carnarion

[carnarion]

۫ ꣑ৎ a match made in... money? wc: 3,120 summary: materialists if nanami was harry. a little bit of smut, not really proofread or edited (i'm sorry)

success is something you, as a matchmaker, have still not become used to. setting up date after date only for a client to come to you and say: ‘he’s one inch shorter than you said, can we get a new one?’. but when you do succeed, it’s the most wonderful thing in the world.

this is your ninth success, the ninth couple that you’ve brought together, getting married! and of course, you’re invited. the wedding was going as planned, except for one tiny hitch— the bride.

“i can’t get married to him.”

the bride, your former client who you had matched up with a six foot finance guy who makes six figures, lay on the bed with a horribly pitiful expression.

“do i even love him? it’s not like i need this marriage at all, my family isn’t in debt, nothing. i chose this, for what?”

“marriage is a business deal, charlotte.” you pull her up, looking her dead in the eyes. “you can walk away if it isn’t good enough, and as the person who introduced you to peter, i’ll walk right out with you. so tell me, do you want to walk out?”

“no.”

“why?”

“my parents spent a fortune on this wedding, just so i could feel like a proper woman, a bride. i can’t just leave.” her mascara was running now, dangerously close to her wedding dress, which looked like it cost more than a few thousand.

“yeah, but why do you really, in the deepest, ugliest parts of yourself, want to marry peter? trust me, i’ve heard it all, and none of them are wrong. what you say here, stays here.”

“promise?”

“promise.”

she leans closer, holding your hand in her own clammy one.

“it’s awful, you can’t tell a soul.”

“i’ll take it to my grave, charlotte.”

“he-” she lowers her tone, inhaling sharply. “he makes my sister jealous. she doesn’t say it outright, but it’s obvious. she thinks he’s better than her husband. he’s got a better job, is better looking— taller. that makes me feel…” she breaks off for a moment, looking out the window in slight shame. “like i’ve won.”

“peter makes you feel like you’re valuable.” you wipe away some of the mascara smudges. you understood, well. there was nothing inherently wrong about that.

she smiles a little, and the tears die down. “yeah, he does.”

“does that make you want to marry him?”

she sniffles then nods, and properly gets up from the bed to hug you. the marriage would go well, you were sure.

—

the ceremony had concluded, the bride and groom now sat happily at their table like they were meant to be— destined by the heavens for each other, rather than set up by a matchmaking service. you had brought them together, and now they were married. perfect.

“excuse me, mind if i sit next to you?”

a smooth voice and sharp, hazel eyes snap you out of your thoughts. the groom’s brother. the groom’s brother was single? and he wanted to sit next to you? he was a sight, dressed up in a neatly pressed tux, and leather shoes that were polished to oblivion.

“oh, sure.”

“enjoying the wedding?” he eyed the surroundings for a moment, before returning his attention to intently observe you. his neatly coiffed blonde hair had one strand out of place hanging down on his forehead, and it took all of your willpower to not reach out and fix it— though it did look achingly gorgeous like that.

“definitely. what about you?”

he makes a face. “you look like you could keep a secret.” he lowers his tone, making sure anyone he knew were far from the table. “i’m attempting to avoid marriage talks. i’m praying that my mother leaves me alone if she sees me at the singles table.”

“i could help with that, you know.”

“are you offering to marry me?” he raises an eyebrow and leans back slightly out of surprise.

“what? no.” you shake your head, laughing. you’ve had enough of relationships after your last, rather disastrous one. it’s best not to return to something like that, no matter how perfect the man in front of you seemed. you’ve known him for barely a minute, get a grip! “i’m a matchmaker. that’s how charlotte and peter met.”

“so you’re the matchmaker?” he seemed to look at you with a newfound interest, like you had started intriguing him more than anything else at the wedding— which seemed to be dragging on more than it should.

“ah, so you’ve heard of me after all.”

“oh, i’ve heard a lot. don’t let my mother find you.” the statement, seemingly humorous, was delivered in such a sincere tone by him that you fight to hold back laughter.

“is she really that determined?” she has no need to be, he could pull any girl without even trying.

“i’ve been on five blind dates this week, all while helping plan the wedding. if that isn’t determined, i’m not quite sure what is.” he hides his exhaustion well, though. cracks in his well-mannered demeanour are practically non-existent.

“well, with my help, we could change that to seven a week.” you relish in the horrified expression he makes. the creases in his forehead do nothing to diminish how put together he still looks— you wonder what caused them. worry? surprise? concentration?

“goodness, no.”

“i’ll take that as a yes.” you pull a card out of your purse, and slip it in his breast pocket. “you’re exactly what any woman in this city would want, give us a call sometime. you’ll find a wife in less than a few months, trust me. with your financial background and height, it should be simple.”

his cheeks flush subtly, but enough for you to notice. internally, you scream. externally, you smile the business smile that’s gotten you around forty-seven clients, not that you’ve been counting.

“you’re certainly… very objective.” he swallows, at a loss for words before something quickly sparks to life in his eyes as he leans a little closer, though you couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

“dance with me, and i’ll give you a call.”

—

so here you were, in the arms of a tall, sharp-featured, potential client that you should be recruiting, not admiring. but how could you not? he was objectively perfect: sharp jaw, eyes that constantly looked as if they were attempting to study you carefully, strong hands that you would give anything to hold on cold nights after— you stop yourself from letting your thoughts go to impure places.

“i never told you my name, did i?” the groom’s brother, which is what you had been referring to him as in your mind for quite a while, asks as he guides you through a slow dance with the sort of grace you imagined a perfect gentleman would have, even if you had never encountered one before. “it’s kento. kento nanami.”

he even had a perfect name. you were ready to scream.

“y/n.” you introduce yourself, narrowly missing his foot with your heel. you prayed he wouldn’t notice.

“well, now that i know your name, i’ll definitely call.” the corner of his lips crinkled a little as he smiled. “but not to hire you.”

he said what? you were screaming. internally. “a matchmaker probably isn’t the ideal date. it’s hard to find anyone when you’ve seen the best of the best, and the worst of the worst.”

“what do you consider the best of the best, then?”

“someone rich. that’s a non-negotiable. and a nice-to-have would be that they’re mind-numbingly, absurdly, achingly…” you pause for effect, and he waits expectantly. “rich.”

he chuckles, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. it sounded like million-dollar yachts, caviar, and most importantly— luxury. “that’s settled. i’ll take you out this weekend.”

as you dance a bit closer to the table where you both sat before, you notice something on the floor. a name card, on the floor near his chair: the name card of the person who was actually supposed to sit next to you.

—

kento sat across from you, staring intently like he always seemed to do, the one that started making you feel as if you don’t know what to do with yourself. the restaurant buzzed around you two with the sort of subtle hubbub characteristic of such places. you made the right call, deciding to wear a cocktail dress, any less than that and you would’ve stuck out like a clown at a funeral. the thought made you nauseous.

“thank you for letting me take you out.” kento sounded a little rough around the edges today, you wondered if it was because of work. you’d heard little snippets of gossip from charlotte, he put workaholics to shame. if there was a word for something worse than a workaholic, that’d be him.

“you’re welcome, but i only agreed so you’d see that you’re not actually interested in me.”

“odd logic, don’t you think? you agree to spend more time with me so i’ll lose interest. i think it’ll have the opposite effect.” you wanted to get up and wipe that know-it-all eyebrow quirk off his face. oh, he was getting on your nerves— either that, or you were feeling something akin to flustration.

“you think you’ve got a better idea of how this will go than a professional?”

“i think i’ve got a better grip on logic right now than you, professional matchmaker.” the waiter glanced between you both briefly before scurrying off. even a five star restaurant wasn’t exempt from the gossip of employees.

“how about a bet? a hundred bucks says i’m right.” as if you had that much lying around to cough up if you lose.

“alright. i do hope you aren’t a sore loser.” he raises his glass to you, before taking a sip. you hated how unaffected he seemed by the amount— but he was ridiculously rich, after all. that was it, though. he was ridiculously rich, tall, good-looking, untouchable. what was he doing here, with you? was he secretly married and trying to get into your pants? probably not, with the way he hung onto every word you spoke. he had impeccable style too, dressed in a deep cobalt dress shirt and tan slacks, there was no way he curated that sort of dressing sense on his own. unless he was perfect. which he was slowly proving himself to be, with the way he elegantly ate. you never even considered the fact that eating could be elegant, but with the way he was sitting and delicately carving up his meat, you couldn’t describe him in any other way but perfect.

“i’ve done the math, you and me, it doesn’t exactly add up. in my line of work, you’re what we call a ‘unicorn’. an impossible fantasy. the reason many of my clients can’t lower their expectations is because, against all odds, men like you actually exist. so what are you doing here, really?” you ramble, barely concealing disbelief. this man was sitting in front of you, still, and was making no indication of wanting to leave. in fact, he was mirroring your own disbelief. great, you weirded him out— or not.

“you’re looking at this through a material lens.” he states, simply. if you had no shame, you would’ve flipped the table. what was that supposed to mean?

“i admire you for your intangible assets. that’s something to invest in— i apologise, i’ve started talking like a businessman again.”

“no, go on. it makes sense.”

he takes a sip of wine, and continues. “what i see when i look at you is someone whose wit i could still expect to hear even when we’re older. i want to start seeing you seriously, if you’ll agree. i think this could prove to be good for the both of us.”

“for the record, i’m not agreeing to this for the money.”

“why, then?”

“you make me feel valuable.”

—

when kento pushes you against the steel door of his uptown penthouse, it’s gentle. he touches you like you’re glass, afraid you’d break if he pushed a little too hard. you knew you wouldn’t, but with the way his lips hovered over yours, you had no reason to point that out. his hand slips down to the slit of your dress, firmly gripping your thigh as he pulls you off the door and into his arms. his lips crash against yours, but he holds back any impulses to go faster. he’s slow, deliberate, acting as if the morning would never arrive— not for a million years.

when he pulls away, all you can hear is his heavy breaths. “bedroom, please.” he huffs out. you begin to feel weak at the knees as you let him tug you along to the bedroom while you make quick work of his shirt buttons. when you’re both finally on the bed, his arms on either side of your shoulders, he leans closer to brush his lips against your jaw. he kisses downwards hungrily, pushing you up against the pillows a bit more with each one. when he reaches the neckline of your dress, he looks up at you for permission, and through the haze of desire, you see something more.

kento looks at you not with the studying gaze you’re still aren’t used to, nor with the surprised eyebrow raise he gave you when you said something odd, but with something new. the little sparkle in his eyes you’d noticed on the dancefloor. something similar to love. maybe that’s why you were now tangling your fingers in that breathtakingly messed up golden hair of his, a far cry from the neatly parted style you saw him with every time, as his fingers snake around you to pull down the zipper with one swift motion.

you hear him inhale sharply as he frees you of your clothing— he’s in awe.

