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you left him before. can you leave him again with a baby on the way?
synopsis: divorcing a stubborn dickhead like Ryomen Sukuna was probably the most difficult thing you ever had to do. but what were you supposed to do when your husband had practically become a stranger considering most days he spent more time at work than he did at home? and when he was home, half the time he'd rather sleep on the couch than in your bed? you didn't hate him. but you didn't love him anymore either. maybe you would have moved on. but when one last night together ends up with more than just a memory after you get two little lines on a pregnancy test, you discover you might not be able to get rid of him after all.
pairing: ex-husband!sukuna x pregnant!reader (also featuring best friend!geto)
content: mdni, smut and angst, some domestic fluff, divorced-to-remarried, complicated relationships, messy feelings, accidental pregnancy, pregnancy sex, unprotected piv sex, fingering, oral sex, pining, so much regret, misunderstandings, breaking up and making up, gruff and grumpy sukuna who misses his wife, soft geto trying to steal her from him, more tags in individual chapters
a/n: lovely art by @winterrbluess !! part of my community event <3
MDNI 18+, suggestive, mentions fingering , reader and shoko annoying either other, headcanons
divider by: honeyluvsw
Authors note, literally just spewing this out while I work on other fanfics to post!
med student!shoko who takes note of your jealousy, and teases you to high hell about it. Slick comments on lunch breaks, or not paying attention in study sessions. She is determined to work your every nerve.
med student!shoko who lets the tension build through the clinical rotation you share together. Your jealousy seeping through as you make a smart remark to *anything* she says to you.
med student!shoko, who ends up fingering that attitude out of you. It was only so many more sly comments she could take.
med student!shoko, you realized you’re right where you want to be.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
MDNI 18+, suggestive, mentions fingering , reader and shoko annoying either other, headcanons
divider by: honeyluvsw
Authors note, literally just spewing this out while I work on other fanfics to post!
med student!shoko who takes note of your jealousy, and teases you to high hell about it. Slick comments on lunch breaks, or not paying attention in study sessions. She is determined to work your every nerve.
med student!shoko who lets the tension build through the clinical rotation you share together. Your jealousy seeping through as you make a smart remark to *anything* she says to you.
med student!shoko, who ends up fingering that attitude out of you. It was only so many more sly comments she could take.
med student!shoko, you realized you’re right where you want to be.
MDNI 18+, suggestive, mentions fingering , reader and shoko annoying either other, headcanons
divider by: honeyluvsw
Authors note, literally just spewing this out while I work on other fanfics to post!
med student!shoko who takes note of your jealousy, and teases you to high hell about it. Slick comments on lunch breaks, or not paying attention in study sessions. She is determined to work your every nerve.
med student!shoko who lets the tension build through the clinical rotation you share together. Your jealousy seeping through as you make a smart remark to *anything* she says to you.
med student!shoko, who ends up fingering that attitude out of you. It was only so many more sly comments she could take.
med student!shoko, who realized you’re right where you want to be.
⤷ ; 𝓑. attle was not a choice. It was a fearsome lifestyle many prided themselves for. As a princess borne from strife and grief, wars were not only a coerced decision; it was an expectation. In the shackles shaped of bone and blood, you find but one worthy contender— Ryomen Sukuna, a king of the Kamutoke Kingdom. It is only then when you realize what war is.
content warning. violence death royal au warrior princess!reader warrior king!sukuna true form!sukuna slow burn sukuna is based on the japanese legend of ryomen sukuna eventual smut angst fluff-(ish)
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight
Status - Ongoing - current WC -81k
pairings- Emperor! Gojo x arranged! Empress reader
summary - you've been set to marry the new emperor Satoru Gojo, but he wants nothing to do with all of that, he doesn't even come to your first meeting - rude! No, he must bathe with his concubines, but when he sees you for the first time and doesn't even know you're his wife? Everything shifts, but it turns out he doesn't know that you're not happy to be here either. Leaving your past love behind and everything you know for a foreign country, just to be unwanted by your new 'husband' is almost enough to break you. You're ready to go through the motions, play your role, but do you really know who Emperor Gojo is?
contents/warnings - heavy angst, depression, enemies to lovers, longing, mutual pining, explicit smut, back and forth games, court tactics, Satoru being a hoe, reader missing her lover Suguru, he falls hard playlist - Ao3 link
headcanons below!
Emperor! Gojo who loves all of his pretty concubines equally, he loves to please them, to tease them, to fill them up. To be a concubine of Satoru Gojo's was the utmost position in the empire, women fought hard to climb the ranks for such a chance. Satoru recently took over the position after his father passed away, and has pushed off marriage proposals left and right, why not just have fun with all his beautiful ladies?
Emperor! Gojo however is now being forced into marriage, he's played a foolish bachelor too long, and the higher ups have brought a perfect match from another land, a young princess who has been brought here just for him. Gojo is completely uninterested in meeting her, why should he be excited, the duties of being an emperor were taxing enough without having to meet some stranger and have to sleep with her, have babies with her. He ignores the meeting he's supposed to attend in favor of spending time with his favorite concubines at once, quite scandalous even for an Emperor.
Emperor! Gojo is a stranger to you as well, as you sit there sipping tea, your ladies in waiting are strangers, everyone you knew was back home, and here you are, made a fool of. There are whispers amongst them all, you can hear them as your teacup clinks on the little ceramic dish, and Emperor Gojo's mother comes in to apologize for his absence. She's a beautiful lady, you wonder if he looks like her errantly, but smile in a feigned politeness, nodding along. After all, it's not as if you were looking forward to this either.
Emperor! Gojo takes a bath with all his women, when you decide to join the bathhouse after quite a long time without one, your mind drifting to the boy you loved when you were forced to leave your home. You remember your kisses, your promises, and the moment you got sent away here, with a man who's currently being fed grapes in the clear bath waters by many women. They're giggling, touching him, and you barely see him as your attendant helps you undress.
Emperor! Gojo has brilliant blue eyes that catch you across the enormous, steamy bathhouse then - he's pausing as he sees you, just wearing a thin white slip of material, curious just who you are. You take some of the soap you've brought, and your attendant washes your hair while he can't take his eyes off you, your curves in that thin material, the way the smooth skin of your thighs is lit up but the lanterns above. You're so beautiful he must know who you are.
Emperor! Gojo feels his mouth go dry when you step into those waters now, standing a bit so that he sees the full outline of your breasts, making his cock twitch under the water, he can't focus on anything but how those droplets of water fall from your skin as you methodically wash yourself. You peer at him just a bit, before lowering your lashes, when he can't help but look at one of his favorite girls, asking - 'who is she?'
Emperor! Gojo doesn't get an answer, no one knows what you look like yet, so he assumes you must be one of the new girls in a position to become a concubine. and fuck if he wouldn't love that opportunity, imagining fucking a baby into you ruins him then. One of his major duties is to have as many babies as he can, to strengthen the empire of course. Yet he tends to be a little apprehensive, he dares to admit he doesn't cum in any of the concubines yet, he doesn't know if he wants children right away. He's young, but of course the pressure is there, and he knows it will be soon, especially with him having to marry. He shoves that annoying thought away.
Emperor! Gojo was supposed to meet his wife today, should he feel bad? maybe. Does he? no, he does not. He steps away and walks across the water, giving you a good look at him then, his chiseled body, narrow torso, pale skin glimmering under the warmth of the room. The stream rises as you look slowly up his body, carved like a statue, then finally make it to his face, truly beautiful. He does look like his mother, those white locks with just a hint of lavender, the beautiful blue eyes even more intense than hers, his body glistening as he walks closer, plump vermilion lips curved in a smile as he murmurs a - 'hello, there, are you new here?'
Emperor! Gojo has a reputation of being kind and fair, though on the battlefield he was ruthless, tales of him were regaled worldwide, and you knew of his military prowess of course. You tremble just a bit as he gets closer, his eyes slipping down your body like a caress. 'I am new here, your majesty' he smiles now. 'No need to be so formal,' the emperor brushes a hand across your hair, marveling in the silkiness now. 'Are you here to be a concubine? I assure you, I have a position opening very soon' he acts as if that's a compliment, as if you should be thrilled your husband to be is willing to fuck a stranger while he ignores your meeting. But you smile, shaking your head. 'ah, you're mysterious, hmm?'
Emperor! Gojo is enamored when he touches you under the water, big hand on the small of your back, taking it over as he steps closer, so tall and imposing in the water. Your breasts brush against his abdomen, as your breaths quicken, a mix of irritation and something more you don't want to admit. 'You know who I am?' you nod a bit, biting your lip when he leans down, pressing you along the warmth of the hard wall behind you. one of his long thighs presses against your heat, and you hate how your body reacts, it feels like such a betrayal of the one you loved, and for a man who doesn't want to even know you? You bite back a sigh when he leans down, an arm on either side of you.
Emperor! Gojo murmurs the words - 'so fucking pretty, god,' and earns your blush, he chuckles as he sees it, flushed color on your cheeks, when his lips hover over yours. 'Can you at least tell me your name, mysterious girl?' when you say it he immediately recognizes it, faltering and stepping back, eyes wide. You smile, meanly then, batting your lashes. 'was such a shame you couldn't meet me for tea, hmm? I see you were otherwise occupied' you eye the girls behind his shoulders, whispering to each other wildly, when you push him back, hands on his chest. 'It's rude not to even meet me after I got dragged on a five day journey on ship, you know.'
Emperor! Gojo sputters, eyeing your hands on his chest that he now pins there for a moment. 'You're my... you can't be... you...' a sigh escapes your lips, as you tug your hands back. 'Yes, I'm your betrothed, I suppose this is our first meeting. I'll leave you to your pretty concubines, I'm afraid I don't intend on becoming one,' you turn and climb up those steps, the slip forming to you like a goddess, as you turn him down. No one has ever turned Emperor Gojo down!? yet here you are, turning and giving him a little smile as your attendant hands you a towel. 'Perhaps you'll make it to the wedding, your majesty'
Emperor! Gojo is wracked with confusion, part of him doesn't even believe you, concubines were known for their beauty and assets, but wives were much different. They were always from some long line of weak women, usually only there for their duty, his own mother was quite an exception, but her and his father never loved each other. He hoped himself to never have to marry, but now he feels just the smallest twinge of guilt for not meeting you. Even for him it was quite the talk, he could hear the rumors of how he doesn't have interest in his bride to be as he walks through the corridors of his opulent estates.
Emperor! Gojo sees glimpses of you here and there that week, but you bow and say no words to him, avoiding him until it is your wedding day. And to say you were beautiful before, now it leaves him speechless, throat dry as you were those beautiful sky blue ceremonial juunihitoe, layers of blue and white, embossed with silver flowers just flowing from your body. He's wearing his thick dark blue sokutai, the robes altered to reveal far too much of his muscled chest, as Satoru liked to do. His heart hammers as you clutch your hands together, feeling the stoic eyes of so many on you. You focus on the tall, handsome man that clearly doesn't want this any more than you do, stepping closer and closer, until you're in front of him.
Emperor! Gojo is still reeling when you both sip on each of the three cups of sake, he places his lips on one end of the little dish, then hands it to you, eyeing the red painted on your lips. Your makeup has been done clearly, there's color under your eyes, blush along your precious cheeks. Precious, why did he think that? the thought irritates him, when you two continue the ceremony. Soon, it's night time, and he's prepared in just a thin Kimono, loosely tied, walking over to your chambers now and entering them, seeing you sitting in front of the vanity, your attendant brushing out your hair. 'You may go,' he orders her, the doors shutting with a loud echo as he inhales the sweetness of your scent, mixing with the incense you've lit.
Emperor! Gojo has a husky tone as he says your name, and you stand up now, wearing just a thin blue robe, he can see your breasts rising and falling with your breath, as the two of you stand across the room. 'The sooner I have a baby, the less you'll have to see me, or do this,' you say then, shocking him. His mouth opens, then closes as he smirks at you. 'And you think that you know how that's done?' you tilt your head just a bit, letting your robes fall then, covered in nothing, completely bare for his eyes. His breaths come far too quickly, heat rising on his cheeks. He's been with countless women, but nothing prepared him for this, for you, when you step up to him slowly, a hand on his chest. 'Should I prepare you, your majesty?'
Emperor! Gojo is furiously blushing now, annoyed you have whatever odd effect this is, he tries to save face, trembling as your fingers dance across the silk of his robe. 'you think you're adequate at it?' he says then, you smile just a bit. 'I've had instruction on how to please my future husband, there are many books that show it,' he laughs, trying to play it off, when he undoes his tie, and he's just in a fundoshi, showing his cock straining while his robes land on the floor. 'Let's see it, then,' he gasps when you're on your knees, glaring as he thinks that maybe you've done this before, and why should that bother him!?
Emperor! Gojo has his cock free then, slapping his stomach as it does, thick and already hard from just seeing you, you bite your lip as the cool stone floor hurts your knees, stroking him slowly, from the base where he has tufts of white hair, to his pink tip leaking milky drops. 'I thought I'd have to get you in this state? the books didn't mention it being ready...' he glares now, you're insulting him without even knowing it, calling out his desperation. He entangles a hand in your hair then, pulling it as you lap at his tip, almost making him cum from that. 'Let's see what you've learned, hmm?' you're stroking him then, little hand up and down in gentle twists, as you suck him into your mouth, deeper and deeper, his eyes roll back in his head as he fucks your hot mouth then.
Emperor! Gojo has never felt anything better even from the most practiced girls, your suction, the way your tongue swirls, as he fucks your throat deeper and deeper, moaning. But mostly, those eyes looking up at him. He's whispering filthy things - 'slutty fucking throat' - then sweet things - 'doing s'good, sweetheart...' a conundrum of a man. You feel your tummy clenching, something you didn't expect, snowy lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, while you taste him, hands pressing on his muscled thighs. He pulls you off him then, saliva dripping from your mouth. 'Was I not adequate?' he laughs without humor, standing you up now. 'Not adequate?' he is lifting you and slamming his lips on yours, tasting himself, before carrying you on your enormous bed, decorated in more blues, the color of the Gojo clan, the colors of his eyes.
Emperor! Gojo has elegant long fingers, they slip down your body as he feels it tremble, fingers touching your slick cunt then. You gasp as he kisses down one of your breasts, sucking a nipple in his mouth, moaning and rutting his cock on the silk blankets as you cry out. 'Your majesty, you don't need to do all of that, just... get it done,' your words make him pause, looking up and seeing you then, lips swollen from his kisses. He pauses and looks down your body, dying to be inside you, but your words fuck him then. All of the concubines wanted Satoru, and you were just 'doing your duty'. He pulls back then, raising a brow at you. 'Do I need to suck you more?' he shakes his head, clearing his throat then - 'tonight, we will not consummate the marriage' - the words hurt you deeply. 'did I displease you?'
Emperor! Gojo doesn't know what it is, but the thought of a woman not wanting him, especially you, infuriates him. He shoves you up the bed then, making you blink in confusion, when he kisses down your tummy, watching it tense as he dreams of making it bulge with his cock. 'Are you untouched?' he asks, you blush then. 'I have not lain with a man, no, but I'm not untouched.' Satoru's furious anyone saw your pretty body, but he makes no comment, he surely hates tradition and wouldn't care if you were or were not a virgin. In fact he prefers experience, but when he sees your pretty pussy, glistening and soaked, he moans softly, the prettiest one he's seen. 'Your majesty, that's not... in the books!? ah!'
Emperor! Gojo has his tongue slipping up your slit then, smirking against your cunt as your mouth is wide. 'Not everything is in your books, sweetheart,' he laps up your slit again, and you whine out, gripping his shoulders, your nails pressing in. 'I'll have you cum on my face tonight,' his words are now muffled as he buries his face in your sweetness, letting the juices drown him, moaning as he works your body. He feels you tense, feels your cunt pulsing around his tongue when he fucks into your tiny hole, holding your thighs apart. You're lost in how good it feels, you've cum before but never have you done this, felt this, so intense, so much pressure. You're screaming out, hips arching as he makes filthy sounds with your squelching cunt.
Emperor! Gojo almost cums from just this, he's never enjoyed this so much, he can't help but pay attention to every little thing. You yank on his hair, as if to tug him off, he clamps down then, sucking your twitchy little clit into his mouth. 'ah! y-your majesty!' he wants you to call him Satoru, he can't say it though, for now he just devours your pussy, until you shatter. There are no words, just filthy, messy sounds, slurping and squishing echoing in your brand new chambers, while you cum all over your new husband's face. You're shaking as you come down, as the orgasm leaves aftershocks, pulsing around nothing, pleasure making you dizzy, blinded. Satoru presses one more kiss on your pretty cunt, smirking down at you now, pressing a kiss to your lips, when you taste yourself you're a blushing mess. 'a lot of talk, I don't think you're ready f'me yet, sweetheart'
Emperor! Gojo is getting up then, as you catch your breath, sitting up and looking at the man you barely know, his eyes linger across your body as he swipes his chin, embarrassingly coated with your slick. 'And where will you go, your concubines to cum?' he chuckles then, leaning low, tilting your chin up as you look at him. 'would that bother you, sweetheart?' you shake your head, it can't bother you, it shouldn't, this will be your life now. 'Ah, you're not the best liar, that won't help you play the court, you know,' he turns and walks away then, leaving you alone, to contemplate it all.
Just who was Emperor! Gojo!?
hehe I hope ya'll enjoy I can't wait to finish up a couple stories and get to this (or be chaotic and do it anyway lmaoo)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.
꧁ᬊᬁ Duty made him your protector. Love made him your ruin. ᬊ᭄꧂
Pairings: Knight!Gojo x Princess!Reader
Content warnings + tags: MDNI 18+: royal au, medieval fantasy, forbidden romance, childhood friends to lovers, secret relationship, slow burn, graphic violence and bloodshed, battle, war injuries, power imbalance, eventual smut, loss of virginity, cheating/infidelity, arranged marriage, manipulation, mistreatment, trauma, angst (but also fluff I promise), Gojo is a certified loverboy and yearner
Synopsis: In a kingdom where duty eclipses desire, you were born a princess—crowned in gold and bound by expectation. He was the son of a noble house, reckless and brilliant, who once swore he would always protect you.
Years later, that childhood promise has become something neither of you can name—and everything you cannot have. As war stirs beyond your borders and alliances are brokered in candlelit halls, your sworn knight stands by your side, a constant shadow and the secret you can never let go.
A story of a love forged in loyalty and tested by sacrifice.
Oaths in Innocence ꧁ᬊᬁ To Be Yours in Secret
The Children and the Crown
All's Fair in Love and War ᬊ᭄꧂ If You Would Have Me Still
Pairing: Tiger Hybrid!Sukuna x fem!Deer Hybrid!Reader
Somehow, grumpy, difficult Sukuna becomes friends with you— a ray of sunshine back in kindergarten. From then on, you were inseparable. It takes him until the last year of high school to realize he’s been in love with you. Just when everything seems perfect, society sees the love as repulsive and dangerous. The world is unkind, stomping both of you until it causes the breakup. And yet, like a cruel joke, you both happen to attend the same college. So naturally, you fall back into what you’ve always done best: being together. It’s fine. You’re friends… really! But after loving each other for so long—can you stay just friends?
Context: College AU, Yearning, Childhood best friends to lovers (to ex and friends again), Diversion w/ herbivores and carnivores, Forbidden love, Grumpy x Sunshine, Teenage romance, loss of virginity, Breakup, Flashbacks, Drunk dialing? Fluff/angst/Eventual Smut, Rut/Heat, Fwb? Knotting, Reader is a Chital deer (they have prementant white spots!) Size difference, Happy ending, dad!kuna?
Part 1: Puppy love
Still thinking about how many parts will be added but thinking about 7 (but longer parts_
A/N: Im superrr exicted to write this series (and listening to sad music while writing (ah so excited!)) but fr, I'm really looking forward to it.
currently working on part 2!
I couldnt find the artist :(, ill update this if i do tho
Taglist open! In addition, please inform me if you’ll still like to be tagged when smut chapter are posted for this series—for those chapters, please make sure your age is listed somewhere on your bio/page, must be 18+)
synopsis: Your village tried—and failed—to kill the king of curses, so he razed it in a day. as a last-ditch offering, they gave him you: soft-spoken, well-bred, meant to be a symbol of surrender (or a future corpse). they expected you to cry, beg, maybe throw yourself from his balcony. Instead, when sukuna returns from war two months later, he finds you alive and well: organising his palace, baking for his servants, folding his robes like you belong there. You hate him though, and he hates you. and worst of all? you don’t fear him, not the way you should. He doesn’t kill you. He watches. always. because the god of slaughter was supposed to forget you, now he can’t stop wanting you.
pairings: heian era!Sukuna x war bride!Reader
content/warnings: fire, destruction of home, village destruction, mass death, graphic violence, blood and gore, slow burn, historical fantasy, Heian-inspired setting, fish out of water, grief arc, female rage, reader protagonist, Sukuna x Reader, Uraume buggin
Early Winter, Morning
Akebara: Day of Akebara’s destruction
By dawn, there would be nothing left of your home but ashes and ghosts.
The floor burns beneath your palms as you drag yourself forward through the wreckage. Ash cakes your hands black. Your fingers slip across what used to be polished cedar wood—your mother’s low dining table, perhaps, or one of the veranda doors that rattled softly during storms. It is impossible to tell now. The grain has burned out of everything. What remains is blackened, smooth, brittle as old bone left too long beneath the sun.
