TanTan @arminsxseaxshell - Tumblr Blog

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. So begins your wager.

WORD COUNT; 12.5k

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 to suit my own agenda i’m sorry TT just picture it as one without proper protocol, friends with benefits (thought you aren’t really friends…), bittersweet hurt/comfort (emphasis on hurt), angst, open ended, heavily 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 stifled heartbeat, 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. You feel it curving up your lips.

Bright lights, loud music, men's voices clouded in deceit.

Yes, all of this is yours.

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

Every nerve in your skull dances along to the devil's waltz you're in. You're tipsier than you should be, when you're still on the clock. Can barely recognize the voice, indistinguishable— is it coming from the bartender, or one of the regulars? Maybe a boundary-pushing boss? It doesn't matter, either way. Your smile grows 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 cottoned bliss. Your hair is tousled, your tie undone, your Adam's apple bobbing as your fingers curl around the mic— as your bleary eyes grow focused on the video screen above you. You may 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. The instrumental kicks into motion, a familiar baseline, and—

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

Golden lights, grinning men, your own voice rippling through your frazzled ears. It comes out with a rasp, though it's quickly peeled away, 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 greedy eyes on you, lapping at your exposed skin, the smudges of lipstick butchering your neck and 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, not for the attention, calloused hands pulling at your flesh and roughing up your wrists with marks like fresh hydrangeas. Not for the alcohol, not even for the money.

... Actually, you're lying to yourself. It's all of that combined. But this is where your heart lies, where you spit it out for all to see.

Their gazes feel good on your neck and chest, your waist and your shaky hands. The attention is fuel. You feel like a spectacle, like someone else entirely, shedding skin if only for a couple minutes, just enough to kill the nausea. 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 all-seeing eyes glide through the lounge.

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

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

You continue to sing. Meeting the golden, shimmering gaze, as it carves its way across the room. The man is seated at a lone table, no host to entertain him: and though it's hard to see from here, with the lights and the haze and the whiskey in your veins, you can still make out his figure. Wide, clad in heavy garments, just the barest contours of his shadow-speckled face. Handsome, though. You can tell, can see it in his gaze and the way he's sitting. Elegant and comfortable. A beautiful jawline.

Low-lidded eyes staring deeply into yours.

The song continues, unaware of the sudden sparks bolting through your spine— lyrics rolling off your breath, perfectly timed with your overlapping gazes. Something sinks its teeth 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 and brings it to his lips; you hope he’s drinking you in just the same, swallowing around your visage.

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 inside your throat. The room is spinning. Everything feels like a blur.

... You should probably sit down, for a while.

"Agh, my shoulder is killing me…"

Slim hands pass you a glass of water, taking your pained groan in stride. It's cool against your heated fingertips; you swirl it around for a moment, just to hear the satisfying clink of ice cubes clashing. Slumped against the headrest of a leather sofa in the corner, you blink, 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 dig 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 the guests. 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 in one eager swoop.

"What a beautiful voice."

In your moment of unguarded respite, the words catch you off guard. 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 lip piercing.

A tall, well-built man towers above the sofa, clad in a sleazy red suit— his lips curled into a grin, half-ominous. Your eyes glide across his features, tallying the damage; blonde hair, fat biceps, tufts of chest hair on display… a big nose, that's not bad. The jewelry 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. You angle your body until the fabric of your undone blouse begin to slip down your shoulder, feigning an innocent tilt of your head. His eyes drink in your naked skin, moth to flame. “Are you here to spend time with me, handsome?”

You kind of want to laugh at the look that shadows his face, then— like a wolf cornering a helpless lamb. A look that suggests the temptation to deflower. He could never guess what you’re really like.

"I think I just might be, yes,” he falls for the bait, legs comfortably spread when he plops down next to you, his elbows finding purchase on the headrest behind him.

"I’ll have to make it worth your while, then…”

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, the scent almost overpowering. You’ve built up a resistance, but you still need a moment to exhale, stifling a cough. Maybe that would just appeal to him, though…

He keeps it perched between his lips, exhales through his nose before he pulls away to speak. “Well, I pay good money for your company. I’d say it’s only fair.”

