BEYOND YOUR WILDEST DREAMS

You should’ve fought harder. Pulled away. Pretended you didn’t feel that familiar pull curling around your ribs like a hook. But who were you kidding? Your body always betrayed you long before your mind could catch up. And tonight, exhausted and bleeding from a mission that went sideways, you didn’t have the strength to lie to yourself.

All you wanted was Yuji — his smile, his warmth, the way he always met you at the door like you were the best part of his day. Instead, the moment you pushed the door open, darkness greeted you. Heavy. Thick. Wrong. The apartment’s usual brightness was swallowed whole, replaced by a suffocating pressure that settled on your skin like a hand.

You froze in the doorway. Every instinct screamed at you to leave, to run, to get as far away from this cursed energy as your battered body would allow. But you didn’t move. You never did when it came to him. That was the part you hated most — the part you pretended not to understand.

Your eyes drifted toward the living room before your mind even registered why. And there he was. Crimson eyes glowing from the shadows, watching you with that slow, deliberate hunger that always made your pulse stutter. Sukuna didn’t need to speak for you to feel him. His presence alone wrapped around you like smoke, daring you to look away, daring you to pretend you didn’t want him just as much as he wanted you. You couldn’t look away from him even if you had the strength. That was always the problem with Sukuna — the moment he surfaced, your instincts stopped belonging to you. It had been that way since the first time Yuji slipped, just for a heartbeat, and Sukuna pressed himself into your space like he’d been waiting for the chance.

You remembered it too clearly: the way he’d pinned you with those four crimson eyes, amused at how quickly your breath stuttered. The way he’d spoken to you — low, deliberate, telling you exactly how long he’d been watching, how often he’d felt your reactions through Yuji’s skin. You’d cursed him, shoved at him, tried to claw your way out of his grip, but he only smirked. Because he felt it. The way your pulse jumped. The way your body leaned into him even as your mouth told him no. The way your pupils blew wide when he leaned in, lips barely brushing yours, promising things he had no right to promise.

And then Yuji had snapped back, horrified, shaking, apologizing until his voice broke. You’d swallowed your disappointment like poison, pretending you weren’t trembling for an entirely different reason. Pretending you didn’t replay the moment in your head at night. Pretending you didn’t want him to slip again.

You hated yourself for it. But you wanted him. And he knew.

He closed the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps — the kind that made the air feel heavier with every inch he claimed. His gaze dragged over your body, taking in the torn uniform, the blood soaking through the fabric, the way your breath hitched unevenly. His expression darkened, not with amusement this time, but something far more dangerous.

Rage.

His eyes locked onto the gash across your chest, the one your cursed energy was barely managing to hold together. The sight of it made his aura flare, thick and suffocating, swallowing the room in a wave of fury that wasn’t meant for you. Before you could brace yourself, his hands were on you — not gentle, not soft, but firm and possessive, claws digging into your sides as if anchoring you to him.

“Who did this to you,” he growled, voice low enough to vibrate through your bones. It wasn’t a question. Sukuna didn’t ask. He demanded.

You tried to smile, weak and breathless. “Grade one curse… nothing I couldn’t handle.”

He inhaled sharply, ready to snap back, ready to tear into you for daring to downplay your injuries — but your body gave out before he could. Your knees buckled, vision blurring, and you fell forward into him. His arms caught you instantly, instinctively, as if the idea of letting you hit the floor was an insult he refused to tolerate.

Your soft, exhausted breaths brushed his collarbone. Your weight settled against him. And for a moment, Sukuna went still.

He looked down at you — truly looked — taking in the way your lashes fluttered, the way your body sagged into his like you trusted him, like you belonged there. It infuriated him. It fascinated him. It made something ancient and unwelcome twist in his chest.

“Tch.” He scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you against him as if you weighed nothing. “Pathetic brat.”

But his voice lacked its usual bite.

He carried you to the bedroom, laying you onto the mattress with a care he would deny until the end of time. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, your body fighting to heal itself. He watched you for a long moment, jaw tight, expression unreadable. His hand lifted — almost touching your cheek — before he stopped himself, fingers curling into a fist.

He was the King of Curses. He did not care for mortals. He did not linger at their bedsides.

And yet he didn’t move.

He turned to leave only when your breathing steadied, only when he convinced himself you were no longer on the edge of collapse. He made it to the doorway before your voice — soft, barely a whisper — reached him.

“Sukuna…”

He froze.

Slowly, he looked back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing as if angry at himself for responding at all.

“Rest,” he said, voice low, rougher than before. “I’ll return when you’re ready for me.”

And then he was gone — but the air still hummed with him.

𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣'𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: ℍ𝕖𝕪 𝕘𝕦𝕪𝕤, 𝕤𝕠 𝕀 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕕𝕚𝕕𝕟'𝕥 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕀 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕘𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤. 𝕀 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕒 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕟𝕠 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕗𝕚𝕔 𝕕𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟. ℍ𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕝𝕪, 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕗𝕖𝕝𝕥 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 🤣. 𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤, 𝕀 𝕙𝕠𝕡𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕘𝕦𝕪𝕤 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕚𝕥. 𝕊𝕖𝕖 𝕪𝕒! 🤎

Midnight in Tokyo isn’t quiet. Even fourteen stories up, the traffic howls, motorcycles eat the street, horns honk like goose calls. You trail Kaneki through a corridor that smells of bleach and spilled curry, one sneaker squeaking with every step, and when he unlocks the apartment with a practiced flick, you half expect the place to be filled with fainting flowers and wet laundry—something lived in. But it’s just space, spartan, cold. Two pairs of black shoes, a stack of shoe cubbies, one battered umbrella. It could be anyone’s door.

He slides it shut behind you, no click—Kaneki’s careful with locks, as if a gentle touch will keep bad things outside. The entry is too narrow for both of you, so you wait while he unlaces his boots, and when you slip your own shoes off, your bare toes land on the cold vinyl like a dare.

He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. Instead, he flicks on a lamp beside the entry, a little desk lamp clipped to the first shelf of a packed bookcase. Amber light slices across his face and carves a shadow under his jaw, makes the white in his hair flash blue.

“You can put your stuff over there.” His voice is flat, practiced, but you hear the scratch of nerves under it.

You dump your backpack on the nearest shelf, trying not to topple a stack of old volumes. The room isn’t as small as you expected—by Tokyo standards, it’s almost a palace—but all the furniture is low, student-dorm cheap, and the air is thin. Across the way, a glass door frames a slice of the city, red lights blinking at nothing, and there’s a bag of garbage knotted near the kitchen counter, waiting for morning.

Kaneki stands with one hand on the wall, like he needs the support. You watch his chest rise and fall. His shirt is black, tight around the shoulders, sleeves rolled to elbows, and when he turns, his expression is unreadable—a page in a book with all the words blacked out.

“You want something to drink?” he says, moving toward the kitchen. You nod, feeling your voice stuck somewhere behind your tongue. Kaneki seems to float rather than walk, silent on bare feet, glancing at you as if checking for signs of regret.

The fridge is nearly empty. You see two cans of Strong Zero, a carton of soy milk, and a row of vitamin shots. Kaneki cracks a can and passes it to you, the aluminum beading with sweat. You take a sip and almost choke on the burn—double lemon, ten percent, tastes like battery acid and childhood candy. He smirks. “You hate it.”

“It’s better than Four Loko.” You say it just to see if he’ll react. He doesn’t.

Kaneki raises the other can in a mock salute, then takes a long swallow. For a second, he looks older—more tired—but it’s gone when he sets the can on the counter and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Neither of you speak. The hum of the fridge fills the silence. You stare at his neck, the way the pale skin glows against the black of his shirt, and you wonder if he can feel you looking.

He can. He always can.

The city outside is awake, but the apartment is a pocket of inertia. Kaneki leans back against the counter, hands braced, and finally, finally looks you in the eye. He does that thing—like he’s seeing you and not just a reflection or a memory. There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile.

“You can sit down,” he says, jerking his chin toward the low couch near the window.

You obey. The cushions sag, and you tuck your knees up, arms wrapped around them, the can of Strong Zero sweating cold between your palms. Kaneki follows, not sitting but standing in front of you, then crouching low, elbows on his knees. You see the scar near his eyebrow, the line of stubble on his jaw. You want to touch both.

“You know,” he says, voice softer, “you don’t have to—” He stops, swallowing the sentence. Then: “You can leave, if you want. Anytime.”

You bite your lip. “Is that what you want?”

He shakes his head. “No. I just…don’t want you to think I’m—”

“A monster?” you finish, and he freezes.

You let the silence stretch, the city thrumming beyond the glass. Kaneki’s fingers flex on his knees. His nails are too neat, almost polished. He keeps them short, you remember, for work, for safety.

“I know you’re not,” you say. “I wouldn’t be here if you were.”

He laughs, but it’s a sharp sound, too thin. He leans closer, his eyes pinning you, and now you feel it: the gravity that everyone talks about. It’s not about beauty or charm. It’s the way Kaneki fills up the air around him, how he makes the world smaller, as if there’s nowhere to go but toward him.

You take another swig from the can, braver now. “So what do you want to do?”

He glances at your lips, then away, a shudder running up his neck. “I want to hold you,” he says, and his voice is so quiet you almost don’t hear it. “Just for a little while.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He waits, testing you. When you don’t move, he eases onto the couch beside you, careful, slow. He’s all edges—sharp shoulders, bony wrists—but when he puts his arm around you, his hand is gentle. It rests at the small of your back, hesitant, and you lean into it, feeling the heat of his skin even through your shirt.

The lamp casts your shadows onto the wall, two shapes fusing at the hip. Kaneki’s breath stirs your hair. He smells like soap and sweat and the sour tang of lemon liquor.

He pulls you closer, and you let him.

It’s not the kind of touch you expect from him. Not hungry, not desperate. He cradles you the way you’d hold something that’s already broken, like a book with the spine snapped in half.

You close your eyes and listen to his breathing, steady, deliberate. He doesn’t talk. He’s never been good at it. But his fingers trace slow arcs across your back, memorizing every inch, and you shiver at the care in his movements.