A beam somewhere above groans like a dying animal. You flinch instinctively, the movement sending pain lancing through your shoulder. Dust sifts from the ruined ceiling in pale streams, settling in your hair and lashes. Smoke crawls into your lungs with every breath, carrying the bitter stink of charred wood, burnt bodies, and something…
Something copper-sweet.
Blood.
You do not remember falling, however, you do remember running. That much is certain. The slap of bare feet against polished corridors. Shouts splitting the night apart. A villager crashing into you hard enough to send both of you sprawling. The crack of timber, the screams of a child somewhere beyond the garden bridge.
Your mother’s voice—No—not her voice. Only the faint memory of it torn to pieces before it could ever reach you whole. After that came heat. Heat so fierce it swallowed the air from your lungs.
If you stopped moving, even for a moment, the flames would devour you whole. Now there is only silence. Silence, and the distant ringing of shrine bells somewhere beyond the smoke.
“Mama,” you try, and the word breaks apart halfway out, splintering against your throat. You cough hard enough that it aches, one hand braced weakly against the floorboards, but it does nothing. The smoke clings stubbornly inside your lungs. “Mama…?”
Far beyond the ruin, you think you can still hear the village screaming. Men shouting over one another. The shrill terror of frightened oxen and sheep. Yet all sounds strangely distant, muffled beneath the violent ringing inside your skull. It whines endlessly in your ears like a living thing burrowed deep behind your eyes.
You crawl anyway. There is no thought left in you now, only movement. The stubborn animal need to survive. Your sleeve drags through soot and shattered plaster, the pale fabric turning black at once. Heat radiates from the ruined floorboards beneath your knees. Your vision pulses strangely, the edges of the world blurring in and out as though you’re sinking underwater. A support beam collapsed across the corridor ahead, split clean through the middle. You push weakly against it with trembling hands. It does not move, so you drag yourself around it instead.
“Papa…” you whisper this time, quieter than before, as though he may be close enough to hear if you don’t frighten him away.
Only then do you realise your lips have split open somewhere along the way. When you lick them, the taste of iron spreads across your tongue. Nothing around you looks right anymore. The house has become something monstrous and unfamiliar. Walls lean where they should stand straight. The roof has caved inward like the ribs of a rotting carcass.
There is something low to the ground near the remains of the veranda.
A chest, perhaps. Or bedding.
Or—
Your thoughts stop short as your hand catches suddenly against something soft. You freeze. For one terrible, hopeful moment, warmth floods your chest so quickly it hurts. Fabric, you think wildly. A sleeve. Someone is there. You turn at once, blinking through smoke and tears, straining to force the shape into something familiar.
But there is nothing waiting for you.
Only charred cloth collapsed into ash, blackened and hollowed through, crumbling apart beneath your fingertips. Empty. Like everything else. You don’t know where you are anymore. Whether this is still your home or merely the bones of it, every corridor looks the same now—burned black, collapsed inward, stripped bare of shape and memory.
You could be anywhere.
You could already be dead, and this a cruel hindsight by the gods.
“Mama,” you whisper again. This time, the word barely leaves your mouth at all.
“It’s her!”
Before you can make sense of the words, rough hands seize you beneath the arms. You cry out as your body is hauled upward so violently that your breath leaves you in a broken gasp. Your feet drag once against splintered floorboards, then lose purchase entirely. Panic overtakes thought.
You kick wildly, twisting in their grasp like a trapped animal. Your heel strikes something solid and one of the men grunts. Instead of loosening, the grip on you tightens painfully. Another hand clamps around your arm, iron-hard, hauling you higher until you are pinned between bodies that smell of sweat, smoke, and scorched leather.
“Hold her,” a man says.
Your vision stutters as they turn. The world comes apart in flashes. Burning beams collapsing inward with showers or sparks. Through the smoke, you glimpse what remains of your home.
Or, what had once been your home.
The outer walls have already caved inward, the veranda is gone entirely. Fire pours through the structure greedily, licking through. You stare at is as they carry you past. You cannot stop staring. The night has opened wide above the village, vast and black and terrible, streaked orange by firelight. Nothing hides the destruction here. Not walls. Not shadows. The fields beyond the homes glow faintly beneath drifting embers, and smoke rolls across the earth in thick grey waves.
A woman stumbles through the mud clutching a child to her chest, her hair half-burned away. An old man kneels beside a collapsed house muttering prayers beneath his breath, over and over, though whether to the buddhas or the kami, it is useless.
Your thoughts cannot keep pace with any of it. You do not know who these men are. You do not know what they want from you. You only know the dreadful certainty gathering cold in your stomach: whatever comes next will not spare you, you hope they’ll kill you after.
Your feet leave the ground once more.
Then suddenly—
You are dropped.
The impact slams through your body hard enough to empty your lungs. Pain flashes white-hot through your knees and palms as you hit the earth too late to catch yourself properly. Mud and ash smear across your hands. The taste of iron floods your mouth again where your teeth strike the inside of your cheek. The world lurches violently sideways. First, the man kneeling before you. He is bent low against the soot-black earth, forehead pressed into the dirt as though in prayer. His posture is not reverence.
It is surrender. Around him, the village burns. Rooflines collapse inward in bursts of sparks. Smoke climbs slowly into the heavens in obscene twisting ribbons. Firelight flickers across shattered beams and broken walls. The place where your home once stood has become unrecognisable—a smouldering heap of blackened timber and ash.
Gone so completely it almost feels as though it had never existed at all.
Then…more of the figure behind him comes into view. Tall and wrong. Not merely in height, but in proportion, as though the body itself had been shaped according to rules different from those of ordinary men. Four arms rest in terrible stillness at his sides, and somehow that stillness feels more violent than movement ever could.
Even the fire seems unwilling to draw too close. He does not look at the burning village, nor to you. His eyes rest solely upon the kneeling priest as though the man’s death has already happened and only the body has yet to realise it. The men behind you shove you forward roughly once more.
Every instinct inside you screams to flee, yet your body feels nailed to the ground. Lord Sukuna.
You lower your gaze at once in cowardice. The earth beneath your trembling hands is damp with something warmer than rain. Blood, perhaps. You don’t allow yourself to look closely enough to know. Instead, your eyes catch upon the hem of his robes—silk dark as fresh ink, embroidered faintly with gold thread now blackened by ash.
The kneeling priest trembles so violently his sleeves shake against the dirt. Only then do you recognise the bastard.
Not by his face. His features are smeared black with soot and sweat but—but his voice.
That same voice that once recited sutras during spring rites while children slept against their mothers’ laps beneath paper lantern light. The same voice that scolded your father for missed offerings. The same voice that looked upon your family with eyed disapproval whenever your mother spoke too boldly. The village priest.
“M’lord,” he stammers, pressing his forehead deeper into the ash. “Please—please accept this offering! S-She is untouched, pure—her family line is respectable, h-her mother educated her properly, her father served the military and s-shrine f-faithfully, and—and—”
Beside you, silk rustles softly. The sound nearly stops your heart.
The priest continues in frantic bursts, words tumbling over one another so quickly they scarcely sound human anymore.
“She is obedient—soft-spoken—a suitable woman, m’lord. Strong hips for bearing sons, healthy besides. She can serve you well, she can—”
The wet sound comes suddenly. You don’t understand what has happened, until you see the priest come apart. Your breath catches painfully beneath your ribs as half his body topples sideways into the dirt. The rest folds forward a moment later with a heavy spill of torn flesh and shattered bone. Blood rushes black-red across the earth in steaming sheets, creeping toward your knees.
Something hot surges violently into your throat. You clamp your mouth shut hard enough to hurt. The smell reaches you a heartbeat later. Fresh blood. Opened flesh.
Do not breathe. Do not breathe and perhaps he will forget you are here. Your lungs ache at once, already scraped raw by smoke and heat, but still you force your chest still. Panic claws beneath your skin. Your pulse pounds so hard you fear he must surely hear it.
If you suffocate quietly enough, perhaps death will take you before he does. Perhaps death by your own body is kinder than death by his hands.
Then Lord Sukuna speaks. The voice is low enough that you cannot make out the words themselves, yet the command inside them is unmistakable. Footsteps answer immediately. The two men behind you barely have time to react. A sharp movement cuts through the dark. Warm blood spatters suddenly across your cheek. One body collapses beside you hard enough to shake the earth beneath your palms. The second falls moments later with a choking noise cut brutally short midway through.
Behind you, the village still burns. Timber cracks apart beneath flame. Somewhere in the distance, someone screams once before the sound vanishes abruptly into the night.
Yet around Lord Sukuna there exists another kind of quiet entirely.
A dreadful stillness.
You gasp hard enough to choke, smoke tearing through your lungs the moment your mouth opens. The burn is immediate. A fit of coughing doubles you over, tears sting your eyes at once. When your vision finally steadies, there is someone kneeling before you. You don’t remember them approaching. One moment, there had been only blood and fire and Lord Sukuna’s dreadful silence. The next, this stranger.
Their skin is almost colourless beneath the shifting firelight, untouched by soot despite the ash drifting endlessly through the air. White hair falls neatly to their cheeks, cut blunt and straight. You cannot tell whether they are a boy or a girl. Young, certainly. Mayhaps your age, mayhaps younger.
Their face is lovely in the way winter rivers are lovely. A hand enters your vision, clean, impossible clean. Around you, the earth is soaked dark with blood. Ash drifts through the air like black snow. Bodies lie cooling only a few paces away. And their fingers remain untouched by any of it, pale and steady as carved ivory.
“It would be best,” the stranger says softly, “if you did not resist.”
The offered hand remains suspended between you, though the choice no longer belongs to you at all.
———
Early Winter, Dawn
Shiranui: The Palace of Ryōmen
The room is extremely clean. That is the first thing you think as you lie staring up at the ceiling. Dark cedar run overhead, polished smooth by years and years of careful hands. Not a speck of dust hangs between them. Not a single cobweb clings to the corners. No ash, no soot, no smoke.
Instead, the room smells faintly of something floral you cannot name. Everything is clean. The rush mats between your cheek are pale gold. The walls are unmarked. A bronze incense burner sits upon a low table, polished brightly. The tears slip soundlessly into your hair. Another. Then another. At some point, the pale stranger had brought you here. The journey remains scattered through your memory like a broken pottery.
Polished floors that reflected lanternlight in wavering gold ribbons. Cedar pillars thick enough that three men together might not have wrapped their arms around them. Painted screens depicting cranes standing amongst reeds, foxes disappearing into forests of red maple, great waves curling beneath silver moons.
Servants had appeared wherever you looked. Men. Women. Folk not much older than yourself.
Every one of them dropped instantly to their knees as the pale stranger passed. Foreheads lowered. Eyes fixed upon the floorboards. None dared look directly at him. Beyond him either.
The walk to this estate was even longer. You remember staring at the back of his white head for what felt like an eternity. “Are you a boy or a girl?” you had asked.
He glanced back, “A boy.” Then he turned forward again. And that was all. You hadn't bothered to even learn his name.
Beneath your robes, your skin aches. Dried blood tightens across your arms and shoulders. Every movement pulls at it unpleasantly. Smoke still lives in your hair. You can smell it whenever you breathe. No matter how many times your fingers drift upwards to touch the tangled strands, the scent remains.
Your hand rises to your mouth, pressing your knuckles hard against your lips. The tears continue anyway. There’s no village sounds here. No sound of barking dogs waking you up, nor chickens scratching through the dirt; no cart wheels rattling over uneven roads; no neighbours calling to one another across gardens; no sounds of children’s laughter.
Only silence. A different silence than the one surrounding Lord Sukuna.
Just then, the door slides open with a whisper of wood against wood. Your eyes follow the sound.
A woman. Her black hair is drawn into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, secured with a simple wooden pin. Her robes are plain beside the silks you glimpsed throughout the estate, yet they are finer than anything you’ve ever owned. Not a wrinkle mars the fabric. Not a loose thread escapes the stitching. She kneels immediately.
“My lady, the bath has been prepared.”
The title strikes you harder than the sight of the burning village. My lady. You nearly laugh.
You drag yourself upright with stiff, trembling limbs. Your knees protest immediately. One buckles before catching itself. The dried blood upon your skin cracks as you move, smoke-blackened sleeves hang from your arms. Soot stains your hands, your neck, your face. It stains everything. The servant says naught, though you’re sure the sight of the dirtied mats trouble her more than you.
She rises to her feet and waits. You follow because there is nothing left to do, out the door, to the halls.
The corridors seem endless. They wind through the palace like riverways through a forest, turning corners only to reveal more corridors beyond. In the distance, water trickles over stone. The sound follows you…a small, peaceful sound. You find yourself hating it. Servants move through the corridors as silently as ghosts. Some carry folded robes. Others lacquered trays. Every one lowers their eyes the moment they see you. None speak.
At last, the servant stops before a pair of doors, upon sliding one, you’re met immediately with warmth. The bathing chamber stretches beyond. Your breath catches. The room…it’s enormous. Massive wooden beams cross the high ceiling overhead, darkened almost black by years of steam and heat. Lanternlight dances along pale stone walls polished smooth as river rock. At the chamber’s centre rests the bath.
A pool, you’ll say. Sunken deep into the earth itself, perfectly round. Water laps gently against smooth stone edges worn soft by time. Pale petals drift across the surface in slow circles. Lanternlight shimmers beneath them, turning the water molten gold wherever it catches.
You forget yourself, but just for one terrible moment. It is beautiful. It doesn’t belong in the same world as the village. Only hours ago, you had crawled through smoke and blood and burning timber. You’d watched men die, watched homes collapse into embers. Yet, here the air smells of cedar and flowering plum. Here the stone floors have been scrubbed clean. Here petals float upon warm water whilst servants bow and avert their eyes.
The contrast makes your stomach feel strangely hollow.
The servant withdraws towards the wall and lowers her gaze. You remain standing for several moments, staring at the water as steam curls around your ankles. The robe hangs from your shoulders. Smoke has worked itself into every thread. The fabric smells of ash. Of your village. Of home.
Home.
Slowly, your fingers find the ties. The robe loosens and slips from your shoulders. It falls in dark folds around your feet. Soot stains the pale fabric in dozens of places. A torn sleeve hangs by loose threads. Dried blood darkens the cuffs.
Barefoot, you step forward and descend the stone stairs. The water reaches your ankles first, your knees, then finally your waist.
Heat wraps around you immediately. A shaky breath escapes before you can stop it, your body feels heavy suddenly. You hear the servant exit the room, so you take the opportunity to sink deeper.
The water rises over your ribs, your shoulders, your collarbones. Petals brush softly against your skin before drifting away again. Your hair spreads across the surface behind you in dark ribbons. For a few moments you simply sit there, staring across the bath.
Before you can let your tears fall, you draw a breath and slip beneath the surface. Water closes around you at once. The world vanishes. Everything does. Your hair lifts weightlessly around your face.
The image of the priest still lingers somewhere within your mind, even that seems farther away beneath the water. His voice. The spray of blood across your cheek. The sight of his body collapsing into the dirt. You remain there longer than you should.
Perhaps this would be a fate easier than Lord Sukuna’s hands.
Something disturbs your stillness. Even through the water, you feel it. Above you, distorted by rippling gold light, blurred figures move beyond the surface.
Reluctantly, you rise. Only enough for your eyes to clear the water. Everything else remains submerged beneath the drifting petals. Women stand gathered at the bath’s edge.
Four of them.
All dressed alike in layered robes pale as cream, the sleeves embroidered with delicate plum blossoms picked out in silver thread. Their dark hair has been pushed smooth until it gleams beneath the lanternlight, every strand pinned precisely into place. Even their faces appear nearly identical. White powder softens their features. Their lips are painted red. Red strokes of black accent the corners of their eyes.
Their conversation dies the instant they notice you watching.
“My lady?” one asks after a hesitant pause. Her voice is soft enough that it barely disturbs the stillness. “May we know your name?”
You say nothing. Water laps quietly against stone.
The woman waits a moment longer before lowering her gaze. Another kneels beside several folded cloths and a collection of small ceramic jars arranged neatly upon a lacquered tray. She reaches towards one uncertainly.
Your eyes remain fixed upon them. The woman slowly withdraws her hand. A third servant shifts awkwardly where she kneels. “Were you injured during your journey?” she asks. “If my lady is in pain, we can summon a physician.”
The women exchange brief, uneasy glances. One clears her throat. “My lady? Are you able to speak?”
You continue staring. The youngest servant lowers her voice, though terrible whispering. “Perhaps she cannot hear us.”
“No,” another whispers (terribly, might you add). “She looked when you spoke.”
“Then perhaps she is frightened. I would be frightened too.”
A third woman shoots them both a warning look. Their whispers cease immediately.
The unease remains. You can see it in the way their hands fidget within their sleeves. The way one repeatedly smooths wrinkles that do not exist from her robes. The way another keeps glancing towards the door as though expecting someone else to arrive and solve the problem for her.
“...P-perhaps we should call Lady Yorozu?”
One of the older attendants shakes her head. “Lady Yorozu departed just this morning.”
The relief vanishes just as quickly. At last the oldest woman lowers her gaze respectfully and folds her hands within her sleeves.
“My lady must rise. We cannot bathe you otherwise.”
When you do not move, a flash of uncertainty crosses her painted face. “My lady?”
The title sounds less confident this time. Almost questioning.
Slowly, without breaking eye contact until the very last moment, you rise from the water. Droplets trail down your skin in silver rivulets. None of the women look directly at you now. Their eyes lower almost immediately, trained carefully upon your hands, your shoulders, the stone floor. You wade towards the bath’s edge in silence.
You turn your back to them and wait. After that encounter, they approach more carefully. One kneels behind you with a wooden basin resting atop folded cloth. Another dips a ladle into warm water, pouring it slowly across your shoulders. The heat runs down your spine in shimmering streams. A third works powdered azuki beans and rice bran into a soft paste before rubbing it gently along your arms.
Her fingers work patiently over your skin, loosening soot from your elbows, dried blood from your wrists, ash from the curve of your neck. Grey water trickles down your body and disappears back into the bath.
Beneath its surface, bruises emerge one by one from beneath the grime. Dark stains bloom along your knees. Purple shadows wrap around one wrist where fingers had once seized you too tightly. A scrape runs the length of your forearm.
You can see one of the women notice it. Her eyes pause, immediately lowering, ashamed to have looked.
In Akebara, women bathed together from childhood until marriage. Shoulder pressed against shoulder in riverwater cold enough to numb the calves. Mothers washed daughters, sisters washed sisters. Old women scrubbed children’s hair whilst gossip drifted between them as naturally as birdsong. No one thought much of nakedness. Flesh was flesh, bone was bone. Yet, these court ladies move around you as though your bare skin were something sacred.
Their ears glow faintly pink whenever they accidentally took too long. They avert their eyes whilst washing the very body they have been commanded to tend. You study them.
All four wear layered kosode beneath their outer robes, the fabric so fine it catches the lanternlight like water. Their sleeves are long enough to brush the floor when they kneel. The woman seated to your left reaches for your hand, gently turning it over to rinse the soot gathered beneath your nails. There’s a mole beside her mouth. A small thing, even naught the powder can hide.
“Your name.”
The woman freezes so suddenly droplets spill from her ladle and patter against the stone. “Shimamoto no Mika, my lady.”
You consider this. “It suits you.”
The woman beside her glances up briefly before looking away again. You turn towards the youngest among them.
She cannot hide amongst the others no matter how carefully she imitates them. Youth clings stubbornly to her face. Her sleeves are slightly too long for her wrists. Every few moments she pushed them back only for the fabric to slip forward again. A faint dusting of freckles peeks through the powder across her nose.
You point at her. “And yours?”
The girl startles outright. The ladle in her hands nearly stops. “Y-Yoshimura no Kame, my lady.”
A small laugh escapes you. “All noble names.” The women become very still as you glance from one painted face to the next. “Have they truly set daughters of the court to scrub soot from a peasant?”
Complete silence follows. The young woman beside you resumes pouring warm water down your arm. Her hand trembles ever so slightly. A few droplets miss entirely, splashing against the floor. No one answers your question. That, more than anything, feels like an answer.
“How many years have you seen, Kame?”
“...F-four and ten years, my lady.”
So young. You think suddenly of village girls chasing dragonflies through flooded rice fields in midsummer, shrieking with laughter as their hems soak through. Fourteen is for flower-viewing, not for kneeling inside the palace of Ryomen Sukuna while corpses cool beyond the walls.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper before thinking better of it.
Another lady lowers her head. “This one serves willingly—”
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” you snap at the lady, looking back to Yoshimura. “Would you return home, if permitted?”
That stills the chamber entirely. Not one woman moves. Steam curls upward between you all, thick enough to veil the lanternlight. Somewhere water drips softly into stone. Kame’s fingers tighten around the cedar dipper. Her eyes flick sideways toward the eldest attendant before lowering once more. You understand. A different woman kneels before you and takes your hands into hers. Her fingers are cool despite the warmth of the bath. Small, fine hands.
She studies your hands, staring at the calluses, the cracked skin, the traces of dirt still caught deep within the creases. Then, she begins her work. A damp cloth passes over your fingers. A small carved tool slips beneath each nail to loosen the grime hidden there.
The woman notices and immediately bows her head lower, though her hands continue. “Forgive me, my lady.”
Again, she presses too harshly beneath the nail bed. You draw your hand back from your grasp. “That will do.”
No one moves. Perhaps they mistake your meaning. Court women are expected to protest delicately before allowing themselves to be attended once more. The thought irritates you. The attendant reaches again for your wrist.
You stare at her. “I said enough.”
