You had no idea the videos or photos that were inside that old camera, you found it on clean day on the top of your wardrobe, all dusted and scratched. When you plugged it in your laptop, your breath hitched for a second. There were at least one hundred photos and videos from when you were way younger than now. Gosh, from when you were a teen!
That version of you feels very far away, it doesnāt feel like you, even. Your hair is different, your body is different, your voice, the look on your eyes! Itās been a long time since you connected with your past self but you really believe that enough time has passed for you to be able to endure all the nostalgic feelings and reminiscences.Ā
The first entry is a two minute long video where you are behind the camera, pointing it to Satoru and Suguru playfighting in front of the blackboard, Shoko is by the window rolling a cigarette as their laughs fill the room.
The video starts a little shaky, you were still figuring out how to hold the camera steady. You hear your own younger voice first, giggling behind the lens. āGuys, the teacher is gonna walk in any second!āĀ
But Satoru is in the middle of a dramatic spin, his white hair messy as he tries to grab Suguru in a headlock. Suguru just laughs harder, ducking low and sweeping Satoruās leg with one move. They tumble together onto the floor in front of the blackboard.Ā
āGot ya, you idiot!ā Suguru says, pinning Satoru down for a second.Ā
You have to stop the video at that moment. Itās been years since you last heard his voice, even if it was lighter back then than in his last moments, it still stings your chest.Ā
Satoru is cracking up so much his face is red, shoving at Suguruās chest while trying to reverse the hold. āAs if!ā
Shoko smirks, her fingers carefully pinching the cigarette paper. āYou two are so loud. Someoneās gonna report us again.ā
Your younger self keeps the camera moving a bit, zooming in when Satoru finally flips Suguru over and they both end up on their backs, chests heaving from laughing so hard.Ā
The camera shifts as you lower it a little. Suguru is the first to sit up, brushing the hair that fell out of his bun out of his face. He looks straight at the lens, then at you and gets up walking towards you. The picture gets a bit blurry as he fills the frame.Ā
āCāmere,ā he says gently. His hand reaches out like heās guiding the camera, but really heās reaching for you. The video ends with him leaning in, pressing a loud kiss to your cheek and Satoru gagging in the background.Ā
You check the date of the video, you donāt even remember if you were dating at that time.Ā
After that are a bunch of pictures for a few nights out. You and Shoko getting ready together, the outfits were so different from what you wear right now. Satoru sitting on a couch, completely asleep with his glasses crooked. Some of them with you three together, probably Suguru taking the pictures. And then ten photos of a sequence of you and Suguru hugging very tightly and leaning for a quick peck on the lips. Your makeup was a disaster, he was sweaty and both of you were too drunk, but in the last picture (after the kiss) both of you looked incredibly joyous, just staring at each other in pure bliss.Ā
The next video is shorter, about ninety seconds, but it hits you even harder. The timestamp said it was from a few months later, during spring.Ā
You are behind the camera again, but the setting is softer. Just the two of you in the old dorm common room after everyone else had gone out. Thereās no light outside, so itās probably past midnight. Suguru is sitting on the worn couch wearing the oversized black hoodie thatās now lost in your wardrobe. His hair is down and he looks so relaxed.Ā
āHey, turn that off,ā he says, lifting his arm trying to cover his face. You can hear you laughing behind the camera, a bright and shy sound you barely recognize anymore.Ā
āNo way. I want to remember this,ā you answer.Ā
The camera shakes a little as you walk closer. Suguru reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you gently until you tumble into his lap. The lens tilts wildly for a second before settling on his face. He is looking up at you like you are the only thing in the whole world that matters.
āRemember what, exactly?ā Suguru teases, he looks unfairly good at his young age.Ā
āYou, duh.ā You flick his forehead and he dramatically drops his head on the back of the couch.Ā
He clicks his tongue. āTsk, thatās stupid, Iām not going anywhere.ā His fingers trace slow circles on your back and he pulls you closer until your forehead rests against his. For a moment the camera catches both of you like that, breathing the same air. āKiss, please?ā
You huff a laugh and tilt your head so he can kiss you slow and sweet, he sighs into your mouth and the camera dips as you relax in him. The video ends with Suguru laughing quietly, reaching up to turn the camera off himself. The last frame is his smiling face before the screen goes black.
Those days really had felt endless back then. Just you and Suguru, happy and tangled up in each other like nothing could ever pull you apart. Your fingers hovered over the trackpad, wanting to play it again but scared of how much it would hurt.