For a long minute, you stay there, molded together on the battered couch, until Kaneki shifts, letting his hand slide up to your shoulder. He turns your chin, just enough to make you look at him. His eyes are bright, reflective—something between blue and steel, and the sadness in them is honest.

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

You nod, throat thick. “I am if you are.”

Kaneki smiles, a real one this time, and your pulse jumps.

He presses his forehead to yours, and for a moment, all you hear is the city beyond, the throb of late-night Tokyo. He holds you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the present.

And maybe you are.

The clock ticks, the fridge hums, and Kaneki’s hand stays at your back, anchoring you in the blue-lit room. You know what comes next. But for now, you let the hush stretch, content to rest here, together, until the outside world blurs and softens and slips away.

The hush is so thick you can almost chew it, sweet and dense like the lemon still stinging your tongue. Kaneki’s arm is snug around your back, the heat from his body spilling through the thin fabric of your shirt. You press closer, unsure if you want to hide in him or be seen entirely.

You shift your legs, the old couch’s springs groaning a tiny protest. Kaneki tenses, then lets himself lean into the sag. His hand, broad and smooth, moves higher, resting light on your shoulder blade. The lamp’s amber glow catches in the hollow of his throat, beads up on his lip. You want to taste the sweat, the metallic tang, the slice of his attention.

“I’m glad you came,” he says, voice soft, the syllables barely touching air. It’s the sort of confession that could be misread, but he doesn’t take it back.

You study the scar above his eye. A splinter of childhood, an old fight, or maybe something worse. There are rumors, of course—what he’d done, what he’d survived. But none of that seems real here, in the gold-washed silence of his apartment.

“I didn’t think you’d ask,” you admit, not sure why the words matter. Kaneki’s thumb skims your jawline, drawing a line from the hinge of your ear to the tip of your chin. He doesn’t rush, and the patience almost unravels you.

He cradles your face in his palm, fingertips ghosting over the soft skin just beneath your cheekbone. His gaze flits between your eyes and your mouth, a silent question hanging in the air. You answer by closing the gap, nudging your lips to his, dry and shy at first. Kaneki responds by angling your face, deepening the kiss in increments, tasting, learning, mapping every new edge.

You try to match his rhythm. He’s measured, deliberate, even when he’s nervous. His hand strokes down the column of your neck, pausing at the flutter of your pulse, then moving lower, lower, until it rests at the dip where your shoulder meets your chest.

He pulls back, just enough to see your face. “Is this okay?”

You swallow, then nod. “Yeah. I want this.”

The relief is visible. He smiles, not the practiced smirk, but something real, something young. He kisses your temple, then your brow, then the curve of your cheek, a litany of gentle. When he finds your lips again, the contact is firmer, anchoring you.

The can of Strong Zero sweats between your hands. Kaneki notices, takes it, sets it on the floor with a soft thunk. His hand returns, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers cool and tentative at the small of your back.

Your breath spikes, shallow and rapid. You bite the inside of your cheek, hoping the ache will ground you. Kaneki shifts, tucking you against his chest, the warmth of him radiating like a fever. You fit awkwardly, knees tangled, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

He lifts your chin with two fingers. His thumb lingers at your lips, brushing the bottom one with reverence. Then he traces along your jaw, and this time you can’t hold back the shiver. Kaneki watches your reaction, a scientist cataloging data, and you realize he’s waiting for you to bolt.

You don’t.

Instead, you place your hand over his, guiding it up, over your ribs, under the thin cotton. His palm is large enough to cover your entire side. He flattens his hand, splaying the fingers, and the sensation is dizzying: five distinct points of heat, each one a promise.

You find the courage to touch him back. Your hand cups the back of his neck, fingers twisting in the white-blue hair. He exhales, the sound so shaky it could be a sob. You wonder if he’s been waiting for this as long as you have.

He kisses you again, the pressure more urgent. You can feel his pulse hammering at the hollow of his throat, a rhythm that matches yours. The city is still raging outside, but here, time stutters and hiccups, stretching each second into a forever.

Kaneki shifts, turning his body to face you fully. His knees press against yours, and he brings both hands to your hips, anchoring you there. He’s holding you together, as if he suspects you might shatter under your own wanting.

You let your head fall to his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him—clean laundry, bitter citrus, and something faintly medicinal. His lips find the shell of your ear, and he murmurs a soft, indecipherable apology.

“For what?” you whisper, pulling back to look at him.

Kaneki shakes his head. “For not asking sooner.”

You laugh, the sound surprising you both. The tension breaks like a dropped glass, shards scattering underfoot. Kaneki grins, eyes creased at the corners, and your heart flips.

“Can I?” he asks, already tracing the line of your waistband.

You nod, lifting your arms. Kaneki pulls your shirt over your head with practiced gentleness, careful not to snag your hair or graze your skin too hard. He pauses when you’re bare to the waist, gaze lingering not on your body but on your face, as if checking for cracks.

You flush, but don’t hide. His hand finds your ribs again, thumb circling the soft skin just below your breast. He’s reverent, not greedy.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. The word makes you ache.

He lowers his mouth to your collarbone, breath hot, tongue flicking over the bone. You gasp, and Kaneki stills, looking for signs of discomfort.

You run your hands under his shirt, dragging your palms over the planes of his back. He shivers. The muscles tense, then relax under your touch.

Kaneki brings his hands up, cupping your shoulders, then gliding them down your arms. His touch is feather-light. He leaves goosebumps in his wake.

You arch into him, desperate for more friction. He obliges, pressing his chest to yours, his skin burning through the thin barrier of his shirt. The kiss deepens, teeth clicking, tongues tangling. It’s clumsy and raw, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He breaks the kiss only to pepper your neck with soft bites. You laugh, the sound muffled by his hair. Kaneki smiles against your skin, lips curled up in mischief.

“You’re freezing,” he says, hands rubbing your sides for warmth.

“I’m not,” you protest, but it’s a lie. He pulls you onto his lap, wrapping both arms around your waist, and rocks you gently. The motion is hypnotic.

You slide your hands up, tugging at his shirt. He lifts it over his head, revealing pale skin marred with old scars. You trace them with your finger, not asking. Kaneki watches your face, waiting for the question.

Instead, you kiss each one, a benediction. He exhales, blinking hard.

He holds you again, as if he’s afraid to let go. You let your head rest in the crook of his neck, content to feel his heartbeat against your cheek.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Kaneki’s hands are warm on your back, tracing lazy circles. Your breathing syncs, slow and measured, a metronome in the quiet.

“I could stay like this forever,” he says, barely audible.

“Me too,” you reply.

But forever is short. The city is calling, the night slipping away.

Kaneki draws you in for one last kiss, soft and slow. He holds you, bodies tangled, until the world outside is nothing but static. Until there is only this: his hand on your skin, your breath in his ear, the shape of want suspended in the air.

You close your eyes and let yourself disappear into him.

There’s a limit to how long you can stay inside another person, to how long you can pretend the world isn’t outside scratching at the door. You and Kaneki have drifted, weightless, into a gravity well of skin and sweat, but now the air thickens, heavy as a thunderhead.

You’re sprawled across his lap, the lamp’s dim filament slicing everything in gold and blood. Kaneki’s heartbeat drums beneath your ear, then stutters. You sense the shift before you see it—like a chill sneaking up your spine.

You lift your head, but Kaneki doesn’t meet your gaze. His eyes are closed, lashes trembling, lips parted on a tight line. He draws a breath so sharp you feel it in your own ribs, and when he opens his eyes they’re not just gray-blue anymore.

They’re almost black, a thin ring of red at the edge, devouring the old color.

You flinch, just a little. Kaneki freezes, catching the movement even before you’re aware of it.

“Sorry,” he says, but the word has a rumble, an edge of vibration underneath. You can feel it in your bones.

Your eyes track lower, and you notice his hands gripping your waist. The knuckles are white, and the fingernails—no, claws—have extended, curving in delicate ivory arcs past the tips of his fingers. He notices you staring and jerks his hands away, shoving them under his thighs.

“I can stop,” he manages, voice low and almost a whimper. “If you want me to.”

The shock is enough to jolt you upright, but you don’t run. Your brain short-circuits, trying to catalog the new details: the way his irises shift, the uncanny glint, the nonhuman points of those claws.

But even now, Kaneki is still Kaneki. He’s clutching himself, wrists tight against his knees, refusing to meet your gaze. You see his breathing falter, chest tight, as if he’s afraid he might break you with just a look.

You reach out, more out of instinct than bravery, and take his hand. The claws are sharper than you expect, but he’s careful, curling them inward. You turn his palm up, inspecting the talons, the way they recede just slightly when he tries to will it.

He’s watching you, panic-stricken. You wonder how many times he’s shown this side, how many times it’s been met with disgust or terror.

You brush your thumb over the pad of his finger, feeling the seam where flesh becomes keratin. “Does it hurt?” you ask, voice steadier than you feel.

He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

You look at the claws, then at his face. “You’re beautiful,” you say, and you mean it.

Kaneki laughs, a nervous hiccup. The red in his eyes pulses, flickers. “No, I’m not. Not like this.”

“Especially like this,” you insist, folding his clawed hand between your own. The edges are deadly, but you’re careful, letting him see you’re not afraid. Or at least, that your fear doesn’t outweigh your want.

He lets out a long breath, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Most people don’t like to see it.”

“I’m not most people,” you remind him. It sounds like a joke, but it’s a declaration.

He blinks, the red fading just a shade. The claws still glint in the light, a warning and a promise. You bring his hand to your cheek, letting the tips rest against your skin. He inhales sharply, as if worried he’ll cut you by accident.

“I trust you,” you whisper. You don’t add that you know what he is, that you’ve heard all the stories, that it’s part of what drew you to him in the first place.

He closes his eyes, and a shudder passes through him, almost like relief.

His hands still shake as he moves them, one tracing the contour of your jaw, the other anchoring at the small of your back. You feel the sharpness, the risk, but also the meticulous control in every motion.