A humoured breath. "That's true…"

There's a hunger to the way he looks at you. A gaze you've learned to associate with filth. Desire. He's still smiling, too wide, that golden piercing gleaming with the stretch. He smells of gin, underneath the tobacco. Something else, too. 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 don't manage to 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 flee from his grip. Your smile is perfect, sweet and coy, still leaving much to the imagination. A hint of well-disguised mystery.

A suggestive glint in your eye.

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

”May I have him, for a moment?”

A second voice cuts in through the fog.

Deep, velvety tones, smoothing a steady hand 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 gaze. Sharp, 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.

Like two voices speaking, all at once.

A tall man is standing just before you, hands tucked into the long sleeves of his haori. His gaze bearing 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. A sharp jaw, his nose a prominent bridge, well-defined cheekbones… obsidian eyes, flecked a tinted gold and framed by monolids, though you can hardly see them under these dim lights. 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,” spits the hot-shot next to you, abandoning your hip to curl a possessive arm around your neck. Doesn’t feel too nice. Would he get hissier if you pulled away? ”What the fuck is a monk doing here anyway?"

Catching tells is a skill that takes honing. Observation, 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 quiet hum builds 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— to look you in the eye. From this distance they're abyssal, pulling you closer, closer still, until you can taste the mint off his breath.

His lips curl up into a sly smile. ”I’ll pay you double,” he whispers, for only you to hear. Eyes swirling with silent glee. ”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, enveloping you, he's all you can see. All you can feel and smell, the heat of his body dizzying even through his robes, rich notes laced across his neck.

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 and stinging your eyes with dew. ”Hah? That’s not how this works, you gold-digging whore—”

”Leave.”

A sharp flick of his wrist. His robes sway, with the motion, like a curtain drawn shut. The gesture itself is a command; 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, neither 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. A pleasant chime rings out across the lounge, the bell of a door being opened and then closed. 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 smooth, pleased voice. "But you seemed a little… uncomfortable."

The stranger takes the now empty seat, but keeps his distance, hands still tucked comfortably inside his sleeves. His robes flutter 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—

so you smile. Eyes crinkling at the corners, as you breathe out a chuckle. "Not at all," you answer. "Thank you, kind stranger."

Smoothly, you cozy up to him— or attempt to, thigh ghosting thigh, hand about to curl around his bicep to feel his build from under all those layers. He doesn't let you, though. Doesn't say a word, but his brow twitches, and you recognize it for what it is: 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?)

Either way, 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 covering one of your shoulders. Exudes anything but class.

Your fingers curl around the fabric, ready to fish it back up.

He chooses that moment to speak.

"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. His voice is light, and his smile is amused, you can't help but mirror his expression.

"Are you?" you ask, mildly devilish, tongue swiping against the back of your teeth, tasting faded cocktails. "I'll leave it as is, then."

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

"What should I order for you, handsome?"

A quirk of his brow. "Saké," comes his answer, flat.

"Classy."

"Is it?" He doesn't seem impressed. Gazing at you with something familiar, though 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, rising to your feet.

"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.” 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, fruity undertones beneath the roasted fragrance.

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 your distance while watching him drink. His eyes are closed, 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 sharp cut of his tongue. He's smiling, though. It's hard to tell if he's genuinely bothered by the suffix. "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, breathing out a humoured sigh. "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, ever-judging. He clicks his tongue quietly. "That's not good, you know. Men like that don't know how to treat what's fragile."

"Fragile?" you can't help but laugh, 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, whispers a voice in your intoxicated brain. You'd break under pressure. Make a mess of the floor.)

"… If you say so." You lean forward, a pang of heat threatening to flash against your nape when you catch his lips twitching upwards. "Anyway... what temple?"

Geto breathes out a chuckle, sweet saké on his tongue. "Why?" he asks, brow raised, hand coming to sear its heat 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 the heel of a steady 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 into the bottom of his cup. 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, that's my specialty."

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, give or take, 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. Half-tempted to ask yourself. But he only runs a teasing palm along your shoulder, tells you of business he has to attend to, with the kind of graceful poise that makes you feel like he's cutting a firm line between himself and this establishment. Between him and you. You know that tone, it's like a boyfriend telling you to not be clingy while he's working. Not to step beyond your bounds.