You spend the next ten minutes looking at all the pictures and videos. There are some you donāt even remember taking. Thereās a short video of Satoru carrying the camera, running way too fast while you run away from him, photos of lazy afternoons in the classroom, blurry shots of all four of you crammed into a booth at that cheap ramen place. Each one pulled you deeper into that soft, aching nostalgia. Your younger smile looked so carefree, your eyes brighter, and Suguru was always looking at you like you hung the stars.
Some videos were quick and chaotic. Satoru trying to balance on Shokoās shoulders and failing spectacularly. Others were quieter moments. You and Suguru sharing earphones on the rooftop, his head on your shoulder while the city hummed below. Every clip made your heart squeeze tighter. You wiped at your eyes more than once, smiling even as they stung.
Then you reached the last entry.
It was a video from the summer trip to the beach, at the very end of the folder. The thumbnail already made your breath catch: golden sand, blue waves, and Suguruās face filling half the frame with his lovesick smile he only ever gave you.
You pressed play.
The camera is in Suguruās hand this time, a little unsteady from the wind as he walks backward across the warm sand. His voice comes through first.
āBaby, look at you,ā he says, zooming in gently. You see your younger self a few steps ahead, barefoot in a light sundress, hair blowing around your face as you laugh and try to shield your eyes from the sun. āGod, youāre so pretty. How did I get this lucky?ā
You watch yourself turn toward the camera, cheeks already flushed. āSugu, stop filming me! The sunās in my face,ā you complain, but youāre smiling so wide it lights up the whole screen.
He chuckles. āNope. Now you know how I feel. But look at you, youāre the most beautiful girl on this beach.āĀ
You shake your head, warm in the cheeks from embarrassment all of a sudden.
He turns the camera slightly, showing Shoko and Satoru in the background, yelling and laughing as they spike a volleyball back and forth near the water. Satoru does some dramatic spin before hitting the ball and Shoko calls him an idiot loud enough for the mic to catch it.
But Suguru quickly turns the lens back to you. He walks closer, voice dropping softer. āIām serious, babe. Youāre so warm and bright and perfect.ā His free hand reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. The camera shakes a little as he leans in.
He presses a slow kiss to your lips, then another to the tip of your nose, then one on your forehead like he always did.Ā
āI love you,ā he whispers against your skin, so quietly the waves kinda swallow it. āIām gonna keep you forever, okay?ā
The camera tilts as you kiss him back, both of you laughing into it. In the distance, Satoruās loud āGet a room!ā echoes, followed by Shokoās snort, but neither of you cares. The video ends with Suguru pulling back just enough to smile at you through the lens, eyes full of promises and sunlight, before the screen fades to black.
You sat there in silence for a long time, the laptop glowing softly in your dark room. That was the last one. The very last moment captured.
synopsis :: when you're assigned to defend notorious mafia boss Geto Suguru, the last person you expect to see across the courtroom is Gojo Satoruāthe prosecutor, your former flame, and the man who knows you better than anyone. as the trial unfolds, so do old feelings, dangerous secrets, and an attraction none of you can seem to ignore.
ā± Ū« × ā§ content warning:: MDNI :: angst and fluff and smut :: rivals-to-lovers :: suguru is reader's client :: piv sex :: fingering :: oral (m! + f! receiving) :: shower sex :: office sex :: semi-public sex :: spanking :: arguments :: flirting/tension :: threesome :: tension and teasing :: complicated feelings and situations
* **Legal Provision:** All designations, geographic coordinates, and individual identities are strictly fictional. Any alignment with real-world entities is coincidental.
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 iām sorry TT just picture it as one without proper protocol, friends with benefits (thought you arenāt really friendsā¦), 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 getoās character i donāt 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 ā¦. in a way. and iām proud of myself for finishing it!! hopefully itāll 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, thatās the kind of person you are.
Everything you see before youā 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, indistinguishableā 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 micā 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, andā
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 isā vaguely, partially, at the very least in spiritā 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 spineā 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 heās 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 allowā 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 meā¦"
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 goneā 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 youā¦
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 upā still keeping the rim of the glass against your lipsā you see a sliver of gold.
For a moment, you wonder if it'sā¦
ā Nope. It's a lip piercing.
A tall, well-built man towers above the sofa, clad in a sleazy red suitā 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.
