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sukunasun · 2 years

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Thinking about how Geto was only going to ask that chubby reader out so Mahito wouldn’t get the chance to fuck with her, only for her to find out about it after really hitting it off with Geto… ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ᵐᵃʸᵇᵉ ᵐᵃᵏᵉᵘᵖ ˢᵉˣ ᵇᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ʷʰᵃᵗ’ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖᵒᶦⁿᵗ ᵒᶠ ʰᵘʳᵗ ʷᶦᵗʰᵒᵘᵗ ᶜᵒᵐᶠᵒʳᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵉᶜᵒⁿᵒᵐʸ

read the prologue here!

when geto makes those first steps towards you, walking into your light and seeing for the first time a woman who's unlike any other, he doesn't feel like he could say the same things. doesn't whisper all the dirty things he wants to do you or the empty promises he won't keep. doesn't make you swoon and flatter you like he does with everyone else because ultimately it wouldn't work. you weren't that kind of girl, and he shouldn't treat you as such. or rather he can't.

and he believes himself to be the lesser evil here, that he does it to protect you from impending heartbreak but won't admit there's a selfish inkling in him. no matter the reasons he tells himself, the excuses that ease his conscience, he knows he does this because no one else can have you.

pictures you with another man and feels an unease stirring, a jealous thing prickling all over. with mahito scheming his way into your heart. or maybe with gojo who'd make you laugh and buy you pretty things. either way, he knows they'd be better choices because they possess a whole lot more self-control to definitely last longer than a week before falling in love. whereas geto’s already having expectations, yearns to leap straight into your depths, diving deep the moment he comes close.

you’re ethereal, godly, a beauty that is untouched. all full curves and eyes so honest, you don't try to hide it. a keening gaze peeking under glittering makeup. one that looks through to him. a face so visually stimulating, so incredibly stunning is he—wandering over the line of his nose coming down to a fine point, the bridge resting between trimmed eyebrows. loose strands of hair falling over his face, you itch to brush it aside, to feel just how soft it is. all that beer in his system making him bloom red, it lingers on his neck, on collarbones peeking underneath a muscle tee, hollowed and arched. calling out for you leave a mark there, darkening maroon over his pink flush.

you’re aware that he was speaking, aimed at you. stop staring, you know his name, call him geto—"wow, you're really tall–" is what you utter instead. a second later, your skin heats from embarrassment at your own lack of manners. "i'm s-sorry, i didn't mean to be rude." so caught up in him you don't notice when you're about to slip, tripping over heels that barely give you any height compared to him.

with his stature towering over you, his hands come up to steady you in an instant. “i got you,” he says, and it sends your heart racing because he’s so close, your noses almost touching, his lips less than an inch away from yours. you've seen them smirking, smiling, parted around the laughs that rise from his belly, bright teeth lighting up a face that's hard to resist, the same face that stole your heart tonight, the very moment he locked eyes with you, and you didn't think it was possible to fall any harder.

you hide your face behind your drink, biting your lip over a woozy smile but it only adds to that growing attraction he feels, how endearing you were that he’s blushing. actually blushing. when has he ever felt this need to be protective, possessive over a complete stranger?

he's always been able tell a person's motives, wishing for his affection and attention just until the high wears off, until the adrenaline dies down and they're coming to their senses. realization hits the morning after and it's blinding. so revealing in broad daylight—the stench of cigarettes in the air, his body aching with something sickly, guilt drooping his shoulders and regret pouring down the lining of his lungs like syrupy black treacle. caught in heavy sighs, in his pounding head, in a clenching chest when they say something along the lines of "that was fun, but i'm not looking for anything serious right now"—living happily ever after will never be on his cards and you were going to see it the same way eventually. reminds himself he's not meant to have women like you, who wear angel costumes, who thinks this was the start of something special, that you’re meeting the love of your life and believes him to be worthy of it.

——————————————————

so geto falls for you after three dates.

well, he never called them dates. just took you to random places he'd thought you'd enjoy and he wanted to keep doing it—the first one had to be a classic; a movie then dinner afterwards, he chose to watch an animated film because he can't be bothered pretending to like something pretentious, then an afternoon at a cafe but the kind that serves good food and isn't just an instagram trap, and last week he made you a playlist, one that he titled after your name and had you listening to it in his car on a loop—by the time the fourth one arrives, he invites you over to his place.

a black cabin that's modern and sleek, he tells you he enjoys the seclusion and calls it his little utopia in the woods. he's balanced the wooden accents with warm lights and giant glass windows that bathes the room in natural sunlight, some furs for his bed compliment the woven rugs, and he's left his books all over the floors, opened and laid flat on its pages, a sweater or two on the couch, there are empty beer cans lining the countertop, and in the corner, his guitar lays dormant on its back. “sorry for the mess,” geto calls from the kitchen, already preparing you a cup of tea. but you think it just looks like a place that’s lived in. it’s his home.

plus there's a pool. the kind that has a built in jacuzzi and the water flows over the edge to give the appearance of it extending to the horizon. looking out, you take in the view of mountains lined with silver moonlight, blue and green reflecting of the surface, dark blacks in the shadows and jagged edges, trees rooted tall and mingling with fog. the cicadas are chirping and city lights dance in the distance, far away. there are a millions stars shining above tonight but you only want to watch him, lazing around in the blue.

geto dips below once before his head crests over the surface, coming up for air and propping his feet at the very bottom. it's deep, but the water only comes up to his sternum. it ripples beneath his large hands as he brings them up to slick his hair back. “the water’s nice, you should join me,” he says, coming closer towards you with slow, measured steps, wading through with ease. a playful glint in his eye warns you of the night to come and you feel that familiar heat dipping low. thinking of the nasty things that shall ensue, your fantasies coming to life here, in geto’s house, alone, in the middle of nowhere.

knowing where this will possibly lead doesn’t help your nerves, this the defining moment of any relationship, the part where everything becomes official. you'd sleep with him tonight because geto's the kind of person who teases, makes you stutter over your words, pinches your cheeks and calls you beautiful when you know that's hardly ever the case. but every time he looks at you, trailing behind your every step, worshipping the ground you walk on, it’s obvious he cares for you. there was no way he wouldn't put you first and make you come til you saw stars.

