I’m genuinely happy for Norway, sucks for Brazil, but they had so many chances they had SO many chances to score😭 I’m not mad they lost, it’s sad but… Brazil is not like how they used to be back in the day like they have great players they just aren’t the best at working as a team but, I mean GGs… also Haaland is a freaking beast!😭 🇳🇴🫶🏽
a string of murders haunts your city, and when the masked man who’s been calling finally comes for you, he doesn’t want your life, he wants your body*. ⋆ 1.5k words
cw: smut. fem!reader. home invasion. stalking. obsession. dubcon. oral (fem!receiving). fear play. mask stays on. piv. unprotected sex. light choking. praise and degradation. knife use (no blood tho). forced restraint. creampie. no safeword. cursing.
a/n: idk how to feel about this one, i just needed to do something about ghostface!simon. remember english isn't my first language!
it starts with a phone call.
it's late, past midnight. you're half-asleep on the couch, phone slipping from your hand when it buzzes with a number you don’t recognize.
you answer anyway.
“…hello?”
at first, there’s silence. a static crackle.
then a voice, low, distorted, mechanical, scrapes into your ear like gravel over a speaker.
“you sound sweet when you’re tired.”
you blink, pulse stuttering. “what?”
“mmm. I like it when you sound confused.”
you sit up. “who the fuck is this?”
“wrong number,” the voice hums. “or maybe not.”
the call ends.
you stare at your screen. brow furrowed. a wrong number prank? a friend fucking with you?
you forget about it. for a while.
until the next night, and the one after that.
the calls keep coming.
every night around midnight.
always a different number. always that voice.
distorted. controlled. but always watching.
he never says your name, but you can tell he knows it. he makes references, to the show you’re watching, to what you’re wearing.
“that blanket’s not hiding much, is it?”
“I liked the red set you wore last night better.”
“do you always keep your hand under the waistband that long before you touch yourself?”
you try not to react. try not to let him know he’s scaring you. but your body gives you away.
he comments on that, too.
“you breathe faster when you’re scared.”
“I bet you’re wet now. don’t lie.”
“scared and turned on. my favorite combination.”
you call the police.
you file a report. they log it, tell you not to worry. “probably a prank,” they say. “don’t engage. don’t answer.”
you block every number. he always finds a new one.
your friends tell you to stay somewhere else. you refuse. you’re not going to be chased out of your own home.
but deep down, you know.
you’re not being pranked.
you’re being hunted.
then the murders start.
not far.
the first is downtown. a woman stabbed in her apartment. no signs of forced entry.
the second is just a mile away. a couple killed in their sleep. no witnesses. no suspects.
the media goes feral. “new wave of ghostface copycats,” they say. “modernized. smarter. crueler.”
and you start keeping a knife under your pillow.
the night it happens, you’re in bed. half-asleep. wearing nothing but one of your oversized tees and a thin pair of underwear.
it’s hot. the windows are cracked.
the air is quiet. dead quiet.
and then your phone buzzes.
unknown number.
you answer it without thinking. habit.
“...hello?”
you don’t even get a word from him this time. just breathing.
long. slow. controlled.
you sit up.
“…what do you want?”
the silence stretches.
“I want to fuck you.”
you freeze.
“I had other plans for you,” he says. “but you’ve been such a good girl. so obedient. answering every night. letting me listen to those soft little moans when you thought no one was watching.”
your skin prickles.
“and now… I want something else.”
you hang up.
you reach for the knife.
you don’t make it.
‘cause he’s already in the room.
you scream. loud. raw.
a gloved hand clamps over your mouth.
you thrash—kick, elbow, twist—but he’s huge. towering. broad. and strong enough to make it look easy.
you’re pinned flat on the bed in seconds, wrists trapped above your head. and that mask stares down at you.
ghostface.
except not the flimsy halloween kind. this one’s reinforced. tactical. matte black and bone-white, custom-carved. sharp edges. dark eyes.
his voice is even more distorted in person.