Another smile, and then he's leaving. You get the feeling that it falls as soon as his back is turned.

(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 sings its tune. You watch his back until it's no longer visible, and then heave out a ruined sigh— left alone with a half-empty 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.)

In your arms are a mismatched array of products.

Cup ramen, stacks of surimi sticks, a can of beer. Tired fingers trail along the plasticized polystyrene. You count up the price, silently.

It's dark out, the world beyond your local konbini illuminated only by distant city lights and passing cars. Occasionally, the store's bell will toll, 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 nothing like the host club. Less flashy. Less arousing.

Depressing, really.

Weary 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 the ramen, but that would make you feel even more like a mess. Hair a mess, face a mess, bags under your eyes and an oversized hoodie draped around you, sweatpants and sandals below your bruised waist. You can't be bothered to perform on a day off. Couldn't even be bothered to put on makeup, give the cashier anything more than a vague nod on your 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. Honeyed, the slightest hint of a rasp. Familiar. You stiffen, where you stand above the freezer.

And when you look up, you see them. Eyes of rusted gold.

Sharpened into crescents.

"What a pleasant surprise." Geto tilts his head, bangs gliding along his skin. "Out shopping this late?"

"Sure am," you quip. Peering up at him through droopy lashes, fatigue clinging to the cords of your voice. "Are you stalking me, Geto-san?"

A chuckle bubbles past his lips. He's still wearing the same robes, eyes gleaming dimly, lips curling up and exposing his teeth. "Ah, you caught me."

You can't tell if he's joking. But you breathe out a matching chuckle, as he steps to the side, walks towards another aisle. Your eyes follow his broad back, trailing after him— ice cream can wait for another day— until you're taking up the empty space beside him. His hand slips from out his sleeve and reaches for a Wakaba pack of cigarettes, his fingers flexing as they curl around it. Your lashes flutter with a blink.

"… You’re a smoker?"

"On occasion."

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 side eye him 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. "You 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 is occupied. You walk towards them, making a joke in passing.

”Sooo… you're a cultist?"

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 familiar, soothing you: twinkling stars dimmed by light pollution, cars whooshing by, blinking street lamps, a river running 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 cup ramen— Geto takes a seat besides you, rests his elbows on the table and watches you with his chin poised against the heel of his palm. His robes hang off the small chair, forming a puddle of ink on the floor.

A minute passes, silently. 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," he responds, closing his eyes. "Did I leave you wanting?"

The bell jingles. A glance towards the entrance tells you it's a group of schoolgirls, out past their bedtime. Anxiety begins to pool in your gut, but you push it to the side. They really shouldn't be here this late, but what can you do? You break apart your chopsticks, chew at a surimi stick. The moon peeks out, briefly, paints the town 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 chuckle. "I have other customers. Not nearly as handsome as you, but they'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 lips upturned. 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 or another about the nature of 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, your eyelids hazy. 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.

It's been just over a month since your first encounter. 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'll waltz in with his fancy robes, paying no mind to any of the other hosts— you know they're jealous, too bad for them— and call you over. Doesn't even need to speak, because the moment your eyes meet you're already walking his way. (Well-trained, he jokes.) Geto pays well, buys expensive bottles of saké, whiskey, sweet-smelling umeshu, typically drinks very little of it. He likes to savour what you pour him, likes to swirl the cup around. Brings you with him when he's bored of sneering at the other guests. It’s always just a matter of time.

Everything about him spells disaster. Spells out something like wine laced with poison, or rotten cadavers on open fires.

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. He fucks like a beast on melatonin. Slow, rough, deliriously practiced. 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 brain successfully turned off. When he steps into the dim-lit lounge, you know you'll be sleeping well into morning. Head stuffed with cotton, blissfully empty. Know you'll get to see the way his biceps flex and twitch, the tattoos on his back and shoulder, paintings of ink— blooming camellias and white dragons— that you'll get to feel his weight and see into his brown eyes and paw at his plush chest, gape at the thick set of scars carving an x inbetween them. The body is a temple. You've never truly understood the implications of that.

Not until this. Not until him.