He pulls you into his lap again, careful to keep the claws pointed away from your bare skin. You straddle him, the thin fabric of your jeans pressing tight against your thighs. Kaneki brings his face close, searching for the smallest hint of flinch. You don’t give him one.

He kisses you, at first as gentle as before, but then something snaps. The pressure increases, tongue hungry, teeth grazing your lower lip. He keeps his hands at your hips, anchoring you in place, but his restraint is a live wire—you can feel the current, the need to not lose control.

You push into him, and the growl resurfaces, louder this time. He breaks the kiss, head tilting back, exposing the vulnerable stretch of his neck.

You drag your lips along his jawline, finding the spot just beneath his ear. Kaneki gasps, hands clenching your hips, claws raking the denim with a soft rip.

“Fuck,” he breathes, but it’s almost reverent.

You look down at the scratch, a shallow run in the fabric. You giggle, and Kaneki looks at you, startled.

“Sorry,” you say. “You owe me new pants.”

He grins, a flash of fang that’s both apology and challenge. “I’ll get you some.”

You bring your hands to his shoulders, feeling the quiver in his muscles. You want to see how far he’ll go, how much of himself he’ll show if you don’t look away.

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, dragging his hands higher on your body.

He huffs a laugh, but the sound is feral. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I want all of you.”

Kaneki’s pupils expand, the red ring overtaking almost everything. He crushes you against his chest, mouth on yours, desperate, searching. You feel the claws dig into the couch behind you, anchoring him, keeping you safe from harm even as he’s desperate for more contact.

You grind into him, chasing friction, and Kaneki moans, the sound barely human. His hands roam, up your sides, under your bra, never breaking skin but letting you know the power beneath every touch.

You run your fingers through his hair, tugging hard. He shivers, then clamps his mouth to your collarbone, biting—not enough to break the surface, but enough to mark you. You arch against him, and he laps at the spot, tongue tracing the red he’s left behind.

Your breath comes in gasps. Kaneki slows, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, claws splayed against your ribs. He’s trembling, fighting the instinct to devour.

You cradle his face, force him to meet your eyes. “I’m not afraid,” you say.

He shakes, then nods, lips pressing a promise to your skin.

You melt together, claws and teeth and bruises, until the city outside is gone. The only world that matters is the one you make together, here, at the edge of danger.

You let him hold you, every part of him, and you don’t let go.

For a second, you wonder if the night has reached its fever pitch, if the two of you will settle into this hungry, trembling knot and simply burn out. But Kaneki, even in his gentlest moments, is never done. He’s a current always seeking the path of least resistance, a hunger that never quite starves or sates.

You’re still straddling his hips, forehead pressed to his, breaths mingling. Kaneki’s claws are cool against your bare back, a shudder traveling the length of your spine every time his fingers flex. The city is a dull, distant roar. Inside the apartment, it’s just him—just you, just the heat and the ache and the relentless ache in your bones.

Without warning, Kaneki scoops you up, moving with a speed you don’t see coming. Your body leaves the couch, weightless for a heartbeat, then slams against the wall next to the window, books rattling in their shelves. The shock of it knocks the air from your lungs, but Kaneki’s hand is there—cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw, anchoring you in the moment.

His other arm comes up, forearm pressing lightly, but insistently, against your throat. Not enough to hurt, not even enough to squeeze—just a reminder of the strength he keeps carefully leashed. The claws graze the side of your neck, cold as knife-blades. Your pulse jackhammers beneath the tips.

You gasp, not from fear but something hotter. Your hands scramble for his chest, nails digging in, but Kaneki doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans in, burying his nose in your neck, inhaling deep.

He kisses the spot just below your jaw, then nips it, tongue flicking over the skin where his teeth leave a bruise. You feel yourself tremble, knees buckling, but he supports your weight, pinning you to the wall with his body.

Kaneki’s voice is a snarl, low and electric. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, unable to find your words.

He smiles against your throat, a flash of fang, and then he’s moving, hips rolling into yours with a force that drives the back of your skull into the drywall. The sound it makes—dull, wet, punctuated by the scrape of claws on plaster—sends another rush of adrenaline through you.

You lock your ankles around his hips, grinding into him. The friction is perfect, the heat dizzying. Kaneki rocks you, again and again, each thrust deliberate, as if he’s testing the boundaries of your body and his own.

He pulls back, eyes gone fully red, breathing ragged. He studies your face for a trace of fear. When he finds only want, only need, he laughs—a low, dark sound.

“You’re dangerous,” he whispers. “You could kill me if you wanted.”

You run your tongue along his lower lip, tasting the iron and citrus. “Maybe I will,” you whisper back.

He pins you harder, fingers splayed at your collarbone, the tip of one claw tracing the length of it with surgical precision. Every nerve ending blazes. You writhe against the wall, moaning, and Kaneki eats the sound, mouth devouring yours.

The city is gone. There is only this: the wall at your back, Kaneki’s hand on your throat, his other hand between your thighs, hot and wild. You gasp, whimper, dig your nails into his shoulder, but Kaneki doesn’t break.

He keeps you there, suspended and shaking, the edge of violence sweetened by trust. His mouth finds every inch of you—your cheek, your collarbone, the soft skin at the base of your throat. When you moan his name, he bites down, not enough to break skin, but enough to mark.

Your hands are frantic, searching for skin, for the steady thrum of his pulse. You tug at his hair, and Kaneki groans, eyes rolling back for a moment. You kiss the red ring in his eyes, let your tongue flick the corner, and he shudders, claws digging furrows in the wall.

You want more. You want all of him.

You grab his hand, the one on your throat, and guide it down, over your chest, between your legs. Kaneki’s eyes go wide, but then he grins—a predator in the half-light. He presses his palm against you, not gentle now but desperate, and you buck against his touch.

The wall is cold, the heat between your bodies incendiary. Kaneki grinds into you, breath hot in your ear. “You’re perfect,” he growls, and you believe it.

The rhythm builds, hips slamming, the slap of skin and the scrape of claws the only soundtrack. You let your head fall back, hair tangling in Kaneki’s grip as he holds you there, wracked with pleasure.

You gasp his name, and he answers with a kiss so fierce your lips go numb. He nips your tongue, then soothes the bite with his own. The taste of blood, salt, sweat—a perfect cocktail.

He reaches under your thighs, lifting you higher. Your back arches, your whole body a bowstring about to snap. Kaneki’s face is flush, sweat beading on his brow, eyes wild and wide. He’s fighting to stay in control, and you love him for it.

You rake your fingers down his chest, leaving red trails. He bites your shoulder in return, and you moan, the sound bouncing off the narrow walls.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s hunger, raw and real, your bodies crashing together in waves.

Kaneki’s hand returns to your throat, thumb stroking the tender skin, never squeezing, always careful. The other hand is a blur, pinning your hips in place, guiding every thrust.

You feel yourself tipping over, the world narrowing to a point behind your eyes. Kaneki senses it, kisses your forehead, and whispers, “Let go.”

You do.

The climax is a detonation—heat, noise, white light behind your eyelids. You cling to Kaneki, nails digging crescents in his back, riding out the aftershocks as he continues to move, slower, softer, until he finally stops, both of you shaking.

The room is spinning. You slide down the wall, legs jelly, and Kaneki catches you before you hit the ground. He cradles you in his arms, his face buried in your hair, breath shuddering.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice raw.

You nod, unable to speak. Instead, you kiss the hollow of his throat, tasting the sweat and skin.

Kaneki sits back, pulling you into his lap, rocking you gently. The claws retract, the red in his eyes fading, but the hunger lingers. He holds you there, arms wrapped tight, as if afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You don’t. You hold him back, both of you breathing hard, bodies bruised and marked and more alive than ever.

The city outside is nothing. The whole world is here, in the arms of the boy who could break you, but never would.

You close your eyes and listen to his heartbeat, steady and strong, and you know you’re safe.

The world doesn’t end in a bang, but in the slow, sticky pulse of two bodies glued together by sweat, breath, and a new kind of ache. Your head is on Kaneki’s shoulder, cheek pressed to the faint, frantic flutter of his pulse. His arms cradle you tight, like he’s afraid you might fall apart if he lets go for even a second.

You’re both shaking, but it’s not from fear.

The apartment is silent except for the hush of the city filtering through double-paned glass. The lamp has burned itself down to a sullen glow. Kaneki’s hair is plastered to his forehead, streaked with sweat and wild as a thundercloud. You reach up, fingertips trembling, and brush it away from his eyes.

He flinches at the touch—not because he doesn’t want it, but because the fragility of this moment is almost too much to bear. His breathing slows, each inhale a little steadier, and you feel the shift as the adrenaline tapers, leaving the two of you stranded somewhere past exhaustion.

You slide off his lap, legs barely working, and Kaneki follows you down to the battered floor. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you from behind, chin resting in the hollow of your neck. His hands are gentle now. The claws have retracted, and what’s left is skin: warm, human, shaking.

For a minute you just sit there, backs against the wall, feeling the static electricity in the air. Neither of you speaks.

Then Kaneki’s breath catches. He closes his eyes, face turned to your shoulder, and you see the strain in his jaw. He’s trying so hard not to break. You twist, pulling him closer, and his arms cinch tight, squeezing you until your lungs protest.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His face is buried in your hair, lips pressed to your temple. “I could have,” he says, voice raw and unfiltered. “I always could.”

You turn, straddling his lap again, forcing him to look at you. His eyes—no longer the bottomless black-red, but pale and rain-washed—are searching, frantic, desperate for absolution.

“You didn’t,” you insist, tracing the line of his jaw with your finger. “You never would.”

He shudders, like he’s not sure he believes it.

You kiss him, slow and careful, letting him feel every word you’re not saying. He melts into you, the tension in his body sloughing away, replaced by something softer. Regret, maybe. Relief, definitely.

You slide your hands under his shirt, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs, the warmth of his skin. He mirrors you, palms skimming your spine, touch feather-light. It’s a new kind of intimacy—one that feels as dangerous as the claws ever did, but for different reasons.