but you shake your head in protest, curling in towards yourself and trying to look anywhere besides his half naked form. reduced to staring at your legs dangling from where you sit, gently kicking underwater. when he’s meeting you at the edge of the pool, he brings your knees apart, keeping your legs locked behind him before placing his palms flat by your sides, tilting his head to meet your eyes, “what’s the matter, do you feel shy?” he asks, a smirk breaking over his face.

your chest rise and falls with bated breath. spotting the drops sliding down his face in rivulets, caught in his eyelashes, clear and reflecting off the pool lights below. dripping from his chin, it runs down his broad chest and his scent alone is intoxicating. smelling of chlorine and something crisp, wet. like drenched earth soaked by a beautiful, luminous, magnetic rain after a long drought. dry juniper berry, patchouli, green leaves and moss. you wish to say yes, because he really does make you shy and aroused and impulsive and all these feelings you can’t control. “i'm sorry but we can’t have sex tonight–” you blurt out.

a confused look crosses his face, "who said anything about sex?"

"isn't that why you invited me over?" you ask in return, giving him the same puzzled look. one that turns more flustered as the realization dawns on you. had this been a one-sided thing all along? took one look at your body as it is now without the snug shapewear or the pretty fabrics and felt mortified, all your curves on display, squishy thighs and your tummy folds pressed up against his abdomen. you're surprised you ever thought this night was meant to be more than what it was; just time spent with him, in this undefined thing you can’t put a name to.

geto breathes a heavy sigh and cups your face in his hands, looks right into your eyes so you know he means it, "i brought you out here because i like being around you and i like being with you. you don't have to do anything you don't want to," he clarifies, serious but gentle.

it doesn't do much in assuring you. "but i want to be yours,” you admit, albeit softly but he hears the dejection, "and how would i know you're mine? that you aren't seeing someone else."

in the the silence that follows, his thumbs slowly caress over your cheeks squished between his palms. anything to wipe the sad look off your face. "i've been yours all along." he whispers, thinks he couldn’t be more obvious. you’re in his old t-shirt that bears his scent, now it rubs off on you. spilled over your body so you tied a knot at the side, tightening it around your breasts, nipples peeking through from the cold. it stirs that same greedy, selfish feeling within him—the image of you in his clothing, those thoughts of sleeping with him swimming in your head, he wants to hear them—there was no way he'd think of being with anyone else, let alone sleep with them, not when you existed. not when he spends every sleeping and waking hour dreaming of you.

he wouldn’t fuck you for his own self-indulgence, he’d want to do it right. all on your own time, your own terms. pin your hands over your head and make love to you, slowly rutting over and over until you begged him to stop. he'd make you feel so beautiful that you wouldn't need to question it ever again. not to mention that he'd already plan to cook you breakfast in the morning should you decide to stay the night, left your favourite snacks in his fridge, brought in fruits from the farmers market for you. "will you be mine?" he whispers to you, and only you.

a simple nod was your answer, hands coming up to wrap around his neck and you lay a kiss right above his adam’s apple, sealing the deal.

——————————————————

the first time was a revelation, how he realized halfway as he's thrusting into you that he owns you. and he fucks you like he knows it.

you had been so skittish, so hesitant. shy smiles and turning your face away every time he'd get so far as to leave a kiss on your forehead, squeeze your thigh as he takes you on a night drive. you resisted but he felt the heat and the rising goosebumps on your skin, heard you shuddering and stifling your moans, biting into your lip. you're absolutely hooked and he'd only stay patient as he unravels you bit by bit.

until the day comes when you're waking him up in the middle of the night straddling him, grinding your panties over his tightening boxers, over the bulge that forms. his cock hardening as he stirs awake to the sight of your sweet pussy, so wet and needy for it, leaking through the fabric and staining his, trying to get as much of him inside you. your trembling legs can't keep yourself up for long as you rock back and forth, already desperate to rest on his chest and succumb to him, having him pound into you and you’ll take it like the good girl he believes you to be. "i want you to touch me," you pout at him, voice wavering and uncertain, a little hoarse from having just woken up, unsurprisingly, from a wet dream. one starring the man below you who's struggling to keep his composure. oh he's ruined you and he knows it, swears then and there that he'd give you more than just his touches, wonders what he'd ever done to wake up to this; a new side he's pulled out of you, coming to the surface just for him.

the doubt in your eyes wounds him, preposterous is the thought that you weren’t enough, that you didn’t deserve him when he’s a man who’s selfish and perverted and he takes and takes from you, like he's defiled and made you into a horny little thing. he should thank every god and deity for being in your presence, that he gets to taste your skin and kiss your lips, hear your moans singing out for him and it kills him. with sweat beading on his forehead, he uses every fiber of his being to hold it out. constantly feels like he's on the edge, like a rubber band about to snap in an instant because you're gripping him so tight, squeezing down every time he pushes in but it's only because you love it so much. makes you feel so full and stretched out and no one has ever gotten this far with you, no one had ever wanted the chubby girl who kept her nose in her books, always the biggest person in every room, never going after the guys she liked for fear of rejection. what had he seen in you at that party, you'll never know, but geto suguru chose you and it's all you ever need, it's why you keep looking up at him like he's hung the moon and stars for you. where all you feel is his pounding heart beneath your fingers, the words he snarls into your skin as he grinds and bucks his hips. he's going to break you. absolutely wreck you.

geto had expected to feel guilty about it, that he wouldn't be able to follow through, yet every time he breathes in your scent, hears his name leave your lips, feels the way you’re clawing into his back, fingernails etching in lines over his tattooed skin, the beautiful, pure, almost unearthly thing that you are makes his cock weep with the need to claim you fully, to worship your body, live inside you. that would be heavenly, to always be buried inside his angel and say fuck you to the world, he’d only need this, now and forever.

and he can't begin to tell you any of it. like he's going to lose his mind if he gives in, his entire world now found in your pleading face, your soft voice, "i'd do anything for you," you beg and he sees the hearts floating in your eyes, admiring him, fawning and adoring. "you're so beautiful, you're so perfect," you cry out, swollen lips forming around the words. tear stained cheeks puffing out, rounded hands, smooth and soft trailing down his neck, goosebumps rising to meet your fingertips. leaving behind these trails that burn his skin, settling deep in his bones like a balm, these soothing, healing touches that make him groan and whine like a wounded animal from how good it feels, how he's been longing for it so much that he doesn't want it to end, forget about wishing or hoping, he'd put the work in and beg for it. and he wants to so bad. wants to love you with everything he's got.

