#why do you feel the need to change a character personality? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itendtothinkalot · 2 days ago

Text

just navigating

summary: soobin’s always thought of you as his little sister. but now, things are starting to feel… different. with soobin off studying to become a pilot, the distance only makes things more confusing.

genre: fluff!!! slight angst, not too bad

characters: childhood bestfriend!soobin x f!reader

words: 12.5k

warnings: implied sex but no smut

a/n: kinda based on caleb from lnds bec im obsessed LMFAO ;-;

“Guess who?”

Your vision darkened as two hands gently covered your eyes. The warmth of familiar fingers sent a nostalgic tingle down your spine, and you immediately recognized the tiny calluses on them.

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Judging by the lack of moisture in your hands, I’d say it’s a loser.”

A dramatic gasp came from behind you. “Boo, you're no fun.” Soobin removed his hands with an exaggerated sigh before nudging you with his shoulder. “Y’know, I’d assume you’d be happier to see me.” He spun you around so you were facing him, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You hated to admit it, but he looked good—better than when you last saw him. His hair was slightly longer, brushing just above his brows, but still neatly styled like the perfectionist he was. He wore his pilot uniform with effortless confidence—the crisp navy-blue jacket adorned with insignia, gold stripes neatly embroidered on the cuffs, and a pressed white shirt underneath. The matching trousers completed the look, making him appear every bit the disciplined and ambitious aviator he had always dreamed of becoming.

“And why would I be?” You crossed your arms, looking up at your childhood friend, who stood nearly two heads taller than you.

Soobin placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Wow. So cold. Let’s see… The last time we saw each other was a month ago, before your exams. That means the stress is over. You probably missed your favorite person on Earth—me—and now here I am, gracing you with my presence.” He grinned, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “So, I don’t see why you’re not grinning like the peach that you are.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile was already creeping onto your face. “You’re insufferable.”

“Ah, there it is! A smile!” He pointed at you triumphantly. “See? You did miss me.”

You groaned, lightly shoving his shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, slinging an arm over your shoulder like old times. “Too late, Kiddo.”

“You’ve got to stop calling me that.” You brushed his arm off your shoulder before narrowing your eyes at him. “Also, why the hell are you here? In your uniform, no less… You’re attracting way too much attention.”

Your gaze flickered around, noticing your schoolmates whispering, gasping, and outright staring. Some pointed in disbelief, eyes wide as they took in the sight of your unfortunately handsome best friend—now made even more infuriatingly attractive in his full pilot uniform.

“I didn’t have time to change if I wanted to pick you up,” he said casually.

“You didn’t have to pick me up.”

“Oh? And who’s gonna drive you home then?”

“I’ve been taking the bus since you left.”

“Don’t say it like I abandoned you.”

You wanted to say but you did, but you swallowed the words instead.

“Alright,” he sighed, nodding. “Fine. Next time, I’ll wear a tank top and jeans when I pick you up. How about that?”

—

On the way back, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him. How was work? How was his training? How was—well, how was everything? But somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to ask any of those questions. Still, Soobin knew you well enough.

“I’m okay,” he said, as if reading your thoughts. “I’ll always be okay.” He grinned, his eyes curling into full crescents.

You nodded. “Good. I don’t need the only person in my life to—”

“I won’t.” He ruffled your hair. “C’mon. I’m me. Do you really think something’s gonna—”

“Don’t.” You glared at him.

Soobin, with his towering height, sharp vision, and unshakable determination, had always dreamed of becoming a pilot. Ever since you were kids, he had talked about flying—how he wanted to touch the clouds, how the sky felt like the only place vast enough to hold his ambitions. You had always supported him, picturing him in a crisp commercial pilot’s uniform, announcing flight routes in his deep, steady voice.

But that wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t just want to fly; he wanted to soar. Instead of charting safe routes in passenger planes, he had set his sights on something more dangerous, more demanding. He had signed up to be a fighter pilot—a career that meant grueling training, high-stakes missions, and a future teetering between triumph and risk.

You had argued with him about it before, pleaded with him to reconsider. But Soobin, stubborn as ever, had only grinned and said, “If I’m going to fly, I might as well reach for the impossible, right?”

“Soobin,” You attempted to argue but you knew him better than anyone else. He was just as stubborn as he was perfect.

“I’m gonna be fine and I’m always gonna be beside you. I promise.”

And here he was, right beside you. Just like he promised.

—

The two of you sat at the dinner table, your legs swinging back and forth, occasionally bumping against Soobin’s calves.

“I like what you’ve done with the apartment,” Soobin remarked, glancing around.

“Nothing’s changed.”

“I beg to differ.” He shoved a piece of chicken into his mouth before standing up, making his way toward a single flower sitting in a makeshift vase. He tilted his head, inspecting it with amusement. “And hey, you even buy flowers now.”

“I didn’t get them,” you replied, shrugging. “You know me and flowers… I say it’ll be dead in a few days.”

“Three, max.” He chuckled before giving the flower another once-over, noticing a small tag tied on the stalk of the rose. “Beomgyu?” He turned back to you, raising a brow. “Who’s that?”

“A classmate,” you said casually. “He gave me those flowers for Valentine’s. It’s nothing, really.”

“A boy?” He muttered, his expression shifting as he sauntered over to you. “Kiddo’s all grown up.”

“He’s just a classmate, Soobin.”

You knew better than to admit that Beomgyu had actually shown interest in you. The last time Soobin found out someone had potential feelings for you, the poor boy had shown up to school looking visibly distressed—and nearly teared up every time you so much as glanced at him.

“He gave them to everyone then?” Soobin pressed.

You stayed silent.

"Oh," he smirked, his voice dripping with amusement. "So Kiddo’s got an admirer."

"It’s not like that," you tried to explain, shaking your head. "We just worked together on an assignment, and we did really well. He’s a good guy."

"A good guy," Soobin repeated, nodding slowly. "Not your favorite though, right?"

You laughed, tilting your head at him. "Are you jealous?"

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Kinda, yeah. I’m worried someone’s gonna take my place."

You hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. Rolling your eyes, you kicked his ankle under the table. He groaned, grabbing his leg dramatically.

"As if anyone could replace you," you scoffed. "Look… you’ve been gone for a month, we barely see each other—maybe two weeks total in an entire year—but I’m still wearing the necklace you got me. Every day. Just in case you actually remember me and decide to show up."

His playful demeanor shifted in an instant. His eyes darkened, lips pressing together as he took a step closer.

"Kiddo," he said, voice quieter now. "I do remember you."

"Sure you do."

His jaw clenched, and before you could react, he was moving—slow, deliberate steps closing the space between you.

"Do you think," his voice was low, almost dangerous, "that a single day goes by where I don’t think about you?"

Your breath hitched. The last time he was this serious was when you had accidentally shut off the electricity in the middle of his ranked game. But this was different.

Soobin stopped at the leg of your chair, leaning down until his face was mere inches from yours. His cologne—clean, crisp, a little like rain—filled your senses. His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips, lingering there just long enough for your pulse to stutter.

"Because if you do," he murmured, his voice dropping lower, "you’d be lying to yourself."

"Wh-why so?" Your voice came out weaker than you intended.

He exhaled softly, his hand resting on the back of your chair, effectively trapping you between him and the table.

"You always say you know me better than anyone." His eyes never left yours. "So if you really do… then you’d know just how much this—" he motioned between the two of you, his fingers grazing your wrist "—means to me."

Your heart pounded.

"I think about you before I sleep. When I wake up. When I’m in class. Hell, even when I’m up in the sky."

You swallowed hard, your breath shaky. "That’s… a lot."

"And that’s only half of it." His voice had grown impossibly deep, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers curled into your lap. The tension between you crackled, thick, suffocating. Your lips parted involuntarily, and for a second—just a second—you swore he was about to close the distance.

Then, suddenly, his smile returned, effortlessly lazy.

"But of course," he mused, pulling back just enough to make your chest tighten, "I do think of other things."

Just like that, the moment was gone. The breath you’d been holding escaped in a rush, your head spinning from the heat of it all.

Soobin, ever the tease, just grinned—like he hadn’t just turned your entire world upside down.

—

When you were nine, lost and alone for the first time, Soobin’s mother took you in. You were angry—at the world, at the circumstances that had ripped you away from everything familiar. And Soobin, a few years older, became the unfortunate target of your fury. You lashed out, pushed him away every time he tried to get close. You hated everything.

But Soobin never stopped trying.

At ten, something shifted. One morning, you woke up feeling just a little less angry. The walls you had built weren’t gone, but they had cracks. That day, for the first time, you ate the bowl of cereal Soobin had prepared for you. It was soggy by the time you finally touched it, but he didn’t care. His grin stretched wide, brighter than the morning sun, because it was the first thing you had accepted from him.

At eleven, you started lingering in his room. You never asked, never said a word, just sat there as he played video games or flipped through a book. He never questioned it. He’d toss you a controller, let you pick the next movie, slide half of his blanket over when the air got too cold.

By twelve, the two of you were inseparable. He was the older brother you never had, the one who understood your silences, who never pried but always stayed. The one who made a home feel a little less lonely.

“Soobin,” you called out, your voice barely above a whisper. The room was dark, shadows stretching across the walls as the faint glow of the streetlights seeped through the curtains. You had just woken up, your hair a tangled mess, your pink pajamas standing out starkly against the dimly lit space. But Soobin wasn’t there.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “Soobin?” you tried again, a little louder this time.

“Kiddo.”

You jumped at the sudden voice behind you, your heart nearly leaping out of your chest. You turned to see him standing by the door, arms crossed, his expression amused. “What’re you doing up so late?”

You felt ridiculous admitting the truth—that the thunder had startled you, that the loud crashes outside had made the emptiness of the room feel unbearable.

“Nothing,” you muttered, hugging your pillow tighter.

Soobin tilted his head, unconvinced. “The thunder scare you?”

You stayed silent, refusing to confirm it, but he knew you too well.

With a small sigh, he walked over and patted the bed. “C’mon. Sleep here.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “What about you?”

He nodded toward the couch in the corner of his room. “I’ll sleep there. It’s fine.”

You hesitated, but the warmth of his presence was comforting. “Are you sure?”

Soobin smiled, the kind of smile that made you feel safe. “Just call my name if you need anything.”

At age 19, when Soobin told you he had been accepted into flight school, it felt like the ground beneath you shifted. You were happy for him, of course, proud even. But the truth was, a deep, overwhelming sense of devastation settled in your chest. Your rock—your anchor—was leaving. The one constant in your life, the person you could always count on, was being pulled away.

He’d be gone for months at a time, and when he came back, it would only be for a few weekends. Maybe a week in total over the span of a year. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you turned away, not wanting to face him. Soobin, standing there in his oversized jacket, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looked more like a stranger than the best friend you’d grown up with. You couldn’t bear to watch him leave.

He tapped your shoulder gently, but you shrugged it off, determined to keep your composure. You didn’t want him to see how much it hurt, how much you would miss him.

“I’m fine,” you hiccuped, your voice cracking as you tried to stifle the sobs. But the tears kept coming, breaking through the facade you were desperately trying to maintain.

Soobin stepped closer, his hand resting gently on your back. “It’ll just be for a few months,” he said softly, his voice steady, though you could hear the weight of his own emotions beneath it. “I’ll come back to you the moment I can.”

But even then, it didn’t feel like enough.

—

There was something unnerving about people who could sleep through anything, even in the midst of a distressing situation. You watched as Soobin—always so unbothered, so calm—drifted off easily, his breathing steady and deep, while you lay wide awake, caught in your own thoughts.

Your relationship with Soobin had always been easy to define—older brother and younger sister. It was simple, comfortable, and familiar. But as the years passed, as you both grew older, the lines started to blur. You had friends with older brothers, but none of them had the same dynamic you shared with Soobin. Sure, Soobin wasn’t your biological brother, but he had always felt like one. And maybe that was part of the problem.

Lately, you found yourself tossing and turning in bed, wondering exactly what your relationship with Soobin was. You could be yourself around him, no question there. But somehow, there was a hesitation now, a wariness. You walked on eggshells, careful of every word, every movement. Always afraid that you might accidentally do something that would make him see you differently—make him find you... well, embarrassing.

But the thing was, it didn’t matter how careful you were. You always ended up embarrassing yourself anyway. Whether it was a slip-up in conversation or a stupid mistake that left you red-faced, it seemed like there was no escaping it. Soobin never made you feel bad for it, though. He never pointed out how awkward you could be. But that only made the moments of embarrassment sting more, because you weren’t sure if he noticed and just didn’t say anything—or if he actually didn’t mind. Or worse, if he didn’t even care at all.

You sighed, burying your face in the pillow. Whatever it was, it was complicated. And tonight, it felt heavier than usual.

—

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You muttered to yourself, standing at the entrance of your campus, staring at the sky as the rain came pouring down in thick sheets. Your bright dress, now damp and clinging to your skin, felt like a cruel joke in the face of nature's wrath. Of all the days to forget your umbrella, it had to be the day the sky opened up like hell itself.

“Need some shade?” A voice broke through your frustration. You turned to find Beomgyu, his familiar grin plastered across his face.

You sighed in relief. “Oh, thank God. I thought I was going to be stuck in this stupid rain forever. Not to mention, I have about three assignments from Mr. Kang due today.”

“You’re not done?” Beomgyu’s laughter rang out, clearly amused by your predicament.

“No,” you groaned, “I stayed up all night yesterday, playing ranked with someone who wouldn’t let me sleep.” You shot a side-eye at him.

“Weren’t you the one who kept saying, ‘one more! One more!’” Beomgyu teased, nudging you lightly as he stood beside you.

“Actually—”

A throat cleared from in front of you.

You froze, recognizing the deep, familiar voice before you even had the chance to look up. There he was. Soobin. The last time you'd seen him, he had almost kissed you at the dining table, leaving you in a whirlwind of confusion.

And now, there he stood—dressed in his aviator uniform, the same one he’d promised not to wear around your campus. It was a strange mix of familiar and foreign, making your heart skip a beat. In his hand, he held a yellow umbrella, an offering that seemed to make the rain somehow less threatening.

“Soobin,” you blinked, still caught off guard by the unexpected encounter.

“Kiddo,” he said, your nickname slipping from his lips with such bite that it almost felt like a curse, the venom in his tone thick enough to feel.

“Hey, Beom. Why don’t we just catch up next time? I think... I’ll head out with my brother.” You fumbled over the words, the awkwardness of the situation sinking in.

Beomgyu looked between you and Soobin, brows furrowing. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“She doesn’t,” Soobin responded, his voice colder than usual as he tugged at your wrist, pulling you under the shelter of his umbrella and away from Beomgyu’s.

As you walked side by side, the weight of the silence between you and Soobin grew thicker with each step. The rain pelted down around you, but somehow, it only intensified the tension that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Every step you took toward his car felt like it carried an unspoken question hanging in the air, something that neither of you were ready to address.

The usual playful banter, the comfortable teasing, was nowhere to be found. It was just you, him, and the storm.

“Brother,” he repeated, his voice low, a strange edge to it. “Is that what I am?”

You bit your tongue, resisting the urge to say, Isn’t that what you are? but you held back. The last thing you wanted was for him to be even angrier than he already was.

“You can’t always barge into my school—” you started, but he cut you off.

“I didn’t barge in. And it’s not like I’m always around. I only get to see you three times a year,” he shot back, frustration clear in his voice.

“And whose fault is that?” You raised your voice, the heat of your own irritation rising.

The words hung in the air between you, charged with the unspoken resentment that had been building for months, maybe even longer. Each sentence felt like it was leading somewhere neither of you were ready to go.

“You don’t think this is driving me crazy?” His voice cracked, the frustration in his tone raw and desperate.

“What?” you asked, unable to understand where he was going.

