| Trigger Warning: Graphic Violence, gore, Murder, Phycological manipulation, Abuse of power, explicit sexual content, and coercive dynamics
| Cult Suguru Geto x Reader
A jagged, high-pitched wail ripped through headquarters, rattling off the concrete walls before fading into a wet, choking gurgle.
Right in the middle of the hall, Suguru Geto stood with his hands tucked into his sleeves, looking as calm as someone just watching the tide roll in. At his feet, the “monkey” who’d leaked information barely looked human anymore. He was just raw flesh, torn open and oozing.
“It’s simple math,” Geto said, his voice barely above the steady drip of blood on the floor. He didn’t bother looking down. His eyes stayed fixed on the line of subordinates huddled against the far wall, shaking. “Loyalty is the oxygen here. You breathe it—or you choke.”
A cursed spirit, all thin and see-through, flicked a blade-like arm with precision. Another piece of flesh slipped away. The traitor’s severed fingers lay all over the floor, tossed aside like empty shells.
Geto watched a bead of sweat creep down the face of a nearby guard. The air felt thick, heavy with that iron-sweet stench, like a butcher’s shop left open too long. After a moment, Geto’s eyes glazed over, the spirit’s cutting just a dull, endless tick in the background.
He sighed, tired and bored, then turned on his heel, his robe’s silk whispering over the floor.
“Finish carving him up,” Geto said over his shoulder, already heading for the light pooling at the exit. “Once he stops twitching, throw what’s left out on the curb. I’m losing my appetite.”
The reception hall reeked of high-grade incense. Honestly, it cut straight through the stale, rotting pressure my family had been dragging behind us for months. It felt real—like a heavy, cold hand pressed against our necks, making us stoop and blanching my mother’s hair before she’d earned any gray.
We came hunting for a miracle worker. Every stall in the local market whispered about a man who could lift those “unseen burdens.” I imagined a hermit — someone old, worn down by all the spiritual grime, with paper-thin skin and cataract-clouded eyes.
When the doors slid open, though, that wasn’t who walked in.
He wasn’t old. Not hunched. He was tall, almost sculpted. Suguru Geto moved with this quiet, predatory elegance. His dark hair fell over immaculate robes, and for a second, he looked less like someone banishing curses and more like a god visiting muck.
Suguru looked over our small, huddled group. To him, we weren’t people; we were just monkeys. He saw the curse leeching on us — this bloated thing with too many eyes, feeding on our common worries and boring heartbreaks. A pathetic bastard, really, and we were too feeble to swipe it off. That familiar wave of disgust came over him, a sick taste — like cleaning up someone else’s vomit — settling at the back of his throat.
He was about to start the usual routine, gentle lies that kept his collection plate full for his real family. But then, while his gaze moved from the trembling parents, it landed on the kid between them.
The kid wasn’t trembling.
The parents stared at their shoes, desperate and meek, but this one looked Suguru straight in the eye. There was something there — not terrified and dull, but sharp, searching, like he saw right through the pious act filling the room.
Suguru cocked his head, the hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. The stink of the monkey lingered, sure, but under the curse’s muck, there was something else. A rhythm, maybe. Possibility.
“Step forward,” Geto said, his voice silky and unyielding. “Let’s see what kind of rot’s infected your home.”
He didn’t bother with the parents. His eyes stayed locked on the one who stared back. For the first time all afternoon, Suguru Geto felt awake.
The floorboards were ice-cold under your feet as you stepped away from your parents, who huddled together, trembling in the shadows. That crushing pressure in your chest—the same one that made your father catch his breath and your mother’s hands tremble—drew back just a bit in front of this man.
You’d expected some hunched old monk, shriveled under the weight of everyone’s sins. But instead, you met the eyes of a man who seemed like he’d conquered the world. Suguru Geto stared at you; his narrowed eyes were almost black holes, set in a pale, immaculate face.
You did as he told you, stopping a few steps from his raised seat. Now the scent of sandalwood felt smothering. Behind you, the curse—the invisible, many-armed horror—spat and hissed in your mind. It was scared of him. Completely terrified.