āAh,Ā you flatter me.ā 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 toĀ slipĀ down your shoulder, feigning an innocent tilt of your head. His eyes drink in your naked skin, moth to flame. āAre you here to spend time with me, handsome?ā
You kind of want to laugh at the look that shadows his face, thenā like a wolf cornering a helpless lamb. A look that suggests the temptation toĀ deflower.Ā He could never guess what youāre really like.Ā
"I think I just might be, yes,ā he falls for the bait, legs comfortably spread when he plops down next to you, his elbows finding purchase on the headrest behind him.
"Iāll have to make it worth your while, thenā¦ā
A rumbling chuckle. The man fishes a cigar from out of his pocket, hands you the lighter andĀ waits.Ā 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. Youāve built up a resistance, but you still need a moment to exhale, stifling a cough.Ā Maybe that would just appeal to him, thoughā¦
He keeps it perched between his lips, exhales through his nose before he pulls away to speak. āWell, I pay good money for your company. Iād say itās only fair.ā
A humoured breath. "That's trueā¦"
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 thisā he looks like he could snap you like a twig. Looks like heād 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 upā 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. Youāre just about to part your lips and cozy up to him, say a pair of sultry, well-picked words, whenā
āMay I have him, for a moment?ā
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. Itās 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.Ā
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 shouldersā stop around his waist. Looks like itās been pampered, oiled and brushed, how lovely. One of his hands slip out, to dust off his sleeve, and fuuuck, they'reā
A grumble resounds to your left.Ā Ā
āI have him for the next hour,ā spits the hot-shot next to you, abandoning your hip to curl a possessive arm around your neck. Doesnāt feel too nice. Would he get hissier if you pulled away? āWhat the fuck is a monk doing here anyway?"
Catching tells is a skill that takes honing. Observation, attention to detail, a reward for oneās attentiveness. You like to think youāre good, very goodā
though you only barely catch the twitch of the monkās left brow. The way his eyes coil into slits.
A quiet hum builds in his throat.Ā
Then heās leaning forwardā one big, beautiful hand coming to rest on your customer's shoulder, like heās using him as a step stoolā 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. āIāll pay you double,ā he whispers, for only you to hear. Eyes swirling with silent glee. āWhat do you say?ā
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 heās 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, wellā
ā⦠Sounds good.ā
He rewards you with a smile. Crescent-eyed.
āWonderful.ā
(Youāve always been weak to a pretty face.)
The man on your left grows silent. Stunned, you think, andā 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. āHah? Thatās not how this works, you gold-digging whoreāā
āLeave.ā
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, naturallyā 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 elseā it won't save you from a fist kissing your teeth. And, well, just going by the size of their arms aloneā
⦠the man on your left stands up.
And leaves.
You watch, blinking owlishly as he heads for the exit, steps measuredā controlledā 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 jokeā 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 nightā
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 himā 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 sculptureā 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.
"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."
å¤ę²¹. Summer oil.
You think of autumn, bleeding sunsets. Bottles of whiskey poured into a boy's waiting mouth.
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 serviceā¦"
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 manā¦"
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 thereās 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?"
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 realizeā 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 sermonā¦"
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 fireā 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 sulliedā 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 heās 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, youāre 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.)
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 worldā the real worldā 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 meltedā 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."
ā¦
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 himā ice cream can wait for another dayā 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.
"⦠Youāre 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.
āSooo⦠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.
(Youāre 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 ramenā 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."
āHm⦠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 justā" 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 perspectiveā 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.Ā
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 mightā you think of all the threats you've heard over the years.
But heās handsome. Beautiful, like this, when youāre 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 upā 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.
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 moreā 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 inkā blooming camellias and white dragonsā 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 wonāt 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 perfectlyā 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 shiftā¦"
The wince twists your throat, spills out when you crane your neck and stretch your limbs above your headā 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. āAnd here I thought my tips would be more than enough to keep you afloatā¦"
"Well, afloatā¦" 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.ā
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 shitā¦"
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 talkā either that, or he really does only pay attention to you. The thought is sweet, intoxicating, too good to be true. āBut I take it he's giving you a hard time?"
A scoff.
"Understatement of the centuryā¦"
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 itās their birth rightā 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.
āWould you like me to take care of him for you?ā
(It lights up his expression.)
ā⦠Take care?ā you echo, sluggish blinks dragging your eyelids up and down. āWhat, you gonna kill him?ā
āWould you like me to?ā
ā¦
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 propositionā 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. āKind of.ā
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."