“This…” He stopped walking, turning to face you fully, his eyes dark with emotion. The rain hammered down on both of you, the world around you drowned in the heavy downpour. “I dread every single time I have to go back to school, but you—" He took a breath, his chest rising and falling as if the words were physically painful. "You don’t understand how hard it is for me, do you?"

You shook your head, fighting the urge to pull away. "Then why’d you have to leave?"

His face softened, but there was still tension, thick and unresolved between you two. “This is my dream, kiddo. I can’t just give it up.”

In your head, when you were rational, you understood him. You knew this was his dream, knew he was doing what he needed for himself. But the irrational part of you—the selfish, bitter part—hated him for leaving you behind.

And right now, that irrational part was winning.

—-

Two months passed, and Soobin kept his promise, making an effort to call you, FaceTime you, and stay connected. His presence, even from miles away, felt constant, like he was always there, right beside you, despite the distance.

“My school’s having an open house next week. Care for a tour?” Soobin’s voice came through the speaker of your phone, his eyes bright as he grinned at you through the screen.

You were getting ready to go out with your friends, carefully applying your makeup, with Soobin’s FaceTime open in the background. Every so often, you'd catch him staring at you. A small smile tugged at your lips as you caught him watching.

“Sounds boring,” you teased, tilting your head as you brushed on mascara.

“C’mon. You finally get to see what I’ve been doing!” he pressed, leaning in closer to the screen. The playful glint in his eyes was impossible to miss.

“A bunch of men in sunglasses, walking around—how’s that fun?” you joked, giving him a look.

“You get to see me,” Soobin grinned, his expression softening as if that was the only reason you’d need.

You paused for a second, the playful tension between you two flickering in the air. Soobin never seemed to shy away from making you smile, and just hearing his voice was a comfort, even if it was through a screen.

“Fine. But what do I get out of this?” you challenged, a smirk playing on your lips.

Soobin’s face lit up, his eyes gleaming mischievously. “I’ll treat you to the best steak dinner in town,” he sang, practically grinning ear to ear.

“Fine.”

—

You tiptoed, scanning the expansive campus before you, feeling like a small fish in an ocean of ivy-covered buildings and sleek modern structures. This wasn’t anything like your school. While your own college had its charm—basic yet cozy—this place was a whole new level. Soobin had told you countless stories about his prestigious flight school, but you hadn’t quite grasped the sheer scale of it until now.

You scratched the back of your head, feeling entirely out of place. The student helper had handed you a map with a bright smile, showing you the way, but now, standing here, all you felt was confusion. The buildings were enormous, towering over you in their stark, polished splendor.

Your eyes scanned the map again, trying to make sense of it. "For Pete's sake," you muttered under your breath, "I'm a marketing major, not a map reader." The arrows, the numbers, the squiggly lines—they all blurred together as you tried to figure out where to go next.

You tilted your head, feeling even more disoriented. Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just follow the crowd and hope they were heading in the right direction, but the thought of getting lost in this campus—alone—didn’t sit well with you. Soobin had warned you it was big, but you had no idea it was this... overwhelming.

With a sigh, you stuffed the map into your bag and made your way toward the nearest building, hoping for some sort of sign. You were here for him, after all, so you might as well try to make the most of it.

“I knew you'd get lost.” You heard Soobin’s voice before you saw him, and when you turned around, he was standing there, hands casually tucked in his pockets, a grin already playing at his lips.

“Soobin!” you exclaimed, rushing toward him without thinking. You jumped into his arms, and before you knew it, his strong arms were securely around your waist, lifting you off the ground. You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding onto his shoulders tightly as he spun you around with a surprised laugh.

“Whoa there!” Soobin chuckled, his voice low but warm. He adjusted you in his arms, steadying you as you both laughed. “Miss me that much?” he teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” you grinned, playfully pretending to look away as if it was no big deal, even though your heart was racing just a little faster from being so close to him.

“Well, I didn’t know our captain had a little girlfriend,” Soobin heard the teasing voice, and as he turned, he spotted his classmate, Yeonjun, casually strolling over with a knowing grin on his face.

Soobin’s cheeks flushed slightly at the comment, and he quickly shifted his gaze back to you, still holding you in his arms. You, in turn, gave him an exaggerated pout, sensing the awkwardness creeping in but unable to hide your playful smile.

"Hey!" Soobin called out, waving at Yeonjun, and then turning to you with a sheepish smile. "Uh, this is Yeonjun, my buddy from school, and this is my..." Soobin trailed off, his words hanging in the air for a moment as he awkwardly fumbled for a way to introduce you.

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of his sentence. Your hands still resting on his shoulders, you felt a playful tug at your lips, enjoying the teasing moment.

“Well?” you prompted with a teasing grin, your heart fluttering with excitement.

Soobin let out a small sigh, clearly not expecting the teasing tone in your voice. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, glancing between you and Yeonjun before simply introducing you with just your name.

You smiled, though there was a hint of disappointment in the simplicity of his introduction. It was no surprise, really. After all, things between you and Soobin had never been clear-cut. The bond between the two of you had always felt different than any friendship you’d had before. You weren't sure if it was just the history, the closeness, or something more. And maybe he didn’t either.

But for a moment, you wondered if that was the problem. Maybe Soobin was as unsure as you were about the lines between friendship and something else. You tried to push the thought away, not wanting to make things awkward with his friend or with Soobin, but you couldn't help the way your heart sank a little.

You could feel your cheeks heating up. It was funny, wasn't it? How a few words could stir up so many feelings.

You decided to let it go, brushing it off with a small laugh, not wanting to make things weird. “Well, nice to meet you, Yeonjun,” you said with a smile, even though a small part of you was still wondering what you really meant to Soobin.

—

Soobin was practically beaming as he led you through the bustling campus, introducing you to what seemed like every single person he passed. You were taken aback by how popular he was—lecturers waving at him from across the hall, students stopping to chat, and even the cafeteria lady greeting him by name.

As he continued to show you around, he gestured toward a large open area ahead of you. Your eyes widened in awe as you saw rows of jets and small planes lined up, gleaming in the sunlight.

“And this is, of course, where the magic happens,” Soobin said.

You stood in awe, unable to hide your excitement. "This is so cool. I had no idea it would be this... massive," you said, still taking it all in.

Then, with that mischievous glint in his eyes, Soobin shot you a confident smirk. "Wanna see me go for a spin?" he asked, clearly enjoying the attention his world was getting from you.

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden offer. “Is that allowed?” you asked, your voice almost timid as you tried to understand the logistics of what he was suggesting.

Soobin waved off your concern with a casual shrug, the cocky grin still firmly in place. “Yeah, I just gotta make sure the control tower knows what’s up.” He nodded.

You laughed nervously, but the thrill of being with Soobin in his element started to take over. “Alright, Mr. Confident. Show me what you got.” You crossed your arms, trying to look more composed than you felt, but your heart was racing.

Soobin's world was so far beyond anything you had ever imagined, and yet, somehow, being here with him made everything feel... a little more exciting.

“Soobin, what are you—” you started to ask, but he was already pulling you toward one of the planes, his grip firm but gentle on your wrist.

“C’mon,” he urged with a playful smile. “Just sit here and wear this. It’s gonna get… a little loud.” He handed you a pair of large headphones, the kind you might wear at a concert or a race track, and gently placed them on your head before you could protest.

You adjusted the thick, padded ear covers, feeling a bit out of place but oddly excited. "Loud? What do you mean by loud?" you asked, eyeing him skeptically, though the thrill was starting to build inside you.

With a grin, Soobin gave you a wink. “Trust me, you’ll see,” he said, giving you one last reassuring squeeze on your wrist before heading to the cockpit.

You watched as he climbed into the plane, his movements smooth and confident. He looked like someone born to be up there, and for a moment, you forgot about everything else, just taking in the sight of him preparing for takeoff.

“Ready to feel the wind?” Soobin called out, his voice barely audible but still full of that familiar playful tone.

You gave him a thumbs up, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. “I guess I am now!”

The engine roared to life, vibrations running through the ground as the plane’s power surged forward, filling the air with an electric buzz. The noise was deafening, and the plane’s tires rolled across the runway, lifting off into the sky with incredible speed.

There he was, soaring higher and higher, the once small figure on the ground now a speck in the vast expanse above you. The excitement in your chest bloomed as you watched, a mix of awe and pride flooding over you. Soobin was up there, living his dream, and you could only watch.

As you watched him soar higher into the sky, your chest swelled with pride. The frustration, the anger, all the times you had felt hurt by his absence seemed so small now, like distant memories fading in the vastness of the present moment. Watching him take off, you realized something: those petty arguments, those moments of selfishness, they didn’t matter anymore.

“I’m really proud of you,” you said, speaking into the headphones as if the words might somehow reach him in the air. You meant it with every ounce of your being.

Through the muffled sound, Soobin’s voice came back, light but filled with warmth. “You are?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I am.”

You didn’t know if he could hear the emotion in your voice, but it didn’t matter. He had always known how you felt, even when words were hard to come by.

—

“Do you really have to go back so soon?” Soobin’s voice carried a mix of reluctance and something deeper, something unspoken.

You glanced at your phone and sighed. “Soobin, you have class at 5, and it’s already 4:30. I’ve overstayed my welcome. The open house ended two hours ago. It’s time for me to go.”

“Where’s your hotel? I’ll come see you after my training,” he offered quickly, his words almost spilling out too fast, as if he were trying to find a way to keep you here longer.

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Doesn’t your training end at night?”

“It’s only two hours, I’ll be done by 8 at the latest,” he replied, his voice sounding more desperate, though he tried to mask it with that confident tone you were so used to.

You shook your head softly, though your heart fluttered at his insistence. “Then you should get some rest. You have that flying test tomorrow, and I don’t want to be the reason you’re too tired to focus—”

“You sound like you’re trying to get rid of me,” Soobin muttered, a sigh slipping from his lips, though there was a clear sadness in his voice that made your heart ache.

“Trust me, that’s the last thing on my mind,” you said quickly, your voice soft but sincere. “I just want you to be safe, sound, and well-rested. You’re only half a year away from graduating. You need to ace this test, Soobin. You’ve got to be the best.”

“Fine. You’re right,” Soobin sighed again, but this time, there was an underlying weight to his words. He took a step closer to you, his gaze softening as his eyes lingered on your face. It was almost as if he wanted to say more, something deeper, something that was building between the two of you.

You could see it in the way he looked at you, the way his lips parted slightly, as though he was debating whether to kiss you then and there. But instead, he pulled back, running a hand through his hair in frustration, as if trying to push away the overwhelming emotions he was feeling.

“Alright. I’ll rest. But... I’ll miss you, you know,” Soobin added quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled softly, a warmth spreading through your chest. “I’ll miss you too, Soobin. Just take care of yourself. You’ve got this.”

–

At the hotel, you paced around, your thoughts tangled in a mess of emotions. It was your last night in town, and as much as you tried to enjoy the moments you had left, something gnawed at you. You missed Soobin. You craved more of those quiet, private moments with him, just the two of you.

The selfish thoughts crept in again. You thought about how he was always the one picking you up from school, how he was always there for you when you needed him. But now, you wanted to do something for him. You wanted to surprise him. Maybe, just maybe, you could be the one to pick him up for once. He deserved it.

Without thinking twice, you grabbed your jacket, quickly dashing through the hotel lobby. The buzz of the night was fading around you as your heart raced with the urgency of the impulse.

“Taxi!” you called, waving your hand for the nearest one.

The cab pulled over, and you hopped in without a second thought. It was impulsive, reckless even, but you didn’t care. Tonight, you were going to make sure he knew how much you cared, how much you wanted to be there for him—just like he had always been for you.

You knew Soobin took the bus to his rented apartment across town from his school, so you waited at the bus stop for him.

A few kids stood beside you, their laughter filling the air as they played with a strange contraption you couldn't quite identify. It looked like some kind of toy, and every minute or so, you could hear them squealing with excitement. It was adorable. For a moment, it reminded you of you and Soobin—the way you both would joke around and get lost in your little world.

“Hey, do you think I can be a pilot when I grow up?” the boy asked, gesturing toward the school in front of you.

“Sure, if you magically had good eyesight,” the girl giggled, flicking his glasses.

“That’s not very nice!” the boy pouted, clearly offended.

“I’m kidding! I just don’t want you to go. My mummy says that if you go to flight school, you’ll have to stay here for almost three years. You can’t leave me!” the girl yelled, her tone playful but filled with sincerity.

“I won’t! You’re my friend!” the boy reassured her.

“Friend?” she asked with a dramatic pause.

“Okay, fine. Best friend. But I have lots of best friends. One of them can draw really well, and another one can run really fast,” the boy bragged, puffing out his chest.

“You’re not the only one with many friends. I have one too! A friend who can do a backflip! So I think my friend’s definitely cooler than yours!” the girl argued confidently.

“Nuh-uh,” the boy shot back.

“Yuh-huh!” the girl retorted, sticking her tongue out.

“MISS!” Both kids suddenly turned and looked at you in unison, startling you.

You blinked in surprise, eyes widening. “Huh?”

“Can you please tell us whose best friend you think is the coolest?” they both asked, their little eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Just as you were about to answer, a familiar voice called out from behind you.

“What are you doing here?” Soobin’s voice rang out, and you turned to see him standing there, looking both surprised and slightly out of breath. His uniform clung to his sweaty body, his hair tousled from a long day’s work. Despite it all, he looked… really good.

“Surprise!” you smiled, the excitement bubbling inside you at the sight of him.

He blinked, clearly caught off guard, and then his lips curved into a smile as he took in the scene—the two kids staring at you, waiting for an answer, and you standing there, grinning like you were up to something mischievous.

“Well, now I’m curious too,” he chuckled, his voice softening as he stepped closer, his gaze never leaving you. The tension between you two seemed to fill the air as he stood there, waiting for you to respond to the kids’ question. “Who has the coolest best friend?”

Your eyes flicked from top to bottom, taking in Soobin as if you were seeing him for the first time. He was a pilot, for Pete’s sake. A damn pilot who looked like he belonged in a magazine. The way his uniform clung to his body, the way his disheveled hair still made him look effortlessly perfect—it made your heart ache in ways you couldn’t explain.

And then, beyond all the looks, there was everything else.

He was the one who cooked for you when you were hungry (even if it wasn’t the greatest, you appreciated the effort). The one who would call you every time a thunderstorm rolled in just to make sure you could sleep through the noise. He was the one who ordered food for you during exam weeks when you’d forget to eat, completely consumed by your studies.

Soobin was the kind of person who thought of you before himself, every single time. And as you stood there, watching him, it hit you just how lucky you were to have him in your life. But it also left you wondering why you had been so reluctant to admit it.

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to tell us whose best friend is cooler?” the little boy’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, his eager gaze pulling you back to reality.

You blinked, a small laugh escaping your lips as you glanced between Soobin and the kids. There was no contest. “Well, I think,” you paused, locking eyes with Soobin. “My best friend is definitely the coolest.”

The girl rolled her eyes, crossing her arms with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re just saying that because he’s handsome,” she muttered, clearly unimpressed.

“Oh please, my best friend’s a pilot—that’s way cooler than whatever you’ve got going on!” you shot back, sticking your tongue out at her.

The boy gasped dramatically, pointing at you. “You’re a grown woman fighting a child!” he accused, his finger still aimed in your direction.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning mock offense. “I’ll have you know, I’m just a grown woman with excellent taste.” You turned to Soobin, who was standing there, slightly amused by the whole interaction. "Don’t worry, they’re just jealous."

The kids both groaned in unison, clearly giving up on the argument. They turned away, muttering something about how unfair the world was.

“You’re such a loser.” Soobin laughed.

—

"So, this is your bachelor pad?" you asked, glancing around the apartment as you took it all in. The black and white decor was sleek and minimalist, just like Soobin himself. It was everything you'd imagined, yet still somehow more.