Kaneki leans his forehead against yours. “You’re the only person I’ve ever…with these.” He lifts his hand, showing you the plain, human nails, but the meaning is clear.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” you say, matching his vulnerability.

He smiles, small and sad. “But I want you to see me at my best.”

You cup his cheeks in both hands, force him to meet your eyes. “That was your best.”

He laughs, then chokes on it. The sound is jagged, like glass in a blender. He wipes at his eyes, embarrassed.

You lean in, kissing the tears away, salt on your lips. The neon from outside paints both your faces in blue and pink stripes, so you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

For a while, you just breathe together. The air is heavy with all the words you haven’t said, the questions neither of you dares to ask.

Finally, Kaneki pulls you into a hug, crushing you to his chest. “Thank you,” he says, voice barely more than a sigh.

“For what?”

“For not running away.”

You hold him tighter. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

He lets out a long, shaky breath, then buries his face in your neck again, lips ghosting the bruises he’s left behind.

You stay like that until the sun starts to bleed into the city’s bruised skyline, until the lamp flickers and dies, and only the neon remains. Kaneki never lets go, not even when you both drift into sleep on the floor, tangled together like roots.

In the morning, there will be apologies and explanations and maybe even regret. But right now, in the hollowed-out quiet of his apartment, you’re held—truly held—for the first time.

And it’s enough.

"Run, while you still can."

This time your legs responded with urgency, propelling you off the tree so quickly your knees almost buckled. You tore through the brambles, heat radiating from your cheeks out to your fingertips. The forest passed in wild streaks as you zigzagged through moonlit shadows, heart pounding so loud you thought it’d burst right out of your chest. Behind you, Toji’s footsteps thudded in deliberate pursuit, closing the distance with a patience that said he could catch you any time, that he was letting you run simply because he liked it.

You skidded down a ditch and scrambled up the other side, breath hot and ragged, lungs pulling at the sharp night air. Your jeans snagged on a low branch, tearing the denim—and a thin stripe of skin underneath—but you barely felt it as you sprinted for the backyard lights glittering through the trees.

A snarl echoed behind you, closer this time. Dry leaves rustled and snapped. You dug deep, giving everything you had, vaulting over a fallen log that left a splintered scratch burning across your forearm. Adrenaline turned your blood to fire. Your teeth chattered, not from cold, but from the cocktail of terror and wild, reckless want.

You nearly made it out of the tree line, past the last reach of the heavy branches—when a hand closed on your ankle and jerked you off your feet.

You landed hard in a tangle of limbs. Too fast, Toji was on you, pinning you in place with the full weight of his monstrous body. He breathed hard, trembling, a wildness in his gaze so deep it threatened to swallow you whole. His mouth descended hungrily to your throat, nipping hard, then softer, as if tasting the spot where your pulse rabbit-thumped.

"You lasted longer than I thought," he crooned, and you could swear you heard pride in his voice. "Almost had me worried."

He flipped you over, palms planting in the earth on either side of your head. The look in his eyes was different now—still feral, but clear. Focused. Some part of his mind, the part that was Toji, still held reign behind the beast.

His tongue traced the battered curve of your jaw, slow and careful. You felt the trail of heat it left behind, the way his body trembled with restraint. You reached up, palm trembling, and cupped his cheek. For a moment, the muscle in his jaw flexed like he wanted to pull away—but then he leaned into your touch, eyelids fluttering, a low sigh shuddering from his lips.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “Makes it too hard to be a monster.”

You laughed, shaky, relieved. “You’re terrible at it, anyway,” you whispered, letting your thumb brush the sharp bone of his cheek.

He barked out a laugh, the sound more animal than human, but the smile that followed was his alone. For all the violence coiled within him, Toji always found a way to make it a game, even now. He nipped at your neck, the threat a promise, but the bite was measured—a show of control. Of everything he could do, and didn’t.

Still, his hands clamped around your wrists, rough and possessive, pinning them into the loam. “If you want me to stop,” he panted, breath hot and ragged, “say so now. Because after this”—he ground his hips into you—“I might not be able to.”

You arched up into him, pulse thrumming in every inch of exposed skin. “Don’t stop,” you whispered, surprised by the tremble in your own voice. “Please.”

There was no victory in his eyes—no smugness, only hunger, a trembling need you’d never seen in him before. He lowered his mouth to yours, tongue hot and searching, and you returned the kiss, hungry and reckless. His hands mapped your body as if desperate to memorize every curve, every secret, as if he might lose himself to the beast if he let go for even a second.

Time shredded itself into moments—your back arching up from damp soil, his chest crushing you into the earth, the cold air biting every inch of exposed skin while Toji burned, burning, burning against you.

Somewhere, you lost your shirt; somewhere, his claws shredded your bra clean off, the fabric falling away in scraps. You shivered, gooseflesh springing up beneath his touch, but you wanted more—needed it, even as fear and want blurred together in your blood.

He latched his mouth onto your collarbone, biting a fresh mark, and the sting sent a shudder down your spine. Your hands fumbled at his hair, digging in, riding out the wave of sensation as he claimed you with a growl. His hands were everywhere—all-consuming—their strength impossible, but his touch, when it came to your skin, was careful, terrifyingly gentle. He slithered lower, tongue following the line of your chest, tasting sweat and fear and something that made him moan low and rough. The noise vibrated your ribs.

“Toji,” you gasped, mindless, only his name.

He looked up, wild-eyed, hair hanging in shadows around his face. “Don’t stop saying that,” he said, and then he bit, not to hurt, but to leave you marked. His tongue soothed the burn, then his teeth found you again, closer to your pulse.

You shuddered, hips bucking up into his, begging with your body even when your voice was lost. His thumb circled your wrist, tight enough to tether you but not enough to hurt. He wanted you grounded. He wanted you exactly herewith him, staked to the earth and utterly at his mercy.

His mouth worked down, teeth dragging along the slope of your breast, tongue flattening against skin still cold from the night air. You hissed and clawed at his back for purchase, half-moon crescents digging into muscle that flexed and trembled beneath your touch. When he sucked at a nipple, sharp and sudden, a lightning bolt of sensation shot clean through you, spine arching off moss and mud.

He didn’t bother with your jeans—one rough tug and denim peeled away, your underwear shredded in a single, careless rake of his claws. You cried out, not from pain but the stark shock of it, a thrill of fear and heat mingled as his hand cupped between your thighs. He slid two fingers inside you, easy, like he owned you, like you’d always been his. Your body yielded, slick and desperate, and Toji’s breath broke ragged as he pressed in and out, testing your limits with whispered praise and dark, hungry laughter.

“Always so greedy for me,” he crooned, and the gentle graze of his fangs at your jaw contradicted the force of his hand working you open. His thumb circled hard, slow, drawing the confession from your lips before you could think to be embarrassed. You whimpered, clutching at his shoulders as your body took over, arching to chase the pressure, thighs shaking.

The world narrowed to the slick sound of his fingers, the cold damp earth beneath, the heat of him above. You reached for him blindly and found his face, clawing his hair and yanking him down for a kiss that tasted of blood and spit and something unspeakably animal. He moaned into your mouth, rutting against your hip.

“Keep doing that,” he growled, “and I won’t last.” But he looked at you like he’d never wanted anything more than to feel you shutter apart in his arms.

Your body obeyed. You clenched hard around his fingers, hips rolling in frantic rhythm, shameless and loud. The pleasure hit sudden and bright, tearing through the terror and burning it away—leaving only want, bottomless and raw. Toji worked you through it, his free hand gripping tight to your jaw, holding you steady while the aftershocks left you trembling under him.

He pulled his hand away and stared, fascinated, at the mess he'd made of you. Then, with a low chuckle, he licked his fingers clean, tongue slow, savoring every drop. "Good girl," he rasped, and you felt strangely proud, owned.

He didn’t pause. He hooked your thighs around his hips, positioning himself at your entrance; you could feel the thickness of him, hot and insistent, pushing against you in short, trembling thrusts. His lips brushed your ear as he aligned himself. “This’ll hurt alittle,” he breathed, but the apology was drowned out by want. He pushed in, slow, careful for a single heartbeat—then his control shattered and he thrust deep, seating himself all the way inside. You cried out, the stretch sharp and perfect, the shock of him overwhelming, and Toji groaned like he felt it just as much as you.

He stilled inside you, trembling with restraint. “Holy fuck,” he managed, voice dark with awe, “you take me so good. Always do.” If you’d had words, you’d have thrown them in his face, but the only sounds left in you were moans and gasps as you clenched around him, desperate for more.

He started to move, slow at first, hips rolling with a heavy, practiced rhythm. With every thrust your body met his, demanding it harder, deeper. The pine needles bit into your back, cold and sharp, but there was nothing cold about Toji—he was heat and motion and the burning edge of hunger, rutting into you with a force that bordered on desperate. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist and tilted up to take all of him, nails scraping at his back through the shredded remains of his shirt. He grunted, a sound of helpless satisfaction, and his pace lost all pretense of restraint.

You felt him everywhere, crushing you into the earth, filling you up until you couldn’t breathe or think or even remember you were supposed to be scared. The night whirled around you: the cold, the wet moss, the whisper of wind through dead leaves. Toji’s mouth found yours again and he devoured you, tongue tangling with yours, biting and sucking with bruising affection. When you gasped, he swallowed the sound, thrusting harder to keep pace with your need.

He broke the kiss only to smear his mouth down your throat, tongue painting lines of heat over every mark he’d left, as if afraid some other hungry beast might try to claim them. His hands, impossibly big, bruised up and down your sides and thighs, kneading and testing, like he was never quite convinced you were real.

The pleasure coiled low and sharp, threatening to tip you over again. He must have felt it, must have known, because his thumb pressed down over your clit, rubbing tight circles in perfect sync with his thrusts. The world spun out from under you.

“That’s it,” he rasped in your ear, hips stuttering, voice cracked with need. “Cum for me again, sweetheart. Let them hear you.”