“you think too low of yourself.” he punctuates each word with a kiss up towards your lips, until his face is right above your own. “if these aren’t material assets, i don’t know what is. speaking of finance,” he places his lips right against yours, the slight arch of his nose bumping against your cheek. “you owe me a hundred.”

before you know it, he flicks open the zipper of his now horribly creased (for once) pants, and tugs himself free. he’s huge. gargantuan, even. if there was a godzilla of dicks, that would be it. you gape, and he flushes.

“what, you’re embarrassed now?” you laugh in his face, earning a deep groan from him as you tap his tip.

“shut up.” he pushes in with one precise thrust, earning a near-scream from you. your nails drag against the muscles of his biceps as he increases the pace steadily.

you cheek is pressed against the cushions, bitten lips parted as kento draws out moan after moan out of you. he continues to hit the same spongy spot that makes you cry out his name— and when your voice lowers into whines, he knows that you’re close to your high.

“you know, instead of a hundred bucks, you could give me a hundred bucks.” you’re too far gone to even bother processing his words, until he bucks his hips upwards and further into you. so that’s what he meant. “keep count. please, darling?”

“kento!” you protest, barely able to speak from the way your face was still pressed against the cushion. “can’t— ah!”

he silences you with another buck of his hips. “that’s two. come on, sweetheart. you can count for me, right?”

“three— four!” you gasp as he leans down to press against you. the warmth is comforting, he was like a human heater. the warmth wasn’t just external though, it was as if whatever he held within him that brought you solace was beginning to seep through your connected limbs and ignite a little something in your heart. something long forgotten.

when you reach the nineties, you’ve already reached your high twice. he doesn’t stop, and instead continues at a leisurely pace regardless of how flushed he’s become. now, along with your whines and cries, he lets out a little grunt every now and then as he bullies his cock further and further in.

“ninety-eight, oh— ninety-nine”

“m’gonna cu—”

“one-hundred!” you mewl as he pushes in with one last snap of his hips, and bottoms out. your eyes flutter shut, feeling every bit of him against your skin— feeling everything as he fills you up. arms shaking, he lowers himself down next to you after pulling out, an apologetic— no, more like content, expression on his disheveled features.

“sorry, should’ve warned you.”

“’s fine.”

you run your fingers over his forearm, then down his torso and his thigh, over a slightly raised and rough bit of skin— a scar. a scar on his thigh could mean a variety of things, but from the tensing of his jaw and slight flinch, you knew what it was.

“i should’ve warned you about that too— thought it wasn’t a big deal.”

“it isn’t really—”

he cuts you off, turning his head slightly to look at you, but not quite. his eyes reluctantly met with yours, searching for understanding, and finding it. the clench of his jaw relaxes slightly.

“i made an investment. a body is like an apartment. you have to invest to get the value back.” he starts, then shakes his head. “it’s stupid, i was stupid. my brother and i got it done eight years ago, he said height changes the way the world perceives you. all it changes is how i walk through doors. i still went through with it, and i suppose that’s rather telling. does this… change anything?”

“kento, i see you the same as i did before, but a little different too.” marriage wasn’t only a business deal, and neither was love. “you don’t just make me feel valuable, you make me feel loved, and that makes me love you too. an added bonus is that you’re rich, of course. this feels less contractual, and more real. a height surgery isn’t going to change what’s inside.”

he tugs you closer, enveloping you in his arms and providing the same warmth that reached into your heart. he could have however many imperfections on the outside that he corrected, but who cared? his looks wouldn’t stay forever, and neither would yours, but what would was the warmth. that was what you would stay with, and what you felt all around you as the two of you drifted off to sleep.

brought together by materials, stayed together for something untouchable— love.

a/n: i have been so distracted from writing because this week is so busy for me! i've had my first shift at work and i'm seeing tyler, the creator!!! so exciting! i should do a nanami at a concert oneshot sometime after. i hope you liked this even though the plot was barely there, also as always, i would appreciate any feedback! <3

[carnarion]

(S)cream for me, baby!

Synopsis: What starts as a flirty late-night phone call turns into something far more sinister when a masked stranger begins describing everything you're wearing — and everything you're hiding. But Ghostface is already inside the house. Even worse? He’s someone you know.

And he's about to make you the star of his favourite scary movie.

W.c. 9.2k

Pairing: Ghostface!Geto Suguru x reader

Content. MDNI, cheerleader!reader, dubcon themes, home invasion, stalking, manipulation, voyeurism, psychological horror, oral (f!receiving), intense power dynamics, knife play (panty-dropping & aesthetic, not gore), orgasm denial, unhealthy obsession, filming/recording during sex, creepy phone calls, unprotected sex, implied cheating (if you squint?), mentions of blood (minor injury), manhandling, phone sex, slasher undertones, masturbation, possessive behaviour, BACKSHOTS RAHH rips off shirt like a werewolf in heat, Sorry for the Satoru slander I love my glorious blue-eyed king.

A/N: Due to my unhealthy obsession with Billy Loomis's Ghostface, this takes place around the time that the first Scream movie was released (1996). Enjoy ;)

The living room light hums low, warm against the quiet. Your chemise sticks a little where your skin’s still warm from the shower, and the silk robe’s already given up trying, one sleeve hanging off your shoulder.

You lean against the kitchen counter, hip jutted, phone receiver tucked snug between your cheek and shoulder.

“How could cheerleading go wrong?” a slow smile plays on your lips. “I mean, we did win.”

Shoko snorts on the other end. “No, dumbass— I mean how’s it going going? With Mr. Star Quarterback. I heard he took you home after the game.”

You click your tongue, dragging your finger along the counter like it’s boring you already. “He did.”

“And...?” she presses silently in anticipation like she already knows where this is going.

“It was… whatever.”

“Whatever?” Her voice rises in disbelief. “Girl, don’t you dare—”

“He came in, like, one minute and forty-five seconds, Shoko. I’ve boiled noodles slower.”

Shoko gasps so hard you can hear her light a cigarette out of pure trauma. “No. You’re lying.”

You sigh. “I wish. He was looking me dead in the eye like he changed my life. I had to throw in a moan just to let him sleep at night.”

She breaks into laughter, disbelief crackling through the receiver. “God, and they make Satoru Gojo sound like the second coming of sex.”

You click your tongue disappointedly. “I've gotten more action from a shower hose.”

Shoko laughs harder at that, urging a giggle from you too— until another unpleasant flash of memory makes you groan.

“And I even brought my new digital camera, like an idiot.”

“What, why?”

“I thought he was gonna take me somewhere nice. So I packed it thinking I’d take a few cute shots,” You exhale sharply. “Instead I ended up starfished on his nasty dorm sheets and forgot the damn thing in his room.”

Shoko chokes. “You left your camera? Your new one?!”

“Yep. It’s probably in there somewhere, next to his condom collection and that tragic poster of Tom Cruise.”

You're both still snickering when you hear a sharp knock on your door. You glance towards the direction of the sound, brows furrowing in annoyance.

“Hold up,” you say, setting the phone down with a clatter and sliding off the counter.

You walk barefoot through the hallway, silk brushing your thighs with each step as you crack open the front door.

Unsurprisingly, you're met with nothing but silence.

The porch is as empty as ever. A cold breeze brushes past you, enough to raise goosebumps. You linger a beat there, tongue against your teeth, before clicking it shut.

“Probably the neighbor's kids.” You huff, flopping back against the counter. “They’ve been little shits ever since I told their dad to stop ogling me while mowing the lawn.”

Shoko hums, but her voice has dipped lower, more serious. "You sure it's them? Not..... you know."

You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.

“You should be very careful,” She warns. “You heard what happened to that girl, right? The one from Lit?”

You listen to her noncommittally. “Yeah, yeah. No one’s coming after me. I'm a bitch, remember?”

“Yeah, well, even bitches bleed.” She retorts, half-joking, half not.

You snort, but there’s a sting in her words that lingers. “Sounds like someone’s been watching too much Dateline.”

“No, seriously." She presses. "I heard he asks girls their favorite horror mo—”

Whatever Shoko was trying to say gets cut off abruptly, as the doorbell rings obnoxiously again.

You groan. “Fucking hell.”

“Wait—”

“I’ll call you later,” you mumble, hanging up without waiting for a goodbye.

You walk towards the entrance slower now— less amused, more pissed. The robe, at this point, is clinging on out of spite.

You swing the door open again. But this time around, you step out onto the porch, arms crossed against the night.

“Very funny,” you speak into the dark, voice just loud enough to cut through whatever bush they’re probably hiding behind. “Real fucking original. Maybe next time try growing a pair instead of playing doorbell roulette, dickwads.”

You pause, waiting for any sign that would give them away. But you retreat upon hearing no sound except for the rustling of underbush.

“What a bunch of virgins,” You hiss under your breath, slamming the door shut.

But as you walk away, you don’t see the silhouette watching from across the street. A cheap plastic mask gleams under the porch light, breath fogging behind it predatorily.

♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡

The TV screen flickers weakly, channels skipping between static and late-night reruns of soap operas with bad lighting and worse acting. Saturated colors bleed into one another — crying women, cheating husbands, some dramatic slap that plays out in blurry slow motion. You sit curled on the couch, legs tucked under yourself, aimlessly clicking the remote with a glazed-over look.

Click. Click. Click.

Still nothing good.

Your eyes skim over somewhere around Channel 76, where a woman in a sparkly gown is screaming into a rotary phone. You’re not even watching anymore. Just letting your thumb drift over the remote while the glow of the screen pulses across your bare fore legs.

You're mid-yawn, head tilting back on the couch cushion, when the sharp crash of glass shattering cuts through the stillness like a gunshot.

The sound cracks your skull open from the inside. You jolt upright so fast your knee slams into the coffee table, sending a coaster flying and your heartbeat into cardiac arrest.

Your first thought is Shoko, you evil bitch, because of course she jinxed it with her 'you gotta be careful' bullshit, and suddenly you’re living in the Dateline episode she was probably referencing.