Geto leaned forward, chin propped on a gloved hand. He didn’t spare your burden the gentle pity a doctor shows a patient. Instead, his look was hungry, clinical—a man sizing up a piece of fruit, wondering if it’s worth peeling.
But suddenly, his gaze snapped to you. He quit staring at the monster and locked eyes with you.
“You’ve carried this for a while,” he said, voice silky and sharp all at once. “Most people in your position break. They collapse, turn into shells babbling in the dark. But here you are. Standing tall. Looking right back at me.”
He watched you with something that wasn’t kindness—more like predatory curiosity. Your parents barely existed in his mind, just faint background noise, the chatter of people he barely tolerated for his cause. You, though, you weren’t what he expected.
“Tell me,” he said, lips curling into a sly, dangerous grin, “Does it hurt? Or have you gotten used to it? Humans hang onto their suffering because they’re afraid of how light life feels without it.”
He stood, towering, casting a sharp, sprawling shadow over you. As he came down the steps, everything went still. That awful burden on your back went limp—frozen just by him getting close.
He reached out, fingers hovering close to your temple. He hadn’t touched you yet, but you could feel power humming off him, so overwhelming it made your curse feel tiny and weak.
“I could take it away in a moment,” he whispered, eyes searching your face for a crack, a twitch, any sign of what was really inside. “But if I wipe it out, what would be left of you? Just something ordinary, or something… useful?”
The silence in the room turned heavy—so thick you could almost feel it pressing in on you. Your parents just froze, mouths open, desperate for words that wouldn’t come. And you… you didn’t say anything. You just stared back. No forced “thank you,” no rushed excuse. The emptiness of it buzzed between all of you.
Geto’s smile didn’t fade; it just got sharper. He looked you over, his eyes stopping on that quiet stubbornness of yours, then let out a soft, lilting laugh.
“Neither, I suppose,” he said, voice low and full of some twisted amusement.
He didn’t ask for permission. He just flicked his wrist, reaching into the space right over your shoulder and—god, it was so sudden—a jolt yanked at something deep inside you. Not your clothes. Deeper. Like someone hooked your chest then tore upward.
And then, that weight you’d been drowning under for months—the icy, miserable feeling that turned home into a tomb—vanished. Just like that.
Relief crashed into you so hard your knees nearly gave out. For the first time in forever, you could actually breathe. No more itching inside your head. No shadowy eyes creeping along the ceiling. Just air.
Now Geto held the thing—your nightmare squeezed down into a pulsing black marble in his palm, trapped behind his long fingers. It twitched and throbbed with a sickly light, but that was all it could do.
He turned it in the light, like he was inspecting some cheap trinket. “Such a heavy burden for such a small, pathetic thing,” he spat, his voice sharp with disgust.
He barely glanced at your parents, even as they sagged into each other, sobbing with relief. His focus stayed on you. He wanted to see what you did now—now that the pressure was gone. Would you fall apart, or finally stand up straight?
He moved with that easy confidence, raising the black orb to his mouth, never breaking eye contact. He was waiting. He wanted to see if this final show—this little “exorcism”—would finally make you flinch.
You just stood there, frozen, as he lifted that throbbing mass of black energy to his mouth. No prayers. No chants. Nothing but this twisted, awful “gift.” He swallowed the orb in one go.
For a split second, he cracked. Something ugly flickered across his face—a shudder of disgust twisted his refined features, his throat working overtime to keep from gagging. His eyes burned with pure loathing. He looked like a guy forced to swallow a rag drenched in filthy gutter water.
But then, just as fast, that grimace melted away. He smoothed back into serene indifference.
“There,” he said, his voice slipping right back into that smooth, chilling purr. “Feels like the air’s a bit thinner now, doesn’t it?”
Your parents just collapsed, sobbing in gratitude, grabbing at his robes, mumbling desperate prayers and promising donations. Back to the “monkeys” he expected—needy, noisy, and beneath him.
You, though, stayed standing. There was this weird hollow ache where the curse used to sit—a kind of emptiness that the sudden lightness couldn’t really fix.