And it's silly. Stupid, naive. It's never good to catch feelings for someone who's made what he wants from you so abundantly clear. Your little arrangement is set in stone; no will he won’t he, no second guessing.

But he fucks you like he loves you.

Makes you cum like he loves you, always pushing the boundaries of too much, too soon, which nobody has ever cared to do and which you cannot grapple with. And yet he'll smile, like it proves something.

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

So, pardon you for having a bit of a crush on the weird, perverted monk guy. Pardon 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, melting into each other, 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. Geto is handsome, good to you, 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, for better or for worse: you've always been eager to excel.

(Always the type to hang on to hoping.)

"Goddd, that fucking shift…"

The 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, throbbing in nerves frazzled with fatigue and wrists tender with bruises. Your vocal cords are worn, voice raspier than usual. Geto sits on a couch in the corner, watching as you slump onto the bed, limbs falling like dead weights on either side of your body.

"… I need a raise."

A chuckle, breathy. "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 empty streets and office lights. ”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. "I'm afloat. But don't I deserve more than that?"

"Do you?"

You can practically hear him smiling. 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, helping you into a sitting position, so you can gaze at him properly from across the room. 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; sandals meeting the carpeted floor when he stands up to his full height, 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 for him alone. You've met men who take up space, who do it like it's easy, like it’s their birth right— he is different. His steps are not heavy, not loud or flashy. Geto moves quietly, like a serpent, a mesmerizing slithering across the floor. Stops just in front of you, and tilts his head; slipping an easy 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, sluggish blinks dragging your eyelids up and down. ”What, you gonna kill him?”

”Would you like me to?”

…

A vacant 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 before he laps over them with his tongue. Like ribs peeking out of a carcass. "I suppose I'd be doing you a favour."

You snort, meeting his gaze with a furrowed brow. "What, did you think I was exaggerating? Lying? I'd never."

”Of course you wouldn’t.” He exhales, amusement buzzing behind closed lips. "There'd be no need. You're easy to read, after all."

... Ouch. You aren't sure if you should laugh or tell him to go fuck himself— settling, cautiously, for a roll of your eyes. 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 waiting 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. You're willing to bet he wouldn't so much as stir if you killed someone in front of him: he'd listen to your reasons, the motives for your madness, not saying a word. 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, the words coming out softer than you'd meant them to. A slip of the tongue.

For a moment, you regret them. 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 the dark night, a shattered mirror world. Geto hums.

”Keep it that way.”

There's an edge to his voice when it drops his voice drops— a knife unsheathed, a beast baring its teeth, a jolt down your heartbeat. There it is, making itself known. It makes your throat run dry, a string of seconds where you can't do much but feel the air leave your lungs, enter, leave again. Still, 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 is nothing you could hide from its all-seeing gaze. You're inclined to believe that; doesn't make any it less terrifying.

Any less exhilarating.

Geto looks pleased.

When he leans in, you're far from ready, a stutter building at the base of your throat. Close, closer, now you can smell the green tea off his breath, dried leaves and boiling water, like the pools of rising steam in his eyes. His breath ghosting your lips. He's going to kiss you.

(That's rare.)

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

When the words have left his lips, a sharp jolt of pain burns its way through your body. You gasp, when it hits you— your mind working overtime to catch up to the sudden sensation, lost in his voice and his gaze and his warmth— belatedly noticing the placement of his hands, just where he's pinching. The sting at your nipple blows your eyes open, parts your lips, his thumb and forefinger applying pressure through your thin shirt. It hurts. He’s not letting go.

He's smiling, 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. Scorching, boiling, bubbling unbearably. You feel like something small, molded just to fit his hands, waiting to be exposed and split into halves. It's humiliating, you're not sure if you want to flee or stay right here— if the weight of his palms make up for the sting they bring you.

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

But Geto only smiles. It's etched onto his face, hauntingly: the corners of his eyes crinkling like ginkgo leaves, like 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, waits for a jolt. ”Not when it’s so obvious.”

A strangled wince claws at your lips, but you swallow it back down— inhale, exhale, try to steady your breathing, try not to shiver or pull away from his 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. A prey animal rolling over to expose its belly.

He looks admonishing.