You hadn’t seen this place in person before, only catching glimpses of it through his Facetime calls. But now, it was real—and you were here.

Soobin had been quiet ever since the bus stop. You didn’t think much of it. He was probably just tired.

"I can cook dinner for you!" you offered, standing up from the couch, eager to do something.

But before you could take a step, Soobin reached out and pulled you back down, making you sit beside him again.

"Huh?" you blinked, confused by the sudden action. "You okay?"

He nodded slowly, but his eyes were heavy, his exhaustion evident. He reached up, his hand gently cupping your cheek before sliding through your hair.

You froze as his face came closer to yours. For a moment, you didn’t quite understand what was happening. But then, your cheeks flushed crimson as you realized. Your heart started to race, and you felt the weight of his presence more than ever before.

"Soobin?" you whispered, voice barely a sound.

"You don’t know what you do to me," he murmured, his voice low and rough. His gaze dropped to your lips, and his thumb brushed gently across them, sending a shiver through your body. "You have no idea how much I want you."

"Soobin?" The whisper left your lips again, barely audible, as you looked up into his eyes, searching for something—clarity, maybe. You weren’t sure.

His hand tightened its hold on your hair, pulling you closer. His breath was warm against your skin, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

“I’ve been wanting this for so long,” he confessed, his voice barely a whisper, but it felt like the heaviest thing you’d ever heard. His fingers trailed down your jaw, before resting on your neck, gently tracing the curve.

"Soobin..." your voice was barely a breath, filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite name, but your body knew. His face was so close now, his lips hovering just above yours.

But before anything could happen, Soobin fell back into the couch, his eyes shutting, his body sinking with a soft exhale. The tension in the air seemed to evaporate, replaced by a quiet exhaustion you hadn’t noticed before.

You froze, caught off guard. Soobin's chest rose and fell steadily, his body heavy with the weight of the day.

You sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. His hand still rested near your face, but his focus was elsewhere now. His lips were parted slightly as he breathed deeply, clearly drained.

"Soobin?" You tried shaking him gently, your voice soft, but he didn’t stir.

He was asleep. Fully asleep. The weight of the day must've finally caught up with him. You let out a small chuckle, watching the way he looked so peaceful, the kind of tiredness that only came after giving so much of himself.

—

The next morning came with a jarring sound. You jolted awake as loud pans clattered together, and your eyes quickly flicked to the kitchen.

"Soobin?" You called out groggily.

"Shit, did I wake you?" His voice floated back to you, and you spotted him shirtless, moving around the kitchen with a slight sense of chaos in the air.

A part of you wanted to shield your eyes, but another part of you couldn’t help but appreciate the sight. You quickly turned away, reminding yourself that this was Soobin.

"Kinda," you muttered, still avoiding his gaze.

"I was just gonna make you some eggs before you head back to the city," he said, nonchalant, like the situation was completely normal.

You nodded, still looking away, eyes glued on the floor. "Oh."

You heard him chuckle softly as his footsteps grew louder, and then his large palm was suddenly resting on top of your head. You stiffened, feeling the warmth of his touch.

"Something on the floor, kiddo?" Soobin teased, his voice light. "I can put a shirt on if you like."

"It’s okay. It’s your house. I’m just a guest," you mumbled, your voice small as you tried to hide the way your heart was racing from the proximity.

"You’re not even looking at me," he continued, playful.

“It’s not my fault you're walking around half-naked in the apartment–” You looked up, intending to be annoyed, but your words died as you met his gaze, realizing how close your faces were. The air between you felt charged, and your eyes briefly flicked to his abs — defined, sculpted, distracting — before your face turned beet red.

“Cover up,” you muttered quickly, reaching for his shirt and tossing it to him.

He caught it with a grin, but didn’t immediately put it on, still teasing you with that mischievous glint in his eyes. "What’s the rush, kiddo? It’s just me."

You could barely manage a glare, your hands fumbling awkwardly in your lap. "Just... put it on," you repeated, your voice quieter this time.

As you sat on his dining table, you swung your legs, nudging his ankles with yours.

“You still do this?” he said, glancing at you.

“Huh?” you replied, not fully realizing what you were doing.

“Swinging your feet,” he mumbled, glancing at your legs.

“Oh right,” you quickly stopped, suddenly self-conscious.

“I wasn’t complaining,” Soobin said with a small chuckle. “In fact, I kinda miss it. Do you remember how much Mom used to scold you for that?”

You nodded with a smirk. “And you didn’t help when you constantly complained about it to her!”

He grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Hey, someone had to take the fall. It wasn’t like you were going to stop on your own.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Right, like you were any better. Always tattling on me.”

Soobin laughed softly. “I wasn’t tattling. I was just... helping Mom keep track of your chaos.”

“I wasn’t that bad!” you protested, though you both knew that wasn’t entirely true. You both had your moments as kids.

“You were always full of energy,” he said with a fond smile. “But I think I miss that. The energy, I mean. Things were simpler back then, weren’t they?”

You paused, the weight of his words settling in. “Yeah... simpler,” you echoed, realizing he was right. Those moments, despite the annoyance at the time, had a kind of warmth to them that you missed.

Soobin glanced at you, his expression softening. "You know, you’re still my little sister, right? Even if you’ve changed a lot, I’ll always see you like that."

You looked up at him, a swirl of emotions swirling in your chest. "I know," you said quietly, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

It was funny—little sister. The words rang in your ears, and though they should’ve comforted you, they did something else entirely. You’d always taken comfort in his protective nature, his constant care, but today, the familiar title struck a chord inside you. Little sister. The term felt almost too distant now. A part of you realized, maybe for the first time, that you didn’t want to be just his little sister anymore. Maybe that wasn’t the role you wanted to play in his life.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, glancing down at the table. “I guess I’m still that little kid to you, huh?” you said, trying to keep your tone light.

Soobin’s lips twitched, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Always will be,” he said, his voice playful but with an undertone of warmth.

But as you sat there across from him, something shifted inside of you. You weren’t sure exactly when it happened, but in that moment—sitting at his dining table, surrounded by the comfort of the past—you realized something that made your heart race a little faster. It wasn’t just the memories, the shared history, that made you feel so drawn to him. It wasn’t just because you’d always seen him as the older brother who took care of you.

No, there was something more. Something deeper.

The realization hit you like a wave, and you almost choked on your breath. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, looking anywhere but at him. But you couldn’t shake the truth from your mind.

You looked up at him again, but this time, it wasn’t the same. You couldn’t look at him and think of him as just Soobin, your older brother. There was an undeniable pull between you that made your heart ache with confusion, longing, and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“I don’t get it.” You felt something stirring in your chest, that uncomfortable mix of desire and confusion. “You call me your little sister…”

“Soobin looked up, brow furrowed. “Hm?”

“You call me your little sister. But we’ve kissed.” you continued, your voice tinged with frustration. You let out a bitter laugh, trying to hide how vulnerable you felt. “How is that… how does that work?”

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your emotions in check. The questions were swirling in your mind, and you couldn't stop them from spilling out. "I just—" You stopped yourself, realizing how tangled your feelings had become. You didn’t want to push him away, but you also didn’t want to continue pretending that there was nothing more than what you thought you had.

Soobin watched you closely, his expression softening. “Isn’t that what you want to be?” His voice was quieter now, more sincere.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

"Isn’t that what you want to be?” Soobin repeated, his gaze searching yours. “That’s what you called me…when Beomgyu was there.”

You stayed quiet, knowing what he had said was true.

Soobin’s expression shifted, his eyes searching yours. For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of your words hanging between you both.

“So, what are we then?” His voice was barely a whisper, as if he feared saying the wrong thing.

You swirled your spoon around the oatmeal Soobin had made for you, the warm steam rising as you avoided looking directly at him. You were just as afraid of saying something wrong—afraid you might ruin everything. The delicate balance of the relationship you two had built, the connection you shared.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “I like you. More than I should. You’re not my brother. And I don’t want you to be.”

—

The door slammed open, and there stood Soobin, eyes wild with something you couldn’t quite place. Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly pulled away from Kai, one of your neighbours friends, the tension in the room thickening in an instant.

Soobin glared at Kai, and it was like a switch flipped inside of him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he spat, his voice low and filled with an emotion that stung.

Kai, clearly startled by Soobin's intense reaction, scrambled to get up. “I—I wasn’t doing anything. I swear, we were just—uh, talking—”

“Talking?” Soobin sneered, his eyes darkening with jealousy. “You think I’m stupid?”

You stared, frozen, watching as Kai stumbled over his words, trying to explain himself. But Soobin didn’t let him.

“I don’t want you here. Leave.” His voice was firm, and even though it was directed at Kai, the words cut deeper than they should.

Kai, terrified now, stood up quickly, nodding vigorously. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry!” He turned and practically bolted out of the room, leaving you alone with Soobin, your blood boiling.

You stared at Soobin, unable to find the words for a moment, but then you exploded. “What the hell, Soobin? Are you really that possessive of me?”

“I’m not being possessive! I’m just trying to protect you,” Soobin snapped back, but you could see the way his fists were clenched, the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Protect me? From what? Him? I can protect myself, Soobin!”

Soobin took a deep breath, clearly struggling with his emotions. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice softer now. “Guys... guys always have screwed-up intentions.”

Your eyes widened with frustration. “Aren’t you a guy?” you spat, your anger rising with each word.

Soobin froze. His expression faltered, and he was silent for a moment, looking at you like he was trying to process what you had just said. His face hardened.

“I’m your brother,” he finally said, his voice gruff.

“No, you’re not, Soobin,” you snapped. “We don’t even have the same parents. I’m only here because I was left alone.”

Soobin looked like you slapped him. His fists clenched tighter, and his jaw tightened. “Alone? What am I then? A doll?”

The words hit harder than you expected, and it stung more than you wanted to admit. You glared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “You’re being annoying, and you can’t stand to see me happy, can you?”

Soobin’s face turned red, and he took a step closer, towering over you. His voice cracked with frustration. “Can’t stand to see you happy? Every. Single. Day, I spend my life trying to make you happy. Can’t you see that?”

You knew he was right. You knew he was always trying to make you happy, but you couldn’t let him win. Not now. Not like this.

“Whatever,” you muttered, turning to leave his room. But before you could even step away, Soobin spun you around, his hand gripping your wrist, pulling you toward him. Your breath caught in your throat as his hand pressed against the wall beside you, his body dangerously close.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he said, his voice harsh, but there was something more behind it. It was almost like he was giving you one last chance to run.

You opened your mouth to protest, to push him away, but your words died on your tongue. The air was thick between you, and before you could even register what was happening, his lips crashed against yours.

The kiss was rough, heated with months of tension, with everything unspoken between you. It was a kiss that demanded something—something you didn’t know how to respond to. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his grip on you firm, like he was afraid you would disappear if he let go.

Your heart raced, your body frozen between wanting to push him away and pull him closer. Your mind screamed at you to stop, to break free, but you were too lost in the feeling of his lips on yours.

Soobin pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, both of you gasping for air. He didn’t say anything at first. Neither of you did. It was like you were both waiting for the storm to pass.

And maybe it would, or maybe it wouldn’t. But you knew one thing for sure now: everything had changed.

—-

Four years had passed since that day, since Soobin had left for flight school. You’d buried the memory deep, locked it away like a secret too dangerous to acknowledge. After all, how could you look him in the eye again after that moment? The kiss. The way his lips had felt against yours, as if the whole world had shifted in that one breathless instant.

Kai had been a distraction, maybe. Or perhaps he had been a way for you to cope with Soobin’s impending absence, a rebellion against something you didn’t know how to deal with. After all, Soobin had been your anchor, your family, your “older brother” — until he wasn’t. Until he’d crossed that line, and left you hanging in a way you didn’t know how to understand.

You never brought it up to him. You couldn’t. How could you, when the next morning, Soobin acted like nothing had happened? He was back to being your “older brother,” carrying on like it was just another regular day. As if he hadn’t just kissed you like that, like it was nothing. And so, you pretended too. You pretended it was normal. You pretended like you hadn’t spent days afterward replaying that moment in your head, each time wondering what it meant, what it had been.

—-

The silence between the two of you was deafening. After breakfast, Soobin hadn’t uttered a single word. He was lost in his own thoughts, and it felt like the air between you had thickened, each unspoken word hanging in the space between you both.

You quickly excused yourself, heading to the shower in an attempt to clear your mind. The hot water didn’t wash away the discomfort, though. It only seemed to magnify the embarrassing tension that still lingered. You couldn’t even look at him without feeling the weight of your confession bearing down on you. You had told him everything — that you liked him, more than you should — and now he was just… silent.

When you finished, you grabbed your things, stuffing them into your bag a little more aggressively than you intended. You were angry, frustrated, and honestly just tired of the awkwardness.

Soobin hadn’t spoken to you since you’d laid it all out there. Not even a simple acknowledgment of what you’d said, what you’d put yourself through. It was as if it had never happened. And it made you want to scream.

“Asshole,” you muttered to yourself as you slung your bag over your shoulder.

You couldn’t stay here. Not with him acting like a mute pilot. You didn’t need his silence, didn’t need the awkward tension that came with it. It was too much. You couldn’t handle it.

Just as you were about to leave, you heard the faintest rustle of movement behind you. You spun around, ready to give him a piece of your mind, but he was still there, standing by the couch, looking like he was trying to find something to say. But of course, nothing came out.

“Really, Soobin?” you snapped, your voice cracking slightly. "You’re not going to say anything? Not even after everything?"

Your hand reached for the doorknob, shame settling in your chest, when, just as you were about to leave, Soobin suddenly stood up, rushing toward you. In a flash, he locked you between the wall and his arms, trapping you.

“How could I possibly put into words how much I’ve loved you and yearned for you?” His voice was strained, raw, like every word was fighting to break free.

You froze, your breath caught in your throat. This was the moment you’d been waiting for, yet it felt as though time had stopped. The tension between you both was thick, suffocating almost, but there was something undeniable in the way he looked at you — something that made your heart race despite the anger and confusion swirling inside you.

“What?” you whispered, your voice trembling with the mix of emotions you couldn’t quite sort through.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it for so long,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours, “but I don’t know how to make it make sense. I don’t know how to explain how much I’ve wanted you — wanted this — without completely screwing it all up.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. You could feel the warmth of his body close to yours, his breath hot against your skin. You wanted to pull away, to push him out of your personal space, but something held you there. Something inside of you, a pull that you couldn’t deny.

“Then why... why didn’t you say anything before?” You could feel the frustration rising in you, mixing with the vulnerability of his confession.

“I was scared,” he admitted, his voice low. “Scared that it would ruin everything — everything we have. I never wanted to make things weird, especially not with you. But I can’t keep pretending that I don’t feel this way.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes desperately searching his, trying to make sense of the storm of emotions swirling inside you. Was this real? You wanted to understand, to make it all make sense, but you were lost in the intensity of the moment.

“You’re my brother, Soobin,” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of what you were trying to deny. “You can’t just—”

But he interrupted you, his voice steady yet filled with raw emotion. “But I’m not. We’re not siblings. You came into my life like a whirlwind, and now... now you’ve completely changed everything. I think about you every night, every night. How the hell am I supposed to put all this... all these emotions, these feelings, into words when nothing... nothing in the dictionary can explain how much I feel for you?”

His face was inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his presence consuming you. It was as though the air between you both had thickened, each word hanging in the space like a confession, unspoken yet loud in its silence.

“Soobin...” You whispered, your heart hammering in your chest, trying to find something to say, something to stop this, but you were rendered speechless by the intensity in his eyes.

“You—” His voice dropped, thick with emotion, his breath shallow. “You, who flipped my world upside down. You, who I can’t ever stop thinking about, even when I try.” He closed the gap between you, his lips so close you could almost feel them on your skin. “You, who took my first kiss.”

