#dark geto

The first thing you notice is the cold.

Your body is suspended, arms chained above your head, toes barely brushing the stone floor. Your robes hang in tatters, blood drying against your skin. You can taste iron in your mouth. Something’s cracked in your jaw. You don’t remember when.

Above you, torches burn with unnatural steadiness, casting a golden glow over the stone sanctuary. Shadows shift. Dozens of eyes watch in reverent silence. You’re not just a prisoner.

You’re a spectacle.

“You brought this on yourself, you know.” The voice is soft like silk soaked in blood.

Suguru Geto stands before you, dressed not in armor or battle robes, but ceremonial black and gold. His long hair is tied back with precision. There’s a lazy elegance to his smile, the kind you’d expect from a man delivering a eulogy rather than a sentence.

He doesn’t look angry.

He looks… pleased.

You spit at him, or try to. It dribbles from your split lip and lands on your own collarbone and his smile widens.

“Still defiant. That’s good. I want them to see it before I burn it out of you.”

You and Suguru Geto were once inseparable, two sides of the same soul, bound by utmost devotion for each other, shared battles, and the kind of love that bloomed between scars and silence. He was your sanctuary, your shadow, your almost. But when his faith in the world rotted, when he turned his back on everything you both bled for, you couldn’t follow him into the dark. Although he did ask you to join him, to persuade you somehow bit you didn't, you couldn't. Choosing good meant leaving him behind, cutting the thread that once tied your hearts together. You still remember the look in his eyes when you walked away, not rage, not heartbreak, but betrayal. As if you were the one who'd abandoned him.

You pull against the chains, despite the ache in your shoulders. The crowd stays silent, his followers, robed in muted black, standing in neat rows like obedient acolytes. Dozens. Maybe more. You can feel their eyes like hands.

Geto steps closer. He doesn’t need to raise his voice.

“This sorcerer tried to end me. Broke into our sanctum. Slaughtered four of our own. All in the name of the weak. The civilians. The powerless.” He clicks his tongue. “And for what? Their admiration? Their thanks?”

He cups your chin in his hand, tilting your face toward him. “Did you really think they’d remember your name after you died?”

You jerk your head, trying to snap at him, but he holds you steady. The smile never leaves his lips. He speaks now only for you. “You could’ve been great, you know. You could’ve stood beside me. They would’ve worshipped you. But you had to be a hero.” He sighs. “Now they’ll watch as I turn you into something better.”

You freeze. Not from fear. From recognition.

Because you’ve heard the stories.

Geto doesn’t kill his enemies. He converts them.

The room shifts. You were dragged like a sac to the stone altar and your wrists were bound by some chains that reeked of cursed energy and you were forced on your knees. A table is brought forward, black velvet draped across a low altar. On it, a carved vial the color of moonlight. You feel a sliver of something colder than fear slip down your spine.

Geto picks up the vial with a reverence you don’t understand. He holds it in front of you like a holy relic. “A special blend, tailored just for you. Sorcery-compatible. Doesn’t sedate the mind, just... encourages the body.”

He removes the cork and holds the vial between his fingers. You twist, shake your head, and grunt trying to resist but it’s no use. Two followers step forward to hold you still. You try to bite one of them, but all it earns you is a punch to the gut that knocks the wind from your lungs.

Before you can even register the punch geto's hand grabs at your neck and then the liquid is in your mouth. It tastes like starlight and poison. You try to spit, choke, anything but he’s already tilted your head back. Forcing you to swallow.

It burns all the way down. It doesn’t hit at first.

But soon… your skin tingles. Your chest tightens. The air grows thick, hot, heavy. It’s like your blood has been replaced with honey. Every nerve ending hums. Your thoughts scatter like birds. You try to stay angry, focused but your body has already betrayed you.

Geto watches you shake.

“Good. Let it take hold. Let them see how quickly righteousness crumbles.” He turns to his followers.