"Tsk, tsk... Whatever shall I do with you?" he clicks his tongue, a chastising purr. "So careless with your body, but dishonest about what it wants. Are you ashamed just to live, darling?”

The question makes your heart twist nauseously. Has you falling silent, a downturned tug at your lip.

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

(Checkmate.)

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 go of you. Takes a moment to get seated on the edge of the bed, and pats his lap with a heavy hand. You lick at the back of your teeth, your body still burning in the wake of his touch.

"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, reached a collective boiling point, a sticky exhibition of desire. 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 your skin, sweat dripping down his brow and onto your cheek, "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 through with fingerprints. There is weight behind his every action, calculated care. Choice means being human. Choice means weight, which means heart, which is all he needs.

All this to say— Geto Suguru does not make wagers he thinks he cannot win.

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 buzzing of a karaoke machine. Everything is loud, everything sparkling with see-through glamour. Revolting, but he stays, only crinkles his nose and soothes his senses with the mellow incense laced into the fabric of his robes. Tries not to picture the walls red.

When he sees you, his thoughts halt altogether.

A stumbling figure, clad in flimsy clothing, reaching for the mic. 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. You're giggling, the noise caught by the mic and carried far by the speakers, pitiful attempts at disguising what he knows to be disgust. Your hands are trembling.

It's only when you part your lips and sing that he is pulled out of his stupor. Your voice rings out, clear and bright— the song doesn't match your vocals, doesn't do them justice. You stand on stage, a spectacle, and he cannot bring himself to look away.

(Thus begins his wager.)

Geto finds himself thinking that he likes the way you look, like this. Sparkling, glowing, rust-golden rays cocooning you, a tequila sunrise. From where he’s sitting, it makes you look almost holy. Makes him want to laugh, because that couldn't be further from the truth.

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

But your voice carries longing, enough of it to fill an ocean. He finds it impossible not to indulge, to stare at silently, until your eyes happen to fall across his own and splatter on his brow: a flicker of light, in the middle of the too-small stage. He captures them. Keeps them there.

And he swears your smile grows brighter.

(A spider weaves a web of silk, in the corner of the room.)

Darling, vague complaints and fridays. He tastes the lyrics off your tongue. 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.

All eyes in the room are on you, following your swaying, your shimmering skin. He wants to kill them, itches to. Leering leeches. It 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, not even when he has you seated beside him, tipsy, shirt about to slip off your shoulder and show off your skin. He pictures it smudged, soiled, branded with bite marks and bruises. It does nothing but add to his growing revulsion. His first night with you ends 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 splotch 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 see what it's like— men with men, dim-lit glamour, ice cubes swirling in glasses half-empty.

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. Another day; another 'happenstance meeting'. "I have other customers. Not nearly as handsome as you, but they'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 reckless heart. Feels sickly at the thought that it exists. That it beats.

That tucked under your rips, under his ribs, is the same bundle of flesh.

So he takes you to bed. Out of practice, but if you notice you're a better actor than he gave you credit for, trashing around like a sparrow in a steel trap. He feels your heart beat against his own, bleeding hot. Yes, it's there, right there, squirming around. Disgust. Exhilaration.

A way to pass the time.

That's what you are. What this is. He tells himself 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. 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 make reckless wagers. Your whines are sweet, though, your mind a lid he'd like to uncap. It feels good to be above you. To see you in your entirety, knowing the other men you sleep with never get the opportunity, don't care to in the first place.

"Please, don't go...”

You haven't been loved properly. He can tell without words. Your limbs say enough, where they're wrapped around his waist, where dew gathers at your lashline. You aren't lucid, it's the most primal part of you, clawing its way out when you're too spent to reign it back in. 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 dirty sheets. Feels it seek out his touch when he runs a hand over your hip, absently. You're beautiful, and you're his. Those other men don't know how to treat you, but 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. Should wrangle their corpses for every set of handprints they've left on your delicate wrists.

He should. He will. All in due time.

One last glance, before he leaves for the compound, the moon a perfect circle in the dark skies outside. When you're bathed in its light, sick thoughts cloud his mind; when he's wrapping his gojo-gesa around his abdomen and watching 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.

He sees right through that self-serving, shabby cover-up.