“even prettier up close.”
he lets go of your mouth just long enough for you to gasp, and for his other hand to catch your throat and squeeze. not hard. just enough to silence you.
“shhh. I don't want to hurt you… not unless you make me.”
you’re shaking. trying to scream again, but your breath won’t come.
he leans down.
“don’t worry, sweetheart. you’ll like it—eventually.”
he lets go of your neck.
you try to bolt.
he catches you by the ankle and drags you back up the bed like it’s nothing. like you weigh nothing.
you scream again. he pins you harder.
you hear the click of a knife unsheathing, then cold steel touches your cheek.
he doesn’t cut, just traces.
“so soft,” he murmurs.
the blade trails lower. down your jaw. your throat. between your breasts.
your chest heaves. your body shakes. but you don’t fight, not anymore.
you’re too scared.
too still.
too wet.
and he notices.
“already soaked?” he hums. “knew you’d be a little slut under all that attitude. so fucking ready to be taken.”
he cuts your shirt off.
just slices down the middle.
the fabric falls open. your nipples harden in the cold air.
you make a sound, something between a whimper and a sob.
“look at that. so shy now.”
he kneels between your legs.
you try to kick him again, and this time he laughs.
“cute.”
then he grabs your panties and rips them down.
“please,” you whisper.
you don’t even know what you’re asking for.
“you want me to stop?” his head tilts. “say it, and I will.”
you open your mouth.
nothing comes out.
you’re terrified. shaking. but there’s heat spreading fast between your legs. a pulse thudding low in your belly. your cunt is soaked and clenching for something you don’t want to name.
he sees it all.
“didn’t think so.”
his gloves come off.
his bare fingers are warm where they slide between your thighs and spread your folds open.
you choke on a sob.
“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re dripping.”
he leans in. presses the mask to your inner thigh. inhales.
“you smell like heaven. no wonder i couldn’t stay away.”
his mouth is on you so fast you barely have time to process it.
you cry out.
it’s wet, hot, overwhelming—his tongue flat and greedy, licking up your slit with filthy groans that vibrate into your bones.
he eats like a man starved. hands locked on your thighs, holding you open.
he doesn't stop when you shake.
doesn’t stop when you plead.
he licks and sucks until you’re crying and coming and trying to crawl away.
but he doesn't let you.
he just growls, “where do you think you’re going?” and buries two fingers inside you.
you arch off the bed with a sob.
“so fucking tight.”
“your pussy’s perfect. fuck.”
he curls his fingers, finding your sweet spot instantly.
you scream.
“louder.”
he adds a third and makes you come again.
harder.but you can’t stop it.
you’re sobbing, trembling, breaking, and he loves it.
“that’s it. let me see you fall apart.”
he pulls back just enough to press a gloved hand to your throat again.
“one more.”
“gonna make you gush for me.”
you do.
you come a third time with a scream that rips through your throat, soaking his hand, your sheets, everything.
you can’t think. you can’t breathe.
and then you feel it.
his big, meaty cock pressing to your entrance.
“ready for me, pretty girl?”
you shake your head. “n-no, I—”
“that’s not a no—that’s a scared yes.”
he pushes in.
all the way.
slow. deliberate. huge.
you sob. you’re so full it aches.
“tightest cunt i’ve ever felt,” he groans. “fuck, I was gonna gut you, you know? slice you open and watch the light leave your eyes... but then I thought, why waste something so fuckable?””
he starts to move.
and you break.
you lose track after the fifth orgasm.
you cry. you beg. you come. you plead again.
he doesn't stop.
he fucks you like he owns you.
whispers praise and filth in your ear.
“such a good girl.”
“so pretty when you cry.”
“you were made for this.”
“made for me.”
you don’t know what’s worse, the pain or the pleasure.
he presses his mask to yours. kisses you through it. you moan into the hard plastic, delirious, ruined.