“Bear witness. Watch the great protector become the lesson.”

You sag against the chains. Your knees buckle. Not from pain but heat. You hate how your thighs tremble. How your nipples peak beneath your ruined clothes. How slick begins to pool between your legs with every slow, monstrous heartbeat.

And Geto? He just watches. Patient. Devout.

You feel your breath catch when he touches your neck, fingers dragging down to your collarbone. The contact is feather-light, but it ignites your skin.

No. No. You’re not this weak. Not for him. Not like this.

But your body is drenched in betrayal. He leans in, whispers against your jaw. “You feel it, don’t you? The shame. The hunger. It’s rewriting you.”

You whimper and that, more than anything, makes him sigh like a man in love.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.” He caresses your cheeks and you crumple to the floor like a broken puppet. He kneels beside you. Cradles your chin. Brushes your hair back with terrifying gentleness. Your vision swims. The room watches, still silent.

Don’t give him the satisfaction. Don’t cry. Don’t beg.

But your body is burning. Need strangles every thought. Your hips buck against nothing. You feel tears threaten.

“This,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “is what you were always meant to be. Not a hero. Not a weapon. A symbol." You shake your head, but it’s too late. Your thighs are soaked. Your mouth parts on a moan you can’t swallow. "Let me show them your truth.” The stone beneath your knees bites into your skin, but you don’t flinch.

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

The cursed chains binding your wrists behind your back pulse with residual energy, sapping your strength with each beat. Your shoulders ache. Your jaw trembles. And still, you keep your head high because it’s the only thing you have left.

But the heat is building.

That fucking aphrodisiac he made you swallow thick and bitter, poured straight down your throat as he stroked your neck claws through your veins like wildfire. It doesn’t just make you wet. It makes you want. And that’s worse.

Geto watches you with hooded eyes, if you can call it that. Elevated, draped in black and gold, his legs spread with lazy arrogance as he studies you. “You’re shaking,” he says softly. “You going to beg soon?”

"Why?" Was all you can muster up to speak, your whole body was shaking. Even thinking about you calling the man in front of you your whole life makes bile rise up in your throat. How naïve were you?

He chuckles. “You don't get to ask questions.”

A ripple of agreement flows through the cult. They kneel in reverence men with eyes wide and ravenous, women clutching at their chests like this is scripture. They’ve been waiting for this. To watch their god ruin a sorcerer.

Geto rises. His steps echo as he circles you. Every inch closer feels like a cage closing. Your knees twitch, but the cursed chains bind you still. You can’t run. You can’t fight. You can only endure.

He stops behind you.

The air shifts warm breath on your neck, fingers ghosting over your hips. You shudder. “Still pretending you don’t want it?” he murmurs, hand slipping beneath the torn hem of your uniform. “Even when your cunt’s dripping?”

You want to scream. Instead, you grit your teeth. The cult breathes louder. He lifts your skirt. You choke on your own shame. “I want them to see.” His voice is lower now, dark with amusement. “All of them. How a proud little jujutsu brat turns into a hole the second I touch her.”

You jerk away instinctively. Useless. His hands pull your chains back tight. Geto kneels behind you, one hand between your thighs. He doesn’t have to search long your folds are wet, glistening, flushed from the drug’s effects. He swipes his fingers through the mess, then raises them for all to see.

“Willing,” he announces. “Even if her mouth still lies.” He stands up as one of his followers starts disrobing him. His face is lit up with pride and something dark and twisted, as if he's won a prize he was waiting for so long.

He kneels behind you and forces your head onto the stone, your cheeks scraping against the hard rough planes. He spits directly onto your cunt slow and deliberate and rubs the saliva in with cruel fingers, smearing it across your folds, then presses the tip of his cock against you. A whimper leaves your throat as you twist. He grips your hips.

“You wanted to keep your pride,” he says calmly. “So I’ll take it from you instead.”

And he thrusts in. No warning. No care.

