#geto threads.

[gravesung]

he's scooping up @koseigu and throwing her over his shoulder. get fireman-carried around campus, shosho.

[gravesung-moving]

@koseigu said:

table .   to  hoist  my  muse  onto  a  [ table  /  counter bathroom sink in a dive bar ] . ( while they're both still in culinary school ;) )

IT WAS INCREDIBLY FOOLISH OF HIM TO accept an invitation to drinks from ryomen sukuna of all people. not foolish because he's as close to a burnout as culinary school can get, not because he puts none of his immense talent to use practically, but because suguru has, for the last several months, harbored a horrible, gnawing, hopeless crush on him.

he does his best to swallow the nerves before they can swallow him — before he can call it off, text his (frankly, terrifying) classmate that he isn't feeling well, and show up the next day brimming with shame. it takes turning his phone completely off and setting it down in the other room while he showers, dries and styles his hair, and searches desperately for something nice (but not too nice) to wear. which piercings to put in, which tattoos to show.

in the end, he goes for a black sleeveless turtleneck with a delicate gold necklace slung over it, a loose half-sheer jacket embroidered with a dragon pattern across the back, and baggy black pants nondescript enough to let the other pieces speak for themselves. tongue piercing stays in (of course); he elects for eyebrow and nostril as well. once he takes the jacket off, the long, fluid snake tattoo down his right arm will be on full display. it stops high on his forearm, only barely visible on a normal day if he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows.

as ever, he has no goddamn clue what to do with his hair. a bun with that one bang hanging loose will have to do — he's almost out of time. shit.

heart pounds in his chest during the drive; in his eardrums during the initial search; in his throat when, finally, the two lock eyes across the bar.

as it turns out, once suguru has a couple of drinks in him, the restrained, buttoned-up shell he hides under cracks wide open. for the first time in a long while, he has fun. up close, sukuna is — well, he is every bit as terrifying as suguru thought he'd be, but he's also magnetic. his attention is intoxicating. several times throughout the night, suguru finds the lingering eye contact with that amber-red stare too suffocating and looks away, blushing furiously, hoping the dim and purplish bar lighting does enough to mask it.

he's not sure when they left the bar. he's not sure who paid, if either of them paid. he's not sure what possessed him to follow sukuna into one of the single bathrooms tucked away in the back corner, or who kissed whom first, or when sukuna hoisted him up onto the edge of the sink with his clothes tossed to the side. it isn't even the alcohol that melts his better judgement into a haze of pink hair and red eyes. it's sukuna. sukuna, who drives the yearning hunger in him far past the shame and disgust he would normally feel at the thought of getting fucked in a dive bar bathroom. sukuna, whose hand feels like heaven around his length, who feels terrible and sinful and divine each time he rocks into him.

sukuna, whose kiss is brutal, all teeth and tongue and cloying liquor overloading his senses.

suguru has imagined what those wicked lips might feel like on his own, but even the wildest daydreams could not compare to how it actually feels to kiss him. it's that giddy rush of beginning to fall a great distance, but it's constant and overwhelming and suguru wonders, quite seriously, if he will leave this room alive — or if he'll drown, consumed by sukuna in body and mind.

he doesn't think he'd protest.

suguru geto lives his life by the book, almost reverent in the way he treats himself and his duties. tonight, he allows himself this desecration. sukuna is as rough as suguru imagined him to be, one hand's sharp-tipped fingers digging into his hip hard enough to break the skin, the other stopping its quick strokes to wrap around his throat and squeeze until he sees stars.

sukuna breaks the kiss only to sink his teeth into the skin of his shoulder, stifling a noise as footsteps pass the door only a few feet away from them. ❝ fuck, ❞ suguru hisses, half-strangled, nails raking long scratches down sukuna's back — blood slick against his fingers, a little too hard — and he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stifle a sound as thrusts come quicker, rougher, waves of pleasure-pain rocketing through him at the friction of his shaft between two bodies pulled flush.

if not for the acrid sting of nails in his side and the heat rapidly building in his core, he thinks he might have passed out. as it is, he's nearly there, clenching tighter around sukuna as his lungs spasm for breath, darkness swimming in the edges of the room.

a low groan against his skin in response, almost a growl. the sound sends a shiver up suguru's spine amid the frenetic haze of sensation. another spasm — the tips of his fingers have gone numb, tingly, the corners of his vision blacker still — and finally, seemingly satisfied, the hand lets up enough to allow the rush of blood back into his brain. sukuna's breaths are rapidly growing more ragged as suguru bucks into him, tumbling over the edge first, his vision going completely white as his body rides through a wave of white-hot pleasure, one hand braced against the sink while the other tangles streaks of red into pale hair.

sukuna laughs into his throat. with each snap of the hips, the peak of his orgasm tips over into overstimulation as their bodies press and shift together, now slick against each other, suguru's dsperate arousal trapped between them. sukuna is close — he can feel it in the frantic, irregular rhythm he's taken up, the flex of his muscles against a rapidly-building wave. when he lifts his head, his lips are scarlet with drawn blood.

