragon was exquisite and clean, many of the finer details (like the scales on the underbelly and parts of the face) were a slow process. They took time, they took careful positioning and accuracy, they stole your breath so your chest wouldn't expand and upset the balance of the persimmon rod between your fingers.Â
Don't hold your breath.
On the other hand, however, it was like you were dissecting something more abstract such as a painting, or one of those inkblot tests supposedly meant to interpret personality and diagnose you as a glitched-out, fuck-up in society.Â
You could see part of yourself in the growling white dragon on Geto's back, you understood its agony and hidden desire for something better, but knew the strength of its own resolve would prevent it from ever changingâfinding something more.Â
âI need a break.â GetĆ pulled you out of your thoughts again with that comment, an unusual one at that. âMind if I step out to smoke for a while? I think you could use one, too. That sort of posture will kill your back.âÂ
Your needles stuck him a few more times, excess ink wiped away after each pass before the stick was placed aside on the silver tray you kept at chest height. He didn't get up until he heard the elastic snap of your gloves, removed and aimed into a trashcan across the parlor.
âTake however long you need, just stay out of the direct sunlight. UV will make the white ink discolor, especially since it's fresh.â You were on the verge of nagging him, because something about his languid attitude and almost sloven way he held himself did not inspire trust. âIf you've never listened to me before, you should about this.â
âWhat do you mean? I've always listened to your aftercare instructions.â GetĆ smiled evenly as a means to sedate your irritability, but his voice was airy, like a semblance of a dismissive wave. He was faced towards you with an unlit cigarette pushed between his lips. âYour work has exceeded my expectations in every way. I don't think I have any reason to worry about the ink suddenly changing color.â
âOh, whatever. Have it your way,â you relented and turned to resupply your tray. âJust keep in mind that if you get an impulse to take off your clothes outside, have someone slather spf on your tattoos so you don't fuck up my work. Seriously.âÂ
GetĆ took the paper stick from his mouth and came up behind you to press his face into the part of your neck where he'd left the bruise. Enough time had passed that it no longer bothered you, though traces of it still remained as darker specks on your skin easily concealed by make-up and tall collars.
âNo worries,â he said, now with his lips nestled underneath your jaw while he used an arm to hold you flush against his naked chest. You glimpsed the cigarette pinched upright between his two fingers, felt his hot breath leave a moist trail up to your ear. It cooled under the powerful beat of the oscillating fan overhead. âI do take everything you say seriously. I'm always listening because don't we all need someone like that? I'd like to believe I'm that person for you, at this point.â
âYou're trouble, GetĆ.â That was, perhaps, the most honest thing you'd ever said to him and meant it. A wolf. A wolf. A wolf.
âSo you say!â He laughed like he was clueless and took his weight off of you to shake out the lines in the white button-up he'd left neatly folded on your green leather couch. âGive me ten minutes and we can pick it back up. I'm just going to step outside.â
A thought crossed your mind that you no longer reacted appropriately seeing him saunter through your shop, bare-chested and overtly proud without being crass about it. You used to worry more about keeping the window blinds down, closed tight to reject light and prying eyes from the streets spotting him through miniscule gaps in the plastic slats.Â
There'd been plenty of sleepless nights spent thrashing yourself about your tiny mattress, seeking the coolest side, the side that was comfortable enough to numb your thoughts. You envisioned each worst case scenario in such lucid detail that it could've genuinely fooled you as reality, if you had been any more unsound.Â
All of these visualizations culminated at one specific point: outsiders would be looking in through the blinds with their faces pressed flat against the windows.Â
They left greasy, porous prints on the glass and misty condensation from their flaring nostrils and shivering, guilty breaths.Â
GetĆ entered the frame next, walking through your parlor always in pursuit of some trite goal, and there he'd be noticed. You could never remember the dialogue in those daymares, only that the busybodies were appalled at the sight of the tattoos sprawling across his back, soon recognizing that you were the artist who'd agreed to the task.Â
The dread felt so real, so simultaneously hot and coldâfirst sinking deep into your stomach, holing it out into some lonely, black chamber of gore that expanded indefinitely in its frigidity. Then, your neck and face and ears would burn as though in embarrassment but worse, like that explosion of fire that'd grip you during a panic and melt your thoughts together so incomprehensibly that all you could manage to do was sob futilely and throw your arms around your body.Â
You could never get any words out.Â
You could never run away.
You had to take their jowled snarls and hateful, fiery eyes that demanded the carpet be pulled out from under youâeverything worth meaning in your life to be taken away and you to be branded as a criminal. GetĆ never saved you in any of your imaginings. Truthfully, he never really showed up in them at all apart from those few seconds where he was exposed for everyone to see who he wasâwhat he was. He never mattered much more than that.
âI changed my mind. Come with me.â GetĆ smiled pityingly when you startled, shoulders jumping to give it away. There was a certain unreality that came with him standing there next to you, shirt on his back, front unbuttoned so the taut mounds down his abdomen showed through to you.Â
It made you wonder if this was what you would have seen if you'd kept up the nightly fabrications. That one would eventually come to the conclusion where he'd take you by the waist, just as he was now, and lead you out the front door into the crisp evening air.Â
Daylight remained but was distant from the narrow streets outside your shop. Gently sloping roofs from houses and businesses across the way played a dutiful part in partially obscuring the pinkening sky. As darkness encroached upon the sunset in a blue haze, you realized you should've brought out a jacket with you and suggested the same to GetĆ.
But, as he fished a skinny lighter from his rear pocket and lit the cigarette slotted between his lips, you understood that it would've been moot. He wasn't troubled by the cold.
âYou should take tomorrow off.â He only spoke to you again after he'd had sufficient puffs off of his cigarette. You focused on the glowing orange peak slowly crumbling into gray ash. âIt'll be a good day for you to get out. I heard the weather will be niceânot too cold. Do some shopping. Take a train to the countryside for a couple of hours.â
âI'm up to my neck in appointments. Not gonna happen.â You tried to sound firm. There in the dim shade of the overhanging roof, you thought you saw an near imperceivable twitch from the corner of his mouth. But, you liked to look too much into things these days, it seemed. âWhy tomorrow? My Sundays off are more than enough for me.â What a lie.
He only gave you more to gnaw on with his silence, sucking down the rest of his vice until the beige nub was fully extinguished and pocketed in his pants.Â
âGetĆ.â You were getting far too comfortable using his name like you were carping someone you actually knew. âI'm getting really sick of this cryptic shit.â
âI think you know me well enough by now that I wouldn't bring something up unless there was a reason,â was all he told you.
Next thing, his shoulders were blocking out the last remnants of sunlight, casting a shadow over your body, a chill through your bones that you chose to believe came from him stealing away your warmth rather than the strange steeliness in his eyes.Â
âTake tomorrow off.â Both of his hands were on your arms, fingertips pressing your clothes and skin deep, keeping you inert. Then, he leaned down and kissed you. âTell me you'll do it.âÂ
âGetĆ,â you moaned against his lips, âI have appointments. I have to work. I have to pay rent.â
âI can take care of you.â His voice had lost that velvety, saccharine quality to it and harshened. Every utterance became like coarse stones tumbling in his throat, his words reverberating against your lips, in your mouth, dominating you. âBecause that's what family doesâwe never leave each other in want, never leave each other without. You have a place with us, with me, if you'd just let it happen.âÂ
You once related the way he talked to the soundings of a madman trying to finagle his teachings into the corrugated mass inside your skull. You would fall mute while listening, so paralyzed by uneasiness and uncertainty that the only thing you could trust was the muscle memory of threading the persimmon rod through your fingers, propelling the needle into his skin, fixating on the way the ink seemed to be sucked in greedily below the surface.Â
But then, he started wanting you and asked questions about your life. He took you to all the same spots you had used to frequent at lunchtime with KĆji, and stayed for tea after his appointments. He kissed you like this outside of your apartment at closing time, one hand in your hair, the other above your head to brace his weight from fully pressing against you.Â
You had asked yourself once or twice whether you kept this going because you enjoyed the thrillâa man with powers vastly unknown craving you. Hanging off of every detail you divulged, silently weaving those pieces together into a fabric of embroidery to make up an image of youâhis image of you.
It must've been fun for him to smile in his beautiful, vulpine way, knowing that each time he did, he chipped out a fleck of your armor and won a little prize: your history, your thoughts, your feelings.
Perhaps that helped you keep him out of your home. From undressing you and taking space in your bed, laying in darkness, stealing away your senses except how it felt when his hands groped your damp skin, your insides clenching while his tongue made artful motions on your body. You thought about how you'd reach into his back with your nails and make him bleedâdistorting the work you'd painstakingly etched into his flesh.Â
âPromise me.â GetĆâs lips were light against your own now, a silky caress. âPromise me you'll be gone tomorrow.â
Each and every promise you'd ever made in your life, you had broken. That level of commitment was better suited for schoolgirls believing they wouldn't find boyfriends until getting into the same university together. Not for someone like you who operated solely on their own interests and lived inconsequentially to the rest of the world.Â
You showed up to work the next morning, flipped your signage, and unlocked the door early for KĆji as you always did. He shared fresh coffee from this heavy thermos and went over the agenda with you, just the same as every other day. Traffic coming into and out of the shop would be dense as it was approaching the weekendâthe locals wanted to celebrate with booze and bad decisions, the foreigners were getting antsy for some real excitement to make their trip worthwhile.
Nothing struck you as amiss until business was hit with a midday lull, usually indicative of lunchtime rush and that brief pocket of respite where you could cram a couple of bites of something down your throat.Â
Amid bites of rubbery egg roll washed down with swishes of lukewarm coffee, you sat behind the front counter in pensive silence and roving eyes.Â
You attempted to remember the exact pressure GetĆ had pushed into his kiss yesterday, how heavy his hands had felt on your body. All the while, you considered that, maybe, today you'd need to dust the acrylic shelves with all your trinkets and check expiration dates on the bottles of ink you hadn't touched in months.Â
But then, the gray door leading into the back office was hit by some great force. You came back to yourself, jolting up out of your seat, stunned to the point where you stood ramrod straight as you watched the door bulge outward, straining against the hinges and lock before it sprung open and spilled KĆji out into the parlor. You hardly registered the door striking the wall and rattling off of it, undoubtedly leaving a hole in the paint and plaster where the knob had landed.Â
KĆji was disheveled, sweating through the underarms of his white shirt and oddly absent of his usual belongings. The only exception to that being the messenger bag he had secured across his body, squeezing the shoulder strap between his hands. Beyond him, the office was in a state of complete disarray; a level of untidiness so wholly uncharacteristic that it made your intestines flip.Â
âHey, hey,â you tried to thwart his beeline to the front door by stepping in his path, hands raised to pacify him the same way one might a startled animal. âKĆji! Stop! What the hell is going on? Whatâs wrong?â
The closer he got to you, the harder he wrung the leather strap with his fingers. It made a slick, squeaking noise against his palms, and you could smell his sour body odor intermingle with puffs of stale coffee breath that blasted in your face in his panic to circumvent you.Â
âMove! Move! Move! Get out of my way!â Finally, he slapped your hands and gripped you by the upper arms to shove you away. You stumbled a few paces back into the counter, bracing it however you could while you stared on in astonishment. âOh godâIâm sorry! I'm so sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!â
âKĆji! What the fuck is your problem?!â you spat.
He didn't stop babbling excitedly until he reached the door and halted at it, smearing sweat and his prints on the handle. He made the motion to pull it open, the mechanism within clicking as proof that he had the freedom heâd desperately sought out until that very second.Â
And then, he let go and turned back towards you.Â
âActually, no. That's a lie. I'm not sorry at all.â His legs were longer than yours and it took less strides for him to reach you than it did for you to try to keep the distance. Thick, clear pearls followed the deep concave of his cheeks, striking you with an odd sense of unfamiliarityâlike you were looking at something entirely new. An oily film had settled over his face, wetting his hair and giving it the appearance of being thinner than it already was.Â
KĆjiâs eyes were the most alien thing to youâpiercing black and glinting with unchecked resentment, an overflow of bitterness focused solely on you.
âYouâyou were fucking awful to me! All the time! You treated me like shit, like something you couldâyou could step on because it felt good, right? It felt good to know you could drag someone down to be miserable with you, right?â KĆjiâs hands wrung the shoulder strap, white-knuckled, possibly imagining it was you instead of a strip of leather. âNothing I've ever done has been good enough for you. Who better to pick on than the guy bending over backwards to keep your shitty business running. I've been the one doing everything for years! All of the hard work!Â
âThe accounting. The invoicing. The purchasing. Social media. Advertising. Everything that's kept this place going, it's been all me. And what do I get? You shouting at me, pushing me around, treating me like I'm fucking stupid.â
You were agape, breaths quietly whistling from between your teeth, whereas the vitriolic sting of his words had formed a vise around your throat.Â
Not once in all of the years of working alongside KĆji had you seen him so explosive; you'd never found him intimidating. But, in this moment, the man standing before you wasn't the reclusive, round-shouldered employee who spent his days locked in the back office, clacking away fretfully on a keyboard and startling at any resemblance of anger to come his way.Â
âIâKĆji, where is this all coming from? Get a grip!â you were digging somewhere deep inside of yourself to summon courage, force steel into your spine so you'd stand a little straighter. âWhy are you talking to me like this?â
He stuck a hand underneath his glasses and smoothed it down along his face, whisking away the sweat sitting on his eyelashes and the tip of his nose. Your questions went unanswered as he began to back away, first mumbling to himself and then louder for you to hear, âI'll give you a hint about something becauseâbecause I'm fucking gone. It won't matter if I say something. I don't even feel guilty about it anymore.â
âKĆjiââ
âHave you ever once, just once, in all the years I've worked here stopped and looked at finances?â His lips stretched wide across his gums and turned pale pink when you said nothing. âI figured as much. Someone like you never would have survived without me. You just know money comes in when people pay, and money goes out for supplies, rent, advertising, yeah? Yeah. If you were actually competent, maybe you would've noticed some things. But, I guess you've been too busy letting that guy shove his dick down your throat to see anything at all.â
âI don't know what you're talking about,â you said, lamely, far too quickly. He knew. It made sense that he did because GetĆ had never been discreetâneither had you.Â
KĆji slicked a hand up through his hair, pressing it flat against his scalp as his back struck the front door. âYou seriously didn't think I wouldn't notice? I'veâIâve seen you two together plenty of times. You really don't know what you've gotten yourself into, have you? It's too late. Itâs too late for you. But, it's not too late for me.â
He kept his beady eyes fixed on you as he grappled behind himself for the door handle, opened it, and lingered there with a cool breeze lapping against the back of his neck, unsticking the fabric of his shirt from his skin.Â
âYou're a shit boss and even more shit human being. You'll get what's coming to you.â
KĆji left you alone then, slamming the door in his final act of unkindness with such ferocity that a few of the acrylic shelves mounted on the wall lost their adhesion and fell, spilling countless baubles and inks onto the floor and shattering others.Â
Lost in a tangled web of bafflement and worry, you simply stared at the mess needing to be cleaned from where you sat on the green leather couch. It had taken some time to unfreeze your legs from the front counter to drag yourself there, and even longer to bring yourself to do anything else.
What you saw were broken knickknacks forming an incohesive puzzle with pieces of all different sizes and shapes. The inks that had leaked out of their containers filled the grout lines in the flooring and touched and swirled together in ruined, kaleidoscopic bursts of color that you found incredibly ugly in the moment. Mostly because the ink would stain and the landlord would complain, second because the ink would inevitably stain you, too.
I need paper towels.Â
I need rubbing alcohol.Â
I need vinegar.Â
I need, I need, I needâdid I really treat KĆji like that?
Everything was spread out on the floor around you while you ripped perforated paper towels and threw them down in piles six or seven inches high. The ink soaked through all of it, colors bleeding together, making it less of a hazard to grab handfuls of glass as you picked up the sodden sheets.Â
Will rubbing alcohol actually work?Â
How much will it cost to replace the floor?
Mr. Horoshiki is going to charge me out of the ass for this.Â
I can't believe KĆji just yelled at me and quit like that! How could he? I didn't deserve it!Â
By the end of the cleanup, you couldn't tell what color your hands were. Were they more green-black or blue-black? You couldn't tell even when you held them up to direct sunlight, angled in hopes of catching a shift in undertone. You'd done a wonderful job in procuring the most densely pigmented inks you could get despite the hassle of international customs.Â
KĆji probably thinks this is what my soul looks like. Ugly. Empty. Dark. Stains everything that it touches.Â
You studied both sides of both hands like that for a while to stave off the swell of unease sneaking up from your chest into your throat. Thinking about how you'd get the stain off impeded the worry about the floor, the wrath of your landlord, how you'd manage the business by yourself.Â
How you'd go forward all alone.Â
Maybe he'll come back if I call him and apologize? I don't think I should have to, butâ
Once you managed to finally track down your phone and plugged in his number, the call didn't go through. Dread flushed through you in a single, powerful wave from your head down to the soles of your feet. It was so cold, so heavy, so unrelenting, so intimately familiar in how the fear ravaged you that you weren't sure what to do now.
KĆji wasn't coming back.Â
He had actually meant every word he said before he had gone and left you high and dry with as much enigmatic bullshit to decipher as GetĆ did. There was a connection between what you had been told yesterday and right before KĆji bolted out the door with a trail of sweat following him.
All of the clues were there. The warnings were there. KĆji had jolted something in your brain, albeit maliciously, and the two parallel lines in which you had viewed GetĆ and KĆji on this entire time were slowly beginning to intersectâ
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.Â
You jumped towards the front door as it rattled, losing your phone in the process of turning and hearing it skid away across the floor. As you counted the silhouettes of three men otherside of the privacy screen you kept on the door, you instinctively blotted your inky hands against your sides as they had become too damp.Â
âYo, KĆji here?â asked one guy, Mr. Burgundy, because of the unkempt shirt he wore beneath a black blazer, immediately upon opening the door enough for your face to squeeze out. âAh, I heard from a little birdy that this is his favorite place to stink up.âÂ
Behind him, standing left and right, were the two other menâone was short with poorly bleached cornrows and the other a tall, husky guy with a pristinely shaven face and egg-shaped head. They all wore similarly messy suits, and none of them seemed particularly inspired towards any emotion seeing you block their view inside.
âJust missed him,â you said honestly, supplying a shrug as though employee turnover was no big detriment to you. âTook off out of here like a bat out of hell. He didn't even put in a resignation. Not losing much, he was a pretty bad accountant.â
Mr. Burgundyâs thin lips chipped apart into a derisive smile. Something about it made your spine ripple. âAw, that's some shit, innit? Sounds just like that little weasel.â Then, he lifted his chin at you. âMind letting us inside for a look?â
âDude,â you kept their only route inside jammed with your body, âthis is a tattoo shop. Appointments only.âÂ
âHuh, yeah? That how this is gonna go down?â he tutted, perhaps in some semblance of pity or that he thought you were the stupidest person alive, and hiked a knee up to waist height. âHere's your appointment!â
The door exploded with the full-force of his kick, slamming the handle into your gut. You were launched away from it and sprawled out flat on the hard floor. You were left winded when you landed, both by air being forced from your lungs and the shock of the impact.
In the time it had taken you to finally catch your breath and turn over on your stomach, the three men had stormed your shop and overturned everything in sight. The few pieces of furniture, documents behind the front counter. They ripped apart the portfolio binders you always left out on the low table, tore out stuffing from your leather couches, and gutted the back office until everything inside it spilled out into the parlor.Â
You could do nothing but watch them tromp over collapsed boxes, crushing the plastic keys on the keyboard KĆji liked to use until the entire thing snapped underfoot of the larger man. They took folders filled with papers they knew nothing of (or you, for that matter) and tore them into long, thin strips of confetti that they flicked away as if performing magic from their fingertips.Â
The fool with cornrows found the acrylic shelves you'd put aside to rehang another day and crushed them with the short, black heel of his shoes. Multi-colored shards of plastic fractured and then burst from the pressure, skittering across the polished flooring in all directionsâinto the mess of everything else, under what was left of your furniture, almost into your eyes, too.
Why were they doing this? What had KĆji done? Who the hell did he piss off?Â
You emulated the stillness of an animal pelt splayed out on the ground for decoration and paced your breaths, keeping your eyes level with the floor. The men now moved around lethargically, like theyâd fatigued from their rush of violence and destruction and now only stomped and threw things out of habit.Â
Their feet shuffled in-and-out of your peripheral, convincing you that they might not notice you crawling forward on your arms for the phone you dropped earlier.
There was no one you could personally call, but maybe you could at least dial the police? You wouldn't be able to speak to them, but they might be motivated to investigate your location if they could pick up the coordinates.Â
You moved as discreetly as you could, first by the centimeter, then by the inch until the phone was just within reach of your fingertipsâ
And, it was kicked away by the tip of a glossy shoe in an alligator print. The very same shoe that then scuffed the floor, faced you and struck you in the head.Â
The rush of pain felt hot and tight around your skull; pulsating like something inside was trying to escape. A belt squeezed you on the outside, trying to hold it all in. Your vision blurred, so stunned by the impact that you didn't recognize you were forced onto your back and hoisted off the ground by the front of your shirt.Â
Mr. Burgundy was red in the face when his image cleared in your eyes. He was crouched over you, feet on either side of your hips, a hand wrenched deep into your clothes.Â
âHey, KĆji ain't here. Where is he, huh?â he twisted his hand, tightening the high neckline you wore. âWhere's he at? I'm being real nice by askinâ you, here. You're his boss, so you gotta know where that slug hides.â
âDid you hear anything I said earlier?!â The sound of your own voice reverberated like an amplified hum inside your head, making it ache worse than before. âThe asshole quit! He literally ran out of here! I don't know where he is!â
Mr. Burgundy drew blood this time, both his and yours, busting open his knuckles on the hard bone of your orbital socket, digging deep into your face to find your cheekbones. You were sure you screamed when he hit you, praying that you could manage it louder and louder each time so the sounds would carry through the plaster walls, the murky brown, brittle windows of your shop and out into the streets.
But, no one would ever come. No one would call the police because they didn't want to involve themselves in any trouble.
You were the owner of a tattoo shop in Shinjuku City. You were nothing good, anyway. Outside, they were only surprised that it hadn't happened sooner.Â
âTry again.â Mr. Burgundy drawled.Â
He kept his fist winded back, jagged peaks of his knuckles weeping red. You felt his blood drip onto your clothes and seep through the fabric, warming your skin in the most unnatural way.
âIâI don't know! I don't know! I don't know!â you sobbed as you cowered behind your hands, cheeks quivering from the tang of iron in your mouth. You couldn't bring yourself to see what he was doing now. âI swear I don't know! He just ran out, even blocked my number! I swear to God, I don't know!â
For the second time, he sucked his teeth at you and then dropped you on the floor. A cool wave of relief washed over you, placating and soothing and painful all at once. You had half a mind to grovel at his feet and thank him for his kindness, his mercy, but that feeling was splintered like the bones in your arm as he whirled around and trampled it with all his weight.
This man was nothing but pure malice, whoever he was, as were the other men with him. Because they listened to you scream and scream and scream, and wail for forgiveness with inscrutable, routine expressions until your arm cracked.Â
A glow stick. A branch underfoot. A neck adjustment. Vertebrae after sitting hunched over a client for too long. Something was broken, but you were so gripped by the drumbeat against your skull, the swelling in your face, and the pain in your arm that it didn't matter what was broken, or where it was.Â
Mr. Burgundy was finally done and let you lay there, stepping across your battered body for the front door.Â
âYou see KĆji, you tell him what you got goinâ on isn't anything compared to whatâs waiting for him.âÂ
After that, they were gone.Â
You weren't worried that they would come back as all they'd found here was a disgruntled tattoo artist. It was a wound to their pride, especially for Mr. Burgundy, who, you guessed, was a tracker of some sort for the yakuza. Their target had outwitted themâmeek, weasely little KĆji; a man who you'd never known to be able to find his way out of the labyrinth of boxes stowed in the back office.Â
A mistake both the yakuza and you had made was believing KĆji was too loud, too clumsy, too weak to be able to pull off a disappearing act this substantial. That little rat was scurrying around the back alleyways or sewers somewhere, able to bear his conscience after leaving you to the wolves so he could put greater distance between himself and them.
He was every bit the smarmy lowlife you had feared he actually was. That GetĆ had cautioned you about.Â
Serves me right, I guess.Â
In the hours that followed, you didn't move an inch and your thoughts went nowhere fast. They were mostly incoherent flickers of memories and nonsensical scenes that played like a movie in your dim consciousness.