Your eyes flick toward the kitchen— the hallway looks darker now, like it knows something you don’t. The shadows stretch longer than they did five minutes ago. You don’t like it. Not one bit.

As if remembering your own limbs, you shove the remote aside and push up off the couch. Swinging your legs down without a sound, you grab the fruit knife still dripping with pineapple juice from the coffee table, and march toward the kitchen barefoot— silk flapping around your thighs.

You move toward the kitchen, steps light, pulse hammering loud enough to fill the silence. Whatever’s waiting, it’s about to meet a very pissed-off version of you.

But instead of some creep, a tiny gray blur shoots across the floor.

It's a kitten.

Your goddamn neighbor’s stray, probably.

It skids through the shards of what used to be your favorite set of crockery with the little sunflowers on it, then books it right out the door you had left slightly ajar earlier.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you exhale sharply, slapping the knife down on the counter with a thud. “All this over a fucking Hello Kitty reject.”

You crouch down and start picking up the shards, still mumbling to yourself like that’ll keep the fear of being home alone at bay. “Just a stupid cat. Just a stupid plate. Just a stupid—shit—!”

A sharp sting shoots through your finger. You suck in a breath and see the blood welling fast from a slice near your knuckle.

“Motherfucker,” you hiss, yanking your hand back.

You stare at the cut, jaw tightening as the blood wells and runs down the side of your hand like it’s trying to make a dramatic exit.

You march to the cabinet with righteous fury, yanking it open one-handed. And of course, the first aid box is nowhere to be found. No band-aids. No gauze. No antiseptic. Just expired allergy meds, a single mint from a sushi delivery bag, and something that might once have been a condom but now looks like beef jerky.

Your eyes scan the room for something — anything — to MacGyver a solution, before a dish towel catches your eye. Old, kind of crunchy, and probably hasn't seen detergent since the stone age. It'll do.

You rip a strip from the corner with your teeth, wrapping it haphazardly around your finger like you’re some war-torn soldier in a lingerie ad. It's definitely not sterile, but you're no Florence Nightingale either.

The ringing of the landline splits the air again, loud and shrill like it’s laughing at you. You freeze, pulse kicking up a notch.

Your gaze turns towards the living room, where the receiver sits crooked on the hook, cord swinging slightly.

“I swear to God, if this is Satoru asking for a second chance, I will shove my foot up his ass.”

Still, you make your way over, more annoyed than scared, ready to stab anyone who makes your night worse. You reach for the receiver, fingers stiff.

“Hello?” you say, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

“Didn't think you'd actually pick up,” A voice echoes through the speaker, velvety smooth, rich like melted chocolate poured over a razorblade.

“Wrong number.” You fret, ready to disconnect the call.

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

You narrow your eyes at the nerve of this unfamiliar voice, as you tilt your head in curiosity. “Bold of you to assume I answer calls from strangers.”

“Stranger?” the man muses in mock offense. “That hurts. You’ve been on my mind all night.”

You raise a brow amusedly, shifting your weight onto one hip. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Casanova, but unless you’re selling thin crust pizza, I’m hanging up.”

A soft chuckle ripples through the line. “I could do that if you'd like. Your wish is my command."

Your mouth curls despite yourself, satisfaction flickering at the corners as your teeth catch your bottom lip. Whoever this man is— he’s smooth, but not desperate. And honestly? This is already more entertaining than any soap opera rerun flickering on the living room screen.

“You don’t even know what I look like,” you tease, tracing a lazy fingertip down the cord, feigning boredom you don’t feel.

“Mmm,” he drags the sound sleazily. “That’s the fun part. I get to imagine.”

“Then tell me,” you purr, sliding your thumb to brush along your lower lip. “What do I look like to you?”

There's a momentary pause from the other side, like he's contemplating the question heavily. Or already picturing you.

“I think you’re the type to wear silk. Something dark… maybe red.”

Your throat tightens a little at the suspiciously accurate observation and the color drains from your fingers slightly, but you say nothing.

“It hasn't been too long since you took a shower,” he adds, softer now, almost like he’s whispering it against your skin. "Which means your hair's still a little damp at the edges.”

Your lips part involuntarily as you glance down at yourself. The damp cling of your chemise, the droop of your robe.

“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” you say, voice just a little dimmer than before.

He laughs again, lower this time. “And you haven’t denied a single one.”

You force a chuckle too, just to buy a second of normalcy. “Peeping Tom is the new trend, huh?”

“Let’s just say I’ve got good taste,” His breathing is audible now, unhurried, like he’s been reclining this whole time. “And you have a bad habit of leaving your curtains open when you're home alone.”

You don’t answer. A shiver passes through you, but you try to convince yourself it’s from the coolness of the night.

“The lace suits you.”

The silence after his words expands like a balloon in your chest, pushing against your lungs. For a second, there’s no air, no thought, just the sterile burn of panic lodging itself behind your ribs.

“…Sorry?”

“Your robe’s cute, too,” he says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “But I think I like the way it keeps slipping off better.”

Suddenly the robe around you feels a little looser. A little thinner. You grip the fabric tighter across your chest, shifting against the counter with a new kind of tension.

“Don’t be shy now,” he croons. “I liked the show. That little sway in your hips when you thought nobody was looking? Fuck—I could watch you walk around like that all night.”

You press your lips together tightly, eyes darting towards the window. “You’ve got ten seconds to say something that doesn’t make me call the cops,”

“Let’s not pretend you want cops poking around. Not with that little history you’ve got. Be a shame if someone leaked it. But go ahead, I’ll be gone before they get here."

You back away from the counter, as if the contact alone might burn you alive.

“There she goes,” he hums. “That’s it, baby. I like the way you move when you’re scared.”

You hear shuffling from the other side, like sharp metal scraping against a surface before he speaks up again.

“Y’know, I’ve always wondered..... was it worth it?”

You pause. “What?”

“Getting your teacher fired.”

The ground drops out from under you. No. that can't be it. Your parents made sure the news wouldn't make it outside the principal's office, made sure that the report didn't have a single trace of your name.

Then how the hell does he know about that?

“Mr. Kenzo, back when we were in our final year of high-school. You remember?”

He waits, letting the silence crawl inside your body. Your grip tightens on the phone, casting a harsh imprint on your palm.

“He lost his job, his marriage," the man clicks his tongue. "All for a seventeen-year-old with a short skirt.”

He doesn't even wait for you to answer.

“You know what was sad?" his voice drips with mock sorrow now, "The way he begged you to delete the messages like a puppy. You really should keep your nudes out of the staff room.”

Your nails dig inside your thigh, engraving moon-like stamps on your flesh. The tremor in your voice isn't even trying to hide itself as you speak.

“What do you want?”

There's a beat of silence before he speaks up again.

“What's your favorite scary movie?”

You blink, dumbfounded. “Seriously?”

His voice tilts toward a smirk. “Gotta set the mood, don’t I?”

“This isn’t some horror movie,” you snap.

“Mmm,” he says, slow and low, curling under your skin. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re the girl alone in the house. I’m the voice on the line. All we’re missing is a knife and a dead body.”

Your stomach knots. You grip the phone tighter, palms digging further into the plastic.

“Oh wait,” he adds lazily. “We already have the knife, don’t we?”

You slam the receiver down so hard the plastic cracks.

For half a second, you just stand there, blinking at the phone like it might spontaneously combust. Your pulse is riotous in your throat, in your fingertips, even in your goddamn eardrums.

This is not the time to think.

You sprint through the apartment like a mad-woman, slamming locks, drawing curtains, yanking the bedroom window shut so hard it nearly takes your fingers off.

The phone rings again, shrill and furious. Like it’s screaming at you to pick up.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you grab the knife from the counter—the same one dripping with pineapple juice just ten minutes ago, before your night took a nosedive into a fucking slasher film—and stomp back to the living room.

And in one clean slice, you sever the cord with a satisfying snap.

Your chest rises and falls in tight little jerks. The knife stays clutched in one hand, your reflection warped in it. There’s something almost liberating about it, if you weren’t one second away from pissing yourself.

You stagger back towards your bedroom. It’s not safety, but it’s got a lock and it doesn’t have any windows facing the fire escape. That counts for something. You shut the door behind you and press your back to the cold wood.

Ring. Ring.

Just a moment later, the piercing sound returns. Slowly and impossibly, your head turns towards the direction.

It’s the cordless landline by your nightstand. You don’t remember plugging it in. Hell, you don’t even remember owning that model.

It rings again. And again. And again.

You inch towards it gradually, like one would acknowledge impending doom. Your hand is shaking so hard you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold it steady, but somehow you pick it up.

“...Hello?”

The man's voice snaps through the line, no longer playful and suave. “Don't you fucking dare hang up on me again. You got that?”

You flinch like he’s standing right behind you. His voice is primal now, completely stripped of it's initial charm.

“Who the fuck are you?” your voice isn’t strong anymore, it’s shredded with disbelief.

“You really wanna know?”

There’s something slick in his tone now. The promise of something worse.

“Check under your bed.”

You don’t want to. Every cell in your body is shrieking don’t look. But your legs move anyway— one slow, crawling step at a time.

You crouch beside the bed, cold air kissing your bare knees as the floor creaks. Lowering yourself further, your trembling fingers curl around the edge of the duvet as you lift it.

Shoved just barely under the frame, nestled between a dust bunny and a forgotten sock— is a digital camera.

Not just any digital camera— your camera. The same one with a pink little sticker on it. The same one you'd left at Satoru’s apartment.

Your hand darts out and snatches it. You fumble with the latch, hands slippery with sweat as the screen flickers to life.

You tap Playback, and the world tilts on it's axis.

Dozens of photos.

All recent.

All… of you.

Sleeping, brushing your hair in the mirror, walking around in your robe. One where you’re bent over tying your shoe. One taken from inside your apartment.

There’s no sound inside the room except for your own breathing. The line is dead silent.

“Why do you have this?” you whisper, voice cracking mid-sentence. “How did you even—?”

The man only chuckles. “I told you I was watching, didn’t I?”

You lurch to your feet at that, camera clutched like a weapon, phone still glued to your ear.

The voice on the line doesn’t even sound human anymore. He’s not just speaking—he’s writing a script, and you’ve fallen into the role before you ever had a chance to decline the audition.