even through the cacophonous rush in his mind, the indescribable feeling in his body that brings tears to his eyes, the utter beauty of him hits suguru all at once. sukuna's face is flushed and shiny with sweat, glimmering violet in the bar's dingy light. pieces of hair stick to his skin in swirling tendrils. his irises are eclipsed by blown-out pupils, glazed over and laser-focused all at once, lips swollen and smeared with red — the image of an archangel defiled.

in that moment, as his unlikely lover crashes over that cliff's edge, something possesses suguru to kiss him again. they crash together like two celestial bodies fallen out of orbit. he rolls his hips in-rhythm to ride out sukuna's orgasm with him. the hand not tangled in hair trails up his stomach. the other twists in pink strands and pulls hard. suguru's own blood is coppery and sweet on his tongue, mixed with tequila and pineapple and something unidentifiable. eventually, finally, the frantic motions slow to a stop. for several stolen and peaceful moments they simply breathe together, bodies shaking, slick, dripping onto the floor.

it feels like a spell breaking. only now, with the haze of overstimulation gone, does he begin to feel the prickling soreness in his throat and the sting in his hip where sukuna's nails dug in.

this was incredibly stupid. they've both come undone, rendered each other bloody messes under their hands and mouths, and somehow they're still going to have to leave this fucking bar. suguru lifts a hand and rakes his fingers through his hair to pull dark strands out of his face; it came out of its bun two minutes in. so much for that.

❝ well, ❞ he breathes, cracks a dazed smile at the spent man in front of him. ❝ at least there's a sink. ❞

[gravesung]

@malient // continued from here.

IT WAS A LOSING BATTLE from the start. suguru bought enough time for anyone in the vicinity to evacuate, and that was just about all he could do in the face of something — someone — so great and terrible he could only be compared to a natural disaster.

satoru is dead. what happens to suguru, this body and its wretched inhabitant, is meaningless now. he is giving the kids enough time to regroup, and with that, he has fulfilled the only purpose he had left. it's why the defeat in his eyes, as they flick up to meet the monster's face, is tinged with relief.

his face twists into a pained grimace as ryomen sukuna grips the hair at the base of his skull and dangles him like a novelty windchime, but all that escapes his throat is a wheeze. pathetic. the king of curses hardly has a scratch on him; in contrast, suguru's bones feel like they have been crushed under the wheels of a truck ( and, really, they may as well have been. ) his tongue works beneath the two claws that hold it down, jaw forced open, the impossibly-dark expanse of his throat bared to light. he doesn't answer. he isn't meant to. instead, his fingernails scrape at the black-ringed flesh of sukuna's wrist; they are jagged and torn, but the skin of the wrist is delicate. perhaps he'll get lucky, slash an artery. leave a mark before he dies.

[gravesung]

this is how i see you.

❝ how rude. then again, i suppose i shouldn't expect better from you... ❞

unprompted // @malient

[gravesung]

@michelangelowept.

❝ DON'T YOU have somewhere to be, satoru? ❞ he hates how his voice sounds. low and hoarse. bitter and murky. not that he expects satoru to notice, anyway. how funny; all of that sight leaves you so blind. whatever.

[gravesung]

❝ have you heard the term vocal texture? there's merit to arranging duets wherein the artists contrast in that way. yours is quite unique — i would love to produce for you sometime. ❞

[gravesung]

@michelangelowept // satoru. geto one-liners.

SUGURU KNOWS WHO'S AT THE DOOR EVEN BEFORE he hears the footsteps. satoru's cursed energy seeps through the seams of the windows, the drafty space underneath the doorframe, the vent in his bedroom wall that never quite stops letting in cold air.

he can't decide if knowing makes it better or worse.

at the very least, it allows him to pull himself together before he faces the — before he faces his — before he faces satoru, or rather, the divinity that molted from satoru's skin and left him behind.

❝ satoru! what a surprise. ❞

fake. foxlike. his eyes are still dark; he still smells of sweet citrus, though it has been cut through with the corruptive, heady scent of incense.

❝ you aren't here to kill me already, are you? how unfortunate... ❞

[gravesung]

❝ cry for me. i want to see it. ❞ / suguru ~

REBELLION MEETS THE DESIRE IN SUGURU'S eyes like a struck match as one of sukuna's cocks bottoms out in the back of his throat. it is perhaps the kind of rebellion that would satisfy something someone like ryomen sukuna, given that it happens at exactly the same time as suguru's body obeys the command. clawed fingers hold his head in place as he begins to thrash, involuntary fish-out-of-water writhing from cut-off airflow. suguru constricts around him with every painfully deep thrust, his throat squeezing the shaft hard, tears spilling down his cheeks and beading in his lashes at the feeling of an intrusion far bigger than what he is used to.

this would not be an honorable way to die. but then, suguru geto is not an honorable man. perhaps this is the kindest way he could have gone out: suffocating on the king of curses' cock. satoru might have laughed.

it only takes a few more moments of choking for the fire to bleed from his expression, replaced by a pathetic, pleading look. how far he has fallen. he had his own throne, once. now, when he is finally allowed to breathe after darkness crept into the corners of his vision, he considers himself lucky that sukuna finds him interesting enough to keep alive at all.

sweet filthy thing // @malient