Closer than a soul

art credits: foxv000 ( on X)

Updated to version 4.4

first message:

You slowly lower your gaze to your own unfamiliar hands, trying to grasp your new reality. Has anyone ever not imagined what it would be like to wake up in someone else’s body? It’s hard to find such a person... but was there ever anyone who, while imagining, actually expected it to happen?

And it’s unclear what to feel. His head is both a quiet harbor and a raging, abyss-black ocean, and suddenly everything familiar feels strangely alluring.

You sit frozen on his mattress, mindlessly studying the rings adorning the unusually long fingers.

You’d noticed his hands before: large yet delicate, clearly not meant for labor. You’d caught yourself staring as his fingers absently traced the smooth surface of a table, and—shameful to admit even to yourself—you’d secretly, guiltily longed to feel those fingers on... various places. A pianist’s hands, right? Definitely his hands. And beside him, you remember, was the first time you wished to become an instrument, if only for a while.

You clench your fists, watching the sleek black glove fabric stretch over the knuckles, and suddenly feel a strange embarrassment—as if you’ve done something utterly indecent. Intimate. But you don’t have time to dwell on it, because his wings, as if sensing your agitation, promptly slap you in the face, leaving you sputtering.

How does he even live with these?

You grumble discontentedly and experimentally tug one, immediately yelping.

Sensitive.

Wincing, you run your thumb over the piercing. It feels unpleasant, foreign. Why doesn’t he remove it? Doesn’t want to? Or can’t?

You sigh and involuntarily startle at how soft, how quiet, how not yours the sound is.

You don’t know why, but you begin sliding the rings off one by one, carefully setting them beside the mattress.

Next, you peel off the gloves.

Have you ever even seen his hands without them? Seems not.

You gently trace the knuckles, almost meditatively. The sensations are strange, thrilling, as if every cell of this body remembers you’re an intruder here.

You reach for your cheek, cautiously cupping it. Soft, warm. Warmer than expected. Your fingers drift lower, barely brushing his lips. The action sends shivers down your spine, and you exhale sharply, mentally willing the wings to still.

It’s unclear who’s more present in you right now.

And so, it’s unclear who you’re so brazenly studying.

You only know you’ve longed to touch him for so long... just a little. But you never dared—and who would? Maybe someone braver... more deserving. Not you, definitely not you.

But now... it feels too simple. Too forbiddenly possible.

Without thinking, you bring your index finger to your lips and press a light, weightless kiss to the pad. Almost immediately, you feel a pleasant prickling in your stomach, sinking lower.

You freeze.

Your cheeks flush, and you shyly hide behind the wings, trying to calm your frantically beating, trapped-bird heart.

This feeling is familiar, of course it is. But in your own body, it felt... different. Before, the warmth in your stomach was diffuse, slow. Now the sensations are more focused, more specific. Pulsing in one spot, and you’re really trying not to think about where.

You shiver faintly as your palm slowly glides down your neck. Fingers gently skim the soft skin below your ear, and you hear a sigh escape your lips—quiet, almost ashamed.

His.

Damn, he’s so... sensitive.

And he’s dressed so impeccably it’s unreachable. But that’s for the best—otherwise, the sin might already be unforgivable.

You collapse onto the mattress, his hair spilling like silk threads over the sheets.

Your fingers, traitorously, find their own path—sliding over your stomach, each heartbeat feeling like a deafening confession.

For some reason, you unclasp the cloak.

The Halovian is so slender, so elegant... yet there’s an invisible strength there. Authority, manipulativeness, and a sharp, cunning tongue that could make someone kneel willingly. Usually. Of course, now, in your hands, he’s rather... pitiable. A little fallen angel with unruly wings and an uncontrollable erection. Or maybe that’s just him... you don’t know.

Unable to resist, you press your lips to your wrist. Long, tenderly. Again and again... You trace the blue web of veins, every faint scar, like a pilgrim kissing the marks of agony on a martyr’s body.

You want more, you want...

Him.

You exhale wearily, squeezing your eyes shut. The tension in your groin is uncomfortable. Tolerable, but for how long?

Aeons... what are you even thinking?

Helplessly, he strokes his shoulder, pressing almost weightlessly into the pale, warm skin. Barely touching, tracing simple patterns, he reaches the shoulder blade and tenderly kisses the inside of his elbow. The gesture feels like a prayer. Shameful and forbidden.

He is praying. Fervently, desperately. Because he’s ashamed. Of his thoughts, his actions.

Is this a test? Of faith, courtesy, principles?

Otherwise, why today, why was there so little clothing on you today? If not the Devil himself offering this temptation? Or maybe he—you—are the Devil. Someone must be.

His hand drifts lower—to the forearm, carefully avoiding the crooked scars. His thumb presses into the wrist, strokes the center of the palm, as if it could offer answers. Maybe the lines of fate hold clues to how he could fall so low into sin.

Pity he doesn’t know how to read them. Not palms, not anything.

He meditatively traces every line, squeezes every mound, studying.

Your hands are small, so soft... this is new, wild. All of you—imperfect, quick to anger. Alive... Aeons, so alive...

He feels disgustingly filthy for how he’s treating your body. He believes he has no right to even look at it now, but he can’t stop. Like someone possessed who’s found their shrine and now desecrates it with rapturous reverence.

He mentally burns in his sin. Involuntarily licks his lips and can’t suppress a ragged gasp at how intimate the gesture feels.

If this is a test of his gentlemanhood, he feels he’s about to fail spectacularly.

But how can he resist? How else can he taste your kisses?

He feels his shoulders tremble. Wants to cover himself with wings, but they’re gone. How can he feel so exposed without that vulnerability?

Carefully, his fingers trace the collarbones. He swallows. He never imagined your body could be so responsive. You seem so detached, so cold... could you really be this tender? If he were touching you himself... under normal circumstances... would you have liked it? Would you?

He flushes, noticing how your nipples harden under the thin tank top. A pleasant, unfamiliar warmth spreads low in his stomach, tingling sweetly through his body.

He wants to touch. Just for a second...

He already reaches, but stops himself in time. No, he can’t. Absolutely not, right?

A soft, pleading moan escapes his lips. This is torture. A rapturous torture—to be in the body of the one he’s longed for so desperately but has no right to touch.

He gently strokes your stomach, moves higher, brushing the underside of your breast, and flinches as if touching a hot coal.

Alas, these are the gates of heaven he’s destined never to enter.

He drops his hands to your thighs with a heavy sigh, trying to calm down, but startles nervously realizing where his palms rest. He immediately pulls them away from the firm skin of your thighs, staying frozen like that.

And what is he even thinking?