āOf course you wouldnāt.ā 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 himselfā 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 humiliatingā irritatingā 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.
āI think youāre 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.
āKeep it that way.ā
There's an edge to his voice when it drops his voice dropsā 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.
āYes, 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 eyesā 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.)
āEasy 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 youā your mind working overtime to catch up to the sudden sensation, lost in his voice and his gaze and his warmthā 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. Heās not letting go.
He's smiling, light and easy.
ā⦠And sensitive.ā
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 hereā if the weight of his palms make up for the sting they bring you.
ā⦠Just for you,ā you hear yourself speak. A hitch of your breath, yet you force the words outā sleazy, flimsy, as long as your smile looks convincing itās 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 wonāt save you, this time,ā he tuts, and twists, waits for a jolt. āNot when itās so obvious.ā
A strangled wince claws at your lips, but you swallow it back downā inhale, exhale, try to steady your breathing, try not to shiver or pull away from his gripā 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?ā
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 flowerā 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. āLet me give you some relief.ā
He doesn't have to ask you twice.
So you end up beneath himā you always doā 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 anythingā not, Hey, thatās a pretty fucking strange thing to say, orā You would have me entertain a bunch of monks? Seriously? Not even Yes, yes, please, I donāt want anyone else to ever see me like this again. I donāt 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 heās 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 sayā 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 voicesā 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 distanceā 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 brightā 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.Ā Sparkling, glowing, rust-golden rays cocooning you, a tequila sunrise. From where heās 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 curiosityā 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 likeā 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 mindā 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.
Heās gentle, the first time you sleep together. Not as much the other times, but you need it, donāt 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 bodyā 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...ā
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, spoiledā
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, yesā your disposition, the way you carry yourselfā 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 remindedāā
(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 himā 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.
āI wanted to be a singer.ā
A gentle breeze, wool-thick clouds obscuring the sky. You say it so casually, heād think you were mentioning the weather if it wasnāt for the sadness in your voice. You fail to keep it out.
Would you blame your glassy eyes on that, were he to point it out?Ā
(Oh, how he wonders.)
āIs that so.ā
Geto lights his own cigarette. One, two flicks of his thumb before orange sparks at his fingertipsā 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.Ā He can't tell which is which.
The world is quiet, here. As if youāre the only ones awake, standing under a bleak sky, murky blue, nearly gray.Ā 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 doesnāt waver, deep and steady even still. The air smells a little like disease, but he finds he doesnāt mind it. Finds he likes the contrast. Polluting an air that smells too much of summer. āWell, you certainly have the vocals for it.ā
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 sardonicismā he thinks youāve 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.
āDo I?ā you ask, irony thick on your tongue. Wearing a smile that seems to fade the longer he looks at it. He watches your cupidās bow sway, the drag of a limp arrow. āYouāve worn them out, you know.ā
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.Ā
ā⦠Youāll live.ā And he exhales, air rushing to flood his greedy lungs. The salt burns more than the tobacco. āYou still have time. Itās not too late to try again.ā
Silence, suddenly. It strikes him as eerie.
ā⦠I donāt know about that.ā
(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 longā taken by the suffering in your faceā 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 youād 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 donāt bite back. Neither of you speak. Only the dull scraping of ocean waves fills the empty air.
āI love you.ā
You are the first to step over that boundary.
Itās 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. Youāre too tired to speak properly, speak at all. Heās being hard on you tonightā couldnāt think clearly, only saw one of your other regulars try to cop a feel, and, wellā
That doesnāt matter, now.
āI love youā¦ā
Again. The breathiest, most silent little whimper heās ever heard.Ā
(Geto inhales. Curses himself.
A lump forms in his throat.)
You arenāt coherent, you donāt know what youāre saying. He knows that. Of course, he knows that. Youāre 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 affectionā
He thinks he might throw up.Ā
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 moreā 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 desecrateā
But you love him.
(You love him.)
Geto wants to hate you.Ā
What he hates most of all is that those words disarm him. That they peel his skin away, leaving only softened flesh behind. He canāt help it, though he triesā a futile endeavorā
āYouāre okay.ā
A tender, tender, whisper, spilling from his parted lips. When did they part? When did making room for you become as natural as breathing?
āYouāll be okay.ā
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.Ā
(A burning, rotten memory. His motherās 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 newbornā 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 doesnāt 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 donāt 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 doesnāt linger in the past.Ā
(Most days, itās all he does.)