You did. You broke apart, body shaking between his grip and the cold forest floor, nails digging half-moons into his shoulders. The sound ripped from your throat, shameless and raw. It was answered by a howl—a real, wild howl—rising from his chest, echoing through the woods. It should have scared you,but all you felt was pride, the fierce satisfaction of knowing you’d reduced the wildest man you knew to something beyond even himself. He fucked you through it, hips pounding, rhythm gone to hell, rutting deeper as you dragged him over the edge with you.

Toji slammed in with one last savage thrust, cock pulsing as he groaned into your neck—a hot, hungry sound that seemed to vibrate the ground beneath you. He collapsed over your body, pinning you under his full weight, trembling with the force of whatever he'd just unleashed. His breath steamed against your skin, his heartbeat thundered with yours. For a long moment, neither of you moved, tangled, spent, and raw.

You could feel his fangs still scraping your shoulder, but he didn’t bite—just rested there, breathing hard, nosing into your hair like he needed to reassure himself that you were real, and alive, and his. Eventually, his body stilled, muscles slackening until he was just a man draped over you, shuddering faintly, the beast sated and purring in its cage.

You were slow to catch your breath, to realize you were shivering beneath him, that your nails were still embedded in his skin. Your wrists ached, raw from his grip, but you didn’t care. You were alive—more alive than you’d ever felt, honestly—and when you blinked up through the tangle of your hair and his, the sky was a softer gray, clouds parted just enough to tattle on you both to the stars.

Toji’s weight shifted, careful not to crush you. His hand—still too big, still trembling—swept the hair from your cheek. He grinned, lopsided and bloody-mouthed, looking more wolf than man and yet somehow softer than he’d ever been.

“Didn’t scare you off, did I?” he rasped, voice shredded, warm with laughter.

You shook your head, wiped a bit of blood from your own swollen lip. “You’ll have to try harder,” you said, meaning it, and his grin grew impossibly wide, the moon catching on the points of his canines.

He rolled off you, collapsing lazily to the moss at your side, one arm flung across your waist to keep you anchored. The forest had stilled, as if the earth itself had let out a breath. You felt the heat radiating from his skin, heard the hammer of his heart slowly settle, the edges of the beast receding into that familiar, reckless man you’d always known.

He watched you through heavy-lidded eyes. “You okay?” The question wasn’t casual—for once, it carried a weight, a kind of tenderness you’d never heard from him before.

“I think so,” you managed. Truthfully, your head still spun, your limbs still trembled, but you’d never felt safer,or more certain of anything in your life. You took a measured breath, then another. The sharp air tasted different now—somehow cleaner, as though what had burned between you had cauterized the whole night.

Toji dragged his thumb across your cheek again, rough and soft at once. “Sorry,” he mumbled, a sheepishness slouching into his features that you’d never thought possible, not from him. “Didn’t mean to go so wild,” he added, nodding at the torn remains of your jeans, the bloody crescent prints dotting his arms. “That’s why I told you to run.”

You propped yourself on an elbow, face inches from his, unable to resist the temptation to nose against his jaw.

“If that’s your idea of ‘holding back,’ I can’t wait to see what happens if you ever actually let go.” You were grinning, yes—cheeks raw from cold and laughter and, maybe, relief—but you meant every word, and so did he. The wolfish pride in his eyes said as much.

He laughed, then, the sound throaty and disbelieving. Even in monster form, Toji’s confidence had bite.

“Careful what you wish for, ma. You might not get out of this forest at all.” He rolled you toward him, tucking your battered body tight against his furnace-hot chest. The wounds he’d left on you—bruises, scratches, a smudge of blood drying along the corner of your jaw—felt like medals. Trophies you’d earned.

You breathed together for a while, the cold gravelly dirt against your back, the heat of him along your front, his heartbeat thumping so close you felt it in your teeth. The air between you calmed and thickened, made viscous by exhaustion, release, and the sudden, jarring absence of fear.

Toji was first to speak, words muffled by your hair as he pressed his face into your neck. “I seriously could’ve killed you.” For once, it wasn’t a threat, but a confession. You felt him swallow, maybe twice. Then he let out a broken, wild little chuckle. “Worst fucking date night ever, huh?”

You grinned weakly into his chest. “Not even top three.” Your jaw ached. You licked your lips and tasted blood, and for some reason it made you want him more. It would have scared you, if you could remember how to be scared right now. “Next time, just tell me you need a full moon snack and I’ll be the one to bring the bucket.”

He huffed a laugh, breath warming your scalp. “You think I’m joking, but…” He pulled back, and you saw that his eyes were almost normal again—just a tint of green, just barely wild. “I should’ve told you. About all of it.”He lay on his back now, broad chest rising and falling. “Didn’t think it’d get this bad. Usually I just blackout, go wreck some trees, eat a stray raccoon. You know.” The side glance he shot you was self-deprecating in a way you’d never seen. “Never had anyone I wanted to keep close before.”

The honesty made your pulse stutter harder than the running ever did. You scooted closer, pressed your nose into his shoulder, and inhaled—earth, blood, the weirdly clean scent of him under all the dirt and sweat and animal. “You could’ve told me,” you said, voice muffled. “I’d have stayed anyway.”

He snorted, then, the wall of bravado starting to rebuild itself brick by brick. “You say that now, but just wait.” His hand settled on your thigh, fingers splaying like he was still trying to pin you to the ground. “Full moon’s got me for the next two days. And if you think I’m letting you crawl away while I’m still like this—” He stopped, interrupted by the vicious tangle of your tongues as you pulled him down into another kiss.

You reacted on instinct, desperate to knot him to you, uncaring of the dirt or ruined denim or the needles prickling your ass. Toji bent impossibly, folding you in half, his legs bracketing yours as he anchored you to the forest floor. His cock slid back inside and you both gasped, too numb from the aftershocks to pretend you didn’t want it again.

He fucked you like an animal—like something new and mythic had sunk hooks in his chest, and the only way to quiet it was to claim every inch of you until you carved its shape into your memory. His hand palmed the crown of your head to protect you from the bark, his other curled under your thigh to drag you up and down his length until you were slick and sobbing, the sound of your voice muffled in the hollow of his throat. The friction hurt, a perfect contrast to the way his lips coaxed you back from the edge every time you tried to give up control. He wanted you helpless. He wanted you completely.

You lost count how long it lasted. Minutes, maybe hours. The ache in your body blurred into a high, the pleasure so sharp you thought you might pass out from it. You weren’t sure if you ever stopped shaking. At some point you bit him back, teeth sinking into his shoulder hard enough to draw blood, and it sent him spiraling, his whole body locking up as he came deep inside you. He didn’t break you, but the way he clung to you, gasping your name through his teeth, left you certain he could have.

You tumbled through the aftermath together, limbs twisted and numb, held to the earth by the weight of him and this new,permanent thing inside you both. There was no more running, for either of you.

Later, after the heat had bled from your skin and your heart had remembered its old, slower rhythm, Toji half-lifted you off the ground, carrying you through the woods like you were a lost cub. His hands were careful now, callouses trailing apology over every bruise and scrape he'd left behind. He didn't say much; he didn't have to. The silence was intent, the kind that says everything.

He brought you home just before the sun threatened the horizon, setting you on your porch in a tangle of limbs and ruined clothes. You wiped the dirt from your face with the sleeve of his jacket—he'd thrown it over you at some point—and laughed at the streaks of blood that refused to come off. He looked at you with that crooked, lopsided smile, and for a second you almost believed he could be innocent. Almost.

He lingered at your door, hair wild, knuckles raw, moonlight caught in the lashes of his half-feral gaze.

"Call me when you're awake," Toji said, and it was almost gentle. Then he turned, shouldering the pre-dawn like a punishment, and melted into the gloom.

Inside, you collapsed onto the welcome safety of your couch, your heart still running out the last of its marathon. Dirt and blood mixed on your skin, a mural of the night's story; your hands trembled as you traced the half-healed bite on your shoulder, the fingerprints bruised around your waist.

You should've been terrified; you should've been calling the police, or burning sage, or at the very least treating your wounds with peroxide and regret. Instead, you smiled, reckless. You'd taken a monster into your bed and woken up wanting him again.

The phone vibrated before you could get to the shower. A simple message lit the cracked screen: "u alive?"

You typed back one-handed, a dumb smile splitting your swollen lips: "barely."

A pause. The three-dots bubble pulsed on the screen.

"Good, ur ass better be ready tmrw nite. 2nite was just a warm up."

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒: 𝒲𝑒𝓁𝓅 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉'𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝒹, 𝐼 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑔𝓊𝓎𝓈 𝑒𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓉. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓊𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓇𝓉. 🤎

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Toji muttered under his breath.  You giggled by his side as the two of you continued down the sidewalk. Tonight was Halloween—a scheme meant for little kids to dress up as killers and go haywire on free candy, in Toji’s opinion. And here you both were, much to his dismay, trick-or-treating as well.

You had begged him all week to dress up and go out with you. The whole day, he’d dismissed the idea as childish, saying no so many times he lost count. But later that evening, a knock at your door caught you off guard. There stood Toji, holding a plastic pumpkin bucket and wearing that crooked grin you’d grown to love.

“C’mon, brat. You’re carrying the candy bag though.”

“Oh, stop being a grump. It wasn’t that bad—look how much candy we got!” you exclaimed, only to be met with silence.

You glanced up at him. Most of the night you’d been greeted with quiet, but the longer it went on, the heavier it felt. You knew this wasn’t his scene, but he looked… angry, almost.

“Hey, big guy—you okay? You’ve been quiet all night.”

This was new. Toji was usually loud, teasing, larger than life. But tonight, he looked elsewhere—up at the sky. He’d been doing that since you left your house, gaze flicking toward the clouds as if waiting for something.

“Yeah, ma. Just cold, ya know?” His voice came out rougher than usual.

That didn’t sit right. He wasn’t shivering—he was sweating. Damp hair stuck to his temples, and when you reached for his hand, his skin burned. You looked up at him, ready to call his bluff, but the look he gave you shut you down fast—sharp and warning.

You frowned. “You sure? You don’t seem co—”

“I said I’m fine, Y/N. Just drop it.” The words came out like a growl. A beat passed before he sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Sorry, ma. Just tired, is all. It’s getting late—let’s head back.”