——————————————————

the night of his birthday party rolls around and despite wanting a quiet night in, geto’s unable to escape the onslaught of questions about it.

so he sends out invites via text, quick fingers tapping away, a swooshing sound dings, it reads: ‘party at 8, byo drinks’. all to people he isn’t close to nor would he care if they’d showed up. this way, there wouldn’t be a clash of interests, doesn’t like mixing his circles of peers for that very reason because it would be like sending you into a lion’s den. these are not the kind of people who would be friends with you and he would know this because all anyone wants to do is get distracted with the superficial. plus, he used to be one of them too. ‘used to' being the keyword. past tense. but he’s yet to actually be rid of them.

still, you make your way over to his place to surprise him because that's what any loving person would do. simmering with excitement, you find geto by the pool, the one with the jacuzzi and the beautiful view, the one that's too deep for you, the one that held the memories of the first night spent with him. moving a little closer to where he's lounging on a deck chair, you keep out of geto’s sight.

among the crowd, you don’t recognize every face but mahito’s is hard to miss. it’s pretty, the kind that reminds you of idol singers and fashion models. but looking into his eyes from afar, you see no sign of emotion, glazed over with pure apathy. always hiding in dark corners and whispering in people’s ears, disguising his unsolicited, wicked comments behind a cheery voice. “i didn’t think you’d show up,” he says innocently, or rather what he believes sounds innocent when you can read through the sly expression on his face.

you cross your arms, keeping your narrowed eyes on him. “of course i’d be here, i’m his girlfriend.” you reply. at the sound of your voice, geto shoots up from his seat immediately, eyes widening and his face taking on a flush that clearly said he hadn’t expect your arrival.

mahito brings a hand up to geto’s shoulder, pulling him closer whilst scanning your figure head to toe. he smirks, sipping his drink. how sweet. calling yourself 'his girlfriend' seemed like the kind of thing you would do, as if you were still a teen and that these labels meant something. out of all the types of women he’d like, you were his favourite. pure of heart, always so willing to believe in love and the fantasy of it. he could see why geto wanted to keep you all to himself and he doesn’t ignore this fact, instead, he thinks he should do something with it, messing with your feelings just because he can. “you know it was all a bet right? he only asked you out because i told him to,” he says, a smug look appearing on his face.

initially, he'd forgotten about the whole thing, which isn't surprising because nothing peaks his interest for long. wasn't actually going to act upon whatever bullshit he was spouting to geto that night because it was all in good fun, to plant the seeds of disillusionment in him because he's always been an easy target. it's his fault really for having you as a weakness. mahito continues to relay his conversation with geto that night. gives you a wide smile throughout as if he's actually enjoying the way your face drops, resolve crumbling the more he goes on. geto on the other hand stays exactly where he is. doesn’t fight back or tries to deny it and mahito relishes at how powerless he is, what a coward, the man can’t even say it with his own words.

you don’t look away from geto, hoping that he’d say something to dispute these claims. where was he, where was the man you love. “he wouldn’t do that, he cares about me,” you defend him, because the man mahito speaks of is not at all like the geto suguru you know.

“are you sure about that?” mahito questions and your heart sinks. of course you were sure, although you didn't know anymore. doubts igniting and spreading through you like a wildfire. uncontrolled, consuming any belief and assumption you had about geto all at once.

your plan to surprise him on his birthday—spent hours imagining all the ways it’d be perfect, show up in a dress you made knowing he’d like it and he could touch as much as he wanted, smell that expensive perfume on your neck, you’d kiss his cheek and leave the sparkly gloss behind, you’d make him dread it a little less, make his wishes come true—all of it flushed down the drain with just five words.

with eyes dart back and forth between the both of them, you plead, "please tell me it isn't true," on the verge of tears, you bite the inside of your lip to keep from welling up.

“it’s not what you think,” geto finally speaks but he doesn't have the guts to look at you, and you see the guilt plastered across his face, paralyzing his body and keeping it rooted there. not only proving mahito speaks the truth but that your entire relationship had been a lie.

“i’m really sorry you had to find out this way, but let’s be honest—” mahito laments, walking over to where you stand and you don't feel a semblance of warmth when he leans close to your ear, humming at your obvious discomfort, and whispers “—he was never going to fall for you.”

in a split second, a jarring flash of red splatters everywhere. there's a loud gasp from the crowd, then a scream. as the music starts to muffle in your ears, every guest clambers towards the scene, wanting to get every bit of the action.

geto snaps and all hell breaks loose. mahito is raised from where he lies flat on his back, collar fisted in geto's grip. blow after blow, he repeatedly throws punches til he feels something give under the brute force of his knuckles, splitting flesh and clashing against bone. every impact bringing a thudding sound along with it. there are lines of hot blood running down mahito's face, pooling in his mouth, in between his teeth when he gives geto a sinister grin before he passes out on the cold ground.