This time the women glance toward one another openly. You see now how carefully ordered this place must be. Nothing here moves without instruction descending from some higher mouth first. Even dismissal requires permission. Irritation rises slowly and cold through your chest.
The woman nearest you bows until her forehead nearly touches the floor. “My lady, we have been instructed to complete your preparations.”
You rise slightly within the bath then, water slipping down your skin in quiet streams, and the attendants avert their eyes at once. Not one dares look directly upon you now.
“I have dismissed you.” You explode. “What manners has your lord taught within this palace, that women no longer know how to obey?”
At once, the women bow so low their sleeves spill across the damp stone like pools of silk ink.
“Hai, my lady.”
None depart. They obey you [insofar] as they are permitted to obey you. Nothing more, nothing less. Somewhere above them rests another command, stricter than your own, and no amount of temper from a soot-strained low villager will loosen it. The realisation irritates you afresh. You turn away before they might see it plainly upon your face.
The air smells different from Akebara’s fields. The water here tastes of minerals when it touches your lips, drawn perhaps from some deep spring hidden. You take up the cloth beside the bath and scrub hard at your own skin.
One of the women shifts from where she kneels, though none dare interrupt again. You rub until your skin reddens beneath the heat, until the last streaks of soot dissolve into the bathwater. The smell lingers.
Smoke and opened flesh. Burned mats. Wet blood steaming upon dirt. You scrub harder. A hand-sized bruise blooms ugly along your forearm where someone seized you earlier. You stare at it awhile before lowering the cloth slowly back into the water. The anger leaves you as quickly as it arrived. In its place comes only exhaustion.
When you speak again, your voice sounds roughened by more than smoke alone.
“I should not have spoken so…harshly.” The women glance toward one another in visible surprise. You keep your eyes fixed on the surface of the bath as you continue. “It has been…a confusing day. To lose one’s home before sundown and wake beneath another roof before moonrise. Surely, you all would understand.”
No one answers you. Perhaps nobles within this palace do not apologise to attendants. The very notion unsettles them more than your temper did. Alas, Mika bows her head.
“This one understands that my lady has suffered greatly.”
“Do you?” you ask quietly.
The youngest, Kame, lowers her eyes further. “Many ladies come to the capital unwillingly.”
Marriage, political fostering, religious service. Daughters are traded between houses like folded letters sealed with wax. You know enough of noble custom to understand that much. Your mother made certain of it. You think suddenly of your mother’s hands guiding yours across paper years ago.
“From where do you come, Kame?”
“Shizukage, my lady.” The Silent Shadow Vale.
“And you?” you ask Mika.
“Kurobane.”
The women answer more readily after that. One from Hoshikage, where astrologers and omen readers serve mountain shrines older than the capital itself. Another from the outskirts of Yamishiro, where fortified estates crouch behind black pine forests and snow lingers longest upon the hills.
Scattered daughters gathered beneath one monstrous roof. Interesting.
“Akebara’s rice is spoken of quite favourably in the provinces. My father always claimed no village grew finer grain.”
“And the persimmon groves,” Kame blurts suddenly. The words escape her so quickly that seems surprised to hear them herself. “Forgive me…”
“There is nothing to forgive,” you smile.
Colour rises faintly beneath the powder on her cheeks.
“My father travelled there once during tax season,” she admits. “He brought persimmons home afterwards. I was very young, but…” Her fingers tighten around the cedar dipper. “I remember liking them very much.”
You find yourself remembering the groves. Rows of twisted trees stretching over the hills beyond the village. Orange fruit hangs heavy amongst the branches each autumn. Children throwing stones to knock the ripest ones loose whilst their mothers shouted at them from below.
You wonder if the roads still exist, or the village shrines. If the river where children gathered smooth stones each summer now runs black with ash and blood. Or has Lord Sukuna gotten rid of it all?
You ask them of everything. Which gardens bloom latest into water. Which corridors are forbidden after dark. The attendants answer carefully, then as easy as the steam softens around you, so do the women. They speak of moon-viewing festivals held upon the eastern terraces, of poetry gatherings amongst the noblewomen during autumn rains, of hidden shrines tucked deep within the palace grounds where foxes are said to gather. Mika speaks carefully, arranging each word before releasing it. The eldest attendant avoids superstition altogether, favouring practical answers and old traditional etiquette. Kame tells you there are corridors even servants avoid.
“Some halls have been abandoned since the old reigns. Some say spirits remain there.”
The eldest clicks her tongue. “Yoshimura.”
But the girl continues, drawn onward by your attention now. “Old ones. Sometimes, lanterns are seen burning where no servants have gone.”
You rest your cheek against the cedar rim of the bath. “Has Sukuna wandered those halls?”
Immediately, the chamber stills. The silence that follows is so sudden you hear the soft drip of water sliding from your own fingertips back into the bath below. You swear you see their face goes whiter beyond their powdered makeup. The eldest lowers herself immediately until her forehead nearly touches the damp floor. The others follow immediately.
“M-my lady,” the older woman whispers, “you must not—”
“You must never speak his name aloud,” another breathes.
You blink at them. For the first time since arriving within this palace, believe it or not, genuine confusion overtakes you. In Akebara, mothers spoke his name to frighten children into obedience. Farmers muttered it beneath their breath when tribute collectors arrived too early before harvest. Priests lowered their voices when discussing him, yes, but they still spoke it. Here they behave as though you have uttered something cursed.
The attendants do not even look toward the doors as they panic. They look upward as though the palace itself might hear you.
Kame presses trembling fingers hard against her sleeves. “Please,” she pleads quietly. “Do not say it again.”
“Then what do you call him?” you ask.
No one answers immediately. At length, Mika speaks without lifting her eyes.
“The Disgraced One.”
Another murmurs, almost inaudibly, “The Lord of Calamity. Our Lord.”
“His Excellency,” says the eldest carefully, choosing the safest path of all.
The palace does not merely obey him, it seems they worship him the way villagers worship the sacred tree praying for rain for their crops. You think then of the village priest neatly split in two before he could finish speaking. Of blood spreading hot across dirt.
“How strange,” you murmur, leaning your cheek lightly against the rim of the bath.
You hear the sound before you feel the cold. The air enters the compartment right away. The pallid figure from earlier is framed at the doorway, standing still against the shadowy hallway outside. His complexion is nearly colorless in the lanternlight. He surveys the room once.
“As though I entered a shrine during prayer…” he hisses. “You may rise. The bath should be concluded by now.”
Annoyance sparks hot beneath your ribs. You have been dragged from the ruins of your home, carried across provinces like tribute grain—now this creature dictates how long you’re permitted to sit in water.
You rise. Water slips from your skin in slow streams as you stand fully within the bath, bare beneath lanternlight. The attendants lower their eyes instantly toward the floor, though you catch Kame flushing red beneath her powder before she manages it. You don’t cover yourself.
The water trails down your body onto the stone steps as you ascend from the bath. One attendant rushes forward at once with layered drying clothes of soft woven hemp, though she hesitates before touching you, uncertain now whether permission must first be granted.
“The robes prepared for her,” he says at length, directing the words toward the attendants without once looking away from you. “Use the lighter junihitoe. His Excellency dislikes excessive fragrance.”
“Hai.”
You wonder suddenly whether anyone within these walls possesses preferences untouched by that man’s shadow. Uraume turns then as though to leave, pale sleeves whispering softly against the floor.
At the doorway, however, he pauses. Without facing you, he orders quietly, “You should learn the customs of this palace quickly.”
———
Early Winter, Three Days After Akebara
Shiranui: The Palace of Ryōmen
Morning arrives cold on the mountain. Mist gathers thick beyond the palace verandas. Somewhere below the cliffs, temple bells carry through the valleys in the long mournful notes. You wake before the attendants arrive, though you scarcely remember falling asleep at all.
Your new bedchamber prepared for you is larger than your family home in Akebara. Screens painted with cranes divide the room into graceful partitions. Silk hangings stir faintly each time mountain wind slips beneath the shutters. Even the bedding beneath you feels impossibly soft.
You hate that you slept well.
When the attendants come, they dress you in subdued layered robes suitable for mourning, though no one names it as such. Soft greys, faded cream. No cosmetics are offered beyond a touch of lip colour, perhaps that boy’s instructed restraint. Could it be the palace hasn’t decided what you are meant to be? A bride, a hostage, or an offering. The uncertainty is loud.
Morning has fully entered the palace. Servants move soundlessly along the walkways carrying trays and folded cloths. Incense flows from bronze braziers stationed near the open halls. Kame walks half a step ahead of you, visibly eager despite her attempts at composure. Today, she wears robes of soft willow-green delicately.
“This corridor leads toward the eastern residences!” she explains while guiding you around a corner lined with painted screens. “Most visiting nobles are housed there during their stay.”
Mika walks upon your opposite side in silence, her own robes darker and more restrained. Deep purple layered beneath charcoal silk. She speaks rarely unless necessary, yet when Kame falters over details, Mika supplies them quietly without correction enough to embarrass the young girl.
“And these?” you ask, pausing beside a row of hanging plaques inscribed with flowing calligraphy.
“Poems,” Kame says brightly. “His excellency has them replaced seasonally.”
You lean slightly closer to study the inkwork. Expensive paper; one poem compares winter plum blossoms to snow gathering upon a lover’s sleeve. Another mourns autumn ending before the speaker finished composing under the moon.
“Oh, this one is my favourite.” She points to one of the plaques. She clears her throat, then she reads:
“The river leaves the mountain
Though it longs for the snow.
What waits below,
Only the sea may know.”
The poem means little to you. The characters themselves are little more than beautiful shapes across expensive paper.
“That one has been here for years,” Kame says. “The steward says it was written by a wandering monk.”
“A drunk monk,” Mika giggles behind her sleeve.
“A monk nonetheless.”
Mika’s mouth twitches faintly. “A drunk monk who lost all his money gambling and attempted to pay his debts with poetry.”
The younger girl looks scandalised. “He did not.”
“He did.”
Kame turns toward you as though seeking support. “Well, I think it’s beautiful.”
“It can be beautiful and written by a fool.”
“A fool can still write beautiful things.”
Mika considers this.
“Occasionally.”
The younger attendant beams as though she has won some great victory. Neither woman notices that your stare remains fixed upon the poem. The river leaves the mountain, though it longs for the snow.
Beside you, Kame shifts from one foot to the other. “Would my lady like to hear another?” she asks eagerly. “There are several good ones further down the corridor.”
You turn towards her. “Hear another?”
“If my lady wishes, we would be pleased to read them for you,” answers Mika.
“Many noblewomen learn poetry before they learn proper household management,” Kame explains. “There is no shame in it if—”
“My lady is from Akebara, the opportunities available there are not the same as those offered at court.”
Not the same. A graceful way of saying it.
Beautiful, you wonder how many villages starved whilst these poems were written. How many farmers bent their backs in muddy fields so some nobleman might spend an afternoon mourning the passing of autumn.
The luxury of people who had never worried where their next meal would come from. Speaking of meals…the scent of cookfire smoke and rice and soy broth and—Yes.
You stop walking so abruptly Kame and Mika nearly collide with you. The corridor ahead widens into a bustling lower passage unlike the polished quiet of the upper palace. Servants move here carrying baskets of winter greens, barrels of pickled plums, sacks of grain slung over bent shoulders. Somewhere nearby, knives strike rhythmically against wooden boards whilst water boils loudly in iron pots.
“The kitchens?” you ask.
Kame blinks in surprise. “Yes, my lady.”
You turn toward the sound immediately.
“My lady!” Mika shouts, “the kitchens are not usually—”
The warmth hits first upon entering. The great kitchen chambers spread wide, beams blackened by decades of smoke. Fish glisten silver upon cutting boards. Baskets overflow with daikon, burdock, root, mountain greens packed in winter straw. Conversation dies instantly when you enter.
Fires still crackle beneath the iron pots, and broth continues simmering. The servants bow their head lower and faster than you’ve seen before.
You realise now what you are. A strange ‘noblewoman’ wandering where noblewomen seldom wander.
The kitchens themselves stretch far larger than you expected, sprawling through interconnected chambers lined with shelves and heavy storerooms built partly into stone. Heat gathers thickly beneath the smoke-darkened rafters overhead. The air smells richly of miso broth, river fish, damp straw, and freshly steamed rice. Servants move quickly between the hearths in muted robes with sleeves tied neatly back, their hands red from hot water and winter air alike.
Your eyes drift slowly toward the storerooms where sacks of grain stand stacked in careful rows taller than a man’s waist. Each bundle bears the black-brushed markings of its province upon rough woven cloth, tied shut with cords. Hisame. Kurotsuki. Aokiri.
Your eyes move absently across the names first, little more than habit born from childhood harvest tallies and years spent watching your father bargain over tribute inventories.
Akebara.
For a moment you simply stare. The characters sit plainly upon the nearest grain sack, dark ink bleeding slightly into the woven fibres. Akebara rice. The kitchens blur at their edges suddenly, lanternlight softening into gold haze as memory rises swift and merciless beneath the surface of your thoughts. You see your mother standing knee-deep in flooded paddies during early planting season, skirts gathered high above her calves while dragonflies skimmed low across the water. You remember the ache in your shoulders from carrying harvested stalks beneath autumn heat, the smell of wet earth after rainstorms, the careful counting of grain stores each winter when snowfall came too early.
You remember your father arguing with tribute officials by lanternlight long after midnight, his voice disguised by fear, he dared call frustration instead.
Too much taken!
Never enough left behind. Now, those same harvests sit stacked neatly within palace walls untouched by famine or fire, reserved for silk-clad nobles who compose moon poetry whilst villages ration their feed bowl by bowl. Fed upward toward the mountain, the fields below starve.
Around you, the kitchens slowly begin breathing again, though quieter now than before your arrival. Knives resume their measured rhythm against wooden boards. Steam curls upward from iron cauldrons in soft white clouds. Somewhere a servant kneels beside a brazier turning skewers of river fish over open fire whilst another grinds sesame into paste.
Toward the nearest preparation tables where women work swiftly beneath the kitchen overseer’s eye, lined trays of pickled plum, salted greens, dried sardines and freshly steamed rice are arranged with care.
“So much food,” you whisper. The nearest servants freeze at once, startled perhaps that you address them directly. You glance toward the broad iron pots suspended above the central hearths. “For what meal?”
An older woman with burn scars, who you assume to be the kitchen mistress, lowers herself into a quick bow before answering. “For the morning, my lady.”
You suppose you wouldn't know, you refused to leave your room for three days. You smile faintly despite yourself. “And all this is prepared each morning?”
“Hai.”
The smell is almost overwhelming now that you stand amidst it fully. Fresh rice. Fish broth rich with mountain herbs. Soy simmered with root vegetables. Smoke from cedarwood fires clinging warmly to everything it touches.
You step closer to the lady before thinking better of it. “May I assist? Or help?”
Servants exchange uncertain glances immediately. One young cook nearly drops the knife in his hand before recovering himself. Even the kitchen mistress hesitates. Mika steps forward smoothly before anyone else may answer.
“My lady, the kitchens are servant quarters. It is not proper for a lady to involve herself in such labour. Less so, for the wife of His Excellency.”
You turn toward her. Mika’s posture remains composed as ever, sleeves folded nearly before her. “Wife?” You let out a short breath through your nose. “I planted rice three days ago. Four days ago, I would’ve been helping them already. And I am no wife to Sukuna.”
The name lands…and every sound in the kitchen dies. A servant carrying stacked bowls nearly stumbles outright before catching himself. Several attendants lower their eyes instantly toward the floorboards. Others glance nervously toward the open corridors beyond the kitchens, as though expecting the mountain itself to react. No one speaks.
Even the fires seem quieter.
Mika bows her head at once. Beside her, Kame’s eyes widen with genuine alarm before she quickly lowers them too, sleeves tightening nervously between her fingers.
Again.
“May I help?” you ask again, softer this time so that you won’t scare the servants.
The kitchen mistress blinks at you in visible confusion. “My lady…”
“I know how to prepare morning rice, and if your cooks ruin river fish the same way ours did during the season, I know how to salvage that too.”
A few servants exchange startled looks at that. One older cook coughs into his sleeve, poorly disguising what might almost be laughter before immediately remembering himself.
Kame looks horrified. “My lady,” she whispers quickly, stepping nearer to you, “you truly need not concern yourself with kitchen duties. We can have whatever meal you desire brought directly to your chambers.”
Mika presses her lips together faintly at that, though you catch the briefest flicker of amusement crossing her face before composure smooths over it once more. The kitchen servants remain uncertain still, glancing between one another and the kitchen mistress as though awaiting permission to breathe.
You step closer toward the preparation tables yourself. One of the cooks begin hurriedly clearing space at the edge of a preparation table. Another offers fresh cloths for your sleeves.
“My lady may sit here, if it pleases—”
“No need.” You reach instead for the ties at your wrists, beginning to fold back your sleeves yourself.
Kame looks as though each movement pains her physically. “Mika, surely this cannot be proper?”
“But if someone sees—”
The door slides open. Servants straighten in alarm so quickly that one of the younger boys nearly overturns a steaming pot entirely. Bowls clatter softly against lacquer trays. Every head lowers at once, the movement instinctive and immediate in a way no court etiquette alone could explain.
You look toward the doorway. And to no surprise, the pale creature stands there once more. The corridor behind him lies dim with winter light, mountain mist curling faintly through the open passage beyond, yet none of it seems capable of touching him. His robes remain immaculate despite the damp air and smoke-heavy kitchens alike. White layered silk falls cleanly to the floor without a single crease out of place.
His eyes immediately seem to settle upon you. Upon your loosened sleeves and the space cleared at the preparation table.
A pause follows, he is clearly disappointed. Kame drops instantly into a bow so deep her forehead nearly strikes the floor. “Forgive us!” she blurts out before anyone else can speak. “She only wished to look, we did not intend disrespect, I should have guided her elsewhere—”
Your eyes remain fixed upon the white-haired figure standing near the doorway, calm as snowfall whilst the room trembles around him. “Kame, do not apologise for me.”
Around you the servants lower their gazes further and return frantically to their work with desperate concentration. Someone begins chopping daikon so quickly the knife strikes the board in uneven frantic rhythms. Broth spills over one pot’s rim unnoticed. No one dares intervene. You fold your sleeves slowly back down over your wrist.
“Do you follow me through this palace by habit? Or has someone assigned you the task? Sukuna?”
Kame inhales.
“You should watch your tone.”
“Answer the questions asked of you.”
Something flashes in his eyes then. It could be surprise, you suspect defiance is hardly common within these halls.
“His excellency extends considerable patience toward you, be grateful he didn’t kill you along with the rest,” the boy says at last.
“There is generosity in allowing me to breathe after slaughtering my village?”
Several servants physically flinch at that. Kame whispers your name is quiet horror. The creature’s face hardens slightly for the first time since entering the kitchens. “You speak carelessly—”
“Everyone here speaks—”
“Fear is what keeps people alive,” he bickers.
“—as though terrified of their own shadows—Oh, does it? It didn’t keep Akebara alive.”
The pale creature studies your face a moment longer. Then, without another word, he turns and steps back through the kitchen doorway. You find yourself staring at the empty doorway.
Three days have passed since Akebara burned. Three days of attendants bowing and calling you my lady. You hadn’t left your room in three days. Men dragged before Lord Sukuna did not survive because he possessed a hidden kindness. You had seen enough in a single night to understand that much. Whatever purpose had spared you thus far, it had finally reached its end.
Kame slowly lifts her head. “Has he…left?”
“...No,” Mika whispers.
You know she’s right almost immediately. A few seconds later, multiple footsteps return. He reappears flanked now by two broad-shouldered men dressed in dark layered robes. The pale creature stops just inside the doorway once more. Then, with infuriating calm, he gestures toward you.
“Our lady appears tied, perhaps she should return to her chambers.”
The men hesitate only briefly before obeying. One reaches carefully for your arm. The moment his hand closes around your sleeve, something in you snaps entirely.
“Do not touch me.”
You wrench backward violently enough that the guard nearly loses his grip outright. The second man moves immediately to assist, catching your other arm before you can pull fully free, and rage erupts through you all at once—hot, humiliating, animal.
“I said let go!”
Your heel catches the edge of a wooden stool and sends it skidding sharply across the floorboards. Bowls rattle violently against nearby preparation tables. One servant yelps softly before ducking his head lower over the vegetables he is pretending desperately to focus upon.
The men tighten their hold. You (try to) twist hard enough that your sleeve tears faintly near the seam and lash out blindly with your free hand, nails catching against one man’s jaw. He curses beneath his breath in shock more than pain.
Kame gasps outright. “My lady!”
“Do not drag me like some animal!” you snap, struggling harder. “Get your filthy hands off me!”
Several kitchen servants abruptly become fascinated with their rice washing. One older cook begins stirring broth with such intense concentration, he may as well be worshipping it.
Mika moves quickly toward you, keeping her voice low and urgent. “Please,” she murmurs, trying carefully to catch your wrist without worsening the scene. “Please do not fight them here.”
You plant your feet hard against the floorboards and nearly succeed in wrenching one arm loose again before the second man catches you around the elbow. Fury burns white-hot beneath your ribs now, tangled with panic so fierce it leaves your vision sharp at the edges.
"I am going to kill all of—"
———
Early Winter, A Week After Akebara
Shiranui. Your Chambers
You stand motionless for three breaths. Four. five. Six. your hands still shake from where the men held your arms. Finger shaped aches pulse faintly beneath your sleeves. Slowly, you turn your head and look around the room prepared for you. The sight of it makes rage bloom so suddenly inside your chest you nearly choke on it. Everything is immaculate.
