Work Text:
what can i say
knew it right away
you are what you are
— blade bird, oklou
🦷
When Jo was eight, he buried a bird in the backyard and told no one.
Not because it was dead — that part made sense, even felt noble in the smallness of his hands, the clumsiness of digging with a plastic spoon — but because he’d kissed it first. Pressed his mouth to its still-warm feathers like it was a secret he needed to seal. He didn’t know what that made him. Only that afterward, when he washed his hands twice and threw the spoon away, he didn’t feel clean. Just quiet. He learned early that there were wants he couldn’t name. Not if he wanted to be the kind of boy people didn’t flinch from.
People always said he was a beautiful boy. Not just pretty, but the kind of beautiful that made grown-ups lean in and ask if they could take his picture, the kind of beautiful that made strangers’ smiles catch and hold a little too long. His face was smooth, almost delicate—too delicate to match the noise that churned inside him.
He learned early that his prettiness was a kind of currency, a thing to be guarded and polished and protected at all costs. The neat parts of him—the polite smiles, the carefully tucked-in shirts, the soft words—were what people wanted. The parts that wanted to scrape his skin raw with his own nails, that wanted to taste the dirt under his fingernails or trace the sharp edges of bones beneath skin—that was something else entirely. Something messy. Something shameful.
Once, when he was ten, Jo showed his mother the bruise blooming on his knee—a clumsy souvenir from a fall during a game that had gotten too loud, too fast. She bent down, eyes narrowing as if she were trying to read a secret written in the dark purple against his skin. Her fingers pressed lightly over the bruise, but not gently—more like she was trying to smooth it away, like the color was something dangerous, something out of place.
Her voice was low and sharp, steady like a warning, “You’re not the kind of boy who needs marks like that.”
Jo didn’t know what to say. He watched the crease between her brows deepen, the way her lips thinned as if she was holding back more than just words. The bruise was still there, stubborn and swelling, but he felt it shrink under her gaze. Like it wasn’t just skin that was bruised—maybe something inside too, something he couldn’t quite name yet.
That night, when the house was quiet and the lights were all out, he traced the bruise with a finger, feeling the tender swell beneath his touch. It wasn’t pain he wanted to remember. It was proof—proof that his skin, his body, could still carry something real, messy, and his own.
He didn’t know then how rare that proof would be—that the parts of himself he was taught to hide would be the ones that needed holding onto most. That wanting something untidy, something real and bruised and alive, would be the thing that finally saved him.
And then there was Taki.
🦷
Being an idol never made sense to Jo.
Not in the way it seemed to make sense to the others. He liked dancing—liked what it did to his body, the burn and blur of it—but everything else felt like performance layered on top of performance. The interviews. The bright, hollow laughter. The soft eyes he was supposed to make on cue. All of it felt like someone else’s dream he’d slipped into and forgotten how to exit.
There were days he thought he might grow into it. That if he smiled enough, the mirror would eventually stop lying. But it hadn’t. The longer he wore the face people loved, the more he felt like a prop behind glass—pretty, quiet, hollow.
It wasn’t the attention that bothered him. It was the script. The constant need to shrink and sweeten himself down into something harmless.
The Jo in the photos—sharp-jawed, all clean lines and carefully tousled hair—wasn’t him. That Jo never had dirt under his nails. Never bit the inside of his cheek raw. Never wanted to scream during rehearsals just to hear what his real voice sounded like.
But Jo did. Jo wanted to scream all the time.
There were mornings when he’d wake with crescents dug into his palms, wrists buzzing like they were trying to say something he didn’t have the words for. Times he’d stand in a room full of people and wonder what would happen if he simply disappeared.
Three hours into rehearsal, and the floor was damp with sweat. Muscles ached in every direction. Someone’s speaker buzzed faintly, between songs. Yuma slumped onto the floor with a grunt, wrist flung dramatically across his forehead.
“God, I’m done,” he groaned, breath sharp and short. “Just roll me into traffic.”
Jo stood near the back wall, rubbing at his knee. “I wish someone would just snap me in half,” he said, voice flat, the way you might say it was going to rain. “Maybe then I’d be fixed.”
The room paused. Not dramatically—just enough to notice.
Harua raised a brow. “Wouldn’t that just make it worse?”
Jo blinked. His throat tightened. He wanted to say: no, it would let everything out. The ache, the tension, the clawing need to feel more than numb. But he only shrugged.
Taki, lying flat on the floor with one socked foot tracing lazy circles over the tape lines, chuckled low. “I get it,” he said, voice frayed from too much shouting. “Like if you cracked open, maybe something better would come out. Or softer. Or true.”
He wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt, smearing sweat into his temple. The gesture was thoughtless, but Jo watched it like it meant something. Watched the smear left behind, like someone touching a window just to prove they’d been there.
“Sometimes I wanna peel my skin off just to breathe,” Taki added, not looking at anyone in particular.
Jo stared. Not just at his face—but at his fingers. The twitch of them. The way they never seemed still, like they were aching to speak.
Yuma snorted. “You two are freaks.”
No one responded. The air buzzed faintly. The studio smelled like spit and shoe rubber and damp cotton. Jo thought: if I said something right now—if I said come with me and never look back—would he come?
He said, instead, “Cool.”
Taki’s eyes slid over to him, half-lidded. “Cool,” he echoed, like he hadn’t just peeled something back and laid it in Jo’s hands.
After rehearsal, the others filtered out, their laughter and footsteps fading down the hall. Jo lingered, sweat cooling on his neck, until the studio felt too empty to stay.
He stepped into the hallway, where the hum of vending machines replaced the echo of bass lines. The red coils of the space heater glowed low and steady, casting a dull warmth across the tiles.
Taki was crouched in front of it, arms draped over his knees, staring at the heat like it held answers.
“You good?” Jo asked.
Taki nodded without looking. “Just tired.”
Jo settled beside him, back against the machine, their knees close enough to brush.
“I was thinking about what you said earlier,” he murmured.
Taki didn’t respond. But he didn’t move away either.
“About peeling your skin off,” Jo said. “Wanting to feel something else.”