Your pulse quickened, and your chest tightened. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to step away, but you couldn’t. His words were pulling you in, drawing you closer despite the storm inside you. The tension between you was almost unbearable, the words unsaid, but felt deeply in the space that separated you both.

“Soobin,” you gasped, your voice cracking. “This... this isn’t... we can’t.”

But his eyes locked onto yours, unrelenting. “We can. If you’d just let me show you.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it held so much weight, so much desire. He moved just enough to make your breath catch, his body a breath away from yours. The space between you was nonexistent now.

You could feel the heat radiating between the two of you, the space narrowing as Soobin's breath mixed with yours. His hands, firm yet gentle, found their way to your wrists, pulling your arms above your head and locking them there. His eyes were searching yours, his lips barely a breath away.

Without a word, his lips pressed against yours, tentative at first, as if testing the waters. But then, as if something within him snapped, the kiss deepened. It was slow, deliberate, and all-encompassing. His hand moved to the back of your head, pulling you closer, while your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

You felt the world tilt, as though everything in your life had led to this exact moment. The warmth of his lips, the pressure of his body against yours, made you forget everything else.

Soobin pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, both of you gasping for breath. “I don’t want to stop,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse.

You couldn’t even respond. Your heart was racing, your thoughts a blur. The emotions flooding your chest were overwhelming, but one thing was certain—there was no turning back now.

He slowly guided you toward the bedroom, still holding you close.

—

It had been hours since the two of you went to bed. You slowly woke up, peeking under the blanket and realizing what had transpired between you two. "Oh," you murmured, quickly looking away. Your eyes landed on Soobin, who was lying beside you in nothing but the sheets, his back turned.

You glanced at the clock beside you. It had been two hours since your class started, and you were in a completely different city now. One day of missed classes wouldn’t be the end of the world, but your grades? You weren’t sure.

In a panic, your hand reached for your phone to text Beomgyu and ask him to take notes for you. But before you could, you felt Soobin’s eyes on you.

"Texting another guy when we’ve just done it is crazy," he said, his voice deep with a touch of teasing.

You stiffened, quickly responding, "I’m making sure I don’t fail."

Soobin chuckled, his lips lightly pressing against your bare shoulder, sending a shiver down your spine. "You can’t text a Cassandra or a Layla or something? Why does it have to be Beomgyu?"

"Because he’s my friend," you muttered, flustered.

A playful, almost possessive glint flashed in Soobin's eyes. "Right…a friend…" he said, his voice low and teasing as his arms pulled you closer.

Rolling your eyes, you sighed. "Okay, okay. I get it. You’re jealous." You leaned in to kiss his cheek, a gesture of reassurance.

But then, as if to make it right, you softly placed your hand on his chest. "You know, you should really go to class. You need to keep your grades up too, Mr. Pilot."

Soobin pouted slightly, his eyebrows furrowing in frustration. "I don’t want to go to class without you," he grumbled.

You smiled, running a hand through his messy hair. "Well, I can’t exactly go now can I?" you teased, pushing him toward the edge of the bed.

"Fine," Soobin said with a heavy sigh, pretending to be put out but the smile on his lips was unmistakable. "But only because you told me to."

"Good," you said, kissing his cheek once more. "Now go, and maybe I’ll make it up to you later."

As he reluctantly stood up, his expression softened. "You owe me, but I’m gonna let you off the hook for now. Go crush your class, alright?"

You grinned, still a little flushed from everything, but feeling lighter now. "I will," you said confidently. "Now go. You’re going to be late."

—-

A few hours later, you had texted Soobin, explaining that you really needed to get back to the city. You had an exam the next week, and your days had been nothing short of a whirlwind with him.

You could almost hear the disappointment in his response when he begged you to stay at least until he got back from his flying test. “Just a little longer, please?” The text read, filled with sincerity and a subtle plea that tugged at your heart.

You sighed, knowing you'd just barely make it in time, but… after everything that had happened, after last night, you found yourself missing him more than usual. The way his presence had wrapped around you in a way that felt so familiar, so right. You weren’t sure if you were even ready to leave just yet.

Tapping your phone screen, you typed back, “Okay, but only because you’re being so insistent. I’ll stay until you’re back.”

His reply was quick, almost instantly: “You won’t regret it. I promise.”

You smiled at the screen, feeling your chest warm at the thought of him. You hadn't expected everything to feel so natural, so different, so good with him, and yet here you were, tangled in the very emotions that made you hesitate to leave.

—

As you waited for Soobin to come home, you decided to cook him his favorite dinner. You weren’t exactly a master chef, but you were determined to try your best. You chopped vegetables, stirred sauces, and even got a little flour on your cheek from the bread you had attempted to bake. It was a mess, but you figured it would be worth it when Soobin walked through the door. You smiled at the thought of his face lighting up at the effort you put in.

The clock ticked away, and you nervously adjusted the plates on the dining table, glancing at the meal you had prepared. It wasn’t perfect—far from it—but you hoped it would be enough. You had tried. That had to count for something, right?

You heard the front door open and the sound of footsteps approaching. Then the familiar sound of Soobin’s voice calling out your name.

“I’m home!”

You quickly wiped your hands on your apron and rushed to greet him, just as he walked into the living room, still in his uniform.

As soon as Soobin walked through the door in his little pilot uniform, you couldn’t help yourself. He looked so good in it—too good. The crispness of the outfit, the way it clung just enough to show off his figure, the way his hair was perfectly messy as if he had just stepped out of a daydream. You immediately found yourself glued to his side, your body instinctively leaning against him as he entered.

Your hand rested on his arm, almost possessively, as if you needed to keep him close. You hadn’t realized how clingy you were being until Soobin, looking slightly confused, glanced at you with raised brows. “Hey, what’s with you today? You’re unusually handsy,” he teased.

You paused, your hand still resting on his arm, your fingers lightly tracing the fabric of his uniform. It wasn’t just that you missed him or that you were excited to have him home—it was something about the uniform itself. You suddenly realized that maybe it wasn’t just the comfort of his presence that was making you cling to him so tightly. You could feel your chest tighten as you looked at him.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, but then it clicked. His uniform. That was it. You shifted uncomfortably as the realization dawned on you.

Soobin’s eyes widened as he caught on. “Wait a second... you’re being extra clingy because of the uniform?”

You couldn’t hide your embarrassment, and your cheeks flushed a deep red. You averted your gaze, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. “Maybe…”

He chuckled softly, his hand gently brushing your hair away from your face, though his expression still held a hint of confusion. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

But then it hit him—that moment when he pieced it all together. He wasn’t just an adorable sight in the uniform; it was the fact that you felt possessive of him, protective, maybe even a little jealous.

“Wait, is this why you hate it when I wear this to pick you up from school?” He continued, stepping a little closer to you, his hands gently resting on your shoulders. “It’s because you don’t like the idea of other girls looking at me.”

You bit your lip, suddenly feeling exposed. You didn’t want to admit it, but there was no denying it. “Maybe,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Soobin’s gaze softened, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he leaned down to kiss the top of your head. “You don’t need to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere.”

You looked up at him, the conflict in your heart still there, but it eased just a little at the tenderness in his eyes. He really didn’t get it, did he? The fact that you couldn’t bear the thought of sharing him. It wasn’t about other girls; it was about how much you needed him for yourself.

“I know. But still,” you muttered, not quite ready to let go of your insecurities just yet.

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you into his side, his warm embrace comforting you more than you expected. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll stop wearing it outside the house,” he teased, but there was no teasing in his voice—just pure affection.

You snuggled closer, burying your face in his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can wear it whenever you want… just… maybe not when you’re picking me up from school.”

Soobin laughed softly, “That’s how I feel every time you walk out of the house.”

“Really?” You rolled your eyes.

“Walking out like that, looking naturally cute, is a heart attack waiting to happen,” Soobin said, his voice almost too serious.

You laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not! You don’t see the stares you get outside?” Soobin sighed.

“No, I don’t, because when we’re out together, I only see you,” you teased.

“All these sugary words, you do know we’re still not dating, right?” Soobin said, raising an eyebrow.

You crossed your arms. “Doesn’t this morning count? I lost my—”

“I still haven’t asked you out, though,” Soobin interrupted, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Okay, go ahead, ask me.”

“Like this? With me in my work uniform and you in a dirty apron?”

“There’s no better timing. Besides, I’d say yes to anything if you ask me in your uniform.”

“Oh, so that’s how I’ll get you to agree with me now?” Soobin grinned.

“Not everything. I still have a conscience and morality.”

“You do now?”

“Mhm,” you nodded playfully.

“Okay then,” he said, pulling you closer. “Wanna be my girlfriend?”

“That’s so lame.”

Soobin chuckled, his hands resting on your waist as he pulled you even closer. “What’s so lame about it?”

“You’ve got this serious, pilot face, and then you hit me with ‘Wanna be my girlfriend?’” You rolled your eyes, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. “You could’ve at least tried to make it more dramatic or something.”

He raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, I see how it is. You want the grand, swoon-worthy proposal, huh?”

“Something like that,” you teased, leaning into him.

Soobin smiled, his grip tightening around you as he leaned in close. “Well, if you want drama…” He paused, eyes locking with yours, the air between you thick with tension. “How about this?”

Before you could react, Soobin leaned in and kissed you softly, but with a touch of urgency that left you breathless. When he pulled back, he looked into your eyes, a playful smile on his lips. “Now, will you be my girlfriend?”

You were stunned for a moment, your heartbeat racing. “Okay, fine. Yes,” you said with a laugh, feeling your cheeks flush. “But don’t get used to the cheesy lines.”

“I’ll take it,” he said with a grin, his voice full of satisfaction. “Guess that means we’re officially together now.”

“Yeah,” you replied, smiling back. “Guess we are.”

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talenlee · 1 day ago

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Life With Generative Tools

In 2023, back when my posts were still being shared to Twitter because the API wasn’t paid-only, I wrote an article about the potential ramifications of generative art media going forward. My concern in the immediate was that the tools weren’t going to go away, but also the potential harm to artists was as much about general economic precarity and not people using fanart to make their D&D characters. I further added to this with a consideration of how I wanted to avoid using generative art in my game development because I didn’t want what people would say about it. That is, a social pressure about the art is what keeps me from using it, not a personal philosophical disposition. I’m an artist who already works with collage and constraints, this feels like a handy way to have something I can play with.

Well, it’s been a year and change and a sort of AI Art Apocalypse has happened, and if you’re not aware of it, it’s because you’re someone who avoids all of the pools that have been so thoroughly pissed in that they are now just piss. If you’re at all related to any part of the internet where people share a bunch of images – which is to say a lot of social media – then you’re already dealing with the place crawling with generative images. Whether it’s a fanart booru, or big sites like facebook and twitter, or god help you deviantart, there is a pretty clear sign that anywhere that opened the door to generative art became a space overwhelmingly for generative art.

I teach about this subject now and I have had some time with it in a situation away from the internet, and I’d like to give you some insights into what this stuff is for, what it does, why you shouldn’t use it, and ways it can be useful.

Content Warning: I’m going to be talking about these tools as tools that exist and leaving the philosophical/ethical arguments about ‘art theft’ and their genesis aside. I’m not including any examples. No shrimp jesus jumpscare.

You might notice I’m saying ‘generative art’ and not ‘AI art.’ Part of this is because I don’t want to buy into the idea that these tools are ‘artificial intelligence.’ Ironically, ‘AI art’ now has less of an implication of being ‘Artificial Intelligence’ and is much more of an implication of ‘it’s ugly shiny art of shrimp jesus with badly spelled signs.’

I want to focus for this conversation on generative graphical tools, and I want to do that because I don’t have much experience with the other types. The textual generators offer me something I don’t really need? I already make a ton of words of dubious quality. Those are actually the things that concern me because their natural aesthetic is authoritive and comprehensive and that’s why it’s a problem that they’re being used to present any old nonsense that may just be straight up wrong. I don’t use those tools and I avoid the platforms that use them so I’m not familiar with them.

Things Generative Art Is Good For

I already use art I don’t own, a lot, for playing. Every day for the past three years I’ve shared a custom Magic: The Gathering playing card, a game I don’t own the rights to, using a card face I don’t own the rights to, and artwork from an artist on Artstation whose artwork I did not pay for or even ask for. This is generally seen as a totally reasonable and acceptable form of playful, transformative media generation and I at no point pretend I have any rights to the material. If I take a picture of someone famous and put a speech bubble over their mouth saying ‘I drink farts,’ if I, as tumblr says, play with jpgs like dolls, that is by no means being done with rights and permission.

Which means we’re already aware that there’s a way of playing with images that both violates copyright but is generally okay to do.

The metric I use for this is if the thing you’re using generative art for doesn’t matter, then it doesn’t matter. If you’re not going to try and claim money, if you’re not going to put it on a marketplace, if you aren’t going to try and claim ownership and profit off generative material, I think you’re probably fine. I mean probably, if you’re using it to say, generate revenge porn of a classmate that’s an asshole move, but the thing is that’s a bad thing regardless of the tool you’re using. If you’re using it to bulk flood a space, like how Deviantart is full of accounts with tens of thousands of pictures made in a week, then that’s an asshole move because, again, it’s an asshole move regardless of the tool.

If you’re a roleplayer and you want a picture of your Dragonborn dude with glasses and a mohawk? That’s fine, you’re using it to give your imagination a pump, you’re using it to help your friends visualise what matters to you about your stuff. That’s fine! It’s not like you’re not making artistic choices when you do this, cycling through choices and seeing the one that works best for you. That’s not an action deprived of artistic choice!

There are also some things that are being labelled as ‘AI’ which seem to be more like something else to me. Particularly, there are software packages that resize images now, which are often calling it ‘AI upscaling,’ which it may be using some variety of these Midjourney style models to work, but which serves a purpose similar to sequences of resizes and selective blurs. There are also tools that can do things like remove people from the background of images, which is�� good? It should be good and easy to get people out of pictures they didn’t consent to be in.

Things Generative Art Is Bad For

Did you know you don’t own copyright on generated art? This is pretty well established. If you generated the image, it’s not yours, because you didn’t make it. It was made by an algorithm, and algorithms aren’t people. This isn’t a complicated issue, this just means that straight up, any art you make at work that’s meant to be used for work, shouldn’t be used because people can just straight up use it. Logo design, branding, all that stuff is just immediately open for bootlegging or worse, impersonation.

Now you might think that’s a bit of a strange thing to bring up but remember, I’m dealing with students a lot. Students who want to position themselves as future prompt engineers or social media managers need to understand full well that whatever they make with these tools are not things that will have an enduring useful application. Maybe you can use it for a meme you post on an account, but it’s not something you can build branding off, because you don’t own it. Everyone owns it.

From that we get a secondary problem, because if you didn’t own it, its only use is what people say or think when they look at it, and thing is, people are already sick and tired of the aesthetics of generated art. You’re going to get people who don’t care glossing over it, and people who do care hating it. Generative art as a way of presenting your business or foregrounding your ‘vibes’ are going to think that your work is, primarily, ‘more AI art’ and not about what it’s trying to communicate. When the internet is already full of Slop, if you use these tools to represent your work, you are going to be turning your own work and media presence into slop.

What’s more, you need to be good at seeing mistakes if you’re using these tools. If you put some art out there that’s got an extra thumb or someone’s not holding a sword right, people will notice. That means you need to start developing the toolset above for fine-tuning and redrawing sections of artwork. Now, that’s not a bad thing! That’s a skill you can develop! But it means that the primary draw of these tools is going to be something that you then have to do your own original work over the top of.

