UNKNOWN CALLER
synopsis: Your ex never handled losing you well. Now there’s a body part on your doorstep, a phone that won’t stop ringing, and a masked man who’s already inside.
꩜ ꩜ ꩜
pairing: suguru geto x fem reader x satoru gojo
tags & warnings: suguru is a crazy ex, satoru wants you, knifeplay, gunplay, sadism, dacryphilia, no explicit smut, stalking, kissing, aggressiveness, possessiveness, mention of gore, satoru loves when you cry, you being chased, cat and mouse, psychological sadism, slight fingering, manipulative, threats, dismembered hand, slight mention of murder, choking, hair pulling, pet names, name calling, etc. viewer discretion advised.
wc: 7k
.ᐟ.ᐟ yi's notes: harro angels🕯️, originally this was going to be in a smut one shot but i wanted to make it more thrilling and slightly longer. I literally had a dream about ghostface chasing me in an alleyway and then i thought of writing it but with jjk. If there are any the weeknd fans out there ily, i was heavily inspired by The Birds pt 2 (not the actual lore just the lyrics and sound) ﾒˇ𝘰
This is a very, i mean VERY suggestive fic so read the warnings!😩, besides that enjoy this short dark romance read. <2
You're watching a movie in your living room on the couch, the gutting scene flickering shadows along your walls. You pop a strawberry between your teeth, sweetness bleeding over your tongue.
You barely hear the ring at first.
Just a soft, chiming insistence.
You frown at the door because weren’t expecting anyone, then another ring.
Persistent?
Your stomach dips as you pause the movie, the room swallowing the sound. And now the silence feels heavier. Your fingers sticky with fruit juice, you lick some off then wipe them off absently on your pajama shorts. You pad across the floor.
Maybe it’s a package, You do shop online like it’s a sport.
You unlock the door and pull it open, a cold breath of night sweeps in and curls around your bare legs, too intimate, like the night just leaned in and exhaled against your skin.
On the doormat sits a box. Plain brown. No postage label. No return address. Black tape, neatly crossing the top.
And resting on it, a single black rose.
Something ugly coils in your gut, like the instinct animals get before storms or earthquakes. Your hand lingers on the doorknob while your gaze sweeps your front yard and the street beyond.
Nothing strange.
The streetlights spill a tired yellow glow across the pavement. A neighbor across the way drifts past with their dog, leash slack, both of them slow and peaceful. A car door closes somewhere down the block.
So why does this feel like a hand around your throat?
You lean a little farther out, checking corners. Shadows sit where shadows always do.
“Calm down,” you mutter to yourself, a brittle joke. It’s probably… promo. Or a gift. Maybe a wrong address.
Your chest is tight when you bend and scoop up the box. The cardboard is cool against your palms. The rose brushes your knuckles like it recognizes you.
You step back, turning to get inside.
The door shuts with a dull, final sound. You lock it. Then you add the chain.
You carry the box to the coffee table and set it down beside the bowl of strawberries. The movie is still paused, cheerful gore frozen mid-scream, and the irony makes your skin crawl.
And you know, deep down in your bones, who it reminds you of.
You swallow, annoyance sparking under the dread. You refuse to think his name to conjure the slope of his shoulders, the way he used to look at you like he owned the air you breathed. You refuse to remember the arguments, the warning signs, the way love became a locked room.
That feeling returns, crawling up your spine. Like being watched.
You turn.
Nothing. Just your apartment. Your couch, plants, and your cat’s climbing post, speaking of where is she.
You peel the first strip of tape. The last piece gives way with a soft tear and the flaps loosen. You let out a short exhale of relief.
You ease the cardboard apart like you’re afraid it might breathe back, Inside is black silk folded over a shape carefully.
Your fingers tremble before you even touch it. You already know this isn’t normal. Your heart is loud in your ears as you pinch the fabric and lift it.
Your brain refuses the shape at first. Just a pale curve. A knuckle. A ring that glints in the dim light.
You drop the silk.
A hand.
And on the ring finger, a wedding band you recognize. Because you saw it a few nights ago.
On the man whose name you never bothered to learn.
The one you slept with, then walked away from when you spotted the indentation on his wife’s finger in their hallway photo
Your stomach twists in on itself. The room tunnels. You back up until the edge of the couch stops you, your breath coming in thin, glass-edged pulls.
