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You told me your new man don't make you nut, that's a damn shame

Synopsis: You divorced Suguru Geto because loving him felt like dying slowly — like watching someone choose the world over you one too many times. You moved out. You moved on. Or tried to. But obsession doesn’t care about closure. And when you see him again, months later, he still looks at you like his mouth remembers your every moan, like your body still owes him its truths. He says he’s changed. You don’t believe him. But your hands still reach for him in the dark.

Pairing: Suguru Geto × fem!reader

Content: fem!reader, ex-husband!Geto, obsession, emotional tension, mutual pining, unresolved feelings, exes to lovers (again?), smut, oral (female receiving), cunnilingus, possessiveness, pet names (baby, sweetheart, etc.), swearing, praise kink, crying during sex, desperate touches, soft dom!Geto, jealousy, late-night tension, minor angst with comfort, post-divorce regret, love that never died

Wc: 7k

The apartment is nice. Two bedrooms. Balcony. Southern light in the kitchen. It’s clean, tastefully decorated — the kind of place people describe as “fresh start” with voices full of approval.

You make your bed every morning. Keep your shoes by the door. Leave a candle burning on the stovetop when you work from home.

It’s quiet here.

You tell yourself that’s a good thing.

Elias is a good man.

That’s the phrase that loops in your head when your eyes wander at dinner parties, when you catch yourself zoning out halfway through his stories, when you blink up at the ceiling after sex and realize you don’t remember finishing.

He’s sweet. Considerate. He brings you flowers and remembers your favorite kind of tea. He likes structure. He talks about the future with a casual kind of confidence. He never raises his voice.

You know women who would kill for a man like that. You used to be one.

But lately, every time he says “I love you,” it lands soft and cold against your skin — like a feather dipped in snow.

You say it back anyway. Because it’s easier than saying “I don’t know if I mean it anymore.”

When he kisses you, it’s gentle. Predictable. His hands on your waist, lips soft, head tilting just enough to make it sweet. He tells you you’re beautiful. Worships your body in the way a man does when he’s still afraid to break you. You close your eyes. Nod when he asks if it feels good. You even moan sometimes — soft and practiced.

But you haven’t felt anything in months. Not really.

You used to feel everything. Too much.

With him.

With Suguru.

It’s been almost a year. No calls. No texts. No new voicemails — not since the last one, the one you still haven’t deleted.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. Clean cut. No drama. Just two people who stopped fitting.

But some nights, when Elias is asleep next to you — chest rising, arm flung across your hip like a claim — you lie awake and remember what it felt like to be wanted.

Really wanted.

Like breath. Like violence. Like he’d tear the world apart just to taste your name on his tongue.

You shouldn’t miss him. But some ghosts don’t need haunting grounds — they live in your body, in your hunger, in the way you press your thighs together when you think too long about the past.

When the wedding invitation comes in the mail, Elias opens it.

“Our table’s near the dance floor,” he says, reading off the RSVP. “Think you’ll wear that navy dress?”

You hum. Sip your tea. Stare at the gold-embossed names on the envelope.

You already said yes. Even though part of you knew the odds.

Even though you haven’t changed your number. Even though you felt that old familiar ache curl up in your chest the second you held the invite in your hands.

He probably won’t be there. He wouldn’t.

But the thought settles under your ribs anyway.

Because if he is — God help you.

You didn’t mean to put on this lipstick.

It’s stupid — a dusty mauve, half-worn down, something you’d tossed in the back of your drawer a year ago. It used to be his favorite. He’d kiss it off every time. He never said the color out loud, but he always noticed.

And today, without thinking, you reached for it. Painted it on with shaking hands.

You should change. You should scrub it off.

But instead, you just stare at yourself in the mirror. Dress zipped. Perfume soft. Eyes a little too wide.

“Ready?” Elias calls from the hallway, adjusting the cuff of his dress shirt.

You blink. Nod. Say yes before the word even touches your chest.

The ride to the venue is full of soft music and shallow conversation.

Elias talks about the guest list. Who might be there. What the dinner options are.

You murmur back. Smile when you’re supposed to. Pretend to scroll through your phone.

But your heart’s already racing.

Because it hits you — for real, for the first time — that he could be here.

Suguru.

Geto.

Him.

And you don’t know what you’ll do if you see him again. You don’t know what you’ll do if you don’t.

The venue is gorgeous.

All white marble and dusky roses and chandeliers hung low enough to make everything feel expensive. You know the bride — not well, but well enough. You two shared lectures back at university. You remember her talking about a boy with sleepy eyes and a beautiful mouth who never came to class on time. That was before you knew him too. Before everything.

People smile at you. Hug you. Comment on your dress. Say things like “You two look so good together,” and Elias beams, squeezes your hand.

You feel it like rope burn.

You smile. You laugh. You drink the champagne someone hands you even though it makes your throat tight.

And then someone says:

“Did you hear Geto’s back in town?”

Just a whisper. A casual drop. Like he’s nothing but a name in passing.

You feel it in your knees.

He’s not here. Not yet.

You check for him anyway. Scan every face. Look over every shoulder.

Elias doesn’t notice. He’s talking to someone from work. Probably telling them how you met — his favorite story. It used to be yours too. Before you realized you were trying to overwrite another one.

You excuse yourself. Head to the bathroom. Lock yourself in the stall and press your forehead against the cool wall.

You’re being ridiculous. You know that.

But your body knows things before your mind admits them.

And it knows — somehow — that he’s coming.

You reapply the lipstick before you go back out.

The same one.

You don’t even think twice.

Because some part of you still wants him to notice. Even after all this time. Even after everything.

Especially after everything.

You don’t see him walk in. But you feel it.

Something changes. The temperature shifts. The air pulls tighter across your ribs. And when you glance up — mid-conversation, mid-fake laugh, mid-numb — your body goes still.

He’s across the room. Standing half in shadow. Hands tucked in the pockets of a suit so well-cut it makes your mouth go dry.

Suguru Geto.

Hair slicked back. Broad shoulders relaxed like he didn’t just split you open five months ago with a goodbye you’re still bleeding from. There’s a glass of something amber in his hand. He’s nodding at the groom, listening intently. And he hasn’t seen you yet.

But God, you’ve seen him. And that’s enough to undo everything you’ve spent the last year stitching together.

He shouldn’t be here.

You weren’t supposed to run into him again. Not in this lifetime. He was gone. Out of the country. Out of your orbit. That was the deal, right?

You’d both walk away.

He with his quiet bitterness, you with your ring. He told you: “Don’t let me ruin you.”

You told him: “Too late.”

The room tilts when his eyes find you.

Like he’s been waiting for the moment. Like nothing else in the space exists anymore.

You don’t look away.

You can’t.

His gaze is heavy, unblinking. He drinks you in like it’s the first time and the last. The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything soft.

You know that look. He used to give it to you in hotel doorways. At red lights. In bed, just before he said something that ruined you for hours.

Elias says something at your side. You nod, delayed, a half-second too slow.

Suguru notices.

Of course he does.

He doesn’t come over. Not yet.

But his presence floods every corner of your awareness. You hear him in every laugh behind you. Feel him in the air at your nape. The music fades in and out — you can’t tell if the bass is pounding or if it’s just your pulse.

You excuse yourself. Again.

Bathroom, terrace, hallway — anywhere. You need to breathe.

Need to think.

But when you press your palms to the marble counter and meet your own eyes in the mirror again, all you can see is him behind your shoulder.

Even if he’s not there.

You don’t hear him. You feel him.

Before a word is spoken. Before the silence shifts. He’s behind you — the mirror tells you that much.

He stands just outside the bathroom doorway, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to enter this version of your life. Like he’s trying to be respectful.

Like he remembers what it felt like to hold you and still not be allowed to keep you.

His voice is soft when it breaks the air.

“You still wear that lipstick.”

You freeze.

Slowly — too slowly — you lift your gaze to the mirror again. And there he is, reflected in pieces: collarbone, throat, tired eyes.

He looks older.

Not in a bad way. Just like time’s actually been passing for him, too.

You swallow. Grip the sink like it might anchor you.

“Didn’t realize you were watching me that close.”

He lets out a dry breath — not quite a laugh.

“Always did.”

The silence swells between you.

It’s not awkward. Not really.

It’s intimate. Dangerous. Familiar in that terrifying way that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t look at him directly. You can’t.

Because you know what’s in his eyes. The same thing that’s been waking you up in the middle of the night with your hand between your thighs and his name bitten into your pillow.