Youāre 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 youāre entirely bare.Ā 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 countryā 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 theyāre blue, blue, blue, a blue so staggering it makes the sky look white.
A blue that dyes the whole world monochrome.Ā
(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?)
ā⦠Getoā¦?ā
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 softlyā 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 lipsā 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 heartā¦?" 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 itā¦"
ā¦
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.
ā⦠You remind me of a friend.ā
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?)
"Itās 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 youāre 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 untouchedā 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 potentialā speckled with what he knows to be loveā 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 heād never have gone to if it werenāt for you. He will not think of the way you glow.
Normalize answering "why do u ship them" questions with "because i felt like it" instead of writing out 200 pages of reasons why you ship it like u r begging for approval. Or give a nonsense answer.
"Why do you ship this??"
On the night of the full moon I dreamt of a talking rabbit who hopped onto my shoulder and whispered in my ear that I should ship these specific characters and I obeyed without question.
How writers feel after starting a jaw-dropping, pearl clutching, thigh shaking, mouth watering, soul taking series just to leave me with no aftercare and discontinue it
I just KNOW when shoko succumbed to old age or smth when she arrived at that fckass airport suguru and satoru nearly hugged her half to death AGAIN ššššššš
a collection of my favorite geto suguru fics iāve read over the years that i want to spotlight, consisting of pieces that include fluff, angst, smut, and more. fics are divided by series/oneshots/drabbles. please heed all warnings & give all included authors their very much deserved flowers! shamelessly plugging my own geto fics as well :p iāve marked superscript next to authors to indicate if theyāve been included multiple times in this post!
series:
best friend!geto (ongoing?) by @fricks ; iāve reread all of the entries in this series so many times that i could beam this shit onto the back of my eyelids and reread them all over again just like that. i adoreeee getoās characterization here (fricks is a geto expert truly) heās such a charming little shit and the witty convos between him and reader are just tew good. i canāt decide on a favorite part cos theyāre all amazing IM SERIOUS. THIS IS MY LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA PLEASE DONT BURN IT DOWN!!!!
dishonorable (complete) on ao3 ; regency/bridgerton aus are always divine and this fic is no exception. duke geto and readerās chemistry is too good š¬ love how they want to strangle each other yet they flirt with each other in the same breath. duke geto take it out its hurtingggguuuhhhh
six degrees of separation (complete) by @starmapz ² ; i read this yeaaaars ago so imagine my surprise when i dug this fic up again and realized trish wrote it š the angst in this has stuck with me for YEARS . geto loves so hard and that facet really shines in this fic. the entire thing is incredibly true to his character as a whole and serves as an amazing analysis of his character. how am i even allowed to read this masterpiece without a price? like wdym this is FREE?
strangers (ongoing) by @yenayaps ; this fic will hit you hard cos jfc this is a truck of ANGST. iāve never wanted eternal happiness and peace for two people so badly in my life. geto and reader have grown distant after a miscarriage and are in the process of learning & choosing to love each other again, and it makes me wanna bawllll. their arguments and thoughts are so grounded and feel incredibly real, making this fic all the more immersive and making the angst pack a few extra punches. i think about the diabolical restaurant scene once a month at least š
no. one party anthem (ongoing) by @indiewritesxoxo ā“ ; this rockstar suguru right here is one i would suck right off the bone like hes a box of chicken wings. girl dad? charmer of the year n hes slick wit it too? THE PINING THE CHASING THE GROVELING THE TRYING TO BE BETTER FOR READER??? top tier truly. indie always shows out with her various geto series and this has gottaaaaa be one of the best. the angst and smut here are unparalleled. that hotel sex scene STAYS living in my head (gif of the duck smoking and shaking its head with a satisfied smirk). im forever rooting for geto in this fic IDGAF!!!!
meow or never (complete) on ao3 ; getoās little shit of a cat (aptly named gojo) gets readerās cat pregnant and chaos ensues. geto wants readerās cookie so bad lmfaoooo just like gojo with readerās cat⦠this whole fic is genuinely SO hilarious. super domestic, fluffy, and very slice-of-life too!
fwb!suguru (ongoing?) by @eraserbread ² ; ellyās prose is to die for and her word choice is so unique too so her works are always a treat to the soul. the way she writes geto.. mm⦠truly a five course meal. need geto and reader to communicate and stop trying to win the nonchalant-off (theyāre both failing to be nonchalant). iām shaking them. god i wanna smash these two together like barbie dolls š¢ (š). let me get my wallet because it must be illegal to read this piece of art for FREEEEE?