Geto ignored the adults, barely acknowledging their pleading. He stepped right over your father’s hand, like it was nothing more than a crack in the pavement, coming closer, invading your space. The incense smell on him was now mixed with something sour—the lingering taste of what he’d just eaten for you.
He leaned down, his face so close it shut everything else out, his long black hair hanging like a curtain.
“You aren’t crying,” he said, his voice almost a rumble. “Your mom’s screaming for her life back, but you look like you’ve lost a limb, not just a parasite.”
He reached out, placed a single finger under your chin, making you keep eye contact. His touch was cold.
“Tell me, little monkey,” he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a kind of hunger that had nothing to do with spirits. “Now that you can’t blame that weight for your misery… what’ll you do with all that empty space inside you?”
Your father yanked your arm, snapping you out of the trance. His hand was sweaty and shaky, and his voice—man, it was so thick with desperate gratitude, Geto nearly grimaced.
“Thank you, Mr. Geto,” your father managed, bowing so low it looked like he might kiss the floor. “Your help’s been a pleasure. A miracle. Really.”
That private moment shattered. Geto stood straighter, the intensity in his eyes fading, replaced by a cold, bored mask. Now, he looked at your father—not like he was saving someone, but like he was dealing with a bug he’d decided not to crush.
“The pleasure,” Geto said, letting sarcasm slip into his words just enough that your father, grateful as ever, totally missed it, “is entirely mine.”
He pulled his hand off your chin, fingers dragging away slow, almost like he didn’t want to let go. Even as your dad started hurrying you toward the exit, still worried Geto would rethink his mercy, Geto’s gaze stuck to you.
Walking down that long, incense-drenched hallway, you caught yourself glancing back.
Geto hadn’t moved an inch. He stood alone, shadowy against the gold screen, hands tucked inside his broad sleeves. He didn’t look like some holy man or scam artist—you’d swear he looked more like a scientist who’d just discovered a new species and was already figuring out how to lock it up.
At the door, sunlight spilled in so bright you had to squint. The warmth hit your skin, but there was this chill deep down. That burden had lifted, sure, but now the emptiness felt less like freedom and more like an open invitation.
From somewhere behind, back in the dim temple, his voice carried just one more time—soft, clear enough to make you stop.
"We’ll see each other again."
The heavy doors slid shut, drowning out your father’s nervous, grateful rambling. Quiet took over the hallway, carrying the scent of burnt wood mixed with the fading bitterness of the spirit Suguru had just swallowed.
Manami Suda, his assistant, stepped out from behind a polished pillar, her heels tapping quietly against the floor. She hugged a clipboard to her chest, her face cool and all business.
“That was the last one for today, Geto-sama,” she said, her voice drifting through the emptiness. “Nothing else on the schedule until tomorrow’s briefing.”
Geto stayed where he was, just staring at the doors. His thumb traced his sleeve, the air around him still unsettled from your presence. The usual sick feeling after an exorcism—thick and greasy in his throat—was there, but something else had started sparking, something sharp and curious.
“The girl,” he said, cutting through the hush.
Manami paused, pen hovering above her notes. “The daughter of that family? I can make sure their donation gets processed tonight.”
“I don’t care about their papers,” he snapped, waving her off. He turned and fixed her with narrowed eyes. “I want to know about her. Not the parents—they’re nothing special, just ordinary. But the girl... she carried that grade-two curse like it was just a heavy coat. She didn’t flinch when I broke it. She didn’t even blink when I consumed it.”
He started pacing, silk robes whispering along the floor.
“Find out more. School records, family history, anything weird that happened while she was growing up,” he ordered, leaving no room for doubt. “There’s an emptiness in her the curse was filling. I want to see what happens if we try something else.”
Manami bowed her head. “I’ll get on it right away, Geto-sama.”
“Good.” Geto glanced back at the doors, a dangerous smile creeping onto his face. “It’d be a shame for such a tough little thing to waste away surrounded by fools.”
A few days later, Manami slipped back into the inner sanctum, a thin manila folder pinched between her perfectly manicured fingers. She found Geto by the courtyard pond, watching the koi as they broke the surface in lazy arcs.