“You look good,” he says.

You snort, short and sharp.

“You always say that when you’re trying to mess with my head.”

“I meant it then, too.”

He takes one slow step closer. Not touching. Just filling the air.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” you murmur.

“Didn’t think you’d come with him.”

That makes your spine straighten.

You turn to face him. Finally. And he looks right at you.

Not at your mouth. Not at the curve of your waist or the ring on your finger.

Just you. Raw and real.

“He makes you happy?”

It’s not a challenge. Not even bitter.

It’s worse.

It’s genuine.

Your throat tightens.

“He tries.”

Suguru’s jaw clenches. His gaze drops, just for a second.

“But it’s work. Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

He steps closer. Just a breath away now.

“You still think about it?” he asks.

Your heart is in your ears. Your tongue is heavy behind your teeth.

He leans in — doesn’t touch you. Just speaks low against your cheek, voice wrecked.

“The way I touched you. The way you used to cum for me like it hurt.”

You inhale. Sharp. Feel the tremble in your legs.

“That night,” he continues, “you said no one had ever made you feel like that before.”

His breath ghosts your jaw.

“That still true?”

You should walk away.

You should. You know that.

But your body doesn’t move. Because what hurts most — more than his voice, more than the way he looks at you like he still loves you — is that part of you never wanted to stop loving him.

He pulls back — just enough to meet your eyes.

“Tell me to leave, and I will.”

You look up at him.

At the boy who broke you. At the man you still want to belong to.

Your lips part. No words come.

Because for once, your mouth can’t lie.

You don’t say it.

You don’t tell him to leave.

And that’s all the answer he needs.

Suguru doesn’t touch you at first. He just watches you—eyes flicking over your face like he’s committing you to memory again. Like the last year didn’t burn every version of you into his skin already.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly.

And you don’t disagree. You can’t.

Because your heart is pounding and your body’s already leaning toward him like it remembers the way he used to love you— with reverence, with ruin.

You whisper, “No. But you are.”

When his fingers brush your wrist, it’s feather-light. A test.

When you don’t pull away, he takes your hand—warmer than you remember, calloused from a life you don’t get to see anymore.

He looks down at your ring.

His thumb pauses on it.

Then, softly:

“Does he know?”

You almost laugh. It’s bitter.

“Know what?”

“That when you cum, you say my name.”

Your breath stutters out of you.

“That you still dream about me in your wedding bed.”

He steps closer, slow, like a tide rolling in.

“That he’ll never know what it’s like to have your legs shaking around his head.”

You close your eyes. Try to breathe.

It doesn’t work.

“I think about it, too,” he whispers. “Still. All the time.”

“That night in Kyoto. The look on your face. The way you begged.”

He leans in.

“You still beg like that?”

You kiss him.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t.

But your mouth finds his like it always did—desperate and greedy, heat blooming under your skin like you’re nineteen again and the world still ends with him.

His hands frame your jaw like you’re something breakable. You pull him closer like you’re already broken.

There’s no space between your bodies now.

No restraint.

No guilt, not yet.

Only the unbearable weight of finally.

He pushes you gently against the sink.

The marble’s cool against your back, but his hands are warm—one on your waist, the other in your hair.

He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the last thing worth saving.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you missed me.”

You gasp against his lips, nails digging into his shoulder.

“I missed you.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

You say it again.

And again.

Until you’re not just whispering it into his mouth—you’re crying it into his hands.

His mouth trails down your neck, slow and reverent. You tilt your head back, baring your throat like something sacred.

“God,” he breathes, “I hated knowing he got to see you like this.”

He kisses the hollow of your throat.

“Soft.”

Another kiss.

“Vulnerable.”

Another, lower.

“Mine.”

Your dress is hiked up. Your lipstick is ruined. And the man you almost married is on his knees on the tile like it’s worship.

Suguru’s hands slide up your thighs, slow and steady like he has all the time in the world to relearn you. But his eyes—God, his eyes are starving.

“You’re shaking.”

You are. Not from fear. From want.

From memory.

From the way his breath grazes the inside of your thigh when he murmurs, “Still so sensitive for me?”

You thread your fingers through his hair before you realize what you’re doing. He looks up at you from between your legs— dark lashes, darker gaze, mouth parted.

“I dreamt about this,” he says, voice low. “Night after night.”

He kisses the inside of your knee.

“You, right here.”

Higher.

“Pretty and needy.”

His fingers press into your hips.

“Open for me, like you never forgot who made you cum the hardest.”

Your breath stutters.

You want to say something smart. Cold. Cruel, maybe.

But then his mouth is on you.

And nothing exists but the wet heat of his tongue, the way he groans when he tastes you—like he’s the one unraveling.

Your knees nearly buckle.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathes, mouth slick with you. “Let me make you forget him.”

He licks you slow, then fast. Circles that spot he always knew, right until your hips jerk forward and your hands fist in his hair.

“Still so fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters. “Still mine.”

He doesn’t stop when you cry out.

Doesn’t stop when your thighs tremble around his ears. If anything, he leans in.

Sucks.

Drags you apart with his mouth until you’re gasping his name—over and over—like it’s the only one that’s ever mattered.

“Please, Suguru—”

You choke on it.

He groans.

“Fuck, I missed that.”

He pushes two fingers inside— knows exactly where to curl them.

And you—

You cum so hard you have to bite your hand not to scream.

When your vision clears, he’s standing.

Panting. Wrecked.

And his thumb is wiping your tears away like he didn’t just drop you into a memory you swore you’d buried.

“You gonna tell him?” he asks softly.

You blink.

“That you let me put my mouth on what he thought was his?”

Your throat is raw. Your body is spent. Your heart is aching.

You whisper, “No.”

He nods once. That same ghost of a smile.

"Good,” he says. “Because I’m not done yet.”

He lifts you onto the marble counter like he’s done it a hundred times. Like it’s muscle memory.

Maybe it is.

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him hard—kiss him like you want him to feel it in his spine. Like you want to brand the taste of you back into his mouth.

He moans against your lips.

“Still sweet,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Fuck.”

You feel his hand between your thighs again—guiding himself through your slick, dragging the head of his cock against your folds like he’s savoring every second.

“You want me to stop?” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You tilt your hips forward instead.

He laughs softly. Bitter.

“That’s what I thought.”

He pushes in slow—achingly, possessively slow. Not because he’s gentle.

Because he wants you to feel it.

To feel him stretch you again, deep and thick and familiar in a way your body never unlearned.

Your nails dig into his back.

“Still tight,” he groans. “Still fuckin’ perfect.”

His forehead presses to yours.

You’re both panting.

“You think about this?” he murmurs. “When he’s inside you?”

You flinch. Just a little.

He drags his cock almost all the way out—then thrusts back in so deep your breath leaves your lungs.

“You think about me?”

It’s sick, what he does to you. How your body responds to him like it belongs to him.

How every thrust hits that spot he memorized with his mouth years ago. How you’re already close again, hips canting, teeth biting your lip to muffle the pathetic sounds clawing up your throat.

“Say it,” he pants. “Tell me you still want me.”

You can’t lie. Not like this.

“I do,” you whisper. “I always did.”

That breaks him.

He fucks you harder now—like he’s angry, like he’s punishing you for ever leaving, like he’s trying to carve his name into your ribcage with every stroke.

“You were never his,” he snarls. “You know that, don’t you?”

Your answer’s a choked cry when he hits deep, hands trembling as you hold onto him like he’s your last tether to Earth.

You come again—loud this time, broken. He swallows your moan with his mouth, like it fuels him.

“Gonna cum inside you,” he growls. “Let him taste me next time he touches you.”

You should say no.

You don’t.

You say, “Please.”

He fucks you through it, growling your name like a prayer and a curse all at once before he spills inside—deep—hips pressed flush, mouth against your shoulder like he wants to bite down and never let go.

For a second, neither of you moves.

You’re wrecked.

He’s shaking.

And you’re both still so in love it hurts.

You make it back to your fiancé’s apartment just before midnight.

Your hands still smell like him.

You throw your phone onto the kitchen counter and run the sink.

You scrub your palms raw.

You scrub until the skin stings and the memory fades enough to breathe.

But it doesn’t go away.

Not the ache between your legs. Not the tremble in your thighs. Not the hoarse way he said your name when he came inside you like he had every right to.

“You were never his.”

You stare at yourself in the mirror and don’t recognize the girl looking back.

Your fiancé’s asleep when you slip into bed.