You start mumbling to yourself. “That…pale little mountain leech creeps through hallways wearing nothing but funeral robes. I’m going to slice his spine from his corpse and hang it from the gates.”
You stumble back from the door and drag both hands through your hair so forcefully that it pulls terribly at the roots. With the gold-painted cranes on the folding screens, the bronze incense burner emitting delicate ribbons of plum smoke, and the ridiculous untouched bedding patiently waiting in one corner as if this place already belonged to you, the thoughtfully designed chamber now swims before your eyes in flashes.
You make a sound halfway between a growl and a gasp, grab the lacquer tray closest to the low table, and throw it across the room. It strikes a painted screen with a tremendous crack.
You seize the nearest cushion and hurl it next. Still, no matter how much you throw, the room refuses to look ruined. You cross the chamber in three quick strides and sweep both arms across a writing table. Brushes scatter across the floorboards. A ceramic water dish shatters. An inkstone follows, spilling black ink across the pale tatami in a spreading stain that reminds you unpleasantly of blood soaking through snow.
Your eyes catch upon the window. The shutters stand partially open. Far from the mountain, hidden amongst forests, lie roads. Villages. Rivers.
The rest of the world.
You hadn’t thought much of the window before. Why would you? Slowly, your anger begins giving way to something else.
For the first time since arriving at Shiranui, you smile.
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cw : Religious trauma, regular ole Bible Belt bullshit, homophobia, really just a lot of heavy shit.
This is honestly one my my passion projects, I love a good of story line and I come back to my bby Mona every few months. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it
The Tower
"Mona, you know how to act when you go somewhere. You only get this phone when you need it, don't act brand new."
Mona wasn't really listening to her father. She simply nodded along as he scolded her. In the last 16 and some years in her life, Mona had never been to a sleepover. Her father deemed it a breeding ground for "homosexual activity." Mona didn't really know what that meant—not like she cared to learn. A lot of the things her father said went in one ear and out of the other. She was beginning to learn that so many things he said contradicted each other.
But that wasn't an issue to her right now. She was going to enjoy the only sleepover she would go to in her entire life. She had the two days worth of clothes she owned in one of her crochet bags and got in the front seat of her father's Tacoma. {Jermaine } got in and Mona began driving. After she turned 16, Mona begged her father to teach her to drive. Of course, she had to lie—god forgive her—and say it was to help the family out more. Now, she sits in her old white Tacoma driving her and her father to a sleepover.
"I hope I see all four of y'all in church tomorrow," Jermaine comments somewhat aggressively. Of course Mona has to go to church, perks of being a preacher's oldest daughter she guesses. She decided to let that be tomorrow 's problem. For now, she was going to enjoy the rest of the day with her only friend Aurora.
It was a bit hard to make friends when your father was the pastor of the biggest church in your town. There were simply too many things to worry about. For one, church folks are known for being extremely messy and spreading gossip like wildfire. The second was the pure judgment that came from said gossip. Mona would never forget the time a woman was rumored to be filing for divorce and was never seen again. Mona couldn't remember much but the phrase, "she knew what she was getting into" was said around her far too often.
Mona swore God was punishing her for every sin her father committed. He has dedicated his life to be a"messenger of God's word," but spread gossip like it was his actual life mission. Now Mona was considered a gossip by association.
But Aurora didn't go to church anymore—Mona prayed daily God forgave her for that—so she didn't feel that way about Mona at all. She took the time to get to know her and realized Mona hardly talks as it is. She had a lot going on as it was, gossiping was something she didn't care to do nor had time for.
Aurora pulled Mona down the hall to the biggest bedroom she'd seen in her life—not like that was saying much anyway. There were different plants and tapestries hung on the wall and a shelf full of vinyls and CDs. It was no other way to describe the room but earthy. A collection of crystals sat on a large white bookshelf in a corner. Each one of them glimmered in the sunlight but only one thing caught Mona's eye; the wall of music.
Mona was obsessed with the array of music Aurora had in her room. She was limited on what she could listen to and discovering new music was hard when all you were allowed to listen to was music from the 80s and 90s. Mona didn't complain, she had found music from those years she liked, but she would like to find music that was her. She went through the CDs on the rack until she found something that piqued her interest.
"Who is this," she asks, holding the CD up to Aurora.
"Crystal Kay," Aurora says, not even looking back at the CD. "Figured you would like that one. If you listen to it and like her music you can have all of them."
So Mona sat next to the CD player in Aurora's room, pulled out her yarn and crochet hook, and inserted the CD into the slot. She sat for the next 20 minutes listening to the album as she started on another lily bag. For some reason, this music really resonated with her. It sounded exactly how she wanted to look, no matter how sinful her parents thought it was.
Aurora quickly picked up on this and decided to start taking the rest of the Crystal Kay CDs off her shelf and putting them in a bag for Mona to take home. Aurora knew these wouldn't raise any red flags for Mona's parents. If they looked too indecent she wouldn't be giving them to her in the first place. Aurora loved her too much to put her at risk.
So, she sits and watches Mona crochet while she "paints her nails." She hasn't even opened the bottle of pale purple nail polish.
"You're really pretty," Aurora spits out before she can even think about it.
Mona drops her crotchet hook mouth agape. She can't think straight, a girl she thinks she has a crush on just called her pretty. I've gone insane, Mona thinks. She cannot have a crush on a girl. There is no world where things like that are supposed to happen, her father said so. Girls shouldn't be crushing on girls.
Now Mona understands why her father never allowed her to go to a sleepover. She was consumed by thoughts she simply couldn't understand. She was sure she likes boys so maybe this was a fluke. Yeah a fluke, she did not like girls.
"Have you ever kissed a girl before?"
If Mona wasn't thinking before, she surely wasn't thinking now. Why would Aurora ever ask her that? It's not like she was someone Aurora should be absolutely drooling over. Mona was lucky if someone spared her a pitiful look. But Aurora never looked at her that way and it made her feel like she was going to puke.
"Why would I kiss a girl?"
It was a genuine question and it took aurora by surprise. She thought every girl had kissed another girl at a sleepover before. But how quickly she forgot Mona has never had the joys of going to a sleepover before this one. She would catch hell explaining this one.
"Oh it's just something girls do at sleepovers," Aurora sputters trying to find any excuse in the world to be Mona's first kiss. Unfortunately for her Mona was not taking the bait.
"But father says if you kiss the same sex you go to hell," Mona points out. Her voice is shaky and Aurora is worried that if she says the wrong thing Mona will burst into tears. She doesn't have a rebuttal to what Mona says either. She's sheltered—something Aurora had to constantly remind herself of—and she's not really sure how to tell Mona her fathers lying. It's not like Aurora has been to hell, but she's well aware of the fact that no one cares if you kiss girls.
"You're right," Aurora sighs, "I'm sorry."
"N-no, I want to," Mona admits, almost too embarrassed to even speak up.
"You're sure?"
Mona nods and Aurora leans in to kiss her. Their eyes don't even close before Mona's father bursts into the room. Mona immediately pushes Aurora away from her. She stands up but when she opens her mouth to defend herself, her father holds his hand up. Mona reluctantly grabs her things and shoves them into her bag before following him as he walks out.
She turns and waves goodbye to Aurora, and something tells her it'll be the last time she sees her.
"What in hell were you doing," Jermaine sighs as he pulls out of the driveway. She can't give an answer. What was she doing? She knew she would be eternally punished, not only for disobeying her father but the Bible itself.
"You know better. When did you start acting like an attention whore?"
Mona flinches and she prays to God the earth will swallow her whole. She knew her father would find out she kissed, well almost kissed a girl. He always found out. He had eyes everywhere and the thought always made Mona's skin crawl.
"This is the exact reason we don't let you hang around folks that don't go to church," he spits, hitting a left turn so hard the car leans on its side.
Unfortunately, this was a common occurrence. If her father got angry, he'd drive recklessly. It didn't matter if it was 6am on the way to dance or 4pm in the middle of the interstate. If he could get in a car wreck, he would. There are more Mona swears her father would risk his own life if it meant killing her.
Mona braced herself as he pulled onto the highway and pressed on the gas.
"You know what would happen if that got out," he says a little too calmly. "We'd be ruined. It would be your fault if I got put out of church. We'd be even more broke than we are. You want us to starve?"
"No I-," Jermaine holds his hand
The ride home is long and by the time Mona is getting out of the car she's numb. She's spent the past 20 minutes getting verbal lashings she's heard a dozen times before. It's different this time though. Instead of the usual self hate, it's like she's broken. Her father has drilled something is wrong with her and she's worried she'll never be able to fix it.
"Go in your room," her father orders. He runs a hand over his face and walks to the kitchen to open a beer. He recounts everything he saw to Mona's mother. Mona doesn't see, but she can hear the unspeakable words her mother calls her. they hurt, don't get her wrong, but eventually they just roll off your back.
"I knew something was wrong with her."
Mona freezes. The only other time Mona's mother talked about her like that was when Mona wouldn't eat grits or rice. Or when she'd write her entire life in a notebook or she'd forget where everything was.
Off that alone, Mona knows for sure she won't be leaving her room any time soon.
Two of Cups
All Mona could do was sit and look at the CDs she got from Aurora. They were the last thing Mona had to remember the girl. She hadn't really left her room since, God she didn't even want to think about it. Maybe this was her punishment for committing so many sins.
She would pray and pray for anyone to fix whatever was wrong with her. She'd do anything for her parents to love her the way aurora's—no, she has to stop thinking about her. The way the kiss plagued her mind was wrong. She shouldn't be thinking about her that way.
This is exactly why her parents didn't like her.
Doing the chores around the house was never enough. Raising their 5—might as well say six, Micheal is a man-child—children wasn't enough. Selling every personal item she had to give to put food on the table because her father didn't bring home enough money from church and refused to get another job. That wasn't enough.
Nothing was ever enough for her parents, and it only took 17 years for Mona to realize that. She lost the need to prove herself to her parents, when they'd move the goal post every single time.
It just wasn't worth it anymore.
She didn't have time to be worried about it though, it was 5am and she needed to get started on breakfast. The whole house would hear it if she didn't. Hell, probably the whole neighborhood would. God forgives her for cursing.
When she was finally able to pull herself into some decent clothes, the sun was beginning to rise and Mona knew she was in a time crunch.
Instead of the normal, large breakfast she would make for her siblings, she opted for just pancakes and bacon, she didn't really have time for anything else. Normally, when she cooked, it relieved stress. It gave her a moment to breathe.
But today, it felt like she was going through the motions. She felt like she was watching herself run through her regular morning routine. It's been like this for the past week, she had stopped going to ballet completely. Honestly, if she wasn't in charge of taking care of all of her mothers kids, she wouldn't leave her bed. None of that was noticeable to anyone else, though. As long as Mona only spoke when she was spoken to, there was no complaint about her not being where she was supposed to be.
"Mo?"
Aria is standing in the hallway half asleep wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes are watery and her bottom lip pokes out. Mona quickly finishes the last of the pancakes before cutting the gas to the stove. She wipes her hands on the front of her dress and prepares to comfort one of her siblings. Something her mother should definitely be doing. She didn't mind, she'd spent the past 10 years telling herself she didn't mind. Still, there was an inkling of resent in the back of her mind she ignored.
If she didn't ignore it, she worried she'd be just like her mother.
"I need help brushing my teeth," Maria said, pulling on Mona's dress. All Mona could do was sigh, she was a bit worried Maria was so dependent on her. Not like it mattered, she's stuck in this godforsaken house for the rest of her life anyway.
This was her life. Unless something drastically changed, she'd be stuck raising every kid her mother decided to pop out. She wouldn't wish this type of hell on the devil himself.
"Mona Lynn," Micheal screams, bursting open the door to her room. Mona nearly falls off her new bunk bed—perks of getting moved to a slightly bigger room. She really thought she would have gotten used to Micheal's…disturbing behavior by now.
But some things you truly never get used to. Micheal was home for reasons Mona wasn't allowed to know. Her mother blew her off when she asked, muttering something about her brother abandoning his home values. Mona knew better than to ask her mother about anything pertaining to her brother. It always went one of two ways. She'd tell Mona to stay in a child's place, or make the Sunday school lesson about disrespectful children.
Mona always had to bite her lip, fighting the urge to point out that this probably wouldn't be happening if they disciplined Micheal in the first place. Yeah, let her stay in a child's place. If she did anything else she'd be 12 feet deep in the Savannah marshes.
When Sunday rolled around, Mona ended up not going to Sunday school to help the older women in the church make Easter plates. Her father never preached on Easter—something Mona still couldn't wrap her head around. It didn't make sense that her father, who was as annoyingly religious as any black southern baptist man could be, refused to preach on Easter.
"Ow," one of the younger girls yelped, holding her finger. Mona looked up from the collards she was washing in the sink to help her. One of the mothers of the church took over while she went to bandage the girl's finger.
As she pulled the first aid kit from the closet in the fellowship hall, she overheard some of the women talking in what sounded like geechee. Mona was shocked to hear it for the first time in so long, many of the people in her church found it, "ugly," which Mona just had a feeling was rooted in white supremacy. She just couldn't prove it.
She'd naturally picked up some when she volunteered for the older women in her church. They hardly ever spoke it in public, too embarrassed to embrace their culture. They'd rather use it in their homes that were away from the prying, ironically judging eyes of the church.
"Pastor Jermaine got a church up in Atlanta, A big one too" she heard one of them whisper. Mona's ears perked up and she couldn't help but listen. What child wouldn't listen the minute their parent was mentioned?
"And here I thought you were gon' tell me what drugs got Micheal kicked out of UGA."
Mona nearly dropped the antiseptic right then. What on earth were they talking about? Her and Micheal were raised very differently, but they both were told that the devil works through drugs. It wasn't enough to scare Mona, she knew the science behind most of them. But Micheal? The self-proclaimed perfect child? This had to be a joke. There was absolutely no way on God's heaven and earth he would do something that would get his football scholarship revoked.
Maybe Mona's family wasn't as perfect as she thought. She rushed to finish bandaging the cut on the girl's finger. It barely broke skin, but she did bleed and get salt in the cut. She helped the girl back into the kitchen before walking to where her mother was counting up the money from Sunday school. She pulled her to the side, eager to know what on earth those two women were talking about.
Now did she want some of that to be true? Absolutely, she wanted to blame the drugs instead of her brother. He couldn't be that evil on his own. It had to be drugs making her brother put glue in her edge control or putting garden snakes in her rain boots when the marshes flooded. He couldn't be doing that in his right mind. She refused to admit that anyone she loved was a bad person.
That was her flaw, she couldn't see the bad in a person if it slapped her in the face.
"Ma'," she whispered. "They were talkin' in the fellowship hall."
Her mother held her hand up. Her mother knew and from the way her face fell, it was true. Everything they were saying about Micheal was true. If that was truly how it was, then that meant. Oh my god, my dad has a mega church in Atlanta.
Mona had heard of mega churches. The other kids at school never shut up about them. How much money they brought in and how the pastors of them were the devil reincarnate in more ways than one. Wait, if that was the case, why the hell were they living in poverty.
"I don't know either Mo'," Her mother sighs, stuffing the money into a pouch before zipping it closed. "You know just as much as I do. I have to worry about how to afford another baby.”
Mona cocked her head in confusion before realizing.
"You can't be serious," she said in the most disrespectful tone anybody had ever heard her use. She didn't even know she had it in her.
The Empress
The minute Mona got home, she rushed to find the deck of cards and crystals Aurora gave her all those weeks ago. She hadn't been able to look at anything Aurora gave her since her father caught them kissing at the sleepover so many weeks ago. Months? Mona wasn't sure, but it had been long enough the cards had collected dust. She tore the plastic off the box before pulling the cards out of the box.
They were white with an iridescent crescent moon on the back. They reflected in the light that crept in from the hallway. Mona didn't think. It's like her body knew what to do. Her hands carefully shoveled the cards before 3 cards fell in front of her.
The Tower, Two of Cups, and The Empress.
"Why the hell would you tell your mother about them gossiping' church folks," her father screamed, bursting into her room and making Mona jump so hard she lost her breath? Technically, she didn't tell her mother a single thing the people in church said.
"But I didn'-"
"Mona Lynn, you have heard in church plenty of times not to lie. Your ma' just sat and told me you told her the women in church said Micheal was-"
her father looked down and saw the three tarot cards lying on the floor of her tiny room. Mona tried to position herself to hide them from her father, attempting to play them off as playing cards, but he wasn't having any of it.
"Now I know you didn't bring the devil into our house?" Her father sighed before wiping sweat from his forehead. His movements were uncoordinated and it took him multiple attempts to properly wipe his forehead. So much for not "bringing the devil into the house." Her father yelled til he had to grab the wall for support. He was extremely drunk. More than normal. She could smell the beer on his clothes even if he tried to mask it with.
Hold on, Mona knew that perfume anywhere. The football players at Savannah State wore it. That was Sauvage and if not, it was one good dupe. That snapped Mona out of any self blaming loop she was in. She couldn't keep blaming herself for not doing enough for her family when her father was flaunting around a nearly $200 cologne. She did more than stupid Jermaine Atwater ever did for her family. He barely parented Micheal, and flat out refused to accept that her other siblings existed because they were girls.
"Pa' that perfume is nearly $200-," she gasped, still reeling from the terribly harsh reality check.
That's what she gets for thinking nobody can be truly evil. Her father was the devil reincarnate. Deep down, Mona knew that. It was the accepting part she had to get past. She could only be in her bubble of denial for so long, and that bubble had burst faster that she ever knew it could.
"First I caught you kissing a girl at a sleepover. Now you got these devil worshiping cards in my house?"
Mona tried to open her mouth to defend herself, but she was shocked. Her brain wasn't processing a single thing. Instead, she picked up the 3 cards, shoving them in the box with the rest of the deck. She knew the words that would come out of her fathers mouth before he could get them out.
"get the hell out of my house."
and like always, Mona didn't even put up a fight as she walked out of the house. She convinced herself she'd be fine. She had lived on the edge of starvation plenty of times in her life. She was more worried about her siblings than anything. They had never lived a life where she wasn't their main parental figure.
poor aria, She thought walking out of the neighborhood and towards the creek that was behind the house. It was a home, never was. She didn't have parents that made her feel extra special on her birthday, or Christmas. Her siblings did, she'd never forget the card little aria wrote her for fathers day last year.
She escaped the horrible hands of her parents and for some reason that made her feel even worse. It was extreme, but she escaped her hellish parents regardless. She'd always thought she'd celebrate the moment, instead, she felt guilty. Stupidly guilty. Someone would have to fill her role. Someone would have to be the child that lost her childhood to become a parent to her siblings.
That's what sucked about the whole thing. She couldn't even be happy she was no longer being policed for everything she'd ever done. She'd finally gotten away from her "not so religious religious" parents and she wants to throw up.
The night came quickly, and the moon was high in the sky as she kept walking. Her feet stung, she just walked out of the house barefoot with the church dress she had on. So much had happened in the span of a day. From realizing her father was a terrible person, to getting kicked out of the house. Genuinely nothing else bad could happen to her.
Funny how the world works. Mona collapsed next to the river and slipped on the muddy bank. She was exhausted, and just laid in the mud before realizing she was slipping into the water. The current was fast and harsh. Before she knew it she was trying to grab onto any rock she could reach to hold herself up. So much for having all this strength from dancing, she thought as her arms gave out on her and she rushed down the current of the creek. The water was so strong she couldn't think of anything but death.
She is 100% going to die. She couldn't swim, her folks never saw the point in teaching her even if they lived a 30 minute walk from the beach. She couldn't think of anything else, she just let the water take her, trying to come up for air as she caught glimpses of the ocean coming into view. Mona just closed her eyes and accepted her fate. If this was how she was meant to go out, it wasn't like she could do anything about it. Her lungs burned from the amount of water she was gasping in, and her calf tightened before she caught a final glimpse of the full moon.
Mona saw her lifeless body floating into the ocean. She wasn't sure how she was getting a third person point of view of her death—especially with her terrible vision— but she didn't question it. Her life was pretty sad. She never got to live for herself, form her own opinions, find any type of love. Well, her pa' did always say not everybody was meant to have a happy life. She was one of those people. She had always convinced herself she'd be living a life serving others anyway.
Mona sat up, feeling a bed of seaweed? She was underwater and when she sat up she screamed so loud she was sure she could hear the echoes in the water. She looked at her legs, well, where her legs were supposed to be and found a deep purple tail.
No, mermaids weren't real. She died and was living out her fantasies in the after life. Yeah that's what it was. There was no other explanation. Yeah, she didn't have random purple, sparkly scales littering her arms and a random tail for no reason.
A mermaid, with a significantly lighter purple tail that she had swam into the little cavern she was resting in. She squinted, and couldn't help but notice how pretty the mermaid was.
"You're awake," she squealed, grabbing Mona's hands. "I'm Acropara!"
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬◞﹒୧ . For your master's degree in sports psychology, you have to do a study on an athlete from your university. After a tumultuous encounter with Suguru that triggered you, Utahime helps you reconcile, and you carefully decide to do your research with him, since he's the captain of the university's basketball team. Nothing could have prepared you for what you were about to discover behind the basketball player's purple eyes. A wounded soul, addiction, depression, fears—you share many things you hadn't suspected, and an intimate relationship blossoms during your study sessions. With a friends-with-benefits arrangement, he teaches you to overcome your fears, and thanks to your kindness and your knowledge of psychology, you help him rediscover the joy of life.