Cold noodles with KĆji one sweltering summer day years ago. GetĆâs silky hair hanging between your fingers while he kissed you. A dogâs skin melting away to show a blue skeleton. Lopsided mountains in Takayama where you'd lived with your host family once upon a time.Â
Shinjuku City being swallowed by a monotonous, electrical hum from every neon sign syncing together. A bipedal, winged cat telling you to be wary of wandering women in the nighttime. Your body being stretched and wrung and knotted like a toy because you were made of rubber.Â
You weren't entirely sure where your pain started and where it ended; how much of it you perceived as real versus was your brain fabricated to go along with the reels behind your eyes. No doubt the snug elastic feeling around your head was real, as was the throbbing and numbness in your arm.Â
What about day fading into night? Was that real?Â
What about the sea of blood you were barely managing to stay afloat in? Was that real?Â
What about the peal of the little bell hanging in your front doorway?Â
What about Geto's satiny voice stricken in disbelief, calling out to you? Could he have been an illusion, too?
âWhyââ the air rushed from his lips, like a vise had taken hold of his throat and slowly constricted. âWhy are you here? I told you to leave. You said that you would. Why won't you listen to me? I've never said anything to lead you astray! I've only ever tried to guide you along the right path!âÂ
In your imagination, you were the most fearless you'd ever been in your life and could handle his confrontation with a sort of truthfulness you had never given another human being: he still scared you.
In the same breath you used to admit that, you'd also tell him there was no one else left in your life now. KĆji was gone, willing to have let you die in some self-righteous indignation and cowardly self-preservation.Â
GetĆ wasn't allowed to leave you, too.
You realized it was only a fantasy when GetĆ had squatted to gather your bloodied and broken body in his arms. The movement left you feeling weightless, like you were a feather floating in reverse, up towards some unknown point in the ceiling concealed in nighttime shadow.Â
If only you were capable of reaching out to embrace that sweet nothingness. If only you were capable of touching Geto's face as it appeared above you; a warped, pale mask curtained by his lustrous hair. You likened the way it flowed down his body to an inky waterfall in a landscape paintingâglistening, elegant, with an odd sort of liquid quality you suspected you'd never see again.Â
âTell me what happened,â GetĆ said with a brittle crackle in his voice, fractured composure and weakened restraint.Â
You wanted to pretend the look he pinned you with was pitying, that the thick lines between his brows told a story of betrayal and woe, and not of a man on the verge of burning down the entire world.
âTell me!â he shook you a little, made you writhe and whimper against his chest when he held you closer. âTell me who touched you. Tell me who did this. Tell me everything. Don't lie to me.â
He was exquisite and mad. Whether it was from the head trauma or blood loss, you believed in that very moment, you were being offered a glimpse at the real GetĆ Suguru. He was an expert craftsman in having constructed the perfect performative facade, one so breathtaking that it wouldn't have mattered to you if you had never seen beyond it.
But, now that you had, you wanted to reach your fingers through and rip apart what was left of his mask.Â
Even in all your terror.Â
In all your agony.Â
âIâI don't know who they were,â you muttered after swallowing, licking your lips free of crusted blood and spittle. Speaking didn't come easily right now, the effort was a dumbbell on your chest and throat. âI don't know. I don't know. KĆji, yeah. They wanted KĆji. Oh, KĆji, whyâŠâ
âI told you to get rid of him,â GetĆ shuffled you around to wedge your body between his and one of his thighs. His breaths shook and hitched for a while before eventually evening out. âDonât you see? Is it obvious now? I've been trying to look out for you this entire time. I didn't interfere because I trusted you would do as I askedâthe right thingâand run that useless worm off. Now, look at you. I can't see your face, I can't hold you without hurting you.â
âKĆji was all I had,â you said. âThis business was all I had. What's going to happen now that he's gone? I can't do this by myself. But, he told me as much. He said I never bothered to pay attention to anything. He said I was awful to him, I was an awful human being who'd get what was coming to me. Maybe he was right.âÂ
You couldn't look at Geto's face anymore: watching it tighten and contort, further ruining the fantasy he had built of himself for you. His eyes appeared pitch black in the lightless space around you, but you didn't think you'd be able to soon forget the crazed abhor which set his pupils ablaze in the blue-white of his phone screen as he thumbed in a number and held the device to his ear.Â
The other end picked up immediately, answering with the sort of boldness only reserved between people who knew each other the very best: âGross! You're not the person I hoped was calling me in the middle of theââ
âSatoru,â GetĆ cut in, instantly silencing his friend, âI need a favor.â
There was a pinch of quiet, one where you sucked in a breath and held it. Up above, the oscillating fan kept on with its dull whirl and chopping blades. GetĆ wasn't any cooler than he had been before, but there was a controlled, methodical rage about him now that frightened you worse than the unhinged hatred.
Finally, GojĆ spoke.
âWhat happened?â
 ââââââââââââââââââ
It calmed you to think of hospitals as sideshow attractions rather than massive estates of death.Â
Anger had become an easier emotion for you to navigate across your lifetime than fear; misery was an old companion so ingrained in your marrow and grooves of your brain that it made more sense than the unfathomable complexities of love.
When the nurse assigned to your room would come to disturb you, slender knuckles knocking the plexiglass window with a dull thumping sound, you imagined it like her trying to arouse the freak inside the cageâyouâto react to her existence.
You glanced at her sidelong, receiving a cordial smile as she hefted a sad beige tray up to the height of her neck. It was her responsibility to try to coax you into eating a meal on a schedule without forcing it.
It never worked. Either the tray never entered your room, or it left untouched.Â
She didn't have much of a reaction when you looked away, settling your gaze on the television mounted on the wall across your room. It was a game show of some sort with multiple spinning wheels and flashing lights you could only tolerate in short bursts. During your stay, you'd gotten pretty good at guessing the contestantâs luck based on how hard their wrists snapped when they thrust the wheels.
After the nurse left the window, not at all despondent or hurt by the refusal, you thought of how this would come back to bite you. It always did. But, giving the nurses and doctors a hard time was the only way you knew how to show control without being vulgar and loud about it.
âThe doctor isn't going to discharge you until you're eating regular meals again,â GetĆ told you later on, sitting bedside in a plain metal chair with flat padding. He was using a paring knife to peel the skin off one of the two mangoes he'd purchased earlier. âHe's worried you'll form an eating disorder outside the hospital, or you'll just collapse when you get home. Youâve lost a lot of weight.â
âWhy hasn't the doctor told me any of this himself?â you asked, already bristling like a cornered stray arching its spine of fur. Except you were perched upright in your remote-controlled bed equipped with massage capability, swapping attention from GetĆ to your reflection in the sprawl of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Tokyo nightscape from the eighth floor.
You couldn't stand to see who looked back at you in the glass.Â
Your image was distorted; widened and elongated, almost grainy in the halo of softened, yellow light from overhead. Migraines had become a frequent issue for you since being admitted a week ago, so GetĆ had requested the blackout curtains stay drawn during the daytime, and that the nurses only used the full force of the artificial lighting when it pertained to collecting your vital data.Â
As touching as the gesture was meant to be, all you saw was ugliness in the windows.Â
A cone-shaped head with impossibly sharp, protruding cheekbones and blackened, sunken eyes. Some of the swelling in your face had improved, but the bruise seemed to bloom differently everyday and shift in location and color. You were like one of those fish or frogs that could change shades to camouflage itself from predators, only the reason for yours wasn't as exciting.Â
Along with the cast around your arm, you really did think it was appropriate to refer to yourself as some sideshow monstrosity.
âI'm not going to agree to do anything until the doctor talks to me, GetĆ,â you said, collecting the bed remote in your good hand to fiddle with the coiled cable attached to it. âI want to know what's wrong with me. I want to see my chart. I want to know what they fixed in surgery. What medications are they making me take? How long does this cast need to be on? They can't keep me here!â
âSuguru.â GetĆ said with an effortless smile, indifferent to your outburst as he kept on peeling the fruit. âSay it. I want to hear what my name sounds like with your voice.â
All his infinite patience and placidity had well returned to him. The wrathful man who youâd unraveled midst your delirium in the deep dark of your shop hardly seemed to inhabit the same body as this one. If someone were to tell you that he had a twin, you would've been convinced of it on the spot.
Yet, you'd be remiss to say that things had gone back to normal. No amount of pretending and feigning ignorance would change the fact that GetĆ had finally revealed himself to you. You had spied him through the peephole and he had caught you in the act. Now, there was no going back to what once wasâthe mundanity, the dreamlike stupor.
You frowned. âDid you hear anything I just said?â
âOf course. I always do. If there was anything worth worrying over, you'd know about it.â GetĆ had his leg raised across his thigh, the sandal on his foot dangling by the cloth thong between his toes. You were entranced by the way he wound his ankle in circles, bobbing the sandal in the air. âThe doctor told me it was a total break. Your arm, I mean. You're keeping the cast for a while. The swelling in your face will go down as long as you stop fighting the nurses and take your medicine. You're staying for as long as it takes for you to listen.â
âWhy do you know all of this?â you had tried to broach this topic many times before unsuccessfully. Because GetĆ was the sort who never showed anyone his cards. He didn't keep them to his chest, he kept them in a safe at the bottom of the sea.Â
Tonight, though, he seemed to be in the mood to entertain you.Â
âI asked the doctor to tell me everything.â he said, finishing with the knife and wiping it down with a paper napkin he'd taken from somewhere. Â
âWhy won't he tell me?â you asked. âI'm the patient. I'm the one who got the shit beaten out of them. I'm the one with the concussion and the broken arm.â
âBecause I told him not to.â GetĆ dabbed juice dripping off the mango onto the napkin and raised it to your lips. âTry it. You'll feel better. The girl at the store told me the two I bought were the best out of the dozen there. They were expensive, but I thought you'd appreciate it.â
You tried to move his hand out of your face as an act of rebellion, but he didn't budge. Neither did you. âWhy would you tell the doctor not to talk to me, Geto?! I'm not lying here in a coma. I'm not brain-dead. I know what's going on. Are youâhow are you able to do this?â
His influence in the underground.Â
GojĆ Satoruâs money and inexhaustible resources.Â
You already knew the answer that he wouldn't have given you, anyway.Â
âSuguru.â Despite his insistent smile, there was an edge, a firmness and desperation in his voice which disarmed you. This time when he pushed the fruit against your lips, you let him feed you. âI'm taking care of you, that's all that matters. The only thing you need to worry about is recovering. I'll handle everything else.â
You couldn't speak around the captivating sweetness in your mouth, something he probably had counted on to quiet you down for a while. It was an explosion of flavor that permeated you with pleasure. You felt tingling in your cheeks and a cool rush of coarse goose flesh ripple up and down your body. Suddenly, you were so much more aware of the hairs on your scalp and the sparser, finer fuzz that covered you all over.Â
GetĆ fed you more of the fruit and it wasn't until the last of it that you realized how potent hunger could be. You now understood what it meant to be ravenous. The warmth of your tongue lapped his fingers, licking to the third knuckle, sucking as much of the juice and flavor from his skin as you could get.Â
He was mesmerized by the whole thing, slow to withdraw his fingers from your mouth. You held on gently with your teeth, the shallow ridges of them scraping against his fingernails until he was wetting your lips with hot saliva. Somehow, the man could stand to bear your face right now, looking at you in a way as contemplative as it was intense. He got up out of his seat. Â
âHow are you feeling?â Across the room, he pulled down the privacy curtain to cover the window and assured the door was shut with a jiggle of the handle. He didn't check to see if the nurses had noticed him do it. âAre you hurting anywhere right now?â
Your last round of pain medication had come less than two hours ago.Â
A tiny three milliliter syringe filled halfway with medication clear as water, labeled with a red sticker you couldn't read from the angle it had been held. As usual, the effects were almost immediate and a crisp wave of numbness coursed through you, making you believe you could trace the pathway the medicine took through your veins to your brain.Â
Since then, you'd only been hungry and irritable from Geto's secrecy. âI'm as good as I'm going to get, I guess. As long as I'm not trying to fluff a pillow with my arm, I'm fine.â
GetĆ let out a wispy laugh as he returned to you, undoing the bun on the back of his head to re-tie one with all of his hair collected in it. A few pieces fell free from the rest, framing his face beautifully.
Instead of retaking his usual spot in the stern metal chair, he sat on the edge of your bed and partially turned towards you, peering from the corner of his eye and down the side of his nose. Even in the faint golden light above, you could discern the strength and steepness of his features which allowed for him to exude easy poise without movement, power without words, sensuality that made you wilt into the sheets and mattress below you.
He picked up the remote from where it rested next to your thigh, lightly smoothing the back of his fingers against your skin. An experimental, placating touch. âAre you still mad? You know that I'm just watching out for you, right?â
âIs that actually true?â you decided you would humor any response he gave you without believing it.Â
âIt is. I've never lied to you once.â GetĆ used the remote to lower the head of the bed and lay you flat before leaning across your body to kiss a moist, fiery path underneath your jaw to your ear. He gave the pillows stacked beneath your broken arm plenty of clearance, alleviating your immediate concern of his weight pushing down on it. âBut, you've got a knack for it. Lying. Not taking helpful advice. That really hurts me, you know?âÂ
You couldn't tell if he was trying to drag out the last full week of arguments in his roundabout way that didn't divulge too much detail, or nitpick and scold your character just because he could, knowing the worst you'd do was throw a fit about it.Â
Right now, he didn't want to complain as much because that's where his jabs stopped, his voice ending where wet pops of air became gratuitous and your insides lifted, feeling effervescent the more he lavished your skin with his lips, teeth, and tongue until he raised himself to your face to kiss you properly. His pace became a crawl both purposeful and deep, mingling your breaths and saliva and tongues to where you found it difficult to hang onto your previous reservations as strongly as you once had.Â
But, GetĆ already knew you to be tenacious and resilient enough to fight through the absurdity of most things. You had proven that the night you agreed to take him on as a client. All of the years of managing KĆji despite the hatred he had harbored for you the entire time. How you had handled yourself with the yakuza rampaging through your shop, even though it had ended in brutality.Â
You were able to wrestle your face sideways to pull out of his insatiable lip lock.Â
âHave you found KĆji?â you moved your head as he leaned back in, âyou're looking for him, aren't you? You have to be. All those months telling me to get rid of him, he takes off, I get pummeled, and then that's it? That doesn't sound like you.âÂ
GetĆ stopped trying to coax you back into a kiss, but kept himself in motion by sweeping a hand up along the inside of your thigh, bunching fabric from your hospital gown with his wrist.Â
You flinched, more like convulsed, the first few times he laid long strokes on you through your underwear. He focused on how you felt through the thin material, pressing down, tracing your shape and size before he settled into a constant rhythm.Â
âHe's the last person you should be thinking about right now. Look at me.â GetĆ's face hung in the air, far above your own so he could witness every twitch, squint, gasp, and how vulnerable you looked when you moaned. He wanted to see the different ways you came undone. âThatâs it. Don't look away. I'll make you feel good, just how I promised you I would back then.â
He must've been referencing the evening in your apartment last autumn. His eagerness had been exciting to you at the time, daring you to believe he'd get on his knees to fulfill you by the mouthful. But then, an intuitive rubber-band had snapped inside your head and startled you out of that lustful cloud like some sort of ancestral reprimanding.
âGetĆ, stop. No.â That memory helped cushion you from the fear of stopping him, reaching low to push his hand off of you. You'd forgotten what it was like to be worked up by another person, instead of a silicone toy or your own hands. It ached. âI think the things I'm trying to ask are pretty damn important. Stop ignoring me.â
At first, he was clearly nonplussed as he stared at your face searchingly, perhaps trying to find humor written in your expressionâit was all a joke. You couldn't imagine GetĆ ever being seriously deprived of anything he wanted. And yet, this was the second time you'd rejected a man of his status.Â
âIâm sorry.â Those words lacked any softness or authenticity. The filling in your pillow shifted around your head as he came closer, down onto his forearms, caging you there under him. âHa-ha, you know, it'll be pretty embarrassing if I misread the situation again.â
âHave you found KĆji or not?âÂ
His fingers were in your hair. âI'm not interested in talking about him. And you shouldn't be, either.â It didn't hurt when he pulled lightly, untangling some strands. âHave I ever told you how much it bothers me when you talk about him? You did it all the time before he ran away, and you're doing it now after he left you to die.â
âHe was the only thing keeping my life afloat, GetĆ.â You weren't sure why you were coming to KĆji's defense, still. Maybe it was because he was the closest thing you'd had to a friend in a long time, maybe the abject terror of your unpredicted future was finally beginning to settle in. âWhat's going to happen to me now that he's gone? What about my business? I don't have anything else. Anyone else.â
âIt amazes me you can say that while I'm right here,â GetĆ gave a dispirited sigh. âYou say that I'm ignoring you, but you've been tuning me out for a while, too. You have a family. Us. Me. I was the one who saved you, brought you here. I'm the one whoâs been feeding you because you won't eat anything the nurses give you. I've been the one at your side this entire time.
âI've never let you fall. I never will. Is the issue that you don't have anyone, or you're just scared to accept what's right in front of you. Stop fighting it.â
GetĆ finished speaking in a hushed, rough whisper before his lips were on yours again. He pushed down, deepening the crater where your head rested on the pillow; the pressure striking you with a throb of pain in your bruised cheek that made you moan. It was a weak noise he received as delight and sank his hand down one side of your body, touching you gently, slowly across your thigh before trying to slip his fingers beneath your underwear.Â
Again, you maneuvered him off of you and wrenched your face out of the way of the kiss.Â
For all his persistence, he gave in easily each time. You supposed ego played a part somewhere in there for himâthe absolute sting, the incredulity he must've felt to know that you didn't want him as much as he wanted you.Â
The first time you rejected him was a fluke, the second time was because you were angry and it was poorly timed, but the third? What logic could he apply there? Three coincidences of the same sort just didn't happen. Â
âWhy?â There was no hiding his frustration this time. Not in his voice, which strained and rumbled as he whispered in your ear, nor on his face, devoid of all his previous good-naturedness. âWhy are you so afraid to accept what I can give you? I can make you feel good. I can make your life easier. I can give you everything.â
What was simple and what was easy did not come without a cost. That was just how the world worked.Â
Someone like you didn't have the possibility of falling into the lap of luxury, into an existence of prosperity and safety and wealth after a lifetime of struggle, just out of sheer luck. And, someone like GetĆâa prominent figure in a virtually invisible empire in the undergroundâwouldn't give you that without a reason.
âI wasn't done talking,â you said. âYou just assumed I was. Or, it'd be easier to distract me than to let me keep going.â
âHm. Fine. What's on your mind?â His head tilted a little left, a perfect way to slide into yet another kiss if he didn't like what you were going to say. âWell? Speak to me. Ask me whatever you want. I'm listening.â
âThose men who showed up for KĆji that day, they're part of your âfamilyâ, aren't they?âÂ
GetĆ became inscrutable, his eyes mirthless and cold as any black ore mined from the depths of the earth. You withered into the bed, finding that there was nothing you could hope to find, grasp in the unfeeling stare he fixed you with.
âI keep hearing you say that you've never lied to me, but,ââyou reached for his face with your uninjured hand, brushing a piece of his hair away as it had fallen over his eyeââis that true, Suguru?âÂ
He thawed to your fleeting softness, to the gentleness with which you spoke his name, sighed, and moved off you to sit on the edge of the bed. âYou weren't supposed to be there. I told you to leave.â
âBut, you were okay with sending those guys to track down KĆji.â Your temper was fast to flare and dizzying, encumbering you in pain that rooted in your arm, pounded in your head. âYou saw what they did to me. If they could do that to someone who wasn't their target, what did you tell them to do to him? Huh?â
GetĆ smiled, unbothered. âOh, that? I told them to do whatever they felt like. The only stipulation is that I never see his face again.â
âHowâhow could you?â you gaped, voice weakening as though damaged and dry. âThey'll kill him. They'll kill him! How can you just⊠just not care?!â
âHave you forgotten he had no issues using you as a way to escape?â He spoke without remorse, pleasant and velveteen.Â
Whatever the outcome of the ordeal, it didn't matter because he'd already turned a blind eye to it. âI don't think you understand just how much trouble KĆji has caused over the years. Little pests like him never change, even when they get seats at cozy jobs where they're out of sight, out of mind. They just keep leeching.
âAnd, don't worry. After I brought you here to the hospital, I had those three handled. They were given objectives and a target and disobeyed.â
Reluctantly, with the feeling of vomit building up in the back of your throat, souring the saliva on your tongue, you asked, âWhat about KĆji?â
âHm?â GetĆ helped sit you upright again after finding the bed-controls mixed among the disheveled sheets. âLet's stop talking about this. Doesnât that game show you like to have reruns at night?â As if to prove his point, he surveyed the room for a clock. âI can watch an episode with you beforeââ
âWhat happened to him?â You were tempted to take the remote and beat him unconscious with it. âWhat did he do?â
He frowned. âI don't think you actually want to hear an answer to that. What if I don't want to tell you?â
âThen, get out.â you snapped. âGet out! Now!â This time, you yelled and gestured with a sharp motion towards the door.Â
But, he stayed put a while longer to gauge the change in your demeanorâhow you had gone from docile, sweet tones to this level of animosity. All of this for the sake of some flea who you'd overvalued, relied on for years. You didn't need to be inside Geto's head to know any of that, even if how he presented himself on the outside lacked the usual warmth and expression.
âGet out, GetĆ,â you tried again, âif you don't leave, I'm going to start screaming.â
That wouldn't do you any good, in the end.Â
The GojĆ family had made significant contributions to the hospitalâs upkeep and research; meanwhile, you suspected that GetĆâs influence went beyond the tidy, amicable public image that the GojĆ's maintained. He was rooted into the core of this place like quiet pestilence with a million diverging arms capable of rotting it from the inside out, if he so chose it.
You could scream, they would come. Yet they would only feed more medicine into your IV catheter to turn you catatonic. GetĆ would walk away, hands in his pockets, talking compassionately about you to the nurses as he went. He'd come back the next day to see how much you remembered.
âYou'll see. I'll show you.â At last, he stood with the mango scraps he'd wound into a ball of napkins and dumped them into the nearby trash can. âIf thatâs what it will take for you to see him for the shit that he is. If that's what it will take for you to see how much I care for you. I'll make him repent.â
GetĆ left your hospital room with a vacant sort of look in his eyes; a man with his mind a thousand miles away. His lips ticked at the corners as he smiled, as though the effort needed to keep it there was enormous.Â
You waited several minutes and then mashed the red call button on the bed remote repeatedly until the young nurse assigned to you appeared. At your insistence that the pain throughout your body had scaled up to unbearable, she dosed you with enough of the good stuff to make the room spin and dull you to anything and everything.
Mr. Horoshiki called your phone more than thirty times throughout the week of your stay in the hospital, not knowing that you always kept the thing muted and it had been lost beneath a pile of clutter caused by the yakuza thugs the entire time.
It was one of the many spots he'd deigned to check, as aside from some holes in the paint and plaster on the walls, and the horrible ink stains leftover from your feeble attempts to soak it up with paper towels, most of the damages were just to your belongings.Â
He still took offense to it, however, and issued you a red eviction notice with mere weeks for you to clear out everything in the shop, and upstairs in the apartment.Â
Another envelope came separate from that one, long and bulky, wherein he enclosed several bills which were past due for rent for the entire building. With late fees and all the other little greedy things landlords liked to toss in to fluff up their profits in situations like this, you were staring at a stack of invoices totalling nearly three-million yen.Â
That had astonished you more than the never ending scroll of missed calls and lengthy, obscene voicemails Horoshiki had left you in a spitting, enraged drunken stupor. You had stopped listening to them at some point as there were too many saying the same things, just in either more creative or more nonsensical ways.Â
You were a screw-up. A fuck up. A no-good foreign tenant and you had met his every expectation of being that.Â
He complained that he had known renting out to youâa tattoo artistâwould eventually come back to bite him in the ass and he should've listened to his instinct to run you out of the area.
His words just devolved into further prejudices, punchier personal insults that you couldn't bring yourself to internalize much, considering he kept stumbling over his words and yelled like a pissy toddler who didn't want to be laid down for nap time.Â
The threats were all hot air to inflate his own personal misery, which liked to seep out when he drank and targeted indiscriminately, but the bills in your hands were not. And, Mr. Horoshiki was the type to find loopholes in everything as a means to get what he wanted.Â
âFour, five, six, seven, eightâŠâ you shuffled the papers, keeping them in constant rotation as though you couldn't believe they existed; that, somehow, rent had gone unpaid for that longâunnoticed.Â
Why hadnât Horoshiki mentioned something after the first month? The man wasn't living the high-life in some skyscraper in Tokyo; he lived in a humble, two story house with a young girlfriend who liked to shop his wallet to go on sprees in Akihabara.