His arm wraps around your waist like it always does, like he doesn’t feel the difference.

Like your body isn’t humming with someone else’s fingerprints.

“You okay?” he mumbles.

You nod. You kiss his shoulder. You lie through your teeth.

“Just tired.”

The next morning, Geto texts you.

It’s short. Simple.

Geto: You’re still mine.

You don’t answer.

You turn off your phone and try to make pancakes with your fiancé like everything’s normal.

But the eggs burn.

And your hands shake.

And when he wraps his arms around you from behind, your skin flinches before your mind can stop it.

Your fiancé leaves for work. You sit on the floor of the shower, head against the tile, knees to your chest.

Water rushes down your back.

You think about how Suguru looked at you like you were his salvation.

You think about how you came for him twice with your fiancé’s ring still on your finger.

You think about how he whispered, “Let him taste me next time he touches you,” and you moaned like it made you feel holy.

You loved Suguru Geto. You never stopped.

But loving him ruined you once.

And you can already feel it ruining you again.

The lie survives for three more days.

You try. You really do.

You laugh at your fiancé’s jokes, hold his hand at dinner, even initiate sex—if only to prove to yourself that nothing’s changed.

But it has.

His mouth doesn’t make your heart race. His fingers feel too polite. His voice doesn’t wreck you the way Geto’s did when he moaned your name into your throat.

When he asks, “Did you cum?”, you lie again.

You kiss his cheek and whisper, “Yes.”

You start dreaming of Suguru.

Of the way he used to hold you after. Of the way he kissed your temples and whispered, “You're my favorite sin.”

But the dream always ends the same:

He’s standing in the doorway, covered in blood. He’s smiling like he’s already lost you. And you wake up sweating, his name tangled in your sheets.

Geto doesn’t text again. He doesn’t have to.

He lives in your body now—planted deep, like rot under the floorboards.

You keep seeing him out of the corner of your eye: A silhouette in the reflection of a window. A shadow on the sidewalk across the street. A shape that feels too real to be imagined.

You turn your head, and it’s always gone.

But you know better.

It all cracks one evening when your fiancé is going on about wedding menus, hands scrolling through hors d’oeuvres on his tablet like everything’s perfect.

He doesn’t see the way your throat tightens. The way your chest caves. The way you’ve barely looked him in the eyes since you came back home reeking of another man’s love.

“What about fig and goat cheese crostinis?”

You blink.

“What?”

“For the reception. Your mom liked that idea, right?”

You stare at the screen. Little glassy toasts lined up like happy, tiny promises.

“They’re fine,” you say.

But your voice sounds wrong.

Too thin.

Too hollow.

“Hey,” he says softly, putting the tablet down. “Are you okay?”

You hesitate.

You almost tell him.

But then your phone buzzes.

Geto: Pick up. I won’t ask again.

You let it ring.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Your fiancé is watching you now, brow creased, that soft, thoughtful concern that used to make your heart flutter.

Now it just makes you feel sick.

You don’t answer. You silence the phone.

But he calls again.

This time, you excuse yourself. Say you’re not feeling well. Say you need a moment.

You go to the bathroom and lock the door with trembling fingers.

When you finally answer, your voice is barely a whisper.

“What do you want, Suguru?”

“You.”

The word is simple. Spoken without hesitation.

And it makes your whole body lock up.

“Stop,” you say. “Stop doing this.”

“Why?” he murmurs. “Because I make you feel something?”

Your breath catches. He hears it.

“You’re not happy,” he says. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“You don’t know anything about my life anymore.”

“Bullshit,” he growls. “I know you. That hasn’t changed.”

You press your forehead to the cold mirror and close your eyes.

“It has,” you lie. “I’ve changed.”

There’s silence for a long moment. Then:

“Yeah?” “Then why did your pussy suck me in like it missed me?”

You flinch. Your hand curls into a fist.

“Why’d you beg for it, baby?”

You hate him. You hate how much you loved it. You hate the way your thighs clench even now, just hearing his voice.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low. “Right now. I’ll disappear.”

You hesitate. The silence says more than words ever could.

“That’s what I thought.”

That night, you can’t sleep.

Not next to the man you’re supposed to marry. Not when the man you still want is whispering sin into your ear from miles away.

You lie awake until the sun rises.

Suguru doesn’t call again.

But the damage is done.

You wake up sore in your chest and between your legs—bruised by memory, haunted by the fact that you didn’t tell him to stop.

It’s three days after the phone call when the envelope appears.

Unmarked.

Slipped under the door of your office like it was never meant to be found. Like it had to be.

You open it with careful fingers.

Inside: A hotel key. Room 815. Tonight. No note. No explanation.

But you already know who sent it.

You stare at it for a long time. Long enough that your assistant knocks and asks if you’re okay.

You lie. Again.

You tuck the key into your purse like a secret and tell yourself you won’t go.

You go.

You don’t knock at first.

You stand outside the door with your heart in your throat, staring at the gold numbers like they’re going to spell out liar instead.

Then: The door opens.

He’s already inside. He knew you’d come.

He’s in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair half-tied. Eyes so dark they make your knees weaken.

Suguru doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at you like you’re the last prayer he ever said.

You step in.

He closes the door.

And everything after that comes fast.

“Say it,” he murmurs as your back hits the wall. “Say you missed me.”

Your voice cracks.

“I did.”

“Louder.”

“I missed you.”

His mouth crashes into yours like he owns it.

Clothes hit the floor like confessions. You’re breathless. Naked. Spread for him on the bed you swore you wouldn’t end up in.

But you don’t care anymore.

His mouth finds your thighs, slow and reverent, like worship.

“She still tastes like mine,” he groans, tongue dragging over your soaked folds.

You gasp his name.

His fingers press into you, knuckle-deep, slow and deliberate.

“You let him fuck you after me?”

You nod, shame flooding your chest.

“Did he fill this pretty pussy up too?”

You shake your head.

“No. No—he didn’t... I couldn’t—”

“That’s right,” he growls. “Because it’s mine.”

You come on his tongue, hips shaking, his name broken from your throat like prayer.

He flips you over. Fills you full.

Pushes deep, slow, brutal, like he’s carving his name into you all over again.

“Say you love me,” he whispers.

And you do.

You’ve never stopped.

When it’s over, he holds you like he never let go.

And for the first time in weeks, you sleep.

But the ring is still on your finger.

And morning’s coming.

You wake before him.

The curtains are cracked open—just enough to let in the gray dawn light. It paints the hotel room in soft, aching hues. Your body aches worse.

Your thighs. Your throat. Your heart.

Suguru lies beside you, one arm thrown carelessly over your waist, breathing deep. Peaceful, even. But there’s nothing peaceful inside you. Just a low, gnawing panic starting to bloom like rot beneath the ribs.

You slip out from under his arm.

Your clothes are everywhere. Your phone is still on Do Not Disturb. You check the lock screen.

Ten missed calls. Five from your fiancé. Two texts from your mother. A photo of wedding table settings you don’t remember asking for.

And beneath it all, the weight of what you’ve done curls like smoke in your chest.

You still haven’t taken off the ring.

Suguru stirs.

“Running again?”

You don’t look at him.

“I should go.”

“You always say that.”

You start pulling on your dress, the one that smells like hotel sheets and his cologne.

“He’s gonna know,” Suguru says, watching you from the bed, voice low. “You’re a shit liar when you’re guilty.”

You glare.

“I’m not guilty.”

“No?” He tilts his head. “So come back to bed.”

You freeze.

He sits up slowly, that lazy danger always simmering under his skin now sharp and focused.

“You said you loved me.”

You swallow. “I did.”

“Then stay.”

The silence feels like glass. You’re standing in the middle of it barefoot.

“Suguru,” you whisper. “You don’t get to make it sound easy.”

He rises from the bed. Doesn’t touch you. Just stands in front of you, bare-chested, beautiful, ruined.

“It is easy. You love me, I love you, and he’s not me.”

You hate how much you want to believe that.

But you also know the world outside this room is waiting—with judgment, with expectations, with a man who would never look at you the same again.

“I’m engaged.”

“And I don’t care.”

“We’re getting married in two months.”

“Then cancel it.”

Your breath catches.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I mean every word.” His voice drops, fierce. “You said he doesn’t fuck you right. You said you still think of me. You let me put my tongue inside you while you wore another man’s ring.”

You flinch.

He softens. Just a little.

“You can’t pretend I’m not yours.”

The room is still.

Your phone buzzes again.