The heater hummed. The quiet between them thickened, like breath held too long. Then Taki turned, slowly.
No smile. Just something raw in his face—unguarded, soft.
He nudged Jo’s shoe with his own. Barely a tap.
Jo swallowed hard.
He didn’t know what to call the thing unfurling between them. It wasn’t a confession. Wasn’t even a beginning. But it was something. Shifting. Reaching.
Taki stood, stretched, and started for the door.
“You coming?” he asked, like it was nothing. Like Jo hadn’t just been cracked open at the seams.
Jo didn’t answer. He just followed.
Something in him had already said yes.
🦷
It started quiet.
Like stepping barefoot into warm syrup. Like easing into bathwater a shade too hot—comforting, until it scalded.
Taki was good. Stupidly, radiantly good. Being near him felt like realizing too late that you’ve been leaning on a sore limb for hours. Like noticing blood under your fingernails and not knowing when you started scratching. He didn’t fall in a blaze, didn’t light up like a screen. He just looked up one day, and there it was. That familiar buzz behind his ribs. That stupid ache.
Desire didn’t announce itself. It seeped in. Got comfortable. Grew teeth.
And Jo let it.
Not because he was ready—but because falling didn’t feel like falling with Taki. It felt like returning. Like something soft and animal curling beneath his ribs. Like breath finally reaching places it hadn’t touched in years.
Of course Jo fell for him.
Jo never trusted wanting. Not really. It made him sharp. Made him cruel. Made him visible in all the wrong ways. It made him ache in places language couldn’t reach. Made him believe he could devour and still deserve love.
Most people couldn’t take that. Most people asked him to shrink first.
But it wasn’t the want that scared him—it was the ease of it. The way it fit. Like a muscle unclenching. Like something old and sick inside him cracking open to let air in. Wanting Taki slid under Jo’s skin like it had always belonged there. Quiet. Inevitable.
He’d thought about love before—how it looked on other people, how it might settle on him. Sometimes he’d glance across a room, see someone’s face softened by laughter or lit by someone else’s warmth, and think: what if it had been them?
Yuma was kind, yes. But there was calculation to it. He touched without asking, handled people like fruit he wasn’t sure was ripe. His patience held, but only until it didn’t. He’d love Jo politely—yes. But only in pieces. Never the whole mess.
Harua would understand—he always did. He’d nod, soft and distant, like he’d already been through it. But the second Jo turned raw, cracked something real, Harua would disappear. Quiet ghosting. No confrontation—just absence. Jo had seen it happen before. Knew it would happen again.
And Maki—no. Maki would twist himself into any shape Jo needed. He’d meet Jo’s fire with open hands. But it would eat him from the inside out. Slowly, sweetly. Like sugar dissolving in acid. Jo would watch it happen. Would let it happen. And that guilt? He already carried too much.
But Taki—
Taki didn’t flinch.
When Jo got weird, or too much, or started to come apart at the seams—Taki just grinned wider.
And leaned in.
🦷
The first time they kissed, it wasn’t soft.
It was after a show. One of those nights where the sound stuck to your skin and your ears kept ringing long after the crowd was gone. Jo’s shirt clung damp to his back, sweat salted into the curve of his spine. He was flushed and shivery with adrenaline.
And Taki—Taki looked like he'd been lit from the inside out. Hair stuck to his forehead, eyes glassy with leftover ecstasy, cheeks pink and high with heat. He was still laughing at something Jo had said—something that wasn’t even funny—and Jo was only still talking to keep him there.
They were behind the venue, under a flickering streetlamp that painted everything gold and sickly. The kind of light that made it feel like nothing outside that moment was real.
Jo said something. Maybe a joke, maybe just noise.
And then Taki stepped closer and touched his mouth—thumb dragging across the corner of Jo’s lips like he was wiping something off. There was nothing there.
“Sticky,” Taki murmured, amused. Like it delighted him. Like it made him want to stay.
And then he kissed him.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful.
Taki kissed like he was picking a fight.
Teeth first. Tongue hot and urgent. He bit Jo’s bottom lip hard enough to make him gasp, and the sound—that little startled thing—made Taki groan. Deep. Rough. Like he’d been waiting to hear it.
Jo’s hands went to his shoulders, trying to catch him, but Taki was already crowding in. Pressing Jo into the wall. Their hips bumped, clumsy and close, and it wasn’t graceful, but it felt like motion. Like momentum. Like a fall with no bottom.
Jo could feel the press of Taki’s fingers at the nape of his neck, threading into the roots of his damp hair. He tugged—not hard, just enough to tilt Jo’s head back, make him look. Their mouths parted just long enough for Taki to drag his tongue, slow and thick, along the side of Jo’s neck.
He did it like he was tasting him. Like he was about to leave a mark and wanted to savor it first.
The kiss turned sloppier, messier. Less about precision, more about pull. Like they were trying to rub themselves raw against each other. Jo licked into Taki’s mouth and felt the sharp inhale that followed, like he surprised him. Like every time it felt good, Taki couldn’t help but sound ruined by it.
Then suddenly Taki broke away. He was breathless, red-mouthed, pupils wide and wet.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice shredded. “I forgot my gum.”
Jo blinked. “What?”
“My gum,” Taki said again, tongue shifting behind his teeth like he was hiding something. “I still had it. Under my tongue.”
Jo stared at him. The absurdity of it. The filth of it. The way it turned him on.
He laughed. Not really a laugh—more like a gasp shaped into a grin. Forehead pressed against Taki’s. “Can I have it?”
Taki made a face. “I’ve got a fresh piece—”
“No.” Jo’s voice dropped, suddenly deep. “That one.”
Taki froze, caught off guard—but something in his gaze darkened. He looked intrigued. He opened his mouth.
Jo leaned in again, slower this time.
Tongue careful, deliberate, he kissed him deep, coaxing it out. And Taki let him. Let him reach into his mouth and take the gum like it was a gift. Warm, almost flavorless now, but Jo rolled it onto his tongue, chewed slowly. Lazily.
Taki watched him. Eyes sharp. Amused.
“You’re fucked,” he said, not unkindly. Like it was a compliment.
