#geto art

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summary: suguru returns from the gym with his pecs looking... plumper than usual

tags: nipple play, suguru has nipple piercings, unprotected piv, creampie, pussydrunk suguru. 《 fanart by ceo_aneki 》

wc: 1k

a/n: saw this juicy ass fanart and couldn't stop myself...

suguru's been hitting the gym a lot more lately.

sure, you've noticed it, he got a bit leaner, gained more muscle, but it wasn't until right now that you've fully been able to see the difference.

Come back home

(Friends with benefits, lots of angst, Suguru isn’t over his ex, you’re in love, miscommunication, cheating? not giving you more tags)

Part-1 | Playlist

You two aren’t even on the bed properly when he suddenly tugs one of your legs closer. He’s up. Your hands are on the bed, moving, facing him, and then he has a hand tangled in your hair. He tugs gently, pulling you in, and kisses you.

Deeply. Slowly. Hungrily.

It almost feels romantic.

And then he kisses you again and you both moan into each other’s mouths. He tilts your head slightly, lips trailing down your neck. But he’s being feral with it. He bites, kisses, licks — never gentle, never patient. And then you’re finally pushed onto the bed with a thump, breath leaving your body all at once.

“Turn,” he says.

He’s always so damn authoritative. And God, that makes you weak.

You move, your hair falling loose from its ponytail. His hair is down too now, messy and damp with sweat. He moves to his nightstand, opens the drawer, and pulls out a condom.

And then—

He’s inside you, and your breath leaves your mouth in sharp gasps. He’s rough, brutal even, and every thrust feels like it’s going to split you in half. (18+)

He always gives mean backshots. God, he loves you on all fours — loves it too much. He never looks at you when he finishes. Because it’s casual. Because if he did, maybe it would mean something. Maybe you’d catch feelings.

He bites at your neck again, tugs your hair back roughly, and says,

“You like it?”

You reach one hand back, brushing the nape of his neck from where you’re leaning, and say,

“I love it. Keep going.”

He groans low and heavy and palms your waist, his grip bruising. You know it’s going to leave marks, and you love it. You love being manhandled by him. You love when he takes control.

You just wish sometimes he’d flip you over. Kiss you while he’s doing it. Look in your eyes while he’s deep inside you.

He’s big but it’s his stamina that destroys you. He never gets tired. Never stops.

Then he takes your hand away from his neck and pulls both of your wrists behind your back, holding them tight. His mouth comes down on your neck again and you gasp.

It’s control.

“I’m close, I’m close, I’m so close—fuck.”

He says, voice rough and breathless,

“Yeah, baby. Give it to me.”

Baby.

You hate that word in bed.

“Come on,” he says again. “Come on my cock.”

And you do. Your whole body trembles as you gush around him. He finishes too, always with a hard bite against your nape that makes your body jolt.

It takes a moment for either of you to catch your breath. The room is filled only with the sound of panting.

He eases out of you, taps your ass lightly, and says,

“You did good.”

You’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling, when sometimes just sometimes you wish he’d soothe your hair. Run his fingers through it. Place a kiss on your temple.

But you shouldn’t think about things like that.

He cleans you up a little with a wet tissue, casual as ever, then says,

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

And sometimes you wish he’d add, Want to join?

But that would be too intimate, wouldn’t it?

Like holding hands while having sex.

As he disappears into the bathroom, you sit there on the bed — hands resting on your knees — looking down at the mess, the ache, the art between your thighs. Your gaze drifts toward the bathroom door.

Sometimes you hate it.

But you love it too.

Because it’s him.

You got into this because of him, didn’t you?

Your thoughts spiral until his phone starts ringing. You glance at the screen — it’s Shoko.

“Shoko’s calling,” you call out.

“Yeah, give me the phone,” he says from inside.

You hand it to him when he steps out, body still damp, towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. His hands are big, veiny, perfect. His hair is loose and wet. He looks beautiful. Majestic. Gorgeous.

Sometimes you wonder why a man like him would want a girl like you.

But then again, you know exactly why — and how you ended up here.

He talks briefly, then says,

“Shoko’s asking to get dinner, you should probably head out”

You hesitate, forcing a smile.

“Yeah, i’m just leaving”

You wish he’d take the phone, toss it away, and kiss you. Say something like, wanna join me for dinner with my friends?”.

But that’s just your imagination again.

He looks at you not unkindly, but with that same distant look and it’s enough to signal that you should probably leave.

You nod, murmuring, “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

You zip up your skirt, button your shirt, trying not to look at him. But he’s standing there — out of the shower now, towel still slung low. Your gaze flicks up to him anyway.

Of course, it always does.

You go back to your home, your head pounding with everything that just happened, the sound of his voice, the way his body felt against yours, the way it all ends the same every single time. You sit down at the edge of your bed, half-dressed, half-broken. The silence feels too loud.

It’s been three months now. Three months of this. Of pretending you’re fine with it. Of telling yourself it’s casual. Because that’s what he wanted. Those were the terms.

And you agreed, didn’t you? You nodded and smiled like it didn’t tear something out of you.

You think about that night, the one where you almost said it. When you almost told him how much you loved him. How much he was starting to mean to you. How he ruined every other touch, every other kiss, every other man for you.

But you stopped. You stopped because you saw it in his eyes — that disinterest, that distant sort of warmth people reserve for things they don’t want to lose, but also don’t want to keep.

He wasn’t in it. Not like you were.

So you said yes when he said it’d be casual. Because what else could you do? Saying no would mean losing him completely. At least this way, you get to keep him — even if it’s just his body, his voice, his shadow in your sheets.

It’s insane. You know it is. But you’d rather have his half than anyone else’s whole.

And when you close your eyes, you can still feel it his hands on your back, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, the ghost of his breath against your neck. The way it felt to kiss him. The way it felt to die and come alive again, only for him to walk away when it’s over.

You know his gentle side. You’ve seen it in rare glimpses — when his fingers brushed a strand of hair off your face thinking you’reasleep, or when he laughed softly at something you said, unaware that you were memorizing the sound. And it hurts, God, it hurts, that he never lets that side linger.

It’s because of her. Manami.

The girl with the red hair. The one he was in love with.

Well maybe WAS would be wrong to say. You don’t even know if was. It never feels like she’s fully gone from him.

You can see her ghost in the way he shuts down sometimes, the way he stares at nothing for too long, the way he looks through you instead of at you.

You tell yourself not to be jealous of a memory. But you are. You’re jealous of someone who isn’t even there.

Your head spins. Your chest tightens. You want to cry, but you’re too tired. You’ve already spent all your tears on him in your head, in your shower, in your pillow.

It’s pathetic how every time after, all you want is to curl up beside him. Feel his arms around you. Pretend for five freaking minutes that it means something. But you never ask. Because you already know the answer.

You shouldn’t want him to stay. You shouldn’t want anything. But you do.

And that’s the cruelest part — you always do.

You sit there for a while, staring at nothing, at the thought of those hands, the faint scent of him still on your skin. You should sleep. You should forget about him. You should wash it all off.

But you don’t.

Because the thought of washing him off feels like losing him all over again.

You press your hands to your eyes, and your throat aches. You’re painfully, stupidly in love with Suguru Geto. And you know it’s the kind of love that won’t end well.

He’s everything you’ve ever wanted, but he’ll never be yours.

And yet, when he calls you the next day when his name lights up your phone, you still go.

You go even though you promised yourself you wouldn’t.

Part -2