You don’t look.

You meet Suguru’s gaze, and he’s not begging—but he’s asking.

And for once, he’s not the one haunting you.

You go home.

You tell yourself you can act normal.

You try.

But the house feels wrong. The walls are too clean. The bed too neat. The man in the kitchen smiles at you like nothing’s changed—because he doesn’t know it has.

You kiss him hello and hope he doesn’t taste someone else’s mouth on yours.

He wraps his arms around you. Tells you he missed you. Asks about your morning.

You smile.

You lie.

It doesn’t last long.

That night, you make love the way you used to—soft, sweet, slow. But you’re too quiet. Too still.

When he touches you, you close your eyes.

When he presses inside you, something tightens in your throat.

You almost say Suguru’s name.

You cum too easily. Too believably.

He looks at you differently after.

Later, you’re brushing your teeth, and he leans in the doorway.

“Did you go shopping?”

You blink. “What?”

“You smell different.”

You freeze.

“Like—perfume. Or… someone else’s cologne.”

Your stomach drops.

“Just laundry, probably,” you say too fast.

He nods, but you can see the question lingering in his eyes.

He doesn’t believe you.

He doesn’t say it.

But when he kisses you goodnight, it’s softer. Slower. Like he’s checking to see if you’ll flinch.

And you do.

The next morning, there’s coffee. Flowers in the kitchen. Your favorite breakfast on the table.

He’s trying.

He knows something’s off. He just doesn’t know what.

But he’s trying.

And the guilt starts to eat you alive.

That night, you find the hotel key again.

Still in your purse.

Still warm from your indecision.

You press it into your palm and close your eyes.

You hear Suguru’s voice again.

“You can’t pretend I’m not yours.”

You see him again.

You swore you wouldn’t. You swore he was the mistake—the one-night relapsed sin you’d bury beneath champagne toasts and wedding rings.

But Suguru is waiting.

Not outside your door. Not with flowers or fire. Just… waiting.

Like he knows you’ll come back.

And when you do, it’s not planned. It’s not a call or a text. It’s not a surrender—it’s muscle memory. It’s ache. It’s the hollow carved into your chest that only he knows how to fill.

You don’t kiss right away.

You sit.

You stare.

The silence stretches too long.

Then he says it.

“He knows, doesn’t he?”

You look down. Pick at the ring on your finger.

“Not yet.”

“He will.”

“I know.”

Suguru sighs. Drags a hand down his face.

“You don’t look scared.”

You aren’t.

You’re tired.

“I’ve been scared for months,” you whisper. “But I don’t feel scared with you.”

He blinks.

“So you came back.”

You nod.

And then, the break:

“You gonna lie to him forever?”

“I didn’t plan this—”

“You didn’t stop it either.”

His voice is harsh. Bitten.

“You didn’t have to let me kiss you. You didn’t have to come here. You didn’t have to beg me to—”

You cut him off.

“Stop.”

“Say it.”

“I can’t.”

His hands curl into fists. He doesn’t move toward you—but he’s shaking with it. Not anger.

Grief.

“You picked a ghost over a man,” he says, low. “You’ve been mourning me this whole time, haven’t you?”

You finally look up. Eyes wet.

“And you’ve been haunting me back.”

Silence.

Then—

“I’m not a ghost,” Suguru breathes. “I’m still here.”

He’s close now. Close enough to touch, to taste, to ruin you all over again.

“He doesn’t get to keep you just because he met you second.”

You kiss him.

This time it’s not about lust. It’s not about guilt.

It’s a desperate, aching plea to be known.

He presses you to the wall, breath hot, hands trembling. You wrap your legs around him like instinct. Your dress rides up. His mouth crushes into yours.

You gasp.

He groans.

“You gonna marry him still?” he hisses into your throat.

“I don’t know,” you pant.

“You gonna wear his ring while I’m inside you again?”

You choke on a sob. Not from shame—but from the sick, spiraling need to be ruined by this man.

The one who knows your worst parts and wants you anyway.

He lifts you up.

You lose track of time.

You lose track of names.

But one thing stays constant:

You don’t say his name anymore.

Only Suguru’s.

Only his.

It all comes apart the next morning.

You wake in Suguru’s bed—sheets tangled around your legs, his scent sunk deep into your skin, your thighs sticky with the memory of what you did. There’s a hollow ache in your stomach. Not from regret.

From reality.

Because your phone is full of missed calls.

From your fiancé.

And one message:

“Come home.”

You read it three times. You don’t answer.

Suguru is still asleep. Or pretending to be. His arm is heavy across your waist, his body curled around yours like a secret he’s unwilling to let go of.

You stay like that for ten more minutes.

Then you get up.

You don’t speak when you leave.

You don’t promise anything.

You don’t say goodbye.

Suguru doesn’t stop you.

But he watches you from the bed, eyes hooded and unreadable.

Not sad.

Just resigned.

As if he always knew you’d go back.

Home isn’t home anymore.

He’s waiting at the kitchen table—eyes red, hair a mess, the same clothes he wore yesterday. You wonder if he slept. You wonder if he could.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“You’re in love with him.”

The silence confirms what he already knows.

“How long has it been?”

You swallow. “Since before we got engaged.”

He laughs. A sharp, brittle thing. “So that was a lie, too.”

“No,” you say quickly. “Not a lie. Just… a layer over something I didn’t know how to kill.”

“Did you try?”

You don’t answer.

Because no. You didn’t.

You wore the ring. You kissed another man. You said yes, then you fell apart in Suguru’s arms.

“Did you fuck him again?” he asks.

The words hit like a slap.

You don’t deny it.

His hands shake.

You watch the moment his heart breaks for real.

“Why him?”

It’s not a question about sex.

It’s about everything.

The years. The intimacy. The man who saw you first and still lives in the most hidden, tender parts of your body.

“Because I’m not whole without him,” you whisper.

And that’s it.

You’ve ripped the final seam.

You don’t cry until he leaves.

You don’t cry when he throws his key on the table.

You don’t cry when he says, “Don’t come after me.”

But you do cry when you see the picture frame he left behind.

You and him.

Smiling.

Believing.

Pretending it was enough.

You text Suguru.

You don’t say much.

Just:

“It’s over.”

And one more thing:

“Do you still want me?”

His reply comes back almost instantly.

“I never stopped.”

It all comes apart the next morning.

From reality.

Because your phone is full of missed calls.

From your fiancé.

And one message:

“Come home.”

You read it three times. You don’t answer.

Suguru is still asleep. Or pretending to be. His arm is heavy across your waist, his body curled around yours like a secret he’s unwilling to let go of.

You stay like that for ten more minutes.

Then you get up.

You don’t speak when you leave.

You don’t promise anything.

You don’t say goodbye.

Suguru doesn’t stop you.

But he watches you from the bed, eyes hooded and unreadable.

Not sad.

Just resigned.

As if he always knew you’d go back.

Home isn’t home anymore.

He’s waiting at the kitchen table—eyes red, hair a mess, the same clothes he wore yesterday. You wonder if he slept. You wonder if he could.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“You’re in love with him.”

The silence confirms what he already knows.

“How long has it been?”

You swallow. “Since before we got engaged.”

He laughs. A sharp, brittle thing. “So that was a lie, too.”

“No,” you say quickly. “Not a lie. Just… a layer over something I didn’t know how to kill.”

“Did you try?”

You don’t answer.

Because no. You didn’t.

You wore the ring. You kissed another man. You said yes, then you fell apart in Suguru’s arms.

“Did you fuck him again?” he asks.

The words hit like a slap.

You don’t deny it.

His hands shake.

You watch the moment his heart breaks for real.

“Why him?”

It’s not a question about sex.

It’s about everything.

The years. The intimacy. The man who saw you first and still lives in the most hidden, tender parts of your body.

“Because I’m not whole without him,” you whisper.

And that’s it.

You’ve ripped the final seam.

You don’t cry until he leaves.

You don’t cry when he throws his key on the table.

You don’t cry when he says, “Don’t come after me.”

But you do cry when you see the picture frame he left behind.

You and him.

Smiling.

Believing.

Pretending it was enough.

You text Suguru.

You don’t say much.

Just:

“It’s over.”

And one more thing:

“Do you still want me?”

His reply comes back almost instantly.

“I never stopped.”

A year later.

There’s no ring on your finger.

No dress in a closet. No guest list. No “save the date.”

And yet, it’s the first time you’ve felt married.

To a man who knows your worst mistakes, and loves you louder because of them.