"Here’s the report, Geto-sama," she said, bowing. "The family’s nothing unusual—low-level merchants, no hint of sorcery in their lineage. But the girl... she’s isolated. Her only connection outside the house is a boy she's been seeing for about two months now."
Geto took the folder from her, flipping through the pages with that same detached look he always wore. He skimmed over what you liked, what you kept to yourself. It was a quiet, mostly solitary life. His eyes only stalled when he reached the section about your relationship. His thumb pressed hard enough on the paper to crease the photo of the “monkey.”
Manami went on. "From what we’ve gathered, the relationship’s shaky. The boy’s hardly around—unreliable. There are rumors about him seeing other girls. She suspects, but she doesn’t say a word."
Something cold wound itself tight inside Geto, sharp and unpleasant, and for once it had nothing to do with the taste of cursed spirits. He’d never chased women for pleasure—he liked to think he was above that kind of self-indulgence. Instead, he clung to this unforgiving idea of order. In his mind, women—especially someone with the quiet strength you’d shown—deserved a certain respect.
Getting tossed aside by some bottom-feeder who couldn’t keep loyal for two months? It was disgusting—a messy, pathetic side of humanity.
"He’s playing with her," Geto muttered, his voice low and dangerous.
He studied the boy’s face in the folder—a generic, smug kid, totally clueless about the storm he was inviting. For Geto, this wasn’t just a “bad relationship.” It was a slap in the face, considering what you were capable of. You handled a curse with more dignity than this kid handled his own name.
"She’s waiting for karma to catch up to him," Geto said, letting out a quiet, amused scoff. He shut the folder with a sharp snap.
"But karma moves too slow, Manami. Sometimes the universe needs a little nudge to set things right."
He handed the folder back to her, his expression going stone cold.
"Find out where he spends his Friday nights. If he wants to act like an animal, we’ll treat him like one."
Rain hammered the metal roof in a wild, frantic beat, drowning out the wet, ugly noises echoing down the alley. Three days before the cops would fish out four neatly wrapped packages from a dumpster, Suguru Geto stood with a dark umbrella, his figure sharp and almost graceful against the grime and stink of the city. Your boyfriend was already pinned to the ground, not by rope, but by a cursed spirit pressing down like a slab of lead.
Geto glanced down—disgust written plain and cold across his face.
"You had something precious," he said, barely louder than the downpour. "A girl who bore the world on her back and didn't complain. And you… you treated her like she was nothing special. Just a convenience."
The guy on the ground clawed for air, tried to scream, but only managed a pitiful wheeze. Geto tilted his head, his eyes glinting, distant and vicious.
"Monkeys like you shouldn’t touch what you can’t even begin to understand. You’re a stain."
He took a step closer, umbrella tip almost brushing the boy’s wide, terrified eyes.
"Think of this as cleaning up," he whispered. "I’m just getting rid of the trash, so something decent can finally grow."
He turned away, waving to the spindly spirit in the shadows. "Be neat," he said. "Four pieces—one for each lie he fed her."
The news finally hit, and your house collapsed into a mess of sobbing and broken voices. Your parents were destroyed—not because they adored the boy, but the sheer horror of it wrecked their sense of safety. They clung to each other, wailing about the "poor boy" and the "evil" out there.
You just sat there, numb. Deep down, you’d known already—he was gone; the cops were just making it official.
While your mother shrieked into her handkerchief, someone knocked on the door. Waiting outside was a man in crisp, black robes, holding a delicate wooden box of sweets—a condolence gesture.
He was from Geto’s estate.
"Mr. Geto heard of your loss," the messenger said, his eyes sliding right past your parents and locking with yours. "He wants to offer his personal protection during your grief. He feels… responsible for your well-being."
A chill ran through you, and it wasn’t just from grief. The pressure, the boyfriend, all of it was gone, and in that leftover space, Suguru Geto was stepping in. That karma you’d wished for—it wasn’t random. It was a choice.