——————————————————

the family mart down the street is heaven on earth on nights like these.

steam puffs from the aluminium lid of the instant ramen set before you and despite your efforts in keeping it completely sealed, the sides pop out anyway. still, you take in the smell of spicy broth and vegetable flakes, in just a few minutes you'll be greeted with the taste of salty, peppery goodness, chewing on thick strands of noodles and fine cuts of donko mushroom. always consistent, it'll never disappoint. and it's the only comfort you get tonight. that and the burning heat in your fingertips when you hold on to it tight, hoping it'll soothe the ache a little. the fluorescent lights are too bright, emitting this white light that does nothing to hide the hot tears that drip, your sniffling nose, and the smudged makeup. all of it coming undone.

you catch your reflection in window and realize that you look every bit a woman in distress, definitely pitiful and pathetic, but ultimately like someone who's heartbroken. even more so when the kid working the cash register keeps looking over at you with a worried expression on his face. 'TOGE', as his name tag reads, works by the front, he stirs fishcakes in the boiling oden and arranges the onigiri in the freezer while the two other staff members are pretending to stock biscuits behind you. they’re not the best at being discreet.

everything sucks and everything hurts. but at least the noodles are done.

“you’re going to burn your fingers,” a hand reaches out to grab yours and the first thing you see are his knuckles, raw and bleeding. that familiar jolt runs through you and you look up to see geto with blood splatters on his white shirt. instinctually, you reach out to him with your other hand before you could tell yourself to stop, thumb brushing over his wounds with barely any pressure. geto melts into your touch then, brings your clasped hand up to his cheek and closes his eyes, savouring the residual heat from the noodles, your soft flesh upon his, every bit of you he can get.

“you can let go-" you try to pull away—

“no, i won’t,” he snaps. so weak is he to want this, he needs it. could never be like you when no amount of instant ramen or late night snacking would ever comfort him. “i can't," his voice drops to a quiet whisper.

"please, i'll just pretend none of this ever happened." you whisper back. hoping that maybe if you didn’t think about it, it’ll be like it never existed. geto would have just been a blip on on a radar, gone as soon as it came.

he latches on tighter, “don’t leave me,” he chokes, “you said you’d do anything for me.” your fingertips buzz, going numb in his grasp. he’s clinging for dear life. you’ve never seen him this beaten, still the same man, but one who’s defenseless, desperate because he knows what's coming and he can’t bear it, you’d survive this. come out the other end knowing better, while he’s second guessing if he’d ever go on living a life without you.

“that was before,” you yank it away reluctantly at his words. “and you can’t just throw it back in my face like that, i said it because i loved you and i thought you lov–” you bite your lip and swallowed thickly, that lump in your throat keeps forcing it’s way up, every exhale is forced and it takes so much within you not to sob. he was never going to fall for you. a stray tear falls and it’s hot against your cheek, "just forget it." your voice cracked, hand rising up to wipe over your burning eyes.

“he was going to hurt you, angel,” your heart almost stops when the name falls on your ears and geto seems to realize it too, “i meant that night at the party–” he explains, “you were dressed as an angel, he was going to ask you out and i couldn’t let it happen.” his voice croaks out like he's accepted defeat. for some time, he thought he’d be able to hide the truth from you forever because you were happy, and so was he. it’d be enough to have you, consequences be damned, he’d only wanted to hold on to it for as long as he could.

"you made me believe you had feelings for me, that you liked me," you sobbed then, crying openly without a care if a customer walked in, or if they saw you from across the street. the staff is probably watching with shocked, gaping mouths right now, but this was the end and you would let it out. you had to.

“i did it for you, had you fallen for him, what then?" fuck, he doesn’t want to think about it. looks at you with eyes that are reddened and weary. the pain and exhaustion starts to creep up, his body aching. the remains of adrenaline from the fight wearing off and souring in his bloodstream. the room starts to spin, he has to get to a hospital asap but the last thing he cares about is broken bones or bruises when he's utterly hopeless.

in a last attempt to salvage the situation, he reaches out towards you. it can't end like this, not in a convenience store, not on his birthday, not when everything is unfinished and unspoken and left to be buried down. he'll explain it all. who cares about the bet, he knows his feelings were real. he has to tell you how he feels, now or never.

but you flinch from his hold, swatting his hand away. "i’m perfectly capable of making my own choices, so you don't have to worry about me anymore," you say, stern and with finality. turning away from him and walking out. leaving him and the overcooked noodles behind.

——————————————————

"i didn't think you had it in you," is the first thing shoko says during the last ten minutes of his birthday. they're both leaning against the hood of her car in a hospital car park after she’s dressed his wounds. barely felt any semblance of pity for him the way she rolled her eyes before stretching her gloves on and doing what she does best.

"yeah, well, he saw it coming," geto shrugs dismissively, flips open a pack of menthols and offers it to her like old times. only one though because these were expensive—he thinks he’s been charged extra for them after causing such a scene ( ‘TOGE’ who works the cash register apparently has little patience for terrible men who make their girlfriends cry)—and also because shoko’s a doctor, they aren’t meant to consume these things and get away with it.

the air smells like a heady mix of disinfectant and tobacco. she takes a long drag, then exhales smoke, flicking off ash gathered at the end. "i would understand breaking his nose, but did you really have to give him a concussion?" her lips quirk up at the corners, thinking back to the last few hours spent stitching an unconscious mahito’s face, staples down his jaw holding skin together. he’d survived, she thinks, although she isn’t a hundred percent sure about it either. for his sake, better if geto doesn’t see him alive and well, shoko doubts it’s last time it’ll ever happen.

"how was i supposed to know he'd black out," geto doesn’t show any sign of remorse in his expression, no guilt or regret in beating the shit out of him, his intention clear and written all over his face. he wanted that man dead.

annoyed, she clicks her tongue at him, "tsk, you're a real piece of work you know that. why'd you do it?" it would be easier if this had been an accident, shoko has only ever seen him this distressed that one time him and gojo had a fallout. only gets like this when push comes to shove and geto's about to lose the most important thing in his life. which could only mean—

"would you believe me if i said i did it for love?" geto says without any hint of mockery. she looks at him for a second, gauging if he really means it and comes to find him sighing with his entire body, a face reminiscent of his younger self is reflected off the windshields, so lost and unsure. come to think of it, she doesn’t remember a time where he’s ever looked any different in the last few years.