The biggest reason though I recommend students not treat this work like it’s a simple tool for universal application is that it devalues you as a worker. If you’re trying to get hired for a job at a company and you can show them a bunch of generative art you’ve made to convince them that you’re available, all you are really telling them is that you can be replaced by a small script that someone else can make. Your prompts are not unique enough, your use of the tool not refined enough that you can’t just be replaced by anyone else who gets paid less. You are trying to sell yourself as a product to employers, and generative art replaces what you bring with what everyone brings.

They make you lazy! People include typos in the generative media because they’re not even looking at them or caring about what they say! And that brings me to the next point that there are just things these tools don’t do a good job doing, and that’s stuff I want to address next in…

Things That Are Interesting

Because the tools of generative art create a very impressive-seeming artistic output, they are doing it in a way that people want to accept. They want to accept them and that means accepting the problems, or finding a way to be okay with those problems. People who don’t care that much about typos and weird fingers and so on, because you know, it gets me a lot of what I want, but it doesn’t get me everything, and I don’t know how to get the everything.

If you generate an image and want to move something in it a little bit, your best way to do that is to edit the image directly. Telling the software to do that, again, but change this bit, this much, is in fact really hard because it doesn’t know what those parts are. It doesn’t have an idea of where they are, it’s all running on an alien understanding of nightmare horror imagery.

What that means is that people start to negotiate with themselves about what they want, getting to ‘good enough’ and learning how to negotiate with the software. My experiments with these tools led to me making a spreadsheet so I could isolate the terms I use that cause problems, and sometimes those results are very, very funny. In this, the tool teaches you how to use it (which most tools do), but the teaching results in a use that is wildly inappropriate to what the tool promises it’s for.

One of my earliest experiments was to take four passages from One Stone that described a character and just put that text straight into midjourney to see what it generated based on that plain text description. Turns out? Nothing like what I wanted. But when I treated it like say, I was searching for a set of tags on a booru system like danbooru or safebooru… then it was pretty good at that. Which is what brings me to the next stage of things, which is like…

These things were trained on porn sites right?

Like, you can take some very specific tags from some of the larger boorus and type them into these prompt sites and get a very reasonable representation of what it is you asked for, even if that term is a part of an idiolect, a term that’s specific to that one person in one space that’s become a repeated form of tag. Just type in an artist name and see if it can replicate their style and then check to see what kind of art that artist makes a lot of. This is why you can get a thing that can give you police batons and mirrored sunglasses just fine but if you ask for ‘police uniform’ you get some truly Tom of Finland kind of bulging stuff.

Conclusion

Nobody who dislikes generative art is wrong. I think there are definitely uses of it that are flat out bad, and I think it’s totally okay and even good to say so. Make fun of people who are using it, mock the shrimp jesuses, make it very clear you’re aware of what’s going on and why. There’s nothing wrong with that.

I do think that these tools are useful as toys, and I think that examining the art that they produce, and the art that the community around them are exalting and venerating tells us stuff. Of course, what they tell us is that there are a lot of people out there who really want porn, and there are just as many people who want the legitimisation of impressive seeming images that they don’t care about what those images are doing or what they’re for.

Now part of this defensiveness is also the risk of me being bitten. If I buy stock art that isn’t correctly disclosed as being generative art, then I might make and sell something using generative art and now I look like an asshole for not being properly good at detecting and hating ‘AI art,’ and when I’ve say, made a game using generative art that then is integrated into things like worldbuilding and the card faces, then it gets a lot harder to tear it out at the roots and render myself properly morally clean. I’m sure a bunch of the stock art I used before 2020 was made algorithmically, just pumped out slop that was reprocessing other formula or technical objects to fill up a free stock art site like Freepik.

Which is full of generative art now.

You won’t hurt yourself by understanding these things, and people who are using them for fun or to learn or explore are by no means doing something morally ill. There are every good reason to keep these things separated from anything that involves presenting yourself seriously, or using them to make money, though. If nothing else, people will look at you and go ‘oh, you’re one of those shrimp jesus assholes.’

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#Making #Media

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 2 hours ago

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PLEASE, PLEASE, DON’T TOUCH ME WITH YOUR DIRTY HANDS ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; from the corner of a dim-lit host club, you catch the gaze of a handsome monk.

word count; 12k

contents; suguru geto/m!reader, cult leader!geto x host!reader (<- non-sorcerer), reader is described as considerably smaller than geto, the host club culture in this fic is kind of butchered / twisted to suit my own agenda i’m sorry :’3, friends with benefits, bittersweet hurt/comfort (emphasis on hurt), angst, open ended, very suggestive (constant sexual tension; vague dirty talk; very light nipple play; sex is alluded to and briefly shown both in passing and in present, though the descriptions are vague and no explicit terms are used. basically: sexuality and eroticism are present all throughout the fic, but actual smut is evaded.) reader has implied mental health + self-image issues, geto is in denial and repressed and kind of mean, you both refuse to admit what you really want and suffer more for it. heavy satosugu implications + switching povs. unrequited love (but not really.)

a/n; this is the closest any of u are getting to smut. from ari... this fic is not at all typical of me (both with the suggestive /borderline explicit tone, m!reader and a part of geto’s character i don’t often focus on) but still very much up my own alley of tastes and queer longing; i feel like i was born to write this fic …. in a way. and i’m proud of myself for finishing it!! hopefully it’ll make your heart ache in the most pleasant of ways <3 dedicating it to my lonely soulcrushed gays i hope you look at the sea tomorrow without wishing you could wade right in

spit it out, darling /

quietly exposing a double-layered facade /

so, that’s the kind of person you are.

everything you see before you — belongs to you alone.

golden lights, dim flickers of neon, an elysian field of artificial luminescense. music that thrums under your skin, beats along with your heart, crawls up your windpipe with erratic thump, thumps that have the hair on your nape standing on end. there's alcohol in your system, tobacco clouding your mind, a giddy smile on your face. bright lights, loud music, men's voices clouded in deceit. yes, all of this is yours.

every nerve in your skull dances along to the devil's waltz you're in. excitement, lust, pure adrenaline. sweet, so sweet, you could lap it up from the floor.

"why don't you sing us a song, sweetheart?"

you're tipsier than you should be, when you're still on the clock. you can barely recognize the voice, barely tell if it comes from the handsome bartender or your boss or one of the regulars — it doesn't matter, either. your lips grow into a grin.

"sure, sure."

it's a fever dream, a haze, stumbling up to the stage with blood pumping in your chest. your skin feels hot and cold at once, but it's a good feeling, fuzzy, your head stuffed full of cotton. bliss. your hair is tousled, your tie undone, adam's apple bobbing as you grab onto the mic — as your bleary eyes grow focused on the video screen up above. you feel like a beautiful mess, but your vocal cords remain intact.

the music stops, comes to a halt, changes tune. someone shuffled the playlist and now another song is playing. familiar, a heavy baseline, and —

you start to sing. it comes to you naturally, you scarcely need to look at the lyrics.

golden lights, grinning men, your own voice in your frazzled ears. it comes out with a rasp, quickly peeled away, stripped, silky vowels sifting from the base of your throat. you've yet to lose your touch, a sound so beautiful it stops belonging to you the moment it's left your lips. the world looks mesmerizing, when it's confined to a raunchy indoor sunset; your world. center stage, all eyes on you, greedy, lapping at your exposed skin, the smudges of lipstick on your neck. shining under dusty starlight.

everything feels so possible, from here.

this is — vaguely, partially, at the very least in spirit — why you do this. not for the back-alley rendezvous, rough hands pulling at your flesh, the blooming of hydrangeas on your injured skin. not for the alcohol, or the money. actually, you're lying to yourself, it's all of that combined — but this is where your heart lies.

this is where you spit it out for all to see.

their gazes feel good, on your neck, your chest, your waist and your hands. the attention is fuel. you feel like a spectacle, like someone else entirely, shedding skin, just for a couple minutes. you meet their stares, you're sure you're smiling, gleaming through the fog of it all. the chorus melts on your tongue, as your eyes glide through the lounge. all-seeing.

in the corner of the room, a lone shadow flickers.

(and the beating of your heart halts at a pitfall.)

you sing, despite the interruption. meeting the golden, shimmering gaze, catching his eye. the man is seated at a lone table, no host to entertain him. it's hard to see, from here, with the lights and the haze and the whiskey in your veins, but you can make out his figure — wide, clad in heavy garments — just the barest contours of his face. handsome, though, you can tell, can see it in his gaze and the way he's sitting, comfortable and poised. elegant. a beautiful, beautiful jawline.

lowlidded eyes staring deeply into yours.

the song continues, lyrics rolling off your breath, perfectly timed with your overlapping gazes. for just a moment, something sinks its jaws into you.

darling, vague complaints and fridays

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

you think you catch the hint of a smile, on that shadowed face. the lonesome man raises his glass, brings it to his lips. you hope he’s drinking you in just the same, gulping you down, devouring you.

the moment splits in half. another gaze, another man. you're content, to perform for as long as your lungs will allow — until you hear the first clap of hands after a job well done. when it comes, you can only pant into the mic, savour the strain on your throat. the room is spinning. you think you need to sit down, for a while. everything feels like a blur.

"aghh, my shoulder is killing me…"

slim, pretty hands pass you a glass of water, cool against your heated fingertips. you accept it, swirl it around for a moment, just to hear the satisfying clink of ice cubes colliding. slumped against the headrest of a leather sofa, maroon, blinking sluggishly as if to rouse your mind into a working state.

"shouldn't have tuckered yourself out so early. the night is still young."

"i know, i know," you hiss, digging the heel of your palm into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. it stings, like someone pressed the butt of a cigarette against your naked skin. when you tilt your head back, a thank you on your tongue, the host is already gone, off to entertain a guest. you're pretty sure someone just asked for a champagne bottle to pop. ah, the noise is bound to grate you…

a raspy sigh pushes past your lips, as you empty the glass with one big gulp.

"what a beautiful voice you have."

a different voice. not one of the hosts. when you look up, still keeping the rim of the glass against your lips — you see a sliver of gold.

for a moment, you wonder if it's…

— nope. it's a tooth.

a big, bulky man, clad in a sleazy red suit, lips curled into a similar grin. your eyes glide across his features, tallying the damage; blonde hair, fat biceps, chest hair exposed… a big nose, that's not bad. the gold tooth is certainly a choice. you wonder if he's going for dirty rich, or classy poor. you're half tempted to ask what bank he co-owns with his father.

instead, you smile.

"ah, you flatter me." the glass clinks when you put it down, scooting over to make space, not-so-subtly. you tilt your head, angle your body until you feel the fabric of your undone blouse start to slip down your shoulder. his eyes drink it in, a moth to a flame. "are you here to spend time with me, mister…?”

a part of you wants to laugh, at how successful the pure, youthful flower schtick is to men like him. it's how you make money, though — you lie successfully.

and he takes the bait. "i think i just might be, yes,” he plops down next to you, legs comfortably spread — his elbows finding purchase on the headrest.

"i'll have to make it worth your while, then, won't i?"

a rumbling chuckle. the man fishes a cigar from out of his pocket, hands you the lighter and waits. you need no instruction, leaning forward, flicking your fingers against it until the bottom catches ablaze. he puts it in his mouth, fat and thick, the scent almost overpowering. you've built up a resistance, but you still need a moment to exhale, withholding a cough. maybe that would appeal to him, though…

he keeps it between his lips, exhales through his nose before pulling away to speak. "well, i pay good money for your company. i'd say it's only fair."

a breathy chuckle. "that's true…"

there's a hunger to the way he looks at you. a kind of gaze you've learned to associate with filth, desire. he's still smiling, too wide, that golden tooth gleaming in between the yellowish-whites. smells of gin, underneath the tobacco, and something else. vodka? it's hard to tell. his size advantage is stark, when you're thigh to thigh like this — he looks like he could snap you like a twig. looks like he’d want to. one of his hands slithers around your hip, suddenly, squeezes the flesh and lingers just to feel you shudder. his grin widens when you can't withhold it.

(… ough, you lament. one of the brutes.)

with a muttered sigh, underneath your breath, your lips drag themselves up — it's voluntary, takes effort to push back the urge to run from his grip. a perfect smile, sweet and coy, still leaving much to the imagination. a hint of mystery, intrigue —

a glint in your eye.

no room for mistakes. your shoulder still aches, but it's bearable. you’re just about to part your lips, cozy up to him, say a pair of sultry, well-picked words, when —

”may i have him, for a moment?”

a smooth voice cuts in through the fog.

deep, velvety tones, rubbing against your ear drums. sweet and saccharine, honey dripping down your chin; it sends a shiver down your spine, heat to the back of your neck. he blooms in your mind before you even tilt your head to meet his dark gaze, sharp and low-lidded. you can picture him before you even see him. voices carry weight, they always do, but his is special. you haven't heard anything quite like it.

wine and tequila. oil and water.

two voices speaking, all at once.

a tall man is standing just before you, hands tucked into the long sleeves of his haori, gazing down at your touchy customer. it’s the strange, shadowy figure from before. up close, he looks more like a monk; a gojogesa wrapped around his abdomen.

you were right, of course.

he is handsome.

with greed, you etch his features into your mind, lap it up. a sharp jaw, nose, well-defined cheekbones… obsidian eyes, with flecks of tinted gold, though you can hardly see them under these dim lights, with their narrow shape. pretty, pretty monolids, crescent moons. his hair is the real kicker, though, silky locks that flow down his back and shoulders, stop around his waist. looks like it’s been pampered, oiled and brushed, how lovely. one of his hands slip out, to dust off his sleeve, and fuuuck, they're —

— a grumble resounds to your left.

”i have him for the next hour. you can piss off,” spits the wild boar next to you, abandoning your hip to curl possessively around your neck. and uh oh, that doesn’t feel too nice. would he get hissier if you pulled away? ”fuckin’ monk.”

catching tells is a skill that takes honing. observing, attention to detail, a reward for one’s attentiveness. you like to think you’re good, very good —

though you only barely catch the twitch of the monk’s left brow. the way his eyes coil into slits.

a hum buzzes in his throat.

then he’s leaning forward, one big, beautiful hand coming to rest on your customer's shoulder, like he’s using him as a step stool. bending forward to look you in the eye. two abysses, gazing into you.

swirling gleefully.

his lips curl up into a sly smile. ”i’ll pay you double,” he whispers, for only you to hear. ”what do you say?”

for a moment, your breath stills in the back of your throat. that same halting of your heartbeat as before, enraptured by his gaze, hook line and sinker. because he’s close, you can nearly feel his body heat, almost pick up on his scent, warm and rich.

(and, well —)

”… sounds good.”

he rewards you with a smile. crescent-eyed.

”wonderful.”

(you’ve always been weak to a pretty face.)

the man on your left grows silent. stunned, you think, and — oops, he looks pissed. a booming voice spills out, the smoke from his cigar still fattening the air with toxins, making your eyes water. ”hah? that’s not how this works, you gold digging —”

”leave.”

a flick of his wrist. his robes sway, with the motion, like a curtain being drawn shut. the gesture itself is a command; elegant, there's no need for shouting. the way his voice drops says enough, exudes casual dominance, ripe as golden fruit on heavy branches.

a shiver, a phantom hand counting the vertebrae on your spine.

and, naturally — what you expect is a brawl. a very angry customer, one very injured customer, none of them a blessing upon your paycheck this month. casual dominance is sexy, sure, but not much else — it won't save you from a fist kissing your teeth. and, well, just going by the size of their arms alone —

… the man on your left stands up.

and leaves.

you watch, blinking owlishly as he heads for the exit, steps measured — controlled — as if guided by a puppet string. the thought makes your shoulder itch. the bell rings out, across the lounge, a pleasant chime. he's gone, he actually left. just like that.

one moment of silence, and then a breathy exhale.