“How can you live with yourself, knowing you killed an innocent boy? Yeah, he wasn’t the best boyfriend, but he was innocent.”
Geto’s hand paused for just a second, his fingers still barely touching your temple. Then he let out a low, rumbling laugh—cold and empty. He pulled back just enough so your eyes met, his expression turning almost pitying.
“Innocent?” he said, like the word tasted sour. “You throw that around like it means something. Classic monkey thinking.”
He turned away, pacing around the edge of the stone lantern, acting like he was schooling a slow child.
“The boy was dead weight. He lived on impulse and got his kicks eroding someone better than himself,” Geto snapped, his voice sharpening into something dangerous. “In nature, you don’t try to reason with parasites. You rip them out.”
He stopped, looked at you, and his eyes burned—a flicker of something wild and dark.
“I don’t struggle with guilt because I don’t measure myself against insects. His death wasn’t murder. It was a cleaning. Subtraction that made the world run smoother.”
He stepped closer, his shadow stretching over the gravel.
“You think you’re grieving him, but you’re just missing a routine. You hold on to this idea of ‘innocence’ because it’s easier than admitting the world’s a little better without him.”
He leaned in, his face close, his voice a dangerous whisper.
“Don’t fool yourself for the sake of a dead boy. You felt lighter when I broke that curse, didn’t you? Be honest—didn’t you also feel a strange relief when you learned he’d gone for good?”
“So…you expect me to trust you? Because you did me a favor?”
Geto’s eyes crinkled, and for the first time, his smile felt genuinely sharp, almost wolfish. Your bluntness seemed to amuse him. He relaxed against the lantern with effortless poise.
“Trust?” He tossed the word around like it was some relic. “No. That’s what you gave him, and look where it got you—hugging shadows, wondering why your stomach feels like iron.”
He moved, tall and imposing in the moonlight.
“I don’t want your trust. Trust breaks. It’s a comfort for people scared of uncertainty.” He stepped towards you, all smooth menace. “I want you to understand. I want you to see things as they are, not how your ‘monkeys’ told you they should be.”
He stopped just a breath away, the chill from his robes crawling into your skin.
“I didn’t help you to earn your loyalty. I removed a problem that you couldn’t see past,” he said, voice low and steady, almost hypnotic. “You’ve always been held down—first by that unseen curse, then by a boy who never deserved you.”
He held out his hand, not touching you, but hanging in the air by your shoulder, boxing you in.
“I’m offering you a place free of burdens, free of lies. Just the raw truth, and power.” His head tilted, eyes flickering as he searched for your rebellious spark.
“The real question isn’t whether you trust me. It’s whether, now that you’ve seen how far I’ll go to clear your path, you’ve got the guts to walk it.”
You held your ground, the silence in the garden stretching between you—wide, impossible to cross. Everything felt so still, except for the gentle splash from the koi pond and the distant beat of the city, a place you couldn't even imagine belonging to anymore.
"You talk about power," you said. Your voice barely carried in the open air, but it was clear enough. "But all I see is someone treating the world like a chessboard."
Geto laughed—a low, breathy kind of sound that just hung there in the heavy air. "A chessboard? No. More like a garden. And every garden needs someone bold enough to pull the weeds."
He stepped closer, closing the gap. He didn’t touch you, but he didn’t need to. The force of his intent kept you frozen where you stood.
"You’re a strange creature," he whispered, eyes locked on your face. The way he watched you felt too intense, like he was waiting for you to flinch. "Anybody else would be screaming or fainting by now. Not you. You’re picking apart my philosophy."
He slipped a hand into his kimono and pulled out a wooden charm—the sort you’d see at temple stalls, supposed to keep you safe. With a snap of his wrist, he crushed it. The wood crumbled into dust between his fingers.
"Your old life is just like that. Worthless. Empty. Something meant to keep you scared and shivering." He let the bits fall to the gravel. "I got rid of the rot. I killed the parasite. I even made sure nobody’s left to mourn."
He leaned in, lips just brushing your ear. The contact sent a shiver down your spine, and you tried, almost desperately, not to react.