This isn’t possible.
This isn’t real.
Your gaze snaps back to the box like it might move if you look away.
And then you see it.
Tucked beneath the silk.
A small, black burner phone.
Your hand shakes as you reach for it, because you know you shouldn’t. You know this is exactly how the girl dies in the movie you paused. But your fingers still curl around the cool plastic and lift.
Before you can even consider powering it on, it starts ringing. The sound slicing the silence in half.
Your heart almost stops when stare at the screen, unknown number. Of course.
You don’t answer.
You just stare at the screen while it rings and rings, your pulse trying to claw its way out of your throat. Finally, it stops.
You set the phone down like it might bite you and press both palms to your face, trying to breathe around the rising static in your chest. This is insane. All of it. A box, rose, a hand, the ring. And now a phone?
The phone lights up again.
Same number. Same shrill sound. More insistent now, like it’s irritated you didn’t answer the first time
You hesitate for what feels like eternity. Then you swipe to accept, because not knowing feels worse.
You lift it to your ear.
You don’t speak at first, nothing coming from the other end.
When the voice arrives, it slides under your skin like ice. Distorted and filtered like its warped through a cheap voice modulator.
“Did you get my gift?”
Every muscle in your body goes rigid so you whisper, because anything louder might break you. “Who is this?”
A soft chuckle crackles through the speaker. “Answer the question.”
Your gaze drifts, against your will, back to the box. To the silk. To the curve of a finger and the gold circle hugging it.
Your stomach lurches.
“What… what is this?” you breathe.
His voice lowers, intimately amused.
“A lesson.”
Your throat goes dry. “A lesson for what?”
“Boundaries.”
Your chest tightens, fury sparking through the fear. “You cut off a man’s hand because of boundaries? Do you realize how insane that sounds?”
Silence.
You think, for a second that the call dropped.
Then he inhales, slow and steady.
“You really should stop letting men touch you,” the distorted voice purrs. “People get hurt.”
Your skin crawls. “Who are you?”
“Someone who knows you,” he replies easily. “Someone who watches you eat strawberries on your couch, who sees you flinch when the doorbell rings.”
Your heart slams into your ribs.
You whip your head toward the nearest window. The curtains are drawn, the dark reflection dim snd useless. How could he see you?
You hate the way your voice shakes when you lie. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working. Congrats.”
He laughs softly. “I’m not trying to scare you… mostly”
There is something so disturbingly sincere in the way he says it that your chest aches against your will.
“Then what the fuck do you call this?” You glance back at the box on the coffee table. At the hand inside. The ring glinting like an accusation.
He scoffs, “Are you saying you don’t like my gift? I even got you a new phone where you can only call me”
Your phone.
You drag your hands over the couch cushions, searching for your suddenly missing phone. Your fingers find nothing but loose change and cat fur.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” you say under your breath, you swore it was just right next to you.
A low, warping chuckle crackles through the line. “Stressed out, angel?”
You stand too quickly, dizzy, and stumble toward the kitchen. The landline hangs on the wall like salvation. You reach for it with shaking fingers.
Your pulse is a drum in your ears. Your hand closes around the phone like it might anchor you, like it might save you if you just hold tight enough.
He’s still talking in your other ear.
“Don’t do that.”
You ignore him.
You press the landline to your ear.
It’s already buzzing, a low, endless drone that burrows straight into your skull.
Your breath snags. You pull the phone away from your ear and stare at the keypad like maybe you pressed something without realizing it. You jab at the numbers anyway.
9 1 1.
“Sweetheart,” the voice purrs through the cell pressed to your shoulder. “I said don’t.”
Your fingers move faster, more frantic. You stab the buttons like force might make the world obey you. But the line just gurgles out the same flat sound, like it died long before you touched it.
Your gaze drifts lower.
To the cord.
It hangs from the base in two limp strands, ends frayed, copper guts winking back at you like a sick joke.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
It’s been cut.
Your throat tightens until breathing hurts. You take a slow, shaky step backward, the handset still clutched in your hand like a corpse that won’t let go.