If the money wasn't there for one month, he'd known and be ill-tempered about it. If the money wasn't there for ten months, as the oldest of the bills was dated in the top right corner, the man should've been on a complete war path to claim what he was owed.Â
Yet, it had been radio silence up until now and KĆji never made a peep about any financial difficulties or non-payments that you could recollect historically. Had there been some mistake on Horoshikiâs part and he simply had too much pride to come gather up the mess he'd left taped to your front door? Had KĆji made a mistake on the accounting side of things?
This was all too complicated for you to take in right now on top of everything else: cancellations, issuing heavy refunds and practiced laments for the inconvenience, finding storage to shove all your shit in, cleaning up for hours on end as best you could with one good arm and both your feet.Â
Eventually, you knew you'd have to hire a pair of movers to help get everything done within Horoshikiâs deadline. With KĆji vanishing and GetĆ being out of the picture since that ominous night several days ago, you'd been going at this on your own and suspected that would be the case from here on out.
Maybe I deserve this, after allâŠ
Maybe KĆji was right. I am incompetent. I don't know what's going on. I don't know what to do.Â
What do I do? What do I do?Â
Maybe GetĆ was right. Would I be in this mess right now if I'd just listened to him from the start? Maybe I needed him all alongâŠ
Those thoughts paralyzed you, opened you wide to waves of pain leaching what little vitality had returned to you in the days since leaving the hospital. After a hefty screaming match, whereupon you swore a legal battle if they tried to keep you without consent, they let you go. But, that came with the price of having to seek pain management in the form of weak store-bought brands with childproof caps and hot patches you slapped anywhere you felt a twinge, a throb, an annoying ache of discomfort.Â
Sometimes, it eased the sharp edges; the teeth under your skin, gnawing the fibers in your muscles and to the marrow in your bones, but not enough to take away the pain completely. Part of you wondered how much of it was in your headâan effective coping mechanism to detach you from all the other noise that had proven too overwhelming to handle. It was easier to focus on where it hurt, rather than ask yourself where you'd gone wrong.
So, that's what you did. You swept the tiniest fragments of glass and wood and iridescent shards of acrylic into a dustpan anchored between your slippered feet.
You thought about how your head pulsed in a somewhat rhythmic pattern, prompting you to count the seconds before the next flare happened.
Once the floor was cleared of those hazards, you moved onto brushing the shreds of paper and scattered documents into a single pile. There was too much to try to reorganize, so you considered the best thing to do for now was to gather everything into a heap, cram them into boxes, and leave them in storage to find again at some unfixed point in the future.Â
You thought about how the back of your neck and arm throbbed while crouching low, picking up pieces of white, fuzzy stuff torn from the guts of your green leather couches. They hadn't been particularly expensive purchases, just someone's hand-me-downs you'd painted over to liven up the parlor. But, you were grieving their destruction more than anything else in the shop.Â
You stroked the leather on one where itâd been cut, listening to the midday busyness outside the thin walls of your shop.Â
Normal people didn't have their lives falling apart like yours. Their chaos was routine and self-inflicted, a careful relinquishment of control to evoke panic, urgency, interestâall because they took things for granted. They could look in from the outside at people steeped in misfortune, such as yourself, and they'd fake empathy and move on with their day. Society liked to benefit the ones who could do thatâignore the problems that didn't involve them specifically.Â
You envied them for that, remembering a time where you could do the same. Glide aimlessly from one day into the next without seeing others because their troubles just weren't of any concern to you, whatever they were.Â
Back then, your whole world had been a book of appointments with names, dates, and times scrawled in the margins and grocery shopping on Sundays as your most exciting social venture of the week. Now, you stood amid the ruins of a life that you wondered if you had ever truly wanted in the first place.Â
Just then, outside your front door, a silhouetted pair appeared and cast creeping, translucent shadows across the floor. They shifted rapidly, surging forward with enough force to knock the hanging bell once, denting it as the door swung open and a body fell through the threshold onto the floor you'd just swept of glass and jagged acrylic.Â
âKĆji!â you didn't hide your surprise, nor the excitability that lurched into your outcry. He was as much of a mess crawling on his knees to your feet as he had been leaving you to the yakuza that day. His clothes were loose, wrinkled, and smudged brown-gray and yellow from long wear without washing. The closer he got to you, the more you realized how much he stank like mildew and body odor.Â
Looking down, the black hairs on his head were damp with sweat, matting the thin tufts together and sticking them flat, showing his pale scalp underneath. You didn't have to see his face to know the perspiration would be there as well, making his skin shine. Salty pebbles dripped off the sharper prominences of his anatomy to the floor, stinging inside his eyes, filling the raw seams in his mouth.Â
KĆji trembled in terror, hastily sliding a fist towards one of your slippered feet where he shoved a crumpled half-piece of lined paper under your toe before a clean, black shoe landed center on his back, thrusting him straight down onto his stomach. He yelped.Â
âI told you to grovel, not to touch.â GetĆ said breezily, hands in the pockets on his fitted trousers. He smiled at you with familiar fondness. âI was worried about you! I found strawberries for you to try, but when I went back to the hospital, they said you made a huge scene and bolted. I was concerned you wouldn't be able to make it back here by yourself. I'm glad I was wrong.â
Dread wrapped around you like a cold fist, reaching through your flesh and viscera to grab your spine, pulling it, guiding you backwards in sluggish movements. You didn't stop until you felt safe, until you could take in the scene unfolding before you unobstructed. KĆji quivered on the ground, leaving wet stains wherever his body touched, whereas you thought Geto's foot pushed down harder into the frail manâs back.
âI don'tâI don't understand what's happening right now.â you said, unsure of where your feelings needed to be, who you were supposed to focus on. âWhy are you here, GetĆ? Why is he here? Where did he come from?â
âMe? Well, I'm just here to check on you and to prove my point.â Finally, he took his foot away to give KĆji the chance to scramble back onto his hands and knees. Your posture collapsed with a breath you'd been holding up until that point. âTurns out, KĆji nearly made it all the way across the country to Nagasaki before we found him. We think he was trying to get to the airport to fly out of the country for South Korea. Or, were you actually planning to hide out somewhere in Europe, KĆji? Find someplace warmer for a vacation? I've heard the wine in Veneto, Italy is some of the best you can get.â
By âweâ, you assumed that meant GojĆ had a hand in unleashing his repertoire of bloodhounds and shrouded alleyway sleuths to do most of the dirty work.
KĆji didn't dare to challenge GetĆ by speaking or lifting his head from where it hung between his narrow shoulders.Â
âHm,â Geto's smile widened to show the blunt tips of his white teeth. âI donât really care where he was going, though. I brought him here to beg for your forgiveness.â Then, he squatted low at KĆji's side with his arms draped across his thighs. âIsn't there something you need to confess as well, KĆji? Let's hear it.âÂ
âI don't want to hear it! Get out!â was how you thought about reacting, instead of waiting for this to unfold. You could pitch a fit, run them off by throwing any piece of litter you get your hands on at them. âLook at what you've done! Everything is fucked up because of you two! Get out! Get out!â
The urge to yell at them rose up your throat like a slimy, bulbous mass. An amalgamation of resentment, hurt, and confusion wadded tightly into a ball heavy as lead. You wished you could reach past your teeth and extract where it'd lodged itself, trapping your words, making them simmer in your chest without a way out.
But, you just stood there.Â
Looking at KĆji in his bedraggled state: bony body shaking out of fear, soaked through his shirtsleeves and flinching at even the subtlest movements GetĆ made next to him, it was clear to you that he hadn't been prepared to be intercepted and brought back here. In his mind, he had nearly freed himself from the shackles of a dead-end job leading him nowhere in life and whatever unscrupulous past he'd had within the yakuza.Â
That dream was overâcrushed beneath the heel of Geto's prim shoe. Everything had come full circle for him. Staring fixedly at the very floors he had never wanted to see again, trapped in submission, dwarfed by his personal villains, his oppressors who'd come to most symbolically represent misery he'd never escape.
Poor bastard. The guilt was fleeting, but enough where you considered raising him off the floor by one of his arms and brushing him off.Â
GetĆ wouldn't let you get that far, though. The way he was crouched was tight, intentionalâa spring-loaded toy ready to launch; a coiled serpent arched in the air with sights on everyone. You envisioned him snatching your wrist before you could touch KĆji, preventing you from sullying yourself by stooping to his level.Â
âIâIâve been stealing from youâfrom the business the entire time I worked for you.â KĆji couldn't speak without his teeth chattering, voice wavering into a faint stream of words you only heard because of how saturated the silence in your studio was. âFrom the start. IâdâIâd been doing it from the start. The first few weeks in. It was small back then. Not enough to raise any suspicion. A couple bowls of cold noodles worth, maybe. But then, but then, I realized you never checked anything. You never looked at the accounts or the books, you didn't bother to see what went in and went out. I tested it out one timeâI paid my rent and electric bills that wayâyou never cared enough to pay attention.â
You took the sheaf of invoices you'd laid aside and waved them in the air, emitting a sound of substance that made KĆji twitch, as though thrusting him back into some perilous point in time. That didn't get him to lift his head, but it did catch Geto's interest.
âWhat are those?â GetĆ asked, straining his neck like it'd help him see them better from a distance. âMind filling in the blanks for me?â
âMr. Horoshiki sent me an eviction notice and these invoices for unpaid rent,â you didn't bother explaining much more than that. The papers flapped as you lowered them at your side, cutting through the stillness around you. âKĆji, theseâthese are dated back ten months. Did you do this? I'm losing everything. I have lost everything. How could you?â
KĆji pushed his hands down against the hard floor, cold under his fingertips, bleeding them sickly pale. In the past, he'd have his hands on or around something, squeezing it into deformity because he didn't want to bite his nails to the wick anymore. There was nothing for him to grasp, nothing to subdue his anxiety. He'd already chewed his nails to stubs, and ripped the skin raw.Â
âHoroshiki has always been prick,â KĆji said, perhaps just as scornfully as when he'd last spoken to you. âI don't know why he never said anything. I was so convinced he'd be the reason why I finally got found out. Maybe he thought it'd be the best way to get you out of here. I don't have an answer for him.â
âI'll worry about that.â GetĆ grabbed the top of KĆji's head with a firm grip, pulling up the skin on his forehead. âYou were asked why you did it, KĆji. Shouldn't you answer that?â
Although KĆji wasn't capable of much range of motion from the position he'd been forced into. His eyes shifted furtively behind thin, veiny lid space towards GetĆ before he looked up at you.Â
It was a sorry sight.
âIâI told you before: as long as someone took care of all the numbers, did all the hard stuff for you, you never noticed. You didn't want the commitment of a business. I don'tâI don't know what you wanted.â
You had wanted to drown. Hide. Disappear without dying.Â
âWell done. You must've stolen quite a bit over the years, KĆji. How much do you think? A few million yen? Dozens of millions? I guess it's always been easier for you to live off of the talent and success of others, hasn't it, little man?â Geto's smile was a reposeful fixture, staying put even as he leaned into his hand, smashing KĆji's face down into the laminate. You jumped. âBy the way, didn't I tell you that you couldn't look, either? You don't deserve to.â
âNow, beg,â he continued, âbeg for forgiveness.â
KĆji let out a stilted groan that vibrated so strongly in your ears, you thought you could perceive his pain just the same as he experienced it. He raised his face off the ground as far as GetĆ would allow, a couple meager inches, while the pressure gripping his skull remained.Â
âI went too far,â he said. âI'm sorry.â
GetĆ wasn't satisfied with that and thrust him to the floor again, shoving his damp cheek along the uneven texture, into the grime of dirt and dust and chips of wood you'd missed earlier. He would've felt each splinter of plastic and glass wedge under his skin, and catch in his waterline, forcing him to blink, blink, blink it deeper until his eye watered, reddened.Â
âI said beg!â Suddenly, you remembered GetĆ holding you and witnessing the visage of a malignant god. This was what he had been then, except now he was in possession of himself with a decorous smile meant to disarm you. It was his way of making you see how deep his devotion truly went, how far he was willing to go if you'd only ask it of him. âBeg!â
KĆjiâs head was levered up by clusters of wet hair on his scalp, Geto having bound them in his fist. He tried sputtering out words through petrified sobs. It was the adrenaline that accompanied his uncertainty of what would come next, an anticipatory heat pooling in his head that did not allay even when he finally found his voice again.
âEverything I've done from the start is unforgivable!âÂ
âBeg!â
Getoâs brutality went unchecked as he slammed KĆji's face down again, drilling his nose into the unbendable floor beneath them. The sight of it nudged you into complicity, convincing reassurance that there was nothing you could do at this point. It would've been more perilous to interfere, because in some small corner of your animal brain you knew GetĆ could do this to anyoneâto youâif it's what suited him.
There was nothing you could do. Was there nothing you could, or were you just too afraid to do the right thing? To have GetĆ show you his face mirroring the very same vitriol and disgust with which he viewed KĆji? Were you afraid of defying him? Afraid of him hating you? Abandoning you?
The studio echoed with ragged gasps as the assault continued. It was a sickening, strange sort of sound; hearing someone's skull thudding the floor over and over like that. You marveled at the true durability of humans while also wincing at each impact, wondering how long it would take for something to splinter, then break apart entirely.
Worst of all, KĆji never tried to fight back. You expected he would've clawed at Geto's hand, kicked out into his calves to make him lose his balance, flailed, screamedâdone something. But, he took the cruelty in muffled, disoriented moans as his face was repeatedly smeared into a thickening puddle of blood and spit which oozed from both his nostrils and the fresh gaps in his teeth. The rich red diluted to something a little brighter, pinker as it mingled with his saliva and morphed texture, into a sort of gelatinous webbing sticking to his skin in a wholly horrific, ugly way.
He finally let out a scream after one, particularly forceful thrust from Geto's hand which filled the space with a sharp crack. He writhed and anguished on the floor, you were familiar with the sound and the pain better than anyone else.Â
âGetĆ, stop!â but, he didn't stop. He intended to crush the cartilage in KĆji's nose into fine shards and grind it into paste if he could manage it. Your face was hot with tears, body trembling as you finally moved your feet and lunged for his arm. âSuguru! That's enough! You're hurting him! You're going to kill him! Stop! Stop! Stop!â
He regarded your hysterics coolly, with an impervious smile and released KĆji, letting him drop wherever. âEnough? After everything he's done to you? It'll never be enough. But, I know you still have a lot left to do, so KĆji and I shouldn't keep taking up your time. Right, KĆji?â A wet, garbled noise rose from the puddle of blood. âHm. Oh, well.â
You stood back as KĆji was hoisted to his feet by the scruff of his shirt. Much of the original whiteness had been lost to stains and misuse over the weeks, but now the front of it had sucked in all the red, sodden fabric sticking awkwardly in all the wrong ways to his wispy frame.Â
If it weren't for GetĆ holding him up, KĆji wouldn't have been able to manage his own weight. His walk was ungainly and heavy-footed, knees buckling inward while his legs splayed outward, taking on an almost bug-like appearance that had your skin crawling. The harsher edges of his face were clotted in blood and swelled except his nose, which was disfigured and awful.Â
Once at the door, KĆji looked back at you and GetĆ allowed it.Â
âI've always been a pretty unlucky guy, but thinking back on everything now⊠my time here wasn't really all that bad.â KĆji had the eerie calm of a man resolved to his fate, however grim it would be. You feared part of his quietude came from too much blood loss. âI hated you. I think I still do. But, I think I pity you more than anything else. We both know what happens next: I'll be free and you won't. I have a way out of all of this, but you? You never will. I pity you.â
Then, with some great effort, he gestured vaguely in your direction. âIt won't save you, but it's the least I could do after everything that's happened.â
You understood that he was referring to the bunched up strip of paper he'd hidden under your toe. It was now shapeless and dusty, just another piece of litter in the indistinguishable mess strewn across your shop. GetĆ hadn't seen it coming in, and he certainly didn't know what KĆji's nebulous babbling meant.Â
âWell,â GetĆ lifted his voice, still supporting most of KĆji's weight with his fist spun into the back of his shirt, âIt's time KĆji and I take a walk. Sorry for the mess. I'll find a way to make it up to you.â
A flash of panic coursed through KĆji's eyes as he was led through the doorway, whereas GetĆ was unchanged with his easy, amiable smile.Â
âI'll see you soon. Wait for me.â
You watched them leave into the yellow daylight, tracking them for several seconds before you could no longer see them. In that moment, you knew your mistake had been letting them walk away instead of falling to your knees and bowing your head to Geto's feet, begging for forgiveness on KĆji's behalf. He had come into your shop alive, but was marched out of it a dead man.
Itâd been the name KĆji had left behind in nearly indecipherable kanji, handwriting an explosive flurry across softened, creased paper. The sloppiness of it was made worse by the fact heâd written it in black ink and dripped sweat on it while the ink had yet to set. You imagined him hunkered over the strip of paper, muttering nonsense, bleeding black across unlined white, perspiration beaming on his skin as he sat beneath a humming, hot light.
Really, the only reason you were able to translate the kanji at all was due in part to recognizing the charactersânot from seeing them bonded together as they were now in print, but because you knew them separately. Geto's was easiest to identify; it made sense you'd be able to pick out his family name in any cluster of kanji as if intuitively drawn to it. The others took your unhoned investigative skills to unmuddle from a blotch of smeared ink into something readable.Â
The mystery became a solemn distraction leading up to the last days before you were expected on the first train out of Shinjuku City, headed for the countryside with only two suitcases in tow and the rest of your life arranged and tightly packed into a storage unit. You committed as much of your time to figuring out the name as you did shuffling rubbishâthings which once held value to youâinto garbage bags to be carried away and burned into the ozone or forgotten in a landfill by the sea.Â
Perhaps it was a small way of atonement, investing so much of yourself into a piece of scrap with the ghostly words from a dead man immortalized within the paper. You'd done nothing at all to save KĆji, so it was only right that you unraveled the meaning behind the name, to understand the urgency with which he'd found it necessary to write to you, even though the answers continued to elude you clear up until the very endâthe day before your departure.
What you found out was this: Asahi Yorimitsu had been in his late forties when he assumed power over the Uzumaki-kai in the seventies, birthing a golden age of prosperity and influence to an organization crumbling from the inside-out, a precarious foundation one bad move away from complete extinction. Publicly, Yorimitsu had been known as the charitable sort and made frequent appearances at lavish events and fundraisers embellished with relevant celebrities, politicians, and businesspeople.
You assumed it was around that time when the Uzumaki-kai had dug their roots into the hospital in Tokyo, yet, interestingly, there was no mention of affiliation with the GojĆ Financial Group in any of your research. You accepted that was something GetĆ had accomplished alone, apart from the Uzumaki-kai and utilized as he needed.
Now, the point where you started feel as though you were edging nearer to incredible epiphany came when you discovered Yorimitsuâs obituary from seven years ago (eight, if you counted the last ten months since getting wrapped up in this mess) and recalled that the Uzumaki-kai had essentially buried themselves underground around that same time.Â
Aside from one or two credible sources linking them to unsavory practices in KabukichĆ, their trail on the surface had gone cold. Footprints in the sand disappearing with high-tide.Â
Why did any of this really matter to you? Because you didn't find the obituary under Asahi Yorimitsuâformer kingpin of the Uzumaki-kai, you found it under GetĆ Yorimitsuâa prevalent cult-leader during the fifties and sixties, whose influence continued to spread across Japan until his sudden death less than a decade ago.Â
The man was worshiped like a God. Older forum and web posts from the late nineties offered personal accounts of followers declaring that Yorimitsu transcended the rest of humanity; he was more than any deity within orthodox tradition and for regular, inconsequential pittance, he could guide them along the right path to join him in a new cycle of rebirth, reincarnationâwhatever.Â
His teachings were circumlocutory and inconsistent, ramblings of a lunatic known for both his mercuriality and immense charisma. A personality built out of contradictions, yet was pleasant enough most of the time to keep people around, dutiful to his cause.Â
On one archived forum, you found anonymous entries mentioning how Yorimitsu had led them into financial ruin through means of extortion and siphoning money from their jobs and businesses.Â
âWhat was I supposed to do, then?â lamented one poster, âhis weekly pittance grew from a couple hundred yen to several thousands over the span of four or five yearsâactually, I'm not sure anymore. I worked in merchandising as a vendor for a popular convenience chain I'm sure you all know, but won't name here for legal purposes. The Japanese government is very observant these days.â
âI didn't get paid much doing that sort of work. I drove around a truck all day. I unloaded boxes, stocked shelves, and never really got a chance to take a break. Master Yorimitsu gave me courage to endure all of it; all of the sameness, the ingratitude, the hot summers without AC, the cold winters without heat. I believed in everything he was saying, maybe because I was young and stupid, maybe I just wanted there to be something waiting for me on the other side. I wanted a reason to keep living, I guess. When the time came for me to leave, he was taking over seventy percent of my paycheck each monthâI was homeless and scared about the future.â
âHe made it easy to trap people in his scheme, his âfamilyâ, as he called it, by doing this. What else could we do besides comply when he had control over our money? He promised to alleviate our hardships if we obeyed. And, if we didn't? Well, I guess that's where his yakuza ties came in, right? It was a good day when he was murdered, we thought we're finally free. But, he'd left his mark on us, deep gouges we knew would never fully heal.â
âI'm still in contact with some of the others, not many, mind you, as I try to live a quiet life with my family, but there's a rumor that GetĆ Yorimitsu lives on as a ghost. I hope I don't live long enough to find out what that meansâŠâ
The record ended there and your motivation to delve further into the rabbit hole along with it. Without a doubt, this went deeper than a spiral, it was an entire network of branching tunnels; intricate webwork that rotted away the ground under people's feet and waited to suck them in. The history of the Uzumaki-kai and GetĆ lineage were so unfathomably interlinked that taking one route would converge with twenty others, and then fifty more interspersed throughout Japan.Â
There'd never be an end in sight.
âYouâre distracted,â GetĆ called you back to yourself with that, not realizing you'd been staring flat-eyed into an empty box for at least a minute. âWhat's on your mind? Tell me.â
He sat in a stiff chair at your tiny oval table, legs arranged neatly, taking gradual sips from a cup of tea made from the cheap boxed variety you'd made a habit to keep on hand for him. As always, he didn't complain about the poor quality, how it was overwhelmingly bitter and stale on his palate. He just drank, observing as you layered kitchen gadgets in old newspapers and nestled them into the box.
âI have a lot on my mind, GetĆ.â you said. âI'm thinking about how early I need to be up to catch the first train to Takayama. I think I've told you about it before.â
âYou haven't.âÂ
Was it worth explaining this now? As far as you were aware, you were never going to see him again after this because you didn't intend to return to Shinjuku or Tokyo. You would let your life expire and collect dust inside the storage unit here, forget to pay for it, and lose everything once and for all.Â
âWhen I first came to Japan, I lived in Hida Takayama with a host family. It's all country and mountains out in Gifu. It's a hot tourist spot with old shrines and historical sites. The onsen are renowned there as well,â you crowded more things into the box, âmy old host family is excited for me to come back for a while. I don't know how long I'll be thereâIâm not sure what I'll do next.â
GetĆ made the little table tremble as he set aside his cup, delicate porcelain clinking against hard plastic. Next moment, he hovered over your shoulder near your ear, hair smelling faintly aquatic, of lotus. âI'd like it if you stayed hereâstayed here with me. I can keep you afloat. I've already taken care of that landlord for you.â
The aloofness in which he spoke made you shiver.
Just like how you knew he would deflect questions about KĆji, he probably wouldn't elaborate on what he had meant by that. Curiosity had become your most dangerous emotion since meeting him, and you'd learned it was better to ask nothing at all, smother it down as far as it would go because it was safer.Â
It kept him sane.Â
You guessed heâd expected an apprising attitude from telling you those debts were null. He seemed to take it as such in spite of your silence and kissed behind your ear.
It didn't hurt so much when he touched you now, even though the cast around your arm would last a few more weeks. He gathered you against his body, pacing his movement across your neck with sweltering breaths that left a glistening film on your skin. You gave him the space he wanted, head on his shoulder while he neared your throat with his soft lips curved high, vulpine, confident and hungry.Â
âI want you,â his words were accentuated by the growing intensity of his breaths, hands seeking your body underneath your clothes. âLet me show you how much. I want you to know what you'll be without after you leave.âÂ
You almost lost your grip on the object you'd been holding, a ceramic drip tray sitting between the burners on your stovetop. In that moment, you didn't remember putting it down or dropping it, only that GetĆ's large hands kneaded you under your shirt. You followed the path he took with one hand as it swept low across your stomach, molding your shape, fingers plunging below the waistband and into your underwear.Â
He laid long, languid strokes on you, making you flinch away from his touch initially as the sensation felt too new, too foreign from someone other than yourself. But, he held you steady, increasing the rhythm and the pressure he used until it coaxed out a moan and your legs started to weaken.