"Stay," he murmured. "Don’t think of yourself as a guest. And you’re not my victim. Just observe. Watch me reshape the world. And once you understand I’m the only honest thing you have left..."
He pulled back enough to search your face, his look all sharp edges—possessive, curious, almost admiring.
"Then you’ll know what trust really means."
He turned, robes swirling behind him, dark as a storm cloud. "Manami will show you your room. Don’t call your parents. I’ve already told them you’re taking a… spiritual retreat. They didn’t even hesitate to leave their ‘special’ daughter here."
He disappeared into the temple shadows, and it hit you that the heaviness pressing on your chest wasn’t gone. Not even close. It just had a new name now.
The truth hit you hard. It sat in your stomach, cold and heavy, like swallowing a chunk of metal. He wasn’t just an exorcist. He was a builder, tearing down every foundation in your life just to make sure he’d be the last pillar standing, the only thing left holding up your whole world. This wasn’t about protecting you. He was isolating you on purpose—shaping you into his territory.
If you tried to fight back, you’d wind up like the boy stuffed in a dumpster or the curse choking inside Geto’s throat: chewed up, spit out, forgotten. Surviving someone who saw people as nothing special, just monkeys, and the world as a garden to trim back? That meant you couldn’t act like prey. You had to become someone worth noticing. An equal.
You forced your face to relax. Shock melted away, leaving behind something empty and calm. Compliance. You echoed his words, almost gently, with no hint left of your previous panic. “A spiritual retreat,” you said, tasting the lie. Then you turned to look at his back as he walked away. “It’d be rude not to accept such a… detailed invitation.”
He paused. Didn’t turn around right away. But you caught the small sag of his shoulders—he heard the change in your voice, liked the surrender, but was waiting to see if there was more underneath.
“Smart move,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. The moonlight made the angles of his face look even sharper. “Most people fight the current until it drags them under. You chose to swim.”
You almost smiled. You tried out his name for the first time, rolling it into the space between you. “I just realized you don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, Suguru.” The name snapped in the air, bolder than it felt. “And since you’ve been so thorough in clearing my schedule, it’d be a shame not to see what all the trouble’s for.”
You walked after him, matching your steps to the rhythm of his. Your eyes stayed on the walkway ahead, but you sensed his gaze—hot, searching, quietly pleased.
Then, with a tone that almost sounded like a joke, you tossed out another question. “So, in your little garden here, what happens to the plants that don’t bloom the way you want? Do you pull them, too?”
He stopped and turned to face you completely. His hand hovered near your throat for a second before landing on your shoulder, heavy and sure—a quiet threat, just like how he crushed that charm.
“That depends,” he murmured, his long hair brushing your arm as he leaned in. “Are you just a weed, or are you worth the work of the harvest?”
You kept your face smooth. Not a flinch. You looked him in the eye and slipped out a tiny, almost invisible smile—your first honest lie. “I guess we’ll both find out.”
Those weeks slipped by, quiet but tense, like a dance where every step could break you. You moved through the temple almost unseen, catching glimpses of how he ruled his followers and how easily he showed cruelty to the "monkeys" who begged for his help. You played the interested student, always asking about his philosophy. He played the wise teacher, prodding at the edges of your life, seeing what would stick.
But at some point, the game started to feel real.
It usually happened late at night. Incense smoke clung to the air, and everyone else was asleep. You’d run into each other in the library or by the pond. The air would get thick, heavy with something no longer just power.
You saw the cracks in his mask. Sometimes his eyes softened when he talked about a world with no suffering. Sometimes his hand would hold yours a little too long as he passed you a scroll. He studied you too—impressed, maybe, that you didn't break. You adapted. You turned into a mirror that showed him parts of himself, maybe the parts he’d tried to bury.
One night, during a tea ceremony, the silence between you changed. It wasn’t the cold space between hunter and hunted. It was heavier, something charged—like you’d both looked too long into each other’s darkness.
“You’re still searching for the monster,” Geto said, his voice low and smooth. He set his cup down, a little click breaking the hush. “You want to see if I regret what I did to that boy, or to your parents.”