You clamp a hand over your mouth to choke back the sound that rises. You turn in a slow circle, heart thrashing, eyes raking the dark corners, the windows, the doorframes, the ceiling like he might be inside the walls.
“When?” you whisper, voice cracking. “When did you do that?”
He hums, thoughtful. “You talk in your sleep, you know that? Little mumbles. Sometimes you say my name.”
You grab the counter with your free hand before your knees can give out.
“You’ve never been good at locking the back door,” he continues, conversational, like this is a shared memory instead of a violation. “You never fixed that latch. I told you you should. But you’re too stubborn to listen.”
“Where are you?” you whisper.
The silence stretches thin enough to scream.
“Close,” he says.
Your fingers slip from the counter and you stagger toward the drawers. You wrench the top drawer open so hard it rattles the wood.
No pocket knife or switch blade
You yank the next one, your box cutter is also not there.
Your breathing turns ragged, sharp little gasps as you tear through them, one after another. Cutlery, gone. Scissors, gone. Even the cheap serrated steak knife you never use.
A low chuckle sighs through the phone against your ear.
You freeze, one trembling hand still buried wrist-deep in an empty drawer.
“Where,” you whisper, “are my knives?”
“Somewhere, where you can’t reach them.”
“You came in here?” you say, voice shaking. “You were in my kitchen. You touched my things.”
“I touch lots of your things,” he murmurs. “You’d be surprised.”
Your skin prickles, every nerve lit and screaming. You press your back to the counter, needing something solid behind you so nothing can creep up.
“Why?” Your voice fractures on the word. “What do you want?”
He exhales like he’s savoring the taste of your fear.
“I want to see what you do,” he says softly. “What happens when you’re frightened for your safety.”
Your chest tightens so hard it aches. “You’re a fucking coward, hiding, cutting lines, taking my knives. Your dad raised a bitch.”
He laughs quietly. The sound curls around your throat like fingers.
“Still got that mouth of yours, huh?” the voice purrs. “Who said I’m hiding.”
The house goes quiet enough to hear the refrigerator hum. The air feels thicker. Heavier. Watching.
You don’t want to ask the next question.
But you do.
“…Where are you?”
Then, gentle, savoring he answers, “Closer.”
Ring.
You don’t speak. You barely even breathe. The quiet inside your apartment is loud enough to drown you.
His voice slides back into your ear.
“…you gonna answer that?”
You shake your head even though he can’t see it…Hopefully, your lips part, but nothing comes out except a trembling breath.
Your feet won’t move. They feel rooted to the floor, like the building swallowed you whole. You stare at the door, the deadbolt, the chain, the thin slab of wood between you and whatever waits on the other side.
“Go on,” he murmurs.
Your fingers tighten around the phone until your knuckles ache.
“What did you do?” you whisper.
He hums thoughtfully. Amused. Like this is a puzzle he already solved.
“Open it.”
You don’t. You can’t.
But your legs betray you anyway, carrying you forward in small, broken steps. The closer you get to the door, the colder the air feels. Like the hallway is breathing into your home again.
You stop with your hand hovering over the handle.
The chain rattles softly.
The phone is hot against your ear.
“Good girl,” he breathes through static.
Your chest tightens.
You undo the chain with shaking fingers. The metal whispers like a warning. Your hand curls around the lock. You twist.
The door opens and your gaze drops, it's a satin gift box.
“That one’s just for you.”
You don’t think. You just grab it.
The ribbon is cold against your fingers. You slam the door shut. Lock. Chain. Deadbolt. Your pulse is trying to claw its way out of your throat while you hurry to the kitchen, the box tucked against your chest like it might bite if you loosen your grip.
You drop the box onto the counter. Your hands tremble as you peel away the ribbon. The paper sighs as it tears.
You lift the lid and your stomach drops straight through you.
It’s a gun, matte, heavy-looking, and nestled into velvet like jewelry. Then a white rose nesting on top of it.
You stare at it, mind blank white noise.
“What the hell is this?” Your voice cracks around the words.
He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches until it hurts.
“Defense,” he finally says, almost fond. “In case you get brave.”
Your breath shudders out of you. “I’m not touching that.”
He hums, thoughtful. “You already did.”
You swallow hard and place the lid back down, sliding the box away like it burns to look at. The gun sits in your periphery.
“Look outside,” he says.