"i hope you don't mind," comes a tender voice, softening, woven with silk. "but you seemed a little… uncomfortable."

the stranger takes the now empty seat, but keeps his distance, hands still tucked comfortably inside his sleeves. robes fluttering with the movement, spilling across the leather cushions and draping down to the floor. they look expensive, well made, not cheap cosplay or an elaborate joke — is he actually a monk? at a host club? sounds like the headline for a trashy porno. black hair frames his face, a single silky bang, and you can't even really call it odd because everything about him is already so out of place.

your mind spins with questions. but he's handsome, and he chased away what you're sure was the beginning of a really bad night —

a smile slips onto your lips, cheshire-esque. your eyes crinkled at the edges as you breathe out a chuckle. "no, not at all," you purr. "thank you, kind stranger."

smoothly, you cozy up to him, your thigh ghosting his own, hand about to curl around his bicep — just to feel his build, from under all those layers. he doesn't let you. doesn't say a word, but his brow twitches, a silent tell to back off.

so you do.

(maybe he's one of the look, don't touch types? some kind of power fantasy?)

you don't mind. smile still sweet, your expression doesn't falter. it's fine, this distance is tantalizing in its own right. like he's a painting on the wall, or a holy sculpture — something you'd get in trouble just for smudging with your fingerprint.

the handsome monk remains silent. watches as you fix your blouse, absently, it's in your nature to adjust to the whims of whoever you're servicing. a few buttons are undone, the fabric only covers one of your shoulders. exudes anything but elegance. your fingers curl around the fabric, ready to fish it back up.

that's when he speaks.

"do i not strike you as the promiscuous type?"

it's half a question, half a jest. there's a gleam in his eye when you meet it, something like a silverfish in a pool of dark water. an amused smile on his lips. his voice is light, and you can't help but mirror his expression — something slightly devilish.

"oh, are you?" you grin, tongue swiping against the back of your teeth, tasting the faded cocktails, a spark of syrupy flavours. "i'll leave it as is, then."

your fingers part with the soft linen, reaching instead for the empty glass on the table. putting it to your lips, sipping up what little has melted off the ice cubes, excess. then the clink, and you're turning towards him, smiling with a tilt of your head.

"what would you like to order, handsome?"

a quirk of his brow. "saké," comes his answer, flat.

"classy."

"is it, now?" he doesn't seem impressed. gazing at you with something familiar, but you can't pinpoint it. even though it's right at the tip of your tongue.

no matter, no matter. the sensations of this world have already tainted what remains of your common sense. "and can i get a name, with that order?" you ask, instead, raising yourself up into a standing position; ready to go grab his drink.

"geto," is all he says. smiling, but it's surface level; almost mocking. "just geto."

夏油. summer oil.

you think of autumn, bleeding sunsets. bottles of whiskey poured into a boy's waiting mouth.

(suddenly, you feel like weeping.)

"that'll do, that’ll do.” you give him a wink, before heading for the bar. before you know it, you're pouring the saké into his cup, the scent of fermented rice soothing the sting of tobacco still biting at the back of your throat. old and expensive, your nose picking up a roasted fragrance, fruity undertones.

geto didn't seem intimidated, by the price. you suppose he wasn't joking when he said he'd pay you double.

"how is it?" you ask, maintaining a distance while watching him drink. his eyes are closed, in what you hope is contentment, lips cupping the rim as he sips.

"… good," he hums, appreciatively, swirling the cup in a controlled motion, a gentle vortex. "no, not bad at all. i suppose money really does pay for service…"

another sip. your gaze drinks in his hands, practically dwarfing the cup, thick fingers keeping it safe and steady. would he hold your hips, like that? make sure you stay afloat? or would he drop you to the floor and watch you shatter…?

"are you really a monk, geto-kun?"

"san," he corrects, a cut of his tongue. he's smiling, though. it's hard to tell if he's genuinely bothered by the prefix. "and yes, i am. does that surprise you?"

"a little," you admit, pouring the beverage into your own cup. you watch it fill, swirl around and shimmer, letting out a humoured breath. "i mean, it's not often i get to service a holy man…"

a low noise, almost a snort. eyes of burning cedar flit to your face.

"mm, i see. your usual customers are more of the barbarish kind, are they?" he leans back, keeping eye contact, voice like the weights of a scale, judging. he tuts, quietly, a click of his tongue. "that's not good, you know. men like that don't know how to treat what's fragile."

"fragile?" you laugh, can't help it, teeth gleaming under dim lights.

"yes."

teasing words die on your tongue. something like, maybe i can take more than you think? but no, it's gone, sputtered out somewhere between your gums. because geto says it like he's talking about the weather.

like it's not a challenge; like there’s nothing to prove.

like it's fact.

(you're fragile. you'd break under pressure.)

"… if you say so. anyhow…" you lean forward, a pang of heat flashing against your nape when you catch his lips twitching upwards. "what temple?"

geto breathes out a chuckle, sweet saké on his tongue. "why?" he asks, raising a brow, hand coming to rest against your skin. you remain still, as he drags a thumb against the smudge of lipstick right below your throat. the sudden contact does something to you, makes you pliant, like a kitten being lifted by the scruff. "you don’t strike me as the devout kind. could it be you just want to see me hard at work?"

dark eyes crinkle with mirth — your heartbeat sputters like a firefly crushed under a boot. ah, his voice is like a balm to your ears. honeyed vowels, spinning a sticky web in your mind, just the slightest hint of a rasp underneath. it sneaks into his speech, makes him sound like a sexy dad, and you're screwed, you realize — totally and completely.

"maybe," you say, playing coy. "can't i?"

"i'm not sure how my congregation would feel," he hums, gazing down into his cup again. tapping his fingers against his knee, rhythmic, from forefinger to pinkie. "a little thing like you, hanging off my arm during a sermon…"

another hum, as if he's tasting the thought on his tongue, but you get the feeling he's mostly trying to tease you. a perfectly still smile on his lips.

"i suppose you'd make for good eye candy."

"oh, i’d be honoured to."

this time, his smile feels somewhat genuine, the golden glow of the bar lighting his eyes on fire, makes you think of his name and all its flavours. honey, whiskey, bramble berries eaten under summer shades. he grins, just barely, and your shoulder aches again. pangs of pain, sparks of pleasure. makes you want to lean right in.

makes you crave more.

you drink with him, or more like you watch his measured sips, because for once you don't want your mind completely sullied, want to remain at least slightly lucid, enough to hold a conversation without embarrassing yourself. it pays off. geto is intelligent, well-spoken, an intellectual. absolutely morbid. he stays for an hour, take it or leave it, but it feels like dusk has already bled into dawn by the time he’s gone, everything blurring together until he's all you can see. his pretty lips, the cupid's bow above it. silver tongue peeking out with every syrupy word.

when he stands up, you’re expecting him to ask you to accompany him. tempted to ask yourself. but he tells you of business he must attend to, with graceful poise, as if cutting a firm line between himself and this establishment. him and you. you know that tone, it's like a boyfriend telling you to not be clingy while he's working. a sense of overstepping.

another smile, and then he's leaving. you get the feeling that it falls as soon as his back is turned. call it a gut feeling, but liars know each other like the back of their own hand — and so-called perfect men are always wearing one mask or another.

it doesn't matter, either way. your heart still clenches pitifully, when the bell of the store sings its tune. you watch his back until it's no longer visible.

and then you exhale a sigh. left alone, with a half-full bottle of saké and a strange sensation in your bloodstream, something that pulls and tugs restlessly at the nerves of your brain. muddied, but somehow clear, the room not so blurry anymore.

you feel cold.

(the pain in your shoulder is gone, too.)

fingertips trail along plasticized polystyrene.

cup ramen, stacks of surimi sticks, and a can of beer. you eye the products in your arms, silently counting up the price. it's dark out, the lights of passing cars and the city illuminating the world beyond your local konbini; occasionally, the store's bell will ring, but otherwise it's silent. you're spent. you need this, an unhealthy midnight treat, you deserve it after all the drinks you poured last night.

this world, the real world, is different from the host club. less flashy.

depressing, really.

your feet carry you to the freezer, to eye a bundle of honeydew popsicles. you could eat one on the way back, but by then it'll have melted — you could eat it before slurping up the ramen, but that would make you feel even more like a mess. hair a mess, face a mess, bags under your eyes and a hoodie draped around you, sweatpants and sandals. you can't be bothered to perform on a day off. couldn't be bothered to put on makeup, give the cashier anything more than a vague nod on the way in.

there's no one here to see you like this. no one to see you at all. you're allowed a moment's respite.

"my, my."

…

a voice rings in your ears. you stiffen, standing by the freezer, staring at popsicles and tubs of ice cream; a shiver trailing down your spine. a familiar, familiar voice — honeyed, the slightest hint of a rasp.

and when you look up, you see them. eyes of rusted gold.

sharpened into crescents.

"what a pleasant surprise." he tilts his head, bangs gliding along his skin. "out shopping this late?"

fuck, it's him, it's actually him. of all the people —

"sure am," you exhale, smiling wearily. peering up at him through droopy eyes; fatigue clinging to your voicebank. "are you stalking me, geto-san?"

a chuckle bubbles past his lips. he's still wearing the same robes, eyes gleaming, lips curling up and exposing pure white teeth. "ah, you caught me."

you can't even tell if he's joking. but you breathe out a matching chuckle, as he steps to the side, walks towards another aisle, passing you by. your eyes follow his broad back, trailing after him — ice cream can wait for another day — until you're taking up the empty space at his side. his hand slips from out his sleeve and reaches for a wakaba brand pack of cigarettes, cream-coloured, his fingers flexing as they curl around it. a blink, your lashes fluttering, ravens taking flight from a lamppost outside.

"… you’re a smoker?"

an absent hum. "oh, yes. occasionally."

when geto walks up to the counter, you follow. still carrying your hastily chosen snacks, digging up your wallet from the pocket of your sweatpants, ripping it open with your teeth. you give him a glance while the cashier scans your items, one after the other. "isn't that, like… against buddhist values, or whatever?"

"i'm not buddhist."

beep, beep. you swipe your card, still staring at him out of the corner of your eye.

"… huh."

he clicks his tongue. "i dabble in… a religion of my own making," he adds, smiling. "one could say."

the cashier bows. you return it, gathering your products, turning on your heel to scope out the tables by the windows. not one seat occupied, that's good. you walk towards them, a hum on your tongue.

”sooo… you're a cultist?"

just a joke, to lighten the mood. geto only chuckles, doesn't answer — when you turn your head he's looking at you like you just said something funny.

it shouldn't put you ill at ease.

(you’re fascinated.)

the view from where you plop down to stretch your weary legs is soothing, familiar, twinkling stars dimmed by light pollution and cars whooshing by, blinking street lamps, a river running farther ahead; from the old train station to a faraway clearing of woods. the night sky is vast and wide, the moon hidden behind a cluster of blue clouds. a word sits on the back of your tongue and stays there, heavy like lead, you swallow it while tearing the plastic off your ramen — geto takes a seat besides you, rests his elbows on the table and watches you, chin poised against the heel of his palm. robes hanging off the small chair, meeting the floor. a puddle of ink.

a minute passes. you pour hot water into the cup, crack open the can of beer, exhale when your fingertips meet cool condensation. then you take a swig, throat bobbing gently. geto watches. waits.

"did your business go as expected?" you ask, finally, peeling back the lid of your meal as steam wafts into the air. smells of shrimp and tom yum, the noodles swimming in foam. just about done.

"it did, yes," geto responds, closing his eyes. "did i leave you wanting?"

the bell jingles. a glance in the direction of the entrance tells you it's a group of schoolgirls, out past their bedtime. anxiety swirls in your gut, gnaws at your fragile ribs, little fish nipping at strings of seaweed. they shouldn't be here this late, but what can you do? nothing but stifle it, chew at a surimi stick while breaking apart your chopsticks — the moon peeks out, briefly, paints the city blue.

and, well.

he did, but that doesn't mean he has to say it.

"you wish," you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

”hm… should i be flattered?"

you bring a mouthful of noodles to your lips, slurp them up with fervour. a series of beeps resound behind you, idle schoolgirl chatter having died down into hushed whispers. you can't see them, your back turned, but you could wager a guess as to what, or who, they're whispering about. it makes you chuckle through the bite, which makes geto stare at you.

a quirk of his brow, his upturned lips. he tilts his head, lazily, a wilting bud.

"it's just —" you swallow, failing to stifle a humoured breath. leaning forward, to sip at the beer can, just to feel the burn at the back of your throat. imagining yourself and him, from an outside perspective — a shady, hooded guy eating cheap ramen with a monk. "this probably looks like an intervention."

geto hums. doesn't laugh along.

"it could be."

a spark of body heat, hints of bergamot and incense. he's leaned closer, close enough that everything else feels like a shadow, you're encapsulated in his gaze, hidden by the curtains of his robes and silky hair. it sticks a pin inside your heartbeat. falls to the floor with a clatter. he's close, and he smells good, and you're sleepy.

and his voice ghosts the nape of your neck.

"do you need a cleansing, my dear?"

a deep, rumbling purr against your ear. there's the rasp, the baseline, the moment where your mind shatters on the konbini floor. it echoes, thrums under your skin, makes heat gather in your abdomen. for once, he's being serious, you know what people sound like when they want you to be theirs for the night. when you meet his eyes, it's even more clear.

deep pools of desire.

geto stands up. dusts off his robes with steady hands, gives you crescent eyes and a sly smile before turning on his heel. broth clings to your lips, the taste of beer, you've barely touched the surimi. your limbs feel tied up in knots, strung along by a puppeteer.

and you follow.

he could be a murderer, for all you know. a serial killer. maybe he'll take you to some shady love hotel, wrap his hands around your neck, say something about sin before twisting with all his might — you think of all the threats you've heard over the years.

but he’s handsome. beautiful, like this, when you’re a little tired, a little too sloppy to act well. a mess, you must look pitiful, but he wants you. he wants you, he's fascinating, looks like an angel when the light hits just right. if it brings his hands upon you, would sinning be so bad? it's too late, you've already stood up, there's no need for a wager when the loss is just as sweet. you follow; follow him outside, to where the stars barely twinkle and crisp air cups your cheeks, follow him until your heartbeat is racing so fast you can scarcely hear his voice.

messy sheets, steady hands, golden eyes.

that’s the first time you sleep with him.

geto is… an odd guy.

a month has passed since your first meeting. a handful of nights spent under covers, or dim lights, at a host club he's become something of a regular at — though it never takes him long to bring you to a different, emptier bar. he waltzes in with his fancy robes, pays no mind to any of the other hosts — you know they're jealous, too bad for them — and calls you over. doesn't even need to speak, the moment your eyes meet his you're already walking his way. he pays well, buys expensive bottles of saké, brings you with him when he's gotten bored of sneering at the other guests. it’s always just a matter of time.

everything about him spells disaster — spells out something like poisonous berries, or rotten cadavers on an open fire when you’re on the verge of starving.

something a little too good to be true.

he's good in bed, for example. very good. if the monk shtick wasn't already so ridiculously out of place, you're sure it would have shocked you even more — how he knows exactly what to do, where to touch, how to explore the crevices of your body like a lock skillfully broken into, solved, elegant twitches of metal before the door knob loosens. geto is weird, probably a cult leader, but god, is he good at sex.

it's been a while since you felt so truly satiated. every part of your body tended to, filled, ruined and stitched back together again; your mind successfully turned off, painted blank, only blissful clouds and cotton left in your skull by the time he's done. when he steps into the dim-lit lounge, you know you'll be sleeping well into the morning. you know you'll get to see the way his biceps flex and twitch, the tattoos on his back and shoulder, paintings of ink, red flowers and white dragons — that you'll get to feel his weight and see into his brown eyes and paw at his chest, plush and fat, gape at the thick set of scars carving an x inbetween them. the body is a temple. you've never truly understood that, not until now.

not until him.

and it's silly. stupid, naive; it's never good to get a crush on someone who's made what he wants from you abundantly clear. your little arrangement is set in stone — no will he won’t he, no second guessing.

but no one has ever treated your messed up body with that kind of reverence.

so, forgive you for having a bit of a crush on the weird, perverted monk guy. forgive you for being deliriously predictable and easy. for being a little enamored by the way he keeps his distance, how your wants fit together so perfectly — bodies pressed together, minds lodged apart. no strings attached, only sweat and sex and chemicals making a mess of your muddled brain. he wants nothing more, you want nothing less. he pays no mind to the pills on your nightstand, you don't ask about the scar.

it's a silent give and take. he's handsome, takes only a little more than he's given every time. you've found you don't really mind. he's not insatiable, just greedy.

and, well. you've always been eager to excel.