“Now that you know your place,” he sighs, as if already bored of her resistance. “be a good girl… and do exactly as I say.”

You don’t answer.

Not because you can’t, but because your instincts have gone eerily quiet, like prey trying to fool the predator into thinking it’s already dead.

“There we go,” he lilts, a low hum of approval. “Knew you were smart.”

You hate that you feel warm under the compliment. Hate it even more that heat is already blooming somewhere low and out of your control.

“I want you to get on the bed.”

You don't bother resisting this time— sitting back on your heels, chest rising and falling like you’ve just run a mile. The phone is warm against your cheek.

“Would you be a sweetheart...” he pauses. “and spread your legs for me?”

You shift your knees apart on the mattress, the hem of your robe slipping further up your thighs, cool air kissing skin that feels too hot.

The way he says it makes your skin erupt in goosebumps. You feel as if his eyes are dragging over every inch of you, peeling you apart. And your breath catches, because some part of you wants it.

“Such a fast learner,” he adds, voice slick with satisfaction. “You like this, don't you? You want to be told what to do.”

You sit there, legs parted, knees digging into the mattress, your pulse a frantic little rabbit in your throat. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he speaks again, low and amused, as if he’s savoring your reaction leisurely.

"You're doing so well," he says softly, like a verbal reward.

And fuck, you feel it.

It slides down your spine, warm and syrupy, until you’re arching just slightly without meaning to, robe slipping further off one shoulder, baring the swell of your collarbone.

"Alright,” he murmurs coaxingly, “run your hand down your thigh.”

You let your head tilt back against the pillows, hair spilling out like ink over white cotton.

"I wonder,” curiosity seeps into his tone. “If I told you to touch yourself right now… would you?”

Your lashes flutter. There’s a pause in your breathing but not in your movement. Your fingers skim higher. Not quite there, but enough to know that your body is already betraying you.

"Say it,” he demands. “Say you’d do it.”

You don’t speak.

You just press your thighs together tightly, biting your lip so hard you taste blood. But still, you don’t say a word, instead squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t know what’s more terrifying, his words, or how your body responds to them.

“…Yes.”

He groans, quiet and low, like the sound itself is meant to crawl under your skin and live there.

“That’s my girl.”

The phone crackles with static for a second, but then his voice comes back, heavier and thicker, soaked in need.

“Slide your hand down further,” he instructs, gentle but firm. “Let’s see how obedient you really are.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. That’s the biggest problem.

Your fingers trail over the curve of your thigh slowly, every nerve ending screaming for contact. The moment you brush over your panties, you suck in a breath—sharp and traitorous.

A low, throaty laugh escapes him. And just by that, you know he heard that too.

“Soaked already?” he drawls. “Fuck, you really are the sweetest little thing, aren’t you?”

Your face burns, but your thighs part wider. Shame tastes like sugar on your tongue, wetness pooling with each word.

“Pull them to the side,” he says, voice huskier now. “Just one finger.”

You do.

And the first one is electric, your body arches up without permission, legs tensing beneath you as a whimper slips past your lips.

“There she is,” he exhales a shuddering sigh. “You hear how pretty you sound when you’re not pretending to be tough?”

You clamp a hand over your mouth, as if that can trap the sound in your throat. But your body is moving on instinct now, chasing the drag of your fingers, the friction that barely satisfies.

“Faster,” he says, breathing heavy through the receiver. “Let me hear you lose control.”

You whimper again, this time without restraint.

Your hips rock into your hand, breath coming in broken gasps. The sheets twist beneath you as you move, the phone pressed tight to your ear like it's the only thing keeping you from disintegrating completely.

Your body tenses as your fingers stutter, control fraying dangerously.

God, you're so close.

So close it hurts.

“Don’t cum yet.”

Your whole body jerks, fingers halting. Your legs tremble with the effort of holding back. It’s agony. Perfect agony.

“What?”

“I said don’t—” he says, voice unforgiving. “cum until I say so.”

The line disconnects, leaving nothing but a slow hum of static before deafening silence. You hear a shallow creak, making you jump mid-motion.

The phone is forgotten beside you on the mattress, tangled in the sheets and your own ragged breath. The distant sound of footsteps echoes, creeping closer with each tap on the marble.

You whip your head towards the door. The hallway lights cast a long, lean shadow across the floor. Your stomach flips, a warning scream silent in your chest as the man steps into view.

He stands there like a shadow made of flesh, broad shoulders cloaked in black, shirt unwrinkled, and tucked neatly into the waistband of matching slacks that taper over long legs.

Dark, sleek gloves encase his hands like second skin, no fingerprints and absolutely no warmth.

Then there's the mask.

White, sculpted to the upper half of his face like poured porcelain. The exaggerated contours curve into the hollow-eyed, slack-jawed sneer of the Ghostface, a distortion of terror frozen in a silent scream. It gleams faintly in the low light, making the sharp lines of his jaw beneath it seem almost surreal, like something out of a fever dream.

One hand slips into the pocket of his slacks indifferently. Like he’s waiting in line at a café instead of your bedroom. The other holds a knife— nestled casually in his grip, silver blade catching the light like it wants to be noticed. Not threatening, just inevitable like it’s always been there.

He kicks his shoes off with sleazy precision, each movement coiled with a kind of obscene elegance, like a panther peeling itself out of it's restraints.

Once those are off, he climbs onto the bed like he belongs there. Like you belong to him. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, breath stilling in your lungs as his knees slot between your thighs.

Your body reacts before your brain does, and you sit up on your elbows, instinct curling your legs in just slightly.

His gaze flicks over you gradually— messy hair, sweat-slick skin, soaked panties still pulled aside. He cocks his head with a smirk as if you’re something curious on display.

“Look at you,” His voice is just as it was on the phone, amused and soaked in mockery. “So fucked out already. And I haven’t even laid a finger on you yet.”

Your lips part, the words trying to catch up with your racing pulse. “Who—who are you?”

His fingers drag up your thigh with the ghost of a touch, leaving goosebumps on their wake.

“You really wanna know, baby?”

You nod just barely. But it’s enough.

“How could I say no to such a pretty little thing?” he purrs, tipping your chin up with a single gloved finger.

With the slow, practiced flourish of someone who knows the moment is cinematic— he slides the mask up, knuckles brushing his cheek like it’s part of the act.

A grin spreads slow and sharp beneath it, eyes gleaming like he already knows you’re fucked.

And you damn near choke to death on your own spit.

“Miss me?”

It's Suguru.

Geto fucking Suguru.

Satoru’s best friend and flatmate— the kind of guy who blends into the background with his quiet presence. The one who always has his nose buried in a book, never bothering to make eye contact in the hallway, moving with that low-key, almost invisible energy that makes you forget he’s even there. Boring. Yeah, that’s what everyone thought when they weren’t blinded by Satoru’s spotlight.

Your whole body goes cold, then hot, then cold again.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t recognize him—if you said you hadn’t fantasized once or twice during awkward breakfasts when he wore nothing but gray sweatpants and irritation.

His grin widens when he sees the flicker of familiarity in your expression. “Ah. So you do remember me.”

You open your mouth, but Suguru cuts you off with a shake of his head, chuckling softly.

“Y’know,” he muses, lips pouting slightly in faux offense, “I was kind of offended when you didn’t recognize my voice.”

The cool edge of the knife in his hands traces lightly along your cheek, then slides down your jaw, tilting your face as if he’s inspecting you for the slightest flaw.

“But then again… you were too busy screwing my best friend, weren't you?”

The sting in his tone isn’t jealousy, it’s insult. It’s wounded pride disguised as cruelty. Suguru leans closer— long, midnight hair brushing your shoulders, the knife now resting casually beside your hip.

“I heard that little sigh you gave when he finished from my room,” he says, voice darker with intent. “Heard you fake your orgasm like a fucking champion.”

“But i-” You try to open your mouth in protest, but his eyes flash.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart. You don’t even realize how loud you are when you’re bored,” Suguru interrupts, a mocking smile ghosting across his face. “You do that little tongue click, like you’re disappointed.”

Your face burns as shame crawls up your throat. He isn't just mocking you, he’s dissecting you. Peeling back the curtain you didn’t even know were open.

“You’re so pretty when you’re frustrated,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “Made it so hard for me to not walk through that door and do it right.”

You swallow, thighs still twitching with restraint. You stare at him, heart in your throat, trying to hold your need and your sanity at once.

“You… you were listening the whole time?”

Suguru hums, fingers sliding from your hip to your bare thigh again, tracing slow, teasing patterns that set your skin aflame.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice dripping with that dangerous sweetness, “I didn’t come here just to watch. I came for more.”

You swallow, cheeks burning part embarrassment, part something electric. Your eyes flicker to the knife still glinting on the floor, a dull reminder of how this night spiraled out of control. But right now, it feels like neither of you could care less.

He leans in further, breath warm against your ear, voice low enough to make your pulse skip. “You’ve been keeping all that frustration locked up tight… I think it’s time to let it out.”

Your body responds despite yourself—shivers racing down your spine, legs parting like they crave the touch he’s promising.

His hands move with slow care, fingers sliding beneath your robe’s edge, brushing over your slick heat. Your heartbeat thunders loud in your ears, breath catching in your throat as his touch grows more and more demanding.

He presses his palm flat against the fat of your breasts, pinching the swell of your nipples lightly as you let out a gasp. For a moment, the world narrows to that single, heated contact.

Suguru’s smirk softens into something darkly amused, maybe even possessive, as his fingers casually unwrap that sloppy dish towel around your bleeding finger. You catch the faint drip of blood, barely visible.

Without warning, he leans in close, eyes locked onto yours, as his lips close around that injured fingertip.

He sucks on it steadily. Not a lick, not a quick kiss, but that deep, slow suction that sends a shiver rattling down your spine.

You bite your lip, caught between surprise and a twisted kind of release, breath hitching like you’re right on the edge of losing control.

His lips pull back from your finger with a soft, wet sound, a smear of blood glinting faintly on the corner of his mouth.

“Messy,” Suguru says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “But I like it.”

The knife beside him gleams in the dim light, but right now it feels like the least threatening thing in the room.

Your nerves are screaming, but God, his attention feels like a spark in the dark. Dangerous, yes, but alive.

Suguru's eyes flick to the floor— to that little black digital camera.

The one you’d forgotten. The one you’d left at his shared house with Satoru after that stupid fucking fling. It must’ve fallen out when you scrambled under the bed, and now—it’s just lying there.

