smolcooki33 - Tumblr blog

smolcooki33 · 12 days ago

Text

This was amazing 10/10

(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

491 notes · View notes