(always the type to get caught up in a backdraft.)

"goddd, that fucking shift…"

a wince twists your throat, spills out when you crane your neck and stretch your limbs above your head — waiting for a crack that never comes. try as you may to get the knots out of your joints, the ache remains — your nerves frazzled, wrists bruised from one too many rough grips, fatigue sticking to your bones. geto sits on a couch in the corner, watches as you slump onto the bed, limbs like dead weights.

"… i need a raise."

a breathy chuckle. "do you, now?" he asks, a glint in his eyes like the cityscape outside. this view isn't bad, your hotel room a few stories high, overlooking the empty streets. ”and here i thought my tips would be more than enough to keep you afloat…"

"well, afloat…" you murmur, shutting your eyes for a moment — voice carried by a sleepy rasp. "i'm afloat. but don't i deserve more than that?"

"do you?"

you can practically hear his smile. he loves that, answering a question with another question. you think it's insufferable, and somehow still enough to have heat twisting in your gut. "i do," you groan. "believe me, i do."

geto hums, absentminded. you can hear the turning of paper-thin pages, a newspaper left for guests to flip through. with a sigh, you raise yourself up on your elbows. "and god, that dick… i swear he tried to throw me under the bus today.”

flip, flip. "who?"

"you've seen him… you know, the tacky guy?" weary limbs move across silken sheets, help you into a sitting position, so you can gaze at him properly. black hair, firm facial lines, big, beautiful hands. that's your geto. "cheap dye, piercings? looks like he's got a rich daddy?"

"what kind?"

his wry response pulls a chuckle out your lips. "both, probably." you mutter. "ungrateful little shit…"

finally, geto lifts his gaze. pools of amber, sloshing summer oil, burns on your hands and neck. he meets your eyes with a calm glint in his own, setting the newspaper back on the table in front of him.

"i don't know who you mean," he smiles, and you think he must be lying, trying to avoid work talk — either that, or he really does only pay attention to you. the thought is sweet, intoxicating, too good to be true. ”but i take it he's giving you a hard time?"

a scoff.

"understatement of the century…"

slowly, he uncrosses his legs; lets his sandals meet the carpented floor, and stands up to his full height, before walking over to your place of rest. you watch him, lazily, eyes never parting from the swooshing of his heavy robes, the way that he moves, like he's following a path carved just for him. you've met men who take up space, who do it like it's easy, like it’s their birth right — this is different. his steps are not heavy, loud, nor flashy. he moves quietly, like a serpent, a mesmerizing slithering across the floor. geto stops in front of you, and tilts his head; slips a smile onto his lips. crescented, a half-moon.

”would you like me to take care of him for you?”

(it lights up his expression.)

”… take care?” you echo, blinking sluggishly. ”what, you gonna kill him?”

”would you like me to?”

…

a hum. you stare off into space, for a moment; feeling his gaze weigh you down and split you apart, he doesn't need his hands for that. it's a tantalizing proposition — you can't tell if he's joking, but you know he likes it best that way. you also know your job would be a whole lot easier without a little brat messing up your monthly quota. ”kind of.” it slips from out your lips, a deadpan reply.

and a chuckle rumbles in his throat.

"he really is bothering you." his smile splits itself further, white teeth showing for a second before he laps over them with his tongue. "i suppose i'd be doing you a favour."

you snort, raising a practiced brow, meeting his gaze head on. "what, did you think i was exaggerating? lying? i'd never."

”of course you wouldn’t.” he exhales, a husk to his breath — amusement buzzing behind closed lips. "there'd be no need. you're easy to read, after all."

(ouch.)

the comment has you wanting to laugh, call him a dick, roll your eyes in a show of discontentment. what a callous thing to say to such a dedicated actor.

then again, you haven't been doing a very good job of it, recently.

to geto, you must be nothing more than a fruit wanting to be peeled. he undoes your layers with ease, and it's humiliating — irritating — has warmth blooming under your bones. grime doesn't dissuade his appetite, after all. there's no real need for acting. not when he looks at you just the same regardless. not when you're fairly sure he wouldn't so much as stir, even if you killed someone in front of him; he'd listen to your reasons, your motives, not saying a thing. he'd look into your eyes without flinching.

geto probably knows how empty you are. you don't think he minds; think he might even prefer it. you think you could tell him anything, but you won't.

(you have some pride, after all.)

”i think you’re the only one who can see through me at all," you admit, words coming out softer than you meant them to. a slip of the tongue.

for a moment, you regret your words. avoiding his gaze, though you feel it searing into your skin, the tip of a cigarette burning tender flesh. the hotel room is quiet, the cityscape glitters and gleams, sways softly in a dark night, a shattered mirror world. geto hums.

”keep it that way.”

his voice drops, an edge to it — a jolt down your heartbeat. there it is, the edge of a kitchen knife making itself known. the words make your throat run dry, a few seconds where you can only feel the air leave your lungs, enter, leave again. but you plaster a smile onto your lips and meet his eyes. perhaps a little too cheery to be convincing. ”… yes, sir."

you're being studied. your flesh is being cut into. soon, he'll dig into it with hands and limbs, more than just his eyes — soon, your ribs will split apart to make room for him. and his gaze carries all of this, it's like he's telling you himself. eye to eye communication. his cornea tells you there's nothing you could hide from its all-seeing gaze. you're inclined to believe that; doesn't make any it less terrifying. exhilarating.

geto seems pleased.

when he leans in, you aren’t ready. a stutter building in your throat. close, close, now you can smell the green tea off his breath, dried leaves and boiling water, like the pools in his eyes, rising steam, his breath ghosting your lips. he's going to kiss you.

how rare.

”easy to read," he repeats, voice a quiet whisper, gravelly against your ear. "and easy to trick."

a gasp. a sharp jolt, a spark of pain burning down your spine, your chest — your mind works overtime to catch up to the sudden sensation, lost in his voice and his gaze and his warmth — he just pinched your fucking nipple. the burn blows your eyes open, parts your lips, his thumb and forefinger applying pressure through your thin shirt. it hurts, not letting up.

and geto smiles. light and easy.

”… and sensitive.”

it's a dull remark, like he's still reading from the newspaper, listing off this weekend's weather patterns. heat blooms in your gut. you feel like something small, molded just to fit his hands, waiting to be exposed and split into halves. it's humiliating, to be seen, you're not sure if you want to flee or stay right here — if just the weight of his palms make up for the sting accompanying them.

”… just for you,” you hear yourself speak. a hitch of your breath, yet you force the words out, mustering a smile — sleazy, flimsy, as long as it looks convincing it’s fine. you won't make it easy for him. not today.

but geto smiles. the corners of his eyes crinkle like ginkgo leaves, melted gold, like he knows something you don't. a slow, delighted exhale. "idle flattery won’t save you, this time.” he tuts, and twists, waiting for a jolt. ”not when it’s so obvious.”

a strangled wince claws at your lips, but you swallow it down — inhale, exhale, try to steady your breathing, try not to shiver or pull away from his cruel grip — geto watches your silent endeavors, your attempts at staying afloat. you expect him to laugh.

instead, he cups your chin. tilts it up, up, up, until you're looking into his abyssal eyes, baring your bobbing adam's apple, your vulnerable throat.

he looks admonishing.

"tsk, tsk. whatever shall i do with you?" he clicks his tongue, a chastising purr to his voice. "so careless with your body, but dishonest about what it wants. are you ashamed just to live, darling?”

an involuntary gulp. the question makes your heart constrict, a guilty twist. sends a pang of pain into your veins, a downward tug at your lips, has you falling silent.

a moment where you cannot fully hide the pain in your expression.

(shah mat.)

geto tilts his head, then, silky bangs across soft skin, a flicker of satisfaction in eyes like golden fruit. ripe for plucking. he graces you with a smile, the branches of his lips curling up, up, blooming like a grotesque flower — like he knows exactly what you're thinking. like he knows you, in and out, like he's already seen every ghost in your skull, tasted them on his tongue and taken them down his throat.

there's no scaring him off.

at last, he lets you go — takes a moment to get seated on the edge of the bed, and pats his lap. a heavy hand, a silent cue. you lick at the back of your teeth, savouring the burn his fingers leave behind.

"come here," he croons, as if taking pity on you. ”let me give you some relief.”

he doesn't have to ask you twice.

so you end up beneath him — you always do — his weight bearing down on you, big hands dwarfing your hips, heated pants and the creaks of a worn out mattress echoing in the empty hotel room. a cacophony of filthy noise, skin on skin, bone on bone, you've done it all too many times before. he's so close you wonder if you've morphed together. so close you don't know where he ends and you begin.

geto inhales, heavy, a dark look in his eyes.

"maybe i should just buy you off," he rasps, breath hot against you, sweat dripping down his brow, "keep you at my temple… always within reach."

any ability to speak has left you, at this point, any coherent method of speech. you can't say anything — not, hey, that’s a pretty fucking strange thing to say, or — you would have me entertain a bunch of monks? seriously? not even yes, yes, please, i don’t want anyone else to ever see me like this again. i don’t want to be ruined by anyone but you.

only a breathy whimper makes it past your lips. it makes him chuckle, into the hollow room.

(and he’s gone again, the morning after.)

geto would not consider himself a fickle man.

every action has a consequence. every choice must be weighed, considered, carefully plucked apart.

there is value in the act alone. weight is synonymous with heart, and geto, despite himself, cannot help but cling to his; worn out as it may be, soiled with fingerprints. there is weight behind his every action, care. choice means being human. choice means weight, which means heart, which is all he needs.

all this to say — geto suguru does not bet on losing dogs.

how he ended up in the corner of a dim-lit, shady host club is honestly beyond him. a grotesque sort of happenstance. the air smells of champagne and cologne, handsome hosts and guests chattering at every table in sight. all of them vermin.

what would his family say, if they knew what he was doing? ask if he's come down with a fever, no doubt. he can practically hear their voices — geto-sama, with a bunch of monkeys? willingly? no way. he could barely take the train to osaka last week! they'd be right, that's what grates him — that he's sitting there, and people-watching, still entirely uninterested in choosing his host for the evening. uninterested in drinking. cheery voices, sultry whispers, the popping of bottles and buzz of a karaoke machine. everything is loud, everything sparkling with the mere illusion of glamour.

disgusting. but he stays, only crinkles his nose and soothes his senses with the scent of his own robes, mellow incense. tries not to picture the walls red.

that's when he sees you.

a stumbling, giggling figure, clad in flimsy clothing, reaching for the mic. you're pretty, he can tell even at this distance. but stained, with lipstick and alcohol, a rotten smile on your face — rotten in the sense that it's so obviously hollow. it's only when you part your lips and sing that he is pulled out of his stupor, that his eyes narrow in an attempt to focus on anything else. your voice rings out, like the chime of a bell, clear and bright — the song doesn't match your vocals, doesn't do it justice. you stand on stage, a spectacle, and he cannot bring himself to look away.

(that's how it starts. the beginning of his fixation.)

geto finds himself thinking that he likes the way you look like this. sparkling, glowing, golden rays surrounding you — it creates a crescendo of light, from where he’s sitting, something like a halo, makes you look almost holy. makes him want to laugh, because that couldn't be further from the truth. you're a bug. a bug that gets paid to be of service.

pitiful, he thinks. you're pitiful. you're swaying like a drunk angel.

but your voice carries a longing he finds impossible not to indulge. to gaze at, silently, until your eyes happen to fall across his own, splatter on his brow — a flicker of light, in the middle of a too-small stage. he captures them. keeps them there.

and he swears your smile grows brighter.

(jaws snap against his ribcage. a spider weaves a web of silk.)

darling, vague complaints and fridays. he tastes the lyrics off your tongue, white noise. has already sicked the curse on you, almost on autopilot, call it morbid curiosity. it curls around your shoulder, and yet you do not falter. do not flinch. can you not feel the sting?

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

a smile splits his lips bloody.

everyone else has their eyes on you, follows your swaying, your shimmering skin. he wants to kill them, itches to. leering leeches. but that would surely make you stop singing, so he allows his fingers to twitch without purpose, makes no move to call on another wretched little puppet. listens to you until the song is over, until he can see the pain in your expression. does it hurt, little one? do you finally feel it?

he wonders. but he doesn't ask, even when he has you seated beside him, tipsy, shirt nearly slipping off your shoulder — he pictures your skin smudged, soiled, bite marks and bruises. it does nothing but add to his growing revulsion. his first night with you is over in the blink of an eye; a failure, on his part.

before he leaves the bar, he swipes his thumb across the back of your neck. watches the curse unclench its jaw, unlatch its decaying gums, a sickly purple against your ruined skin. leaves behind sticky saliva, droplets dribbling down your collarbone. filthy. he can scarcely remember why he came, why he stayed. to satisfy his curiosity, his mind supplies, only part-lie. to fill the gap. to see what it's like — men with men, dim-lit glamour, icecubes swirling in glasses half-empty — a useless endeavor. it's cheap, he feels nothing. no real desire. not the burning kind he used to fantasize about, tangled limbs and spit.

… not until you say that.

"you wish," he watches you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

he wonders why that's what makes his patience snap. bug on bug, the thought of something rotten catching you between its teeth. the knowledge that you don't mind — that you want it. filthy, pitiful, he feels sorry for your bones and your skin, at the mercy of your heart, swaying to and fro without a thought. feels sickly at the thought that it exists, that it beats.

that the same bundle of flesh slumbers beneath your ribs as his. heavy, weighty; a bleeding lump of flesh.

so he takes you to bed. out of practice, it’s been a while, but if you notice you're a better actor than he gave you credit for. he feels your heart beat against his own — yes, it's there, right there, squirming around. disgust. exhiliration. a way to pass the time.

that's what you are. what this is. he tells himself, in a soothing voice, that it means nothing; that it's not a betrayal, not if he's just using you.

not if you're just a source of warmth on nights his hands feel cold and need something to tend to.

he’s gentle, the first time you sleep together. not as much the other times, but you need it, don’t you? he can tell. you get this look in your eye. like you enjoy being along for the ride, having all thoughts pushed out of your body. it would not do, for him to leave you unsatisfied — sorcerer or not. would not do for his pride, the satisfaction he feels when you bloom in front of him, shatter and curl into yourself like a rhododendron in the precipice of summer.

what you are is a distraction.

(but you're beautiful, when he unmasks you.)

no, geto certainly is not a fickle man. he weighs his options with care; he calculates; he does not bet on losing dogs. your whines are sweet, though, your mind a lid he wants to uncap. it feels good, to be above you. to see you in your entirety, knowing the other men you sleep with don't get the opportunity, don't care to in the first place. wouldn’t want to.

you haven't been loved properly. he can tell.