“fucking hell,” she breathes out, laughing until her shoulders shake. he's unbelievable.

geto smiles and chuckles along with her, “it sure feels like it,” doesn’t mind her unsympathetic bedside manner here knowing he’s made her put up with a lot. he brings his cigarette up, inhales, then blows a final drag out, letting it seep through his parted lips in a steady, flowing stream. the seconds count down to the final minute and geto uses the very last of it to confess, “i fucked up, sho."

shoko nods to show that she's heard him. still, she doesn't ask for the details and she never gets personal. “well, it happens to the best of us. either you move on or you try again i guess.” geto doesn’t need a shoulder to cry on, she’s never been his rock or his partner in crime and it’s not about to start happening now. not when gojo’s still out there being the mopey son of a bitch that he is. if only they just talk about their issues instead of having her stuck between these two and their antics.

“happy birthday suguru, take care of yourself,” shoko stubs her cigarette on the ground and the last of it’s flame dies out on the asphalt. orange light fading into nothing.

——————————————————

months later, geto lays out a picnic blanket by the lake. yellow gingham beneath your tucked feet, there are threads fraying on the edges, old and worn but soft to the touch. it compliments the sundress you wear, lilac off the shoulder, you tug at the hem wishing you had chosen something a bit more modest the way it keeps riding up your thighs.

it feels so nice like this, comfortable, content. your lips quirk up as you breathe it all in, hair billowing in the wind, your fingers gently comb them away, sighing when it tickles your skin, the sound of babbling water and the smell of grass accompanies the two of you. it makes being in his presence less awkward after it's been the one thing you were dreading. the fact that you decided to meet him here today was already more than he'd expected given that you had all the right to move on and never speak to him again.

under the shade of a tree, he watches you the same way he did that night at the halloween party. “you’re beautiful,” he whispers, avid and breathless. "you were then, and you are now—the most beautiful thing i've ever seen.”

in the corner of your eye you see his jaw clench, breath hitching, saying it has never felt this remorseful. “i never wanted to hurt you." he admits and you look to him then, seeing him reach over and gently cup one of your hands in his. the same hands that were broken and bleeding and brutal, now healed and his skin made anew. "i know i made it seemed like it was for your own good but..." he trails off, clenching and unclenching his grasp, rubbing over your knuckles, hand still firm in yours. "i went into it knowing i'd fall for you and i did. i told you i was yours and i meant it, all of it, nothing was an act.

in the distance, a storm starts to brew. and right here, vulnerable and bare, geto rights his wrongs. —"i'm sorry," he says once, then again, and again, until he chokes on the words, until the first drops of rain hit your shoulders and mask his tears but you reach out to cup his face then in a rush, clambering into his lap and you don't hold back, deciding then and there to allow yourself this; the warmth of his embrace, the shape of his body against yours, to accept him fully, to forgive.

you clutch him tightly, fingers going numb but you weren't bothered, if it were up to you, you’d never let him go again. “i choose you geto suguru—you're all i want, my heart is yours, i'm yours," through a hoarse throat, you cry out what you both needed to hear and you kiss him for the first time in months. two lips meeting like parted lovers, earnest, passionate. teeth clashing, breathless and sobbing and with everything you have. tasting like rain and sweet, sweet, absolution.

——————————————————

geto stares at you from where he's sitting on the edge of his bed, toweling his damp hair. as the thunder continues to roll and rumble in the distance, rain pelts against the large window overlooking grey and cloudy skies. lightning strikes through sporadically, lighting up his dim room with flashes. you keep your eyes glued to your feet, completely wet from head to toe, your skin dripping and hair a little frizzy in places. random strands sticking to your cheeks and neck, and within moments, those bits would feel like icicles and so would the smooth wooden floor beneath your feet.

"c'mere," he demands, but softly, only once. not wanting to hear your protests and your feet move on their own volition, all to the sound of his beck and call. makes those few heavy steps towards him, pitter, patter. anxiously but your body knows he means no harm, that he’s the only man you could give into and he’d only care for you because geto brings you leg up and props it between his thighs then. wraps a hand around your ankle before caressing it there. my ankle, this belongs to me, along with every other part of you. he starts to pat you dry, soft cotton gliding up your shin, up the back of your knee, all while his hand massages your flesh, inching upward toward your thigh then finds his place under your dress, over the curve of your ass.

“i'll show you just how much i want you," he'll prove it, if not with his words then with his hands. caresses, kneads, then squeezes the soft globe of your ass that fits in the palm of his hand, large and warm against your skin. "how much i desire you–" geto's voice comes out raspy and low, sends your body shivering as his hands start pulling your dress off. peeling it at gradual pace. the hem rising to reveal your soft thighs, you keep them close together, getting shy when he sees in between them, your panties are soaked through. from the rain obviously and not because he has that effect on you.

you grab onto his shoulders, timidly murmuring "does this count as our first time...officially?" his movements come to a complete halt then, leaning back to look at you with a stern, almost offended look on his face.

geto chose not to answer you, but instead lifts you by the hips and sets you down on his mattress with a little force. a tiny squeal leaves your lips as he pins you there, his knees on either side of you and an impatient, hungry look upon his face. the kind that makes you melt all over as your legs part on their own. the growls rumbling in his chest rings through you and lightning flashes, his greedy hands, fisting, scrunching your dress into a damp, flimsy thing he pulls it down your breasts with little effort. letting them free, the fabric stretches to its limits before being ripped down the middle, unveiling you like a meal he's been craving for. starving.

he presses his tongue flat against your exposed nipple, lapping softly before bringing it between his lips and suckling gently. “you think i’d let you forget what we did that night?” he taunts, breath blowing against it, your goosebumps rising along with the tension in your belly, a heat coiling when you know exactly what he's hinting at. remembering just how perfect you were that night under him. he’s gripping your hips tight in an almost painful hold and pulls you in closer, “should i remind you?” he grits out and you feel his bulge pressing into your center, hot and throbbing, his blood pulsing through, hips bucking and rubbing himself against you.

in that moment, you reach up, burying your fingers in his hair and pulling him in until his forehead gently settles against yours and geto keeps your gaze. watches your lustful eyes and panting breath, “there’s no need,” you say, “we’ll do it better this time,” you kiss him, slow and lingering, on his lips, then his chin, a peck on the line of his jaw, and finally, over his adam’s apple, sealing the deal, again, and again.