Cannot help but be reminded——

(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's 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, wool-thick clouds obscuring 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, puffs of smoke, your gaze is forlorn— elbows resting on a railing overlooking the sea. Behind you sits an abandoned cup of coffee, left to cool on an empty café table. 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 yours, in the crisp morning air. He can't tell which is which.

The world is quiet, here. As if you’re the only ones awake, standing 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 steady 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 as smoke breaks past your lips.

When you turn your head to meet his gaze, eyes tinged with 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. Naked belly on display, the skin soft when he runs a heavy palm below your navel, like the gut of a lamb before it is cut into.

”Do I?” you ask, irony thick on your tongue. Wearing a smile that seems to fade the longer he looks at it. He watches your cupid’s bow sway, the drag of a limp 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. Smiles, though, unable to contain it.

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

Silence, suddenly. It strikes him as eerie.

”… 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. World-worn. It makes you look older than you are, more weary, a pillar of salt left to face the sea. Hair swaying gently in the air, tousled locks and pursed lips, a painting just for him. You look tired. You look exhausted, broken down.

Something about it softens his edges.

"Do you feel hopeless?" he lets out a humoured, breathy noise, it scatters into the open air and then disappears. "You haven't seen the world yet. In that sense, you might as well be a child."

Smoke slithers from the cigarette-butt. Everything is silent. No scoff, no click of tongues or scraping of nails against ceramic cups, nothing to get in the way of what is happening between you. 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 face— an otherwise blank expression that would worry him were it worn by one of his daughters. Geto wonders what you're thinking about, what kind of pain you must be feeling to look like you could shatter where you stand; a broken sheet of glass, a lost soul flecked with cigarette smoke. Watching the sea like you’d like to wade right in.

Like there is nowhere you belong. Nowhere on this earth.

He could love you, when you look this fragile. Could taste the thought on his tongue, dip his toes into the first syllable, even 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 sticky 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…”

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 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 clumsily drawn-shut 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 a fit of angered repulsion. In his stomach, curses clambering around, hot with irritation.

Geto does not make reckless wagers. This was supposed to be a distraction, nothing more— 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 satin sheets into his memory, taste the excess dripping down your waist, drink it in and throw it all up. Your body is the wager. It's his, should be his, his to do with what he pleases, to worship or to desecrate—

But you love him.

(You love him.)

Geto wants to hate you.

What he hates most of all is that those words disarm him. That they peel his skin away, leaving only softened flesh behind. 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 nestles itself against his throat. Arms go slack around him, your body following, 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. 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, and 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 heartbeat softens, 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, tend to the bruises and soreness between your thighs.

You look so very fragile. Shivering in your sleep.

Geto swallows the bile rising up his throat, 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 with bellowing laughter in their throats.

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, all too 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 enough to 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, no scars or sleeping pills. The thought tastes sweet. Tastes like blackberries and sunlight and whiskey, 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, he thinks, would he be like this? Sleeping soundly, satiated, nuzzled into his chest instead of a pillow? Would he be as good as you? As eager to be ruined?

Would he want to ruin anyone but you?)

”… Geto…?”

You sound surprised. Voice a broken tune, raspy and high, 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 moving 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 swaying 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 says, 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…?" you sigh, then a soft 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 so trusting. 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 parting with a gentle brush against your navel, a 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 reverberate against him.

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.

(Hey, Suguru. Peel it for me.

… Huh? What's with the attitude?)

"It’s complicated, huh."

He swallows around the lump in his throat.

"… 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.

He sighs.

"… Essentially."

The soft, barely-there rustling of sheets. Your skin is dyed golden by the silent sun, her fingertips treading across your body, illuminated against pure white bedding. An altar, marble flooring, specks of dust and sodium lights. You let out a little noise, something like a hum. As if struck over the head.

Stilling, for a moment; your 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, achingly. He closes his eyes, and steps away from you; his 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, 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.

Not blue eyes, not summer. Not 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 stumble at the altar of.

Even as he crosses the last street, he will not think of you. When he walks across the fountain you like, glittering under a sun just about to break the world into halves; when he hears a violin being played by the train station, listens to the thin strings bend and bow just like your vocal chords under the dim lights of a trashy host club 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.)

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

TanTan