After weeks of cold showers and pent up frustration, Medical Intern Suguru finally gives into his desire— except his Ghost!Roommate isn't going to let him have the moment alone.
cw: mdni 🔞, masturbation, edging, praise kink, slight sub!suguru, ghost kink (?)
The apartment was silent when he walked in. Shoulders slumped and jaw tight, he braced himself for something to happen.
Maybe a broken vase or the fridge magnets rearranging themselves into a pentagram. The usual.
No flickering lights. No static hum in the walls. The chalkboard he'd hung next to the fridge to communicate with his ghostly roommate sat empty. Even the faint scent of lavender that has been haunting his senses like a phantom since he moved into this damned apartment was gone.
Suguru lets out a sigh, long and ragged. He throws his bag and stethoscope somewhere on the couch and drags his feet towards his bedroom.
Clinic duty was hell. Patients spraying their inhalers like perfume, supervisor yelling at him for the third time this week, and long, never-ending shifts. But most of all— he's pent up. Frustrated. Strung so tightly, he feels like he might snap.
His keys, scrubs and whatever dignity he had left drop somewhere between his couch and the bed. He tugs his boxers with the kind of urgency that makes his cock slap against his stomach— angry red and achingly hard after months of cold showers and ignoring your wolf-whistles from the bathroom mirror.
But tonight— tonight, you’re gone.
At least, he thinks you are.
His breath shudders as his thumb brushes the tip, smearing the pre-cum across his sensitive slit. His head falls back with a sigh of relief, hips stuttering up into his palm.
He tries. He really tries. 90s porn magazines that Satoru keeps hidden under his bed. Fleeting exes. Someone— anyone else.
But his cruel brain drags him back to you.
That one time you whispered his name, soft and syrupy when he hadn't slept in two days.
His hand tightens as his hips jerk up into his palm with urgency.
He doesn't know your name. Doesn't know your face. Heck he doesn't even know whether you are actually a ghost or if you're a hallucination caused by sleep depravation.
But he remembers the coffee filter going missing and your feathery soft voice as you scolded him,
"At this rate, you'll die before me."
He remembers the chill down his spine and the sent of lavender curling around his throat like a damn leash every time he showers.
The feeling of being watched.
Always. Intimately. Unapologetically.
And your voice— soft, amused like you already knew how badly he wanted it. Taunting him.
How pathetic he was for wanting it from you.
"F-Fuck, you'd love this. Wouldn't you?" he pants, knuckles white as his fist pumps harder. Desperate. Chasing the ghost of your voice like it might grant him salvation. "You'd laugh— probably haunt me forever,"
"Aww you started without me?"
The chill hits his spine like a curse as it snaps straight. The moan dies in his throat. His mind, the sane part, screams at him to cover up. Have some shame. But his cock hardens as if commanded.
Suguru jerks, eyes flying open as the temperature in the room dips several degrees. A breath of cold brushes against his damp hairline, and from somewhere near the dresser, he swears he hears the faintest giggle.
"Fuck you." he snarls, cheeks flushed and hips still rutting into his hand because his self-control died somewhere between hour-thirty and three skipped meals.
"You're so cute when you're needy, Sugu."
Your voice is right by his ear now. Gentle and warm despite the nickname causing goosebumps to crawl all over his skin.
"You're gonna float around and mock me, or actually do something for once?" He growls, raw and ragged. "I swear to god—"
"Poor thing. You're really worked up, huh?"
He shudders when your phantom fingers trail down his abdomen. Barely-there touches that don't quite exist but his cock doesn't care as it twitches in his hand. Eager and aching.
"Keep it up. I wanna see what your face looks like when you fall apart."
"F-Fuck. Shit. Shit—" His strokes are erratic now, desperate. As he gets close, he feels it: the ghost of your touch, the breath on his neck, your voice curling around his ear like silk dipped in arsenic.
His entire body jerks to a halt.
He whines— actually whines. A broken sound ripped out from his throat as his cock pulses angrily in his grip.
His legs tremble. His back arches. He’s so close, dizzy with the need to come, and you—your voice—keeps dragging him back with nothing but a command.
The pressure in his gut is unbearable. His spine is tingling. His balls are tight, aching. His cock twitches violently in his hand, begging for release.
"Please," He rasps, voice hoarse. "Please. I need— Fuck. I need it."
You coo, syrupy sweet voice laced with mock sympathy.
Featherlight fingers skim his inner thigh, just enough to make him gasp.
Another hand— colder than his own settles over his. Guiding his strokes. Slow. Teasing. Too slow. His hips jerk upwards into his hand in desperate need of friction. More heat. More you.
You whisper in his ear, voice is sharp.
He bites down on his lip, hard, as he tries to obey. Eyes squeezed shut, sweat dripping down his temple, and mind fracturing under the weight of it all.
He doesn't know what's worse— the fact that his body listens to your voice or the fact that he wants to. He wants to please a ghost. A whisper. A static touch that sends a jolt down his spine.
He wants to be good. Wants to earn it.
"You've been so patient, haven't you? Just a little longer."
His hips stutter, throat catching on a moan so loud it borders on a sob. He’s falling apart, ruined by a ghost.
And when he finally breaks, hips jerking up into his own hand, ropes of cum splashing over his stomach and chest, and his entire body seizing from the force of it. His mouth hangs open in a silent gasp and the sound of your voice that guides him back to sanity.
The air hums— warm and electric as he catches his breath and something featherlight brushes against his temple. Not quite physical, but very real.
Suguru exhales, boneless and trembling, heart racing like he just ran a code blue.
His hand lifts instinctively, reaching toward where your voice just was—but there’s nothing. No warmth. No breath. Just the buzz of the fridge and the sweat dripping down his chest.
And somewhere near the kitchen, the magnets rearrange themselves once more.
He lets out a soft, breathless laugh.
“Yeah,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his flushed face. “No shit.”
an: this is my first time attempting smut :] this is sort of like a sneak-peek preview thing for this series I’m working on. let me know how you like it <3