Jo didn’t answer. Just chewed. Breath coming slow, chest rising, lips wet.
Taki pulled a new piece of gum from his pocket, popped it between his teeth. Chewed for a moment, lips twitching. Then he stepped forward again.
And without a word, he spit—wet and deliberate—right into Jo’s open mouth.
Jo swallowed it like a promise.
The heat curled low, sticky and feverish. It wasn’t even about the gum anymore. It was about the giving. The hunger. The fact that no one else would see this version of them. That no one else could.
Jo's lips were trembling. Eyes glassy. His body wanted to fold inward and outward at the same time.
The gum in his mouth tasted like something unnameable. Something feral and warm and full of need. He held Taki’s gaze, tongue darting out once more to savor the taste like it meant something.
And maybe it did. Maybe this was how it started.
Not with love.
But with surrender.
🦷
The bathroom lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a cool, pale sheen that made the shadows look blue. The tile was cold beneath their bare feet, and the air smelled faintly of shampoo, humidity, and something else—like heat left behind.
Taki stood with his back to Jo, shirt discarded, fingers tracing the bruise blooming just below his collarbone—a perfect arc of teeth-marks fading from purple to yellow. A souvenir from last night.
Jo stepped in behind him, barefoot and quiet. His warmth pressed slowly against Taki’s back, deliberate and steady. He didn’t speak at first—just exhaled against the slope of Taki’s neck, breath that made skin remember. One hand slid low to rest on Taki’s stomach, the other smoothed up his side, palm skimming ribs rising and falling with controlled restraint.
“That one’s deep,” Jo murmured, voice low like he didn’t want the mirrors to overhear. “You gonna be able to hide it?”
Taki’s mouth curved at the edge, not quite a smile. “Probably,” he said, thumb still ghosting the bruise. “I’m good at that.”
Jo bent his head, teeth brushing the shell of Taki’s ear—not biting, not yet. Just the shape of it. The threat of it. Taki’s breath hitched, barely audible, and Jo smiled into his skin.
“I wish I could bite you,” Taki whispered, eyes fixed on their reflection. Softer now. Honest. “Properly. Leave something you couldn’t cover up.”
Jo’s hand tightened on his waist. He licked the curve of Taki’s jaw, then nipped gently—just enough to part his lips.
His fingers slid lower, brushing the waistband of Taki’s pants. “What’s stopping you?” Jo asked, already knowing.
Taki tilted his head back, neck open. “The styling team would have a meltdown,” he said. “They already get weird if your collar’s wrinkled.”
Jo dragged his teeth slowly down the side of Taki’s throat, careful. Tempting.
“What about you?” he asked, quieter. “Don’t they check?”
“They do,” Taki said, eyes fluttering shut as Jo mouthed behind his ear. “But I know where not to let them look.”
Jo’s thumb traced lazy circles into Taki’s hip. He glanced again at the bruise—then at the faint ones along his ribs. The ones no one else had seen, the ones Taki hadn’t bothered to hide.
“Besides,” Taki said, turning just enough to meet Jo’s gaze in the mirror, “everyone’s looking at you more than me.”
Jo blinked, a soft frown pulling at his lips—something tender pressing just beneath the surface.
“No, really,” Taki went on. “You can’t walk around with a bite on your face. I could. So it’s okay.”
Jo said nothing. He just stared at him—at his mouth, his throat, the bruises blooming like petals across his skin. Slowly, he reached up, curled his fingers into the back of Taki’s hair, and leaned in to bite—not hard, not cruel, just enough to linger hours later. Behind the ear. Hidden.
A knock rattled the door.
Taki startled but didn’t pull away. He glanced toward the sound, then back at Jo, mischief sparkling through his lashes.
“You’re gonna get us caught,” he whispered.
Jo shrugged, amused, but didn’t let go.
Taki climbed onto the counter with a soft exhale, legs parting slightly to pull Jo closer. He tipped Jo’s chin up with two fingers.
“One day,” he said, voice syrup-thick, “you’ll look just like me.”
Jo smiled, slow and crooked. “Marked up and smug?”
Taki leaned in until their noses brushed. “Exactly.”
Their kiss was messy and warm and too much—like it didn’t care about the knocking. Jo tasted of mint and something wild beneath it. Taki bit his lip on purpose, and Jo let him.
Outside, the knock came again.
Taki’s hands slipped under Jo’s shirt.
“Guess I better learn how to hide it.”
🦷
Jo keeps his eyes closed, but he’s not drifting. He’s watching, in the way you do when you’ve memorized someone by accident—when the curve of a shoulder or the sound of a breath feels like a language only you understand.
Taki’s back is warm beneath him, not just from the thick summer heat but from being Taki . His skin smells faintly of musk and the faint trace of shampoo—something sharp and clean that fades into the soft, familiar scent of worn cotton sheets and skin warmed by sleep.
Jo presses his mouth to the dip of Taki’s spine again, slower this time, letting his lips brush the sticky sheen of sweat there. Lingering.
His fingers map out the small ridges of bone, the stretch of muscle that twitches beneath his touch. The skin is slick, damp, warm—the subtle pulse of Taki’s heartbeat vibrating beneath his palm. He’s not sure if Taki’s awake.
Because this—this quiet, this closeness, this private world of sweat-damp sheets and the weight of his own breath—is where Jo wants to stay. It’s not just comfort. It’s need, quiet and pulsing. He could spend hours here, breathing in Taki’s skin, feeling the edge of him under his palms like the answer to a question he hasn’t dared ask.
He drags his lips along the dip of Taki’s spine, slow and deliberate, tongue flicking out to taste the salty tang of sweat pooled there. Then he opens his mouth against it—tongue barely there, teeth grazing lightly. He doesn’t bite, not really. He just holds the skin between his teeth for a second too long. It’s not about hurting him. It’s about the ache in Jo’s chest—the part that whispers: remember me, even when I’m not here.
Jo tastes the salty, musky smell of Taki—sweat mixed with something softer, something like home, like belonging. His tongue flicks out to catch a bead of sweat at the curve of Taki’s ribs, dragging it in like a silent promise.