He reaches for it listlessly, like he’s got all the time in the world– and turns it over in his hand, thumb brushing the power button. The lens extends with a soft mechanical whirr.

“It would be a waste…” He says, examining the camera. “If i didn't take a picture of you like this.”

He lifts it to eye level, head tilting slightly as he frames you, eyes lingering on the subtle heat still rolling off your skin.

You can feel the weight of Suguru’s gaze as it traces the pink tint in your cheeks, the way your lower lip’s caught gently between your teeth, the tension in your shoulders. His stare drags lower, catching on the thin strap that’s slipped from your shoulder, the lazy, intimate slope of it revealing the soft dip of your cleavage.

Click.

The sound slices through the air like a whipcrack.

“Perfect.”

Suguru turns the camera around and shows you the photo. The image is small, grainy, but still: there you are. Eyes wide, mouth parted, a shoulder bared like you’re undressing for the camera itself. You can’t help it as your thighs press together.

And he notices.

“Oh? You like that?” he says, one eyebrow raised in teasing. “Wanna see what you look like when I’ve got my fingers inside you?”

You whine at his teasing— at just how much he's making you wait— hips bucking up to grind against his for any semblance of friction. Suguru pins you down with hands on either side of your hip, stopping you in your action with maddening restraint.

“You know what’s crazy?” He says, trailing a finger down your throat. “I used to hear you moan through the wall and want to tape your mouth shut.”

“But now?” A smirk curls his lips as his hand maps across your collarbone, squeezing the plush of your breasts. “Now I kinda want to hear what you sound like when you’re not pretending.”

Click.

The camera flashes again, this time angled further downward, catching your half-lidded eyes and parted legs.

“Let me do everything he couldn’t, ” Suguru murmurs, setting the camera up and leaning down, forehead brushing yours. He presses a kiss on the base of your neck. “And I’ll make a whole fucking gallery out of you.”

His fingers ghost up your thigh with agonizing patience. One gloved hand planted beside your hip, the other gently coaxing your legs wider as he slots himself lower between them.

His mouth ghosts over the inside of your thigh, warm breath skating across your skin.

"God, look at that.” Suguru gazes at you with hooded eyelids. “Satoru’s sweet little fucktoy, putting on a show for his best friend.”

His tongue peeks out, finally touching your skin. He presses a kiss just shy of your aching pussy, then pulls back with an infuriating smirk. The action urges a soft squeal out of you.

“She's fuckin' soaked for me, baby.” He says, tongue darting across his own lower lip. “No wonder you didn’t recognize my voice. Bet your pretty little head was empty.”

He leans in nose-deep into your cunt, licking one long, decadent stripe up your folds like he’s tasting something forbidden— groaning deep in his throat as your back arches and your fingers fist the sheets.

One gloved hand holds your hip steady while the other moves to grip your thighs, thumb pressing against the meat of it possessively. Suguru doesn’t look away once.

Not when his tongue circles your clit slow and lazy.

Not when you gasp, a breathy whine slipping past your lips.

Not even when your hips stutter upward and he hums into you like you’re the first thing he’s eaten all day.

“Shh,” he coos against your core, lips slick and curled in a cruel smile. “Don’t wanna ruin the audio.”

Your head falls back, neck arching, and the camera blinks red in the corner— recording, capturing every breathy moan, every flutter of your lashes, every subtle tremor in your legs as Suguru feasts on you like a starving man.

You try to focus, to breathe evenly, but it’s useless. His mouth works you open with veritable filth—tongue flat, then pointed, then curling into the spongy spot deep inside you that no one's ever reached.

“I should’ve done this the first night I heard you,” he murmurs, pausing only long enough to pant against your dripping heat. “Should’ve walked in, thrown that little white towel over your mouth, and fucked the arrogance out of you.”

His grip tightens as his tongue prods at a faster, unrelenting pace. Your thighs start to shake with the onset of your climax—encasing his head tighter between them.

“You gonna give it to me now, sweetheart?” he grunts into your cunt, hands bracing around your legs firmly. “Gonna come all over my mouth while your boyfriend's waiting for you to call back?”

“He's not my—”

You try to form words, to retort— but your control snaps finally, as the knot in the wells of your stomach comes undone with a mewl. You cream all over his tongue while his eyes bore into yours.

Suguru's mouth is onto yours as soon as he detaches from your slick. His tongue licks into your throat, deep and claiming, the taste of salt and sweet from your release still clinging to his lips.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, harder—his grip on your waist bruises, but you don’t care. Every drag of his tongue, every sharp nip urges ragged breaths against your cheek, his body pressing you into the space between restraint and sheer hunger.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting both of your lips, mouth glistening, chin slick, and that stupid little grin planted on his face like he’s carved you into a masterpiece.

You’re panting, legs trembling where they’re spread, hands fisting the sheets so tight your knuckles ache. He watches you catch your breath, dark eyes dragging over your body like he’s already planning the sequel.

The camera light blinks red like a heartbeat in the dim room, capturing every second of your ragged breaths and flushed skin.

Suguru leans back just enough to drag a gloved hand through his hair— hand tightening, tense, hungry — then slides the other glove to the edge of his fingers.

You watch as he bites down on the cuff with those perfect, ruthless teeth. A little snap, followed by the faint pop of latex breaking free.

Suguru pulls the glove off in one smooth motion, lips trailing the edge, pearls flashing dangerously close to your skin. Without warning, he snakes his hand under your waist— flipping you onto your stomach, that bare hand hitting the fat of your ass— earning a surprised squeal from you.

His fingers splay over your thigh, nails grazing, teasing, before he presses his palm flat against your hip, holding you steady.

“Your turn,” he breathes, eyes gleaming like he’s dared you to try and resist. You’re shaking too much to do anything but obey.

The camera, still recording, gets brought up to your flushed, desperate face—spit lewdly coating swollen lips, eyes glossy with sex. Suguru props it in your hand, fingers curling over yours just enough to steady it.

“Keep it steady, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh again. “Wanna see you take me from the back.”

You make a soft, wrecked sound, which at this point, sounds more like submission to each one of his actions.

“And don’t you dare look away. You’re gonna watch yourself fall apart for me.”

Before you can answer, he’s shifting behind you, fingers slipping under the edge of your chemise, dragging it up slowly— touch scorching hot against your cool skin.

The fabric slips over your ass, teasing, exposing that smooth curve, the soft skin just begging for his hands.

And then he lowers the camera. Just a little. Still watching you through it, but now one hand’s smoothing up your calf, gliding higher.

Suguru pries your legs apart gently, a devilish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You’re bent over the bed now, chest pressed against the mattress, back arched like a bow—every muscle taut and trembling with torment.

His gloved hand slides down your spine, then dips between your legs, fingers finding your wet folds again, rubbing your sensitive spot in delicious torture.

"Jesus–" you whimper, hands trembling, barely keeping the camera still. "Put it in already."

"Patience," Suguru clicks his tongue in disappointment, though you know he's anything but disappointed. "Don't be a brat."

The camera shifts in your hand, lens capturing your flushed cheeks, the arch of your back, the way you gasp when Suguru's hands cup your ass, kneading on the flesh tantalizingly.

“You ready, baby?”

You nod shakily, breath catching in your throat with anticipation.

You hear the soft clank of metal as the hook of his slacks comes undone. Suguru lines himself up, fingers pressing into your hips, positioning you like a damn goddamn king claiming his throne.

He sinks inside slowly, filling you inch by scorching inch, stretching your hole dangerously with his massive size.

Your body quivers under him, desperately trying to adjust to his girth, eyes rolling back in pleasure.

"F-fuck," he shudders, balls-deep inside your pussy, matress creaking with the weight of the collision. "So tight... So fucking tight f'me."

You're letting out porn worthy moans, hands clawing at the sheets as his pace quickens, each thrust more intense, more claiming than before.

“You’re not bored now, are you?” he teases, teeth grazing your ear as his pace gets even meaner. “No little tongue click tonight, huh?”

Your breath stutters—half caught in your throat, half moaned into the pillow—when his hips snap into you harder, the slap of skin-on-skin obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room. The only other sound is the camera’s soft whir, faithfully recording every ruined inch of you.

“Back arched just right,” he says, voice is ragged in between grunts like it’s scraping out of his throat. "You’re made for this, y’know that?”

Another thrust, sharper this time, more punishing—and the pillow swallows your cry.

“Don’t hide from me,” his hand fists in your hair, tugging harshly to pull your head up, to make you see yourself wrecked. “Look at yourself.”

Your gaze is forced to the screen again. To your glassy eyes, tear-stained cheeks, mouth falling open around a sob as your body rocks with each drive of his hips.

Your fingers tremble around the edge of the mattress, barely holding on. You choke out a broken noise when he slams in deeper into your cervix, tilting your hips just so.

“Ah, fuck—yeah, there,” he rubs circles into your clit with his fingers as he thrusts into the spot that makes you see stars. “You feel that?”

Your legs shake weakly, and you can do nothing but nod helplessly. Suguru tugs harder at your hair when you give no verbal response, making your head jerk back.

“I said—do you feel that?”

“Yes!” you wail, shame and pleasure burning like wildfire in your blood.

“Atta girl.”

His hand slides down, flattening over your belly, pinning you in place as he ruins you from behind.

“You think he ever fucked you like this?” he taunts, breathless, lips brushing against your ear. “Think he ever made you forget your own name?”

The coil in your stomach is taut now, stretched impossibly close to snapping.

He knows. Of course he knows. He feels it in the way your thighs tremble, in the frantic clutch of your fingers at the sheets, in the way your walls tighten around him.

“S-shit—” he groans, pace stuttering. "Gonna cum inside you baby, yeah?"

And when it breaks, when it snaps. It tears through you like lightning, leaving your body quaking and your throat hoarse from the sound you make. You feel thick, warm, creamy ropes of his own release pump inside your cunt, filling it to the brim.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter with his movements. Keeps fucking you through both of your releases, watching the aftershocks rack through your spine.

“Look at you,” he growls, nails digging into your flesh. "Never want you any other way.”

And then, abruptly, Suguru pulls out completely— both of your bodies now connected with nothing but a long, stripe of white.

Your body bucks at the loss, instinctively chasing him.