GetĆâs cheek stuck to yours, staying near so he could hear every utterance and stuttering sound with clarity. All the while, he watched the roughening motions of his hand down your pants, catching glimpses of a cloudy fluid sticking to his fingers, coating them in warmth which quickly receded as it cooled outside your body. He smeared it back onto you, rubbing harder, faster, listening to you huff and gasp sharply, and squirm restlessly against him.Â
You weren't sure what you were trying to do with your body right now; the positioning was awkward, hips grinding messily with the strokes and slick covering his fingertips. GetĆ anchored you with his wrist, guiding you into a satiable flow that matched how he pushed himself into you, the bulge of his cock sliding over your ass.
âTake them off,â he made quick work of one leg of your pants before moving to the other, bunching a fistful of fabric in his hand to shove it all off your hips. He never let up from your core, even as he guided your arms to rest atop the counter and his head sank below your waistline so he finished on his knees before you. âCome here. I've been waiting for this.â
His nose nudged you before his tongue did, but when you felt that pliable wet muscle curl around you, into you, glide everywhere he could lap at the arousal that had clung to your skin and glowed warmly in the murky amber light overhead, you fell apart. A withering moan spurred his teeth into play, one hand coming around to grope your ass and thighs. His mouth closed around you, sucking, licking you clean, filling the compact space of your kitchen with a chorus of your breathy whines and his feast.
âOhâoh, shit, make me cum, Suguru,â you held the side of his head, busying yourself in his hair, fingernails dragging along his scalp. A pleasurable chill raced down his back, yielding one of the lewdest sounds you thought you'd ever heard a man make. âJust a little moreâplease don't stop, don't stop, don't stop!â
GetĆ reached below the elastic of his sweatpants for his semi-hardened cock, pruning the tip of his thumb with precum weeping from the eye, and spreading it down his shaft. He relished the taste of you, molding his tongue to your contours so no trace could escape. But, he relished the moment even more when you moaned in that helplessly affected wayâthe pitch of your voice rising, elongating, as though air were being forced out your lungs.Â
He was fully hard when you started wincing, trying to distance yourself from how quickly he was overstimulating you. His cock kept oozing, he kept stroking, your fingers knotted taut in his hair and yanked savagely as you were awash with your orgasm and giving him more to savor. The fluid was thicker than at the start, and utterly obscene to see thinning across Geto's tongue while he looked up at you through his dark lashes.Â
You went glassy-eyed when he swallowed your cum and stood up, still gripping his stiff cock under the waistband. âTell me how good it felt,â he licked into an open-mouthed kiss, mingling your essence and saliva. âTell me how good it felt to be fucked by my tongue. You've imagined me doing it, haven't you? How many times have you touched yourself imagining me getting you off?â
It was too hot to think about all the times youâd envisioned battery-powered silicone as his cock, making you come undone in the silence and darkness of your room at night. Anything could be him when the need arose: a toy, a pillow, a claw machine prize, your own fingers. He wasnât the same man in your fantasiesâhazier and brighter, an impressionist landscape where darkness could not perfuse. The man who you imagined holding you had no sharp edges, shrewd smiles, or unknown motives.
He was GetĆ without being GetĆ.Â
His hands stripped both your bodies to complete nudity before making it to your bed: a single-person mattress shoved in the corner below a narrow window, loaded atop one of those cheap metal frames from the department store. The comforter he sprawled you out on was a favorite, but you couldn't think whether you'd cleaned it recently or if it smelled at all.Â
Those worries were whisked away by his body eclipsing the gentle light seeping into your sleeping area from the kitchen, creating a golden halo around his shape, blurring his more angular qualities. You could still make out his sinewy definition. You mapped the valleys of his pectorals and abdomen, the rise and fall of the corded muscles in his arms, then further south to his trim waist and ending at the high curve of his cock.Â
He worked you back up again for quite a while, flattened on his stomach with his head between your thighsâbringing you close to the edge so many times that frustration burned behind your eyes and you'd completely undone the upper corners of the bedspread from holding them too tightly. A more recent addition were two fingers daubed in spit and old cum that he pushed inside you, curling them, feeling for that spot everyone wanted to find.Â
GetĆ kept his eyes on you throughout, and especially when you orgasmed. He pinned your hips to the mattress and pounded his fingers into you, humping the mattress in unison with your luscious pants and pleading cries. When that became insufficient, he turned onto his side and vigorously pumped his cock from flushed head to base where orderly tufts of black hair swirled outward.
âHas anyone else ever made you feel so good?â he stopped stroking himself when you went quiet, deprived of yet another high. âI've never seen you look as fucked out as you are now.â
âNo.â you relented.
He raised his torso to your height in the bed and warmly caressed his lips against the pulse of your throat. You were staring at the low ceiling as he sucked your skin and widened your thighs, noting diverging cracks in the wavy, pale plaster that wouldn't be your problem anymore come this time tomorrow. After tomorrow, you could forget that the past year had ever occurred.Â
âLook at me.â It was a command which you obeyed, reminiscent of that night in your hospital bed. His willing depravity, the sly work of his wrist under the cotton hospital gown. Now, he wasn't trying so hard because he had you where he wanted you, bare and vulnerable, malleable and pleasantly hot on his hands no matter where they roamed.Â
It had gone silent in your apartment, the air stifling, dense with humidity, smelling very faintly of sweat and the cardboard boxes peppered throughout. You could hear his breathing more than your own, subdued shivers stuttering through his teeth, intoxicated by desire, perhaps luxuriating in discomfort and pain and anticipation, of his own fantasies finally come to fruition.Â
âDon't you dare look away,â GetĆâs voice was simultaneously velvet and velcro; swishing fabric, that, when it touched itself hissed and snagged loose threads. âDo you know how long I've waited for you? You've been torturing me this entire time. I kept imagining what sort of expression you'd have when you finally gave yourself to meâwhen you finally reached clarity.âÂ
He was still fully erect when he smoothed his cock against your fluids, hair, and plump flesh. It was agonizing, feeling thick warmth ooze and stick wherever he guided his flushed head next, and being able to do nothing against his purposeful, dragging pace. He wanted to pull a reaction out of youâimpatience or desperation, or both, reciprocated in the same way as in your hospital bed.Â
âStop teasing me.â you complained without all the usual defensive ruse, too tired, too fragile to be aware of just how exposed you truly were to him in that moment. âIf you're going to fuck me, then fuck me. You keep telling me how much you want me, but you're just wasting time.â
Geto's smile was salacious as he came down on one arm, anchoring it near your head for balance. He kissed you a few times in his slow manner, tugging your lower lip with his teeth, and put more force into stimulating you with his cock.
âIt's your turn to wait,â he slurred, throat rumbling when you began to move with his hips, the long strokes of his cock. âYou'll wait as long as I want you to. It's only fair, don't you think? You're going to remember tonight. I'm going to remember you pouting⊠and moaning⊠and beggingâŠâ
But, GetĆ thought himself gracious and used his bulbous tip to gather the viscous mess slathered on your skin and thrust it all back inside. Your concentration broke, eyes closed, face to the parched ceiling as he stretched you, nudged himself deeper each time until he was fully seated.Â
âGodâŠâ you murmured, barely audible apart from a gasp and felt for his solid bicep with your good hand. âDon'tâdonât stop. Gimme more, Suguru. Harder!â
He didn't follow your request, tormenting you with sluggish pulses that got you nowhere quickly and left you unfulfilled. Instead, he wanted you to feel his girth gaping you, to feel all the angles he reached making you writhe. You had to listen to your own moans flow out of your mouth and stiffen in the air, trapped within the confines of your tiny room with all its smells and heat.Â
GetĆ made each thrust indulgent despite his languidity, sure that youâd hear the dampened claps of skin when his hips rolled into you. There was something sinful in the noise, wet like patting the surface of standing water with an open hand.Â
âI could've made you feel like this all along, you know?â he was a little rougher now, former composure fractured, speaking as though stones tumbled in his throat. The pad of his thumb rested above the creases in your brow, attempting to smooth them flat before pushing the digit past your lips and teeth. âYou'll never get off as good with anyone else. No one else knows you as well as I do. No one else can have you.â
Then, he pulled out to rearrange you on your side, away from him with your injured arm to lay across your chest. Your view was now the cluster of boxesâhalf-filled or in flat stacksâabandoned in the kitchen, dimly illuminated by the overhead light which emitted a soft hum. Looking at them all now in your current state, you thought it was burdensome to wrap and secure things that were just going to a storage unit to rot.Â
Behind you, GetĆ pressed his carven body to your back and hiked your leg over his waist. His breath was at once scorching, fanning out on your neck, and then gone as it hitched, his cock sinking back into you. He adjusted and thrust up, holding your hip with bruising strength, fingertips vanishing within the divots he formed in your skin.Â
He wasn't as slow as before, now moving with intent. The snap of his hips against your ass was harsh, it almost hurt. He moaned in your ear between licking and biting the lobe and cartilage.Â
âI knew from the moment I saw you that night that it was fate,â he confessed, raising his thigh to open you wider, so you could take him deeper and harder, harder, harder. âYou were meant for me.âÂ
You were paralyzed with pleasure and numbness. Every whimper, cry, and yelp formed a ceaseless amalgam of pure sound that seemed to implore he do more, do worse, fuck you into oblivion. He must've interpreted it that way and taken it to heart, because he made another adjustment where he leaned you towards him and thrust savagely.Â
âYou're nearly there, I can feel it. You're so tight. I'll fuck you straight through it,â you didn't know if he was trying to help you or break you. âI'll be what you see in ecstasy and I'll be what you see when you come down from it.âÂ
And, as promised, he finished you off with one, two, three more powerful thrusts that unwound the tightness in your abdomen and made your release a noisy, messy sight. His face was there, throughout the peak of rapture where you convulsed and struggled, clinging to him and anything else you could grab to manage the hot, pulsating waves coursing down to your toes.Â
His face was still there when you settled into him, still taking his cock and greedy hands groping your front, squeezing your chest and rubbing your nipples until they felt sore.
When he came undone, his high was just as sensational as your own. Geto's orgasm was explosive and loud and as lewd as he could make it, face slotted between your neck and shoulder. His last thrusts were imprecise, startlingly warm and wet by the end. His spunk leaked out of you onto the sheets under your ass, turning the neutral fabric translucent and leaving you cold as it dried.
âDo you mind if I smoke?â It was the first thing he asked after, gesturing to the closed window above the bed. You told him that you didn't care. It wasn't really your apartment anymore. His smile was relaxed. âGood. Let me grab my pants, then.â
Those remnant prickles of pleasure had worn off, coaxing you into a satiated lull which had you somewhat disconnected from the fact you'd just had sex with the man. You lay still and watched him retrieve his sweats from the kitchen floor, having mostly stripped himself there earlier, and pull out a skinny carton with even skinnier cigarettes.
You were surprised when he dropped the garment exactly where it had been, returning bedside with just the box and a lighter. His cock was soft and hung on him, sweat dappling his chest and arms.Â
His first few puffs on the cigarette got it started, directing smoke out the window into the frigid night air before he rejoined you on the bed. He sat higher than you, upright against the wall, spinning the thin stick between his fingers on the hand opposite where you were.Â
âWhat are you thinking about?â he asked, as part of his natural inclination to meddle in your inner world.
âEverything,â was what you considered answering, but that would shape into a different conversation where you'd refuse to face him honestly and he'd stonewall you when you tried to ask about something he wasn't particularly interested in explaining.Â
So, you looked at him through half-darkness and foul-smelling smoke forming around the smoldering tip of his cigarette. âI'm thinking that I don't understand you at all and I never will.â you said, also, suddenly self-conscious about lying next to him while still naked. âI'm thinking about how beautiful you are and it isn't fair,â you went on, âI'm thinking about refunding you for all the work I didn't finish on your back, because I can't bring anything with me. I'll be useless to you.â
GetĆ exhaled fumes like he intended to refute that, but, ultimately, did nothing aside from smile down at you. You just assumed he appreciated being called beautiful and maybe the fact that you were willing to repay a debt without needing your neck wrung a few times first.Â
âI'm thinkingâŠâ you reached for his arm, skin still hot and moist. âI'm thinking that you should kiss me one more time, because you're not going to be there to tell me goodbye at the station, right?â
âIs that what you think?â he found an old glass on your nightstand to extinguish his cigarette in. He came down to your height on the bed, the back of his knuckles smoothing across one of your thighs. âThat tonight is the end of it all?â
âAm I wrong?â you asked, some part of you hoping that you weren't and knowing otherwise. He'd had his way with you, there was nothing left for him to covet. âKiss me, Suguru.â
And, he did. He kissed you like a man possessed, without gentleness, reminding you that he could consume everything that you were if he wanted to.
Time preserved itself differently in the mountains. Flowing forward languorous and nonchalant, separate from how everything bolted past in the Tokyo metropolitan areaâwhirls of colorful, fluttering clothes and sunlight glinting off of searing metal from cars, from architecture towering thousands of feet high, casting ominous shadows down into the streets.Â
In Shinjuku, you had once believed that a stringent routine meant order, a schedule with names and prices on the margins meant success, while the entire time it had meant you'd become part of the blur and nothingness that had pervaded everyone else.Â
It had served you more at that time to go through life that wayâstare at your toes while you walked along the concrete jungle, imagining yourself filling the cracks and holes like the black tar used to pretend things didn't wear down and break over time. And, when you looked up, your focus was linear and dignified, unable to see from the sides, or behind, or what was spread in front of your eyes.Â
Tattooing belonged to someone you no longer were, nor wanted to be again. To you, it represented your exit from the mountains as a young person in a foreign place, rich with ideals and desires of esteem in a profession largely uninterested in accommodating you. In the end, calling yourself a tattoo artist was simply pretty camouflage to distract you from the cold, cavernous void widening inside youâdiscomfort you'd come to crave and rest in like it was home.Â
You knew nothing else, thought that you wanted nothing, could be nothing else.Â
So, when a crisp day in early spring arrived with a white envelope addressed to you from the storage unit in Shinjuku, stating that your belongings were to be removed and sold due to nonpayment for six monthsâyou had to tame a smile.
âMy, what is it? Something good?â Michiko, your elderly host mother, had brought the letter to you along with a bento filled with pickled vegetables, roasted fish, and natto. âWhen I saw it came from Shinjuku, I rushed right out the door! I didn't think it would be right to make you wait until you came home.âÂ
You worked as a desk concierge in one of the traditional hotels, which had a primarily English-speaking staff. The managers believed having you there as the first face and voice foreigners interacted with would bring them ease, liken the chance they'd be willing to stay longer. You thought they were probably right.Â
âJust some tying up some loose ends. That's all,â you told her, folding the paper along the seams to put it back inside the envelope. It would be shredded later, just before heading out the door when night-shift came to relieve you. âIâve been thinking about it on and off since I came back last year. Itâs weird to think that I don't have anything waiting for me in Shinjuku anymore.â
Michiko situated her purse, now significantly lighter than before, and smiled. âSomeday, when I'm old and decrepit in a hospital bed, you'll need to tell me all your stories! But, I don't want to hear them now because we won't have anything to talk about when the time comes.â
You were thankful for her saying so, as you would've had to lie about everythingâthe tattooing, KĆji, Horoshiki, the yakuza goons, losing your business and livelihood, and especially about GetĆ. All you had divulged to your host family before returning was that you were ready for a change in pace, and they'd asked nothing else to pry.
âWhat do you plan to do now?â Michiko was beginning to fidget, ready to find her way out of the hotel to meet the nearest bus for the hospital. Your host father, Ken, was recovering from appendix surgery across Takayama. âIt's been six months. Ken and I are happy to have you, but you're still young. Surely there's something you want to do?â
There really wasn't. Not right now.Â
Not while you could awake everyday to go to a brainless job where you smiled, pretended to laugh, sifted through a laminated tour pamphlet with guests, and left at the same time every night. You wandered residually, tracking the same paths and patterns as the day before no matter the variances that inevitably appeared to thwart you.Â
Life crawled at the same pace as the seasons and the weather in Takayama, a stately city of reasonable mass and revenue all its own, but it wasn't the same as Shinjuku or Tokyo. The air here was fresher, uplifting, and the cold speared deeper, the springs were profoundly denser with pollen and trills of wildlife, the summer heat unendurable, and autumn always left you speechless when the leaves turned their burnt oranges, auburns, and golds.
You didn't know what your life would amount to in the future, only that you were comfortable where you were now.Â
Nearly seven months to the day since leaving the ruins of your old life in Shinjuku for the mountains, a ghost had appeared in your path, blocking the last steps you needed to take to reach Michiko and Kenâs home. They lived on the outskirts of the main hub, closer to the actual mountains in a humble home made of wood and paper doors.Â
The ghost didn't see you at first, standing face towards the house, seeming to admire its sloping rooftop and structural soundness, and the flower garden thriving with bright, explosive blooms in shades of neons and pastels.
He stood apart from the color, the verdant backdrop of steep mountain rises and sunshine and the glowing blue sky, dressed in all black attire. You'd seen the sweatsuit plenty of times, as he preferred it over closer fitting shirts and slacks, but he was still so attractive when shapeless.
Suguru. You thought about hiding while you still had the chance to stay unseen, but there was nowhere for you to go this far out of the city. No. No. No!
Suddenly, he noticed you and dazzled you with his teeth in an eager grin. Warmth leached out of you despite the midday heat and the sun directly overhead. He came towards you as his only focus, your brain fumbled with disjointed ways of escape, yet your feet listened to none of them.
âYo!â He sounded the same, looked exactly the same. âDid you just get off of work? It's a nice hotel. Too many foreigners for my taste, but that's never been an issue for you.â
He's been following me. That much was obvious solely from the fact he was standing right in front of you, almost three-hundred miles from the studio you'd been evicted from, the apartment you abandoned, the mattress he fucked you on before disappearing at some point during the night while you slept. That had been the last you heard from him. For how long? Why? Why? Why?Â
âGetĆ, why are you here?â you asked.
âThis, again?â If he was bothered by the regression, it certainly didn't show through his even-temperedness. âSuguru, please. You're too important to me to use anything else. It hurts me to hear you use anything else.â
âYou shouldn't be here.â And, you meant it. It was tempting to look around for anyone else who didn't belong. GetĆ stood apart from this place with its green slopes and old houses; he was beautiful and poised, even in his relaxed posture, hands in his pockets. His hair still fell down his back in that watery cascade of ebony. âYou need to leave.â
âDon't say that. That's not how you really feel about seeing me again after all this time, is it? You can't pretend to hide from the life you left behind forever, you know? You can't hide from everything that happened between us. You can't hide from me.â GetĆ was imposing up close, made more so by the additional baggage his clothes gave him. You'd forgotten how tall he was. âI wish youâd tell me you missed me as much as I missed you.â
âI don't understand what you have to gain, Suguru. I have nothing left in Shinjuku. I don't want to go back, either. I cut ties and burned bridges. You have your money, I gave you recommendations for better artists. I owe the Uzumaki-kai nothing. I owe you nothing, Suguru.â you said.
At first, he said nothing while rummaging his pockets, bulging the fabric outward as he felt around for something. Then, he showed you a piece of paper folded into four squares.Â
Opened wide, you realized it was a receipt dated for almost a month ago, for the purchase of items in an unmarked storage unit. The contents weren't disclosed, as you assumed it was legal omission, but you knew immediately.Â
âYou bought my unit, why?â you had been so close to leaving the final remnant of your past, in your past. âWhy, Suguru?! I told you that I don't want to tattoo anymore! I don't want anything to do with it! I don't want anything to do with you!â
âLying, again. You know how that makes me feel. And, I know that you don't feel what you say.â He had fingers on your face, moving sideways to nest into your hair. âWhen I saw you, you looked relieved. You looked excited. You looked so happy. I think you're finally ready to come home.â
Maybe you had looked happy. You weren't so sure of yourself anymore. Seeing GetĆ again had set your mind into a frenzy; flashes of heat wrapped around your head like sitting below an uncovered lightbulb. In every thought and memory that crossed past your mindâs eye, he was there. In all his beauty, charisma, and empty smiles.
âYou're cruel, Suguru,â was all you said.
He shook his head, hand curling around the back of your neck, tilting your face up into a kiss. âNo one else is allowed to touch me,â he leaned in for another, âI need you to finish what you started. Hm. No, I need you. You're my tattoo artist, and you're mine.â
Just then, Michikoâs voice came to you over the breeze from a short distance, rising above quivering breaths and the intense thrum of your heartbeat. When you glanced around Geto's frame towards the house, she was watching worriedly from the front door, her heavily wrinkled face warped in bafflement at the sight of this man she'd never met wrapped around you.
âIsâis everything alright, honey?â she tried to project that sort of motherly tone, equal parts sweet and judgmental, as if it meant to dissuade anything unsavory. âDinner is done. I was hoping you'd come inside to eat with me. I know you didn't have a decent lunch today.â
She hesitated. âWould your friend like to come eat with us as well? Has he come from Shinjuku?â
âNo, Mama. He has somewhere to be.â You hoped to sound final in that statement, but held onto the front of Geto's sweater with both hands. âI'll be in to eat with you in a few minutes. Please keep everything warm until then.â
Michiko looked on warily, though seemed to know she was unwanted in this exchange so she bid GetĆ farewell and slipped back inside the house quietly. You waited until her small, bent form shuffled past one of the windows towards the kitchen to return attention to him.
ââMamaâ? So, she's part of your host family that you mentioned. She seems like a kind woman,â he said, taking both your hands to hold them against his chest. There was definition and sturdiness where you touched. âShe raised you right.â
âSuguru, leave her alone, please,â you begged, wringing his sweater around your fists. âHer husband is in the hospital and he isn't doing well. They have nothing to do with this. I'll do anything you want, but I never want them to find out about the sort of life I've lived. I want them to live out their days believing theyâthat the weird foreign kid they raised ended up as something.â
âHow sweet,â but he didnât care, sounding almost distracted as he said it. You let him kiss you again. âI'm only here for you. My interest in them only goes as far as them being people in your past, not your future.â
âSuguruââ
âWell, I won't keep you from a nice dinner with family. I know better than anyone how important that is.â It was some small effort for GetĆ to pry you off him and walk away, stopping several feet along the path you had come from the city. âLetâs meet at Sogenji Temple tomorrow morning, first thing so we don't have to deal with the tour guides or crowds. I'll see you soon.â
Michiko behaved at supper despite her curiosity about GetĆ, and took out her anxiety over the situation by continuously refilling your bowls with spicy katsu curry and cabbage slaw until you thought your stomach would burst. That night, in the bath, you thought about whether to show up as GetĆ wanted you to, or buy a train ticket out of Takayama for an unknown destination.
As tantalizing as it sounded to just leave, speak to no one and bring nothing, flee with the only traces of your life stuffed into a backpack, you wouldn't get far. GetĆ had proven to you today that his reach went far further than he let on, like individual segments on a spiderâs web to which you could really see no end. Moreover, you suspected he had been watching you since leaving Shinjuku months ago.Â
It left you deflated, reeling in the tub now you understood that he'd always let you run wherever you liked, for as long as it took to tire you out and settle down, but you'd never be rid of him. He was woven so intimately into your personal tapestry that he thought himself the greatest part of it, the only piece that truly mattered, because now you were covered in blood he spilled on your behalf, and owed him your life.Â
In frustration and disgust, you touched yourself in memory of that night in your old apartment with him. His words, sensual and heavy, replayed in your mind until you writhed through a soundless orgasm and your limbs went limp in the aromatic bathwater.Â
Afterwards, you upturned your bedroom, to Michikoâs concern, for one item in particular you had hidden very well, and went to sleep rehearsing all the ways you would tell GetĆ to get out of your life for good.
But, the next morning, you hadn't thought of anything worth regurgitating, so you simply spoke from your awful, hopeless mood.