There’s a smear of spit where his mouth was a second ago. He watches it glisten in the dim light, then bends down and licks it up—warm, sticky, a small and messy ritual.
His hair sticks to his forehead, damp and tangled, and he wipes it away clumsily with the back of his hand before pressing his mouth back to Taki’s skin. His breath comes faster now, uneven and shallow, but his hands are still trembling—part awe, part need, part terror of being this close and still feeling not enough.
He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He just wants to be on him, in him—not sexually, not really. He wants to unzip Taki’s back and crawl inside, live in the heat between his shoulder blades, make a home in the smell of his skin.
Taki’s breath catches then, soft and uneven, the faintest hitch beneath Jo’s lips. Jo leans in, forehead resting lightly against Taki’s spine, lips just brushing the warm, sticky skin where it dips. The air between them hums with everything unsaid.
Taki shifts again. This time it’s full-bodied—shoulder rolling, hip twisting—and before Jo can pretend he wasn’t half-melting into him, Taki turns over, slow and lazy like a cat basking in the sun.
Jo lifts his head, blinking, dazed from the heat and the lingering taste of sweat on his tongue. His face is flushed, mouth slack, hair plastered against his forehead and Taki’s skin both.
Taki blinks at him, sleep-drunk and unreadable. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts Jo’s hand from where it had gone limp against his back and starts cracking his fingers, one by one.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
Jo watches, throat dry, while Taki moves with the casual focus of someone tuning an instrument. His grip is warm, knuckles pressing into Jo’s palm, bending it back until the joint gives with a soft snap. He doesn’t ask. He just does it.
Jo should pull away, say what the fuck, laugh it off—but he doesn’t. He watches Taki work his way down—index, middle, ring—like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like Jo’s hand is just another part of his own.
He thinks, a little deliriously: I would let him break every bone in my body. Not out of fear. Not because it’s hot. But because it’s Taki. Because he’s looking at him like he knows —like he’s known all along.
Jo lets out a slow breath. Taki’s thumb presses into his wrist now, rubbing absent circles like he’s trying to feel the blood move beneath the skin.
“You’re so weird,” Taki murmurs, not smiling, not teasing. Just stating it, like weather.
Jo hums. He’s too far gone to care what it means.
“Yeah,” he says, mouth dry. “I know.”
Without thinking, without warning, Jo parts his lips and lets a small bead of saliva slip free, catching Taki’s parted mouth before he can pull away.
“I want you,” he whispers, lips brushing Taki’s so low it’s barely a sound. He means it in every way a person can mean it. In the moment. In the room. In Taki’s life.
And still, Taki doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.
“You have me,” he says, voice quiet but steady. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true.
Jo exhales, but it’s not relief. He shakes his head against Taki’s cheek, mouth at the edge of his jaw.
“It’s not enough,” he says. “I want more than that.”
Taki turns his head just slightly—just enough to look at him out of the corner of his eye. “There isn’t more.”
Jo huffs out a laugh, sharp and helpless. “Then I’ll make more.”
He shifts down suddenly, slides off Taki’s lap onto the floor. Kneels between his legs like he’s praying. His hands are shaky, one reaching under Taki’s shirt again—not to grope, but to press , to memorize . His palm flat over his ribs, then his stomach. Feeling heat, bone, breath.
“I want under your skin,” he says, half-mad with it. “I want to unzip you and climb in. I want to live where your breath starts. I want to rot there.”
Taki doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh. Just watches him, something heavy flickering behind his eyes.
Jo presses his face to Taki’s stomach, mouth open, breathing like he’s starving. And then—slow, almost reverent—he bites. Not hard. Just enough to leave teeth. Enough to feel the give of muscle, the press of Taki’s body against his tongue.
“Tell me I can,” Jo mutters. “Tell me I can stay.”
Taki lifts a hand, slow, and threads his fingers through Jo’s hair. Not tugging. Just holding. Just there.
“You’re already here,” he says.
His eyes sting, stupidly. He doesn’t wipe them. Just leans in and presses his mouth to Taki’s skin—no kiss, just contact. Warm, a little damp. A touch that says: I need this. I need you. It’s pathetic. It’s honest. Feels close enough to praying.
Thank you, God, he thinks. Thank you, Taki.
Same thing, really.
🦷
There was a day during promotions when Taki’s jaw gave out—not all at once, but as a slow, creeping throb that sharpened every time he tried to chew. By lunch break, he was curled over a paper cup of miso broth, barely sipping, his face drawn in quiet misery.
Jo sat across from him, watching.
They didn’t speak for a long time. Taki wondered if Jo had fallen asleep or zoned out like he sometimes did, his gaze slack behind his lashes.
Then, softly: “I’ll be your mouth.”
Taki blinked. “What?”
But Jo was already reaching—picking up an apple from the table and turning it slowly in his palm. He bit in, the crunch loud in the silence, then chewed slow and deliberate. His eyes never left Taki’s.
Then Jo spat out the softened pulp into his hand and held it out.
Taki stared—first at the pulp, then at Jo. His expression was still and unreadable, that eerie calm he wore when he was serious about something you didn’t understand yet. He hesitated.
Then, because it was Jo—and because something inside him wanted to see how far Jo would go with this—he leaned forward and let Jo feed him.
It was awful—the texture, the spit-slick warmth. Intimate in a way that made Taki want to gag, flinch, and maybe press closer. But Jo didn’t stop. He took another bite, chewed again, and this time didn’t offer his hand.
He leaned across the table slowly and pressed their mouths together—not a kiss, just the soft, wet meeting of lips, the passing of fruit from tongue to tongue. Taki felt Jo’s breath, the edge of his teeth, the shared heat.
He swallowed.
The door slid open behind them.
Taki jerked, almost choking. Jo didn’t move. Just slowly pulled back, wet-lipped, his eyes still fixed on Taki.
Harua stood in the threshold, frozen.
Taki turned toward him, mouth still half-open, pulse suddenly loud in his ears.
A beat. Then another.
Harua blinked like he was waking up from something. Scratched the back of his neck.
“Okay,” he said finally. But it came out strange—soft, like it wasn’t meant for them at all. “Jesus.”