“Don’t worry,” he smirks upon seeing your reaction, reaching for the camera and angling it to a new view.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡

You’re still catching your breath—legs shaking like anything, chest heaving, the mattress soaked with sweat and whatever else he’s pulled out of you—when Suguru finally shuts the camera off with a casual flick of his thumb. He hums under his breath, the sound low and oddly pleased, like a man who just finished a particularly satisfying meal.

His fingers trail lazily down the curve of your spine, feather-light, like he’s painting you into memory. The gentleness would almost be sweet, if he hadn’t been two thrusts away from murder hours earlier.

“You good?” he murmurs near your ear, lips brushing just below it in a kiss that's far too tender to be trustworthy.

You manage a slow nod, still a little drunk on adrenaline. “Y-Yeah.”

He brushes your hair back from your face, then rises with unhurried grace — shirt wrinkled, pants unzipped, camera still dangling from his hand like an afterthought. Like a trophy.

He points it at you again, this time with the lens off, just watching. Admiring the view.

“God,” he says softly, almost to himself. “You’re a fucking vision.”

Your eyes don't waver as you stare at him, and something behind your ribs shifts.

It’s not that he looks dangerous. It’s that he looks… content. Like this was never improvisation. Like every step was scripted, and you’re the only one who didn’t get a copy of the lines.

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your expression still. If there’s one thing you’ve learned tonight, it’s that fear just makes him smile wider.

“Suguru,” you whisper. “What’re you gonna do with that footage?”

The camera in his hands lowers a little, before a smile graces his lips, slow and sticky with ardour.

“Jerk off to it when I miss you. Duh.”

You shoot him a flat look, nose scrunching in distaste. “You’re so damn disgusting.”

“Yeah?” He grins wider at that, tilting his head. “Well, you got fucked silly by disgusting, old me.”

You open your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to throw a pillow at his head — but the landline rings.

Both of you freeze over as if someone hit a pause button. Suguru tilts his head, like he’s listening to the universe set up the punchline.

“…Expecting someone?” he asks lightly.

Your shake your head, mouth dry. “No.”

“Hello?” he says, voice polite. Cheerful. Like the kind of guy who holds the elevator door open.

You can’t hear what’s said, but whatever it is has his lips curling into a slow, poisonous smile.

He turns to you, eyes gleaming with mischief. Then mouths: It’s him.

Your stomach turns inside out.

Satoru.

Your heart lurches into motion again, the floor tipping beneath you.

Suguru stretches the cord with one hand and flicks the camera back on with the other, angling it towards you.

“She’s a little tied up right now,” he says into the receiver casually.

You scramble upright, heart racing faster. “What the hell do you think you're doing—”

He silences you with a finger pressed to your lips gently.

You hear Satoru’s voice crackle distantly through the receiver. “Is she with you?”

Suguru’s eyes don’t leave yours— smile all teeth and vicious.

“She’s not just with me, Satoru,” he says, tilting the camera a little, like he’s lining up a better shot. “She’s on me.”

Your cheeks burn brightly. You mouth stop it but he just winks, like this is the highlight of his week.

“She’s still shaking,” he drawls, voice thick with satisfaction. “Twitching from the last time I made her come. Poor thing can barely speak.”

You groan into your hands, full-body cringe. Because if humiliation could kill, you'd already be embalmed.

“I could let her talk to you,” Suguru muses, panning the lens down to your legs like he's conducting a tour, “but I don’t think she wants to. Not when her mouth’s already so—”

You slap the phone out of his hand before he can finish the sentence. It hits the hardwood with a thud. You slam the receiver back into its cradle, fists shaking.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” you spit.

He pauses, like he’s genuinely going to reflect on your words. Then steps forward and kisses your throat. Right over your pulse. Right where he could end everything, if he felt like it.

“You know,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your jaw with fondness. “you should’ve been dead by now.”

Your breath catches. He lets it hang in the air, not as a threat, but as a simple and unapologetic truth.

“But I guess,” he adds, smirking again, “I’m sentimental.”

Suguru leans in, lips hovering a breath above yours, close enough to graze, not enough to kiss.

“You moan too pretty to waste.”

Then he pulls back a fraction. His eyes scan your face — the flushed cheeks, the wide pupils, the lip caught between your teeth.

“…For now.”

Tags: @anime201283 @11thlife02 @smolcooki33 @savagecatsuga @luv3nti

@starlixers @sophistication-as @plswtfdontdoitagain @angie420 @arabellasolstice

@valiantqueenalien-blog @bunnygorex @miss-u-koo @ll0rona @ladyjanesstuff

[carnarion]

꒰ ݁ ꫂ᭪ ꒱ 𓂃 Lavender Lips 𑣲 𝒫 erfume

˚₊‧꒰ა lavender marriage.ᐟ satosho ﾉ f. reader ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

you start to realise that you are beginning to look at the clanhead and clan lady in a way your heart shouldn't allow. to remind yourself of your position as their advisor, you flee a clan event to finish off some paperwork. but shoko has other plans for you.

broadcast ᝰ.ᐟ✧ arranged marriage au, lowk clanhead.ᐟtoru, attendant.ᐟreader, mutual pining, smut, psuedo cheating ( reader thinks shoko is ), breast play, fingering 𓂃 wc ⌇ 2.5k

sweetheart host ᝰ.ᐟ✧ oh this was such a delight. art cred ⌇ tekla135 & syrnrr

₊‧꒰ა series m.list ☆ part 01 ໒꒱ ‧₊

A citadel of oak and shoji. Your sanctuary. Tucked away in a corner of the grand Gojo Estate. Your office lulled to you with the smell of fresh paper and ink already beneath your nose. You'd rather black stains over red. Over heart smudges and blurred lines.

Professionalism, both your pen and sword. Now a twig in your uncertain hand. Was there anything professional about the way you looked at them?

Curse your eyes and bide your tongue. Paperwork would be your punishment. You were an advisor first and foremost. You would do well to remind yourself that.

The event droned just out of earshot. The Gojo clan held only the best. Your determination dampens at the prospect of missing a night of party. Only to perk when chatter and music fade into a creak. The floorboard.

You look to your feet. Perhaps—

"Now, what is my dearest advisor doing near her office at this hour?"

Perhaps not.

Heart smudges burst into beats. If it weren't for a fleshy barrier, it might have clawed away at your ribcage and jumped right into those delicate hands. Her delicate hands.

You spun on heel. First mistake. Admiring her from afar was easier than up close. Shoko was a spectacle best enjoyed from a distance. Like how the gardenia adored the moon.

Which was she? The moon in its splendour, glowing like her pin-straight hair curving down her back? Or the beautiful gardenia, adorned in black silk rather than white? A cheeky little dress cut that hung by thin straps over her shoulders and clung around her thighs and still dared to have a slit on the left.

Everything about that outfit went against clan tradition and your sanity. But really, who would tell the Strongest's wife anything? Not that you were complaining.

"I wondered where you ran off to." She smiled. Were gardenias poisonous? You braced the doorknob to your office as if it could save you.

"Apologies, my lady," your head bowed. Both in respect and to keep your eyes off of her. "Do you require anything from this humble servant?"

The wooden floor became a set of heels. You stiffled a gulp as her closeness pricked goosebumps and perked your head. Bad move. You thought her silk dress dripped with poison? Her brown eyes coated with honey. Sweet like her perfume that embraced you. Trapped you. The same way her presence did.

She smiled. You mimicked. "Some company. If you don't mind." You didn't. But did you have a choice? There went your heart again. Ready to burst out your chest and straight into her arms.

"Of course." And with that invitation, you couldn't help but feel that you sold your soul. The door opened. Perhaps your office could still save you.

As the attendant and advisor, your office was something to boast about. Recently refurbished by none other than the clanhead himself. You insistsed the comfortable seating arrangement in front of a grand window was unnecessary. He didn't listen and instead ensured you had an added tea station. A desk of only the finest wood, more shelves than you needed and a sakura bonsai he heard you loved in passing.

"He really did this place up," she hummed.

"He spoils me too much." You huffed.

Then dampened. Facepalmed even. Really? Telling the clan lady that her husband spoils you? Another woman? And still, all she did was smile. You coined her darkening eyes as your own paranoia.

You reached for the door, but Shoko already closed it. You gulped with the thud. Smiled. "I'm curious. Why run off back to your office?" She asked. "Such a waste of a pretty dress."

At least your lavender halter dress upheld professionalism. Apart from the tease of a slit. You ignored the compliment. "I remembered some extra paperwork. Thought now would be the perfect opportunity to finish it off."

As she turned to you, your heart knocked into your throat. Professionalism was damned in each fold of her dress as she approached you. Slowly. In the way that the moon crept on petals.

"So devoted to this clan," she mused. You hadn't realised that with every step she took, you exchanged two back. Until the desk caught your cower. Her perfume caressed you once more. Confection. Close.

"How devoted, I wonder?"

Too close. Maybe she could hear your heart. Her voice certainly lulled for it. Shoko was a renowned sorcerer, but in this moment, those were the eyes of a siren.

You mulled her question. What was devotion? Dedication, determination. Only one of those remained while the latter melted into a pool of shame. One you drowned in. Lured by the siren's song.

That dress of hers wasn't cheeky. It was dangerous. Nothing in comparison to her touch. Softer than petals, sharper than steel. A quiet caress over your knuckles braced on the desk's edge. Her fingers slipped between the gaps of yours, as if she could weed the last threads of your sanity from them.

Your lady was always beautiful. One thing all the big three clans could agree on. Satoru boasted, the others envied. Deep down, you knew their strife. Envy was a hidden flower blooming bright in your garden.

And there, the moon shone down upon you again. With brown eyes smouldered like the night and a sly smile that put the stars to shame. Her smooth neck and collarbone teased you as she leaned closer. You noticed just how high that slit in her dress was. A galaxy— no, a black hole. That's what she was. Consuming. Grand.

"I saw your stare earlier, you know." There she goes. Trying to pull you in and ruin you at your very core.

"I was. . . only admiring." You gulped. Looking anywhere but her eyes was surely your death sentence. Alas, they too held a blade to your throat and ever-eager heart.

Shoko's smile slithered. She leaned further and you still confusingly, cosmically, reeled your mind to see it as friendly. "Oh?" Professional.

"So even someone like you can admire your clan lady."

Oh, but what was professionalism in the midst of that sweet perfume?

"I have eyes, Madam."

Her shoulders bounced with laughter. Your eyes fell. Strike two. The fabric thrummed over her chest and you shot your gaze back up. Frantic and faltered. Praying to Tengen that your little slip went unnoticed.

