Suguru Geto

He found you when you were small and half-feral, crouched in the dirt of a back alley. Your ribs showed through your skin, your lips cracked from thirst, but when Suguru bent to your level, you didn’t cower. You bared your teeth instead, glare sharp and wild. He should have walked away.

He should have ended you. Instead, he smiled.

“Not afraid, good. Fear makes for weak hands.” he murmured, eyes glinting like black glass. “A little wolf cub, huh? Fine. Let’s sharpen the fangs.”

You expected cruelty. What you got was worse.

He didn’t beat you into obedience, didn’t throw scraps like one would a dog. He gave you clothes, clean water, and food that made your stomach ache from fullness.

He gave you rules, but not like chains—like lessons. Sit quietly. Watch everything. Don’t speak unless it’s worth hearing. And when you followed, when you learned, he praised you. His approval was rare, precious, deliberate. Each soft “well done” lit something in your chest that hunger never had.

By twelve, he placed a knife in your hand. He leaned close, voice low, the weight of his words heavier than the blade. “Use it only when you mean it. A weapon without purpose is just noise.”

You nodded, and his smile told you that you mattered. That you were more than a starving child on the street. You were his shadow, sharp and unseen.

The years that followed carved you into what he wanted.

At fifteen, your hands were no longer clean. You delivered messages, you made problems disappear, you carried the quiet kind of power no one questioned because they never noticed you until it was too late.

When the blood clung to your skin, he brushed it away, gentle as if it were nothing at all. “Good work,” he told you, fingers warm against your jaw. “I’m proud of you.”

Everyone whispered that Suguru was raising a monster. You heard it, but it never mattered. Because monsters were strong, and monsters were wanted, and monsters were never alone. And you would rather be his monster than anyone else’s lamb.

---

The mission had been clean, silent, like it always was when you handled it. One body disappeared into the river, another left cooling in an alley with no trace that tied back to Suguru.

By the time you slipped back into his safehouse, he was already waiting, relaxed in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, looking at you like you were the sharpest thing he’d ever made.

He didn’t ask for details. He never needed to. He already knew you succeeded. What he gave instead was that smile—small, lazy, but heavy enough to press down on your chest. “Good job,” he said, voice smooth and rich, smoke curling around the words. The praise hit harder than any cash or vacation ever could, and he saw it.

He always saw it. His gaze lingered on you, soft at first, then sharper.

When he stood, the shift in the room was immediate. He walked toward you slowly, deliberately, like a hunter approaching prey he already owned. His hand lifted, brushing against your jaw, tilting your face up just enough. The touch burned more than any wound you’d ever taken for him.

“You like that, don’t you?” Suguru murmured, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip. “My little blade, glowing just because I said you did well.”

The kiss didn’t land, not yet—he hovered close, his breath warm against your mouth, dragging it out until your body leaned forward on instinct. That’s when his lips caught yours, slow and deep, his other hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you there like he was claiming his reward instead of giving one.

“You want me to be proud of you, don’t you?” he whispered against your mouth, and you didn’t answer, but you didn’t need to. Suguru’s smirk curved against your skin as his hand slipped lower, heat sparking where he touched. “Then let me show you how good you really are.”

---

The mission ends in silence, as they always do when your hands are the blade. Your body hums with leftover adrenaline, still sharp and trembling with energy, but not from fear. Never fear. You’re past that now. All that’s left is the ache to return — to him. The walk back to the estate is a blur, your body carrying itself on instinct, already leaning toward where you know he waits.

By the time you’re in the hallway, your pulse is a drum in your throat. You don’t even think to knock. You’ve never needed to.

The door creaks open and heat rushes out to meet you, steam curling over your skin like a greedy hand. The scent of soap, iron, and something darker clings to the air. Suguru stands there in the mist, a silhouette turning solid, towel riding low on his hips, droplets carving paths down the broad planes of his chest. He looks like sin draped in humidity, every line of him cut sharp and deliberate, built to command and ruin.

His smirk appears first, slow and devastating, as if he’s been waiting for you all along. “My little assassin,” he says, voice dark velvet, soft enough to make your chest tighten. He doesn’t sound surprised. He never does. Just amused. Just pleased. As if he knows you’d come crawling back the second blood cooled on your blade.

His eyes drag over you, catching on the dirt and sweat and the stains that aren’t yours. “Always so eager to report back.”

He steps closer, towel slipping lower with every move, heat radiating off him in waves. A single wet finger tilts your chin upward, commanding, forcing your gaze to hold his. “Look at you,” he murmurs, lips curving, eyes shining with hunger. “My perfect little phantom. You did so well, didn’t you? Just like I taught you.” His finger slides down, leaving a trail of damp across your throat, lingering there like he’s imagining squeezing, claiming.

The fog swirls around him, but you barely see it, too caught in the gravity of him. His gaze is steady, worshipful and cruel all at once. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, and the words hit harder than any blade. Then the smirk returns, cutting sharp, promising filth. “Come. Let me reward you properly.”

The towel slips from his hips, slow, deliberate, hitting the floor in silence. He’s already hard, thick and straining, not from the steam but from you — the sight of you ragged and bloodstained, trembling with the aftertaste of violence.

His cock stands proud against the heat, glistening with droplets that slide lower and lower, as if even water can’t resist clinging to him. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t blink, only leans closer until his breath brushes your lips.

His voice drops, darker now, heavy enough to make your knees weak. “On your knees. Let me see you worship the man who made you.”