“No.”
A soft laugh curls through the line. “One last surprise.”
“I don’t want any more of your surprises,” you snap, voice shaking.
Before you can finish your sentence he says, “Outside” then hangs up. You don’t realize till you hear the iconic loud beep.
Your fingers curl into fists, your nails stabbing your palms as an attempt to calm down. You leave the gun where it is, the box lid askew beside it, and move toward the window. Each step feels like stepping into deep water.
You reach the curtain, hesitating before you slide the long fabric aside.
The world outside is washed in sodium‑gold streetlight. And there, across the street beneath the lamp, someone stands.
A ghostface mask stares back at you.
He isn’t cloaked. No sweeping black robe. Just a fitted black shirt stretched across a tall frame, sleeves tight over his arms. His right forearm is bared, wrapped in a red snake tattoo that coils toward his wrist like it might slither free.
He slips a hand into his pocket, pulling out a phone he looks down onto the screen, tapping, then he lifts it to his ear, the phone in your hand begins to ring.
The sound is too loud. Too shrill. It drills straight through your chest.
You raise it back to your ear, movements mechanical, like someone else is piloting your bones.
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
“…Hi,” he says at last.
Bright. Friendly. Like this is all perfectly normal.
And somewhere behind you, inside your apartment where the knives are gone and the phone lines are severed, a floorboard sighs.
“Leave me the fuck alone,” you spit out, voice shaking, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape your chest.
A low groan of mock hurt drifts through the phone. “So aggressive?”
You snap. “You’re insane. If you don’t leave, I swear I’ll call the police.”
Another dramatic wince. “The police?” he echoes, almost theatrical. “You think that will help you?”
“I have my phone right here,” you lie, willing it to make him go away.
A pause. Then, he reaches into his pocket with his right hand.
Your eyes widen in disbelief as he slowly pulls out a phone. The same glint of black glass, the same weight in his hand that mirrors your own.
“What, this phone?” he says, tilting it toward you like a trophy. His voice is calm, but there’s something predatory lurking beneath the casual tone.
“When… when did you grab that?” Your voice is trembling, disbelief cutting every word.
“Does that matter.” His tone is soft, almost amused, but there’s an edge beneath it that makes your blood freeze.
“…What do you want?” you demand, heart hammering, pulse jagged in your ears.
A long, slow exhale on the other end. “You.”
Your stomach drops. “You’re fucking insane.”
"You think so?” He chuckles low.
The line goes quiet for a heartbeat too long. Then the line hums as the call has ended, you look down at the phone for a second too long as you look back up and he's already halfway across the street,
He moves closer. Each step on the gravel outside drives your heart faster, nails biting into your palms. You freeze for a second, chest tight, unable to decide whether to run or stay paralyzed.
Then, adrenaline snaps through you. You yank the curtain closed, plunging the apartment into shadow, and sprint toward the stairs. Two steps, three steps… halfway up, your breath ragged, a sharp sound freezes you in place.
Another figure.
Ghostface. Black leather jacket, plain black tee, black pants. Inside your house.
You stop dead. Fear and horror coil in your stomach like steel. He brings an index finger to the mask, a perfect, mocking shush. In the grip of that same hand, a sharp knife gleams in the dim light. He cocks his head, tilting it like he’s enjoying the terror on your face.
Two steps backward. Your body shakes. Every instinct screams flee, but you have nowhere safe. You whirl, sprinting down the stairs, toward the kitchen, heart pounding in your ears.
Your hands slam around the gun on the counter. You yank it free, cold metal grounding you for a heartbeat. You spin, aim.
The first figure descends the stairs slowly, deliberately, every movement predatory.
And then—another shadow moves from the hallway beside the stairs. The second masked figure is coming toward you.
It clicks. Your blood runs ice. Not one, but two intruders in your home. Two predators. Two knives? One gun. Your heart thrums like it’s trying to escape.
Your fingers grip the gun harder. The cold metal presses against your palms like it might anchor you, might give you power—but it feels hollow, disconnected from the terror around you.
You freeze, mind scrambling. Should you try to fire it?Theres a voice in your head screaming, telling you it won’t work, making your gut twist.