âYou're a liar and a thief, Suguru,â you told him as you approached the temple, finding that he was lighting a cigarette as he leaned against the torii gate. True to what he had wanted, Sogenji Temple was devoid of any bodies except your own at the crack of dawn. âJust like your grandfather.â
GetĆâs eyes shifted down to the rumpled paper held up between your fingers. The ink was more faded than it used to be, but you knew he could still read GetĆ Yorimitsu off of it plenty well enough.Â
He took the thin stick from his lips, blowing a mixture of smoke and fog into the early morning chill. âAmazing. That pest is still causing trouble from beyond the grave.â GetĆ confirmed KĆjiâs death, closing the door on one question youâd had. âHow long have you been hanging into that?â
I'm so sorry, KĆji.Â
You deserved better than thatâŠ
âLong enough to figure out who your grandfather was and what he did to thousands of people.â All of the extortion, money laundering, murder, abuse, and lifelong trauma that would follow them all to their deathbeds. âHe was murdered eight years ago, now. Who else to benefit more from that sort of fucked up hierarchy than his grandson. Did you do it?â
âHe was getting delirious in his old age. I only did what was best for himâfor the rest of the family. If he could've seen himself sanely at the end, how he was acting, the things he was saying, how useless he had become, he would've killed himself rather than look so disgraceful.â As if to placate you, he raised both hands up. âI'm no liar, unlike yourself. Ask me whatever you want. I'll tell you anything if it makes you feel better.â
You doubted his sincerity, yet found yourself wanting to lean into believing it for the sake of putting this all to rest. âKĆji wasn't just milling around with a bunch of random yakuza. That's not how it works. He was part of the Uzumaki-kai, wasn't he?â
Geto's lips tightened around the cigarette as his smile went higher. âHm. Not entirely. He was part of my grandfatherâs Uzumaki-kai, not mine. But, I mistook his loyalty to my grandfather as loyalty to me.â
Now, you wanted to test him. âYou didn't learn about my studio back then from word of mouth, did you? KĆji told you directly?â
âThatâs right.â He flicked ashes off onto the ground, stamping them underfoot into soot. âI never paid much attention to KĆji. His type of people aren't meant to survive, but somehow he had. I guess boot-licking guarantees safety of some sort. If it hadn't been for you, he would've died much sooner.â
âSuguruââ you had to swallow around the wad of guilt and shame and anticipation swelling in the back of your throat. âYou were the one who told him to siphon money from me, weren't you? It hadn't been his idea?â
âHm,â he considered his answer for a moment, now pinching the cigarette with the fingers he pressed against his head, helping hold him upright as he leaned. âNo. It had been his idea originally, I only told him to keep doing it. I didn't care how much he used for himself as long as I received what I asked for.â
You were beginning to crumble. Felt sick all through your insides and skull. âBut, he never stopped. And you never told him to, even after you started coming to me. He was still stealing from me while⊠everything else was happening between us.â
âI suppose that's true.â He said.Â
âYou wereâyou were on my table, asking me about my life and things about me, and drinking tea after sessions, and kissing me while knowing he was fucking ruining me, Suguru!â Your shouts stirred birds roosting on tree branches nearby, spooking them into flight. Meanwhile, you wished you could throw something, punch him, hurt him. âYou knew what would happen! And you just let it happen! How could you?! Why?â
He smoked to the filter, snuffing the fiery orange bulb on the sole of his shoe before pocketing it as he had done countless times before.Â
âBecause all of those thingsâKĆji, the life you lived beforeâwere all obstacles that kept you from being mine. You need me now, just like I need you.â
To this, a laugh stirred in your chest and came out sharp as a slap, and startlingly loud. âYou're crazy! You're fucking crazy! Just like your grandfather.â But, when he came forward to embrace you, clenching you against him in preparedness, you didn't struggle and merely sank into him. âOh my god, you're so insane. You're so much like him, Suguru.â
âSo I've heard.â His breath was hot on your scalp, nose nestled in your hair as though entranced by the scent of your shampoo. Your head rested on his chest, where you searched for any anxious pattering aside from your own, but his heart pulsed normally. âDo you have anything else to ask?â
âWere you ever planning to tell me you were a cult leader? Even if I had never found out on my own?â
He hummed, almost drowsily, and kissed down into your hair. âMy work can't be categorized by an ugly title like that. But, call me whatever you like. I only want what's best for everyone in my circleâmy family. I want to protect everyone, you, from this world and guide you through this life safely. Not everyone deserves that, you know. There are plenty of people who should rot and just disappear. I'd like to see it happen. But, you, you're special to me.Â
âEverything you could ever want is in your hands, I'll make it happen. If you want to tattoo again, I'll take back your studio. I can even get your host father medical care at the best hospital in Japan, isn't he worth that to you? To give him and Mama the best years of their life? They'll never know it's me.âÂ
GetĆ leaned into your lips when you looked up at him, needing to see his expression while he said these things to you. His smile was humorless, a pleasant thing he crafted to lure you into agreement because he knew how capricious the situation was. He knew, as well, how much he'd weakened your resolve by showing up at your front door yesterday.Â
âIâm imagining everything now,â he smoothed a hand along your back, pressing through your light sweater to your spine, up and down, âyou'll look so good next to me. You'll be cared for, worshiped so devoutly that you'll never feel alone again. You'll forget what it's like to have been lost. These are your people to help me guide and teach. They're your true family.Â
âI've told them all about you already. They adore you. They love you just as I do. They're waiting for us, they need us.âÂ
You licked your lips. âI don't know if I could ever love you, Suguru.â
âThatâs fine. You will!â he said with bright confidence and a widening smile. âI'm a patient man. The best things in life can't be rushed and eventually, someday, you will come to love me all on your own. At any rate, are you ready? It's time to go.â
âWhere?â
It wasn't so much a question as it was GetĆ had drowned out your voice, crushing it beneath the loftiness of his promises. At some point, as your thoughts and fears and worries amassed and launched across your mind, you came to realize that you no longer had a choice, that such a seemingly trite, existential thing had ceased to be the moment you met GetĆ Suguru in your old shop in past midnight silence more than a year ago.
He had written the story as it was meant to be, and simply guided you to its inevitable conclusion, letting you break and bleed along the way, destroying everything he could, so when the time came for him to hold you like this, you'd never think to run away.Â
When you met his eyes, his stare back was a reverberation of that truth.Â
âWe're going home. We should hurry, everyone is waiting.â
a/n: ay yo! sorry for how long it took to write and post this. I won't lie: I initially wasn't going to finish it at all. this was going to be one of those projects that I let sit and rot halfway done. the only reasons why I didn't 1) the feedback I did receive, despite how disproportionately shit the reblog/like ratio was, was very kind and wonderful and I felt awful for letting it hang 2) I owed to myself to finish the project in the name of improvement and completion.
this part in total probably took me, realistically, about 3 1/2 months to write w/ over 80hrs of actual write time (I count "write time" as outlining/writing/backtracking/reworking scenes) bc I was having a hard time working from my outline and visualizing scenes. so, whatever your impression of the story is as a whole now, I stand firm that it reflects the amount of effort I put into, which was a lot.
I know that not a lot of people will not like the ending and were probs wishing for something softer, but, y'all, come on. getĆ canonically is fucking nuts, and I wrote a fairly realistic (or at least dark) interpretation of the yakuza... come on.
additionally, the entire outline and story were built around the ending as most of my work is. I intended to write geto becoming progressively more possessive, violent, manipulative, fucking batshit and stripping mc of their freewill. what I really wanted to try to encapsulate by the end of the fic was how gradually and easily people can be worn down over time, and, in particular, recruited in things they're not necessarily approving of, but end up sort of... becoming complacent towards.
that's not fiction, that's real-life.
koji was an interesting character to write bc, like, he was clearly fucking rotten, but did he deserve the sort of end he received? should mc have done more, or would have mattered if they tried?
and, honestly, that's all I gotta say apart from being so fucking happy this project is done I never want to look at it again đđđ
Summary: Traveling merchant Suguru has led a relatively tame life thus far. Growing his flowers, baking his bread. One day, when he ventures out further than normal he comes across something more beautiful than all the flowers in the world. You.
A/N: I'm not really sure where this came from. I don't expect it to get a huge reaction, just because it's like way niche. But I couldn't get this out of my head. I am like pretty certain there will be a part two with smut, but this first chapter is just very sweet. This chapter can be read alone, you won't need to read the next one if you don't want to. Suguru is a loserboy in this but I like him that way. Enjoy!
CW: SFW, food, fluff
W/C: 5,608
The forest was quieter than usual today, he couldnât help but notice. Suguru had become well acquainted with the sounds of the forest over the years. He traversed them for work often, always traveling from town to town to sell his flowers and bread. Flowers from his own backyard, and bread made to perfection from his own two hands. He enjoyed the way people's faces lit up when they saw the beautiful flora or when the food passed their lips. Suguru had to go out of his way today, venturing out further than normal. He didnât sell as much as he wanted to in the towns near his home, so he figured he may as well see if anyone else would be interested.Â
Lavender, Hydrangea, Yarrow.Â
Suguru ran the list through his mind repeatedly. The basket he carried beside him held heaps of flowers, all trimmed to perfection. Along with the flowers he had several loaves of bread.Â
Dutch, Rye, French.Â
His footsteps slow when he notices a cluster of homes come into view. It was a small town, one he had never been to before. There couldnât have been more than 50 buildings, but they were all full evident by the smoke rising from each chimney. His feet fall onto the stone path as he makes his way to the first house. When he knocks, he plasters a smile on his face. He had danced this routine many times before, always donning a careful mask when interacting with potential customers.Â
âHello?â An old man opens the door carefully. He must have been twice as short as Suguru.Â
âHello, Iâm selling flowers and bread. Would you be interested in buying any?âÂ
The man opens his mouth to decline when a womanâs voice sounds out behind him.Â
âWho is that?âÂ
She hobbles into view, situating herself beside what Suguru can only assume is her husband.Â
âThis fellow is selling flowers and bread, I was just going to-âÂ
âYou never buy me flowers anymore!âÂ
Suguru averts his gaze, training them on the floor below. He doesnât mind being there while they argue, but heâs learned that an unwanted ear can make people uncomfortable.Â
The old man grumbles before walking away further into the house to grab his money. Suguru can feel her eyes wandering over him. He digs his hand into his basket and produces a Hydrangea.Â
âOn the house.â He speaks quietly, winking at her.Â
Her face flushes as she takes the flower, admiring the color. Her husband comes back and counts his cash before handing it to Suguru who doesnât bother counting it. He grabs a heap of flowers, all three types tossed in, before handing them to the man.Â
âThank you, sir.â Suguru smiles before stepping back, watching him give the flowers to his wife.Â
An adorable moment by nature. It almost feels too vulnerable to see the look of love on the old womanâs face as she receives the gift.Â
Suguru continues on to the next house, selling flowers and bread as he goes. He went to every house in town until there was only one remaining.Â
He walks up to the dwelling, knocking on the door and waits patiently for whoeverâs living there.Â
The door opens, your body standing there.Â
If you asked Suguru a day ago what he thought the most beautiful thing was he would say a dicentra or maybe even tulips. That was before he saw you. Your cheeks like petals, soft and plump. You also had eyes that shined brighter than the early morning dew that clung to his garden. You were magnificent. You were the most beautiful flower he had ever seen.Â
âHello?âÂ
Suguru never found himself speechless. Throughout his life he had found himself in a multitude of situations that would warrant it, but he wasnât, not even once. He had trained himself on how to smile and talk to people, he prided himself on it. No one was too hard to talk to.Â
Until he met you.Â
His lips refused to cooperate with him, throat muddled up. You look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something.Â
âIâm selling homemade bread and flowers.âÂ
Idiot.
Thatâs what he decided to say? Not even a proper hello first?Â
âOh, lovely. I was hoping to make something for dinner but didnât have anything around the house. How much for the bread?â You ask, digging in your pocket for money.Â
Suguru tears his eyes from you, a painful task, and opens his basket. Most of his inventory was gone. He did have a loaf of Dutch bread at the bottom of the basket, the sight of it mocking him. He couldnât give you that. It was no longer fresh, and it was cold to the touch. He couldnât give you it.Â
You pull out your hand, palm cupped with money.Â
âIâm out of bread.â He finds himself saying.Â
Your brow raises. A beat passes before you speak.Â
âOkay, what about flowers?âÂ
He wordlessly thanks your graciousness. In his basket he finds two Yarrows. All of his flowers were beautiful, but he found himself cursing God for not making anything more beautiful.Â
Suguru holds them up to you, fighting back a whimper when your hand grazes him as you pluck the stems from his grasp.Â
âHow much?âÂ
âYou donât have to pay.âÂ
He would never force you to pay for anything, especially not something that could never rival your beauty.Â
He watches your lips slowly morph into a smile.Â
âYouâre an interesting merchant.â
Heâs sure youâre making fun of him, but he doesnât care. His cheeks feel hot as he looks into your eyes.Â
âI was planning on visiting this village again tomorrow, I will bring more bread then.âÂ
He wasnât planning on visiting this village again until now. It had been a random stop he never was going to make again.Â
Your eyes flit down to the Yarrow, admiring them.Â
âYou know where to find me.âÂ
~~~
Suguruâs feet hurt when he finally arrives back home. He wants to go to bed but he canât. Not when he needs to make bread for you. Usually he had extra dough laying around, but he didnât. Even if he did, he wouldâve preferred to make it fresh. He works tirelessly as he prepares the dough, pouring all his love into it. Flour cakes under his fingernails, his palms hurting from kneading the dough for so long.Â
He wouldnât dream of complaining. Not when he knew who this was for. He didnât even catch your name. Once he knew it, he would spell it in the stars so everyone did too.Â
Suguru barely gets any sleep. It was a concoction of baking and nerves. His house smells like bread while he walks around, preparing for his long journey ahead. He searched in his kitchen before finding a small jar of homemade strawberry jam. One of his neighbors, a kind elderly widow, had made it for him. They often traded breads and jams, occasionally sharing them outside when the weather was right.Â
Once everything was ready, he placed it all in his basket before setting off into the forest again.Â
The walk was way faster than he remembered it being. His mind was too clouded with thoughts of you. He enters the town, making his way directly to your house first thing. He wasnât even really sure if he was going to go to the other houses after.Â
The door rattles with his fist, and he wills the butterflies going off in his body to settle down.Â
If he had at all been worried your beauty was a fluke, which he wasnât, his worries certainly died down the moment he looked at you for a second time.
Youâre just as beautiful the second time around as you were the first.Â
Your chest was heaving with sweat lining your forehead. You mustâve been hard at work. Doing what, he wondered?Â
âItâs you.âÂ
âItâs me.â He responds with a smile. âMuch more prepared this time, Iâm sorry.â He doesnât want to tell you he stayed up until the sun rose to prepare your bread.
A sly grin breaks across your face. You lean against the door frame, your eyes sliding down his figure. Suguru can feel his skin tingling with each inch your eyes covered.Â
âWhat have you brought for me today?âÂ
Suguru holds up his basket and reveals the fresh bread. It was a simple loaf of wheat bread, and although it was basic, it was renowned as his best selling one. He feels his heart flutter the second the scent reaches your nose, your face lightening up.Â
âThat smells wonderful.âÂ
âTastes wonderful too, or so Iâve been told.âÂ
You open the door a bit more, revealing the rest of the house behind you. It was humble, an aboad that was probably common in these parts of town.Â
âWhy donât you come in and share it with me?âÂ
The offer stops Suguru in his tracks. Out of all the things you could have said to him, he wasnât expecting that.Â
The first thought that crosses his mind is flattery. You want to eat with him?Â
The second feeling that follows after is worry. You want to eat with him, and heâs a stranger.Â
âYou hardly know me.â He speaks.Â
The idea that you would open your door to just anyone frightened him a bit. What if it was someone with bad intentions?Â
âWhatâs your name?âÂ
You donât look afraid, even though Suguru feels you should be.Â
âSuguru.âÂ
You toss his name across your brain several times. You say your name back and step away, letting him come in.Â
âNow you know my name and I know yours. Share it with me?âÂ
He's touched by your kindness, but still mildly unnerved at the idea you might do this for someone with unsavory motives.Â
Itâs hard to refuse your offer, so he finds himself stepping in after you. The close proximity whisks his breath away but you hardly notice. You donât even spare him a glance as you head over to your table.Â
You sit down and look up at him, waiting for him to join you. He places the basket on the table before rummaging around, pulling the loaf out.
âI also brought more flowers, in case you were interested.âÂ
âWill you let me pay this time?âÂ
âMaybe.â No, he wouldnât.Â
Suguru didnât need any form of payment. As long as he got to see the joy on your face again, that was all he needed.Â
You grab a knife and begin to slide through the loaf, slicing several pieces for the two of you. He wondered if you were able to tell he made the bread fresh for you. Did the warmth of it tingle your fingers? Could you feel the love that seeped from it?Â
Suguru pulls out the jam and sets it aside.Â
âWhatâs that?â You ask.Â
âMy neighbor made it. Itâs strawberry.âÂ
You pick up the jar, eyes gliding across the glass in amazement.Â
âWhere do you live? The people in this town donât bake bread or make jam. Maybe I should move to your town.â You joke.Â
Donât say that, he thinks. If you say that, he might beg you to.Â
He hardly knows you, yet heâs finding himself completely entranced by you. He aches to learn more.Â
âA town further South. A couple hours at most.â He keeps his eyes trained down on your hands, watching as you spread the jam on the bread.Â
Only when the silence stretches on for too long does he rip his eyes from your fingers, looking up.Â
He doesnât know whether he should be startled or not at the face youâre making. Your eyes are open wide, like youâre looking through him.Â
âHours?â You repeat.Â
Suguru nods, his brows raising.Â
âI didnât see a horse.âÂ
âI walked.âÂ
You stutter a bit before placing the knife down, pushing the plate in the middle of the table. Suguruâs eyes drift down, the intimacy of sharing a dish not lost on him.Â
âI could never walk that long.â You murmur, picking up a piece of bread, raising it to your lips.Â
Suguru tries not to stare at the way your lips part, but itâs difficult.Â
âItâs not that bad.â He pulls his piece up to him, taking a bite.Â
âNot everyone has such long legs.â You say around the food.Â
Suguruâs mouth perks up, a smile gracing his features. He was used to people commenting on his height, but he felt an extra ounce of pride when you were the one saying it.Â
You mumble around the food, hand flying up to cover your mouth.Â
âSuguru, this is wonderful!â Excitement seeps from your words and Suguruâs heart jumps.Â
âThank you.â He dips his head down, suddenly bashful.Â
The two of you share the meal, words flowing flawlessly between you.Â
âItâs a shame that my father isnât here, Iâm sure he would love this as much as I do.â You comment.Â
Suguru leans back, not sure if this is a touchy subject.Â
âHeâs just out of town today, Iâll share some with him when he comes back. Maybe.â You smirk.Â
âWhat does he do for work?âÂ
âHe helps people get their farms up and running. I think he traveled to help a young couple get theirs set up.âÂ
Suguru begins to daydream about owning a farm with you. Would you adore his flowers as much as he did? Would you let him do all the work? He wouldnât mind it, he preferred it.Â
He knew he was getting ahead of himself, but he couldnât help the infatuation that grew in his heart.Â
Besides, Suguru never was one to love normally or calmly.Â
âI was trying to clean the house before he returns, but I must admit Iâm having a hard time reaching things.âÂ
âWould you allow me to help? Iâve got long legs, you know.â
A song floats over to his ears, a song built on your laughter. He could get used to that.Â
âI couldnât make you do that. I already dragged you inside to eat with me. Iâm sure you have much more important things to be doing.âÂ
Never, he thinks. Nothing would be more important than this.Â
âItâs okay.â He says plainly.Â
He watches as you seem to be debating inside your head. You give up, standing up to carry the dishes to the sink.Â
âI would love help changing out the candles.â You say sheepishly.Â
Suguru waits as you leave to go find the extra candles, his head racing with thoughts. After you finished, there would be no reason for him to stay. He would have to go back home. He wanted to stay and talk with you more. Your words facisnated him. He felt like a child, the way he longed to hear you tell him stories. He didnât want to go home. Not when being with you felt more like home than his own ever did.Â
âI found them.â You speak, snapping him out of it.Â
You guide him around the house, showing him every spot that needed a new candle.Â
It should be a simple task for him. He finds it increasingly difficult, however. He feels your eyes bore into him each time he reaches up, making his heart pound. Even though itâs easy to do, heâs just replacing old candles, he almost feels like heâs never done anything so hard before. He can feel the way your eyes track his movement, almost making it impossible to focus. His linen shirt suddenly feels too hot, as he tries to keep his eyes on his hands.Â
âThere, how does that look?â
You stare at the metal candle holder for a minute before nodding, a soft hum coming from your lips.Â
âIt looks wonderful, Suguru.â
He decides no one has ever said his name as beautifully as you do.Â
He steps back, following you towards the kitchen. He can tell that he needs to leave, but a small part of him is upset at that fact.Â
âWill you be in town anytime soon? Iâd love to purchase more bread, if thatâs alright.â You stare at him as he gathers his things.Â
He nods, and looks down at you.Â
âI can come back in several days.âÂ
âFantastic, Iâll be looking forward to it.â You say happily.Â
So will I, Suguru thinks.Â
~~~
Suguru leans back, watching you chew a new recipe he tried for bread. So far, so good, he thinks. Your lips are played in a smile as you taste it, swallowing it with a sigh.Â
âI don't think you can make something bad.âÂ
âIs that a challenge?â Suguru jokes.Â
âOne youâd fail, Iâm sure.âÂ
Your flattery causes his heart to race, a throb settling deep in his chest.Â
âI wish I could bake like you.â You say.Â
âI could teach you, if youâd like. It isnât that hard.âÂ
Your eyes flash with excitement and Suguru has to swallow the knot that forms in his throat.Â
âYou can?âÂ
Yes, anything for you.Â
âSure. I can bring the ingredients tomorrow.âÂ
You jump up and down in your seat, chattering away to him about all that you want to do with the bread. Are you aware of how you make his stomach twist? He thinks thereâs no way you are.Â
~~~
When Suguru comes the next morning he has a burlap sack filled to the brim with ingredients, all for your bread. You open the door the second he knocks it, taking him by surprise.Â
âI apologize, I didnât sleep much last night.â You say all giddy, opening up the door more.Â
Suguru steps inside and follows you to your table. You already have it set up according to how he told you. Thereâs bowls and spoons, all perfectly set. His hair is already tied back, so all he needs to do is roll up his sleeves.Â
He stands next to you, reading out what ingredients to add next. He watches over your shoulder as you eagerly mix, chuckling to himself when some of it spills out the sides.Â
âSlowly, sweetheart.â He murmurs.Â
You apologize quietly, following his order of slowing your hand down.Â
It was looking good, but now was the time to start getting your hands dirty.Â
âThe next step is to knead it. You do this by placing it on the table, and pressing your hands into it.â Suguru explains, watching you scrap the bowl and plop the dough in front of you.Â
âMmm like this?â You ask, folding it over itself.Â
âJust like that, a little more pressure.â He adds.Â
Without even thinking, he reaches his arms on either side of you, correcting your form to knead it harder. His hands hover over yours, pressing your palms down more against the plush dough.Â
âYou have big hands.â You chuckle, and suddenly Suguruâs aware of what heâs doing.Â
âOh, my bad. I shouldnât have-âÂ
âNo, itâs okay. You should keep your hands there, so I don't mess up.â You correct him.Â
You turn your head over your shoulder, looking at him. His face is unbearingly close to yours, heat from your cheeks radiating off and scorching his face. He looks deep into your eyes before youâre quickly looking back down, watching the bread below your hands.Â
Suguru berates his heart as he helps you, hoping it slows down. That moment with you kept repeating in his mind, over and over again.Â
He snaps out of it when you squeal, pulling the bread from the oven. The top of it is perfectly golden, the smell of it filling your tiny kitchen.Â
âLook, Suguru!â You say, placing it down.Â
He looks over the top of your head and smiles.Â
âIt looks good, letâs wait for it to cool before we try it.âÂ
He would have liked to wait a little longer, afraid it would burn your tongue, but he couldnât say no with the way you were tilting back and forth, begging to cut into it. Suguru takes the liberty, pouring the bread from the pan before sliding a knife down the side of it. It cuts smoother than butter, steam wafting up from it.Â
âOkay, letâs try it.â Suguru raises a small piece, holding it in his hand as he lifts it to your mouth.Â
The heat soaks into the pads of his finger tips, but heâd much rather get burned than you. You look down and blow on the bread, Suguru has to force himself not to gasp at the air caressing his skin. You look up at him and take a bite, smiling as crumbs dust your lips.Â
âItâs so good!â You murmur around the mouth full of food.Â
Suguru uses his other hand to lift up a separate piece, taking a slight nibble. It was fantastic. Sweeter than the bread he made, he wondered if that was just because you were the one who created it.Â
âYou may put me out of business.â He jokes.