౨ৎ ⤷ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 (𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧) - 𝟏𝟗𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬◞﹒୧ . college au, slow burn, reader with heavy backstory, black!fem!reader, plus!size!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, basketball!player!suguru, romance, love, sex friends, falling in love, sexual trauma, mentions of sexual abuse, abuse, mommy issues, self-harm, depression, addiction, grief, heavy psychology info dumps reader is a nerd lol, music, trauma, suicide mentions, mutual pining, [𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 : smut, kisses, foreplay, cunninlingus, face-sitting, vaginal fingering, vaginal penetration, missionary, unprotected sex, gentle sex, sex with feeling, open but happy ending!!!!].
𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬◞﹒୧ . oldddddd fic i rewrote and have never posted here!!! i hope you will like it, sorry for not being that active, life is kicking my ass :((( anyway, happy reading <3
Like every time you started a college year, you had this annoying habit of hurting yourself. At the first light of April, when the cherry trees began to bloom, it was your moment, even though you hated going to parties. No matter where you were in your healing, you had this constant need to shatter the few advances and improvements you had managed to make, as if to test yourself. Were you still that girl who was afraid of men? Could you enjoy yourself in bed?
You already knew the answer. This fear of penetration was always there, it followed you even in your shadow, spoiled the few sexual experiences you had and ruined your self-esteem.
“Wait,” you breathed against the lips of the stranger you wanted to lose yourself with at the start of this school year. His weight crushed you against the mattress in the empty bedroom, the music outside the room still blaring.
His hands under the fabric of your tee-shirt paused at your words.
“What is it?”
“Can you be gentle with me?”
A flicker of disappointment crossed his gaze, and your heart sank. Men didn’t care about your trauma. They just wanted to fuck.
“Well, if you want,” he mumbled, with little enthusiasm.
The man whose name you'd already forgotten continued to kiss you. The familiar feeling of disconnection from your body washed over you. It left you a spectator of the action on the bed, your eyes stared at the ceiling as his mouth roamed on the rest of your body.
You weren’t really there when he ate you out, it wasn’t that good, but you still faked your moans to not make him feel bad. After all, it wasn’t his fault if you were broken. It wasn’t his fault if your legs shook every time he would make an abrupt move, or if you couldn’t really feel anything when his tongue lapped at your core.
Your mind was somewhere else, focused on your clinical psychology classes or on the blushing of your best friend Utahime when she talked about her crush on Shoko.
When he positioned himself above you, his naked body resting his elbows beside your head for support, your stomach dropped, anxiety gripping you. He aligned his dick near your entrance, and you clenched your thighs around his waist, making penetration difficult.
“Hey, stop being so tense, it’s uncomfortable.”
Your voice trembled. “S-Sorry.”
He didn’t notice how hard your body was shaking, the tears welling in your eyes as his cock nudged your slit, your mind filled with painful memories.
“Stop crying, damn it,” he huffed, irritation in his voice, louder than before.
Anger.
Ah, that gentle emotion, which allows humans to express their displeasure either through outbursts or blows. You knew the latter well, which is why your entire body began to tremble at his raised voice.
“I’m so sorry.” Your voice quivered.
With shaky hands, you pushed him away and dressed yourself in a hurry and ignored his confused attempts to stop you. You needed to get out, now. An angry man was always a criminal in one way or another, and you weren't in the mood for any insults or beatings tonight.
“Where do you think you’re going? Come on, c’mere ! I want to fuck, damn it !” He tried to grab your arm, but you dodged his hand, leaving the room with quick steps. Enveloped by the sea of people at the frat party, you were separated from your failed one-night stand as you searched for Utahime's dark purple hair in the crowd. Same Damn Time by Future blasted in the big speakers, the loud rap music making you put your index in your ears as you analyzed each head next to you.
You spotted your best friend in the kitchen. Sipping on her red cup and leaning against the fridge, she chatted with a group of girls. You apologized as you sneaked into the group to steal Utahime.
“Hime, we have to go,” you grabbed her arm, your voice a little breathless from your hurried steps.
“Already? Damn, your man came that fast?” Her chuckle followed you behind you.
You shook your head, your voice bitter.
“Nobody came. And don’t call him ‘my’ man. He’s worst than the misogynistic lecturer in my child psychology course.”
“Worst than Naoya Zenin?!”
Her indignant voice made you laugh. You were struggling to get out of the frat party because of the partygoers around you, pressed against the sweaty bodies of the people who danced. You finally manage to get out, and the cool night air makes you shiver. The smell of damp earth enveloped you, indicating that there had been a downpour during the party.
“Let’s go, it’s gonna rain again,” Utahime said softly and took your hand in her, to walk to campus on the sidewalk.
But it was raining on your face because you burst into tears after a few minutes. Your sobbing interrupted Utahime in her account of her evening.
“Oh my god, what did that man do to you, sweetheart?” Utahime wrapped her arms around your shoulders as you walked together.
You explained to her what happened, your words hesitant.
“He’s such a jerk!” Utahime spat, obviously disgusted by the behavior of your night-stand. “Why do you look like you’re ashamed? You didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Because I should have know better,” you sniffled, “I don’t know why I always do this at the beginning of the school year.”
Utahime’s face had a pained expression, her dark eyebrows furrowed as she listened to you. She rubbed her hands on your back.
“You have every right to try to have intimate life, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. I always tell you this, but you’re not broken, just a bit damaged, okay? Please, stop crying and listen to me.”
You shook your head, not believing what she said. It had been three years since you left your abusive mother, and three years since you'd been trying to heal on your own, but you felt like you hadn't evolved. You still had the same triggers and fears, making you incapable of doing normal things for people your age, like having sex or being in a relationship. You were a psychology major, of course you knew that healing took time, but you hoped you'd at least be able to sleep with a boy without being scared at the slightest raised voice.
“You have to find someone who is very familiar with triggers and traumas, and someone you’re comfortable with. You can’t do that with the first guy you meet at a party, you know? He was a jerk to you, it’s normal you’re reacting that way. Just like disabled people go where the environment is safe for their needs, you have to find the person who’s right for you, without necessarily being in a relationship with them. A friend with benefits for healing, or something like that, I don’t know,” Utahime chuckled, and your lips curled into a smile.
“Absolutely no guy will want to do this “therapy” with me. You’re literally my only friend, I don’t talk to men.”
“Why not Takuma? You have the same major as him.”
“Not my type…”
The giggle of Utahime rose into the night as you walked back to campus.
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SUGURU'S POV
With GTA by Future & Metro Boomin in his ears, the rap music blasting in his headphones, Suguru focused on his morning gym routine. His long black hair tied in a low bun, strands of hair would fall out when he did his push-ups, warming up for the real workout. Dressed in gray sweatpants and a black compression t-shirt that hugged his massive muscles and left his biceps tattoos visible, Suguru looked the same as his best friend, Satoru.
Doing his own gym routine alongside him, Satoru and Suguru worked as a team. Satoru helped him set up the weights on the machines, and Suguru fixed his postures when he lifted heavy weights.
“Your posture is worse than ever,” Suguru fixed Satoru’s back as he bent down for a squat. He pushed the barbell back at his last rep, letting out a sharp breath.
“It’s because of this weekend’s training. No one should train on Saturdays, our coach is crazy,” Satoru cracked his knuckles.
“Yeah, I tried to talk to him about it but he doesn't want to hear anything.”
Suguru was the captain of the basketball team of Kaisen University. Him and Satoru were equal in performances and abilities but Suguru was known at the best since he was the captain. Satoru was more popular though, his nerdy personality and cheerful smile charmed all the girls, while Suguru was more intimidating with his reserved personality.
“You’re not helping matters with your morning workouts. We already have training this afternoon, I don’t know how you stay in shape, I can barely keep up…”
Suguru's eyes darkened and he avoided Satoru's gaze while putting away the weights. The truth was, he wasn't in shape. He was tired, but working out was the only thing that made him feel anything, so he was addicted to it.
They showered in the locker room, sharing a toning eucalyptus shower gel. As the water streamed down his muscular body, Suguru pushed his hair back while contemplating his classes for the day. He was a philosophy major and was in his third year.
He didn't even feel the water running over his skin. The water was too hot for his skin, red patches were appearing all over his body, but he was unaffected.
He dressed in dark baggy jeans and a loose-fitting, long-sleeved rock band T-shirt, tucked his silver chain inside his T-shirt, and put on his silver rings after putting on cologne.
The cold morning air made Suguru shiver as he stepped outside. Since it was April, the cherry trees around the university were beginning to bloom, while the trees with the iconic orange leaves of autumn had shed their leaves.
Since Satoru was pursuing a bachelor of science in economics, he wasn't in the same department as Suguru. They exchanged their usual handshakes as they parted.
Suguru walked towards his department - the Arts Department, where philosophy, english, and liberal arts classes were held.
Suguru slumped into his chair in the auditorium, tiredness starting to set in, though he tried to hide it from Satoru this morning. Having high-functioning depression wasn't just about having depression and being able to function like a normal person. It was a constant game of pretending to be okay while carrying a burden on your back. Suguru didn't know when he would be able to overcome it, his life seemingly on hold since he had it.
As the lecturer entered the room to begin his lecture on Kant, Suguru's mind wandered to the window, watching the students walking to their departments.
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READER'S POV
Utahime was a fem lesbian. Her nails were always done, with her index and middle fingers short, in case she managed to get her crush, Shoko. She always had a ribbon bow in her long purple hair and always dressed in skirts and dresses. Even when she was tired, she took care of her appearance, she remained impeccable at all times.
Sat on your bed, you watched her come back from the communal showers with her wet hair stuck to her face. She put her jewelry away in her sofa-shaped jewelry box.
“This is the worst jewelry box I have ever seen, you know that?”
Her laughter filled the room.
“Please, you collect tea bags.”
“That’s actually a very refined hobby,” you rolled your eyes and your gaze darted to the shoe box on top of your wardrobe. It had all your memories in it and all the tea bags you could find. “You should try.”
“No thanks,” Utahime tugged her tongue at you, your exasperated expression accentued. Utahime always had a childish side that she showed when she teased you or when she got mad at Satoru.
Thinking about Satoru…
“Hey, you know when you said that I could use your friends for my master’s application?”
Utahime titled her head and nodded. “Yeah? You weren’t very cool with that.”
“About that,” you sighed. “It's not that I wasn't cool with it, it's just that I wanted to do my research project on a female athlete, but when I talked about Shoko…”
Utahime’s cheeks flushed and she fidgeted. “Right…”
“Right,” you chuckled. You didn’t mind her jealousy. Utahime was a very jealous girl, so using Shoko was impossible, even though she was perfect for you since she was a volleyball player.
“So, I was saying that I think I will see Suguru and Satoru, just to see if it could work between us. I don’t really have friends besides you, so without Shoko, I have to fall back on your other friends. I’m a little nervous, though. I’ve never seen Suguru.”
Utahime’s face softened. For your master’s application, you needed to do a research project on an athlete on the campus of Kaisen University. The problem was that you were a very reserved girl without many friends, and was scared of men.
“Satoru is a bit dumb, but Suguru is very gentle, it will be okay,” she approached you and took your hands in hers. “Either way, if they hurt you, just let me know, I’ll kill them for you.”
Your warm smile lifted the corners of your mouth.
"Why do I feel like you're not kidding?"
“Because I’m not!”
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SUGURU'S POV
On the basketball court, Suguru was unbeatable. His ability to run with the ball even while being blocked by multiple opponents was spectacular. His passes were always perfectly executed, and he rarely missed his shots. This was exactly why it annoyed him when his teammates couldn't keep up with him.
“What the hell are you doing? Just block me,” he commanded at his teammates while running. His coach rolled his eyes. Despite being an incredible player, Suguru was a bit of a… Rough captain? He always demanded excellence and lacked tact when speaking to his teammates. For Suguru, it was simple. Sports were what kept him up in the morning, and he couldn’t stand people who didn’t take his passion seriously, so he was a bit of an asshole with his team.
Today, one of his teammates was particularly lacking in judgment and speed. It wasn't his usual style; Koji was a talented center. But this wasn't the first time he'd missed his performances, and it was starting to annoy Suguru, who walked toward him with a frown.
───────────
READER’s POV
Upon entering the university gymnasium, you were immediately overwhelmed by the sound of the ball bouncing on the court, the squeak of sneakers, and the music blaring through the speakers.
When Utahime told you to go watch Satoru and Suguru at their training, you didn't expect this. The games on TV were a flimsy copy of the real intensity that came out of the game. You wanted to sit in the stands, but loud voices rose, and you turned your head.
A tall and muscular man wearing your university's iconic blue jersey was grabbing at the collar of one of his teammates' jersey. The angry man had long black hair with silvery white streaks underneath. His dark, purple gaze was fierce and menacing, and he was tattooed all over, right down to his neck. His facial traits were sharp and well-defined, and he had dark circles under his eyes.
Satoru was trying to separate them, and even though you'd never seen Suguru before because he was more present during parties you didn't usually go to except when you wanted to ruin your mental health like this weekend, you knew it was him. He had the intimidating aura and poise that only someone with responsibilities possessed, indicating he was the captain.
Everybody knew Satoru, even you, even though you weren’t in the friend group of Utahime, but Suguru was more mysterious. His name was known for his position in the basketball team, but a lot of people didn’t actually saw him, if he wasn’t with Satoru.
“I don’t give a damn about your sick mother, you think you’re the only one who have it rough? Everyone in this team has problems, but you’re the only one who makes others suffer with you,” Suguru spat, his deep voice filling the place as the coach stopped the music.
You didn't know if it was something about his voice or the way he grabbed the collar of the jersey, but your hands shook at your sides. The sight before you took you back to an altercation with your mother a few years ago, the brutal memory leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. You could smell her breath full of alcohol or hear her hoarse voice.
His thin, angular facial features and the way his long black hair framed his face could call him a incredibly handsome man, but in front of that outburst of anger, you only saw a ghost from your past—your mother.
He felt someone stare at him and turned his head towards you. His face softened when he saw your expression, a mixture of apprehension and tension, but it was too late. As soon as he let go of his teammate's collar, pushed by his coach, you ran away, his dark purple eyes following your silhouette as you left the gym. He didn't know who you were, but he intended to apologize. His outbursts were reserved for his teammates lacking discipline, not women who minded their own business.
───────────
“I need you to make up. You’re my friends, and she’s my best friend, you have to get along! So do what you want, but make up,” Utahime decreed, sipping her latte. She had chosen a deserted Tokyo cafe, as if it were her secret hideout. The deafening noise of the coffee machines running behind you didn't help your grumpy mood.
“You barely get along with Satoru, and no one says anything,” you muttered. Your head was lowered, you only looked at your plate and avoided the gaze of the black haired man next to you.
“What the hell?” Satoru frowned. “Utahime and I are besties. She loves me so muuuuch.”
Satoru tried to wrap an arm around her, but she pushed him away as if he had a serious contagious disease. He burst out laughing and continued to tease her.
Beside you, Suguru stared at you with his calm eyes. He studied your profile, the shape of your nose, and the length of your eyelashes. You tried to eat your donut, but his gaze burned you.
Utahime had the fabulous idea of trying to reconcile you with the basketball duo by having a snack at a cafe. The problem was that you had nothing against Satoru, but you had reservations about his best friend. You didn’t know if you wanted to do your research project with a man who could be so violent. The sight of his furious eyes and his hand tugging at the collar of his teammate lingered on your mind.
Suguru emanated a dominant energy that made your nervous system ring the alarm bell.
He tilted his head, staring at you. “I’m really sorry.” He shifted in his seat, his knee brushing yours. “The teammate you saw was making things difficult for my team. I’m not like that with everyone.”
The low octaves of his voice made your stomach do this little twist when you were intimidated or strangely attracted to something. It was becoming imperative to back away or else you would melt under the softness of his voice.
“Aren't you a captain? You should have more tact; they're not your dogs. You have to respect the rules of conduct and not snap at just anyone because you think they're slowing down the team.”
You were proud of yourself for managing to keep your voice steady and stern, and he couldn't notice the state he was putting you in.
“I get that a lot, I’m working on it.”
“Then you should change your tactics because it’s clearly not working.”
The corners of his mouth lifted to form a smile, amused by your attitude and the way your face stared at your plate. You acted as if he was the devil, and in a way, he was in your head.
“You’re a psych major, right? Utahime told me that. So you should have a lot of tactics to teach me to help me behave.”
His naturally sensual voice made it sound like he had basically invited you to sleep with him. You suddenly looked up at him, your eyes narrowed.
“No thanks. I’m serious about my major, so if you could avoid this kind of innuendo, thanks.” You glared at him.
His eyebrows furrowed.
“Innuendo? I didn’t-”
“That’s exactly why I get more girls than you, Suguru, you can’t flirt. Listen to me, pretty. Never, absolutely never trust this man, okay? I’m the one for you.” Satoru leaned over the table to whisper in front of you, but Suguru could totally hear what he said.
“You’re not the one who get the most of girls, Satoru. Most of girls don’t even take your passion for anime seriously.”
“Most of people don’t have taste, what can I say? But let’s get to the point.” Satoru pointed his finger at you and his eyes lit up with a warm glow. “My intuition tells me we’re going to get along. Let’s do your study, research paper or whatever together. Forget the captain, you’re getting the real deal with me.”
“Satoru,” Suguru warned him, his voice serious. He really wanted to apologize for scaring you, and Satoru was ruining his efforts. If apologizing meant doing your research project, he will do it. Suguru was a gentleman, and absolutely territorial, so Satoru had to go away for his plan.
“Okay, okay, can you let me think?” You let out a soft sign, and took out your phone.
You used to make a pros and cons table when you had choices to make. Suguru looked at you curiously as you wrote in your notes. Manwhore, talkative, unserious was in the cons section for Satoru, and violent, tactless, and triggering was in Suguru's section. In the pros section, you put funny and talented for Satoru, and dim the brightness on your phone to secretly write ‘sexy captain’ in Suguru's column.
Rereading your notes, you realized that both men had interesting profiles for your research project. Although Suguru intimidated you, researching a team captain could make a difference compared to other candidates for your master's degree. Satoru was a brilliant player who had made a name for himself in college basketball despite being born with a silver spoon thanks to his parents' business. His success was due to his hard work, not his wealth.
“Okay,” you put your phone away and cleared your throat.
“You realized I was a much better choice than the other guy next to you and realized my full potential. You can say it, pretty girl.” Satoru’s smirk full of confidence made Suguru roll his eyes.
“First rule for our project together : I have a name and will not be one of your future conquests, so you will avoid calling me by cheesy nicknames.” You glared at Satoru. “Second, Suguru, you will avoid speaking to me with such a… disturbing voice.”
“Disturbing… voice?” Suguru has a puzzled expression on his face.
“You’re making her panties wet-”
Utahime slammed her hand on Satoru’s mouth, the sharp “slap” echoed in the cafe.
“What the fuck?! You’re basically dislocated my jaw!”
“If only you had the looks and the brains, but you're a little fool!” Utahime bickered with Satoru, and you sighed and shook your head in exasperation. You turned your head toward Suguru, your eyes met.
“You said ‘project together’,” he remarked.
You stared at him for a few seconds, silent. You studied his face and how his dark eyes framed his handsome face, how his delicate features held a certain sensuality. You had to remember that that angelic face was capable of being distorted by anger and you looked away, as if disappointed.
“I’m making the research project on both of you.”
“Why? Isn't that more work for you?”
Your eyes wandered between the white-haired man and the black-haired man several times without saying anything.
“I’ll choose whoever is more interesting in the end. Don’t worry about me, I love to study people.”
───────────
SUGURU’s POV
You had decided to see Suguru every Wednesday and Satoru every Friday. It was easier for your organization to see them separately. You hadn't yet told the two men the subject of your research, preferring to see what the meeting with them would lead to. You had all year to choose anyway.
Suguru headed towards Study Room 202, in the back of the university library. His gray and black Asics Gel NYC sneakers left small wet spots with every step from the downpour that had fallen on him, it soaked the bottom of his dark baggy jeans and his long hair.
Opening the door to the room, he noticed your things on the table, but you were nowhere to be seen. He turned his head to inspect the library's surroundings. Sighing, he closed the door and went looking for you.
The university library had several floors, which made it a daunting task if you were on another floor. He strolled through the book shelves, running his hand through his wet hair as he detangled it. He used the scrunchie on his wrist to tie his hair back, it revealed his silvery white locks beneath the black ones.
In the philosophy section, he found you leaning against the bookshelf, engrossed in a book.
“Trying to embrace the absurdity of life?”
You jumped at his voice, looking alert, your heart racing every time you were surprised. Your post-traumatic stress disorder made you anxious at the slightest disruptions in your daily life. You hated how fragile it made you.
“No more of how many times Albert Camus will use the term ‘Arab’ to name people without giving them real names,” you said, frowning as you put your copy of ‘The Stranger’ back on the bookshelf.
“Ah, he’s always had a weird relationship with Algeria. A great writer, but didn’t fight for the liberation of his people,” Suguru nodded ad reached up to pick up a book from above you, but when he did so, you tensed and raised your hand to protect yourself.
Suguru’s eyes narrowed.
“You thought-”
“You're late, don't be late next time,” you changed the subject, walking away from him to go to the study room.
The way you changed the subject didn't go unnoticed by Suguru, and he stared at the floor for several seconds before joining you. You had clearly been abused in the past, and Suguru wondered if it was by an ex-boyfriend or a family member. Given your reluctance and your reaction to his outburst, he understood better where you came from, and thought that you must have a fear of men. He had noticed how you were impervious to Satoru's charm. You didn’t fall for his jokes and kept a serious and emotionless tone when you interacted with them. He didn't take it personally; if you had been traumatized enough to be afraid of every sudden movement, it was because your trauma was serious. He wasn't going to blame an innocent girl for being afraid of being abused again.