A hand—too fast, impossibly strong—wraps around your wrist, lifting them above your head. The gun is wrenched from your grip. Your stomach lurches as it’s pressed under your chin, lifting your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet the mask that seems impossibly close.
He clicks it. The empty sound reverberates like mockery through your skull.
Your breath catches. Panic flares, a wildfire in your chest. You close your eyes, trembling. A single tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.
“Awe… baby, don’t cry,” he murmurs, voice soft, intimate, sinister. The words curl around your fear like a snake, warm and poisonous. He taps your cheek with the gun, twice. Then murmurs, “It’s empty silly girl.”
He tilts the gun slightly, tracing the line of your jaw with the cold metal, letting the silence stretch. Your pulse hammers. Your lungs ache with the effort to breathe without screaming.
A soft, deliberate chuckle from him vibrates against your ear. “So… So fragile. I could break you easily.”
The knife-wielder shifts into your line of eyesight, stepping over slowly, each movement a countdown. Your eyes dart between the two masked figures, every second stretching your mind thinner, sharper, like a blade against your skull.
You realize it then. The gun isn’t safety. It never was. You’re nothing but prey, your fear being what they feed on.
The first Ghostface—gun still pressed under your jaw—leans closer. His voice drops to a soft, twisted purr. “Oh… I love the way your body reacts. Every flinch, every little tear… I could study you forever.”
The words curl around your ears like ice. Every nerve screams. And then—it clicks. The way he moves. The tilt of his head. The faint scent clinging to him, sharp and familiar.
Your stomach drops. Your breath stutters. “…Satoru?” Your voice is barely a whisper, brittle as glass.
A pause. Then a low, almost amused chuckle vibrates through the mask. “Yes, sweetheart.”
The gun is still tucked under your chin, the cold bite of metal kissing your skin as his pulls the mask to the side of his head, not fully taking it off just yet. Your pulse is trying to claw its way out of your throat. He leans in, voice honeyed and wrong.
“Iv'e always wanted you,” Satoru murmurs, every word gliding through you like poison. “To love. To touch. To break. But never could…”
Your breath stutters. The room narrows. Your gaze drifts right, toward the other figure moving closer.
“Suguru?” you whisper, the name scraping loose from your lungs.
Silence swells.
The second Ghostface laughs softly as he lifts his mask, Black fabric peels away from pale skin. His hair spills free, dark and pure, sweeping over his shoulder like a shadow finally stepping into its own body.
“Missed you, angel.” His voice is warm, low and amused. The word angel lands in your chest like a stone, because it is his. It has always been his.
You look at him, really look, the way his long hair perfectly frames it, his snakebite piercings glistening under the cool kitchen light, his low amused eyes. To put simply he’s so perfect looking
Alive. Beautiful. Wrong.
He tosses the mask onto the kitchen island. It skids across the polished surface, coming to rest right beside the box.
“Fuck you.”
The words tear out of you, ragged, shaking. Your body moves before your mind can catch up. You wrench yourself out of Satoru’s grasp, slipping from the cold press of the gun, adrenaline igniting your veins. The back door. Just the back door. If you can reach it, if you can scream, if you can—
You barely get a step away when a fist knots in your hair and yanks.
Heat explodes across your skull as you’re hauled backward, spine snapping into a brutal arch. Your hands fly up on instinct, clawing at the grip buried in your hair.
“Let go!” Your voice cracks, half‑scream, half‑sob.
Satoru laughs, low and pleased. A sound like smoke and sin.
“Careful, careful.” he murmurs behind you, his breath grazing your ear while his grip tightens, pulling until your scalp screams. “You’ll make me think you don’t like our little reunion.”
Your fingers dig into his wrist, but he doesn’t flinch. He just reels you back against him, your feet scraping across the floor, body dragged like claimed prey.
“Still got that fire,” Suguru says softly, almost admiring. “I wondered if time would burn it out of you.”
You dig harder, but he only tightens his hand, tugging your head back another inch until your throat is exposed, your balance relying on him, your world tilted off its axis.
“Let. Me. Go.”
Another laugh thats warm and cruel
“No can do.”
Suguru steps into your space like he never learned what boundaries are. His hand rises, deliberate, fingers curling under your chin, his touch warm.