To Suguru.

You live somewhere new now.

Not the apartment you used to share with the man you left. Not Suguru’s old place with the too-small bed and the peeling ceiling paint.

This home is yours.

Big windows. Warm light. Plants that thrive because Suguru never forgets to water them. A little cat who sleeps in the curve of his back when he’s lying on the couch.

Sometimes you write.

Sometimes you just sit and exist.

He brings you tea when you forget to eat.

You kiss his forehead when he overworks himself.

And at night, when the lights are low and the world stops asking you to explain yourself— You curl into his side like a prayer finally answered.

You never expected a happy ending. Not one like this.

No revenge. No grand drama.

Just a slow, steady choice:

“I still want you.”

Suguru makes it every morning.

In the way he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder before work. In the way he reads your moods before you even speak. In the way he touches you—always like he’s asking permission, always like he already knows the answer will be yes.

Tonight, you sit on the floor in the living room, your legs thrown across his lap. The record player spins something soft. He has one hand on your calf, thumb tracing little circles.

He says, “Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if we never—”

“All the time,” you say.

“And?”

“It hurts.”

He nods.

But you lean over and kiss his jaw, press your forehead to his temple.

“But you’re here now.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I am.”

You never go back to the life you left.

Because there’s nothing there for you anymore.

Only this: A man who saw every version of you— The cruel. The coward. The liar. The lost.

And stayed.

Not out of hope.

Not out of pity.

But because when everything broke—

He still loved you.

And he always will.

#geto suguru #jjk suguru #suguru fic #i love him #jjk x you #geto suguru x reader #jjk x reader #suguru fanfic #geto x you #geto x reader #this is bonkers #fanfic

You told me your new man don't make you nut, that's a damn shame

Pairing: Suguru Geto × fem!reader

Wc: 7k

You make your bed every morning. Keep your shoes by the door. Leave a candle burning on the stovetop when you work from home.

It’s quiet here.

You tell yourself that’s a good thing.

Elias is a good man.

He’s sweet. Considerate. He brings you flowers and remembers your favorite kind of tea. He likes structure. He talks about the future with a casual kind of confidence. He never raises his voice.

You know women who would kill for a man like that. You used to be one.

But lately, every time he says “I love you,” it lands soft and cold against your skin — like a feather dipped in snow.

You say it back anyway. Because it’s easier than saying “I don’t know if I mean it anymore.”

But you haven’t felt anything in months. Not really.

You used to feel everything. Too much.

With him.

With Suguru.

It’s been almost a year. No calls. No texts. No new voicemails — not since the last one, the one you still haven’t deleted.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. Clean cut. No drama. Just two people who stopped fitting.

But some nights, when Elias is asleep next to you — chest rising, arm flung across your hip like a claim — you lie awake and remember what it felt like to be wanted.

Really wanted.

Like breath. Like violence. Like he’d tear the world apart just to taste your name on his tongue.

You shouldn’t miss him. But some ghosts don’t need haunting grounds — they live in your body, in your hunger, in the way you press your thighs together when you think too long about the past.

When the wedding invitation comes in the mail, Elias opens it.

“Our table’s near the dance floor,” he says, reading off the RSVP. “Think you’ll wear that navy dress?”

You hum. Sip your tea. Stare at the gold-embossed names on the envelope.

You already said yes. Even though part of you knew the odds.

Even though you haven’t changed your number. Even though you felt that old familiar ache curl up in your chest the second you held the invite in your hands.

He probably won’t be there. He wouldn’t.

But the thought settles under your ribs anyway.

Because if he is — God help you.

You didn’t mean to put on this lipstick.

And today, without thinking, you reached for it. Painted it on with shaking hands.

You should change. You should scrub it off.

But instead, you just stare at yourself in the mirror. Dress zipped. Perfume soft. Eyes a little too wide.

“Ready?” Elias calls from the hallway, adjusting the cuff of his dress shirt.

You blink. Nod. Say yes before the word even touches your chest.

The ride to the venue is full of soft music and shallow conversation.

Elias talks about the guest list. Who might be there. What the dinner options are.

You murmur back. Smile when you’re supposed to. Pretend to scroll through your phone.

But your heart’s already racing.

Because it hits you — for real, for the first time — that he could be here.

Suguru.

Geto.

Him.

And you don’t know what you’ll do if you see him again. You don’t know what you’ll do if you don’t.

The venue is gorgeous.

People smile at you. Hug you. Comment on your dress. Say things like “You two look so good together,” and Elias beams, squeezes your hand.

You feel it like rope burn.

You smile. You laugh. You drink the champagne someone hands you even though it makes your throat tight.

And then someone says:

“Did you hear Geto’s back in town?”

Just a whisper. A casual drop. Like he’s nothing but a name in passing.

You feel it in your knees.

He’s not here. Not yet.

You check for him anyway. Scan every face. Look over every shoulder.

You excuse yourself. Head to the bathroom. Lock yourself in the stall and press your forehead against the cool wall.

You’re being ridiculous. You know that.

But your body knows things before your mind admits them.

And it knows — somehow — that he’s coming.

You reapply the lipstick before you go back out.

The same one.

You don’t even think twice.

Because some part of you still wants him to notice. Even after all this time. Even after everything.

Especially after everything.

You don’t see him walk in. But you feel it.

Something changes. The temperature shifts. The air pulls tighter across your ribs. And when you glance up — mid-conversation, mid-fake laugh, mid-numb — your body goes still.

He’s across the room. Standing half in shadow. Hands tucked in the pockets of a suit so well-cut it makes your mouth go dry.

Suguru Geto.

But God, you’ve seen him. And that’s enough to undo everything you’ve spent the last year stitching together.

He shouldn’t be here.

You weren’t supposed to run into him again. Not in this lifetime. He was gone. Out of the country. Out of your orbit. That was the deal, right?

You’d both walk away.

He with his quiet bitterness, you with your ring. He told you: “Don’t let me ruin you.”

You told him: “Too late.”

The room tilts when his eyes find you.

Like he’s been waiting for the moment. Like nothing else in the space exists anymore.

You don’t look away.

You can’t.

His gaze is heavy, unblinking. He drinks you in like it’s the first time and the last. The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything soft.

You know that look. He used to give it to you in hotel doorways. At red lights. In bed, just before he said something that ruined you for hours.

Elias says something at your side. You nod, delayed, a half-second too slow.

Suguru notices.

Of course he does.

He doesn’t come over. Not yet.

You excuse yourself. Again.

Bathroom, terrace, hallway — anywhere. You need to breathe.

Need to think.

But when you press your palms to the marble counter and meet your own eyes in the mirror again, all you can see is him behind your shoulder.

Even if he’s not there.

You don’t hear him. You feel him.

Before a word is spoken. Before the silence shifts. He’s behind you — the mirror tells you that much.

He stands just outside the bathroom doorway, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to enter this version of your life. Like he’s trying to be respectful.

Like he remembers what it felt like to hold you and still not be allowed to keep you.

His voice is soft when it breaks the air.

“You still wear that lipstick.”

You freeze.

Slowly — too slowly — you lift your gaze to the mirror again. And there he is, reflected in pieces: collarbone, throat, tired eyes.

He looks older.

Not in a bad way. Just like time’s actually been passing for him, too.

You swallow. Grip the sink like it might anchor you.

“Didn’t realize you were watching me that close.”

He lets out a dry breath — not quite a laugh.

“Always did.”

The silence swells between you.

It’s not awkward. Not really.

It’s intimate. Dangerous. Familiar in that terrifying way that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t look at him directly. You can’t.

Because you know what’s in his eyes. The same thing that’s been waking you up in the middle of the night with your hand between your thighs and his name bitten into your pillow.

“You look good,” he says.

You snort, short and sharp.

“You always say that when you’re trying to mess with my head.”

“I meant it then, too.”

He takes one slow step closer. Not touching. Just filling the air.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” you murmur.

“Didn’t think you’d come with him.”

That makes your spine straighten.

You turn to face him. Finally. And he looks right at you.

Not at your mouth. Not at the curve of your waist or the ring on your finger.

Just you. Raw and real.

“He makes you happy?”

It’s not a challenge. Not even bitter.

It’s worse.

It’s genuine.

Your throat tightens.

“He tries.”

Suguru’s jaw clenches. His gaze drops, just for a second.

“But it’s work. Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

He steps closer. Just a breath away now.

“You still think about it?” he asks.

Your heart is in your ears. Your tongue is heavy behind your teeth.