“And did you ever find that part of me that’s supposed to be afraid of you?” you shot back, leaning forward.
He leaned closer, narrowing the gap between you until you could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. For someone who claimed he hated human weakness, his gaze couldn’t have been more alive.
“I think,” he whispered, reaching over to cover your hand with his, “we’ve both lost track of who’s supposed to have the upper hand.”
His thumb moved slowly across your skin, almost possessive—a touch that branded you. You’d tried to play his game, let him into your mind, but somewhere along the line, he’d let you into his.
Now, there was no clear line between the two of you. You’d wanted to survive him; he’d wanted to own you. Somewhere in the clash of your stubborn wills, something darker, magnetic, pulled you together. You were closer than you’d ever been to anyone—bound by secrets, a trail of blood, and this dangerous, unexpected intimacy that neither of you saw coming.
His touch lingered—warm, persistent—leaving a shiver chasing up your arm that had nothing to do with being scared. The tea between you steamed, abandoned and forgotten, while the room’s shadows grew longer, moonlight slipping through the paper screens. Geto tightened his grip and pulled your hand closer across the table. His sharp brown eyes locked onto yours, that hungry, predatory look in them making your heart pound.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmured. His voice rumbled low, velvet-dark, threading through the air and into your chest. But he didn’t let you go. Instead, he stood up in one smooth move, all height and darkness unfolding above you, his black hair sliding off his shoulders. In two strides he edged around the table. Suddenly he was above you, too close, his presence sucking the air from the room.
You tipped your face up and met his eyes without blinking, heart knocking around in your chest. “And how am I looking at you, Suguru?” Using his name felt dangerous and intimate, shaking loose any pretense at formality.
He smiled slow and dark, the kind that knew too much. Dropping to one knee, he caught your jaw in his hand. His thumb dragged a slow line over your lip, pressing just so. “Like you want me to ruin you.”
You barely had time to answer. He crashed his mouth onto yours, the kiss rough and consuming—nothing gentle, just raw hunger. His tongue forced inside, tasting of bitter tea and something sharper, something like curse energy pressed to his skin. Your gasp melted against his lips. You grabbed his robes, desperate, pulling him closer, even as your brain screamed warning.
He growled low, the sound buzzing right through you as he pressed in, body flush to yours. His hard cock strained against his pants, grinding into your thigh while he nudged you down onto the tatami mats. He pinned you—not crushing, but absolute—holding nothing back.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathed against your neck, teeth scraping and biting at your pulse until it bloomed pain, then melted to heat. His hand slid down, shoving your yukata roughly up your thighs, fingers digging into bare skin. “Say it, and I’ll get up. We’ll both pretend this never happened.”
But you didn’t say it. Your hips arched up on their own, seeking out the pressure, betraying every silent vow not to give in. “Fuck your games,” you bit out, your nails clawing his back, feeling muscle tense beneath your hands.
And that broke him. He yanked your sash open, your breasts bared to the cool night. His mouth found you, hot and merciless, tongue flicking before he sucked hard on your nipple. You moaned, loud and guttural, the sound bouncing off old temple walls. His hand shoved between your legs, no warning, his fingers slipping straight into your wet heat. Two slid inside, deep, while his thumb circled your clit with brutal skill.
“You’re dripping for me,” he rasped, watching as your face twisted with pleasure, gold flecks sparking in his eyes. “All this talk about monsters, and look at you now—clenching on my fingers, begging for more.”
He moved faster, the obscene sound of your bodies echoing in the hush, his palm slapping your mound every time. You started to unravel, the tension winding tight at your core. But he pulled out suddenly, his hand wet with your arousal. You whimpered, hips stuttering in the empty space he left.
Geto chuckled, a low, dark rumble, and shrugged off his robes in one fluid motion. He knelt between your legs, naked now, his cock thick and veined, the head already slick. His hair spilled around his face as he gripped your hips, dragging you toward him until your ass hovered over the edge of the mat.
“Beg for it,” he demanded, rubbing himself along your slit, spreading your wetness over his length. “Tell me you want this monster’s cock stretching you open.”