You pull your piece from his hand, holding it tightly next to your face. A shame, he thinks. He wouldâve preferred for you to keep eating from his palm. Did that say something about him?Â
âI might, you better watch over your back.â You say, eating the rest of your bread with a grin.Â
âI will.â Suguru says back, treasuring the way the food melts on his tongue.Â
~~~
âHey Suguru?âÂ
The two of you have settled into a comfortable routine, as he had visited a couple of more times, always sitting in your kitchen to share a plate of bread with you.Â
He flicks his eyes up to you before looking back down.Â
âIs the forest dangerous?â You finish.Â
Suguru takes a moment to think. Heâs never thought about it before. His feet have carried him through the trees for countless years.Â
âNot really. The only thing you have to look out for is bandits.â
He takes a moment to appreciate the way youâre gaping at him.Â
âIâve never seen any though. Just know theyâre out there.âÂ
âTheyâd be a fool to try to rob you.â You mutter under your breath.Â
Suguru lets out a quiet chuckle. Any reason to point out his height, youâd take it.Â
âAs children weâre warned not to go in too deep.â You mumble.Â
âI can bring you if you like? They have some Gardeniaâs there, not too deep in. We can go and get them if you want?âÂ
âYouâd keep me safe from bandits?â
Yes, you donât even have to ask. Heâd go toe to toe for you. Â
âOf course.âÂ
The more he got to know you, the more Suguru grew to like you, really like you. It was no longer infatuation, it grew into something more beautiful and large.Â
He notices you dip your head down at the tone of his soft voice. You have a few habits heâs picked up on. One of them is every reaction you have to his words. You like to poke and prod him, but the second he pushes back or uses a specific tone you look away, teeth nibbling on your lip. Itâs adorable, he thinks.Â
~~~
You both decide to go to the forest tomorrow. He decides to stay in your town overnight because there would be no point in making the long trek back to his only to come back tomorrow morning. You offered a bed in your house, knowing your father would not have it, but Suguru declined. It would be improper, he told you. He had never felt his body fight so hard against him before. Even though itâs hard for him to say no, he doesnât relent. He ends up staying at the only Inn in town. It was a normal house, with five extra rooms spread out. His host was a sweet older woman who insisted on helping carry his bags to his room. The act pained him, but he knew better than to tell a woman no.
As he lay in bed that night he stared up at the ceiling, thoughts of you curling around his mind.Â
You were here, in this town.Â
Suguru wakes up earlier than you do. His eyes crack open the second the sun shines through, his body restless. There was so much to show you, he didnât know where to begin. Along with that, he felt the early onsets of fear begin to take hold. He had never thought about bandits before, but now that you mention it he couldnât shake the idea. What if there were some when you went out? He wasnât afraid of taking care of you. He knew he could do that. He just didnât want you to see something ugly. He feared he would never forgive himself.Â
Suguru walks to your house, stopping a short ways away outside to linger near a bunch of trees. He didnât want to intrude, and he had no idea what youâve told your father about your relationship with him.Â
What was your relationship with him?Â
Friendly, he thought. You had always welcomed him with a smile. However there were lingering touches and stolen glances over fresh bread, conversations floating across your tongues easily. He didnât want to get his hopes up. There was a chance you thought nothing of him, treating him as you would anyone else.Â
âSuguru!âÂ
His head shoots up the second his name falls from your lips.Â
âI apologize for making you wait.â You say, stopping short in front of him.Â
You look like you got together hastily, sleep marks imbedded in your flesh with several of your hairs out of place.Â
Did you know how perfect you were?Â
âI wasnât waiting long, are you ready to go?âÂ
Suguru smiles at the excitement spreading across your face. He knew the flowers were in bloom, but he wasnât sure they could rival you.Â
As the two of you walk, you take careful calculated steps as you notice the weather. It was sunny without being too temperamental. You could hear laughter of the village children carrying over the wind to you. Suguru listened to you as you rattled on, occasionally dropping his input, but he much preferred to listen.Â
When the trees started to get thicker Suguru noticed you start to walk closer to him. It was cute, the way you looked towards him for shelter and protection.Â
âI think this is where I saw them last time.â Suguru says aloud, stopping to the side and looking around.Â
âTheyâre bright red, so they're easy to spot.âÂ
He sees excitement curl in your eyes at the prospect of finding some hidden treasure, even if that treasure was just flowers.Â
Suguru locates them after several minutes, grabbing your hand and leading you towards it. There were several bushes laid together, all of them overflowing with the red petals.Â
He smiles to himself at the gasp you let out, your fingers tentatively reaching forward to kiss the leaves.Â
âPretty, right? I always think about taking some home with me so I can plant them but I can never bring myself to do it. They look much better out here anyhow.âÂ
Suguru sits next to you as you stare at the bush. He finds it cute that youâre interested in his interests. If you asked, he would tell you anything you wanted to know about plants or baking. Suguru wasnât an expert in everything, but he was an expert in those.Â
âSuguru, thank you for showing me these.â Your voice trails off, still focused on what was in front of you.Â
He smiles and picks a red Gardenia, careful placing it behind your ear.Â
âAnytime.â
Your hand trembles as you reach up to touch the flower on your ear. The forest was silent, save for the sounds of birds and bugs, complete serenity falling over you.Â
The only way Suguruâs able to tell that time is passing is by the view of the sun, now completely overhead, shining through the canopy of trees around you. Neither of you wanted to leave, so instead you lay on your backs, looking at the trees above you. The leaves and sun paint beautiful pictures, yellow shapes being shined upon your skin.Â
âHey Suguru?âÂ
Suguru hums, turning his head to the side to look at you.Â
Your arm is outstretched, holding the flower he gave you in front of you. Your fingers are twirling it around, spinning the flower over and over. Suguruâs dizzy at the sight, but he canât tell if itâs because of your beauty or the the spinning.Â
âThey say flowers have a language of their own, don't they?âÂ
Suguruâs lashes flit as he memorizes the lines on your face, wanting to capture this moment.Â
âThey do.âÂ
âDo you know the meanings of flowers?âÂ
âSome of them.âÂ
Suguru sits up and pulls the tie from his hair, letting the black silk cacoon him. He looks over his shoulder back at you, but youâre too preoccupied with the sight of the twirling.Â
âWhat does this one mean?âÂ
Suguru ponders for a moment, unsure whether or not he should tell you. Would it come off too strong? He couldnât bare the thought of lying to you though. Heâs a strong man so he fights the urge to look away from you when he says,Â
âSecret love.âÂ
He swears the forest ceases all sound at that moment, that or the beating of his heart is far louder than anything else.Â
âIs that so?â You ask, peeking around the bright flower to look at him.Â
He hums, waiting to see if you would have a negative reaction. Would you get up and leave him here, never to allow him back into your home? He wouldnât blame you.Â
A demure smile spreads across your face, sitting up until youâre laying on your elbow. You bring the flower to your face, taking in a deep breath before you sit up completely. Suguru tracks your movements carefully.Â
âIn that case,â you say, sliding the flower behind Suguruâs ear, the bright pop of red constrasting with his dark hair.Â
Suguru swears his heart stops beating in that moment, his body completely rigid with surprise. You knew the meaning of the flower, and you were giving it to him?Â
A silent understanding flows between you two, Suguru no longer on edge as the seconds pass. You both are aware now, your feelings as out in the open as they could be without physically saying it. It was funny, the flower meant secret love but his admiration for you was no longer a secret.Â
âItâs a shame we canât stay out here forever.â You say.
You lay back down, closing your eyes.Â
Suguru silently agrees, leaning back until heâs laying next to you, much closer this time. He wonders whatâs going to happen next. Would he be able to court you properly, would your father accept him?
He hears you shuffle around before your face pops into view, blocking out the sun above him. His brows raise in surprise as he looks at you. You looked nothing short of an Angel, golden light haloing around your head as you smile down at him.Â
âI know youâre busy where you live, but why don't we meet in this forest once a week?â You say.Â
âOr I can walk down and meet you closer to your village, that might be easier.âÂ
No, he couldnât handle the idea of you walking these forests alone, or walking that long at all.
âLetâs meet here.â Suguru agrees, reaching a hand up to cup your cheek.Â
Neither of you want to be the one to look away first. So instead, you just continue to gaze into the others eyes.Â
Suguru hears an older man call your name just outside the sanctity of the forest. It must be your father, and by the sounds of it he was angry. Probably upset that dinner hadnât been made yet, if Suguru had to come up with a reason. He didnât want to dislike your father, after all he had a hand in creating you, but he didnât appreciate the way he treated you.Â
âI suppose Iâll have to leave nowâŠâ you trail off, your voice caked in sadness.Â
Suguruâs grip on your cheek tightens, and he resolves to do something heâs never done before, yet dreamed of countless times.Â
He sits up and leans in, his lips ghosting yours.Â
âSuguruâŠâ You whisper, looking into his eyes, the movement of your lips tickling his.Â
âMay I?â Just this once, he wants to beg. Let me taste you just this once.Â
He waits for an answer that doesnât come. Instead, youâre meeting him halfway, kissing him softly. It was everything he had dreamed of. Your lips were soft, the lingering taste of the sweet strawberry jam he always brought to you mingling with his own.Â
If only he could stop time.Â
If only nothing existed but the two of you.Â
As soon as it starts, itâs over. Youâre pulling away, your eyes flickering open to look at him. He can hardly breathe under your gaze. His fingers itch with the need to grab you, press you against him, show the love heâs been feeling all this time but has been too afraid to say aloud.Â
Suguruâs lips tingle as he watches you slowly rise to your feet. You dip your head in acknowledgment, tossing over your shoulder.Â
âComing, father!âÂ
Stay, he thinks. Stay.Â
âGoodbye Suguru.â You murmur, giving him a smile.Â
He watches you scamper out of the forest, feeling like you took his heart with you.Â
He isnât sure heâs ever going to want it back.Â
Tag List: @tojislittleprincesss, @dinolvrrr, @kimi01985, @constawrites
If you would like to be added to the taglist let me know. Please specify what you want to be tagged in such as only this series, all my works, all my jujutsu kaisen works
Description: Restless and duty-bound, you are set to begin courting with one very handsome Nanami Kento come morning. However, your heart belongs to another, who may change your mind before sun rises.
This work is part of the "Slow It Down, Cowboy" AU, a collaborative effort with @vallification . Read it's sister work, "In My Heart You Pay No Rent" here.
How unfair life could be, truly.
You should've been ecstatic, over the moon even, to have received an invitation to court from one Nanami Kento. He was the son of a blacksmith and a well educated mother, polite, modest, and only four years your senior. Nanami Kento, certainly, would make a fine husband.
âOh my, how handsome he is!â
Your mother had gushed in the dining room, occasionally dipping her head to peer around the entryway into your living quarters as he discussed his intentions with your father. Marriage, money, children were all topics that had been thrown around. All of which you knew because every time your mama would hear something she liked sheâd floundered and flounced as if there were ants under her feet, squealing excitedly at what had to be your worst nightmare. You had to resist the urge to insinuate she was a church bell.
She wasn't wrong, though, the old church bell. Nanami Kento was handsome. The other young women of the town would simply stone you if it meant they could step into your shoes.
And so youâd accepted the proposition with a tight smile, hoping he may have thought your eyes were wide with excitement, not panic.
I am a wretched, ungrateful woman. I will be courted by the very handsome Nanami Kento. When he asks for my hand I will be his wife. I will learn to love him.
Your brain repeated the mantra over and over in your head, trying desperately to convince your heart of itâs truths. All the while, your body seemed to revolt against you as well, taking sides with your heart in this futile pursuit. Every shift in your bed was uncomfortable, the collar of your nightdress too high, the wrist cuffs of that same dress too tight. Your body thought this night would be much more comfortable with a particular pair of arms wrapped around you. Your heart screamed for the return of a certain set of catmint hued eyes. Your brain thought he was a backhanded fly-by-night, and argued with the other two to follow suit.
To the rest of the world, Suguru Geto was an outlaw, a cowhand turned desperado chasing some wild tale of claiming land out west by means of force. Under your bed in an old pine box were clippings from newspapers spinning wild fables of his desperate attempts at gunslinging his way into codfish aristocracy alongside one notorious âSix Eyes Satoru Gojoâ, a figure whose name struck fear in the hearts of many.
To you, though, Suguru Geto was a humble farmboy, sent to the dogs by the untimely death of his parents not long after heâd turned 18.Â
You hadnât known him well then, not honestly, but gossip needs no carriage. Rumor in the market paths was that the young man was a bit less of a pony, and more of a stallion. You remembered feeling a blend of emotions everytime it was mentioned. Disgust at the reckless deflowerment of so many young women of proud heritage. Visceral shock at the idea that Suguru Geto, a boy known to live by his charms, with a voice laden with honey and a tender smile, would commit such atrocities. Then, on top of the latter, was a feeling that spurred an immense shame within you, jealousy. The green eyed wretch.Â
It was no surprise to you why so many young women had fallen into the bear trap that was his porcelain grin; the one that he would flash at merchants as you passed him time and time again at the market with the furtiveness of a field mouse darting through the grass. Though, with the way you assumed of him, perhaps you were more like the corn snake. After all, who was to say any of it was true? Lies and gossip had long since been wed, after all.
Those girls in their bustled gowns would be floored to know how many times heâd bedded you in the years since then, especially after heâd run for the west and Chicagoed more men than you could count on both your hands and all your toes. Your family would simply be ruined if the coffee-sisters caught wind of all the ways heâd taken you. If it ever happened, youâd already decided youâd publish a pamphlet and then promptly drown yourself in the river to save them from the shame. Tell the emerging nation in its entirety how sure of a shot âSure Shot Suguru Getoâ really was. Heâd forgive you for bubbling around, surely. Not like heâd have much of a choice.
After all, it was his own discourteousness that had left you here in your bed on this night, tossing and turning and wallowing in your own delusional sentimentality. What was there to miss, even? He was a landlouper, a vagabond that only stayed for a night, if one could even refer to it as such. Heâd come to take you after dusk on the off chance it wouldnât trouble him so much as he was passing through, and return to his misruled adventures before the sun had even risen. Of course, there were more reasons than his own transgressions that sent him packing so quickly. Once, heâd made the mistake of over sleeping, only to be awoken to your father beating on the door of your room, asking why a horse was posted up by the tree on the farside of the property, wanting to ensure your safety. Admittedly, it was a tad fun trying to distract your Pa while he attempted to back slang it by way of your bedroom window. You almost understood why he chose such a lifestyle.
God be with you, you needed to sleep. Now.
Either by night or by sleight, by fair means or foul, you stomped the images of his broad shoulders and calloused hands out of your mind and attempted to count sheep. But even the sheep, it seemed, were disgruntled. After a fair number they laid down in the field of your mind, refusing to run their courses and instead curling into briskets, having grown tired and lazy. It seems they needed a cattleboy to guide them. A tall, toned, miscreant cowhand with a flair for violence and princess-esque locks of inky silken hair that tumbled down his--
Your eyes fly open, and dammit you could absolutely kill that man for the way heâs ravaged your entire being. The thought crosses your mind that perhaps you shouldâve counted Nanami Kentoâs jumping hurdles instead, and you canât help but giggle childishly at yourself, pawing at your weary eyes with balled fists.
âWhatâs sâfunny?â
You jolt upright, catching the crown of your head against the pine headboard as you did so, causing you to yelp a little louder than you shouldâve. Clutching one hand over the painsome spot where youâd practically bludgeoned yourself, you lift your eyes to find none other than âSure Shotâ himself, his jaw resting against a closed fist and his elbow against the wood paneling of your open window, his hair loose (just the way you liked it) and toppling into the open air of your room, the light of the moon catching on the locs like sun on water.
You search your soul for every reason to be cross with him, trying desperately to cling to the crumbling remnants of your anger that were slipping through your hands like sand at just the sight of him, but your bodyâ dammit, your body. It betrays you, craving him like sunlight. You scramble out of your bed and to the window, leaning out to toss your arms around his neck, melting into him as he chuckles mischievously, his hands finding your sides to hoist you out of the window, spinning you around like children celebrating a hard won game of marbles.
âNow just how did you manage to snake your way up here without alerting the likes of Archie?â You question, leaning your hands against the broad stretch of his shoulders to look at him. Your father had found the olâ hound in a burlap sack by the river the summer prior. He grew into a fierce protector, for better or for worse.
âSeems even dogsâr charmed by my delicate sensibilities.â He smirks, and you can't help the soft smile that creeps across your face, your fingers affectionately tracing over the embroidery of his shirt, carefully crafted delphiniums threaded in various lilac hues painted across his shoulders. He did always have a thing for fashion.
âCharmed only by the dog biscuits in your pocket, surely is what you intended.â
He snickers, setting you down in your still-open windowsill so your bare feet donât touch the moist earth below, stuffing a hand in his pocket as he speaks,
âCainât blame a man, honestly-â he produces something from his pocket and expertly tosses it into his mouth, too smooth for you to catch sight of it before it was crunching and cracking between his teeth. âBetterân any human biscuit Iâve ever tasted--â.
You gasp, wide-eyed and astounded at such a disgusting act carried out by such a beautiful man right in front of your eyes.
âSuguru Geto, you truly forget yourself!â your scold carries out over his wheezing, a mixture of hushed complaints about how you were sure to get the two of you caught if you didnât pipe down intermingled with chuckling. He tries to muffle it by leaning his arms on the window, caging you in by the hips and burying his face in the crook of your neck. The rumble of his chest lights a fire inside you as you attempt to playfully push him away to no avail.
âI mean it, Mr. Sure Shot if you even so much as attempt to toy with the idea of putting your poor misfortunate dog lips anywhere near me--!â
âShhh!â He begs, cupping your head on either side and bringing your forehead down to rest against his own, still laughing lightly âItâs a mint, I swear! See? Iâm only hackinâ on yaâ.â. He blows a gentle cooling breath against your face and despite yourself you breathe in deeply, swallowing a lungful of his breath and something distinctly fresh, hoping he doesnât notice the cheek-ache youâve gained from the tingling sensation.
You mimic his giggles, though whether it was due to humor or the way he stole your breath so effortlessly was up for debate âYouâve gone mad.â.
âYesâm, sure have.â He confirms, his smile fading from one of amusement to one of reverence, âTâlove anâ be sane ainât possible, after allâ.
Your smile fades as you lean back slightly, shaking your head with a dry scoff, âYou, Suguru Geto, do not love me.â.
His brow scrunches in confusion, eyes bouncing back and forth across your face as he chews his cheek. What youâd give to be able to see into his head.
âNow, âat dog jusâ ainât gonâ hunt.â He huffs, displeased with your response to his confession. You roll your eyes and go to slide backwards into your bedroom only to be caught in his hands, one on your waist and one clutching your chin between his calloused fingers, rough from years of roping and riding âIf I ainât earnest, then âm dead, y/n. I lov-â.
âStop it, and stop it now.â You spit, reaching up to grab him by the wrist and toss it back at him âYou do not-â.
âWho âre you to tryân tell me how I feel?â He cuts you off, nostrils flaring and lips cementing themselves into a tight line as he grows increasingly wrought-up over your dismissal. Youâd never, not even once, rejected his advances or affections before. Typically you were malleable, pliant to his wills. It was obvious he didnât know how to handle it.
You hold up a hand to signal him to settle, and he does a bit, finally backing away just a few feet and allowing you some much needed room to breathe.
âMy apologies. It might be better to say you cannot love me-â
âIâll do whateverân the hell I damn well please-â
âSuguru.â
He huffs and turns away from you, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, âSorry, I guess. Go âhead.â. A frustrated sigh.
You set your gaze anywhere but at him, your mouth opening and closing several times as you struggle to say the words you know you need to, your heels kicking softly against the wooden framing of your family home.
âWell?â He prods, growing impatient, and you shoot him a glare, sending a clear signal; that he needs to relax. This is hard enough without him becoming chewed up.
âI am set to begin courting tomorrow.â You breathe, trying to remain steady, your head growing fuzzy as the confession seems to set the reality of it all into stone. You were going to start courting tomorrow. With a man that was the polar opposite in nearly every fashion of the one before you, the one you wanted.
He stills for a moment, hooded eyes widening in shock momentarily before he relaxes entirely, following that with a snort and a chuckle, âVery funny, but donât yank my chain like âat. You got no idea what I almost-â.
âIt is no laughing matter, I fear. He talked to my father this morning. They discussed funds and⊠and the dowry-- a-and, children.â You have to stop yourself and manually fill your lungs with much needed oxygen, hanging your head low and gripping to your makeshift seat until your knuckles turn white, caught off guard by how badly you ache more and more with each passing word.
When you lift your head to meet his form once again, heâs stock-still, entirely unreadable. The once cool and open night air now felt stiff, stale, and impossibly hot. Eventually, he breaks first, huffing and rolling his lips between his teeth, nodding as if to confirm his own thoughts.
âWell, yâjust seem plum thrilled, babe. By all means, donât go lettinâ my nonsense stop yaâ.â Youâre certain he wants this to come off unbothered, but his voice absolutely drips sarcasm and venom. The sound is almost foreign to your ears. âWhoâs the lucky bastard, huh?â.
âLuck?!â You evade answering that question entirely, deciding it better to focus on the relationship he knew versus the one he didnât. You werenât callow enough to lose sight of Suguruâs tendencies. You needn't sweet Nanami Kentoâs blood on your hands.
âIt hasnât anything to do with luck, Suguru. You could have done it just as easily as he, but the path you chose was different. You just as simply couldâve gone to my father andâ!â
âAnd what?!â He steps closer, his voice barely a harsh whisper, pushing through clenched teeth, âIntroduce mâself to the beer bottle? âHowdy, Iâm Suguru Geto. I got nothinâ to mâ name, dead parents and a barrelâa women under my belt but please force your daughter into allowinâ me to court âer.â. You ân I both know-â
âI will have you know I am most certainly not being forced into anything-â
âThen why not say ânoâ?â
âBecause I cannot!â
âSounds awful forced tâme.â He deadpans. You hadnât paid much attention to how close he was again until his breath was fanning your face.Â
âYouâre impossible.â Unwilling to let him back you into a corner, you slide backwards into the room, fully intent on turning around and slamming your window right down on his ridiculously large hands.
He beat you to the punch, though. Hopping through the open space right behind you, giving you no time to shut him out before youâre chest to chest with him, standing on your tiptoes to try and cut down on the height advantage, much like one would go about handling a bear.
âThis is your fault, you know? Whatâs forcing my hand here is that youâve-â you jab a pointed finger into his chest â-devalued me! Without Nanami Kentoâs consideration I would surely be left to the hands of some- some dizzy-aged cretin with a wad of gold and a lobcock that hasnât worked since before I was born!â.
He smirks, and you immediately realize your mistake, your eyes widening as he cocks his head and dips down to your eye-level, his body language telling you that your attempts to dominate him were all but futile.
âNanami Kento, huh?â He questions, smugness plastering his unthinkably handsome features. A tense few beats pass, and he relents, seemingly satisfied with the new information. The moonbeams that cascaded in through the window caught and glimmered on his holstered pistol strapped to his hip by way of his gun belt, reminding you of the weight of your mistake.
âDo not. Suguru, Iâm gravely serious, do not do this-â You werenât sure what you were begging for.
âNanami Kento.â He repeats the name slowly, his voice coated with malice as he stops and turns to look at you. His eyes were narrowed and sharp, nostrils flaring and jaw clenched tight as he fought to keep his voice low and his breathing even.
âLet me tell ya âbout Nanami Kento. âAt man ainât ever workedâfr nary a damn thing ân his entire life, and when it comes to fightinâ? I bet on evâr dollar I got âat prickâs all hat, no cattle. He wants ta take ya from me? Fine. But heâs gonâ have to do a lilâ more for it than just givinâ yer olâ man a lick nâ a promise.â He nods the affirmative at his own words and turns to leave, but you lunge forward and catch him by the shirtsleeve.
âJust of what exactly do you speak?â You demand, and the smile he gives you could shake the shit from the pants of Satan himself.
âReal simple, peach. He can duel me for it, like a gentleman. Better be grateful, too. âCause the way âm feelinâ right now- I got halfâa mind to sharpenâat silver spoon heâs graced withân cut him with it.â
You scan his face with the providentness of a surgeon, blinking a few times before you finally just ask,
ââŠYou canât be serious?â
âOh, simon pure, mâafriad-â
âYou will ruin me!â You grit your teeth and slap a flat palm against his chest out of pure instinct. He flinches a bit, less in pain and more in pure shock at your outburst. Youâd never had a legitimate reason to be cross with him before.
âAccordinâ to you, Iâve already gone on anâ beat that bull-â
âOh, you rat! You know what my intention is! How am I to explain why Sure Shot Suguru Geto desires to duel for my- my-â You let go of him, your hands flailing as you search for your words. Youâre so mad you canât even articulate. âWell surely not my honor! If anything, for my-! My madge!â.
By the time you finish your outburst, youâre effectively tied up in knots, your fists clenched at your side and your jaw jutted like a bulldog as your chest heaves with fiery, angry breaths. Heâs tense too, but for an entirely different reason. His lips are pressed in a tight line, eyebrows damn near flying off his face and cheeks turning crimson with effort.