He tilts your face toward him, studying you as if he’s examining a specimen. Your breath stutters, and he definitely noticed it, grin splattering on his face. “Silent?” he murmurs. “Nothing on your mind?”
Your jaw locks. “Fuck you, you psychotic bitch.”
Something bright flickers behind his eyes, pure amusement. He laughs, low and pleased, like you’ve just confirmed a theory, “There’s my girl.”
Satoru’s grip tightens in your hair, pulling your head back, baring your throat. Your spine bows with the pain, a small sound breaking loose before you can swallow it down.
Suguru leans in.
You feel his breath first. Then his mouth.
He drags slow kisses along the exposed line of your neck, mapping the frantic pulse beneath your skin. You hate the way your body betrays you, a fragile whimper trembling out before you can stop it.
He smiles against your throat. Then he bites, teeth sinking just enough to bruise before he seals his mouth over the skin, sucking until heat blooms under the surface. A mark. A brand. Something you’ll see in the mirror later and remember.
Your hands tremble. Your heart feels like it’s trying to punch through your ribs.
Behind you, Satoru’s free hand settles at your waist, broad palm spanning your hip. His thumb draws lazy circles against your stomach, the touch infuriatingly calm, as if he’s soothing you through a nightmare he authored.
You’re caught between them. Held. Studied.
Suguru finally lifts his head, eyes tracing the mark he’s left like it’s art.
“So pretty baby.” he says softly, as if he’s been waiting for this version of you all along.
Suguru’s thumb lingers at your jaw, his eyes soften in a way that feels wrong, like a bruise disguised as a kiss.
“I missed you so much, angel.”
The word crawls under your skin.
You bare your teeth, “I hate you.”
Suguru nods once, like you’ve agreed on something sacred. His thumb finally settles under your lip, the barest pressure.
“I can live with that,” he says.
He leans in.
Deliberately like he’s testing the strength of your restraint. His lips hover a breath from yours, close enough that you can taste the warmth of him, close enough that one tiny movement would end the distance entirely.
You don’t pull away or lean it, waiting.
Your heart is so loud you’re certain they can hear it. Suguru’s eyes flick down to your mouth, then up again, searching your face like he’s reading scripture written in panic and stubbornness.
And then he smiles.
“You don’t hate my touch, do you?”
The words settle on your skin like static. Satoru’s hand in your hair softens.
Heat coils low in your stomach despite the fear burning through your veins. It’s infuriating. Your body answering to old ghosts, to old habits, to the way Suguru’s presence always felt like being trapped in warm water.
You force the words through gritted teeth. “I hate you.”
“I didn’t ask about me,” he murmurs.
His hand slides from your jaw to your throat, grip tight but not choking you. His palm is warm. His thumb feels the flutter of your heartbeat, and your chest tightens like it’s been exposed.
Satoru chuckles softly behind you, the sound brushing your ear. “Look at that. She’s buzzing.”
“Stop,” you whisper, but your voice has no teeth.
Suguru tilts his head, dark hair spilling over his shoulder. “If you wanted us to stop, you would have run harder.”
Your throat works under his hand.
“I did,” you say.
He leans closer, his lips nearly grazing the corner of your mouth, his breath skimming your skin like a secret.
“Yeah?,” he murmurs, “Yet here you are, letting me this close.”
The heat of them presses in, their bodies bracketing yours. The air turns heavy. Your lungs feel too small. Your thoughts fracture between fear and something far more dangerous, far more different.
Satoru’s thumb rubs lazy circles at the base of your skull, a mockery of comfort. “Tell him to back off,” he says, voice low. “Say the word. I’ll tear him away from you.”
But he doesn’t sound like he wants to.
Suguru’s lips hover so near you feel them ghost across your skin when you breathe. “Do you hate this?” he asks softly. “Or do you hate how you still respond to it?”
And the silence you give feels like confession.
Satoru shifts behind you, a subtle change in the way he stands, his chest pressing at your back. The curl of his fingers loosening from your hair until they slide down the back of your neck, falling to your waist .
Your breath stutters. You try not to react, but your body betrays you in tiny, humiliating ways. A twitch. A shiver. The faintest lean.
Suguru sees every one of them.
“Careful,” he says softly. “You’re telling on yourself.”
You swallow hard, throat tight. “Get your hand off me.”