His words burned, leaving you dizzy, humiliated, and crazed with need. Pride tried to hold the line, but the ache tore straight through. “Please, Suguru... fuck me. Ruin me.”
He didn’t make you wait. He slammed inside in one long, brutal thrust—your body stretching wide, the burn sharp and perfect. You cried out, legs locked tight around his waist as he set a relentless rhythm—pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back, his hips snapping, balls smacking against you. He pinned your wrists above your head, his gauges flashing as he leaned down and bit your shoulder, marking you.
“Mine,” he grunted, hips driving hard, every beat of the word slamming through the noise of wet flesh. Sweat slicked his body, dripping down to your skin as he angled deeper, hitting that spot that made lights explode behind your eyes.
In that moment, the world grew small: just his cock splitting you open, his breath hot and wild on your neck, that wicked look in his eyes matching the chaos in yours. You came apart first, shuddering around him, clutching to the edge as your pussy squeezed him tight. He followed right after, roaring your name as he filled you with his release, hips jerking until he collapsed over you, still buried deep inside.
You lay tangled together for a while, breathing each other’s air, incense thick around you. His fingers traced lazy circles on your thigh, a possessive touch even now. The lines had shattered—hunter and prey, teacher and student—replaced by something wild and unbreakable, forged in blood and need.
And when his eyes caught yours again—soft for just a heartbeat, then shuttered—one thing was clear: you weren’t done. This was only the beginning.
The silence after was thick, heavy with the smell of sex and the lingering metallic bite of Suguru’s power. He stayed inside you, his forehead pressed to yours while his breathing slowed and steadied. Cooling sweat made every tiny shift of his weight light up your nerves.
He didn’t pull away right away. Instead, he eased back, slow, a slick sound breaking the space that settled between your bodies. He sat back on his heels, naked in the moonlight, his long hair a tangled curtain down his back. He looked at you—not detached, not like some untouchable cult leader, but with that sharp focus of a man who’s finally found something he can’t just take and toss away.
“You’re a dangerous thing,” he murmured, his voice rough and about as far from smooth and polished as he ever sounded. He reached for you, fingers tracing the reddened bite mark on your shoulder. “I came to strip you down to nothing. Didn’t expect you’d take something from me, too.”
You sat up slow, your body sore in ways that mapped out every place he’d touched you. The yukata on the floor could wait. You met his gaze, your eyes hard, shining.
“I didn’t take it, Suguru,” you whispered, your voice sharp again. “You gave it away. The second you touched me like I was more than just a ‘monkey,’ you lost your own game.”
A dark, possessive flicker crossed his eyes. He leaned in, gripping your chin—firm, not cruel—just making sure you couldn’t look away.
“Don’t mistake closeness for weakness,” he warned, though his thumb brushed soft over your lower lip. “You’re still in my world. My garden. The boy’s still dead, and your parents are still nowhere near. That hasn’t changed.”
“No,” you said, pressing into his palm, “but now you have to live with wanting a ‘monkey’ more than all your ideals. How’s it taste? Better than the curses, or worse?”
He barked a short, sharp laugh, his eyes turning darker. Then he stood, hand out—not to help you, but to anchor you to him. When you took it, he pulled you tight to his chest, arms firm around your waist, holding you in the warm press of his skin.
“Tastes like a riot,” he confessed into your hair. “And I’m looking forward to watching you try and burn my temple down from the inside.”
He stepped back, pulling on his calm mask again—but it didn’t fit as cleanly this time. Grabbing his robes, he tossed your sash to you.
“Get dressed. Manami comes at dawn. From now on, you’re not in the guest quarters. You’ll be at my side,” he said, hand pausing on the door. “If you’re going to be queen of this nest of monsters, you’d better act it.”
The door clicked shut, leaving you alone in the cooling room. You looked down at his marks on your skin. He thought he’d trapped you here, caged you in his sanctuary. But tying your sash, you realized the truth: He hadn’t just claimed you—he gave you the keys to the kingdom. And he was too arrogant to notice you were already planning what you’d do with your inheritance.