lazy sunday morning and whispers in the library (complete) on ao3 ; going from domestic intimacy and first times in the first fic to some freaky exhibition shit in the second fic⦠yeaaaah this is my bread and butter. geto is SO romantic and sweet in these installments, especially the first part šŖ this geto needs to be in my bed by yesterday or iām hanging myself by the ears on the nearest tower
smoking with stoner!getou suguru (complete) on ao3 ; been a while since iāve read this but geto is slick and sexy ass motherfucker in this fic. his dialogue had me cheesinggggg I WANT HIM BAD BRAH! the exposition here is so lively and perfectly immersive, idk how to explain it but its SUCH a vibe. gojo and toji are total clowns in this fic lmfao the shit they were pulling in the background had me ctfuuuu. this fic is a certified fave
the roommate part 1 & part 2 (ongoing?) by @kenzieluvsnanami ; call this puth british with the way roommate geto is innittttt š¬š§ the way geto is written in these makes me nut untouched and on the spot⦠this man is a sexy ass fiend and ykw i like them crazy just like this. ESPECIALLY when itās geto. love his cheekiness and tomfoolery here lmfaooo heās entertaining asf
sometimes i peep on the handsome dad next door (complete) on ao3 ; the dilf suguru to beat all sugurus šāāļø every time there was so much of a mention of either 1. his gray streaks or 2. how he interacts with nanako and mimiko, i started shaking like a little rabid dog on steroids. reader is such a freak in this LMFAOOJTKWHR just like me fr⦠i too would wake up at 5am just to watch geto get dressed 𤤠heās so hot and assured and confident in this fic and it makes me wanna jump his bonessss. his and readerās relationship and build-up is something you donāt wanna miss out on!
darling (complete) on ao3 ; the second i saw black reader x musician geto i knew this would be toe-curling. AND IT IS! op did such a lovely job of portraying the hard of hearing reader here. i adore how geto and reader use each other as inspiration for music and for writing, and seeing their arrangement develop into a relationship is so worth the read c:
breathe me in on ao3 ; fwb!suguru in this fic⦠i gotta light a blunt every time i think of him. i was sold the second he asked reader to come over not for sex but to cuddle and to have someone simply there with him. geto is soooo sensual to his core here like every thing he does and says feels like honey⦠and heās SO smooth jfc. so fine. my sweetheart AND my little shit :,) the smut here is toe-curling
the ethics of relationships (complete) by @gojonanami ; i typically donāt read prof/students but this fic is just one of those onessss and if you havenāt read it then youāre missing out šāāļø thatās how yummy this whole five course meal is. iāve harassed so many friends with the link to this fic LMFAO i just want everyone to read this BAD⦠iām due for a reread because itās been a WHILE but so many scenes in this fic stand out in my memory. super good overall!!
brat (ongoing) by @kunareads ; producer geto and pop star reader you are so very famous to me! reader is such a vibe in this fic and it makes her relationship with geto all the more fun & enticing. their dynamic feels like snorting a line of coke in the best way possible but also i need these fools to communicate asap š£ the formatting of this fic is SO fun and feels super interactive/immersive!!
vault boy (ongoing) by @indiewritesxoxo ā“ ; fallout/apocalypse au!! if u havent gotten into fallout, indie makes the universe easy to understand. geto is such a sweetie pie in this fic and his humanity is devastating⦠MY POOR BABY :( i wanna hide him away in a bunker. speaking of bunkers, give me one to shack up with him in and weād repopulate the entire world in just a few years TRRRRUST š¤£āš½
oneshots:
#INTRO2MUNCH101 by @satorena ; another situation where i read a fic years ago and became mutuals with the author later on (haiii serena). this fic is comedy fawking golddddd no joke but its also hot as hell. serena is too good at building up the chemistry between geto and reader (#welovemeanreadersbtw) and i love how desperate geto is here, he wants that cookie BAD. his fake nonchalant shit had no one fooled and every time reader called him out i was ctfu. the smut had me writhing brah WRITHING (and giggling profusely for many reasons)
rock you up on ao3 ; TA geto and professor reader is an unmatched dynamic brah YALL DONT EVEN GETTTT HOW MUCH I FUCK WITH THEM ANDDD THIS FIC⦠submissive geto was a very exciting surprise HEHEHEHEEEE i love seeing my man getting his shit rocked <3 the banter here is too mfing good and is something this writer very much excels at!!