He sat down on the chair and took out his things. His eyes roamed over your curvy figure. You had your arms crossed over your chest, as if to say “don’t try to enter my heart.” He shook his head. Yeah, your trauma was serious.
“Are you rich?” you asked, the blunt question made the corners of his lips quirk up.
“Kinda. Why?”
You grabbed a pen and pointed at his backpack and Stüssy t-shirt.
“Both items would cost me 4 days of work at 7eleven.”
Suguru leaned back, his legs manspreading. His knees brushed your knees just like before in the cafe.
“You work at the 7eleven of the campus?”
You nodded, opening your laptop. You didn't say anything more so Suguru was trying to make the conversation go longer.
“My family made its fortune in agriculture. They own quite a few farms in the countryside.”
You nodded again, still silent, your eyes focused on your laptop. Suguru’s smile widened.
“You're supposed to tell me silly stories about your family.”
You lifted your eyes and met his purple piercing gaze.
“I’m doing a research project on you. You don’t need to know my family.”
“What if I want to make a research project on you?”
Again with his sensual voice of his. Your jaw tensed and your eyes fell back on your laptop.
“I told you to stop with the innuendo.”
“If you see innuendo in anything I say, it says more about you than it does about me.”
You rolled your eyes and Suguru chuckled, the deep sound making you feel weird in your stomach.
“Okay, now, real conversation,” you opened a Word document. “I’m going to ask you some general questions about your life, and then we’re going to focus on your relationship with sports. You’re allowed to lie to me, although I don’t see the point.”
Suguru nodded, his eyes focused on your nails as you typed on your keyboard. Your acrylics were sophisticated with 3D patterns and chrome.
“You did it yourself?”
“Hm?” you raised your head.
“Your nails. They are pretty.”
“Oh,” you glanced at your hands. “Thanks. Utahime did them.”
A flat, cold response, without a silly story. Suguru struggled to get you out of your comfort zone, but he was going to succeed, he was sure of it. He had to, he didn't want you to still be afraid of him after the incident.
“Let’s get started. First, what are your passions outside of sports? Your hobbies? And how much time do you devote to them compared to sports?”
Suguru’s expression faltered. He suspected your research questions would touch on some uncomfortable topics, but he didn't expect it to be so quickly. He scratched the back of his head and looked away.
“I used to have some, but not so much anymore.”
“Why?”
“Is this for your academic research or your personal research?”
“You don’t want to tell silly stories about your old hobbies?”
“I used to love art. I wanted to be tattoo artist before I discovered basketball in high school.”
You studied the tattoos that were visible on his neck and biceps.
“Did you design some of your tattoos?”
“All of them. I’m my own canva.”
Your eyes widened, impressed.
“And why did you stop? You don't have any more space on your body?”
“I wish it was that,” Suguru stretched his arms, a sad expression on his face.
You felt like it was a personal topic and didn't force the conversation to continue, which he appreciated. Suguru only talked about his depression to Satoru; he was uncomfortable talking about his loss of interest in his old hobbies to a girl he had met three days ago.
“Utahime told me you're pursuing a Bachelor of Arts, majoring in Philosophy. Can I ask why? Everyone says that kind of degree leads nowhere.”
“There are opportunities, but overall, yeah, everyone thinks it’s a waste of time. I think one of the worst effects of capitalism is that we have to study to find a job and not just to learn. Even if my degree doesn’t do me much good, I’m happy to have critical thinking skills.”
“Sir I-wear-T-shirts-that-cost-a-week-of-groceries is talking to me about capitalism?”
“Hey, my parents were honest farmers, they exploited no one,” Suguru raised his arms to appear innocent.
You repressed a chuckle, not wanting to be friendly with him. You continued to ask him a few questions before moving on to the sports section.
“How many times a week do you work out?”
“Every day except Sunday.”
“Your coach makes you work out 6 days a week?” You frowned. It was almost dangerous to do that.
“No, he gives us two days off, I’m the one who works out every day in addition to training.”
“You… You do workouts 6 days a week in addition to your training 5 days a week?” Your voice had a hint of anxiety, as if just talking about it put you in an impossible state. You couldn’t survive with a schedule like that. You understood now why he had such dark circles under his eyes.
“Yeah…” Suguru fidgeted in his seat, playing with his industrial ear piercing.
“Do you realize I'm studying to be a sports psychologist? So what you're telling me shocks me a little. Two workouts a day, even the biggest NBA stars don't do that.”
His gaze darted on the wall and avoided looking at you.
“I just need it,” he whispered.
Your fingers froze on the keyboard, and you held your breath, his whisper making the atmosphere suddenly more personal, more intimate. For a few seconds, you said nothing and stared at him. His expression and shifty eyes made your heart tighten. You cleared your throat.
“I won’t judge you. You have the right to handle whatever you’re going through with sports. Just… be careful, you can get exhausted and injure your muscles if you do it too much. I can show you articles about that if you’re sceptical.”
Your words were like a warm blanket around his aching heart, you tried to be kind even though you didn’t know what is going on.
“It’s okay, I know. Continue your interrogation.”
You stood there looking at him, looking tense. He made a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
“It’s okay.”
You continued to ask questions, trying to not to make him uncomfortable again. Suguru had an uncanny ability to put on a social mask, pretending to smile or laugh to hide the inner emptiness that was eating away at what little vitality he had left. He knew you weren't fooled. Your expression was always focused and your eyes squinted when he made a chuckle that felt too fake to lighten the mood after a too personal question.
At the end of your session, Suguru yawned, tired even though it was early afternoon, which didn't help your worries.
“If you need anything, don't hesitate to talk to me. I don't know you, but in a year I will be able to help people like you,” you proposed as you walk towards the library exit with him. Your tone were serious, as if you were already talking to a patient. He chuckled softly, the sound seemed genuine. You were so cute and nerdy, he thought.
“Relax. I’m just an addict to sports. It’s not the end of the world. I’m addicted to something good for my health. It's better than cocaine, right?”
“You should always be moderate in life. It’s the excess that’s toxic, Suguru.”
His name seemed even more beautiful on your tongue and contemplated the idea of hearing you say it again.
“Right, right. I’m gonna take a tap before my class. Happy?”
“I’m very happy, yeah.”
He gave you a small wave before heading towards the dorm part of campus, his face losing its humor the closer he got to his dorm. He opened the door abruptly, tossing his backpack next to his desk and slumping onto his bed without taking off his shoes. He stared at the ceiling and sighed.
“I can’t even talk to my psychiatrist, do you think I’ll talk to you?” He let out a dry chuckle and rolled over to take his neuroleptic. He waited for the medication to take effect by staring at his music posters on the wall, then scrolled on his phone.
When the familiar lethargy washed over his body, he set an alarm for his next class and fell asleep, sinking into a world where he wasn't fucking hypocrite and actually liked living.
───────────
READER’s POV
Two weeks passed. During this time, you were busy with your classes, your part-time job at 7eleven, and meeting Satoru and Suguru twice a week for an hour. You were still in the personality discovery phase and hadn't given them any tests. You had more affinity with Suguru during your sessions, because Satoru was a talking machine, wasting your time with his anecdotes and loud jokes. Suguru wasn't your favorite human, but at least he was calm and serious about your research. You felt like you were losing brain cells with each session with Satoru.
Your school year was less hectic because it was the final year of your bachelor, but you studied extensively for your elective courses, not wanting to lower your 3.8 GPA from the beginning of the year. It was bound to drop, but it gave you extra motivation to study. Philosophy, in particular, was something you were passionate about but lacked the ability to articulate your ideas well, making your essays messy.
“Need help? You'll twist your face frowning like that.”
You jumped, alert, as usual but relaxed when you saw Suguru sitting next to you. He leaned over, removing his earphones from his ear to look at your copy; you could still hear the sound coming from the small object.
“What are you listening to?”
“Are you in a good mood? Since when do my musical tastes interest you?”
You rolled your eyes. “Please.”
“Saint by Blood Orange.” Seeing that you were looking at him without reaction, not knowing the artist, he chimed in. “It’s alternative R&B.”
Your eyes lit up.
“Oh my god, I love R&B. It’s like Frank Ocean?”
A smile danced across his face. You liked Frank Ocean? Oh, he will like you.
“Not really, but if you like Frank Ocean, you’ll like Blood Orange. He has very polished instrumentals like Frank, he has the same kind of emotion in the lyrics and the same kind of soaring music. Especially his album from 2018. But it’s also very indie rock. I might give you car rides by showing you my playlist one day, we seem to like the same things.”
“Um, no thanks.”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.
“I knew you would say that,” his eyes focused on your essay. “Your structure is incorrectly done, and you lack evidence of your claims. I can help you, I study Kant every year.”
“I really don’t give two shit about duty and moral.” You ran your hands over your face with a deep sigh.
“Like everyone else. Kant had a lot of time to waste.”
Suguru taught you how to structure a philosophical essay, his voice gentle and calm. He was very educational, and didn't talk to you as if you were stupid even if you made beginner's mistakes. His voice soothed your afternoon, but your eyes were lost on his face, studying all his piercings. He had them in his eyebrows, his lips, on both corners, and had a septum. When he chuckled, you could see the metal on his tongue. Today he wore baggy jorts, revealing muscular legs and was fully tattooed too. You couldn't believe how tattooed he was at only 20 years old; he must have started getting tattoos when he was underage.
“When did you get your first tattoo?” you asked suddenly, interrupting his story about Kantian ethics.
He paused, tilting his head.
“Fifteen.”
“What ?” You widened your eyes.
“My uncle is a tattoo artist,” he explained in a soft voice, tainted by affection. “I’ve wanted to get tattoos since I was little. I used to do body painting and draw on myself at an age where I don’t even knew what a tattoo was. For my 15th birthday, he offered to tattoo one of my drawings on me.”
“That’s the cutest and most illegal thing I’ve heard today.”
“It’s just 3 year before the legal authorization, that’s fine.”
“Why didn’t you pursue your dreams? You look like you were born to be a tattoo artist.”
He let out a soft sigh, stretching his arms, his muscles always tense.
“I fell in love with basketball.” He shrugged.
“I wish you success then.”
“Thank you.” His heart warmed up.
He continued to help you for a good hour, giving you advice on how to present the best arguments and how to use the knowledge from your classes. By the end of the hour, your essay was more precise and better structured, and you felt more confident about your upcoming essays.
“Thank you so much, you could be a teacher,” you complimented him as you put your things away.
“Hell no. I’m just manipulating you into telling me your silly stories one day.”
“Of course, I should have known better,” you said in mock disappointment, knowing he was referring to your first session. He was obsessed with the possibility of you telling him personal things. Your lips curled into a playful smile before you froze.
Suguru was a smooth talker. Awfully skilled with women, because how come in three weeks you managed to joke with him when you were afraid of him at first? He was even more talented than Satoru, and this man was a playboy. You cleared your throat, rebuilding your fortress around your heart, creating a special “Suguru” offensive to avoid these kinds of smiles from you.
“I'll come see you at your training this afternoon, don't make me bored.” You walked away from him in a hurry but could still hear him behind you.
“Yes ma’am.”
───────────
Suguru was a point guard, which meant he was the leader on the court. He was in charge of passing and initiating offenses. He was kind of like the second coach. Satoru was the shooting guard, and as his name suggests, he was in charge of scoring as much as possible and was capable of making long shots or shots in the 3-point area.
Focused on your phone, sitting in the stands of the university gym, you were lulled by the sound of the ball bouncing on the court. You analyzed Suguru and Satoru's stats. And by looking at them, you understood why they were so popular. Suguru was a phenomenal point guard. His steals stats indicated that as soon as he was on the court, his team was sure to be the one with the most of the ball. His assists stats were particularly high, showing that the game was dominated by him. Satoru had nothing to envy him with his free throw attempts stats almost equal to his successful free throws, indicating that he rarely missed his shots. His 3-point field goal stats were very high, and it was surprising that these two men were Japanese university athletes and not NBA players.
But like all statistics, it wasn't the only facet of reality. You raised your head and analyzed their games.
Suguru had near-superhuman speed, blocking and stole the ball with near-piteful ease for the opposing team. However, he was too fast, which caused even simple offensive strategies like the pick and roll to fail. Satoru made all his shots and could make any layup, and was able to shoot far from the basket. But aside from his great skills, when his team was on defense, he committed stupid personal fouls that he could have easily avoided if he was careful not to touch his opponent.
At the end of their practice, you came down from the stands and walked towards them. They were wiping their foreheads with their jerseys, their chests rose and fell from their frantic breathing.
“Suguru, being an excellent point guard goes without saying with being able to control your speed. You're good at complex offenses, but you make simpler ones miss because of your lack of control. Satoru, there's no point in being a good shooter if you can get kicked out of the game because of your fouls,” you criticized them in a serious voice, pointing your finger at them every time you addressed them.
Satoru's handsome face morphed into a haughty expression, his eyebrows raised.
“And who are you to judge my performance? You’re not my coach, nor my captain. Remember, we’re just doing your research because you’re Utahime’s friend and-”
“Shut the fuck up, Satoru.” Suguru glared at him before turned his head toward you, his face softening. “Tell me more about my weakness.”
You took a deep breath, used to being underestimated just because you were a girl.
“I don't watch the NBA, but I'm interested in the WNBA, and pretty much most women's sports, so I know what I'm talking about.” You glanced at Satoru, your gaze piercing. “My mother made me watch basketball and baseball games since I was little.”
“Finally, a silly story,” Suguru’s mouth split into a soft grin.
You ignored Suguru and the warm feeling pooling in your stomach. You detailed your analysis of their games, Satoru's expression growing more and more impressed as you talked about statistics and game tactics. Suguru listened to you intently, drinking from his bottle while staring at you intensely.
“I swear I didn’t say that because you were a girl, I said that because, I mean, like, who can criticize my perfect game? I’m the star of the university. I’m just a pathetic egocentric man, I didn’t mean to offend you, I swear.”
Satoru ran after you as you said goodbye to Suguru and walked towards the exit. You shook your head.
“It’s okay. You may be dumb but I knew it wasn’t coming from misogyny. I’m just used to that treatment so I was kind of defensive.”
“Right, men are so mean, I wish I was a girl sometimes.”
You looked at him puzzled, and Suguru let out a deep sigh behind you.
“Have a good day, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.”
You waved your hand with a small laugh, and left the gym.
───────────
With blasting from the speakers in the dorm, you and Utahime got ready while moving your heads to the music and humming the songs. It looked like your dorm had been hit by a hurricane because of all the clothes and heels strewn all over the floor. But that was because today was a special day : Utahime was going to make the first move to get her crush!
“It’s truly a sign of friendship that you’re coming with me, I’ll forever be grateful.” Utahime was applying your mascara, still in her panties.
“I already told you to put on your outfit before doing your makeup.” You sighed, putting on a shirt, “But yeah, be happy the homebody came out to support you.”
Utahime said she needed you to be in the same room as her to give her courage. You weren't sure if her words were true, but if it made her feel better, you agreed to get out of bed. The truth was, you never went to parties except at the beginning of the year when you wanted to test your healing. It was too dangerous a place for you; there were too many men, too many opportunities to be taken advantage of, and on top of that, you hated drinking because you were afraid of losing control. Less control meant more possibilities of being abused, so you were a bit of a control freak. But just for Utahime, you made an exception.
“Be glad Suguru helped me with my essay. Thanks to him, I've made good progress and don't have anything to study tonight.”
“Talking about Suguru…”
Utahime raised her head, her playful smile conveyed her mischief.
“Why you don’t have sex with him? He’s your type.”
You froze.
“What the hell?!”
“What? All your crushes had long black hair and piercings.”
“Yeah, he’s my type, but that’s not the point!” You threw your makeup bag down on the bed. “Why would I sleep with a man I barely know?”
“Um… You did that exactly-”
“Okay, okay, forget that.” Your index and middle fingers rubbed your temples. “Why would I sleep with a man who can’t control his temper?”
“Pleaaaaaase,” she rolled her eyes. “He's only like this for sports because he is a captain. Suguru is an angel.”
“Absolutely no man is angelic, the devil hides behind them.”
Utahime’s laughter lit up the room.
“Maybe, but he’s a sexy devil.” She winked at you.
“You’re attracted to him?” You raised a eyebrow.
“I’m a lesbian, not blind. I can look even though I don’t eat this dish.”
“I also don’t want to eat this dish, especially this dish.”
“Why not though? You said yourself that you wanted to have a normal sex life one day. Suguru is gentle and good at bed. One of my friends have slept with him and told me he made her came five times and did multiple rounds.”
“I’m very happy about the sex life of your friend but you forget that I can’t even do a round, Hime. Suguru is good where he is, just my research partner.”
“Why do you like to sabotage yourself so much? You were giving your body to an asshole a few weeks ago and now you come across a kind guy who could make you feel safe and you refuse? I don’t even understand you sometimes?”
I don’t even understand me sometimes, you wanted to reply but you stayed silent, putting on your heels.
───────────
Leaning against the wall, you watched the people dance to Sexyy Red, the girls twerking on the guys, their asses shaking on their crotches. You wished you were as care-free as them, but the mere thought that a man would rub against you made you shudder. The frat party was filled with the ambient smell of marijuana and tobacco, and it was very hot inside, the windows steaming up from all the movement inside. You regretted wearing a sweater dress; although it was light, the wool fabric was still too heavy for a party.
Further away, to your right, Shoko was kissing Utahime on her lap, your mission accomplished.
You moved forward into the sea of people, wanting to find a corner to sit near the living room. You squeezed between the warm bodies and accidentally bumped into some. You apologized a few times, and when you reached the sofas, you held your breath.
Sitting on one of the couches, Suguru was leaning back against the backrest, a girl on his lap while kissing another girl who was standing next to him, bent over him. Even with the distance, you could see the movements of their tongues intertwining in their mouths. If it were a girl, you would have said “go girl,” but since it was a boy, you were overcome with disgust. It was misandrist, but it was more of a preventative measure. You found it hard to believe that a boy who had many sexual partners actually respected the women he slept with. To you, all playboys were a bit misogynistic deep down, so you were disgusted to see Suguru do this. And disappointed, as if you had started to get used to him and he had just ruined the small glimmer of appreciation you had for him. You swore to yourself that you would never be in his bed.
You turned around, trying to push the image out of your head.
SUGURU’s POV
“I’m in love with ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.”
Satoru's absurd sentence made him stop kissing the stranger on his lap and his hands under her skirt paused. He pulled his head back, his eyes narrowed.
“The fuck are you talking about?” He pushed the girl away with a quick, apologetic kiss on the temple, and she left, looking for another guy to have fun with tonight.
“I’m in love with her. I think about her all the time, I feel hot when I’m around her, my stomach does weird thinking when she talks to me-”
“That’s desire, not love. She barely talks about herself, how could you fall in love with her? You don’t know anything about her. You've known her for less than a month.”
“I know things about her!” Satoru raised his voice, leaned over on the couch. “I know she’s passionate about women’s sports and she… Likes psychology… And… Yeah…”
“Yeah.” Suguru’s gaze on Satoru hardened. “You need to stop doing that every time you’re interested about some girl.”
Satoru was a playboy, but a romantic playboy. He fell in love very quickly and left people just as quickly. Suguru had already taken a slap from one of his ex-girlfriends because Satoru had blocked him everywhere and refused to talk to her. She had begged Suguru to help her, but he had refused, not wanting to get involved in his best friend's love affairs. As a result, he had ended up with a hand mark all day.
“But I feel she’s different this time. She resists my charm. It turn me on so much when she doesn’t get my jokes.”
Suguru's whole body tensed. Knowing how afraid you were of men, you'd be disgusted to know that Satoru fantasized about you. It wasn't polite or respectful to have that kind of thought for a girl you'd just met and who trusted him with her research project.
“I need you to listen to me, ‘toru. You’re not in love, you’re just… weirdly turned on by a girl who reacts differently than others. You’ve only known her for three weeks, she could be a serial killer.”
“It’s kind of sexy…”
Suguru face-palmed himself and Satoru chortled.
“What? You don’t know that kink? It’s called autoassassinophilia. It’s when you turned on by the fact you could be killed. I’m into that.” Satoru danced his eyebrows with a mischievous facial expression, but Suguru looked at him sternly.
“No, I don’t have these kinks.”
“Liar. I found handcuffs in your dorm.”
Suguru let out a low chuckle.
“I mean…”
“You’re so naughty like me.”
Satoru mock-punched Suguru, and Suguru dodged him with a smirk. He bickered with Satoru for a few minutes before spotting your braids in the crowd of people. You were the only girl with goddess braids with beads of all colors.
“I'll be back in a few moments.”
Suguru stood up, trying to find you among the many heads in front of him. He moved deeper into the group and found you, but this time not alone.
A drunk man was yelling at you, the people around you oblivious to the danger due to the loud music. Your eyes were wide, your hands shaking as you tried to back away but bumped into the wall. Having no time for this kind of nonsense, Suguru grabbed the man by the back of his neck.
“Get out of here,” he snapped, his voice cold as he pushed him away from you.
The drunk man, his head dizzy, staggered to collapse against a couch. Suguru turned to you and took in the sight of your anxious state. He took your trembling hands in his, his touch gentle.
“It’s okay, he’s not here anymore.”