“I was going to kill you,” he murmurs. “but i think i’ll keep you instead.”
when he finally comes, it’s inside you.
he groans like an animal. burying himself deep. holding you still.
“mine.”
he doesn’t pull out right away. just lies there. heavy. breathing hard.
then finally, he gets up. adjusts the mask.
you lie there. trembling. legs spread. slick everywhere.
dazed, ruined and empty.
he tucks himself away, leans over you one last time.
“you’ll see me again.”
you blink. your lips part. “w-what?”
he strokes your cheek through the glove.
“you’re mine now.”
he disappears into the dark.
the next morning, you wake up alone.
the front door’s locked. windows shut.
your knife, once hidden, is nowhere to be found.
there are no signs he was ever here except for the ache between your legs, the bruises on your hips and the cum dripping from your thighs.
your phone buzzes.
unknown number.
you answer it with trembling fingers.
a voice, low, amused, filters through the speaker.
“miss me yet, sweetheart?”
you don't answer.
you just lie back on the bed, eyes wide and your pulse racing.
warnings: multiple orgasms, foodplay, oral sex, smut - MINORS DNI
synposis: what do you do when you see minho eating raspberries like this. what a whore. (no raspberries were harmed in the making of this fic).
“i got some raspberries from the farmer’s market,” minho’s first words to you are when you shuffle into your living room, still in your pajamas. he shows you the plate of washed berries he had been munching on, way too awake for the hour that it was. you despise minho for being a morning person, for waking up hours before you and doing things like going to the farmer’s market instead of laying in bed with you.
“good morning to you too,” you take a seat next to him on the couch, curling up against his side. at least if he didn’t partake in morning cuddles with you he never denied you couch cuddles.
“have one,” he says, holding out a berry to your lips. his fingers are stained red with the bursted juices and they brush against your lips as he feeds you. you suck his thumb into your mouth along with the berry and his pupils shake as you hollow your cheeks out a bit to get the flavor off of his skin. the sweetness of the raspberry floods your mouth and you move away from him to chew and swallow, the wheels in your head turning as you track his reaction to what you thought was an innocent act.
suddenly, you were wide awake; if he was going to be horny about this so early in the morning, then so were you.
“give me another,” you demand as your hands reach towards his pants, unbuttoning them and opening the zipper with expert motions. he pauses, his eyes heavy lidded as he looks at you with an open-mouthed gaze. your eyes flicker between his rapidly hardening crotch and the plate of raspberries as you wait for your words to register in his head through the horny daze. “do you need me to repeat myself?”
he shakes his head, his eyes clearing a bit as he scrambles to pick up a berry to feed to you. you let it rest on your tongue as you slide to your knees in front of him and free his cock from his boxers, pressing down on the fruit gently so it bursts in your mouth. you take the head of his cock into your mouth and you let the juice dribble out of your mouth until it drips down his length, staining him even redder than he already was. you pull away, wincing at the feeling of liquid dripping out of the corner of your mouth, but the look on his face is worth the discomfort. he looks gone, his eyes heavy on you, the weight of his awe of you hanging off of his every feature.
“this gone and we barely did any foreplay,” you tease, sliding your hand up his cock to spread the redness around. “you must really like me.”
“if you don’t keep going i might die,” he says, ignoring your bait, completely serious. you flash him a grin before going down on him again, a sick satisfaction seeping through you when his cock jumps in your mouth. you take him as far as you can go, using your hand to make up for the rest of the space and you bob up and down, letting your saliva mingle with the berry until he’s wet and slippery.
the flavor is divine; you always love his taste, musky and salty with the scent of his clean body wash intertwined, but the raspberry mixing with him is a cocktail that you never want to stop drinking. he slides his fingers into your hair to keep you close to him, and you give him a particularly dirty lick to his slit when you realize that it’s his clean hand - as sexy as this all is, you didn’t want to deal with cleaning the stickiness out of your hair later.