why suguruās wife is the best cook in the world! by @yunamoona ; a super good take on geto and his relationship with food AND the cutest meet cute to ever meet cute⦠yeah this is a banger. repeating what i said in the comments but when geto ate readerās cookies i was smiling at my phone like a freak, because sometimes all it takes is just the act of kindness/love to be able to guide you down a path of healing :,) i love this fic sm. itās one of a kind
what if youāre just someone i want around (iām falling again) on ao3 ; post-jjk0 fix it fic where reader is assigned to watch over geto š£š < the sound of my heart shattering. you can feel getoās jadedness and bitterness radiating through the screen due to how vivid and deeply thoughtful each scene is written out. but despite it all, geto is such a sweetheart and lover to his core š¢
iām afraid thatās just the way the world works (but i think that it could work for you and me) on ao3 ; an au where geto never defected and years later, reader and geto take in nanako and mimiko. such a heartwarming fic all around. i love my miminana forever and ever and they deserve the world
bed chem by @nanamiskentos ; this is sexy AND fucking hilarious, what MORE could you ask for. suguru had me curling my toessss in this fic jhtjwhrjsi his dialogue has me hot and ready like lil caesars. the descriptions here make me wanna lick my screen and digest every single word. best believe iām cleaning my plate every time i reread this
itās true i never write, but i would gladly die with you by @summer-oil ; post-defection fics where geto and reader used to be friends always destroy me in the best way possible :,) and ugh the prose here⦠no words can describe how beautiful and impactful it is. oh geto you yearnerā¦
the haunting by @starmapz ² ; if you like horror fics this is absolutely the fic for you :3 if geto were my ex⦠shittttt i would crack him again and take him back too. this fic is a perfect blend of hot smut, angst, and unsettling horror. i canāt say much else cos of spoilers but the ending had me GAGGED
it will come back by @hellowoolf ; ballerina au with instructor geto and ballerina reader!! their push and pull in this fic had me reading with my hands (and puth š£) clenched⦠the chemistry is SO buzzy and so loud. the smut is mfing fantasticcccc and the build-up to it is EXCELLENT. dialogue is on point toooooo everything geto says makes me giggle
top of the class on ao3 ; if my TA was as pretty (and pathetic) as geto in this fic, iād crack tf out of them too š¤ love the switch-up in the power dynamic here and how reader sooo effortlessly has geto wrapped around her finger
ghostface pussy killer by @saintkaylaa ; one thing about me is i loveeee a good fic where one chases the other and then they fuck nasty š£ the aphrodisiacs being involved makes the stakes sm more intense (and hotter š). iām obligated to reread this everyyyy october because this fic is peak
the best kind of remedy by @reignpage ; santa can i please get herbalist geto under my tree for christmas šš½ preferably naked and already oiled up šš½ stoner geto is absolutely and 100% my kryptonite everyyyy time and heās extra sexy asl in this fic. DREAMY SIGH. the smut is so buzzyyyyy
a guide to hooking up by @thedivinegeneral ² ; this is a certified hood classic iykwim. every time this fic pops up on my dash or in my memory, i just HAVE to reread it. jade is really and truly the god of managing to make fics perfectly fluffy, hilarious, and smutty like whewwwww⦠geto and reader here are so special to me I LOVE THEM DEARLY š£š
how to baby trap marry your best friend! by @indiewritesxoxo ā“ ; FUCK MY BABY DAD ALRIGHT!!! i love idiot best friends in love bro like just put the crush in the bag and pop the questionnnnn, the yearning in this kills me in the best way possible! the first time they have sex and take pictures of each other is forever branded in my head cos its tooooo hot š¬
lessons in love on ao3 ; oh to fall in love with dilf geto and to retire with him⦠whimsical sigh. such a comforting slice of life fic. if my future partner isnāt this sweet and devoted and understanding, i donāt want em! geto here is really the perfect husband š
cry for me by @bunnieeteeth ; coach geto and figure skater reader! really cannot say much about this fic for the sake of spoilers, but also because i genuinely have no words for how this fic makes me feel. just wow. trust me when i say that this fic will have you sitting up in your seat and staring at your phone in shock. i want geto and reader to get together so bad but at what cost š
the torture of small talk with someone you used to know by @betterinvienna ; rockstar geto (and your ex) and photographer reader how youāve both moved me and changed me irreversibly. geto is a first class yearner with a ticket straight to piningville because ohhhh my goddddd he wants reader back so mfing bad . heās losing the nonchalant war #chalantking and iām happy about it! such a good angst & hurt/comfort fic. i love exes fics. EVERY SINGLE SONG IS ABOUT YOU⦠WAHā¦. š¢š¢š¢š„ŗš„ŗš„ŗš„ŗ
the practice of kissing by @lovelivision ; we all cheer for kissing practice fics!!! geto is such a mouthwatering tease in this fic ughhtksjrns i have got to fuck him . heās such a cocky little shit but also sososo sweet with reader and so accommodating⦠his duality is unmatched!