You didn’t argue. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just tiredness. His muscles twitched beneath his sleeves, like he was fighting something under his skin. Every few minutes his eyes darted skyward, pupils narrowing against the bright edge of the moonlight.

The walk back was tense. You walked ahead, glancing over your shoulder every so often. His gaze was distant, his expression pained.

“Let’s cut through here,” Toji murmured suddenly, voice strained. “It’ll be quicker.”

You turned toward the opening in the trees. He clutched his arm, eyes flicking between the woods and the glowing sky.

“Are you sure you wanna take this way? It seems like the same distance,” you asked.

“No.” The word came too fast—too harsh. Then, softer: “It’s fine. We’ll be quick.”

You hesitated at the tree line. The woods loomed dark, the air oddly still. You were about to argue again, but stopped when you saw his expression—pleading, desperate.

You nodded. He managed a strained smile and motioned for you to go first.

He followed behind, boots crunching the gravel a beat too slow. The deeper you went, the quieter the world became. Even the wind held its breath. You could hear his breathing—low, ragged, uneven.

“Toji?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder.

He was half a step back now, head bowed, hands clenched tight at his sides. His jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth. The muscles under his shirt were twitching violently, his breathing coming faster—almost animal.

“Y/n.. listen to me.” He groaned out, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. 

You ran up to him, gripping his arm. He was like a furnace, despite the crisp, autumn night. 

“Toji, you’re burning up what’s wrong?” You asked, fear embedded in your voice. You’ve never seen him like this before, and quite frankly, it was scaring the shit out of you. 

“Y/n listen.” He stated, rougher the normal. Like it pained him to talk. 

“Leave me here and head home, I’ll catch up with you later.” He gruffed out. 

You looked at him as if he had another head growing out of his neck. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind Toji?!” Anger bubbling inside of you. “You’ve been acting strange and distant all night, you’re clearing not feeling well-

“Y/n”, Toji started.

“And you think I’m going to leave you here,” Ignoring him, “When you are obviously in no position to be left alone.”

“Y/n,”

“Okay, I get it, you didn’t like the idea of trick or treating, but damn it Toji you don’t have to go off and pretend like you’re dying to get rid of me.” You ranted on, oblivious to Toji’s growing frustrations. 

“Y/N!” Toji growled out, stopping you dead in your tracks. You were ready keep going in on him, but the look of him made your blood run cold. 

Toji was shaking, heat radiating off of him like a wildfire. His eyes, sharper, no longer the green hue you’ve grown custom to seeing. Now wide, black and wild.

You’ve seen him anger before, but this was different. This wasn’t the normal Toji who would scold you when you did something that upset him. This Toji emitted a certain fear and dominance from his body, it paralized you. 

“Toji, what’s wrong, you’re scaring me.” You answered quietly.

“Good, then you actually might listen to me. You need to get out of here and go home Y/n, I mean it.” He stated, trying to look you in the eyes. 

“Talk to me,” you whispered. “Tell me what’s going on.”

He laughed then—hoarse, broken. It wasn’t amusement. It was desperation, like he was laughing to keep himself from screaming. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

His head tilted up at that, and you were able to see his eyes clearly in the moonlight. They were glassy and unnatural—something feral flickering just beneath the surface. His pupils were blown wide, the green swallowed whole by black.

“Toji…”

“Go home,” he said again, quieter this time. His chest heaved once, twice. “Before I can’t stop it.”

You didn’t know what it was, but the fear of leaving Toji out here in the woods by himself, outweighed the fear of whoever this Toji was in front of you. 

You were about to reach out for his hand before you were stopped dead in your tracks, he jerked his back and that’s when you saw it. 

 The tips of his fingers—clawed, trembling, too long.

Your blood ran cold. “What the hell—”

He turned away from you, slamming his fist into the trunk. Bark split. Wood groaned. His body jerked with the motion like something inside was tearing its way out.

“Toji!”

“Run!” he barked, voice cracking into something deeper, almost inhuman.

You stumbled backward, heart in your throat. The wind kicked up suddenly, tossing your hair into your face, the moon flashing bright and merciless above the treetops. 

Then you heard it—a sound like bone shifting beneath skin, a low wet crack that made your stomach twist.

He fell to his knees, breath hitching through gritted teeth. “Don’t—look at me—”

But you couldn’t move. You couldn’t look away.

Every shadow around you seemed alive now. The forest pulsed with noise—the crunch of leaves, the moan of bending branches, the low, animal rasp of his breathing that no longer sounded entirely human.

It wasn’t Toji’s anymore—too rough, too guttural, scraping from deep within his chest like something was clawing its way out.

“Toji…” Your voice broke on his name. “Please, talk to me.”

He didn’t answer.

The wind howled through the trees, shaking the branches above you. The moon broke through the clouds then—too bright, almost silver—and what you saw under that light made your stomach lurch.

His back arched, muscles rippling under his jacket as if something underneath his skin was moving, rearranging. The sound of it—bones cracking, flesh stretching—echoed in the clearing. His breath hitched, a raw sound that wasn’t entirely pain but something worse.

“Toji, stop, you’re scaring me!”

He turned toward you, and for a heartbeat you saw him. His face. His eyes—pained, pleading, human.

“Run, Y/n,” he rasped, the words barely forming past his teeth. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Then his jaw snapped sideways, the sound splintering through the silence. His fingers clawed into the dirt. A low, feral growl tore from his throat, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

You stumbled back, heart hammering. “Toji, please—”

The sound that came next wasn’t his name. It was a roar.

Instinct took over. You turned and ran.

Branches whipped at your arms as you tore through the trees. Your lungs burned, heart punching against your ribs. You didn’t dare look back—you didn’t have to. You could hear him behind you. The heavy thud of feet that weren’t quite human. The crack of branches under something far larger.

The forest wasn’t quiet anymore. Every sound was too close, too sharp—the wind in your ears, the pounding of blood, the echo of his growl chasing you like a storm.

You darted between trees, tripping over roots, catching yourself on trunks slick with rain. Your breath came in shallow gasps.

Then—silence.

No footsteps. No growling. Just your pulse thrumming in your ears.

You slowed, straining to listen. “Toji?”

Nothing.

You turned slowly, your breath fogging in the cold night air. The woods looked different now—twisted, darker, the moonlight bending through the branches in strange, broken patterns.

A twig snapped behind you.

You spun around—nothing.

Then another. Closer.

Your chest tightened, breath stuttering out in uneven bursts. “Toji?” you tried again, quieter this time.

Something moved in the shadows.

You took a step back, then another. And then—eyes. Glowing , catching the moonlight through the trees.

You froze.

The shape that stepped forward was huge. Too tall, too broad. Its breath came in low, controlled puffs of mist. And though every instinct screamed to run, some part of you still recognized him.

“Toji…”

The creature—no, he—hesitated. For a moment, the monster’s head tilted like he knew your voice. But the next second he dropped to all fours, claws digging into the earth. A snarl rolled out of him, deep and trembling, vibrating through the ground and into your bones.

Your body finally obeyed your fear—you ran.

You could hear him following, closing in with terrifying speed. Every time you thought you’d gained ground, you’d catch a flash of those glowing eyes between the trees, that guttural growl pulling closer.

Your legs burned. Your lungs screamed. Still, you kept running.

Then—a hand.

Not claws, not a paw—a hand. It caught your wrist, warm and rough. You screamed, twisting away, but he held fast.

“Y/n.”

The voice—human. Barely.

You stopped fighting. His grip loosened, trembling, like it took everything in him not to hurt you.

“Toji?” you breathed, eyes wide.

He was crouched in front of you, the moon painting his face in stark silver. His pupils were blown wide, teeth too sharp, breath ragged—but it was him.

He looked wrecked, terrified, like he was fighting himself. “I told you to run.”

You reached for him instinctively, your fingers brushing the side of his face. His skin was burning, his pulse thunderous beneath it. He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch for half a second—then jerked away, growling low in his throat.

“I can’t hold it back,” he rasped. “Please—go.”

But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

The sound of his growl deepened, echoing through the woods as his shoulders hunched, spine bowing. His hand—still clutching yours—shook violently.

“Toji—”

“Run!” he snarled again, and this time the sound carried something primal, something that didn’t belong in a human throat.

You stumbled backward, tears burning in your eyes, heart pounding so hard it hurt. The last thing you saw before you turned and fled again was him—kneeling in the dirt, trembling, the moonlight catching on the sharp white edge of his teeth as he finally gave in to the thing he’d been fighting all night.

A werewolf. Your boyfriend is a goddamn werewolf. The realization hits you between panicked breaths as you stumble through the underbrush. The full moon overhead suddenly makes everything click—his strange behavior all night, his insistence on staying home tonight, his desperate plea for you to leave him alone. Halloween, of all nights. You should have listened.

"Y/N..." His voice drifts between the trees, no longer strained with pain but rich with something darker. "Come back to me." A low laugh follows, and despite everything, heat floods your body. You know that laugh—it's the same one that usually precedes his hands sliding under your clothes, his mouth at your neck, his body pressing yours into the mattress.

You shake the thought away, pushing deeper into the woods. The snap of twigs beneath your feet sounds deafening in the quiet. For a moment, you think you've put enough distance between you—

Then strong hands seize your waist, spinning you around and slamming you against rough bark. You're pinned, breathless, staring up at what Toji has become.

You whimpered from the impact of your back collided against the bark, looking up to the looming figure ahead of you. Gazing up, you see Toji, partial human form. He gazed down at your figure, smirking at how you squirmed against him. 

Sniffing at your scent, he groaned eyes rolling to the back of his head. 

“You smell so good ma, I can’t control myself.” 

Dazed but his demeanor, you didn’t know what to think anymore. Just a few moments ago he wanted you to be as far away as possible from him, now he was all over you like a bad rash. He leaned in, nuzzling the side of your neck, and you felt the warmth of his breath damp against your skin. “Did I tell you to stop running?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear, fangs grazing your jaw. Your blood ran cold but your body flushed just the same—a cocktail of fear and something shamefully close to excitement.