He stepped back. The door slid shut with a hiss.
Silence bloomed in his wake.
Jo’s hand was still outstretched. A bead of juice slid down the curve of his wrist.
Taki reached for it. Took the last bit of apple from his palm and chewed, slowly. Thought of Harua’s face. Thought of Jo’s breath on his mouth. Thought of the strange, glimmering edge of this thing between them that no one knew what to name.
“He won’t say anything,” he said, voice low.
Jo leaned in, just a little. Just enough that Taki could feel the heat of him again.
“I know,” Jo murmured. His gaze dropped to Taki’s mouth. “Didn’t do it for him anyway.”
Taki swallowed, throat tight. Somewhere inside him, something clicked into place. Strange. Certain.
He reached across the table and curled his fingers around Jo’s wrist.
“Do it again,” he said.
And Jo did.
🦷
The fire outside hissed low against the dark. Pine needles crackled in the wind, smoke curling through the cracked window. The others were sunk deep into cushions and blankets, shoulders loose from drink. It was the kind of warmth that spread slowly from the inside—buzzing in fingertips, pooling behind the eyes.
Jo sat on the floor, glass sweating in his palm. He was dizzy with it all: the flicker of light, the scratch of fleece on bare arms, the dampness clinging to his neck. Every nerve in him tuned toward absence—toward Taki, who was still brushing his teeth upstairs.
Nicholas leaned in. “So what is it, really?” he asked, slurred just enough to be honest. “You and Taki. Is it a sex thing?”
The question settled like ash.
Jo didn’t look up. Didn’t smile. He rolled the glass between his palms and listened to the ice shift inside.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t asked himself the same thing. But the answers never came clean. They arrived messy—covered in spit and bruises and the soft wet sounds of breath caught in someone else’s throat. It wasn’t about fucking. It was about being held so tightly you didn’t know where you ended. About being pressed open and still feeling like you could hold more.
Taki touched him like Jo was a mouthful—something to chew, to suck the sweetness out of. The kind of closeness that left behind echoes: bite-shaped shadows and fingertip-shaped impressions under the skin.
Jo thought about all of it at once—the sting of a bite on the inside of his thigh, the way Taki sometimes spits in his mouth not to shock him but to soothe him, like it was the most natural thing. The raw intimacy of it. The way Jo swallowed without thinking.
“It’s not really about sex,” Jo said at last, voice rough. “It’s about staying.”
Nicholas laughed under his breath, unsure what to make of that.
Yuma, sitting nearest to Jo, tilted his head. His gaze sharpened, a little sobered. “But it is hot,” he said, like offering a rope to pull Jo back. “Right? The biting and all that.”
Jo smiled, but it was distant. “Yeah. Sure.”
Even as he said it, his mind was elsewhere—thinking about Taki’s tongue trailing down his chest, breath hot and sticky, teeth grazing—not to break skin, but to claim. Thinking about the soreness blooming in his neck the morning after, the dull ache he pressed his fingers into just to feel it again. The spit they shared like a second language. The way he wanted Taki inside him—not just fucking, no. Inside like marrow, like breath, like blood.
He didn’t say any of that. Of course he didn’t.
Instead, he shrugged again, quieter this time. “It’s not just hot. It’s more like—I’m comforted. When there’s something of him in me. His spit, his sweat. Just anything.”
The silence that followed was thicker now. A little stunned. The fire popped like punctuation.
Then Nicholas let out a breathy, “Jesus,” and grinned. “That’s freakier than sex.”
Jo was about to respond when Harua spoke from the far end of the couch. His voice was calm. But pointed.
He asked, “But why can’t he do it to you?”
Jo stillened.
It was the way he said you—like there was something in it only Harua could know, being close to Taki. Jo swallowed hard.
He tried to keep his tone even. “It’s not allowed,” he said, too quickly. “I mean me with the marks would be—” He faltered. “A lot.”
His hands clenched before he realized it.
Jo was the tall, beautiful, untouchable idol in the group—the kind who floated above everything, with perfect posture and a smile like a polished statue. He had the teeth of an idol, sharp and bright, made for flashing under stage lights.
But beneath that, hidden deep, he had the teeth of a rotting deer—uneven, jagged, a reminder of something wild and breaking down. Those marks would be a loud, undeniable fracture in the flawless image everyone expected him to be. To show them—to be seen like that—would confirm the shame pooling beneath his skin. The part of him that felt strange, too raw, too fractured to fit in.
Harua’s words came sharp and quick, like a challenge. “What kind of relationship is that, anyway?”
Jo’s mind flickered, quick and private: Mine. Ours. His.
Before tension could thicken further, Yuma grinned, cutting in, “Well, at least he’s getting some action.” His laugh was easy, and the room shifted as the conversation veered away, toward Harua and whatever story Yuma had up next.
Jo didn’t say the rest—that if Taki touched him like that, if he was the one who got wrecked and left raw and ruined, he might not come back from it. That he might fall so deep into the want of it he’d never make it out again.
And some things are too dangerous to ask for.
🦷
The room hums with heat, sweat, and the kind of silence that only settles after two people have taken everything from each other—and still want more.
Taki’s spine curves into the pillow, bare and flushed, the back of his neck damp with sweat. He’s boneless, loose-limbed, but alert in that way a body gets when it’s been ruined just right. Jo is behind him, breath still uneven, fingertips sketching slow, lazy shapes along the ridge of his waist.
“Can I hold you?” Jo asks, voice low and wrecked.
Taki doesn’t answer with words. Just tips his head, baring his throat in silent offering.
Jo shifts closer. One arm snakes beneath him, the other draped across his ribs, pulling him in tight. He noses at the curve of Taki’s neck—breath hot and heavy against salt-damp skin.
Then Jo opens his mouth.
He stretches it wide, jaw aching, teeth bared in the soft light. He doesn’t rush. Just lets warmth settle first—his breath, his tongue, slick and slow. Then his teeth, parting and pressing down. Not to hurt. Not yet. Just to claim.
Taki’s breath catches. His hips twitch. He murmurs something low—maybe Jo’s name, maybe nothing—but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.