His thumb traced circles on your palms as you regained control of your breathing, taking deep breaths. Your eyes watered, and his heart ached at your vulnerable silhouette. He continued to whisper, “It's okay, you're safe,” while you regained control of your breathing. He managed to calm your beginning panic attack with his voice and his gestures.
“You offered me help, but I feel like you're the one who needs it most. You're shaking like a leaf. Most people who are mentally healthy don't react this way.”
Suguru's caring voice and tender gestures soothed your fears. Despite the people dancing and laughing around you, it was as if you were alone in a little cocoon, the delicate walls enveloped you. For a few seconds, you allowed yourself to feel the comfort he brought you without turning your back on him. His gentleness made your eyes sting; it was nothing to him, but it was the kindest gesture a man had ever shown you. You didn't know if it was the hormones or if it was just that your period was approaching, but you were ready to burst into tears and let yourself be comforted by him in his arms.
You could smell the cologne emanating from him, the expensive, masculine scent, which made you want to nuzzle his chest to inhale better. Even though he was maybe a playboy, even though he had outbursts with his teammates, all his red flags were invisible now, you only saw the way he held your hands in his soft hands and his compassionate gaze towards you. In this moment of fragility that surpassed all reason, you understood Utahime when she said Suguru was an angel.
Suguru's eyes darted at your sweater dress, the dress loose and not hugging any part of your body, like a garbage bag placed over you. It wasn't the clothes he was used to seeing on girls who were partying. However, he quickly made the connection with your fear of men and your outfit. Perhaps it was a way for you to appear unnoticed. Perhaps you had come to accompany Utahime, since he had never seen you at a frat party before.
“Do you want to get some fresh air?”
“I'll say this in the nicest way possible, but I'd like to be alone. Thanks for the man,” you sniffled and tried not to sound too harsh. Your moment of comfort was coming to an end, and your barrier was beginning to rebuild at high speed. Suguru wasn't offended; you were used to withdrawing easily, and you always respected his privacy during your sessions; he owed you that.
“No problem. If another man tries to bother you, just scream loudly; maybe I'll hear you and save you.”
A ghost of a smile crossed your face. You nodded before walking away and out the front door, drying your eyes with the sleeve of your dress. Suguru watched you through the window as you walked to a bench near the frat party. He couldn't help but wonder what wounds you were hiding behind that fortress and if you'd ever be comfortable enough to show them one day to someone like him.
───────────
READER’s POV
The incident at the party lingered in your mind for days afterward. Now in control of your emotions, you're a little ashamed of how vulnerable you let yourself be in front of him. But you couldn't have predicted that a drunk guy would yell at you and triggered you. Luckily, Suguru was there to ground you. You thanked him for handling the man, but he didn't know how much his gestures and voice had helped calm you down.
You had an hour before joining Suguru for your weekly sessions. Walking through the city of Tokyo, you looked for a vinyl and CD seller. The temperature was average, the sky gray, but it was nice outside, you could walk around in a t-shirt. You found the store you were looking for and entered. You knelt under the vinyls to find the boxes of CDs, and looked for section B. You were lucky, you only had one copy of Blood Orange's album 'Negro Swan' left, Suguru would be happy. Paying less than 2,000 yen (= 13 dollars), you put your gift in your bag, feeling lighter. Taking advantage of the lack of rain, you walked around listening to the album on Spotify, until it was time to see Suguru at the university library.
When Suguru entered Study Room 202, you jumped on him. Not literally but your voice was full of excitement.
“The Blood Orange album you told me about is just amazing! The metaphor about being the black sheep as a black man in America is just brilliant. It’s such a beautiful album about celebrating being yourself, without performing for others. It can be interpreted in many ways, like autistic people who feel different from society and their struggle with masking. The feats, oh my god, the feats are perfect! You weren’t lying when you said it was a mix of indie rock and alternative R&B, it’s one of the best albums I’ve ever heard!”
You had spoken in one go, panting a bit at the end of the monologue, and Suguru burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking. You stared at him in amazement, his usually calm face distorted by the burst of sunshine.
“Sorry,” he held his sides, catching his breath. “I didn’t expect such a welcome.”
“Sorry,” you whispered and offered a sheepish smile.
“No, don't be sorry. It's cute, honestly.” This was the second time you'd done something that made him think to himself, ‘She's so cute.’
A wave of heat rose in your stomach, and you shifted uncomfortably in your chair. Suguru sat down in front of you.
“It's been a long time since I've laughed this hard, thanks.”
“You're welcome, I guess…”
“Don't be like that, I wasn't making fun of you. I'm just... surprised to see someone loving something as much as me. Most people, when they like something, are normal, whereas I'm unhinged about it.”
“Is that why you can't stand it when your teammates don't take basketball seriously?”
Suguru winced.
“I really need to work on that…”
You took your laptop out of your bag, dropping the CD on the table. Suguru's eyes lit up.
“Damn, you even bought the CD? What is next? The vinyl?”
“Um, it’s for you, Suguru.”
His small smile faded, his eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the CD.
“Why?”
“I… I sometimes have anxiety problems,” you tried to explain, without mentioning your C-PTSD. “I get triggered by sudden loud noises and yelling. When you held my hand this Friday… It felt good for me, it very helped me. I wanted to thank you, sincerely. It’s not a huge gift, it didn’t cost me much, it’s just to symbolize my gratitude. You must probably think it’s stupid, but it doesn’t matter. It makes sense to me.”
He hadn't even known you for a month, and you could make him burst out laughing like when he didn't have his depression. You made him want to break the barrier between you when he was the type to push away people who got too close to him, hating being vulnerable. And now you wanted to give him such a heartfelt gift? Even Satoru hadn't given him such a specific gift, and bought him expensive colored pencils for art. It was a good gift, but compared to yours, it was nothing. You had remembered a random piece of information he had given you, and wanted to give him a gift because he had held your hands? This was making him so vulnerable and weird in his stomach. He struggled to find the words. He cleared his throat and an almost shy smile flickered across his face as he took the CD in his hands.
“Thank you, I don’t know what to say. This is so cute.”
You were becoming incredibly flustered, feeling hot all over.
“It didn’t cost me much, it’s not very-”
“None of that,” he commanded, his voice dominant. “That’s the cutest thing someone did to me, and I want to remember it that way, so stop that bullshit.”
You flinched at his ‘captain voice,’ but it was necessary so you could relax and not feel embarrassed about your gift. A bit of tough love was crucial sometimes for stopping your toxic habits to feel bad about yourself.
For an hour, you would do your research project and have him complete specialized basketball tests. You had to find a topic for your research project, and you had an idea with Suguru. The problem was that Suguru wasn't comfortable talking to you about his personal problems. You had to create a sort of safe space during the sessions so he could open up. As long as you didn't have that safe space with Suguru, you kept Satoru as backup.
“Actually, I wanted to ask you something,” Suguru asked softly, as you put your laptop back in your bag.
“Yeah?”
He pulled out some notebooks from his backpack.
“I have electives in psychology. I think it’s from your freshman syllabus, but I’m having a bit of trouble with the topic of “biological basis of behavior.” It’s the basis of my course, and I’m lost right now because I haven’t even memorized all the frontal lobe nonsense and all that.”
Your face softened.
“So I was thinking if a certain girl majoring in psychology could help me…”
Your face lit up with a smile. “Of course.”
You stood up to sit next to him, your thighs touching as you leaned over his notes.
“Actually, it’s very simple. You just need to work on your memorization so you don’t get lost during your current classes.”
You explained to him the different parts of the frontal lobe, the role of neurotransmitters, and the different nervous systems in the brain. In fact, it was all a lie. Suguru had understood his entire lesson; he simply wanted to be able to admire your face up close and study your lips, which moved as you spoke.
He was fascinated by the shape of your lips, his mouth half-open, as his eyes stared at your mouth like an archaeologist finding a relic. He wondered what they tasted and felt like, if you were the type to kiss by focusing on the twist of your tongue or more on nibbling. He licked his lips without realizing it, his gaze on you intense and dark. He didn't realize that his thoughts drifted towards forbidden zones because he was too absorbed by the movements of your lips. It was only when you cleared your throat, your face flustered, that he realized he had lost it.
“I’m so sorry, that’s so disrespectful. I swear I don’t see you that way, I was just-”
“I get that, I get that. I'm also fascinated by you when we study-”
You paused, realizing what you were saying.
“You what?”
His wide smile conveyed his confidence, while you were disintegrating in your chair.
“What do you find fascinating about me?”
“Since you don’t seem to need my explanations, I’m going to leave, my shift at 7eleven will start soon,” you hurriedly got up from your chair and literally ran out of the study room.
Suguru ran a hand over his face, his smile still apparent. He was starting to really like these sessions.
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SUGURU’s POV
As Suguru waited for his neuroleptic to take effect, he stared at the ceiling. He felt miserable having to use medications designed for schizophrenics and psychotic people. Not that psychotic people deserved to be ashamed, but more that he was ashamed that no sleeping pills worked for him. It was as if his body wanted to make things worse for him. His antidepressants weren't even working, and being tired was already bad, but being unable to sleep was worse. When he did sleep, it was never a comfortable, restful sleep; it was as if he had just closed his eyes at night and opened them the next second, and it was day. He wasn't even dreaming. He had followed all the stupid advice about exercising, turning off his phone, and not using screens an hour before bed, but nothing had changed.
His phone rang and he let out a groan, stretching his arm to pick up the phone. He sighed when he saw it was his parents. He loved them, but since he was depressed, they were a bit intrusive. They were playing their roles, so he didn't hold it against them.
“Yeah, mom?”
“I cleaned the whole house, I just finished, I meant to call you during the day but I forgot! How are you?”
The familiar high pitch of her voice made him smile.
“I’m okay. I'm helping a girl do her master’s application right now.”
“You have a girlfriend?!”
“Nah. We are just friends, I guess? She’s kinda cold, anyway. Couldn’t have her if I wanted too.”
“I’m happy you’re making new friends. Since the incident, I feel like you’ve withdrawn. You isolate yourself when you’re depressed, I hate that.”
Suguru's eyes darkened at the word 'incident,' and he didn't want to talk about the reason he was depressed.
“I'm fine. I'm continuing my training, forcing myself to eat, and taking medication to help me sleep. I don't smoke too much weed during the parties, what more do you want from me?” Suguru said, his voice tainted by defensiveness.
His mother's voice softened over the phone.
“I know you're doing your best. That wasn't a criticism, just an observation. You're my only child, I'm always worried about you.”
“As long as Satoru is still with me, everything will be fine, don’t worry.”
“It's true that charming boy is your anchor. You both suffered in high school, I'm glad the incident brought you closer together and did not separate you.”
Suguru’s heart tightened and his whole body tensed.
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I know, I know.”
His mother began talking about the drama in her job, and Suguru relaxed. His mother's voice soothed the remaining tension in his body, and his medicine began to take effect, making his body feel heavy and lethargic. His eyes began to close.
“Mom, I will go to sleep, I will call you tomorrow, okay?”
He said goodbye to his mother, and drifted off to sleep.
───────────
READER’s POV
Naturally, by spending time with Suguru and Satoru, you were entering Utahime's circle of friends. When she hosted drinks at her dorm and invited them over, you joined in their conversations, learning more about the basketball duo. The barriers you'd put up to conduct your research project as professionally as possible were crumbling. You could see that you were more comfortable with Suguru since he'd helped you at the party. You hadn't forgotten his basketball bully tendencies and his manwhore side, but let's just say you were more open to seeing who he was behind those two elements.
“You told me you liked Frank Ocean, but I never asked you what your favorite songs were.” Suguru asked, his mouth curving into a kind smile.
Suguru came to help you with your philosophy classes once a week in the library, taking the opportunity to get to know you and ask you questions. You weren't yet comfortable enough to talk about personal matters, but you were able to talk about music and debate philosophy with him.
“Released on Spotify or unreleased?”
His smile widened. Oh, he liked you.
“Wow, wow. Not the average fan, aren’t you? All kind of songs.”
“My favorite song is Strawberry Swing. It’s on his EP, ‘Nostalgia, Ultra’. I really like the melancholic and nostalgic vibe of the sound; it really goes well with the EP title. It feels like a dream, especially with the alarm at the end.”
He played with his industrial piercing, a mannerism he always had when he was nervous.
“I’ve never listened to his unreleased tracks. I’ll make a note of that, I’ll listen to it this afternoon during my workout.”
You chuckled, and his stomach warmed up at the sound. He loved seeing you smile and laugh, you were so cold with him usually.
“Frank Ocean isn’t really music for working out.”
“I agree. I listen to more rap when I work out.”
“What are your favorite artists?”
“Jhené Aiko, Cigarettes After Sex, Deftones, Blood Orange and JID. I also really like Japanese R&B like DOUBLE.”
“Wow, I love the variety. I love Jhené Aiko too. Is JID a R&B artist?”
“Nah, a rapper. He did a Color Show which was super popular. His flow is so fluid, it’s impressive, he’s so talented.”
Suguru took out his phone and connected his wired earphones to his phone. He played a YouTube video, the Color Show he was talking about, 'Working out by JID', the background of the room purple. He handed you an earbud and you leaned over to watch the video, putting the object in your ear. The action was kind of intimate, the two of you close to each other, focused on the same screen on a table in the university library.
“His voice is so soothing and calm when he raps, it’s pleasant,” you said when the video ended.
“Fluid like water I told you. But he can be hard and aggressive like his song ‘Stick’. Wait, look at that,” he changed the video, and an aggressive and dynamic sound came out of the earpiece as the music video continued. Suguru made a few comments during the video, and you found it cute to see him so passionate about something. In a way, he was like Satoru at that moment. In your sessions, Satoru always tried to convince you to watch shoujo animes with him and excitedly talked about the manga he was reading. It made you roll your eyes every time, but deep down, your heart melted to see that the two basketball players shared the same fervor of passion. It made sense that they were best friends.
Suguru's little demonstration turned into a little game where you introduced to each other music you loved. He showed you Japanese R&B, while you showed him British soul artists like Cleo Sol. He pressed the ‘like’ button to the music videos you showed him to add them to his Spotify playlist later. You commented on the making of the videos, sometimes laughing and exchanging knowing smiles when you realized you knew the same artists like Daniel Caesar. It was a complicit, oddly intimate moment that broke the barrier you put between the two of you.
“I’m curious about your sex playlist since you have such good taste in R&B.”
“Sex playlist?” The playful smile he gave you made your tummy flutters.
“Yeah? Isn’t that a thing for you?”
He didn't need a sex playlist, his partners were already loud with him, but he wasn't going to say that and come across as an arrogant playboy. He preferred teasing you.
“Am I to understand a hidden meaning in the fact that you want to know the contents of my sex playlist?”
Blood rushed through your ears, making the tips hot.
“No! I was just genuinely curious!”
He placed his hand on yours on the table.
“I’m just teasing you, it’s okay.”
The touch of his hand on yours made an electric feeling spark across your skin, and you quickly pulled your hand away, your heart racing. You looked around for a topic to avoid continuing this awkward conversation, and your eyes fell again on his tattooed hands.
“What kind of style is this?” You stared at the thin, abstract lines on his fingers.
He glanced at his hands.
“Sigilism. Hand tattoos age faster than the rest of the body, so I chose a thin style; it will fade anyway. The rest of my heart is blackwork with thicker lines to make the tattoo last longer.”
You gave him a soft nod.
“It’s impressive how you know how to do different styles of drawings on yourself. You’re so talented.”
“It’s not talent, it’s hard work. I spent all my free time improving my drawing technique in high school. Now, I tattoo myself with ease.”
“Have you ever tattooed someone else?”
“Nah. You have to pass a health exam to do it on someone else. But I could, I'm clean and know the health protocol. I just don't have any tattoo fans around me. Satoru's parents don't even want him to pierce his earlobe.”
“Satoru is 20 years old, he should be free to do what he wants. It's not parenting, it's controlling to act like that,” you frowned, your 'psychology major' mode activated. Suguru grinned at your reaction.
“Appearance is very important in his family. You always have to be proper and elegant for the family's reputation. He had to fight to get them to allow him to play basketball. It's kind of the only thing he confronted his parents about, I'm proud of him.”
Your heart warmed at the affection in Suguru's voice when he spoke of his best friend.
“You’re so cute with Satoru. If I didn’t know you were best friends I would think you were a little couple.”
Suguru shook his head.
“I would hate to be his boyfriend. He would force me to make pfps matchs of his fav shoujos.”
“I really need to see one of his shoujos, he talks about it every time, he’s so passionate about it.”
You got up, packed up your things, and headed towards the university library exit.
“You should come to our 'slumber parties' that we have twice a month. We order pizza, put on pajamas, and watch shoujos. You have to have funny pajamas, or Satoru won't accept you. He made me buy a panda onesie. You can bring Utahime with you if you're not comfortable being alone with two men,” he added the last sentence considerately.
“I'll think about it. I have to find pajamas that fit the criterias of Satoru.”
───────────
In your part-time job at 7eleven, you were responsible for stocking shelves with items and ingredients, and working the cash register. You did visual merchandising, arranging the shelves in the most inviting way possible for customers, and handled customer checkouts.
“Good afternoon,” you said to the new customer, not looking him in the eye, focused on beeping his items. You stopped when you saw condoms and looked up curiously. Your gaze met Suguru’s sly smile.
“Oh… You’re gonna use your sex playlist?” You dared to make a little joke, you weren't embarrassed to pay for condoms, you saw them every day.
A quiet laugh rumbled in his throat.
“You could say that.”
You told him the total amount for his groceries and condoms, and he took the money out of his pocket. Before leaving, he leaned over the cash register.
“I wanted to ask you two things before I go.”
You tilted your head, looking at the people waiting behind him but letting him speak.
“Yeah?”
“Can I message you on Instagram? I found your account in Utahime’s followers. It’s for when I want to send you music that it reminds me of you and I think you might like it.”
Your heart swelled in your chest, touched by his politeness.
“Of course.”
“Great, and also, are you free on Saturday? Satoru and I are going to see an art exhibition at Ripponji Hills. I thought… I thought you might be interested since you don't get out much. Utahime also comes. If you don't want to, that's okay of course. You have the right to want to keep our relationship professional.”
Your lips quirked up, glad Suguru had thought of you with his best friend.
“I'll think about it. Thanks for thinking of me.”
Suguru nodded and gave you a sweet smile before leaving the supermarket, making butterflies take flight in your belly.
───────────
Encouraged by Utahime, you end up accepting Suguru's proposal. Suguru and Satoru were waiting for you and Utahime at the bus stop next to campus.
His cheeks bloomed into a rosy hue when you approached him, and you didn't understand why he often blushed when he saw you. He couldn't be in love with you; you barely talked about yourself during all your sessions because he monopolized the conversation, and you were less comfortable with him than with Suguru.
“You’re so pretty,” Satoru complimented your figure. You were wearing a floral dress that hugged your ample curves, wanting to enjoy the good weather.
“Thank you.”
Suguru cleared his throat.
“The bus is here.”
On the bus, Suguru gestured to you to sit next to him while he remained standing in the crowded bus. You thanked him for his gentlemanly manner, and sat and chatted with Utahime during the ride.
“How many times do you have to have sex before you tell your sex friend that you’re in love with her?”
You shook your head and sighed.
“Why are you in a sex friends situation with a girl you plotted on months before?”
“She told me she wasn't ready to be in a relationship again since her ex-boyfriend died. I couldn't see myself confessing my feelings to her. She was going to pull away.”
You sympathize with your friend, your face softened.
“She lost a boyfriend?”
“Yeah, in high school. I was reassured that she was bisexual and that I had a chance with her, but now that I know she had such a serious relationship with a man, I… I don't know. I feel like I'll never be as good as her ex. We tend to romanticize everything in a relationship once it's over; she must see him as the lost love of her life.”
“You don't know, you're not in her head. You're just making assumptions because you're afraid. You're a psychology major, but you keep overthinking things that could be clarified with a conversation with the person in question?”
“You’re right…”
Utahime let out a heavy breath.
“I don’t know, I really like her. I really don’t want to mess up.”
“You’re human, it’s normal. Try talking to her about it, tell her how you feel, and emphasize the fact that you’re willing to wait so she doesn’t get scared of your feelings and decide to walk away.”
Utahime nodded, and her face calmed.
“You’re the best, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.”
You bumped your fist with hers.
“Always here for you, you know that.”
The ride to the Roppongi district was quick, and your small group got off the bus. In south-central Tokyo, the Ripponji district was vibrant and full of young people on the streets as it was a cultural center. There were fewer areas of vegetation because it was an urban district, but it was a nice place. As you walked with them, you received a notification on your phone from your school app. You made a loud exasperated noise, and Suguru turned to you.
“What’s wrong?”
“It's my political science and sociology class that's been postponed until next week. The men in charge of teaching these classes are often sick. Their classes are already super confusing, and it doesn't help that they're always absent.”
“I didn't know you had electives in those subjects too. You're doing a science bachelor's degree, right? You chose your electives well to have a wide range of knowledge.”
“I didn’t have much choice. I think it was more relevant to see psychology from a purely scientific perspective rather than doing a bachelor’s degree in art and having humanities or english courses take priority over the rest.”
“What’s confusing you about these classes?”
“We’re seeing anarchic and anti-prison thinking. I have a little trouble seeing a society functioning without prisons to punish criminals.”
Suguru’s eyes lit up, his mind always ready for a philosophical conversation.
“That’s the problem in our society. Justice is more punitive than rehabilitative. The anti-prison logic is more about humanizing criminals in prison and improving their quality of life to better integrate them afterward. It’s a process. Anarchists know very well that we can’t abolish the state now. I don’t even think that with our societies, we’ll ever be able to end up in anarchy.”