You tried to shove him, to break free, but it was like trying to move a boulder. He caught both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head so easily it made you dizzy. With his other, he stroked your cheek, thumb rough against your chin as he tilted your face up to meet his eyes.

They weren’t Toji’s at all—black and endless, swallowing the night whole.

“You smell scared.” He licked his lips, tongue slick and greedy. “I like that.”

A part of you wanted to scream, to call for help. But the rest of you knew he was right—you wanted him to take whatever he wanted, whether you were supposed to or not.

He leaned in closer, teeth scraping your jaw, breath hot and feverish. “Don’t be scared, ma. I’m still me.” He shifted his hips against yours, and there was no mistaking what pressed against your thigh, his arousal unashamed and wild. “Just… more.”

“Toji—” you started, but your voice broke as his fangs grazed the curve of your neck. You felt the threat in every inch of him, how easy it would be for him to tear you apart, but somehow you also knew he wouldn’t. Even now, he was gentle, in his own brutal way.

He released your wrists, but only so his hands could trail down the length of your body, massaging your hips with near reverence. His touch was burning and desperate, the edge of him barely leashed. The growl in his chest rumbled as his fingers found the waistband of your jeans and yanked you closer. Your spine scraped the rough bark, and stars erupted behind your eyes, pain and pleasure mingling in equal measure.

You hated how much you liked it—how, even as fear spiked through your veins, your body betrayed you, clinging to him, wanting more.

“Toji, you’re—” The rest of your words drowned in a gasp as he pressed his body flush to yours, pinning you so tight you could barely breathe. His heart thundered, crash for crash with yours, and when he finally kissed you it was nothing like before: teeth and tongue and hunger, leaving bruises in his wake.

He bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, and when you yelped, he growled, licking the trail of crimson with obsessive, almost reverent care.

His voice dropped to a ragged whisper, lips trembling against your jaw. "Promised I'd never hurt you. But God, the things I want to do to you right now..."

He pressed closer, his breath hot on your neck. "Let's play a game. I'll give you a head start. You run, and if I catch you..." His hips pinned yours against the tree, leaving no doubt about his intentions. "I get to have you. All night. Under that moon."

Your thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. Every instinct screamed to escape, to put as much distance between yourself and what he'd become as possible. Yet something darker, something primal, wanted to surrender to whatever wild thing had taken hold of him.

He watched the conflict play across your face, a knowing smile revealing the edge of his fangs. "Your body's already decided," he murmured, grinding against you until a whimper escaped your throat.

The sound seemed to please him. When you nodded—against all better judgment—he released you, stepping back with predatory grace.

"Run," he commanded, tongue tracing his lower lip. "While you still can."

Halloween night should’ve been spent drowning in cheap vodka and strobe lights, sandwiched between sweaty bodies in ridiculous costumes. At least, that’s what everyone else you knew was doing.

But you? No.

Tonight was your night. The perfect storm—literally—to stay in. You had your snacks lined up, horror classics queued, and the kind of lazy comfort only a blanket pile could provide. While the wind shrieked outside and rain smeared down your windows in relentless streaks, you burrowed deeper into your cocoon, letting the flickering TV bathe your living room in soft light.

By the third movie, you were drifting in and out, your stomach full and eyelids heavy. The screen blurred as your consciousness slipped—until the thunder hit.

A crack like the sky splitting in half jolted you upright. Your heart tripped in your chest. Then came the second blow: the power went out. The hum of the refrigerator died, the fan sputtered silent, the glow of the TV vanished. Darkness wrapped around you, thick and suffocating.

“Fucking perfect,” you muttered.

Reaching blindly, you patted around for your phone. Your fingers skimmed the cushion, the floor, the table—nothing. Panic was beginning to nudge at your ribs when, mercifully, the screen lit up on its own.

An incoming call.

Relief surged, only to stall when you saw the number. Unknown.

Probably a misdial. You silenced it.

The storm pressed on, wind rattling the panes. The silence in the apartment was oppressive now, every creak magnified. Just as you pushed yourself up to head for the kitchen, the phone buzzed again. Same number.

Your frown deepened. You answered, putting it on speaker so you could use the flashlight.

“Hello?”

Static silence. Then—breathing.

Slow. Measured. Close enough you swore you could feel it on your ear.

A chill licked down your spine. Squinting, you pulled the phone closer. Same number. Same absence of a name.

“Who is this?”

No reply. Just that steady inhale… exhale… like he wanted you to hear it.

Annoyance fought with unease. You hung up, the screen flashing back to black.

“Fucking idiot,” you muttered.

Snacks in hand, you plopped back on the couch and tried to distract yourself with TikTok, the familiar scroll a balm. You barely got through two videos before the buzzing started again.

Same number.

Irritation won this time. You swiped to answer. “Listen, asshole, this isn’t a fucking game. Either say something or quit calling my phone.”

The breathing didn’t stop.

You opened your mouth to curse again when the voice cut in, low and deliberate.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

You froze. The words slid through the speaker smooth and deep, like velvet over gravel. A voice too rich, too careful to belong to some bored teenager playing pranks.

“…Wait. What?”

A chuckle followed—low, warm, curling around your nerves. The kind of laugh that settled heavy in your chest, that made something you didn’t want to name stir in your belly.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” he asked again, slower this time, savoring every syllable. You could hear the smirk dripping through.

Your pulse spiked. You hated that it wasn’t just fear making your body heat.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” You scoffed, trying to force steel into your voice. “What, you think I’m supposed to play Sidney Prescott? Try again. I’m not falling for this bullshit.”

“Mm.” A hum, thoughtful, like he was cataloging you. “Confident. I like that.”

Your throat went dry. “Listen—”

“Don’t hang up.”

The command came soft but sharp, like the edge of a knife kissing skin. You went still. He chuckled again, clearly hearing it.

“That’s better. So, what’s the answer, sweetheart? You’ve got one. Everyone does.”

Your mouth opened before you could stop it. “…The Shining.”

“Ahh.” His approval slid down your spine like warm hands. “A classic. A good choice.”

It should’ve ended there—you should’ve hung up, blocked the number, laughed it off later with your friends. But you didn’t. Something about his voice clung to you, dark and magnetic.

“You didn’t call me just to ask that,” you muttered, already moving toward the kitchen again though you didn’t know why.

“No,” he agreed easily. “I called because I wanted to hear you. And because I like watching you squirm.”

Your steps faltered. “…What?”

Another chuckle, lazy and low. “Cute shirt, by the way. I almost thought you’d dress up for me.”

Your blood ran cold. Slowly, you turned toward the darkened windows, the storm outside a sheet of black. Your pulse thundered in your ears.

He couldn’t see you. He couldn’t.

“Mm,” he hummed like he’d heard the thought. “I love that look. All wide eyes, lip caught between your teeth. You’re making this fun for me, baby.”

The phone slipped a little in your sweaty hand. “If this is one of my friends, it’s not funny—”

“Oh no.” His voice sharpened, dropping lower. “No friends. Just me. And you.”

Thunder boomed, rattling the apartment. The call hummed in your hand, his breathing steady on the other end.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were terrified—or turned on.

You sat there, clutching the phone a little tighter than you’d admit. His breathing stayed steady, like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew you weren’t gonna hang up again.

Your mouth felt dry, but you pushed past it anyway. “If this is one of my friends, it’s not funny.”

“Oh no, sweetheart.” The way he said it—drawn out, deliberate—sent something sharp crawling down your spine. “No friends. Just me. And you.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to cover the little tremor in your voice. “Yea, okay. Sure. Some random dude I don’t know just… calls me up on Halloween night to chat about movies. That’s real normal.”

He chuckled, low and dark, like he knew something you didn’t. “Who said I was random?”

That made you freeze. “Excuse me?”

“You’re even cuter when you get defensive.” His tone dipped lower, warmer, wrapping around your chest in a way that had no business making your thighs press together. “That pouty little frown? Baby, I could see it from here.”

Your heart tripped in your chest. From here?

Slowly, your gaze flicked to the window. The rain pounded harder against the glass, streaking the reflection into blurry shadows. The storm outside had swallowed the neighborhood whole.

“He can’t see you,” you whispered to yourself, a pathetic attempt at reassurance.

But then he hummed, smug. “Mm, don’t lie. You’re chewing your lip right now. Wondering if I’m outside. Or closer.”

You shot up from the couch, your pulse hammering so hard it almost drowned him out. “Alright—who the fuck are you? Seriously.”

Another laugh, softer this time. Almost affectionate. “That’s the best part, princess. You don’t need to know. Not yet.”

You paced the living room, glancing at the door, the dark hallway, the kitchen. Every shadow looked suspicious now. Every creak made your skin crawl.

“Look—” your voice shook despite yourself. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not gonna work.”

“Mm.” He sounded like he was smiling. “That’s what makes it fun. You’re so stubborn. So sure you’re safe.” His pause stretched, deliberate. “But tell me, sweetheart… if you’re really not scared, why are your hands shaking?”

You looked down, and sure enough—the phone trembled in your grip.

Your stomach dropped.

Your nails tapped nervously against your phone case. “Okay… either you’re some genius hacker with access to my Ring camera, or you’re just pulling random shit out of your ass hoping I get spooked.”

He hummed like he was considering it. “Mmm, maybe. Or maybe I just know you better than you think. You twitch your nose when you’re irritated—like right now. And when you lie? You chew your bottom lip raw.”

You froze mid-motion. Your teeth were worrying at your lip, and you hadn’t even noticed until he said it.

The silence stretched, heavy, like he was letting it sink in.

“Cute little habit,” he added, smooth and lazy, like he was leaning back somewhere, enjoying himself.

“Okay… okay, no,” you whispered more to yourself than him, shaking your head. “This has to be someone I know. Who the hell put you up to this? Was it Maki? Or—shit—was it Gojo? He’d totally think this was funny.”

He chuckled low in your ear, dark and quiet. “You think your friends are clever enough to pull this off? That they could slip right into your home, stand close enough to count the goosebumps on your skin?”