“Which one?” Satoru hums lazily near your ear.
His hand slips a fraction lower, fingers teasing the edge of your waistband. Not inside just yet, resting there, testing the line. It makes your stomach knot, heat and dread tangling until you can’t tell one from the other.
“Satoru” you whisper.
Suguru’s eyes soften in a way that makes you want to scream. “Say you don’t want us.”
The room shrinks to the space between the three of you. Your heart claws at your ribs. You open your mouth, ready to spit venom, to burn everything down with the truth you’ve been carrying like a shield.
Nothing comes out.
Satoru’s fingertips press a breath deeper against the band of your sweats, a silent reminder of how close he is to breaking every boundary you rebuilt. His voice lowers, velvet and tempting.
“Hm?” he hums. “Tell me you don’t want it sweetheart.”
Suguru leans closer, his forehead almost touching yours. His scent is familiar in a way that hurts. “You can hate me,” he says gently. “You can hate us. But don’t pretend you don’t need this.”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to.
The space between you collapses like a held breath finally let go. His mouth finds yours, tentative at first, as if he’s asking instead of taking. It’s soft, almost careful, lips brushing once, twice, then lingering. Months vanish in that single point of contact. Muscle memory wakes up before pride can stop it.
When you kiss him back, it’s with a quiet sound you didn’t mean to make.
Before you can gather yourself, warmth blooms at your neck.
Satoru is there, close enough that you feel his breath before you see him, fingers sliding lightly at your waist as if to steady you. His mouth brushes the sensitive skin beneath your ear, unhurried, almost reverent.
A kiss, then another, softer, lingering just long enough to make your pulse jump. He smiles against you, the kind you can hear without seeing.
Satoru’s lips trail lower, open-mouthed now, heat building where he lingers. He kisses with intention, slow and coaxing, teeth grazing just enough to make you tilt your head without realizing you’ve given him permission.
When he sucks gently at your skin, it’s possessive in that quiet, unmistakable way that leaves marks meant to be remembered.
Suguru doesn’t pull away. If anything, he kisses you deeper. His tongue moves with yours, the cool tongue ring a teasing contrast as he presses closer, hand firm at your jaw. The dual sensation makes your thoughts scream.
You’re caught between them, breathless, heartbeat loud in your ears. Satoru’s lips return to the same spot, sealing another kiss there, deliberate, while Suguru finally breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against yours again.
“Still pretending?” Suguru whispers.
The answer is written all over you.
Satoru’s hand finally slips beneath the waistband.
Just enough for you to gasp.
touch drags lower, slower than necessary, tracing the soft slope of your lower womb like he’s savoring the anticipation more than the contact itself. Then his fingers glide down your mound, unhurried, deliberate, until two of them brush over the thin barrier of your damp underwear
Your breath catches traitorously, your body reacting before your mind can wrap barbed wire around the feeling. His fingertips move again, the barest sweep, like he’s testing how little effort it takes to unravel you.
A soft hopeless moan slips from your mouth before you can shut it away, you let your head fall in embarrassment finally accepting fuck yes, you need him—both of them.
“Yeah?,” Satoru murmurs against your ear, pleased in that lazy, infuriating way. “There she is.”
Suguru’s hand tightens on your jaw.
Your eyes meet his.
He looks at you like you’re a puzzle he already solved, but wants to watch you struggle through anyway. His thumb presses just beneath your lower lip, coaxing it open without asking. You’re suspended between their gravity, and it feels like confession.
“You don’t sound like someone who hates us,” Suguru says softly.
Your pulse ricochets. “I still do.”
“Liar,” he breathes.
Satoru’s fingers slide over your cunt again, a little firmer this time. Heat coils through you like smoke in your lungs. His other hand is still at your waist steadying you.
Suguru leans in, placing a kiss on your jaw before redirecting to his original spot.
“You like this.”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
And that’s answer enough.
For one perfect, unbearable moment, the world narrows to heat and hands and the way they know you too well. You hate the way your body leans in. You hate the way Suguru smiles when he notices it.
His expression darkens. Something sharp slides into his gaze, cold and fascinated, like a blade slipping into velvet.
His hand leaves your lips.
“Run,” he says quietly.
Your brows knit. “What?”