“Why?”
“Because humans need religion. Nietzsche said he didn't think humans would ever be able to cope with the meaninglessness of life and detach themselves from God. Whether God exists or not is beside the point. As long as there is suffering in our societies, humans will always turn to religious structures and will not be able to accept an ideology that rejects all religious dogma.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“I believe we are all looking for a god who can fulfill our emotional needs and the needs of a civilization, that's why there are a multitude of mythologies, spiritualities, and religions. I forget his name, but I remember someone who gave a 10-hour course explaining how religions were formed according to different types of civilizations. I haven't yet found a god who will fulfill my needs, so I'll say I'm an atheist, although I really like the Japanese myths of Shintoism or Buddhist philosophy. It's part of my culture. And you?”
“I think if there were a god, it would be a woman because we are the ones who create life.”
“You’re right. And do you think life is meaningless?”
“I think it’s up to us to give meaning to our lives. Life is like the canvas of an artist.”
Suguru nodded, walking beside you. The more you spoke, the closer you got, your shoulders touching as Utahime and Satoru bickered in front of you.
“I like your analogy. That’s a great way of explaining existentialism.”
The conversation took a deeper turn. You talked about life, your opinion on death, whether you believed in reincarnation, whether we had free will. Each time, Suguru let you speak and give your opinion, without imposing his own. It was a pleasure to talk with Suguru. He was intelligent and knew a lot about philosophy because of his major, which meant he had information on every question in life. He had an incredible ability to make you think and push you to your limits. He taught you a lot of things, and you realized how much you loved his mind and wanted to have these kinds of conversations with him more often. Your feminist brain liked that he was able to talk about a lot of female philosophers and was not neglecting them.
Arriving at the Ripponji Hills urban complex, Suguru paused in the conversation.
“Do you know which floor this is, 'toru?”
“Leave it to me, I'll manage our hangout. I'm your guide!” Satoru raised his arms theatrically, making you laugh with Utahime.
You go up to the floor where the exhibition Suguru wanted to see was taking place. It was an exhibition about the spring season with several artists who had come together for the common project. There were photographers, painters, graffiti artists, ect.
As you walked through the exhibition that had gathered a lot of people on that Saturday in March, you noticed that Suguru had a tense expression as he looked at the paintings. You approached him, stared at the painting of flowers and tried to understand what he saw in the painting that could put him in this state.
“I came to feel something but it failed as usual,” he muttered, as if his whisper was for himself, but you heard it. Your face softened.
“What do you mean by ‘feel something’? You feel empty?”
Suguru flinched. He forgot that you were here. He ran his hand through his hair.
“Nothing, I’m just being edgy,” he left you, continuing the exhibition, hands in the pockets of his jeans.
You suspected Suguru was suffering from moments of feeling empty. Maybe that was why he was so addicted to sports; it allowed him to feel things through his body. It must have been so important to him, like a way to keep him alive, that was probably why he was so uncompromising with his teammates. It made you want to base your research on the link between mental health and sports even more, but Suguru had to be able to open up to you. You also had to make an effort, remove your barriers and open up to him, so that he would feel confident enough to talk with you. You chewed your thumb nervously, thinking of ways to deepen your relationship so that he could open up to you as you continued to visit the exhibition.
“Blooming flowers as a metaphor for love,” you read the title of a photography in front of you.
Suguru turned to you and was struck by your beauty. In profile, you stared at the photo in front of you, your eyes narrowed and your expression focused. He admired the appearance of your nose in profile, and a growing desire within him wanted to draw you. Your face called out to his pencils and his creativity, making his whole body shivering with excitement about tonight, when he could draw you.
“Has anyone ever told you that you deserved to be in a museum?” He approached you, couldn’t help but tell you, that he found you magnificent, your profile made him want to make a sculpture of it and have it by his bedside every morning when he woke up.
Your heart raced as you turned to him.
“Um, no?”
“We are a failed civilization then,” he simply said, walking away into the exhibition, leaving you confused by his compliment.
───────────
SUGURU’s POV
When he got back to his dorm room, he rushed to his desk, throwing all the notebooks onto his bed in his excitement. It was like a burst of creativity. He yanked out his drawers abruptly, his hands quickly searching for his sketchbook, which had gathered dust from disuse. He sat down, opened a page of his sketchbook, picked up a pencil, and before the pencil touched the paper, he held his breath. He had finally had the inspiration to draw three years after the incident because of a girl. He shook his head, not wanting to think about how worthy of a romantic comedy it was.
His hand ran over the paper, the sounds of paper and pencil filling the room. He took out his phone and put on his wired headphones. He played Strawberry Swing by Frank Ocean on repeat, your favorite song, to be lulled into your world and draw you as accurately as possible.
As he drew, he remembered the shape of your nose, the size of your eyes, the length of your eyelashes, whether your jaw was sharp or not. He had seen beautiful girls, he had seen them up close while sleeping with them, but you, you were from another universe. So drop-dead gorgeous that it was illegal. Exactly his type. He didn’t care if another boy didn’t find you pretty, you were beauty personified for him.
When he finished drawing, he was out of breath, as if he had run a marathon. He stared at your portrait with his heart pounding in his chest. Life had brighter colors with you, and he was frightened by the thought. But it felt so good, so good that he fell asleep listening to your favorite song, wanting to feel your presence with him in his sleep, like a divine angel.
───────────
READER’s POV
“This won’t do.”
You were standing in front of Satoru's dorm room, dressed in the most ridiculous pajamas you could find. Your pajamas consisted of a pink tank top and shorts with a watermelon pattern. Satoru shook his head at the sight of you and went back into his apartment, looking for better pajamas for the slumber party he and Suguru had invited you to.
You burst out laughing when you saw Satoru come back with a unicorn onesie, exactly like the one he was wearing.
“What? I always buy two sets of pajamas, imagine if they get stained?” Satoru looked at you with a seriousness that made you laugh even more.
“If the second one gets stained, will you buy a third? You're really rich.”
You walked into his dorm room. The walls of his room were decorated with anime and manga posters, mostly shoujo. He had a manga library filled with lookups figurines, nendoroids, artbooks, and shoujo magazines. He seemed like a collector. He had moved the bedside tables and put the two single beds side by side to make a large single bed. Suguru was munching on chips in his panda onesie, his eyes glued to his phone.
Utahime was with Shoko and couldn't come, so you were alone with them, your heart racing at the thought. You understood that Suguru wasn't the violent man you thought he was, that his relationship with sports was deeper than just an outburst, but you were still stressed to find yourself alone with two men. Even though Satoru was practically harmless, he was just a nerdy playboy, but your PTSD was stronger than your will to trust men.
You put on the unicorn onesie, Satoru behind you, and put on the hood with the unicorn horn, looking at you with a smirk, proud of his childish habits.
“What are we watching?” Suguru asked, yawning.
“We have to show him the best of shoujo for her first time, so Kamisama Kiss.”
Suguru let out a groan, the sound making your insides twist.
“The thing with the girl and the fox? We've seen that thing a thousand times.”
“And it never gets old!”
Satoru took the pizzas from his desk and placed them on his bed. He turned to look at your shy, intimidated figure, being alone with two boys in a bed, and gestured with his hand for you to stand between him and Suguru. You sat on the bed. Satoru opened his laptop, searched for his favorite illegal streaming site, and blushed when a pornographic image appeared on his screen.
“That wasn’t very shojoboy of me.”
Your laughter filled the room.
The anime started and Suguru turned off the lights.
“Oh, I know the opening!” Your eyes lit up.
“Yeah, Kamisama Kiss is very famous. The best shoujo opening for me. Kaichou wa Maid-sama is the second.”
“Tomoe is so sexy,” you said when the fox was introduced.
“I look a bit like him, I have the same hair.” Satoru said.
“Dude.” Suguru rolled his eyes.
The first season being 13 episodes, you watch it straight through in one night, spending four hours eating with them, laughing with Suguru, and screaming with Satoru when the main characters got close. At the end of the anime, Satoru had fallen asleep and could be heard snoring in the room.
Being practically alone with Suguru, you took the opportunity to talk to him about what you had been wanting to tell him for the past few days.
“Suguru, can I tell you something?”
He stretched his arms and legs and got out of bed to grab a pack of cigarettes. He jutted his chin toward the door to say, ‘Yes, but not here.’ You followed him out of the dorm, walking down the stairs together and out into the dormitory courtyard, sitting on a bench. You looked ridiculous in your unicorn onesie and his panda onesie, but it added to the intimacy of the moment.
“I'm trying to make an effort to get closer to you so you feel comfortable talking to me,” you told him honestly, not wanting to manipulate him.
He took out his lighter, lit his cigarette, and took a drag. Blowing the smoke out of his mouth, he remained silent for a few seconds before turning to you. With the night and the streetlights, his handsome face was more shadowy and intimidating under his hood. But he wasn't scary since he literally had panda ears.
“Why?”
“Because I'd like to do my research project on the role of exercise in mental health, especially for those with poor mental health like you. It's a fairly easy subject for me because it's the focus of my studies, so I'm not taking too many risks.”
Suguru's whole body tensed.
“I don't want to talk about this with you,” he turned his head to look at the trees swaying in the light breeze.
You moved closer to him on the bench.
“Why not? I'm a psychology major; I'm the best person to talk to when things are going badly. In addition to my studies, I'm learning a lot about psychology from books, and articles. In less than a year, I'll have the ability to work. I assure you, I have the skills to at least be an attentive listener.”
Suguru didn't doubt your abilities; he was mainly afraid of getting too attached and disappointing you later. Suguru wasn't cut out for serious relationships. He kept people away from his heart, yet he desperately wanted to be close to yours. It was as if he was running away from what he craved. He only stayed friends with Satoru because he was already his best friend before the incident, after the incident his new friend was Utahime, and even then, he wasn't very close to her intimately. His group consisted of Nanami, Shoko, Satoru, and Utahime. He had superficial relationships with everyone who wasn't Satoru.
“I trust you, it’s not that.”
“So why are you not letting me in?”
He pressed his lips into a thin line, silent, his cigarette between his fingers.
“Suguru.”
“Listen…”
He sighed.
“I’m not a good friend, you shouldn’t get attached to me.”
“Why are you saying that? You've just shown me these last few weeks what kind of good man you are. This isn’t about being friends, this is about my research project.”
He winced at the compliment.
“Nah. You just don't know me intimately to say that. I'm a hypocrite. I put on a mask to function. I barely can… Live,” he said his last word in a whisper you didn't miss.
“If that's the case, you need help.”
“I have a psychiatrist. She gives me medication, but I can't talk to her.”
“That's because that's not her role. Psychiatrists don't have psychology studies, they have medical studies; they're doctors. They're not trained to interact with patients and provide therapy; they're there to address symptoms with medication. They follow the DSM and aren't educated on psychological structures. You should find a psychotherapist.”
“I… I don’t want anyone to confirm that I’m a bad person.”
“No psychotherapist would ever say that about a patient, and if it happens, let me know so I can go beat the shit out of them.”
He let out a quiet laugh.
“Ohhhh, I’m so scared for them.”
You gave him a kind smile.
“You should be.”
A silence fell between them as he could be heard smoking his cigarette and exhaling the smoke, accompanied by the noise of the few cars passing by the campus.
“Not feeling like a good person isn’t an innate thought. It’s either someone who told you this several times in childhood that it became a solid belief, or it’s a change of belief that came after an event where you think you’re guilty. These kinds of dysfunctional thoughts and low self-esteem are present in many disorders like depression,” you recited your lessons in a serious tone.
“You’re awfully spot on.”
“Toxic parents or a traumatic event?”
“The latter,” he whispered.
That was all he was willing to tell you, but it was already a lot. Suguru had experienced a traumatic event that had led him to experience potential anhedonia, preventing him from feeling anything for the art he had previously been passionate about and making him addicted to sports. You summarized the situation in your head.
“I’m also traumatized. But unlike you, I can’t afford therapy. I have to pay off my student loan and pay my mother’s bills with my part-time job. But I’m researching books and the internet to heal myself while I wait to have the money. You can try to heal yourself before being ready to see someone. To help with trauma, you can do mediation, journaling, yoga and cognitive reframing. For anhedonia, improve your diet because the gut produces neurotransmitters like serotonin. Learn about activities that increase serotonin and dopamine, avoid isolating yourself, practice mindfulness, you can do lots of things to at least ease your pain. Also try to see with your psychiatrist if she doesn’t give you medications that make what you feel worse like anti-depressants.”
Suguru listened to you intently, continuing to smoke. He wore a shy smile when you finished.
“You’re so cute when you’re nerdy like that, you know that?”
Warmth pooled in your stomach.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You’re just so cute sometimes.”
“I’m not trying to be cute, I’m trying to help you…”
“I know, I know.” His smile faded, and he looked at you, testing the waters. “Why… Are you traumatized?”
Your jaw tensed.
“A secret for a secret?”
“A secret for a secret.” He nodded.
“My mother was abusive.”
He didn't expect that, because your fear of men was so obvious, he thought it was your father. But maybe you weren't telling him everything, so he remained silent, thoughtful. That explained why you were afraid he'd hit you in the library.
“Why are you still paying her bills if she was abusive?”
“She only have me and can’t work. I don’t know my father.”
He nodded, still thoughtful. Maybe it was another man in your life, an ex-boyfriend like he thought before.
“Why can’t she work?”
“We said a secret for a secret. My information is not free.”
“Fair enough.”
A second silence fell, this one more pleasant. Satoru burst out of campus in his unicorn onesie, making you laugh.
“I WOKE UP WITH A SPIDER ON MY THROAT! YOU HAVE TO FIND IT, SUGU’!” He shouted, running towards us as if the spider was chasing him.
Suguru chuckled and put out his cigarette against the asphalt.
“I have a case to handle, Miss psychologist.”
“No problem. Just know I’m here if you need to talk.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waved your offer away as he walked towards Satoru with his hands in his panda onesie.
You take out your phone to take pictures of the basketball players in their onesies, the picture is funny with Satoru with a scared face and Suguru looking bored with a hood with panda ears.
───────────
The following days, you and Suguru talked regularly on Instagram. He always sent you songs that reminded him of you, or that he thought you'd like. It was mostly R&B songs about sex, so you weren't sure what to think, but you also responded with songs. You weren't sure if he was trying to send you a subliminal message; you had the impression that Suguru was a pretty honest person. If he wanted to sleep with you, he'd tell you.
You were listening to a song he'd just sent you while you were stocking the sanitary pads shelves. It was For However Long by Bryson Tiller.
“There's some bad bitches out there that I really wanna sex up
[...]
I don't wanna have to wait on you
These are things I gotta say to you
Make me feel irreplaceable, baby
'Cause I can't call it.
[...]
For as long as I'm here, baby that's okay with me, yeah
[...]
How does it sound? Sound? Fuck it girl
Come spend the night with me
Say whatever, just don't lie to me
Stepping out, know I want you on the side of me
Mama, you could come work, full-time with me.”
The lyrics made your stomach flip, blood rushing to your cheeks. You pulled out your phone and texted him.
‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
He responded almost instantly.
‘Only if you want it, baby.’
Your eyes widened, your hands almost dropping your phone. His ‘baby’ made a warmth spread through your whole body. You wanted to hear it in his deep voice.
‘Are you drunk or something?’
‘I might be high.’
You sighed with relief. Of course.
‘Don’t text any teacher you have a crush on.’
‘Yes, ma’am. I only have a crush on you tho.’
Your heart pounded in your chest.
‘Suguru, I will pretend that conversation never happened.’
‘Okay, baby. Sorry.’
As your heart settled into a manageable pace in your chest, you started working again before your phone vibrated again.
‘We're going to see a movie with Utahime, Nanami, Shoko and Satoru. Do you want to come?’
‘Why not? What time? I'm finishing my shift late today.’
‘We'll wait for you outside, don't worry.’
You continued working until 9 PM, and spotted your group of friends outside waiting for you. You wanted to have a professional relationship with the two basketball players, but you ended up joining Utahime's group, and it wasn't so bad.
Suguru stood against one of the lampposts, his hands in the pockets of his baggy black jeans. He was taller than everyone else, 6’6 feet tall, you'd seen that in his stats, Satoru was 6’4. He wore a baggy white long-sleeved T-shirt under a dark, rock band T-shirt. His hair was tied back, revealing his silvery-white dye beneath his black hair, with two strands that cascade over the face. His piercings glowed in the streetlight, and the tattoos on his neck looked even darker at night.
You didn't know how you managed to talk to him without stuttering, he was so sexy, but he was your friend, you didn't see him like that. Okay, maybe a bit like that. But could we blame you? Suguru looked like a snack.
“Has anyone seen ‘Will Hunting’?” Utahime asked as you walked toward the theater near campus. It was an old theater that showed older movies that had faded into regular theaters. Will Hunting was a movie from the 90s, exactly the type of movies this theater showed.
Everyone shook their heads. You arrived at the theater, and Satoru paid for everyone’s ticket, being the richest. He also bought you all a bag of popcorn. You sat in the theater, between Nanami and Suguru. You rarely saw Nanami, but whenever you did, he always had this serious and calm expression on his face. You understood why he was friends with Suguru, but less how he could get along with Satoru’s bubbly personality. However, opposites attracted, apparently, so you didn’t bother to think too much about it.
The film was about a young man who was acting out quite a bit and was threatened with jail if he didn't see a therapist. The film centers on a touching relationship between the therapist and the young man who had suffered abuse and was self-sabotaging because of it. You hadn't touched your popcorn the entire movie, completely absorbed. Tears flowed without you realizing it.
Suguru, alerted by your sniffles, turned to you, and his face softened at the sight of your state. Of course. You must relate to the main character. He placed his warm hand on yours in support. This time, unlike when he studied with you while teasing you, you didn't withdraw.
Leaving the theater, the whole group was excited to talk about the movie, but you walked at the back of the group, silent and thoughtful. The film had shaken you, revealing wounds that were still open within you. Suguru noticed you, and approached you, putting his arm around your shoulders.
“It was a bit triggering, right?”
“Really triggering. But the good kind.”
“What was your favorite part?”
“The 'it's not your fault' scene. I couldn't stop crying at that moment. It was such a necessary thing to say to the main character. I wish I had a psychologist who had told me that when I was little and didn't understand why the one who was supposed to love me was hitting me.”
Suguru rubbed his hands on the back of your neck, massaging it to soothe you.
“I may not be a psychologist, but I can tell you this. It wasn't your fault. You deserve to be treated with respect and love, not to be so abused that you cry when you see what you went through on a screen. No matter how she justified the violence, your mother had no right to do what she did to you all those years. She deserves to be condemned for it, but you have the right not to want harm to come to her. I read somewhere that abused children are still attached to their parents and protect them. It's not your fault if you feel this way either.”
You sniffed and wiped away a tear that was falling.
“You know a lot about someone who refuses therapy.”
Suguru's quiet laughter soothed your ache.
“I'm just chronically online.”
“So chronically online that you admit to me that you have a crush on me via message when you’re high?”
Suguru tensed.
“About that…”
“I forgot. What were we talking about?”
Suguru let a grateful smile play on his lips.
“Right, right.”
Satoru turned around and glared at Suguru who had his arm around your shoulders, and Suguru sighed and pulled away from you. You looked at him confused, but he gestured with his hand not to comment.
───────────
READER’s POV
Ever since you were little, you'd been in the habit of journaling. Writing in your journal at night allowed you to make peace with the day and express emotions you wouldn't have known how to name at the time. Since you met Suguru, you'd written even more. The pages of your journal were filled with lines and sentences about him. The writing was clumsier and less polished because you wrote quickly; as if you didn't want to be caught writing about how sexy your friend was and how much you loved his voice.
In the days following your little 'a secret for a secret' conversation, you had become more aware of him. His voice made the hairs on your back stand up, his chuckle made your spine tingle, and his groans when he was upset sent pulses through between your thighs. You were hypersensitive to his every noise, word, and gesture.
The worst part was that you'd started having erotic dreams about him. It was as if ever since he'd texted you to admit he had a crush on you, he'd awakened your desire. You dreamed of him between your thighs, beneath you, his beautiful face on display for you. When you woke up, you were hot and a wet spot was hiding on your panties.
You'd decided to distance yourself from him a bit to get your mind back in order. You'd used the excuse of having more hours at work to cancel your sessions for a while, but you couldn't avoid him forever since you were now in the same group of friends.
That's why you pushed the shopping cart, avoiding lingering on the muscles in his arms. He wore a black compression gym shirt that hugged his muscular frame, and gray sweatpants that accentuated his slim waist and broad shoulders.
“What do you want to drink?” he asked, putting food in the cart as you browsed the aisles. His deep, soft voice made your heart beat a little faster.
Utahime was having a small party in her room tonight, and she'd asked you and Suguru to go grocery shopping. She'd winked at you, as if she'd purposely left you alone with him.
“Something without alcohol.”
“You don’t drink alcohol?”
You shook your head, not wanting to explain why further. He didn't need to know you were a control freak afraid of being taken advantage of. He took you a soda, showing it to you before you nodded and put it in the shopping cart.
Your grocery shopping trip went well, though you were hypersensitive to his every move, your eyes wandering to the back of his tattooed neck, his veiny hands, and the slight patch of skin between his tight t-shirt and baggy pants that revealed a defined V-line. You were feeling hot, but it was manageable.
But everything changed when your eyes fell on a ghost from your past. The sight gripped your heart with terror and your stomach sank.
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