Jo bites.
Not cruelly. Not cleanly. Just enough to hold him there—skin cupped between his teeth. He stays like that, lips parted, jaw tense around the soft dip where shoulder meets neck. Drool slips from the corner of his mouth, slow and warm, tracking down Taki’s spine.
Taki arches.
His fingers clutch the sheets, then reach back, searching. They tangle in Jo’s hair—not to stop him. To anchor him. To keep him there.
He presses harder into Jo’s mouth. Offers more.
“You always do this after,” Taki says, breathless. “Like you still need proof I’m real.”
Jo doesn’t answer. Just hums against his skin, jaw flexing like he wants to go deeper. Like he could live there, if his teeth would let him.
And Taki lets him.
Lets him bite. Lets him tremble. Lets him stay.
Jo doesn’t let go. His mouth stays latched to Taki’s skin—not biting now, just holding. Like the shape of his teeth could pin them in this moment, keep them from unraveling. His breath fogs against Taki’s throat.
Still, Taki doesn’t move.
Eventually, he shifts—slow, deliberate—rolling onto his back until Jo’s face hovers above his. There’s spit on his jaw. A tremble in his mouth. But his eyes are blown wide, black with want.
Taki cups Jo’s cheek, thumb dragging across the wet curve of his lip.
“Yours,” he whispers, hoarse but steady. “You don’t have to bite to prove it.”
Then, a beat. His grip tightens.
“But if you want to… do it properly.”
Jo groans—deep, shaky, almost a whimper. He presses their foreheads together, voice caught in his throat.
“I could eat you alive.”
Taki smiles, slow and sharp.
“Then do it.”
Jo’s mouth crashes into his—not a kiss at first. Just spit and heat, teeth and tongue. A need to consume.
Taki moans into it, hooks a leg around Jo’s waist, dragging him closer. Again. Despite everything. Like his body’s already lit up again.
When Jo pulls back, panting, lips swollen, Taki doesn’t let him get far.
He grabs Jo by the nape, presses their foreheads together. Breath mingling.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs—possessive now. Raw. “So take what you want. All of it.”
And Jo does.
🦷
The next day, Jo misses every count. He’s off-beat in rehearsal, tension coiled in his shoulders, steps dragging a breath too late. The instructor is merciless—barking corrections until Jo’s vision blurs from trying too hard not to cry.
He says he’s fine. Says he just needs a minute.
But when he gets back to the dorm, his hands won’t stop shaking. His whole body hums like a wire pulled too tight, vibrating with something sharp and without direction. Taki follows him silently down the hall.
“I’m okay,” Jo says. “I’m fine.”
Again. And again. Like a chant. Like a glitch.
He’s not.
He slides to the floor, spine pressed to the bedframe, knees drawn up tight. He doesn’t sob. Doesn’t scream. He just trembles—silent but fierce. His teeth chatter, and his skin burns. Sweat slicks his shirt, sticking to the sharp ridges of his back, tracing each vertebra like a secret map of ache and need.
Taki kneels in front of him. Quiet. Steady. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t fix. Just leans forward—slow, certain—and parts his lips.
Two fingers press into Jo’s mouth. Warm. Damp. Glossed with breath and something deeper. He offers them without hesitation, without a word.
Jo’s breath catches.
“Bite,” Taki whispers. Not a command. An invitation.
Jo does.
He clamps down—not gently. Teeth sinking past skin, hunting for bone. His jaw burns. His whole face tightens around the effort, around the flesh inside his mouth like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
Taki doesn’t flinch. Not even a twitch.
It shatters Jo.
This stillness. This anchor. It’s like Taki’s body is the only solid thing in a world falling apart.
Jo sobs—finally, soundlessly. His breath hits in jerks, his nose running, mouth full. “Why,” he breathes around skin and salt, “why are you letting me do this?”
Taki meets his eyes. Calm. Unmoving.
“Because you’d do worse for me,” he says, voice low. “Wouldn’t you?”
Jo nods—choked, messy.
That truth lands harder than pain.
Something inside him unspools. Like a cable finally snapping beneath the surface. And he cries in earnest—hot, fast, snot and spit and everything.
But he doesn’t let go.
He bites harder—not to harm, but to stay upright. To stay here. His body shakes, soaked through with heat and shame and the aching want to disappear or be devoured.
Taki stays solid. His shoulder pressed in. Fingers still captive.
Jo whimpers—soft, shredded sounds. His jaw clenches and unclenches with exhaustion. His mouth drips. He can't stop. He doesn’t want to.
Taki’s knee presses into Jo’s thigh. Grounding. Present.
He says nothing. Just stays.
Jo hums around the fingers—raw and wordless. A confession. A question. A prayer.
Taki hears it anyway. He always does.
Eventually, Jo’s jaw loosens. Carefully, reluctantly, he lets go. His lips are red, wet. Trembling.
And then—quietly—he breaks.
A breath snags in his chest, then another. His face folds in on itself, tears slipping fast and unbothered, like they’d been waiting.
Taki wipes his chin with the heel of his hand—rough, tender—and leans in until their foreheads touch.
“You’re good,” he whispers. “You’re so good like this.”
Jo doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes in the quiet between them.
He thinks wildly: I want to live here. In his hands. In his mouth. In this space where nothing hurts unless I ask it to.
Taki wraps him close. Holds him like weight, not weakness.
Jo lets himself fall. Fully. Finally. Into him.
The next day, Taki’s fingers are bandaged—two on his index, one on his middle, wrapped just a little too tight.
Kei eyes them as they stretch before rehearsal. “What happened to your hand?”
Taki shrugs, cracking his neck. “Jammed it in a door—didn’t pull away fast enough.”
Kei squints like he wants to press. But Taki’s already tying his shoes.
Jo doesn’t look up.
But he doesn’t stop smiling either.
🦷
There are times when Taki comes to Jo like this—quiet, barefoot, hair damp from the shower or rain, always when the house has settled into silence. Jo lies on his back, shirt hiked halfway up his chest, when Taki slips beneath the fabric like it’s a tent made for two.