âDonât you dare.â Your warning is the thing that sends him over the edge. It starts with a snort, and then evolves into a fit of wheezing and whickering as he tries with conviction to keep his volume low, doubling over slightly and catching himself with one hard palm on the window frame, the other clutching at his jerking abdomen as he laughs.Â
You canât hold yourself to the conviction of not laughing along with him, tears brimming in your eyes as you cover your mouth with both hands and give him a swift kick to the shin as if he were the one who said the offending comment in the first place. It earns a girlish yelp from him, and then youâre both laughing harder, cascading to the floor in a heap as you attempt to get the reins back on this metaphorical horse.
âSee?â He coughs obnoxiously and draws a deep breath, flipping over onto his back on the hardwood flooring of your bedroom and swiping at some tears that had formed in his eyes âNow howân the hell do ya expect me to letâcha walk away with a mouth like âat?â.
You sit up straight and shake your head at him incredulously, sighing as you feel your hostility leave with your breath. He looks just as mesmerizing as ever, with his hair fanning out across your floor like splattered paint and his face flush from laughter, stripped of his hat, vest, and overcoat. He mustâve left them with Cinnamon, his trusty palomino steed who was undeniably tied up somewhere on the corner of your parentâs property. He claimed that a horse was nothing more than a form of transportation, but you'd caught him draping his over layers across her back more than once before. It wasn't even that cold outside.
You reach forward and grab his hand in yours, running your thumb along his knuckles, noticing the scrapes and fading bruises but choosing not to bring it up. Who knows what kind of hogwash heâd gotten into since the last time you'd seen him.
âI'm serious. You cannot duel with him. The shame it would bring my family would be odious.â You whisper, avoiding his gaze and choosing instead to focus on his hand in yours, his warm skin working wonders to ground you.
He shifts until he's sitting, pulling your hand to his lips for a quick kiss before he's kicking off his boots, an action your body has an inherent reaction to, muscle memory causing your heart to pick up pace and your face to light fire in anticipation.
âWhat can I do, then? Tell me, y/n. Jusâ say the words anâ Iâll flatten the Appalachians for yaâ.â He murmurs after setting his shoes aside, careful not to let the iron spurs clang against the floor. He reaches forward and tucks your hair behind your ear, letting his palm rest against your cheek, holding you in a gaze that couldâve pinned you down without the help of his warm hand.
You lean into him, bringing your hand up to hold him there, lips falling loose and open as you search for words, finding none. What could he do? The damage was irreparable, it seemed. You couldnât be selfish over the matter. Your head shakes slightly and the hand that cups his own grips at his fingers and attempts to pry him away from you. You couldnât. You couldnât--
âAnythinâ, doll. Ya want the sun? Iâll bottlâit. Iâll stop the clouds from raininâ and âis olâ earth from turninâ ifân it jusâ means I can have ya.â His harsh whisper cuts through you like glass and he refuses to let you go, instead shifting to his knees and bringing his free hand to mirror the one in use. Leaning over you, desperately caging you in that fucking gaze; eyes a somber and honest amethyst. Your hands come up to grip his wrists as you attempt to blink away sentimental tears, silently begging for reprieve from his overwhelming attention.
âPlease, y/n.â He breathes, beckoning you to give in, lips so close to your own that you can feel every syllable, âPlease let me have ya.â.
You break, of course you do, capturing his bottom lip between your own, your breathing steadily growing heavy as he jerks your body flush against his, guiding your arms around his neck to free his hands. They roam every dip and valley of your frame over your bedtime linens, resisting the temptation to pause and play along the way before trailing their way down over the globes of your ass, stopping only once theyâve reached your thighs. He picks you up with a bruising grip, your legs locking around his abdomen. He stands, as if you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to the bed. All the while heâs swiping, pushing, curling his tongue against your own like he has something to prove; and maybe he does.
The minute he sets you down your fingers make way to his gun belt. Starting at the string around his thigh, you find yourself smirking cheekily as he tenses at the contact.
âAre these those âdelicate sensibilitiesâ you spoke of?â You tease, smiling up at him as you undo the knotting, making sure to let your fingers make as much contact with his clothed inner thigh as possible.
âDonât go stirrinâ up a hornets nest, now-â He teases right back, his smirk only lasting a fraction of a second. You run a flat palm up the inside of his thighs and across the half-formed tent in his pants, massaging over the area before continuing onto his waist buckle. He hisses, throwing his head back in gratification âShit, baby, I mean, how longâsâit been now? Four months? Six?â. His fingers dance into your hair, clinging to the locks for some sort of purchase, and the way he seems so desperate for you has you clenching your thighs together.
âNow, do you expect me to clean-handedly believe you travel like you do and donât bed women when youâre gone?â You ask, rolling your eyes as your fingers dance upward to tug at his waist buckle, the plum stained leather smooth against the pad of your fingers. He shoots a look down at you, tutting disapprovingly.
â WhâKinda guff is âat?â He fusses, âAinât ever been no other woman. Not since the first day I had ya.â
The words cause your cheeks to flush deeper red than they ever had before, and you have to fight yourself not to loose sight of the task at hand. âNo?â you ask cheekily, finally wrestling off his gunbelt and sitting it off gently to the side, iron still in the holster.
âWhy would I?â He asks, clenching his teeth and hissing as your hands find his waist and your lips place hot, open mouthed kisses across the front of his pants, loving the way you can feel him twitch and grow harder beneath the confines of the fabric.
âYouâre spinning yarn,â You accuse, running a flat tongue against him once, twice before continuing, âNot even have you stopped at a brothel?â.
âAin't no need, when I got my own right hand ând yer memâry.â Heâs losing all reverence, the deft fingers on his leftmost hand gripping tighter against your scalp and hips rocking in time with your movements, his right hand coming up to undo the buttons of his shirt, seeking reprieve from the heat that had washed over your tiny little bedroom.
âYou are the slyest of stray alley cats.â You can't allow yourself to believe his words, though the thought of him satisfying himself under a blanket of stars makes your pussy throb. Sweaty, dirty, one hand covering his mouth so that he doesn't accidentally call out for you and wake his associates. Jerking himself hard and fast, hips rutting into his fist--
âDumplinâ. On mâ iron nâ what tiny bitâs left oâ my honor; the fuckinâ Virgin Mary âerself could offer tâbed me anâ Iâd turn âer down for you-- shit!â He cuts himself off with a gasp as you take the opportunity provided to you by his freshly unbuttoned shirt, not even allowing him a moment to shed the off-white fabric from his shoulders before youâre running your tongue along the thin trail of hair along his lower abdomen. You unbutton his tight-fitted trousers, whimpering against your own will as his toned muscles twitch and jerk beneath your lips. His body was confirming his convictions. He wanted you.
Hooking your fingers under his pants and underwear, you pull them down until theyâre hugging his thighs, squeezing the toned flesh there just right. You're practically panting as his cock springs free, slapping against his abdomen with a wet thud.
For a moment, all you can do is stare with heavy lidded eyes and parted lips. This is why sex was a sin. There was no earthly explanation why something could make you feel such elation; it had to be unholy by nature. Shaky fingers reach up to stroke him, nimble pads running through the coarse tufts of hair at the base before tracing up, up, up the underside of his shaft. You try not to think about how this is the last time youâll ever see this view, focusing instead on committing every fat vein to memory, hoping you can recall it on the off chance you ever get a bed to yourself again following your dreaded marriage. Your index reaches the very tip and you find yourself swiping away the bead of precum that's formed there, bringing your finger to your mouth and closing your eyes as you do the same with the taste.
âAngel-â A raspy voice from above you has your eyes snapping open, looking up to find Suguru panting, sweating, swallowing hard and desperate âMâan outlaw, not a priest. Ainât got patience like âat-.â.
âMy sincere apologies, handsome.â You wrap your hand around him and stroke him in earnest, drinking in the way his face falls open from satisfaction. âI assure you, I didnât mean to tease you so.â. You hang your mouth open, tongue hanging out and swiping upward against him from base to tip, absolutely adoring the way he sucks air through his teeth. Youâre ready to take him in earnest, just as soon as you explain yourself:
âSimply ensuring I can remember, for when I-!â
Youâre cut off by his fist slamming your head down on his cock, and low growl leaving him as he bottoms out against the back of your throat, loosening slightly as you slap at his hip, wordlessly reprimanding him as you choke and gag on his girth. He mumbles out an apology, pulling you back halfway and allowing you to pull air back into your lungs through your nose.
âYâainât gonâ halfâta remember anythinâ, baby - shit, ah-!â Heâs all but face-fucking you, but at least heâs being gentle, shallow little thrusts and much slower than he originally started with. âJ-just, fuck, y/n, yaâ cainât leave, âkay? Iâll figure it out, I-â.
Itâs your turn to shut him up, taking him deeper and bobbing your head faster, ignoring the tears in your eyes as you watch him slowly lose his composure above you, shedding off his shirt and tossing it behind you as he pants and grunts, his pupils blown wide and a slick sheet of sweat beading on his forehead, causing little strands of hair to stick to his face.
You know youâve won when his hands grip the side of your face and one leg gets thrown up on the bed bedside you, his mouth open in a silent moan as he takes back control of the pace, bobbing your head up and down on himself erratically as he gasps for air.
All that loose jaw he was spitting is now replaced by a whispered little mantra of âYes! Yes, Yes- fuck, baby. Sâgood. Always sâgood fâme-â. You hollow your cheeks and flatten your tongue as much as possible, trying desperately not to gag and ruin his pleasure as a mixture of spit and pre-cum drips form the corners of your mouth and down your chin.
A string of curses escape him as he pushes you all the way down until the tip of your nose is buried into the dark hair at his base, holding you still there as his cock jumps and writhes in your throat, your fingernails digging into his hips in protest. Surely they were cutting into his skin by this point.
Just when your vision starts to go dark around the edges, he pulls out of your mouth, cooing at you as you suck in air like you were hungry for it, looking up at him with vulnerable eyes as you swallow thickly, the tears that had been pooling in your eyes finally slipping down your face. He catches them with his thumbs, guiding you backwards on the bed and shuffling out of his pants in tandem. Once he's fully nude, he settles between your thighs on his knees.
âYâokay?â He asks, and you nod, smiling weakly up at him as he cards his fingers through your hair, pushing it back away from your face with the gentleness of a sunday morning rain, like he hadnât just bruised your esophagus. He smiles, honey sweet, and leans down to kiss your forehead first, and then your lips, groaning lowly as he tastes himself on your tongue, hips rutting as if he couldn't stop them.
Leaning back on his haunches, he taps on the outside of your knee twice.
âStrip fâme, doll.â
And so you do, trembling fingers trailing up your body to undo the buttons on your nightgown one by one, starting at the top and working your way down, your eyes studying his sharp features and wandering gaze as he gathers his hair and secures it back with the elastic band he forever kept on his wrist. You couldnât remember a time before them, but your mother swore tying hair with silk ribbon was a pain when she was a girl. You pondered now if he'd look just as mesmerizing trying to wrangle all that hair up with a ribbon.
His cat-like eyes trail down your body as you work, and he sucks on his teeth when he realizes your barren underneath the white cotton of your bed clothes. Once your gown has been properly parted, his hands roam their way around the new expanse of your exposed skin, starting at your thighs and working their way up, pushing aside the fabric with his wrists as his rough hands tend to a garden heâs harvested time and time before.
It was by his own design, the way your body reacted to being tended by him. Goosebumps erupted along your skin and flames danced in your abdomen. Your core dripped with anticipation, every swipe of his rein-worn fingers reminding you that he'd yet to touch you where you desired him most. His hands meandered up your sides until he was cupping your breasts, rough thumbs languishing over the feeling of your stiffening nipples beneath him as they swiped and toyed with the flesh. Your back arches from the corn husk mattress and your hands try their best to quell the sparks he was lighting in your tummy; one of them gripping at your sheets above your head and the other covering your mouth to stifle the whimpers that escaped you.
âI ever tell âya how pretty yâare?â He half-murmurs, half-whispers as one hand leaves your breast to traverse back down across your abdomen, never ceasing until he reaches your core, one thumb shallowly dipping into your entrance and stretching your folds apart so he can watch the way she winks at him with every movement, spitting clear arousal with every clench.
âPerhaps only every-- ah!â His fingers shift to pinch and roll your nipple, â-chance youâve gotten. Still though I am-- nngh!â His thumb pushes deeper into you, â-certainly honored to receive such praises!â.
He smirks at your inherent tendency to keep your wording polite even in the most devilish of circumstances, and he mustâve decided he could take it no longer because before you can blink heâs hiking your legs up and across his sun-kissed shoulders, practically folding you in half and lapping away at your pussy like a man starved.
You would've complained about his so-called âdelicate sensibilitiesâ when it came to handling your body in such a manner, but your face was frozen in an open silent moan, your eyes blowing wide and struggling to keep contact with his in the way you knew he liked. If you so much as dared to let any sound escape you, you'd wake not only your parents, but the entire town!Â
He knew you too well, everything about his conduction of your body had been fine tuned. The way he toyed around with your clit in his mouth had your body temperature rising to concerning levels, your arousal absolutely coating his face in a matter of moments. Not that he didn't expect it, you knew. In fact, it was probably precisely why he'd pulled his hair back. He adored it too, this you could also tell. From this angle, you got a front row seat to how his eyes rolled back in his head as he flicked and swiped his tongue against your core, up and down and back and forth and something you couldn't care to ponder on- stars, maybe? Never the matter.
A familiar tightness was building in your stomach, your panting growing faster and more needy as you think to yourself,
My god, please help me! How am I to go the rest of my life without this wrong I do?
Suguru pushes a flat hand against your mouth before slipping two fingers inside of you, and praise heaven for the man as well as his forethought because you lose your battle with your own throat the second he begins pumping in and out of you in perfect harmony with his tongue, crying out into his hand as your hips begin to rut against him in a desperate plea for faster, harder, more.
He happily obliges, curling his fingers against that god-forsaken spot inside you youâd never been able to find on your own in all your nights waiting for him, leveraging into you with a pace and force that reminded you of his deviant side. This version of him wasn't Suguru, the man who brought you rocks and flowers and exotic wines from his travels. This was not Suguru, the boy breezing by you at the market with sharp features and tempting eyes. No, this was Sure Shot Suguru Geto, the man who robbed and killed and gambled. Save your soul, you loved him.
Your hands fly into his hair as your hips betray you, all but humping his face in time with his movements as the tension inside you rises to a boiling heat, your knuckles gripping his hair beneath his bun so cruelly but you know he doesn't mind, not only from experience but from the way he groans directly into you as his eyes flutter shut. He transitions from licking to suckling on your clit and it's the final nail in the coffin for you. Your orgasm fires off like a gun shot, sharp and unfathomably intense as you scream into his hand, your legs absolutely spasming around his head with the force of it alone, your whole body tensing and jerking so hard that you fear you may have torn something as he continues his ministrations to push you through your high, never ceasing until you bite at his hand and kick at his shoulder.
He makes his way back to your face, chuckling as he captures your plush lips with his own, not leaving even a breaths span of time before he's nudging his tip into your tight entrance, swallowing your gasps and whines as if he may never taste them again.
âMore, baby, more- please?â You manage to choke out between swipes of his tongue. He stills momentarily, pausing to scan your face, something unreadable plaguing his sweat lined features. You attempt to rut your hips and give yourself some reprieve, but one rope-warn hand grips you at your bare hip, holding you against the mattress effortlessly.
âSuguru!â You scold, and his lips quirk in the slightest of ways.
âCall me that again.â
â...Your name?â
âBy god âm so glad yer pretty.â He giggles and pushes into you a few more inches harshly, his smile growing wilder as you yelp, both of you immediately pausing to listen for noise from the other rooms.Â
Silence.
âNot mâname, peach. âAt lilâ thing you said before-â His voice is quieter now.
âBaby?â
He pushes into your further, more gentle this time, the hand that was on your hip snaking up to grip your face and hold your gaze âAtta girl. You keep callinâ me that and Iâm gonâ put a baby in yaâ, swear solemn.â.
Your face contorts as his words hit you and he bottoms out, tip pressing against your womb and girth stretching you so wide. It burns, it hurts, it feels so good-- and his words? You knew they held no weight but the thought had you gushing around him. You needed him to move, and move now.
âAlways nagginâ âbout my mouth, but look at yaâ now, darlinâ- droolinâ on my cock allâfâr some nasty words.â He demeans as he begins to roll his hips into you, smirking as your hands grip at his biceps and your legs fall open wide for him, âMmm yâlikeâat idea, huh? Stuff ya so fullâa me that olâ fuckinâ Nanami Kento has tâ raise my kid ifân he wants to take my wife?â.
You don't reply to that, you canât because heâs steadily picking up pace, fucking you with determination that you knew was coming from somewhere other than his cock. No, of all the times heâd taken you prior, this one was different. Stubborn, vivace, and oh so frantic. You find yourself biting down on his shoulder as he slams against your soft walls, each time pulling almost entirely out before pounding back into you again, bruising your cervix like he wanted to mark you from the inside out. Heâs spewing guttural rumbles and low moans from above you, and each one only makes you want him more. Not just here, not just now, but forever and then some.
âI love you, yâhear me?â His voice is deeper than usual, husky, somewhat of a moan in your ear, âDon'tâcha ever tell me I cainât ever again.â.
Each word is accentuated with a sharp thrust, desire and want and desperate prayer rearranging your very being. All you can do is whimper his name in response. He trails kisses along your neckline, they almost feel apologetic.
How absolutely inhumane time was, only the night left to claim every part of each other before it was ripped away, burnt to nothing but a memory of a flame that once shone so brightly in the darkness. Despite the way every stroke has your mind melting away, you find yourself realizing that perhaps this wasnât Sure Shot at all, but instead just Suguru, a helplessly enamored man on the verge of losing his love on top of everything heâd already lost in the past few years. You choke out a sob, unsure if itâs the pleasure or the pain or the realization that has you blubbering, but it didnât matter all the same. You were still adulterated, he was still taken with you, you were still duty-bound to marry another, and he was still hammering into you like his life depended on it.
You feel your body begin to contract, thighs starting to squeeze around him as he beats against your favorite spot so deep inside, the feeling almost tormenting you into another release.
âAht, aht, now donât go tensinâ up on me, babydoll.â He doesnât stop his arietations, though, as he leans back to encase your tender throat with his fingers. The simple action is enough to have that coil inside you winding tighter at an exponential rate, âYaâ know by now itâs better when ya relax fâme. Thought I had ya well trained, mm? Now be good fâme and loosen up- atta girl, atta girl-â.
You do your best to let your thighs fall slack and all you can feel is the way heâs piledriving into you, closing your eyes and zoning in on that place inside where his cock is shooting sparks across your body over and over and over. His fingers begin to tighten around your sensitive throat and your pussy follows suit around his shaft. You think you hear him breathe out a string of whispered curses, but you can't tell with the way your vision is beginning to go white and fuzzy. His free hand reaches around to flick across your clit in quick, frantic motions, and youâd be so appreciative of his hand on your throat if you could think anything at all. You gargle out a strangled noise as you come undone beneath him for the second time that night, your hands coming up to grip at his wrist, your head pounding backwards into your sheets and hair bouncing wildly as his thrusts become somehow stronger, but all the while more erratic. He was close behind you, this you knew.
A few more pumps and heâs pulling out of you, letting go of your neck to lean back on his haunches and fist his cock with ferocity, hissing as his seed splatters across your abdomen, hot and sticky. You gasp for air, feeling like youâd just run a few miles in the summer heat, gargling and sputtering as you attempt to re-ground yourself.
A tender hand finds your cheek, and your eyes flutter open to find his dark features gazing at you longingly, his bottom lip pushed out in a small pout.
âMâokay.â You assure, turning to press a kiss into his palm and smiling up at him lazily. He mirrors that and leans down to plant a gentle kiss against your lips, mumbling an apology for being so rough.
âThank you most kindly for refraining from sowing your oats in me.â Your brain feels numb.
He lets his head fall into your shoulder to stifle his giggles âCâmon, ditz. Let's get yaâ cleaned up and light us a hand roll.â. A tender kiss against your shoulder.
A few minutes later you're curled up between his spread legs on the floor just by your window, him in nothing but his pants and you wrapped in his shirt. You watch over your shoulder as he produces a single cigarette from his pocket, striking the match heâd stolen from atop your armoire against the rough grain of your window, marveling at the way the light paints his skin orange as he puffs a few times to get the stick lit. When heâs done, he shakes away the flame and disposes of the match on your windowsill, draping one arm around you and pulling you backwards until your back is flush with his bare chest.
He is careful when he blows the smoke away from your face, but youâre not as you snatch the cigarette away from him as soon as heâs finished the first drag, bringing it to your lips and drawing in a breath of smoke just as big as his own.
âWoah, Nellie!â He teases, resting his cheek against the crown of your head, âDidnât know yâwas suchân avid smoker.â.
âI most certainly am not!â You tease right back. âI only do such unfavorable, unladylike things in the presence of scoundrels such as yourself.â.
He chuckles, leaning forward to puff on the cigarette as you hold it up for him. You scold yourself for craving the plush of his lips again so soon. Not only did you just finish bedding him, but you also could never do so again. Well, at least not after the night was through. For a while, the two of you stay like that, silently watching the stars and smoking your cares away to the best of your ability. The eastern crickets sang a song of farewell as you sat comfortable in the quiet serenity of your darkened room, a place that had been only for the two of you to share for so long, but would be no longer come dawn. Neither of you, it seems, wants to acknowledge it, savoring the calm before the raging storm of forever comes for you with the rise of the sun.
Itâs just after heâs lit the third hand roll of the night that he suggests something so foolish, so childish and stupid, that you arenât sure you heard him correctly the first time.
âCome away with me.â
You shift so that youâre setting sideways in his lap, looking up at him like heâd sprouted a third eyeball right in the center of his suntanned forehead. A beat, and then two passes, and you realize heâs serious.
âSurely youâve gone mad. Out west?â
He nods âYesâm.â.
âAnd just where shall we sleep? Eat? Make love?â If your eyes were to grow any wider they would certainly pop out of your head.
âWherever the wind carries us, thatâsâa best part-â
âSuguru!â A scoff and a laugh of disbelief escapes your gaping mouth, shaking your head at him in such unconvincibility.
â âM stone cold, baby. On my Ma-!â His tone sounds pleading, and heâs smiling hopefully, like a child who really hopes that Santa will leave a tommy gun under his tree.
âGood thing she's already under, bless her soul.â You snatch the cigarette from him and puff like your life depends on it. Truly, he would be the death of you.
âYou hushâup.â He laughs, taking the hand roll back and clenching in between his teeth, using one hand to pull you by the bicep until the both of you are on your knees, elbows resting on the window as he speaks.
âYâain't ever gonâ know the things Iâve seen âless-n ya light a shuck with me. Baby thereâs deserts, canyons, caves that shoot right down tâhell itself and fields aâ clovers ân wildflowers just as farâs yer pretty lilâ eyes could ever see-â As he talks, his hands make dramatic gestures in front of the two of you, as if he could physically paint the views into the open air before you.
âThere are also snakes, and bears, and bandits-â You argue, but he cuts you off with a wink and a nudge.
âThat's why yer comânâ with me, cainât no varmint catch yaâ if you're tucked under my arm!â
A defeated sigh escapes you, uninterested in playing these childish games of possibilities with him, âPray tell, does your jaw ever ache from how much you jabber on?â.
His face falls slightly, but heâs still smiling. Softer now. Begging.
âOnly for you, ifân âm honest.â
You glare at him with knowing eyes, trying your best to simply look some sense into him, but of course your attempt is unsuccessful, the both of you erupting into giggles.
âOh,â You take a long sigh as you calm yourself, âHow am I to carry on without you?â.
âYâainât. Because yer cominâ with me.â
âSuguru.â Now you sound like the one pleading, looking up at him with sad eyes as you steal the cigarette directly from his mouth and take another drag. And then, on the exhale; âMy family, hopeful lover. Why is it canât you understand I have a responsibility to-â
âI do.â He reaches forward and grabs your jaw, leaning inward, âI can acknowledge the corn. Ainât claiminâ no ignorance here. But to see yaâ sell yerself for the good graces of society? I cainât hang my hat on âat. Iâm begginâ ya, baby. âN Imma real proud man. Be selfish, just this once. Come away with me.â.
For a moment, all you can do is stare, your stomach sinking as you realized he was right. Your whole life you'd been a proper young lady. Honing your craft with your mother in the kitchen while the neighborhood boys played soccer in the fields. You learned to cook, to clean, to play piano forte in hopes to one day secure a rich husband, not for yourself, but for the hope that one day he could provide them more than this cottage on the outskirts of town. Sitting here now, though, you realized that was never what you wanted. It was what everyone else wanted of you.