——————————————————

the rain doesn’t stop, instead, it only gets heavier, coming down with harsh winds by the time he’s flipped you over, placed you flat on your stomach beneath him and murmurs "you're gonna lose your voice," right above your ear, stopping mid-thrust and taking in the dazed expression on your face. reduced to a tipsy, drunk mess, heavy lidded eyes peering up at him. blissful and hypnotised, your mouth parted around breathless moans, babbling and incoherent when all you can think about is the shape of him inside, snug and slick and all yours.

geto reaches over for a bottle of water on the nightstand, one he's placed there knowing he'd need it when he’s always turning into a heated, sweaty mess around you, losing his mind, his stamina extending for hours and hours. would like to think it's because the sex is amazing, that it’s because he's into it more than ever now when previously, all it took was one round to knock him out, make him feel cheap and dirty all over. but that wouldn't be giving you any credit, you do it to him, again and again. nothing makes sex feel better than having a partner who cares about you.

still buried inside you, every maneuver is felt as he keeps his weight on your back. can't help but shiver and twitch all over when his tip presses in a little more, every ridge and vein of his cock rubbing your walls, brushing against your clit. you’re writhing your hips impatiently, aching for him to move again, pleading for him to start pounding you like he was three orgasms ago.

"shh, i got you angel," he coos. hearing it sets a fire alight within you, heat coiling in your tummy at the sound of him calling you a name he's bound to you. he twists the cap off and brings it to his lips, the condensation drips over your skin and you whine in anticipation when it stings then subsides a second later. he pours it in his mouth without swallowing, keeps it there in the hollows of his cheeks before he leans forward and grips your jaw in his hand, holding it in place with his thumb and index finger, urging for you to open up. and you do, without hesitation. geto's icy cold lips meet yours then so does his tongue, the water that flows from his mouth into yours tastes like a breath of fresh air, crisp and cool. his tongue laps at yours when you gulp it down, it soothes your dry throat. excess running like rivers dribbling along the length of your neck.

when he pulls away, a line of drool trails in between the both of you, he's going back in for another kiss, another bite, addicted to the taste, eating up your lazy whimpers. your tongue chases after him along with your hips when you grind up, ass pushing into him, garbled moans mixed with you begging for him to move faster, thrust harder as you squeeze down on his cock. mewling “please, please, i’ve been good," always asking for it so nicely although he's being this mean, this withholding from you.

spreading your cheeks apart, he's salivating at the lewd image of you clamping on his cock as he deliberately sinks in and out, coating it in your slick juices while he dribbles a line of spit from his lips down to where you two meet. "fuck, you're so dirty baby," you keen, hearing the sound of your bodies joining, already creaming on it the more he moves.

geto crouches over and you feel his arm lock around your neck in a chokehold. keeping his lips close to your ear, his panting breath blows hot over your skin. wrapped up like this, you feel nothing but his voice, his scent, his body around you. consuming you in a womb of heat and sweat and musk. safe and secure.

“yeah? you know you like it.” he teases, gritting past his teeth as it nips on your helix. voice carrying equal parts of being smug and fond. raises his hips and pulls out to the tip just to hear you whine from the loss before he slams himself back in, meeting your pussy with a loud slap, all the way to the hilt. eyes rolling back when he hits a particular spot inside you.

geto lets out a guttural noise building from his chest, reverberating through you the more he nestles his cock further in, his balls come to rub against your clit and he can't help but ask “you want this dick?” punctuating his words with slow, lazy strokes. his hips start bucking to a casual rhythm, rutting into you while his other hand moves towards your lips, coaxing them apart and pushing past your teeth to run it along your tongue. cold and wet and so indulgent is he that you suck on his fingers then, coating them before he pulls them out with a pop.

he reaches underneath to where his cock stretches you and slides the pad of his fingers over your clit, loving how it juts out and twitches when you spread your legs wider. strokes it in time with his thrusts then slows down gently, switching between light quick strokes and rubbing slow circles when he hears your moans building up, your insides clenching down on him, waiting and anticipating.

"i want it so bad, please fuck me," you let out breathy moan when his cock pulses inside, releasing dribbles of his pre cum, leaking inside. throwing your head back, you sink your nails into his forearm tucked below your chin for leverage and he hisses at the sting but he earns them, claims them as his own, wants you to leave the evidence there.

raising your ass up, back arching, practically laying flat against the mattress, you’re at his mercy. spread open and dripping all over his sheets but it wouldn’t be the first time you’d left a mess. he makes it so that you leave every bit of your essence here. that when he washes them the next day, it's like a reward, he'd see the aftermath of it and knows he'd done it to you, and he'll do it all over again.

without any warning, he starts to thrusts frantically, the motion of his hips slamming down with need, finally giving in with desperate, fervent madness. nothing able to quell the pounding he sought to deliver as though he were even remotely in control when he’s turning into a mess again, stuttering and uneven thrusts carrying you through. moans growing louder as your body is consumed by him, his chest on your back, feeling the pulse beneath and the way his heart races. he was close.

your asscheeks smack against his hips, wet sounds echoing, so loud and lewd and your moans get short, abrupt, no longer hiding them. he curses under his breath. “fuck, you’re perfect, so fucking perfect for me,” there’s an urgency when he says it, driven by your cries, by the tightness. every thrust pulls you higher, tension rising and you come then with a scream, soul brought asunder.

clenching around him and whining his name. tasting so good on your tongue and he chases after your call, grunting into the crook of your neck. fucking you through your release. he wasn’t far behind, hips bucking on their own, he works you through the comedown, slowing his thrusts and grinding his leaking cock inside you. wanting to milk every bit of it out as rope after rope of hot cum spilled into you, filled to the brim.

heat floods all over and your limbs go limp and laxed, mind turning fuzzy from the pleasure. atop you, he’s just as slack but he doesn’t pull out immediately, not until you’re done writhing and shaking all over. not until you decide to unclench yourself from him. his heavy, measured breaths rise and fall, sweaty chest heaving, and his heart full.