He doesn’t say a word. Just curls in close, face pressed warm to skin, breath thick and humid, fingers dragging lazy, heat-slick trails across Jo’s stomach until they settle—nails sharp—right above his heart.
Taki rests there, breathing as if trying to sync with Jo’s pulse—like if he breathes deep enough, he can draw Jo inside him, fill himself with Jo’s rhythm, Jo’s warmth, Jo’s everything. His fingers begin to move again—slow at first, almost reverent. Then more certain. One nail, then another, pressing into the skin just beneath Jo’s collarbone. Directly over his heart.
Jo flinches, breath catching hard in his throat.
“Taki—”
“Give it to me,” Taki says, muffled and pouty, dead-serious in that eerie, soft way of his. “Jo. I want your heart.”
Jo doesn’t answer. Can’t—not at first. The way Taki’s nail presses down doesn’t pierce, but it feels like it could. Like it’s asking permission. Or warning him. And Jo—Jo feels everything. The pressure, the heat, the impossible closeness. His blood stirs, like it’s trying to rise to the surface, to offer itself up.
Suddenly, he wants to cry. Or scream. Or maybe unzip his chest, pull Taki inside, and keep him there—curled in the hollow space beneath his ribs.
What is this feeling?
Taki shifts against him, impatient now. “You said I could have it.”
Jo swallows. Something thick and aching sticks in his throat.
It’s true. He probably said it—half a joke, tossed off with a grin. Said it the way you say take it, take all of me to someone you never think will actually reach out and do it.
Jo closes his eyes, trying to stay still. “You want me to get the knife from the kitchen?” His voice comes out thinner than he means. “Let you do the honors?”
Taki lifts his head, looking at him.
And the room tilts.
For a second—one breathless, gut-pulling second—Jo wonders: Is he going? Is he really going to do it?
The air shifts. Taki rises without a word, sudden and decisive. He peels himself off Jo and crosses the room in long strides. The sound of his feet against the floor is too soft, too final.
Jo pushes up onto his elbows. Panic blooms, slow and sticky. “Taki—?”
But Taki doesn’t answer. He’s a silhouette now, framed by the hallway light in pale gold. He reaches for the switch.
Is he going to the kitchen? Is he getting the knife? Is he going to take what I offered?
Jo’s pulse roars in his ears. His mouth is dry. His skin feels cold where Taki left him. Part of him wants to run. Another part wants to lie there and bleed, if that’s what it would take. Would it be enough? Would he still want me if he saw all the way through?
The room goes dark with a soft click.
And then Taki’s back.
He returns wordlessly, climbs over Jo again, careful and certain like he never left—like he didn’t just pull the world out from under Jo’s feet. He tucks himself close, mouth brushing Jo’s shoulder, breathing steady now.
Then he kisses a place behind Jo’s ear—light, unshaking. A secret.
“I want you around,” he murmurs. “Alive. Whole. Mine.”
Jo swallows hard. His entire body trembles—not from fear, but something much deeper. The kind of ache that feels holy.
“Whatever you want,” he whispers back. And he means it.
🦷
Jo didn’t remember when he left the room—only that his chest felt tight and the lights too sharp. He’d gone to the kitchen to find something to do with his hands. Ended up with an orange. Too soft. Mealy. Still, he bit into it anyway.
He didn’t mean to stop by the doorway on the way back. Didn’t mean to listen.
“I’m just saying,” Kei’s voice was low, terse. “He’s fragile lately. This isn’t nothing anymore, Taki.”
“And?” Taki replied, calm but firm. “I know what I’m doing.”
A pause. Then Kei’s quiet exhale, half scoff. “You sure about that?”
Jo spat the seeds into his palm and tuned out the rest—the blood rushing in his ears, his own feet moving fast, back to the room like a coward, like a child.
Later, Taki found him curled up on the bed, arms wrapped tight around himself, chin tucked. The flesh of the orange was still in his hand, bruised, pulp sinking into his skin.
Taki said nothing at first. Just closed the door behind him, crossed the room slowly, and knelt in front of Jo. He waited.
Jo couldn’t look at him.
“I heard you,” Jo said hoarsely. “With Kei.”
Taki’s expression didn’t shift. “Yeah?”
“He’s right,” Jo whispered. “I’m—I take too much from you. I always do.”
Taki’s jaw clenched silently. Something flickered in his eyes—almost like a wince. “That’s not what he said.”
“But it’s what he meant.”
Silence. Then Taki reached out and gently pried the remains of the fruit from Jo’s fingers, wiping his hand on the hem of his own shirt.
“Do you really think I just let it happen?” His voice was low, edged with something sharper than anger—something vulnerable.
Jo bit his lip, eyes dropping to the floor. He hated how fragile and exposed his voice sounded.
“I don’t know. Sometimes.”
He looked up, searching Taki’s face for something—permission? forgiveness? an anchor.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m too much. Like maybe I push too hard or… I don’t know.”
Taki let out a bitter, humorless laugh that landed between them like a snapped thread.
“You came to me,” he said slowly. “Not Harua. Not Yuma. Not Maki.”
Jo’s throat tightened. A hollow ache bloomed deep behind his ribs.
“Because…” He swallowed, his voice thinning into a whisper.
“Because I thought maybe you’d stick around. When everything else didn’t.”
Silence thickened. Jo’s heart hammered loud enough to nearly drown out the quiet.
“I don’t run, Jo,” Taki said finally, his eyes steady, fierce.
Jo wanted to believe him. Wanted to throw his hands up and say Okay. I’m sorry. I’m scared. I’m breaking you.
But the words lodged in his throat, sharp as glass.
“What if I am breaking you?” he whispered. “What if you only put up with me because you don’t know how to say no?”
Taki’s gaze snapped to his. For a moment, Jo saw something raw and flinching—not anger, but fear. Hurt.
“Stop.”
Taki’s voice was low and fraying at the edges. Not a command. A plea.
“You think I don’t take from you? That I don’t feel every bit of this?”
Jo’s breath hitched, confusion and shame curling inside his chest.
“But I…” His voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to—”
Taki reached out and grabbed Jo’s wrist—not rough, but firm enough to hold him in place.