But like any black hole, Shoko consumed all matter. The matter of your devotion and shame alike. Her head crooked and silky brown brushed back to reveal more of her milky skin. Oh god.

"It's not every day I get compliments from woman," she said, carefully. "Tell me, might I be so bold as to ask what you fancy?"

You spluttered. "Pardon?"

"Men or women, doll?"

Looking past her was impossible. Holding her stare was ruinous. The question swam around your drowning mind and your fingers clawed at the desk. Searching for a lifeline. Her hand became it.

"I'm. . . I suppose I don't mind either."

"More for you then, hmm?"

If you gulped any more you might rasp your voice. Not that you'd need it with how small it'd gotten. This dance of words and sway of seduction broke you down into the palm of her delicate, deadly hand.

Another chip off your resolve. Shoko pressed closer and finally— you crumbled. A hand shot to her shoulder. Felt her smooth skin. Strike three. Fuck.

"My lady," you quivered. "Are— are you intoxicated?"

With her face so close you'd smell it immediately. Yet all that consumed your senses, your being, your entire soul; was that sweet, lavender perfume.

She laughed again. You wondered if you should quit your job for a comedy. Might be useful. You're sure to lose position if the clanhead walked in. "Not that I'm aware of."

Warmth crept beneath your slit. You barely process her nails dragging behind your thigh before warmth encased you entirely with a singular yank. Your heart stuttered against hers. Ears burned red against her lipstick. "I might be soon, though."

You didn't smell the alcohol, but you tasted it. On her lips. Or was that poison? So sweet, so sultry— your mouths brush in a secret. One you weren't willing to keep.

Jerking back, frightful and flustered, you quivered. "This. . . This is wrong. Your husband—"

"Isn't here."

You thought you could run from the moon? Her pale hand proves otherwise. Cupped behind your head and jerking you back.

Back into her celestial mouth. Two stars colliding. Fervid, furious. She consumed you in all of your matter. Hesitation and devotion alike. Want— no, need.

You needed to kiss her. You needed to be hers. Even for just a moment. So, voiding each voice in your head pleading for you to rip away from her and her warmth, you melted. A pool of stars in her beautiful hands.

Her fingers threaded on your scalp and clung to your thigh. Tender. Like her lips. They graced yours with an ease that ruined your every resolve. When last had you kissed someone?

It didn't matter. Not here. Not with her. Your clan lady was all you knew. And you were one devoted servant.

"You're hesitating." Your heart skipped a beat. Her lips parted to brush yours, then kissed again. Slow and soothing. "Don't think."

How could you with her devastating kisses trailing down your neck? "Just feel."

And feel you did. You felt hot. Felt wrecked. Felt like the stars aligned as her lips caressed the curve of your neck. Her hand crept further up your thigh and you gasped. All those lingering touches. Those longing stares. Every interaction you swept under the rug.

Shoko wanted you. And you miserably, shamefully, wanted her too.

"Tell me to stop, and I will." She yanked your leg over her hip, straining the lavender fabric of your dress together with the rest of her sanity. Her smile curled against your pulse and mocked your racing heart.

"But you won't, right?"

God no. Not her. Not now. Not after wanting this for so long. Fire trailed the feel of her lips. Down your throat and nestled into your collarbone. Your touch aches for her too, but you only have the strength to curl your fingers on her shoulder. Oh, the shame.

You're here. Leaned up against your desk. Her hand on your thigh, her lips on your collarbone. Her, the clan lady. The wife of Gojo Satoru. And you still knew shame?

She didn't. Her mouth even less so. Kisses traced from your soft skin and onto the smooth fabric. She paused, almost disappointed at the lack of contact, only to spark with determination and press her lips down further. Peppered atop your breasts.

At last, your hand found her hair. She stilled. You wavered.

"I'm s—"

"Don't be."

She cupped below your breast and teased a thumb around the centre. You shivered. She smiled.

"You said you're attracted to women," her lips follow the circle her thumb did. "Have you ever been with one before?"

You quaked. "No, my lady."

"Shoko."

Confusion swirled with heat in your head. The realisation that she wanted her name on your lips, her birth name, stunned you. Hesitation weighed on your throat again, no matter how much devotion crept to your tongue.

Heat burst through your nerves. You gasped as those tender, dangerous fingers pinched your tit and rubbed your resolve away. She crooned.

"Say it."

"Shoko."

You broke. Perhaps splintered was a better term. The same way that the moon broke into the sky. A graceful shatter. Stunning, timid.

"So shy." Her hand squeezed your soft mound, eager for a string of your sweet sounds. "Perhaps I have to break you in a bit, hmm?"

Hadn't she already broken you enough? Her palm sought for more. It slithered over your skin, nestled between the heat of your thighs, and just when you bit back a tremble— it cupped snug over your panties.

"Come on doll, say it for me again, won't you? Louder."

Hesitation? You didn't know her name. Only Shoko's. Only desperation. The heel of her palm flushed into your clothed clit and ground up. How could something so delicate be so diresome?

Sparks shot up your spine. You coiled your hand in her hair and bucked into her. "Shoko," you whined. Something desperate. Something devastated. Her touch matched both.

Her laugh mused your ear. You burned up and willed every fibre to stop your jerking hips. Her fingers weeded out that same desire. Pinched on your hardening nipples and slot between your clothed folds.

"Look at you," she laughed. For once, shame drained from every nerve. Your head spun. You couldn't think, let alone feel embarrassed. Her touch washed away every doubt. Rose fluster and shot down falter.

Those brown eyes slithered from beneath her heavy lashes. She crowded you. Consumed you. Lips brushing yours as she kissed your shaky moans.

"If only my husband could see you now." Long fingers worked with her palm. Stroking over your dampening slit and grinding on your poor clit until you whimpered.

"Wonder what he would think?"

"That you're both desperate as hell."

You jerked away from her kiss, from her beauty— but she wouldn't allow your escape. Your squirm was met with a firm hand shoving your hips back into the table.

Only your eyes escaped the dream before you and instead found the nightmare dressed in a white haori. Leaned up against the doorway with his arms folded and blues narrowed.

Gojo Satoru. The clan leader.

Her husband.

"I— G-Gojo-Sama—" you spluttered and squirmed against Shoko's hold. For once denying your devotion.

Your ears rung. Heart battered. Heat throbbed, still, under her touch. She barely broke away.

"I—" you pushed your hands to her shoulders. Eyes already glossy. Fear squeezed your lungs and left you breathless. "I-It's not. . ."

You shot a frantic stare back to the woman that held you in her arms. No fluster nor fright met you. Only warm, amused eyes, that she threw back at her husband as she glanced over her shoulder.

"Look what the cat dragged in."

Satoru huffed. He shoved off of the doorway. The ground buzzed with his approach. Your thighs clenched around Shoko's insistent hand.

"Guess she beat me to it."

The darkness in his gaze stopped your heart. Then squeezed it. Anger? No— irritation. Something else. It's only then that you take Shoko's response into account. No fear, no shame, not even an apology for being caught by her husband with her hand flushed against her advisor's panties.

A second cold touch caressed your shoulder. More calloused. His thumb traced a lipstick stain over your collarbone.

Your eyes struggled to meet his, but his presence demanded it. Once you caught his stare, you knew the darkness in his gaze.

It was the same in hers.

"Is she sweet?" Satoru murmured.

"The sweetest." Shoko mused.

Your attention batted between them like your fluttering lashes and speeding heart. Realisation came with her palm stroking up once more and ruining all your resolve. A second ruin came. His lips. Traced down your neck.

"Since my wife had her fill," Satoru breathed into your stuttered pulse.

"It's only fair, isn't it?"

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised.

[carnarion]

UGHHH HIS NOSE IS SO PERFECT 😩

lawyer? i hardly know her

[carnarion]

YALL IM GETTING A J*B 😭😭 gotta make sure i dont work overtime like my man nanami 💔

[carnarion]

i got bored and tried editing pictures of nanami and i think it lowkey ate, the blue one's my wallpaper now 😍

[carnarion]

۫ ꣑ৎ baker nanami headcanons! wc: 460 summary: nanami if he was a baker. tiny bit of smut? inspired by these two pictures (that i saw on pinterest):

baker!nanami whose bakery always has far too many customers in his little store at once, all clamoring for whatever pastry was causing the entire neighbourhood to smell like sugar and warmth.

baker!nanami who has his sleeves rolled all the way back to his elbows when kneading dough, his fingers expertly working the flour into something delicious, while also unintentionally attracting stares from gym rats and married women.

baker!nanami who comes home to you every day with a HUGE box of sweets, ignoring your protests as you tell him it’s too much for you to finish. he’ll never have a shortage of baked goods at home.

baker!nanami who hums some obscure but familiar jazz tune as he makes pizza dough from scratch for dinner, back turned to you and your scheming. he should know by now to never let his guard down around you, even after months and months of being together.

baker!nanami who nearly drops his perfectly assembled pizza on the kitchen floor when you sneak up behind him with a handful of flour and give his rear a loud smack!

baker!nanami who turns around to see you running away and cackling as you hide in the bedroom after leaving a handprint-shaped flour stain on his best slacks. is this the payment he gets for dutifully making dinner? oh, he would get revenge, alright.

baker!nanami who stops what he’s doing and marches up to the bedroom door and blinks in surprise at not finding you there. “honey?” he calls, forehead creasing as he looks behind the door, the usual spot where you scare him from.

baker!nanami who doesn’t find you there, or anywhere. whatever hiding spot you’ve chosen must be good, because his slightly panicked searching is coming to no avail.

baker!nanami who uncharacteristically shrieks, louder than you did when he chose Scream for movie night, as you jump out from the wardrobe that he surprisingly, didn’t search.

baker!nanami who doesn’t forgive you for a while, instead choosing to scold you with each thrust of his hips deeper and deeper inside, murmuring things like: “try that again and you’ll see what happens”, and “you’re insufferable, love”, in the sweetest tones possible.

baker!nanami who doesn’t let you come down from your high until he does— within a matter of seconds. you’re relieved he didn’t hold out for longer.

baker!nanami who lays down, buried inside you, for a few extra minutes before getting up to go check on the pizza, which has now been in the oven for a bit too long.

baker!nanami who huffs in displeasure as he takes out the pizza, which is only slightly charred at the edges. he sulks as you attempt to convince him that it’s still edible, mumbling about how it’s “all your fault.”

a/n: i had to write something after seeing those pictures, so i stopped my attempt at writing a longer fic for this. this is my first time trying headcanons, so let me know if they're any good! i love feedback, so please tell me if there's anything i can improve on!