——————————————————

"are you sore?" geto asks from behind, pulling you closer to him in his big bed after using a warm towel to rub you down, gliding over your thighs, the backs of your knees, and over your mound. he wraps you up in him, pulls a comforter over your naked body with furs keeping you warm by your feet. he reminds himself to keep you warm, get more wood for the fireplace in the morning, and make you breakfast, and buy you a new dress just so he can rip it off you again, until then he's never leaving this bed.

"a little," you still feel him every time your legs rub together, an ache in the places his hands have gripped and spanked, and all the little bites he's left are tender to the touch. reminders of just how much he craves you, loves you and this body you live in.

"i'm sorry, maybe i overdid it," his lips brush over the slope of your shoulder, humming softly at you shaking your head no. his heart plays a steady rhythm, lulling you to the edge of sleep. here, it's safe and warm and you feel so damn happy, floating somewhere near heaven, too full of bliss to come back down to earth at the thought of him being with you.

bringing his arms around you closer, you entwine his hand in yours, "it was perfect, i loved it," you assure him, "i love you." you say, eyelids heavy, closing shut before you drift off to sleep, thinking of an entire life stretched out before you, moonlit skin and an edgeless pool and his voice whispering "i love you too."

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i-mybrunettelady · 1 year

Text

Chaos by any other name

Preface: This is a rewrite of a very old Nyra fic from 2021. You can read it here, but I’m sure this version’s much better because it’s 2023 and we evolve over time! This started as a writing exercise for me but I grew invested, somehow was unable to write anything else before I finished this, so I decided to make it a birthday gift for Nyra! Now with upgraded screenshot I haven’t had a chance to post yet. I ended up quite liking the results too. Thusly, I hope you like them too <3

TW: brief mentions of childbirth & death

– 1314 AE

There’s been talk at the parties. There’s always talk at parties, she’s gathered, but it’s never things that interest her. Her mom’s good at it, talking about uninteresting things, especially when they have other nobles over in their estate. Thankfully, they bring their children so Nyra isn’t alone.

Now those are interesting conversations. But one question comes up more often than others - the question of Gods. They’re almost eight, which means one of the Gods will bless them officially. Their gifts are all starting to show. Nyra feels a little out of place sometimes. Hers aren’t here yet and neither is her magic. It’s okay for the magic - it usually comes later, but the gifts? Nyra purses her lips every time her friends ask her about it. She tells them she doesn’t know, because she doesn’t and it makes her skin itch.

Sometimes, she dreams she’s blessed by Balthazar. His war blessings will surely go well with being a soldier and she’s Ascalonian, she will fight. Sometimes, she wishes she could whisper to the trees and find her way around nature more easily than others. And sometimes, only sometimes, she dreams of Lyssa and illusions.

It feels right when she dreams of illusions. But she doesn’t think she has any to make.

One day, they’re walking home from the temple when her mom asks: “Which god do you think blessed you most, Alyssa?”

Nyra turns her head. She’s walking in front of everyone else, tapping her lacy shoes against the pavement. They still don’t ring as hard as her grandfather’s cane. Somehow, the answer’s easy on her lips, very natural, “Lyssa.”

“But you’re no mesmer,” her dad says. He says the word mesmer really funnily in Ascalonian. Maybe she does too, governed by the way her parents speak. “We don’t know what magic you have, if you even have it.” She thinks it sounds a little sad, that last part.

Nyra frowns. “I do,” she says, angrily, “Nobody I know has magic yet!”

Mom walks over and places a gentle hand on Nyra’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s one of Lyssa’s blessings, hiding itself in plain sight,” she muses. “It’ll show itself when the time is right. My little acolyte of Lyssa.”

– 1316 AE

She’s wearing a dress, and an ugly one at that. To be more precise, it’s not that the dress itself is ugly. Its purple ruffles and black lace would look good on someone else, but on her, it seems out of place. Tell that to her mom, though, who looks very good in such fashionable styles and insists her daughters play the part. Even poor Leyiton was roped into dressing up, though he doesn’t have much say in the matter. He’s a small child.

Deborah is also dressed in a fashionable gown, but she wears it more naturally than Alysannyra ever will. It’s only right, after all. She’s third in line for the title. Boring adult talks are in her future. Her sister’s, however, is war. Even at the age of 10, Alysannyra knows she can’t go to war in delicate ruffles.

Besides, she thinks darkly, her name’s too sharp for a dress like this. Alysannyra, a true Ascalonian name. There’s a namesake, a cousin back in Ebonhawke she hasn’t seen yet. She’s never been to Ebonhawke before, let alone the rest of Ascalon. They’re still fighting the charr. Nyra doesn’t feel particularly fitted to have that name. She wants to be like the Krytan kids, to not have the accent someone pointed out that she has recently. Nay-ruh. Simple, easy on the tongue. Deborah says it differently, however: Nee-ra. She’s bothered when they call her Nay-ruh, but she doesn’t feel like Nee-ra either.

She doesn’t feel like Lady Ainsaph, either. That’s what she’s introduced as and that’s what adults use to refer to her. It’s too general, too similar to her mom and sister. Every time she hears it, she swears she feels something in her chest tighten and release. Minister Eldon’s granddaughter is more precise, but there’s also Deborah, so it’s also not her own. Nyra shifts on her feet. Her dress is too big, her name’s too Ascalonian. She doesn’t know what she wants to be called, and her ministerial grandfather towers over her like ruins of Rin.

Nyra uselessly taps her small heels against the Krytan, marble floors.

— 1321 AE

Wind screams on the day of Deborah’s funeral. Its sad wails threaten to overshadow the priest’s voice, even against their best attempts to be louder. Nyra blinks, her eyes are wet with unshed tears and she’s not sure she can blame it on the foul weather.