“You bite me. You mark me.”
His thumb brushed lazy circles over Jo’s skin.
“But I take too. I need to.”
He looked up, steady.
“I’m not doing this for you, Jo. I’m doing this because I want it too.”
The confession hung between them, trembling with weight. Jo’s chest rose and fell too fast.
Because it was the truth—and it hurt more than any lie.
Taki’s voice softened, barely a whisper now.
“What are you so scared of?”
Jo closed his eyes, shaking his head. The words were too big to say out loud.
“Losing you.”
It came out small. Honest.
Taki didn’t answer right away.
Then he reached back for the orange—what was left of it—and held it up between them. It looked pathetic. Crushed and half-eaten. Seeds stuck to the pulp. Skin puckered from being clenched too long in Jo’s fist.
Jo blinked, confused, until Taki did something strange.
He bit into it. Slow. Deliberate. Not caring that it had been in Jo’s hand, that the juice ran sticky down his wrist. He chewed and swallowed, then looked at Jo with wet eyes.
“I’m still here.”
Jo stared at him, breath catching.
Taki took another bite, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Don’t ask me again if I want this,” he murmured. “I’m already in it.”
The orange slipped from Taki’s fingers, landing softly on the floor. He moved closer, close enough for their knees to knock, and pressed his forehead gently against Jo’s.
“You bite me,” Taki said quietly. “You mark me. But I take, too. I always have.”
And somehow, that undid Jo more than anything else.
🦷
Taki’s hands were already under his shirt when Jo realized he was shaking.
Not from cold. This was something else—something deeper, meaner. A tremble rooted in the chest and leaking out through the fingertips. Jo wanted to say wait, to catch his breath. But Taki was already kissing him like he’d been holding it in for too long. Like stopping would ruin them both.
Jo gasped, fingers fisting in the hem of Taki’s hoodie. “What,” he breathed, wrecked and wide-eyed. “What are you doing?”
Taki cracked.
“I dream about you,” he said, voice raw against Jo’s mouth. “Wake up soaked. Sweat, spit—fucking everything. I grind my teeth so hard thinking about you I’ve cracked fillings.”
He leaned back just far enough to look at him—barely. His eyes were blown wide, wet at the corners. “You think I’m not gone for you? You think I don’t know how your breath catches right before you cry?”
Jo stared, stunned. But Taki wasn’t done.
His next kiss hit different—sloppy, off-center, all tongue and heat and teeth. It tasted like sleep and salt and something older than restraint.
“I want to match you,” Taki panted. “Rot with you. Share underwear—put it on right after you take it off. I want your bruises where mine are. I want to reek of you. I want you to use my toothbrush until the bristles fall apart. And then keep using it anyway.”
He was flushed, trembling. Unspooling.
“Wear my shirts. Wipe your mouth on my sleeve. I want to pick your hair out of my food and still eat it. I want to spit in your drink and watch you swallow it without blinking.”
Jo made a sound—feral, helpless—and Taki kissed him again, harder. Their mouths slipped, teeth clicked. It was wet and messy and Taki didn’t care if it hurt.
“I want your fingerprints on the inside of my thighs,” he said into Jo’s mouth. “I want to suck your fingers after you’ve touched yourself. I want to crawl inside your sweat and stay there.”
He was shaking too now. Their bodies barely holding together.
“I want to look at you and see myself,” Taki whispered. “I want you to fuck me and still feel me the next day.”
Jo’s whole body trembled. Palms flat on Taki’s ribs like he didn’t know whether to hold him together or fall apart.
“Taki,” he rasped. It was the only thing left.
But Taki just smiled—wild and too far gone to stop.
“Believe me—I'm no better than you."
And Jo felt it hit him like a nail driven too cleanly—straight through the chest, no resistance.
It should’ve been comforting. Should’ve been the thing he always wanted: someone who didn’t flinch. Someone just as ruined, just as full of need.
But it wasn’t comfort that surged up inside him. It was hunger. It was panic. It was the terrifying ache of being seen—not just glimpsed, but mirrored.
Something in him tried to retreat, to recoil—but there was nowhere to go. Taki was everywhere: in his breath, under his skin, crawling through the heat in his spine.
He wasn’t alone in the dark anymore.
He was matched.
🦷
Jo sat at the edge of the couch, head bowed slightly as Harua brushed through the knots in his hair. The rhythm was slow, deliberate—almost meditative. The soft scrape of bristles was the only sound, a small comfort in the stale quiet of the room.
If it were Taki brushing his hair, he wouldn’t be this gentle. He’d yank the knots loose like he was pulling something out of Jo—maybe even take a strand for himself, tuck it somewhere only he’d know. The thought makes Jo’s thighs twitch. Makes him want to press them together.
“You’re lucky,” Harua murmured, not looking up. “You’ve got someone who loves you.”
Jo swallowed hard. He thought of the mountains—how Taki had finally sunk into him like he’d been searching for a place to land. How Jo had nearly cried from the weight of it.
Three days up there. Just the two of them.
He’d gotten his license just for the trip. Still new—edges a little bent, still smelling faintly of plastic. He wasn’t the smoothest driver, not yet. But his hands had shaken more from the thought of being alone with Taki than from the wheel.
He could still feel the press of Taki’s knee between his thighs, the heat of his breath thick and close. Sometimes, when no one was around, Jo pressed gently on the bruises Taki had left behind—fingertips hovering over ribs and hips, letting the ache throb under skin. A way to remember. The before. The during. But most of all, the after.
The after was his favorite—when his body felt hollowed and holy, marked and filled. The phantom of Taki everywhere, inside and out, lingering like a fever he didn’t want to break.
The bruises still bloomed dark along his collarbone, his ribs—marks he wouldn’t bother to cover. They were on break. This was his time to live in it. To wear what Taki left behind like a second skin.
Across the room, he caught Taki’s gaze—sharp, steady, wild with devotion. There was a kind of fire in it, a wordless promise carved into every glance.
Jo held it. Let it sear through him. Felt something fierce bloom in his chest—raw and proud.
Yeah. I am.
🦷