praisekink4praisekink by @cherrys-wrld ; cherry always excels with writing familiar and cozy domesticity even during intimacy⦠dreamy sigh. geto is such a romantic WHY ISNT HE REALLLL (edit: i will update the link when this gets reposted!)
golden brown by @sixxels ; princess reader and knight geto you will be my undoing⦠the forbidden love here really packs a punch because theyāre so desperate to be with each other and so in love, but they have to comply with the system :( i teared up while reading this fic. please never hurt me like this again (DO IT.)
ghost of you by @suguruss1ut ³ ; this fic is my 13th reason ā¹ļø post-defection geto and reader who still love each other despite getoās actions/ideals is lethal. so lethal. this fic had me rolling around in bed thinking about it for dayssss after finishing it⦠itās so heartbreaking UGHHHH š
#THE PARTY AND THE AFTER PARTY by @screampied ; lock me in a room with stripper!geto for about an hour (please trap us together longer though.) and heās walking out pregnant god willing. whole fic had me twirling my hair and checking my wallet for extra cash to toss getoās way
you & me by @getosurya ; perfect perfect perfect hurt/comfort after an argument between geto and reader. despite everything, they love each other sm and it bleeds through each and every action of theirs⦠this fic is so tender and reassuring that it makes me melt :,)
getoās bride by @thedivinegeneral ² ; the effect that this fic has had on me actually needs to be studied because why am i so charmed by chucky doll geto to the point that iāve sent this fic to multiple friends individually šš this shit had me CRYINGGGGG cos of how fucking funny it is alllll the way through lmfaooohtkwhrj and imagining certain scenes had me cracking up. i am such a sucker for sub geto in this fic⦠MAKE HIM WHIMPER!!!!
simply ear-resistible! by @indiewritesxoxo ā“ ; bunny geto is the cutest fucking thing to ever existtttt š„ŗš even if he has a massive attitude LMFAO. him retaining a few bunny traits/habits after returning to his original form actually makes me want to chew on his cheek. reader and geto are TOOOO cute here and i want the best for them :]
maw on ao3 ; there are no words to describe this fic or how it makes me feel without my description/thoughts majorly falling flat. i simply cannot do this fic justice⦠PLEASE READ IT.
ask me to bleed (for you i will) on ao3 ; post-defection geto and non-sorcerer reader who works at a bakery⦠another fic that is my 13th reason lowkey. this is another fic that i cannot do justice nor summarize my feelings for properly but i am once again urging you all to read this
purrrfect surprise by @suguruss1ut ³ ; do you like men who crawl on all fours while wearing cat ears?? look no further cos this is the fic for YOU!!! i love me some sub geto and this fic is pure peak. need him desperate justttt like this
drabbles:
(iāve written so many summaries/thoughts already that i wonāt be doing so for these fics. titles are all pretty self-explanatory for the most part, and these are all super good short reads!! š«¶š½)
emo!suguru and his pretty pink princess by @epicderpface
suguru + independent gf by @satoruined
mornings with suguru by @hayajiku
sub!suguru wax play by @bluukive
arcturus beaming by @oporotheca
love, as if it were carved in stone by @go6jo
tutor!geto getting overwhelmed by @eraserbread ²
suguru volunteers to model for your art class and you didnāt expect him to have such a perfect dick by @gojosconsort
afterglow by @feyrinnn
kissing suguru by @sugurusbadhabit
binded bunny by @meowguru
domain expansion: unlimited creampies by @suguruss1ut ³
No lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick thribbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell dissolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening devil's tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and i'd still ride.
updated February 6 2026 - Deleted several lists and added them elsewhere! Added tabs to most of the lists for easier searching! Added Several Athletics prompts to the Occupations tabs.
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!