Just pain, sharp and blinding, tearing a raw scream from your throat as he forces himself deep. Your knees slide forward on the stone, but his grip yanks you back onto him, sheathing every unforgiving inch inside you.

He groans. “Fuck. You’re tight.” You choke on a sob. Several gasps can be heard in unison.

“She’s crying,” a woman breathes.

Geto snaps his hips forward hard. Brutal. Your head jerks back. “Of course she is,” he says. “This is the first time she’s been fucked properly.” The sting from his cock drilling inside you is nothing compared to the sting which comes by knowing for the fact that suguru geto knew, he knew you didn't give yourself to anyone, he knew cuz you once told him that he'd be your first and last. And still he's being merciless with you.

He sets a rhythm that defies mercy. Your body jerks with each thrust, forced to take every inch. The chains burn. The stone bruises. But worst of all is the heat spreading deeper with every pump of his cock inside you, every sick twist of pleasure forced through your traitorous nerves. The smell of copper fills the air around you both and you feel something dripping onto your thighs. You feel it in your spine. In your toes. In the way your thighs twitch open wider.

“No,” you whisper. “No—”

“Ah, there it is,” he croons. “She’s starting to break.” He grabs your hair and yanks you up, forcing your back against his chest. Your tits are exposed, slick with sweat, bouncing with every thrust. The audience watches, spellbound. His hands slip in between your thighs and gather the blood trickling down your thighs from your cunt where you both are joined and brings his blood covered hand to your chest, spreading the blood all over your tits as a form of ownership. The crowd roars in triumph.

“Look at them,” he growls into your ear. “They’d kill to be in your place.” One thrust hits something devastating. Your mouth drops open. A moan escapes before you can choke it down. Geto laughs.

“Fucking knew it. That drug’s turning you into a perfect little cumrag.” You try to shake your head and push him away all but to no avail. But you’re clenching around him, your body wants it now. You feel your climax building. Unwanted. Disgusting.

He knows. “Gonna cum, aren’t you? From being fucked in front of everyone?”

“No! P-please...” But your voice breaks.

He leans in, biting your neck. “Do it. Let them see how filthy you really are.”

Your body convulses. You scream as your orgasm tears through you, your cunt pulsing around his cock, slick gushing down your thighs. The crowd gasps and praises their lord.

You slump forward, trembling. Geto doesn’t stop. He grabs your arms and bends you lower, plunging into you with renewed cruelty. His thrusts grow erratic. His balls slap against your ass with each snap of his hips. And then, he groans and empties inside you. Deep. Hot.

You feel it flood your insides, thick and possessive. Your stomach twists. Geto pulls out, slow and wet. The crowd stares at your gaping cunt, watching his cum leak from you in sticky strings. Some men drops to their knees, whispering prayers.

He grips your jaw and forces your head up. "I'm not done with you yet." The crowd falls silent as he whispers into your ear. “Open your mouth, swallow my spit and thank me."

You shake. Silent.

He slaps you—sharp and loud. “Open your fucking mouth, Slut.” Choked sobs escape your lips as you part your lips unwillingly trembling from shame and self loathing. He grabs your chin roughly as he spits inside your unwilling mouth. You're broken beyond belief.

“I…” Your lips tremble. “Thank you.”

He smiles. “There’s my girl."

You lie in a mess on the stone floor, body shaking, slick coating your thighs. Your vision swims. You’re not sure what hurts more your body or your pride. The crowd doesn’t jeer.

They bow. To you. No, to him. To what he’s done to you. What you represent now. Ruin in physical form. Geto crouches beside you, gathering you up in his robe. Not like a rescuer, but like a conqueror claiming a trophy.

“I told you, didn’t I? You’ll be the last thing they ever worship.” Your lip trembles. He smiles, and presses a kiss to your temple like a benediction.

“This is what salvation looks like, little dove. Flesh, ruin and obedience. If only you listened to me at first. And now the last thing you'll ever worship is me."