[carnarion]

blind date that u don’t really wanna go on but you promised your mom you would so she’d stop crying about how her ‘precious baby is gonna be alone forever’

you claim you’ll ‘see it through’ tch yea right you’ve got your friend on speed dial to create a dilemma that you just have to go help her with and unfortunately (very fortunate actually) leave this definitely bound to be disaster of a date

you were glad to see you’ve arrived at the restaurant first this is all a perfect setup for your plan you told you friend to call no matter what in ten minutes and get you the hell outta here so you can go home curl up under your blankets and finish that good ass fanfic you found before your mom called reminding you of your ‘promise’

But all of that completely flies out the window when the most gorgeous six foot something tall, blond haired, fresh aftershave smelling, old money dressed, best physique you’ve ever seen, man appears in front of you

“excuse me, by any chance are you _______?”

now that you’re taking another good look at him he appears to be rather frustrated? maybe tired…?

“uhm yea that’s me, I’m assuming you’re gojo-san?”

boomshakalakayesssgawdddd

actually youre starting to rethink this whole blind date situation, better send your friend a message quick

a sigh, definitely one of irritation, comes from the man

“no, I’m his assistant. I apologize but mr. gojo could not make it to this dinner, there was some last minute business he had to attend to. he asked me to come here and let you know.”

“oh.”

what the fuck you could honestly care less that gojo-san couldn’t make it and more that this man wasn’t him!!! he’s so mothafuckin fineee he was making you second guess not wanting to come

but oh well it can’t be helped

“well thank you for-”

“it’s not much but I’m-”

you both start at the same time

“you can go first mr….” you gander for his name

“kento, just kento. I was simply going to offer my company instead. I’m not mr. gojo but I’ve come in his stead and so it’s only fair for me to- I-I mean if you’d like me to-”

“yes mr.- I mean kento. yes that would be very nice. thank you.”

“the pleasure is all mine darling, I assure you.”

[carnarion]

domestic nanami my one true love

you slowly take a sip of your tea and take in the aroma, the soft liquid warming your throat.

inhale.

exhale.

there's the low sound of the old wooden clock.

tick-tocking the remnants of the daylight away.

followed by the occasional sound of paper as you turn the pages of your books.

and then there's him.

his arm slung around your waist, half-lidded eyes running over the pages of the book on his lap.

his warmth...

you snuggle closer to his side and rest your head on his shoulder which is followed by a gentle squeeze of his hand on your hip.

and there are the absent-minded smiles painting your faces.

content.

you turn to face him.

and that's when you see it all.

the gentle eyes you fell in love with all those years ago.

the small furrow of his eyebrows. focused.

the soft wrinkles adorning the corner of his eyes.

the shallow lines going over his forehead.

and the creases on each corner of his lips, showcasing the years of happiness that have passed.

the passing of time...

visible all around.

and you smile.

he does too.

and turns to meet your gaze.

and you kiss him.

all the years of love, your shared life... passing right through you... seeping into the tender kiss as you hold each other...

for all eternity.

[carnarion]

Okay he's growing on me now 😭

Thinking about the quiet, domestic ways the size difference between you and Toji shows itself

We know you’ll have to ask him for help reaching things on the tallest shelf and it’ll take hours of foreplay to get ready for his gigantic girth, but what about the times that you can easily take for granted, the moments that are brought up to you by blushing, envious friends which make you blink in realisation, the moments that make you fall in love with him all over again?

When showering with him is impossible because he gets all the hot water and you’re left shivering under the lukewarm dribbles from his body. Despite the complications from the tight space, the awkward angles one has to bend their limbs to get their shampoo, and how hard it is to hear each other with the thunder of the water and the height difference, you would never hate showering with Toji. Who else would wash your hair for you because they don’t get aches in their arms from reaching up? Who else would be able to clearly see the spots you’ve missed and would take their time, using their muscles, to work the lather in? And who the hell else would dry you first with the only towel and use the cold, damp one for himself?

When it’s windy out and the chill of the night rattles your bones, he stands in the direction of the wind, eyes bothered and scarred lips pulled down in a frown; you’re shivering like hell. Should’ve brought your jacket like he told you. Dumbass. Large and foreboding, his frame blocks the wind, shoving it away from your body. All his clothes hang heavy on you, and in this moment, when you’re practically being attacked all around, all he has to do is unzip his own jacket and welcome you in. A big man like him always has room in their clothes for another person. And the almost scalding heat of his hardened body stands like a furnace. Who needs a jacket when they have a Toji Fushiguro? 

Bonus point for him not giving a fuck that people are staring at you two – waddling together like the very paragon of PDA and counting the steps in mumbles, cursing here and there when you trip over a pebble.

Of course, this also extends to all the times he wordlessly stands over you so the sun doesn’t blind your poor eyes or so you can pick a wedgie out without people seeing. 

When mornings are easy with him. He’s the one who turns off your alarm at fuckass hours in the morning. His long arm can reach beyond your body and kill that startling sound that haunts your sweet dreams. Washing up in the bathroom doesn’t have to be taken in turns; you two can brush your teeth at the same time because his reflection shows behind you. Most times, breakfast is a struggle for you because it’s often too early to have an appetite. Still, he’ll always make you a perfectly portioned meal, you’ll eat as much as you can and never have to worry about throwing food out because he eats your leftovers on top of his own breakfast. 

When you have to stand on a platform to kiss him – whether it's the taller step on the staircase or a stool – and he still has to bend down. No matter how far down you are, he will bend. He will risk cricks in his necks and aches in his backs because what the fuck could get in the way between him and a kiss from you?

When there are hardly any good pictures of the both of you because it's a tug of war between the top of your head and his chest.

When he spots a puddle and grabs you by the waist so you can dangle in the air for a little while as he steps over it.

When you realised that you've never once had to push your shorter legs to their max to keep up with him. Without needing you to tell him, without announcing it to you, Toji, all those years ago, has learned the perfect pace to always be within arm's reach of you in case you need help and so he never misses a single word of the story you're telling.

You could go and on about him, but the most important thing will forever be that, no matter how big Toji is, no matter how much he towers over you and scares the shit out of everyone, his heart will always be bigger.

I love this man ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[carnarion]

Currently working on a nanami oneshot that's actually turning into a fic but I also gotta apply for j*bs so uhhh its going to take a while 😭💔

[carnarion]

am i the only one who's realised that dr chase looks a tiny bit like nanami sometimes or am i hallucinating because of my obsessions with the both of them

[carnarion]

Knight!Nanami who’s assigned as one of your personal guards, with the strict understanding that he is nothing to you. He falls for you anyway.

Knight!Nanami who finds himself preening more than he ever would- fixing his hair, polishing his armor, trying his very best to hide his blush whenever you’re near. And he finds a way to write you into every letter he sends home.

Knight!Nanami who finds that he isn’t very subtle at all. Sure, the other knights already know- but when the king himself realizes–that’s when he knows he’s in deep. And he’s begging, ashamed, to let his undeserved love not mar your image.

Knight!Nanami who finds out that you don’t care either way. That you’ll marry him before you marry any prince; and the court finds out, too, when you walk in the next day - engaged.

[carnarion]

I just walked up and down the same street like three times bc I couldn't figure out whether it was raining or not 😭

[carnarion]

JUST FINISHED WATCHING MATERIALISTS!!! yes, i too would choose chris evans regardless of economic factors, JUST LOOK AT HIM

he's so perfect it's not even funny i will actually sob. the movie was so good, capitalism really ruins true love </3

[carnarion]

what if instead of nanami we had 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂mi and instead of going to the bakery to get bread he came to my bedroom to get head WOAHHHHH WHO SAID THAT WHO SAID THAT???

[carnarion]

Satoru Gojo can't help but desperately eat Suguru's cum pouring out of your pretty cunt, lapping it up until there's not a drop left inside you.

His swirling blue eyes look up at you, glittering as he murmurs - 'tell Suguru how much better I am, sweetheart, that I d-dont miss him' while scissoring long digits inside you, your eyes rolling back, cumming on his pretty face.

You date both of them, they'd brought you into their lives, but they're in the biggest fight, and now you're stuck being the go between for two six-foot-four sorcerers! You're bruised everywhere, your cunt and your ass are truly ruined, and they just won't make up.

'Hah, tell Satoru your ass feels so much better than his,' Suguru Geto whispers, cock stretching your little puckered hole, making you cry out, thighs trembling. He's fucking that liquid lube deep inside you, his fingers on your clit, black silky hair draped on your shoulder. 'I c-cant!?' He chuckles. 'You can, love'

'He said what now!?' Satoru is putting you in a full mating press, his blindfold is shoved up high. That cock thick and heavy against your entrance. 'Toru, can you two-mnh!' Satoru slams his cock deep inside you, big hands shoving your thighs higher, his white hair falling over a brow. 'Bet he'll be mad if I get our girl pregnant first, huh?'

'He said what now!?' Suguru's furious when he kneels, shoving your ass against the door, inhaling the scent of Satoru's cum that's slipping out from your abused hole. 'Sugu, please can you all get along again? I'm not even- ngh!' Suguru's tongue ring clicks against your clit. 'He thinks he'll get you pregnant first? we'll see about it.'

Suguru turns you, murmuring - 'arch for me, princess' and you do just that, letting him shove that silk robe you're wearing up your hips. After he cums inside you, biting your neck to the point it's almost bleeding, you're too wobbly to even walk, deciding to go home and try to hide from them.

How much dick can you take really!?

Satoru just appears in thin fucking air in your bedroom that night though, you roll your eyes at him, covering your face. 'Toru...' he says nothing, kicking off his shoes and laying in your bed, tugging you close. 'I miss him' he murmurs, you sigh and nod, brushing his hair back, feeling awful that they won't just communicate.

'You two will be fine,' he kisses on your neck sweetly, before scowling, seeing Suguru’s teeth marks. He touches the bruise, chuckling in that dark tone that makes you tense up. 'Hah, does he really think he'll win? I'll mark you everywhere before I send you back' then he's sinking his teeth into the mark, tugging your ass against his hard body.

You really need them to make up.

Wow this is freaky I'm ovulating 🤭