He leans in — doesn’t touch you. Just speaks low against your cheek, voice wrecked.

“The way I touched you. The way you used to cum for me like it hurt.”

You inhale. Sharp. Feel the tremble in your legs.

“That night,” he continues, “you said no one had ever made you feel like that before.”

His breath ghosts your jaw.

“That still true?”

You should walk away.

You should. You know that.

But your body doesn’t move. Because what hurts most — more than his voice, more than the way he looks at you like he still loves you — is that part of you never wanted to stop loving him.

He pulls back — just enough to meet your eyes.

“Tell me to leave, and I will.”

You look up at him.

At the boy who broke you. At the man you still want to belong to.

Your lips part. No words come.

Because for once, your mouth can’t lie.

You don’t say it.

You don’t tell him to leave.

And that’s all the answer he needs.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly.

And you don’t disagree. You can’t.

Because your heart is pounding and your body’s already leaning toward him like it remembers the way he used to love you— with reverence, with ruin.

You whisper, “No. But you are.”

When his fingers brush your wrist, it’s feather-light. A test.

When you don’t pull away, he takes your hand—warmer than you remember, calloused from a life you don’t get to see anymore.

He looks down at your ring.

His thumb pauses on it.

Then, softly:

“Does he know?”

You almost laugh. It’s bitter.

“Know what?”

“That when you cum, you say my name.”

Your breath stutters out of you.

“That you still dream about me in your wedding bed.”

He steps closer, slow, like a tide rolling in.

“That he’ll never know what it’s like to have your legs shaking around his head.”

You close your eyes. Try to breathe.

It doesn’t work.

“I think about it, too,” he whispers. “Still. All the time.”

“That night in Kyoto. The look on your face. The way you begged.”

He leans in.

“You still beg like that?”

You kiss him.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t.

But your mouth finds his like it always did—desperate and greedy, heat blooming under your skin like you’re nineteen again and the world still ends with him.

His hands frame your jaw like you’re something breakable. You pull him closer like you’re already broken.

There’s no space between your bodies now.

No restraint.

No guilt, not yet.

Only the unbearable weight of finally.

He pushes you gently against the sink.

The marble’s cool against your back, but his hands are warm—one on your waist, the other in your hair.

He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the last thing worth saving.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you missed me.”

You gasp against his lips, nails digging into his shoulder.

“I missed you.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

You say it again.

And again.

Until you’re not just whispering it into his mouth—you’re crying it into his hands.

His mouth trails down your neck, slow and reverent. You tilt your head back, baring your throat like something sacred.

“God,” he breathes, “I hated knowing he got to see you like this.”

He kisses the hollow of your throat.

“Soft.”

Another kiss.

“Vulnerable.”

Another, lower.

“Mine.”

Your dress is hiked up. Your lipstick is ruined. And the man you almost married is on his knees on the tile like it’s worship.

Suguru’s hands slide up your thighs, slow and steady like he has all the time in the world to relearn you. But his eyes—God, his eyes are starving.

“You’re shaking.”

You are. Not from fear. From want.

From memory.

From the way his breath grazes the inside of your thigh when he murmurs, “Still so sensitive for me?”

You thread your fingers through his hair before you realize what you’re doing. He looks up at you from between your legs— dark lashes, darker gaze, mouth parted.

“I dreamt about this,” he says, voice low. “Night after night.”

He kisses the inside of your knee.

“You, right here.”

Higher.

“Pretty and needy.”

His fingers press into your hips.

“Open for me, like you never forgot who made you cum the hardest.”

Your breath stutters.

You want to say something smart. Cold. Cruel, maybe.

But then his mouth is on you.

And nothing exists but the wet heat of his tongue, the way he groans when he tastes you—like he’s the one unraveling.

Your knees nearly buckle.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathes, mouth slick with you. “Let me make you forget him.”

He licks you slow, then fast. Circles that spot he always knew, right until your hips jerk forward and your hands fist in his hair.

“Still so fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters. “Still mine.”

He doesn’t stop when you cry out.

Doesn’t stop when your thighs tremble around his ears. If anything, he leans in.

Sucks.

Drags you apart with his mouth until you’re gasping his name—over and over—like it’s the only one that’s ever mattered.

“Please, Suguru—”

You choke on it.

He groans.

“Fuck, I missed that.”

He pushes two fingers inside— knows exactly where to curl them.

And you—

You cum so hard you have to bite your hand not to scream.

When your vision clears, he’s standing.

Panting. Wrecked.

And his thumb is wiping your tears away like he didn’t just drop you into a memory you swore you’d buried.

“You gonna tell him?” he asks softly.

You blink.

“That you let me put my mouth on what he thought was his?”

Your throat is raw. Your body is spent. Your heart is aching.

You whisper, “No.”

He nods once. That same ghost of a smile.

"Good,” he says. “Because I’m not done yet.”

He lifts you onto the marble counter like he’s done it a hundred times. Like it’s muscle memory.

Maybe it is.

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him hard—kiss him like you want him to feel it in his spine. Like you want to brand the taste of you back into his mouth.

He moans against your lips.

“Still sweet,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Fuck.”

You feel his hand between your thighs again—guiding himself through your slick, dragging the head of his cock against your folds like he’s savoring every second.

“You want me to stop?” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You tilt your hips forward instead.

He laughs softly. Bitter.

“That’s what I thought.”

He pushes in slow—achingly, possessively slow. Not because he’s gentle.

Because he wants you to feel it.

To feel him stretch you again, deep and thick and familiar in a way your body never unlearned.

Your nails dig into his back.

“Still tight,” he groans. “Still fuckin’ perfect.”

His forehead presses to yours.

You’re both panting.

“You think about this?” he murmurs. “When he’s inside you?”

You flinch. Just a little.

He drags his cock almost all the way out—then thrusts back in so deep your breath leaves your lungs.

“You think about me?”

It’s sick, what he does to you. How your body responds to him like it belongs to him.

How every thrust hits that spot he memorized with his mouth years ago. How you’re already close again, hips canting, teeth biting your lip to muffle the pathetic sounds clawing up your throat.

“Say it,” he pants. “Tell me you still want me.”

You can’t lie. Not like this.

“I do,” you whisper. “I always did.”

That breaks him.

He fucks you harder now—like he’s angry, like he’s punishing you for ever leaving, like he’s trying to carve his name into your ribcage with every stroke.

“You were never his,” he snarls. “You know that, don’t you?”

Your answer’s a choked cry when he hits deep, hands trembling as you hold onto him like he’s your last tether to Earth.

You come again—loud this time, broken. He swallows your moan with his mouth, like it fuels him.

“Gonna cum inside you,” he growls. “Let him taste me next time he touches you.”

You should say no.

You don’t.

You say, “Please.”

For a second, neither of you moves.

You’re wrecked.

He’s shaking.

And you’re both still so in love it hurts.

You make it back to your fiancé’s apartment just before midnight.

Your hands still smell like him.

You throw your phone onto the kitchen counter and run the sink.

You scrub your palms raw.

You scrub until the skin stings and the memory fades enough to breathe.

But it doesn’t go away.

Not the ache between your legs. Not the tremble in your thighs. Not the hoarse way he said your name when he came inside you like he had every right to.

“You were never his.”

You stare at yourself in the mirror and don’t recognize the girl looking back.

Your fiancé’s asleep when you slip into bed.

His arm wraps around your waist like it always does, like he doesn’t feel the difference.

Like your body isn’t humming with someone else’s fingerprints.

“You okay?” he mumbles.

You nod. You kiss his shoulder. You lie through your teeth.

“Just tired.”

The next morning, Geto texts you.

It’s short. Simple.

Geto: You’re still mine.

You don’t answer.

You turn off your phone and try to make pancakes with your fiancé like everything’s normal.

But the eggs burn.

And your hands shake.

And when he wraps his arms around you from behind, your skin flinches before your mind can stop it.

Your fiancé leaves for work. You sit on the floor of the shower, head against the tile, knees to your chest.

Water rushes down your back.

You think about how Suguru looked at you like you were his salvation.

You think about how you came for him twice with your fiancé’s ring still on your finger.

You think about how he whispered, “Let him taste me next time he touches you,” and you moaned like it made you feel holy.

You loved Suguru Geto. You never stopped.

But loving him ruined you once.

And you can already feel it ruining you again.

The lie survives for three more days.

You try. You really do.

You laugh at your fiancé’s jokes, hold his hand at dinner, even initiate sex—if only to prove to yourself that nothing’s changed.