he lets out breathy moans and pants in time with your movements and you want to edge him all day just so you can keep hearing the music he’s playing for you, but when you peek up at him you feel a tinge of sympathy for him. his neck is completely flushed and it trails up to his ears, the veins in his neck popping out from the effort it takes to hold back from thrusting up into your mouth. you pet his thigh with your free hand, a silent good boy that doesn’t go unnoticed by the way he throws his head back with a groan. you take pity on him, relaxing your throat so you could take him down and swallow around him. you stay there for as long as your body allows, only backing off when the need to breath flashes warning signals through your head.
his moans turn into whines as you keep stroking him, a clear signal that he’s close. you open your mouth, lolling your tongue out to catch his release onto it. the picture that you make in front of him, lips stained red and mouth open for him, is enough to send him over the edge and his muscles lock as he comes with a spasm. you work him through it until his hand tightens in your hair, the tiny pinpricks of pain sending a wave of arousal through you. you swallow his release and show him your empty mouth, and his answer to that comes in the shape of a dry sob as he melts completely into the couch.
you don’t realize how wet you’ve gotten since starting this until you let him go, your attention divided between his post-orgasmic glow and the burn of pleasure you feel when you rub your thighs close together. you rest your head on his thigh as you catch your breath alongside him, and you slide your hand into your pants, content to lazily rub yourself off before sharing a shower with him to wash the berry juice away.
“what are you doing?” he asks, his voice deep and gritty.
“you’re not the only one who gets to come today,” you sigh against his thigh as you circle your clit with your fingers, the wetness there making the glide easy.
“no, i mean what are you doing?” he repeats, the emphasis not making things any clearer for you. he rolls his eyes when you don’t get it before sitting up and joining you on the floor. he lifts you off your knees and pushes you towards the couch to sit so your positions are reversed with him on his knees in front of you. “this is my job, not yours.”
he pops a couple berries into his own mouth, swirling them around his tongue as he slides your pants and underwear down to your ankles. he helps you take them off gently, tossing them aside before pushing your thighs apart. he dives into your pussy like a starved man, pushing the red juice into your folds and lapping it up again before repeating the process again and again. it’s so much better than your own fingers, the unpredictability of where his tongue was going next keeping you unprepared for the onslaught of sensations. you come embarrassingly fast, your thighs locking around his head as he slurps at you, obscene sounds filling the empty living room.
he moves away when you start to twitch in oversensitivity and his mouth is completely stained red. it’s smeared around his lips like lipstick, and you pull him up for a kiss with urgency. the taste of raspberries mixed with both of you is euphoric, and you let out a content sigh into his mouth as your body relaxes.
“i’m not done with you yet,” he releases your lips with a wet pop, a string of pink saliva connecting the two of you. he’s back down between your legs faster than you can register, his mouth finding your clit instantly. his tongue traces patterns against it, circles and swirls and shapes that you can’t name and it’s too much but it feels so good that any protests die on your tongue.
“minho!” you cry out, and once his name leaves your lips you can’t stop, the five letters taking the shape of moans and whines until it’s all you can say or think. your thighs begin shaking but he doesn’t stop, eating you out steadfastly as if he was born to do it.
“one more,” he says against your folds, his fingers joining the mess between your legs to hook into you, curling upwards. “you can give me one more, right?”
i’ll give you anything you want, you try to say, but it comes out in a series of unintelligible sounds. the burn of your orgasm comes slower this time, a fire building and exponentiating unlike the sparks of fireworks that you experienced the last time. it burns and glows brighter and brighter until it’s a white light behind your eyelids, your entire vision whiting out as you come against his lips. you can’t see it, but you can feel the smile he wears against your skin as you come down from it.
when you blink your vision returns, just as he is climbing up to sit next to you. he pulls you into his lap, holding you close as your sluggish head tries to make sense of what just happened. you bask in the silence, your head pressed against his heartbeat, his breathing moving your body up and down against him calmly.
“you know,” he breaks the quiet, his words a whisper into your hair. “we’re never going to be able to look at raspberries the same way again.”
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