â...Tonight?â You whisper, and immediately heâs lighting up from the inside out, his grin wild and wide as he surges forward and captures you between his arms, squeezing the life out of you as you giggle and do your best to hold the lit cigarette away from the two of you. He captures your lips in a kiss, and then another, and another, until youâre fussing at him to answer your question.
âNot tonight, tomorra. Gotta get some thingsân order. Stock up on sum fixinâs. Shoot a letter to âol Six Eyes out west and pray it arrives before we do-â
Oh, right. You scrunch your face up. Maybe this wasnât the best idea after all.
âYa have my blessinâ tâshoot him.â
Okay, youâre excited again âI get a gun?!â.Â
He snorts and steals the cigarette back from you, drawing in the last of it and nodding hesitantly âAffirmative, tho I gotta wonder if itâll be the death aâ me.â.
You hum, your eyes wandering out into the night as you ponder aloud.
âIf I am to be completely vulnerable, I do not wish to shoot anyone.â
He presses a kiss to your cheek âThe gun ain't fâpeople, peach- it's for âem bears nâ snakes yaâ mentioned. I'll handle the people, donât worry yer pretty lilâ head overâit.â
***
You couldnât sleep after he left that night, a sure case of the morbs settling over you as you packed according to Suguruâs instruction. That is to say, lightly. A simple change of clothing and a leather bound journal for writing was basically all you would leave with.
This house, though not one of grandeur, had held you since you were but a babe. Your first steps were taken on this very hardwood, your height from every year notched into the frame of your bedroom door by your Paâs pocketknife- up until you stopped growing at sixteen or so, that is. The crops from the garden had nourished you, the trees from the wood line knew your deepest secrets. Youâd chased and caught frogs here, learned to read and write here, laughed and cried here, been bedded by a ill-fated outlaw here, and ultimately decided to make haste with him on westward winds. Here.
You hadnât allowed yourself to think to hardly on your parents, reminding yourself of Suguruâs words:
âBe selfish, just this once.â
Right. He was right. From now on, you are living life for you. Not for your Mama and Pa. Not for what the pew regulars would think of you. Not for the coffee-sisters, nor the gossip in the marketplace.
âŠThat was, until you snuck as silently as possible through the door of all youâd ever known, only to find your Mama leaning against the wooden railing of the porch, watching the sky ever-so-slightly lighten with each passing moment.
Your heart plummeted through the floor as you nearly dropped your bag from your shoulder in despair. Suguru would be arriving any moment. Surely if she were to see him she would simply fall dead.
âThe coffee-sisters at tea last Saturday were just gushing about how there's quite a bit of wide open space out there in the unclaimed west.â is her version of a âgoodmorningâ. She doesnât even turn around, keeping her stare set off into the distance.
You swallow thickly, trying to keep as normal as possible, âMama? Why are you awake at such an hour?â.
She ignores you, staring, staring, staring still into the horizon, boring holes into the mountains in the distance. The same ones that hand held you, and her, and her mother, and the mother before.
âYou know what's so grand about so much open air?â
You deflate, tears welling to your eyes as the realization dawns upon you that she must know. The one day you decide to run away with a vagabond outlaw is the one day she happens to be up before the sun, standing on the porch, waffling poetic about the unclaimed west? Nonsense. You could only hope this didnât end in a shootout between Suguru and your father. Anxiety builds and pressurizes in your chest and you stay stone silent, trying to think of a way to de-escalate the aforementioned confrontation before it had even begun.
âThere's so much space to grow. A gentleman at the market mentioned to me of his brother who ranches cattle out there. In his most recent letter, he spoke of cacti that grow to three times the height of your average man. Isn't that lovely, my girl?â Finally, she turns to look at you, smiling gently. Her face looks so much like your own but older, wiser.
Your brow dips in confusion. Was this or was it not the part where she was supposed to call you a harlot? Was she not to disown you? To tell you the very thing youâd been telling yourself since Suguru first bedded you; that you were a wretched, wretched, woman and surely when the roll is called on high you will be sent southward?
âMama, of what do you speak?â The tears brimming your eyes are threatening to fall, but you tell yourself you must remain brave. You were a grown woman, making grown woman choices now.
âAdd to that wonder, if the rumors are to be believed they grow flowers! Big, beautiful vibrant blooms from the toughest of plants this world has to offer. I thought unto myself; âMy good Lord, how fitting. It must be by design.â. Do you understand me, daughter?â she cocks her head at you, and you come to lean beside her on the railing.
âNo, Mama. Iâm afraid Iâm terribly lost.â You arenât sure why it is youâre whispering, youâd already been caught, after all.
She takes your hand in her own, smiling at you, chuckling lightheartedly, as if she were watching a baby child dance about, âI'm saying to you, girl, that good things come from sharpened situations. There may come a time that you prick yourself to find something brighter than your eyes have seen⊠but you know of that already, no?â.
The tears begin to fall from the corners of your eyes and you mimic her smile back at her, elation washing over you like fresh spring rain. She was giving you permission. She knew, and still-
âMa, how did you discover me?â you breathe, and she laughs genuinely, patting your hand.
âI take night strolls in the garden when your father's fog horn snoring keeps me awake. It was just this time last year that I turned to see a rather handsome young man leaned against your open window.â
Your cheeks go red and you hold a palm to your face, shaking your head lightly before you wipe at your tears.
âI must admit, I considered waking your father. You're the upmost of lucky he sleeps like a rock, by the way. A word of advice from an old maid? Tuck a pillow between your headboard and the wall to still the bed--â
âMama, please! I never meant to bring you shame, of this I swear-!â You cut her off, taking both of her hands in your own, threatening to fall back into the treacherous place your mind had been just moments before.
âMy love, everyone beds before they're married these days. They simply do not speak of it, and then there is nothing to say of the matter. I myself was two courses missed when I married your father. The world kept spinning, much contrary to the belief of your Nan.â She shrugs dismissively as you let go of her hands, and all you can do is stare at her; awestruck. Who was this woman standing in front of you now?
âAnyway, If I may continue. I stood out there for quite some time, weighing upon my options. The two of you never even noticed me, so lost in each other that I think I could've marched right up to him and pinched his tight little ass cheeks before either of you took note--â
âMama!! My word!!!â You gasp, and bark out an incredulous laugh at her words. Your mother, never once in all your live days, had been so crass in front of you.
She laughs too, slapping at your arm and hushing you, âHush, child! Youâll wake your Pa!â.
Your laughter settles into tender smiles. You were going to miss her most furiously.
She grips both of your shoulders as she speaks.
âI knew that the clock had been set in motion by the way he looked at you. What I saw that wonderful night was the sweet smile of a man that had made up his mind standing by the window in the moonlight. And what of you? Oh glory in the highest, I hadn't seen that look on your face since you were a babe! Not since before this world had taught you it isn't polite for ladies to laugh with no regard for looking proper.â
âI love him, Mama.â You admit, chuckling lightly with watery eyes, âAnd he loves me, too. Of this I am most certain.â.
âI know.â She pats your shoulder, and then continues, âI had never seen you look so miserable until Nanami Kento showed up on our doorstep, either. A shame, but your heart is already tucked deep in someone else's pocket, I fear.â.
You nod, slow and grave. âIf thereâs one thing of which I must apologize, it is that. I am terribly sorry for poor Nanami.â.
âDo not be so. Perhaps I will strike lucky and your father will keel over when he wakes to find you gone. More for me.â
âOh, do not curse him so!â You both snicker again.
She pulls you into a tight hug, squeezing you for all youâre worth, which is maybe more than you knew. Itâs around that time that you hear a familiar sound, both of your heads turning to watch as Suguru slowly fades into view, the steady thump of Cinnamonâs hooves against the soft earth growing rhythmically louder as they approach in a slow trot.
You turn back to your mother, your eyes apprehensive. She grabs your head and presses her lips to the center of your forehead, âGo now, child, before your father wakes. Do not forget to write, we will be here should you return. We will be here until the roll is called on high. As for you, though, adventure awaits.â.
With her graces, you step away from the porch, and it feels like youâve stepped off a ledge into something beautiful. You run to meet him, your shoes padding against the grass and your dress billowing against the motion, never ceasing until heâs bringing Cinnamon to a halt so he can dismount and catch you as you fly into his arms, wrapping you in a hug as if he hadnât just seen you a few hours prior. He looks good, he always looks good, but itâs a rarity for you to see him in his full get up. You wonder if you, too, will require such gear, and even more so if your bandana and gun belt will be stained purple to match.
He eyes your mother from the considerable distance and she waves. He returns the greeting by way of removing his stetson from his head, pressing it to his chest and bowing lightly in her direction, revealing his hair had been wrangled back into two tight plaits on either side of his head. While heâs distracted, you snatch his hat from his hands, plopping it on your own head, an action that has him laughing, his eyes crinkling up and twinkling with lovesomeness.
âYaâ wear it much betterân I ever could, dumplinâ. Now lets brush thâ breeze âfor someone decides âta kill me for this.â
***
âYâknow what âat olâ Six Eyed bastard tells pretty young things like you?â Suguru asks through a mouthful of apple, and youâd chastise him for his manners if he wasn't graced with such beauty and you weren't cursed to be so sleepy.
Youâd made it about twenty miles before Cinnamon needed to rest. You're all shaded by a tall oak tree, you and Suguru leaning against its base, your hands holding onto his bicep and your cheek rested against his shoulder, his hat still on your head.
âMm?â You question, barely lucid, and he chuckles, holding the core up for Cinnamon which she's more than happy to accept, crunching almost as obnoxiously as her dear handler had been just moments before.
âHe tellsâem, âYou wear the hat, you ride the cowboy--â.âÂ
You lift your head to ensure he sees you roll your eyes, and he laughs, dipping beneath the brim of his own hat to steal a kiss from you, soft and slow.
Reminder I am vehemently AI intolerant. I do not support Character.Ai, I do not support using AI for fic writing. I do not support AI art. I do not support AI in any creative sense. AI is created from stolen works. AI is plagiarism. Using it promotes creative theft. If I catch you anywhere near my blog with it you will be blocked.
I hate the âopen floor planâ that everyone is obsessed with in houses now. I want nooks and crannies and bizarre floor plans. I donât need to be able to see what someone is doing on the other side of the house. I want places to hide and lurk and dwell in the shadows. I am the beast who awaits in the labyrinth
simon sees a familiar face.
tags: darkfic. ghost x nude model! reader. (given a stage name but no discerning characteristics.) violent intrusive thoughts. objectification. rough sex. marking. dacryphilia. possessiveness. dubcon photo sharing.
It's the slip of her skin in his periphery. Moisturised, gold shimmer body glaze. Tucked up against the bar and nursing a negroni in both hands, her dress riding high up on her thigh. Sticks out like a sore thumb in a pub like this, where seedy men come to drink their woes away. Just a little too clean, prim and perfect polish. Pretty enough to make his teeth hurt.
He has to do a double take before he can be sure. Where he would know her calves, those hands and varnished nails, anywhere, he can hardly believe it until she turns a quarter angle and her face comes into full view. Lips he's seen perked up and glossed into erotic O's. Eyes so often half-cast and sultry, lined in kohl, that it's odd to see them wide like this; looking around, searching for something.
Yeah. Simon knows her. Knows her like the grip of a gun, the rip release of a hand grenade, the flat lining of barrack cot mattresses. Knows her so well that his cock chubs up in an almost pavlovian response, fat and heavy and leaking already, like a bloody sixth former seeing a pair of tits for the first time. In all honesty, this might just be the equivalent for a man like himself. Aching jowls, frothy lips. Ageing, dirty beast â thrown the most delectable fucking bone.
Because it's her. Cut straight from the centrefold of his favourite magazine and pasted a mere four feet away. Just as alluring, as provocative as she is in the poster he'd gifted Johnny on a deployment birthday. The object gracing every page not adhered together with dry cum. The one thing that gets him â and frankly, every other mutt on the task force â through long missions.
He throws back the last of his bourbon and slips his mask back over his chin. The haunt is emptier than usual. He assumes the big guy by the doorway is responsible, no doubt hired to follow her around and scare the creeps away. Simon must count as one â if his intentions, latched like filthy claws in his stomach, are anything to go by â but he's also bigger. Bolder. Probably has tattoos that outlast her bodyguard's experience in the field. So he takes his chances as he stretches up and prowls up to where she's sitting.
"Selene Harlow." It's a stage name, of that he's certain. But he has nothing else to call her by, not having fallen short of searching for her true identity. She's good at keeping herself safe from perverts like him. A good fucking girl, if not a little minx.
"Only on the clock." She smiles softly, dipping the orange peel in and out of her drink. It looks untouched, glass sweating onto the bar top. He thinks of holding her head back by her hair and knocking the concoction down her throat. "You don't look like my date."
Simon makes a sound. "No' your usual type, then?"
"I didn't say that." Her dress is low cut, bandage tight. When she breathes in, he devours the way her chest heaves out of the material. Begging to pop free, or else be ripped open right here. He can't imagine she would be opposed to being stripped in public. Not with her breasts plastered on a million different publications, issues displayed in the illicit material case behind every gas station counter.
"Well, he must be soft in th'head."
She shrugs. "Don't sound so surprised." Simon wonders, if he were to press his thumbs down onto each collarbone, how much pressure it would take to snap them in place. He's always liked the delicate arch of her shoulders, the swan-like column of her neck. With how he fixated he is on them now, he can hardly place the dejection in her voice. "Not a lot of people wanna go out with a girl who does what I do. It was only a matter of time before he found out."
"Can' be too pissed at him, a'suppose."
"Hm?"
"His loss is my gain."
"Aha." A flash of teeth. She turns on the bar stool to fully face him, and her knees knock his. Soft fucking legs, plush like a chew toy and he knowsâ he knows what they look like completely nude and spread open. But nothing could've quite prepared him for how different it is to see them in real life. To see her â real, fleshly, blood full â and not be able to take. Have to hold himself back despite the way he's pumped himself raw to her arse almost a hundred times now. He lost the plot some time ago. His mind must think of her as his. "Is that what this is?"
And what is this? Simon doesn't have a name for it. All he knows is the way his head itches, the tantalisation crawling in his skin. The sheer self-restraint it takes not to pocket her home and chain her to his bed. He wants to dig his teeth into her cheek.
Insteadâ
"Could be."
"I think that's up to me." She crinkles in a wily little smile and he chuckles because it's funny. Funny because she takes him to be a good man. But with the way her bodyguard is eyeing him from across the room (fucking muppet), he knows that's not the quality he's projecting. There's the urge to crack a sick joke, something about clipping a bird's wings, just to see her pick up on the rot he carries with him. "You military?"
"Tha' obvious?"
"Hm, no. Wild guess." She straightens her back and the vague gesture she makes with her wrist is enough to drive him up a wall. It sets a timer, ticking time bomb, in his brain that'll detonate if he doesn't get his nasty old hands on her waist. Thirty seconds on the clock. He can never be patient when it comes to sweet things. "Your... stature. And I tend to be popular with servicemen, anyway. What's your name?"
"And why do you wan' to know my name, bird?"
She flutters her lashes, pointedly looking down to where he's bulging in his jeans. Bird is right. She shines like one with pretty feathers, begs to be plucked, because why else would mother nature create things like her if not to appease men like him?
"Figure you'd want me to moan it later."
And it's like watching one fly into a cage on its own accord. His blood boils hot and thin, flooding his head until his eyes strain with something ferocious. "Why wait." Simon says. He can't wrap an arm around her waist fast enough, scooping her from her seat and wrapping her tight against his side. Tight enough that, if she changed her mind, she wouldn't be able to flap her way out of it. "Name's Simon, and there's a bathroom 'round back."
It's nasty. Depraved. Graffiti lines all four walls and it's no coincidence that the one he pins her up against looks the filthiest. Something in him craves to see her degraded (the same part that marked a picture of her in black ink, chicken-scratch body writing proclaiming her as his), brought down to the same peg that he occupies. Beasts with too much baggage stored in their marrow. Humans, men, with moral compasses that skew a tad too far left. Animals. Animalistic.
"I donâ Don't usually do this..." She breathes, excuse stuttered through little whimpers as he mouths at her jaw. Maybe she's afraid of living up to her name, or whatever image Selene Harlow projects. Not a prostitute, he can almost hear her say. Tastes the fear of misconception, sour on otherwise tart skin. He hums and tugs her breasts free with one, scarred paw.
"Doesn' really matter, bird. Were fuckin' made for it." He squeezes the two mounds, pinches knotted nipples and rolls them between his fingers until she cries. Her voice breaks in little bubbled sobs â starts crying so fast that, christ, it must be some sort of record â and he aches in his trousers. Ready to burst if he doesn't bully his cock into a hole soon, just like she's been ready to be unravelled all night. "Made to be mine, yeah? Bloody 'ell, jus' look at you."
Frayed little tapestry. If he weren't so mad with lust, he'd obsess what drove her to this point. What brought her to some shitty pub in Manchester to meet a good for nothing lemon. Why she mewls and completely melts into him when he slaps her tits, just to see the way they jiggle. He's an ugly bastard, definitely punching just by breathing the same air as her, and yet she's so perfectly willing. Flaying herself open, skinned alive. Gasping selfish gulps of air when he finally pulls off his mask to sink his canines into her shoulder.
He's so used to seeing her posed, perfectly still. To have her like this, a trapped worm underneath him, feels like concentrated lightning on every artery. Overstimulating. Paralysing. He never thought he'd see the day where she exposes herself in motion: folding her dress up over her wide hips, slipping soaked panties down to her ankles.
(In fact, he vividly remembers brooding over on an interview her magazine had added to the corner of a cover page, once. Selene Harlow tells all! Answers inquiries on video pornography and more!
I don't think I'm the right person for that sort of scene. Not much an actress, I'm afraid.)
Not that her feigning was ever a concern. Simon knows the giddy gossamer over her eyes can't be artificially replicated. She's too clumsy, too amateur in the way she readies herself for him. Used to doing all this prep in a frilly dressing room with apathetic staff members directing her. Sways a bit on her heels and holds onto his thick forearms as she widens her stance. He stands until she's steady, then drops to his knees in search for the star of this show.
And the sight is as much a bludgeon to his self control as seeing her for the first time was, trigger for the feral mongrel that barks and chomps on his ribcage. Her cunt is just as perfect up close in this grimy bathroom as it is well lit, professionally oiled, and printed on coated paper. A little fuzzy, swollen enough that it flowers open for him on its own. Shyly inviting him to dig his nose right under her clit and inhale, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the scent of her, undiluted. Salivate blooms around his teeth.
When he flattens his tongue against it, she tries to find purchase in the roots of his shorn hair. Nails scrambling along the buzzcut until she forfeits and clamps her hand behind his ears, head thrown back to knock against the wall. If he were a nice man, he would spend hours buried between her legs. Sated by licking her slick from its source, like a kitten given a bowl of cream. Would make her cum until she forgets how to keep quiet, until she screams his name loud enough for the world knows their muse is off the market now.
But if he were a nice man, he wouldn't be defiling her here. He would've taken her out to the Greek place that never seems to have room for him alone, and then back to her apartment, where he'd drop her off with a chaste kiss and a promise to call her tomorrow.
So Simon combs through her lips once, twice, three times. Coats her in enough spit to be able to shove two fingers with little fuss, and scissors them apart. The little thing stretches to accommodate his ministrations immediately, clutch swallowing him up to the second knuckle and sucking around him when he spreads her hole for his leering eye. It's cute â so fucking cute how she clenches and keens and cries. Neck arched up above him. Apple of eden, blank canvas. His fingers leave her cunt as he rises to bite into it.
(Truthfully, she could've down with more prep. She wasn't lying when she said she doesn't do this often, whatever this is. But the way silver pebbles brim on her lash-line makes his chest twist, the dog rearing on its haunches, ready to pounce â and he thinks he'd like to see her babble in pain as he splits her open on his cock.)
"Gonna take you home after this, y'hear? Fuck you well 'n' good, all proper like. Fold ya over a mattress and print my cock on your guts, birdie. Never let you forget it. "
"S-Si! Simon, please. I n-need..."
Ichor beads in the shape of his teeth, streaking oxygenated red down her throat. He makes a mess of it, smearing it across the marred patch of skin, and brings the fluid up to her face to rub it into her cheek. The type of marking he'd reserve for his third or fourth going with someone â if anyone ever lasts that long â but absolutely necessary right now. Here, with her. Technically their hundredth something time together, if he were deranged enough to count the various times he'd spent himself over her spreads.
But nothing can supersede the truth of the matter. He streaks blood along her face and licks it off in a show of merciless possession. Pretty things like her get plucked off streets and ruined everyday, despite her cynicism on her value, and he can point to at least three other men by name who would slaughter to be in his place. Best to stake his claim now, clamp a collar on the exotic fowl he pulled down from the sky.
"Need wha', hm?" His tongue laps at her cheek, laving over the contour of her nose and swiping right under her eye to catch the tears that freely fall. She winces when he gets too close, hands faltering along his waistband.
"Your... d-dick. Please, please. Just wanna be fucked, Simon."
He plants a rough kiss onto her mouth, all teeth and tongue, and finally ladles himself free of his jeans.
Just wanna be fucked.
Daft, silly girl.
She should've chosen anyone else.
It takes a bit of pressure to feed himself into her cunt, pinning either leg to the sides of his hips as he guides his cock toward the opening. If she was putty before, she's positively liquid now, boneless rag doll slumped onto him. Dead weight. Letting him take control of this fight. Content to do nothing, slack-jawed and empty eyed as her hot walls come to embrace him completely. Her breath halts, the air recalibrating to just the sound of his ragged grunts, and he considers it an invitation to wrap a fist around her neck.
"I'll do more than jus' fuck you, pretty thing. Won' ever let you out of my sight."
And he means it.
It's impossible to withdraw completely from her â vacuum sealed too tight, too good, around him. So he fucks in short thrusts instead, snapping his pelvis back, only to shove forward once her legs begin to flail about. It's brutal even by his standards, rough in a way that supplants pleasure with pain. A small pity surfaces when her lip trembles, discomfort wringing her darling face up like a dish towel. Wet and pathetic, but he sneaks his free hand down to knead at her swollen clit anyway.
Like oil, it slips and hardens, tense enough that he knows she won't last long if he keeps it up.
Simon feels his own release encroaching. Unfurling at the base of his spine to form something cruel and primal. His vision tunnels to fixate on her â not the filthy bathroom or the lewd squelch of her pussy taking him in. Not the banging on the door by a customer desperately needing to piss, or otherwise, her bodyguard concerned at the choked screams carved from her lungs. Just her. Little bird.
The howling in his head doesn't stop, but it sure as hell quiets down when she soaks the course hairs at the base of his cock. Squirts, off-white fluid gushing from her and trickling onto the tiled floor. His movements grow stilted, off-rhythm, at the sight. His want grows claws and scales, grows wants that have wants. Beastly. He sees red.
"N-noghonbirfcontraahl." She gasps, suffocated still by the fingers pressing crescent-shaped scars beneath her jaw.
"Don' give a shit." He growls, then cums.
(Really, he doesn't. To see her swell up with his child is just one more added temptation, carrot on a stick. He bucks like a rabid animal and bookmarks that thought away for later.)
His seed doesn't stay put when he pumps her full of it. It gathers and drips out of her, undeterred by the barrage of his softening cock. When he pulls out, it draws milky treks down her legs. There's the instinct to shovel it back into her, tape her lips shut until the spend takes; but as he pockets her panties and helps her readjust her dress (after polishing himself clean on the expensive fabric), he finds he quite likes the thought of parading her around like this.
"C'mon," He nips her earlobe. "let's walk you home."
Simon does end up making good on his promise. They hardly get any sleep that night, sweating on every available surface her flat affords. By the end of it, she's so tuckered out that he has to lift her to bed. Hardly cognisant as he strips to his boxers and sidles up right next to her.
What doesn't escape her notice, however, is when he pulls his phone out to snap a picture of her like this. Fucked to oblivion, puffy pussy oozing about three loads worth of cum.
"W-what are youâ" Stuttered. Panicked, like a pet that at last has realised it's been caged.
"Shhhh, birdie. You're my model, ain't you? Let me show you off, yeah? Won' let it get into the wrong hands"
"Promise?" She whimpers, tucking into his broad chest. She isn't in the condition to give her proper assent, but he takes it anyway, kissing both eyes and carding his fingers across her scalp.
"Promise." He mutters, then sends the portrait off. "Jus' to men like me."
Sgt. Garrick: ?! Is that
Capt. Price: Christ, Simon. Someone ought to muzzle you.
Johnny: I don't believe you.
Johnny: Pick up my calls.
Johnny: SIMON.