But it has.

His mouth doesn’t make your heart race. His fingers feel too polite. His voice doesn’t wreck you the way Geto’s did when he moaned your name into your throat.

When he asks, “Did you cum?”, you lie again.

You kiss his cheek and whisper, “Yes.”

You start dreaming of Suguru.

Of the way he used to hold you after. Of the way he kissed your temples and whispered, “You're my favorite sin.”

But the dream always ends the same:

He’s standing in the doorway, covered in blood. He’s smiling like he’s already lost you. And you wake up sweating, his name tangled in your sheets.

Geto doesn’t text again. He doesn’t have to.

He lives in your body now—planted deep, like rot under the floorboards.

You keep seeing him out of the corner of your eye: A silhouette in the reflection of a window. A shadow on the sidewalk across the street. A shape that feels too real to be imagined.

You turn your head, and it’s always gone.

But you know better.

It all cracks one evening when your fiancé is going on about wedding menus, hands scrolling through hors d’oeuvres on his tablet like everything’s perfect.

He doesn’t see the way your throat tightens. The way your chest caves. The way you’ve barely looked him in the eyes since you came back home reeking of another man’s love.

“What about fig and goat cheese crostinis?”

You blink.

“What?”

“For the reception. Your mom liked that idea, right?”

You stare at the screen. Little glassy toasts lined up like happy, tiny promises.

“They’re fine,” you say.

But your voice sounds wrong.

Too thin.

Too hollow.

“Hey,” he says softly, putting the tablet down. “Are you okay?”

You hesitate.

You almost tell him.

But then your phone buzzes.

Geto: Pick up. I won’t ask again.

You let it ring.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Your fiancé is watching you now, brow creased, that soft, thoughtful concern that used to make your heart flutter.

Now it just makes you feel sick.

You don’t answer. You silence the phone.

But he calls again.

This time, you excuse yourself. Say you’re not feeling well. Say you need a moment.

You go to the bathroom and lock the door with trembling fingers.

When you finally answer, your voice is barely a whisper.

“What do you want, Suguru?”

“You.”

The word is simple. Spoken without hesitation.

And it makes your whole body lock up.

“Stop,” you say. “Stop doing this.”

“Why?” he murmurs. “Because I make you feel something?”

Your breath catches. He hears it.

“You’re not happy,” he says. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“You don’t know anything about my life anymore.”

“Bullshit,” he growls. “I know you. That hasn’t changed.”

You press your forehead to the cold mirror and close your eyes.

“It has,” you lie. “I’ve changed.”

There’s silence for a long moment. Then:

“Yeah?” “Then why did your pussy suck me in like it missed me?”

You flinch. Your hand curls into a fist.

“Why’d you beg for it, baby?”

You hate him. You hate how much you loved it. You hate the way your thighs clench even now, just hearing his voice.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low. “Right now. I’ll disappear.”

You hesitate. The silence says more than words ever could.

“That’s what I thought.”

That night, you can’t sleep.

Not next to the man you’re supposed to marry. Not when the man you still want is whispering sin into your ear from miles away.

You lie awake until the sun rises.

Suguru doesn’t call again.

But the damage is done.

You wake up sore in your chest and between your legs—bruised by memory, haunted by the fact that you didn’t tell him to stop.

It’s three days after the phone call when the envelope appears.

Unmarked.

Slipped under the door of your office like it was never meant to be found. Like it had to be.

You open it with careful fingers.

Inside: A hotel key. Room 815. Tonight. No note. No explanation.

But you already know who sent it.

You stare at it for a long time. Long enough that your assistant knocks and asks if you’re okay.

You lie. Again.

You tuck the key into your purse like a secret and tell yourself you won’t go.

You go.

You don’t knock at first.

You stand outside the door with your heart in your throat, staring at the gold numbers like they’re going to spell out liar instead.

Then: The door opens.

He’s already inside. He knew you’d come.

He’s in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair half-tied. Eyes so dark they make your knees weaken.

Suguru doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at you like you’re the last prayer he ever said.

You step in.

He closes the door.

And everything after that comes fast.

“Say it,” he murmurs as your back hits the wall. “Say you missed me.”

Your voice cracks.

“I did.”

“Louder.”

“I missed you.”

His mouth crashes into yours like he owns it.

Clothes hit the floor like confessions. You’re breathless. Naked. Spread for him on the bed you swore you wouldn’t end up in.

But you don’t care anymore.

His mouth finds your thighs, slow and reverent, like worship.

“She still tastes like mine,” he groans, tongue dragging over your soaked folds.

You gasp his name.

His fingers press into you, knuckle-deep, slow and deliberate.

“You let him fuck you after me?”

You nod, shame flooding your chest.

“Did he fill this pretty pussy up too?”

You shake your head.

“No. No—he didn’t... I couldn’t—”

“That’s right,” he growls. “Because it’s mine.”

You come on his tongue, hips shaking, his name broken from your throat like prayer.

He flips you over. Fills you full.

Pushes deep, slow, brutal, like he’s carving his name into you all over again.

“Say you love me,” he whispers.

And you do.

You’ve never stopped.

When it’s over, he holds you like he never let go.

And for the first time in weeks, you sleep.

But the ring is still on your finger.

And morning’s coming.

You wake before him.

The curtains are cracked open—just enough to let in the gray dawn light. It paints the hotel room in soft, aching hues. Your body aches worse.

Your thighs. Your throat. Your heart.

You slip out from under his arm.

Your clothes are everywhere. Your phone is still on Do Not Disturb. You check the lock screen.

Ten missed calls. Five from your fiancé. Two texts from your mother. A photo of wedding table settings you don’t remember asking for.

And beneath it all, the weight of what you’ve done curls like smoke in your chest.

You still haven’t taken off the ring.

Suguru stirs.

“Running again?”

You don’t look at him.

“I should go.”

“You always say that.”

You start pulling on your dress, the one that smells like hotel sheets and his cologne.

“He’s gonna know,” Suguru says, watching you from the bed, voice low. “You’re a shit liar when you’re guilty.”

You glare.

“I’m not guilty.”

“No?” He tilts his head. “So come back to bed.”

You freeze.

He sits up slowly, that lazy danger always simmering under his skin now sharp and focused.

“You said you loved me.”

You swallow. “I did.”

“Then stay.”

The silence feels like glass. You’re standing in the middle of it barefoot.

“Suguru,” you whisper. “You don’t get to make it sound easy.”

He rises from the bed. Doesn’t touch you. Just stands in front of you, bare-chested, beautiful, ruined.

“It is easy. You love me, I love you, and he’s not me.”

You hate how much you want to believe that.

But you also know the world outside this room is waiting—with judgment, with expectations, with a man who would never look at you the same again.

“I’m engaged.”

“And I don’t care.”

“We’re getting married in two months.”

“Then cancel it.”

Your breath catches.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I mean every word.” His voice drops, fierce. “You said he doesn’t fuck you right. You said you still think of me. You let me put my tongue inside you while you wore another man’s ring.”

You flinch.

He softens. Just a little.

“You can’t pretend I’m not yours.”

The room is still.

Your phone buzzes again.

You don’t look.

You meet Suguru’s gaze, and he’s not begging—but he’s asking.

And for once, he’s not the one haunting you.

You go home.

You tell yourself you can act normal.

You try.

But the house feels wrong. The walls are too clean. The bed too neat. The man in the kitchen smiles at you like nothing’s changed—because he doesn’t know it has.

You kiss him hello and hope he doesn’t taste someone else’s mouth on yours.

He wraps his arms around you. Tells you he missed you. Asks about your morning.

You smile.

You lie.

It doesn’t last long.

That night, you make love the way you used to—soft, sweet, slow. But you’re too quiet. Too still.

When he touches you, you close your eyes.

When he presses inside you, something tightens in your throat.

You almost say Suguru’s name.

You cum too easily. Too believably.

He looks at you differently after.

Later, you’re brushing your teeth, and he leans in the doorway.

“Did you go shopping?”

You blink. “What?”

“You smell different.”

You freeze.

“Like—perfume. Or… someone else’s cologne.”

Your stomach drops.

“Just laundry, probably,” you say too fast.

He nods, but you can see the question lingering in his eyes.

He doesn’t believe you.

He doesn’t say it.

But when he kisses you goodnight, it’s softer. Slower. Like he’s checking to see if you’ll flinch.

And you do.

The next morning, there’s coffee. Flowers in the kitchen. Your favorite breakfast on the table.