"please don't go…"

words aren't necessary. your limbs, wrapped around his waist, say enough. the dew at your lashline says enough. you aren't lucid; it's the most primal part of you, clawing its way out. that says enough.

he soothes you before leaving. makes sure you're sound asleep.

you're his, he thinks, watching your poor body seek solace in silky sheets. feels it seek out his touch when he runs a hand over your hip. you're beautiful, and you're his. those other men don't know how to treat you, but he does. he knows what you need. little things like you should be treated like glass, spoiled —

then broken into splinters.

they don't understand. how could they? horny, mindless apes. he should kill them. slaughter them, for having laid a hand on what he owns. what he bought. he should wrangle their corpses for every set of handprints they've left on your delicate wrists.

he should. he will. their time will come.

one last glance, before he leaves for the compound. when you're bathed in moonlight, sick thoughts cloud his mind; when he wraps his gojogesa around heavy robes, and watches you slumber in the king-sized hotel bed. a dangerous indulgence.

it's something in the way you move. maybe he's always sensed it, maybe that's why he wanted you, the thought often eats him alive after you've slept together. something in the way you move, yes — your disposition, the way you carry yourself — like nothing could hurt you, even though it already has, the world has left its mark on you, he can see it in your eyes. try as you may to conceal it. rot knows rot.

even now, he sees it. something in the way you glow under dim lights. when all that surrounds you is gold, blinding white — he can almost delude himself into thinking that your hair is the same. strands of white, like a summer sky — pink lips and a clear voice —

it reminds him of someone.

honestly, suguru… i think you're the only one who understands me at all.

(he crushes the thought before it can shatter him.)

what you are is a distraction. he repeats it, chews it between his teeth until it tastes like nothing at all. a way to spend the time. wish-fulfillment, maybe, at best — there is no room for anything more. no room to think thoughts like if only you weren't what you are, if only you were like him — no room for second guessing or digging himself deeper into the ground.

he's already slipped deeper than he would have liked.

a shake of his head, and the thought is vapour. he scrubs the image of your sleeping body from his mind; reminds himself, dully, of what you are.

he thinks he can go on, like this. just like this.

there is no danger in the web he's weaved you.

”i wanted to be a singer.”

a gentle breeze, clouds covering the sky. you say it so casually, he’d think you were mentioning the weather if it wasn’t for the sadness in your voice.

you fail to keep it out.

bathed in salty air, clouds of smoke, facing the sea with a forlorn gaze — your elbows rest on the railing overlooking it. a cup of bitter coffee stands on the cafe table behind you, abandoned, left to cool. espresso steam blends with roasted nicotine. tobacco stings your eyes, he’s sure; would you blame your glassy eyes on that, were he to point it out?

(oh, how he wonders.)

”is that so.”

geto lights his own cigarette. one, two flicks of his thumb before orange sparks at his fingertips — he delights in the jolt of his nervous system, the way it burns. delights in the rush of dopamine that follows, when he inhales, feels it flood his lungs and sting his windpipe on the way out. a heavy exhale, his trail of smoke mingling with your own, in the crisp and solemn morning air. he can't tell which is which.

the world is quiet, here. like you’re the only ones awake. hidden under a bleak sky, murky blue, nearly gray. he likes it better when it bursts with colour, but this is just fine. you look pretty when your eyes lack light.

geto flicks the butt of his cigarette, ash crumbling on his thumb. his voice comes out with a rasp, laced with thick smoke, but it doesn’t waver, deep and silky even still. the air smells a little like disease, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. finds he likes the contrast. polluting an air that smells too much of summer. ”well, you certainly have the vocals for it.”

you let out something like a scoff. it lingers, in your throat, drags against the walls of flesh.

amused.

when you turn your head to meet his gaze, eyes just slightly red, smile dipped in sardonicism — he thinks you’ve never looked more lovely. not even beneath him, satin sheets spread out like an altar of worship.

or an altar of sacrifice.

sweet as the bite of a ripened peach.

”do i?” you ask, irony tinged on your tongue. wearing a flimsy smile, that seems to fade the longer he looks at it. he watches your cupid’s bow sway, the drag of an arrow. ”you’ve worn them out, you know.”

a breathy exhale. he hides it with his cigarette, takes another drag just to feel the burn at the back of his throat. he smiles, though, can’t help it.

”… you’ll live.” and he exhales, air rushing to flood his lungs, greedy. the salt burns more than the tobacco. ”you still have time. it’s not too late to try again.”

a sudden, eerie silence.

”… i don’t know about that.”

he thinks he could love you, just like this.

"i think i might be out of time."

there's a sad, sad look in your eyes. it makes you look older than you are, more weary, like a pillar of salt left to face the sea. hair swaying in the air, gently, tousled locks and pursed lips, a painting just for him. you look tired. you look exhausted, broken down.

something about it makes him soften.

"do you feel hopeless?" he chuckles, a breathy noise, it scatters into the open air and then disappears. "you haven't seen the world. in that sense, you might as well be a child."

smoke slithers from the butt of his cigarette. everything is silent. no scoff, no click of tongues or scraping of nails against ceramic cups. nothing fake, about this moment. time is all you have, he wants to add. there's no escaping it. but he hesitates, for a moment too long, taken by the suffering in your gaze — geto wonders what you're thinking about, with such a blank expression. wonders what kind of pain you must be feeling. you look like you could shatter where you stand, just a sheet of broken glass, or a fish out of water — a lost soul, flecked with seafoam and cigarette smoke — a pretty little thing, watching the sea like you’d like to wade right in. like there is nowhere you belong, nowhere on this earth.

nowhere to seek solace.

he could love you, when you look this fragile. could allow himself a moment to taste it on his tongue, dip his toes into the first syllable. just to feel the chill.

(even just for a little while.)

you don’t bite back. neither of you speak. only the dull scraping of ocean waves fills the empty air.

”i love you.”

you are the first to step over that boundary.

it’s whispered into his neck. broken, quiet, more of a shallow breath than a sentence. so small, so quiet he thinks he must have heard you wrong. words get lost on both of you, when blood is pumping in your ears, through your veins, when skin meets skin. you’re too tired to speak properly, speak at all. he’s being hard on you tonight — couldn’t think clearly, only saw one of your other regulars try to cop a feel, and, well —

that doesn’t matter, now.

”i love you…”

— there it is, again.

the breathiest, most silent little whimper he’s ever heard.

(geto inhales. curses himself.

a lump forms in his throat.)

you aren’t coherent, you don’t know what you’re saying. he knows that. of course, he knows that. you’re just trying to stay afloat in whatever way you can. just babbling nonsense into his ears like it'll make him go a little easier on you, like you just want his affection —

he thinks he might throw up.

moonlight flits in through the window blinds, illuminates his back, lotus flowers blooming where ink meets skin on his left shoulder. the dragon curls around his back, coils up in anger, disgust. curses crawling in his stomach, hot with irritation.

this was supposed to be a distraction. he was never planning to keep you, you're no human — certainly no partner. the tremors of his heart mean nothing, it's all chemical, all a masquerade. you are nothing.

once the fun has run its course, he'll kill you.

that's what he's been telling himself. he'll slaughter you, etch the sight of red blood against satin sheets into his memory, taste the excess dripping down your waist — he’ll drink it in and throw it up.

but you love him.

(you love him.)

geto wants to hate you.

what he hates most of all is that those words disarm him. peel his skin away, leave only the flesh. he can’t help it, though he tries — a futile endeavor —

”you’re okay.”

a tender, tender, whisper, spilling from his parted lips. when did they part? when did making room for you become as natural as breathing?

”you’ll be okay.”

a weak whimper, nestled against his throat. arms go slack around him, your body peeling itself of guarded skin, allowing him to do as he pleases. so good, so pliant.

(his poor, poor boy.)

geto tastes iron, bursting hot and heavy on his tongue. sinks his teeth into his lower lip, as far as they can go, until the sting itself fades away. keeps going until you pass out, softly, silently, tenderly. kisses your neck, shushes your cries. keeps a big palm on the back of your neck the entire time. rocks you to sleep, as if it's muscle memory.

tender, he reminds himself. when someone tells you they love you, you treat them tenderly, suguru.

(a burning, rotten memory. his mother’s voice.

he feels like dying.)

once all is said and done, he watches you slumber under blue light. dim, it casts a shadow over your features, but he can still see it clear as day; the creases on your face, the lines of your jaw and cheekbones and the way your chest rises and falls.

for once, he doesn't leave.

instead, geto tucks himself behind you, drags forgotten covers over his frame, pulls you against his warm chest, a mother to her newborn — your sniffle-like breaths safe in the boundary between his throat and sternum. he holds you, and closes his eyes. your heartbeats soften, gradually, in tune with his own, clammy skin sticking together. he wants to clean you. wants to give you a bath, scrub the stains away.

you look so very fragile.

he swallows the bile, and keeps his eyes shut. he can allow himself a moment of pretending.

(but this farce will have to end, soon.)

some days, geto doesn’t miss him at all.

some days, hues of cherry pink and bright-sky blue remind him of nothing more than fruit and summer. on even better days, fruit and summer don’t remind him of boys biting into ripe peaches, or napping in the sun, or tickling his ribs while on the back of his bike until they both tumble to the ground.

some days, geto doesn’t linger in the past.

(most days, it’s all he does.)

you’re lying in bed, on your side, curled up with your knees against your chest. naked and unguarded, a newborn fawn. he thinks of how your legs shake after a particularly rough session. almost cracks a smile, but he's too tired, mind too tangled up in knots; he didn't sleep a wink last night. can only watch you from across the room, in silent contemplation, map your features into his mind. he feels fondness for you, like this, only like this. (especially like this.) when you’re entirely bare. a freshly plowed field, a peeled fruit, ready to be carved into halves, willing to be split. breathing very softly into sheets left dirtied.

the world has yet to wake, outside the window.

in moments like this, he indulges in the thought. not enough to suffocate, just sting. he pretends that your hair is white, like marble flooring, like specks of dust collecting light. pretends you're in another country, another life, with no weight on your shoulders. the thought tastes sweet — tastes like bramberries and sunlight and whiskey, tastes like a breakfast well-served. a life where meaning frames the world.

but that sunlight makes its way through your shut blinds, one way or another. no matter how tightly he closes them. and, in turn, your lashes flutter apart.

geto closes his eyes, and pretends he cannot see their colour. pretends that they’re blue, blue, blue, a blue so staggering it makes the sky look white.

a blue that dyes the whole world monochrome.

(if it was him — would he be like this? sleeping soundly, satiated, nuzzled into his chest instead of a pillow? would he be as good as you? as willing to be ruined?

would he want to ruin anyone but you?)

”… geto…?”

you sound surprised. voice a broken tune, raspy and high, like splintered glass. he's bewildered that he finds it charming. that it makes him feel anything at all. you raise your hand to rub at your eyes, groaning softly, twitching like you're having trouble just to move your limbs. geto stands by the door, rests his back against the wall, and watches you. isn't sure how long he's stood there and contemplated leaving.

"… you're still here?"

hope. he can practically taste it, off your breath.

a low click of his tongue. he takes a step forward, towards your bedside, sunshine gliding across his skin, his robes. he's fully clad, no sight of scarring or tattoos, the barest of marks you left when you nipped his neck in your sleep. he won't let you see it.

and he towers above you like a scarecrow on a hayfield.

doesn't say a word. only reaches out to grasp your jaw, palm flat against your chin, trails his hand down your neck. two fingers, dragged between your fragile ribs. neither rough nor gentle. you're pliant, there's no fight in you, a lamb making itself soft for the blade of a dagger. you let him explore you, while a frown threatens to break through his pursed lips — thick brows furrowed together. you don't jolt, or yelp. you trust your body with him. silly, stupid, naive.

can't you see what he's made you into?

"... maybe i should cut your heart out," he breathes, surprised by how sincere he sounds, the shadows that covet his voice. "save us both the trouble. hm?"

that makes you scrunch your nose. eyelids too droopy, too weighty to keep themselves up, they just flutter shut again. oh, whatever shall he do with you?

"… my heart…?" a soft sigh, a noise in the back of your throat, like a cat awoken from its nap. you're mumbling, he has trouble hearing you, isn't sure if you're fully lucid or if you think this is a dream. a yawn spills past your lips. "y'can have it…"

… bare. unguarded. heart ripe for plucking.

any man could steal it. rob it from its branches. you don't seem to understand your own appeal, your true appeal; it's aggravating. your ribs are so easy to peel apart. when someone speaks softly to the confines of your heart, they just fall open, all on their own.

so very guarded, yet trusting even still. so, so eager to let the right one in.

”… you remind me of a friend.”

the words have already left his lips. it's too late, now.

sundrops splatter against your nose, the corners of your bottom lip. he could picture them crimson, camellia and spider lily, grows sick at the thought, a macabre twist of his guts, like he just swallowed something terrible. sunshine frames your expression, the way it shifts in the light, shadows passing by and painting your teeth when you speak. pink gums, pink tongue, swollen from abuse. a flicker of knowing, of remembering, when your pupils dilate; coil into slits.

"… friend?" you echo, a breathless mutter. "or boyfriend?"

geto twitches, from the tips of his fingers. still resting just where your ribcage ends.

they leave your skin, his thumb brushing gently against your navel before parting, a tender feather-like flick. you're sensitive, there; he knows your body like the back of his own hand, sees the shudder that slithers through you before he feels it.

sometimes, he wonders if you know him just as well.

silence. only quiet, quiet breaths. any answer geto could give stays clogged at the base of his throat, full peaches blocking his windpipe, keeping the words from bubbling up and erupting. fuzzy fruitskin against red flesh. he wants to taste the nectar. wants a lot of things he can never have, not in this life.

hey, suguru. peel it for me.

… huh? what's with the attitude?

"it’s complicated, huh."

geto swallows.

"… i suppose it is," he breathes, eyes straying from your own. deep cedar, bright honey, enclosed in globes of amber, finding solace in your sullied bedsheets. will you clean them? would you keep them as is, if you knew you'd never see him again?

what was he hoping for, all this time?

an exhale. you're smiling, you're sleepy, he wonders if your body is still blissed out enough to save you from the heartache. "am i the rebound?" you ask, a hint of humour, stretching your limbs out like a sleepy feline.

a sigh.

"… essentially."

the soft rustling of sheets. your skin is dyed golden, by the silent sun, illuminated against pure white. an altar, marble flooring, specks of dust and sodium light. you let out a little noise, something like a hum. as if struck over the head. a moment passes, and you still, eyelids falling shut. a chuckle breaks your silent death.

"it hurts that you’re so straightforward." sincerity always brings nothing but pain, he wants to tell you. if you'd never opened your heart to me, you wouldn't be feeling this way. if i had never held it in my palms, perhaps i wouldn't be feeling so empty. this is the price humans pay for loving so callously. "you're a pretty cruel guy. has anyone told you that?"

geto smiles. he closes his eyes, and steps away from you; voice a quiet breath of air.

"just once."

there is nothing to be done about a heart of stone.

geto turns on his heel, and does not look behind him.

he will leave. leave, and leave no trace, leave your home untouched, only purple marks smudged across your nape to prove his greed, to prove he ever sunk his claws into your tender flesh. imprints of teeth on your chest. fingerprints on your hips. marks will remain, and fade with time. soon enough, you'll forget about them. he will make his way past the second street, and think of neither you nor satoru.

he will not think of blue eyes, or summer. he will not think of your eyes, bleary with forgotten dreams, lost potential, speckled with what he knows to be love — a word so heavy he wishes he could spit on it. a word he wishes he did not revere.

he will not think of you, even as he crosses the main street with the fountain you like, glittering under a sun just about to break the world into halves. even as he watches a man play the violin by the train station, listens to the thin strings bend and bow just like your vocal chords under the dim lights of a trashy bar he’d never have gone to if it weren’t for you. he will not think of the way you glow.

he will think of nothing, and no one.

"… see you, geto."

(he thinks he’ll be okay.)

#pretty dividers by @/strangergraphics-archive & @/hyuneskkami !!#geto x reader #geto x you #geto x y/n #geto suguru x reader #geto x male reader #geto suguru x male reader #geto angst

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