Suguru’s lips curve, slow and predatory, like a wolf deciding where to feast.
“I said…” He pauses while taking off his jacket. “…run.”
You go very, very still.
Before you can even process the command, Satoru’s hands leave you. One moment you’re caged in warmth, the next you’re exposed, nerves buzzing where his touch used to be. The absence feels louder than any threat.
He laughs softly behind you. Something bright and feral lives inside the sound.
“She looks confused,” Satoru muses. “Sweetheart, he’s being generous.”
Your heart slams hard enough to shake you.
“Generous?” you echo, your voice barely holding together.
Suguru leans closer, his breath grazing your cheek. “We’re giving you a head start.” He places a soft kiss on your cheek, stepping backwards you see the grin across his lips.
“You’re insane,” you whisper.
Satoru clicks his tongue lightly. “That’s not nice. We’re playing with you.” There’s a grin in his voice, sharp as glass. “You like games.”
“No,” you snap, even though your pulse is betraying you, sprinting ahead without you.
Suguru watches the panic flicker in your eyes, studies and Savors it. His hand ghosts over your cheek again, not quite touching this time, as if he already misses the right to.
“I want to see what you do when you’re desperate,” he says softly. “When you’re scared and confused.”
“I’m curious which way you’ll go first,” Satoru adds lightly. “Upstairs? Bathroom? Back door to the woods?” A beat. “Into my arms again?”
You step back.
It’s instinct. Pure, frantic, prey-logic instinct.
Both of them watch the motion like it’s beautiful.
Suguru’s eyes half-lidded, hungry in a quiet way. “There you go.”
Your hands curl into fists. “I’m not doing this.”
“Yes you are,” Satoru replies gently, like he’s comforting a child. “Your body already decided. Listen to it.”
Your throat tightens.
You can feel the air shift. The room becomes a hunting ground. And for one suspended heartbeat, nobody moves.
Then Suguru’s voice slices through the silence.
“Run.”
Your chest caves around the word. Something primal jolts awake inside you, flooding your veins with heat and electricity. Your feet nearly stumble taking the first step back, muscles torn between fight, flight, and the gravity of the two men staring at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth chasing.
Satoru laughs again, delighted.
“Ten,” he says lazily. “We’ll even count.”
Suguru doesn’t blink.
“Nine.”
Satoru’s hand rises to his mask.
His thumb hooks beneath the hard plastic and peels it fully off his head, the white open-mouthed face disappearing as he tosses it lazily onto the island beside him. It skids to a stop beside the discarded box and the white rose, an omen among offerings.
And there he is.
White hair, tousled like he’s just run a hand through it, falling around his face in soft disarray. His eyes are the worst part. The kind of blue that looks gentle until you realize there’s nothing soft living inside it. A boyish delight twisted into something feral.
He smiles like this is all harmless.
“Eight.”
He reaches to his waistband. You watch, frozen, as he drags the pistol free with a casual carelessness that makes it worse. The metal catches the kitchen light.
He taps the release with a lazy flick of his thumb.
The empty mag slides out.
A chill crawls up your spine.
He doesn’t look away from you as he slots a fresh one in, the motion smooth and haunting. The click echoes through the room like a bell toll.
“Seven.”
Suguru hasn’t taken his eyes off you either.
He still hasn’t dropped the knife.
Instead, he twirls it lazily between his fingers, letting the tip whisper past his knuckle each time the handle spins.
He smiles faintly, amused at the way your gaze locks onto the weapon.
“Watchin’ the wrong thing, Angel” he murmurs.
Your lungs forget how to work as Satoru snaps the slide back
He tilts his head, bangs falling into those dangerous eyes.
“Six.”
That grin widens, hunger curling underneath.
Suguru lowers the knife slightly, but it still hangs from his fingers like an extension of his hand. He studies your stance.
“You’re wasting time,” he says gently.
The room feels smaller. The walls lean in. Your heart tries to punch its way out of your chest.
Satoru gestures loosely toward you with the barrel.
“Five.”
They want the chase to be real. They want to see what you do. How you break. How you choose.
Adrenaline surges through your feet as you finally choose to run, obeying their command like a helpless rabbit escape. Now where do you choose? The backdoor to the woods? Upstairs to the bathroom? Your room?