He’s trying.

He knows something’s off. He just doesn’t know what.

But he’s trying.

And the guilt starts to eat you alive.

That night, you find the hotel key again.

Still in your purse.

Still warm from your indecision.

You press it into your palm and close your eyes.

You hear Suguru’s voice again.

“You can’t pretend I’m not yours.”

You see him again.

You swore you wouldn’t. You swore he was the mistake—the one-night relapsed sin you’d bury beneath champagne toasts and wedding rings.

But Suguru is waiting.

Not outside your door. Not with flowers or fire. Just… waiting.

Like he knows you’ll come back.

And when you do, it’s not planned. It’s not a call or a text. It’s not a surrender—it’s muscle memory. It’s ache. It’s the hollow carved into your chest that only he knows how to fill.

You don’t kiss right away.

You sit.

You stare.

The silence stretches too long.

Then he says it.

“He knows, doesn’t he?”

You look down. Pick at the ring on your finger.

“Not yet.”

“He will.”

“I know.”

Suguru sighs. Drags a hand down his face.

“You don’t look scared.”

You aren’t.

You’re tired.

“I’ve been scared for months,” you whisper. “But I don’t feel scared with you.”

He blinks.

“So you came back.”

You nod.

And then, the break:

“You gonna lie to him forever?”

“I didn’t plan this—”

“You didn’t stop it either.”

His voice is harsh. Bitten.

“You didn’t have to let me kiss you. You didn’t have to come here. You didn’t have to beg me to—”

You cut him off.

“Stop.”

“Say it.”

“I can’t.”

His hands curl into fists. He doesn’t move toward you—but he’s shaking with it. Not anger.

Grief.

“You picked a ghost over a man,” he says, low. “You’ve been mourning me this whole time, haven’t you?”

You finally look up. Eyes wet.

“And you’ve been haunting me back.”

Silence.

Then—

“I’m not a ghost,” Suguru breathes. “I’m still here.”

He’s close now. Close enough to touch, to taste, to ruin you all over again.

“He doesn’t get to keep you just because he met you second.”

You kiss him.

This time it’s not about lust. It’s not about guilt.

It’s a desperate, aching plea to be known.

He presses you to the wall, breath hot, hands trembling. You wrap your legs around him like instinct. Your dress rides up. His mouth crushes into yours.

You gasp.

He groans.

“You gonna marry him still?” he hisses into your throat.

“I don’t know,” you pant.

“You gonna wear his ring while I’m inside you again?”

You choke on a sob. Not from shame—but from the sick, spiraling need to be ruined by this man.

The one who knows your worst parts and wants you anyway.

He lifts you up.

You lose track of time.

You lose track of names.

But one thing stays constant:

You don’t say his name anymore.

Only Suguru’s.

Only his.

It all comes apart the next morning.

From reality.

Because your phone is full of missed calls.

From your fiancé.

And one message:

“Come home.”

You read it three times. You don’t answer.

Suguru is still asleep. Or pretending to be. His arm is heavy across your waist, his body curled around yours like a secret he’s unwilling to let go of.

You stay like that for ten more minutes.

Then you get up.

You don’t speak when you leave.

You don’t promise anything.

You don’t say goodbye.

Suguru doesn’t stop you.

But he watches you from the bed, eyes hooded and unreadable.

Not sad.

Just resigned.

As if he always knew you’d go back.

Home isn’t home anymore.

He’s waiting at the kitchen table—eyes red, hair a mess, the same clothes he wore yesterday. You wonder if he slept. You wonder if he could.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“You’re in love with him.”

The silence confirms what he already knows.

“How long has it been?”

You swallow. “Since before we got engaged.”

He laughs. A sharp, brittle thing. “So that was a lie, too.”

“No,” you say quickly. “Not a lie. Just… a layer over something I didn’t know how to kill.”

“Did you try?”

You don’t answer.

Because no. You didn’t.

You wore the ring. You kissed another man. You said yes, then you fell apart in Suguru’s arms.

“Did you fuck him again?” he asks.

The words hit like a slap.

You don’t deny it.

His hands shake.

You watch the moment his heart breaks for real.

“Why him?”

It’s not a question about sex.

It’s about everything.

The years. The intimacy. The man who saw you first and still lives in the most hidden, tender parts of your body.

“Because I’m not whole without him,” you whisper.

And that’s it.

You’ve ripped the final seam.

You don’t cry until he leaves.

You don’t cry when he throws his key on the table.

You don’t cry when he says, “Don’t come after me.”

But you do cry when you see the picture frame he left behind.

You and him.

Smiling.

Believing.

Pretending it was enough.

You text Suguru.

You don’t say much.

Just:

“It’s over.”

And one more thing:

“Do you still want me?”

His reply comes back almost instantly.

“I never stopped.”

It all comes apart the next morning.

From reality.

Because your phone is full of missed calls.

From your fiancé.

And one message:

“Come home.”

You read it three times. You don’t answer.

Suguru is still asleep. Or pretending to be. His arm is heavy across your waist, his body curled around yours like a secret he’s unwilling to let go of.

You stay like that for ten more minutes.

Then you get up.

You don’t speak when you leave.

You don’t promise anything.

You don’t say goodbye.

Suguru doesn’t stop you.

But he watches you from the bed, eyes hooded and unreadable.

Not sad.

Just resigned.

As if he always knew you’d go back.

Home isn’t home anymore.

He’s waiting at the kitchen table—eyes red, hair a mess, the same clothes he wore yesterday. You wonder if he slept. You wonder if he could.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“You’re in love with him.”

The silence confirms what he already knows.

“How long has it been?”

You swallow. “Since before we got engaged.”

He laughs. A sharp, brittle thing. “So that was a lie, too.”

“No,” you say quickly. “Not a lie. Just… a layer over something I didn’t know how to kill.”

“Did you try?”

You don’t answer.

Because no. You didn’t.

You wore the ring. You kissed another man. You said yes, then you fell apart in Suguru’s arms.

“Did you fuck him again?” he asks.

The words hit like a slap.

You don’t deny it.

His hands shake.

You watch the moment his heart breaks for real.

“Why him?”

It’s not a question about sex.

It’s about everything.

The years. The intimacy. The man who saw you first and still lives in the most hidden, tender parts of your body.

“Because I’m not whole without him,” you whisper.

And that’s it.

You’ve ripped the final seam.

You don’t cry until he leaves.

You don’t cry when he throws his key on the table.

You don’t cry when he says, “Don’t come after me.”

But you do cry when you see the picture frame he left behind.

You and him.

Smiling.

Believing.

Pretending it was enough.

You text Suguru.

You don’t say much.

Just:

“It’s over.”

And one more thing:

“Do you still want me?”

His reply comes back almost instantly.

“I never stopped.”

A year later.

There’s no ring on your finger.

No dress in a closet. No guest list. No “save the date.”

And yet, it’s the first time you’ve felt married.

To a man who knows your worst mistakes, and loves you louder because of them.

To Suguru.

You live somewhere new now.

Not the apartment you used to share with the man you left. Not Suguru’s old place with the too-small bed and the peeling ceiling paint.

This home is yours.

Big windows. Warm light. Plants that thrive because Suguru never forgets to water them. A little cat who sleeps in the curve of his back when he’s lying on the couch.

Sometimes you write.

Sometimes you just sit and exist.

He brings you tea when you forget to eat.

You kiss his forehead when he overworks himself.

And at night, when the lights are low and the world stops asking you to explain yourself— You curl into his side like a prayer finally answered.

You never expected a happy ending. Not one like this.

No revenge. No grand drama.

Just a slow, steady choice:

“I still want you.”

Suguru makes it every morning.

Tonight, you sit on the floor in the living room, your legs thrown across his lap. The record player spins something soft. He has one hand on your calf, thumb tracing little circles.

He says, “Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if we never—”

“All the time,” you say.

“And?”

“It hurts.”

He nods.

But you lean over and kiss his jaw, press your forehead to his temple.

“But you’re here now.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I am.”

You never go back to the life you left.

Because there’s nothing there for you anymore.

Only this: A man who saw every version of you— The cruel. The coward. The liar. The lost.

And stayed.

Not out of hope.

Not out of pity.

But because when everything broke—

He still loved you.

And he always will.

#geto suguru #jjk suguru #suguru fic #i love him #jjk x you #geto suguru x reader #jjk x reader #suguru fanfic #geto x you #geto x reader #this is bonkers #fanfic

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