Her parents cry, voiceless, beside her. Leyiton is stunned into silence. Eldon looks at the empty grave, stone-faced. They’re all short-haired now. As per Ascalonian mourning customs, they all cut their hair off. Nyra, though - or Alysannyra, in its pure, unadulterated, Ascalonian form - isn’t. She’s cut some, but only half. Eldon threatened to cut it all off before the funeral, Nyra refused. She even chose to not tie it back, but allowed it to fall on her shoulders, simple, unadorned, just like the black clothes she’s wearing. Not fully Krytan, with its long, mourning hairstyles, not fully Ascalonian in its scarcity. Caught between two worlds, she chooses her own.

“My sister isn’t dead,” she shouted back at her grandfather. “I won’t mourn for someone who’s not dead!” Still, it didn’t stop her from crying so hard her eyes are now bloodshot. Wind weeps in her ears.

Alysannyra is 15 years old.

At least she knows who she attends as. In the days leading up to the funeral, in the midst of her parents’ pain and her grandfather’s quiet stoicism, she made up her mind to correct anyone who says her name wrong from now on. She’s Nee-ra, the same way Debs said it when she was around. A last remnant of her sister, if she’s truly dead, which Nyra doubts. Hair beats against her face and she blinks again.

It’s only when the priest finishes their rite that Nyra allows herself a sob. Logan Thackeray, her Ascalonian mentor, presses a hand against her shoulder.

– 1325 AE

“Lyss, a question, if I may.”

The night’s quiet and cool. Nyra feels warm, though, even if Trahearne isn’t, thanks to his sylvari body; she’s had a lot of fun exploring it just an hour ago, she can’t really complain. It feels a lot like a good workout, with even residue soreness, and she’s decided to forego the thin blanket on their bed. She rather likes the way he’s looking at her.

“You may. I permit a single question and no more.” She raises her head from the pillow and rests it on her palm. Her elbow digs into the softness of the mattress, shaking gently with her laughter. From up here, he looks very exquisite.

“Is your name deliberate? Is it a purposeful invocation of the goddess or a happy accident?” There’s a note of barely contained excitement in his voice, like he’s been dying to ask her this question for ages now. Of course he’d ask. Not that she minds - they’ve spoken at length about each other’s cultures and customs. He’s answered her many questions (alongside ones about his plant body, which made him laugh and her frown in flustered embarrassment) so now it’s her turn.

In truth, she’s never felt this safe with someone before. Not like this. There’s been Renira and their one aimless hookup, but Nyra’s never let herself forget that Renira is a spy. There’s been Mirka, but she wasn’t quite in love with her. This time, Nyra feels warmth settle in her chest and knows, deep down in her heart, that she now has a soft place to land when it gets tough.

(And it does get tough, battling with your own head. She can tell him and they can sort it out, however. It feels so natural, as if it had always been there.)

“Choose a question to answer,” she replies cheekily, “I said only one!”

“No,” Trahearne says, wiggling on the bed until he too is leaning on his elbow and looking in her eyes. He’s using that scholar voice of his that she finds incredibly endearing. “One is an additional explanation to the other. See, same question, asked twice.”

Nyra stares at him for a moment and then breaks into a wide grin. “Alas, I am beaten!” She says it in the most melodramatic voice known to man and he giggles.

“For my prize,” he begins, feigning consideration, "I demand an answer to my single question.”

“And not the lady? I’m offended. You’re such a scholar!” She shakes her head fondly. “But no, it's not deliberate. I was named after my mother’s cousin, who died in childbirth a year or so before I was born. But maybe her parents named her after the goddess?”

“Is it sacrilegious? To bear the gods’ names?”

“It’s not a usual practice, admittedly. And to tell you honestly, I wouldn’t say it is. But the strangeness of it just somehow feels like a premonition to some people. Like I’m destined to do things they won’t like.”

Suddenly he gets all serious and gently guides her down on the bed. Her breath hitches a little, surprised by the gesture. He then leans down to softly kiss her and she melts against the mattress. She could kiss him all day and not get tired of it. “One Kormir is enough,” he says against her lips and strokes her hair. “You’re not a goddess. You’re my Lyss, no matter how godly your name is.”

Nyra can only kiss him in response.

– 1334 AE

Elandrin refuses to use anything beside her full name, Alysannyra. Not even her surname, as some are wont to do; her name, directly, as if he wants no doubt as to who he’s referring to. She appreciates it, in a weird way. At least he says it with a very accented Ascalonian pronunciation and doesn’t alter it to make it easier to say.

If you hate someone, hate them right, she supposes. That sentiment is why her eyebrows shoot up when she sees him approach, glowing softly in the dying light of day, and why her battle-sore muscles tense. That voice, borderline a shout, gives him away. Elandrin’s always shouting.

“I told Trahearne you’d be back,” he says. “Repeatedly.”

It takes her a moment to register the convoluted compliment. Still, she doesn’t lower her guard. “Thank you, Elandrin,” she replies, trying to be as casual as possible. Elandrin Aien doesn’t just give compliments for no reason.

Maybe she’s not used to being off the battlefield yet, though. It always takes her a moment to regain awareness of that fact. She straightens her back, feeling decidedly off kilter.

“I was just stating the obvious. No need to puff your chest like that, not to me. I know someone who’d be over the moon if you did it, though.” He cackles, grinning at his own joke.

Nyra squints. “That’s between me and him,” she reminds him sharply. “I don’t need you commenting on the state of my and Trahearne’s relationship.”

People pass by, intrigued by the exchange. Many pairs of eyes land on them and Nyra imagines this is somehow a duel in the noble halls of her childhood, but much more personal and a lot less trivial. An audience, she thinks. Great.

“Stop me if you can,” he says and it sounds like a challenge. It’s not something she can turn down, not with this many eyes on them. Then, unexpectedly, his voice loses some of its edge. “Alysannyra.”

Her shoulders relax. “I may just take you up on that,” she replies, surprised by the languid casualness of her tone, “Elandrin.”

Something’s shifted in that exchange of names. Not a syllable mispronounced, not a letter cut short, but a world different to the vitriol her name had on his lips just a year ago, or the aggravation his name held on hers. She doesn’t have the time to inspect that thought, however, because the crowd gathers to greet their hero and they all shout one name, her own.

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