You sucked in a breath and glanced wildly around the room, blanket clutched tighter around your shoulders. No footsteps. No shadow moving. Just the hum of rain and your own shaky heartbeat.

“This is insane,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “It’s a fucking prank. That’s all.”

“Mmh,” he hummed again, like he didn’t believe you. “If that helps you sleep tonight, sweetheart… keep telling yourself that.”

The call went dead.

You stared at the glowing screen, your own reflection looking back at you, pale and wide-eyed. A part of you wanted to block the number, toss the phone across the room, something. Another part—God help you—waited for it to ring again.

The call ended, leaving your living room swallowed in a heavy silence. Even the rain outside felt quieter now, as if the storm was holding its breath with you. You put the phone down on the coffee table, but your fingers wouldn’t stop trembling.

“Get a grip,” you muttered, running a hand down your face. “It’s just some loser. Probably spoofing a number. That’s all.”

A soft thunk echoed from somewhere down the hallway.

You froze.

It wasn’t thunder. It wasn’t the house settling. It was closer—like a door brushing shut.

Slowly, you reached for your phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. Before you could do anything, it lit up on its own. Same number.

Heart hammering against your ribs, you answered, pressing it to your ear. “Listen—”

“Nice place you’ve got.” His voice was low, steady. “Cozy. Smells like vanilla.”

Your blood ran cold.

“I—” you started, but he cut you off.

“Little dish by the door with your keys in it,” he continued, tone almost conversational. “Couple of take-out menus. Blue lighter. You quit smoking last year, but you keep it there anyway.”

Your eyes darted toward the front door. The dish sat exactly as he’d described, a small blue lighter nestled next to your keys.

“I… I didn’t tell you that,” you whispered.

He chuckled softly, like you’d just made his night. “No, you didn’t.”

Another sound—a slow drag of something across the wood floor—slipped from the hallway, just beyond the edge of the living room light.

You shot to your feet, backing toward the kitchen. “If this is some kind of sick joke—”

“I told you,” he interrupted, voice silkier now. “It’s not a joke. You wanted a scary movie tonight, didn’t you? I’m just giving you one.”

Your stomach flipped, fear and a strange, unwanted thrill mixing in a way you couldn’t untangle.

“Who are you?” you demanded, gripping the phone so tightly your knuckles ached.

He let the question hang for a heartbeat before answering, low and deliberate:

“Why don’t you come find out?”

The line went dead again.

Your pulse thrummed so loud it drowned the storm. The call ended, but you couldn’t stop staring at the phone, waiting for the screen to light up again.

Don’t answer next time, your brain scolded. Block the number. Call someone else. Call the police.

But you didn’t.

Because the second the phone buzzed in your hand again—same number, glowing like a dare—you answered.

“…hello?”

A pause. Then that voice, velvet and unhurried. “You sound nervous.”

“I’m not.” Your voice cracked, betraying you.

He hummed like he didn’t believe you. “You should check your back door.”

Your stomach sank. Slowly, you turned your head toward the kitchen. The back door loomed in shadow, the storm lashing against its frame. You hadn’t touched it since earlier today. Had you locked it?

“I’m not playing this game,” you snapped, forcing yourself to move. Each step felt heavier, like your body didn’t want to cooperate. You flicked the flashlight across the kitchen. The door was closed, the lock slid firmly into place. Relief hit you in a shaky exhale.

“See? Locked,” you said into the phone.

Silence stretched for a beat. Then:

“…are you sure?”

The words curled in your ear, taunting.

You rattled the handle to prove it. Still locked. You almost laughed—almost—but then a soft knock tapped from the other side.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You stumbled back, clutching the phone. “Who the fuck are you?!”

Another chuckle, deep and smug. “You already know.”

“No, I don’t!”

“Oh, but you do.” His tone shifted, coaxing, darkly amused. “You’ve been thinking about me since the first call. Trying to place my voice. Don’t lie.”

Your throat went dry because—god help you—he wasn’t wrong. You had been combing through memories, wondering why his cadence felt familiar. But that didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.

“You’re sick,” you hissed, though it lacked bite.

“You’re curious.”

The line went dead again.

The silence after the line cut was worse than his voice. You stood there, shaking, phone limp in your hand. The rain hammered the windows, thunder rattled the walls—but it was the quiet inside your house that crawled beneath your skin.

You should’ve called someone. You should’ve done something. Instead, you just stood there like prey, waiting.

The phone buzzed again.

Your thumb hovered, trembling, before you answered. “…what do you want?”

A low chuckle hummed in your ear. “I want you to relax.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“Am I?” The voice softened, warm in a way that made your stomach flip. “You’re still answering. Still listening. If you were really scared, you’d hang up.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. He was right. God, why were you still answering?

The silence stretched again, broken only by his breathing—steady, measured, like he was standing right behind you.

“I can see you,” he murmured.

You spun, flashlight cutting across the living room. Nothing. Just the couch, the pile of blankets, the snacks you left half-eaten. “No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can. Black shorts, oversized shirt. Hair a little messy from your nap.”

Your stomach dropped. Your free hand smoothed over your clothes, like you could erase the proof. “…you’re lying.”

“Mm. Am I?”

Your eyes darted to the windows. Maybe he was outside. Maybe he was watching from the storm-soaked shadows. That had to be it. But then—

“Cute socks,” he added, tone dripping with amusement.

Your head snapped down. Lightning flashed through the window, and for a split second you caught sight of them—your stupid pink socks with the little cartoon ghosts on them. You hadn’t even realized they were peeking out.

Ice spread through your veins.

The phone slipped in your sweaty grip. “Where are you?”

He didn’t answer. Just let out a slow exhale, like he was savoring the fear bleeding into your voice.

The call ended again.

The call ended with a soft click.

The quiet after felt suffocating.

You stayed perfectly still, eyes locked on the dark window across the room. Rain streamed down the glass in silver ribbons. Your reflection stared back at you — wide-eyed, phone clutched tight to your chest.

Another flash of lightning split the sky.

And for a heartbeat, you weren’t alone.

A shape flickered into the reflection behind you — tall, broad-shouldered, masked. Just a smear of black and white before the dark swallowed it up again.

You spun so fast your phone almost slipped from your fingers. The room was empty. No one was there.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. “Stop it…” you whispered to yourself. “You’re seeing things.”

The phone rang again.

This time, your thumb didn’t hesitate. “Where are you?” you demanded, voice cracking.

A chuckle slid through the speaker, low and smooth. “Closer than you think.”

Your flashlight trembled in your hand as you swept it across the room again, every shadow now a threat.

“You like scary movies…” the voice purred. “But you never asked if you were the final girl.”

“Who are you?” you snapped, though it came out more like a plea.

He didn’t answer right away. You could hear movement now — faint, wet sounds like boots on your porch, like fingers sliding along glass. The sound of the storm blurred with it until you couldn’t tell what was real.

Another flash of lightning.

At the edge of the window, just barely, a pale mask hovered in the darkness. The mouth tilted in a permanent scream.

Your breath hitched.

Blink — gone.

“Peekaboo,” the voice whispered in your ear, so close it made your hair rise — but the phone was still pressed to your head.

The line went dead.

You backed away from the window, phone still clutched like it could save you. Every sound seemed amplified — the storm battering the roof, the groan of the house shifting, your own shallow breaths.

The phone buzzed again. A text this time.

“Cute pajamas.”

Your stomach dropped.

You looked down at yourself — oversized shirt, soft shorts. Nothing you’d be embarrassed about on your own, but the fact that he could see you made your skin crawl.

“Where the fuck are you?” you hissed into the dark, spinning in place like you could catch him watching.

Another message popped up.

“Don’t look so scared. I like it better when you smile.”

Your thumb hovered over the block button, over calling 911, but something froze you in place. It wasn’t just the fear — it was the way his words crawled under your skin, too smooth, too deliberate. Like he knew you, like he was enjoying watching you unravel.

The phone rang again.

Against all reason, you answered.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you lied, voice trembling.

The low chuckle that answered nearly buckled your knees. “Then prove it. Go to the window.”

You froze. “No.”

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaxed, almost playful now. “What’s the worst that could happen? It’s just a little peek.”

The way he said sweetheart made your chest tighten. Familiar, but you shoved the thought down.

Lightning cracked again, filling the living room with blinding white. For the briefest moment, outside the window, a figure stood still as a shadow, hooded, masked. The scream-mask tilted just enough to let you know it was looking right at you.

You screamed, dropping your phone. By the time you scrambled to grab it again, the line had gone silent.

Just the storm, roaring on.

You didn’t remember moving, but suddenly you were pressed against the front door, phone clutched tight against your chest, heartbeat pounding so loud it drowned out the rain. You forced yourself to breathe, to think. He couldn’t get in. Every window was locked. Every door was shut.

At least, you thought they were.

A creak split through the silence.

Your head whipped toward the hallway — the one leading straight to your bedroom.

You shook your head furiously. “No. No, no, no—” you whispered, as if saying it enough times would undo what you’d heard.

The phone lit up again. He was calling.

Hand trembling, you swiped to answer. “If you’re in my house, I swear to god—”

“Swearing to god won’t help you, sweetheart,” the voice drawled, smooth as velvet, cruel as a blade. “But begging me might.”

Your stomach flipped. He was in the house.

You bolted for the kitchen, grabbing the first thing your hand landed on — a knife, flimsy compared to the one you knew he carried, but it made you feel like you weren’t completely helpless.

Your voice shook as you snapped, “You think this is funny? Playing dress up, sneaking around—”

“You’re shaking,” he interrupted. “I can hear it in your voice. You want me to stop?”

You faltered, lips parting but no sound coming out.

“Didn’t think so,” he murmured.

The call went dead.

And then—

“Boo.”

A whisper hot against your ear.

You barely had time to scream before a gloved hand clamped over your mouth, pulling you back against a hard chest. The knife tumbled from your hand, skidding uselessly across the tile.

The ghostface mask hovered just at the edge of your vision as his breath tickled your skin. “Told you I was close.”

You froze. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to fight, to twist away, to do something, but the iron grip on your mouth and waist made your efforts useless. He was so much stronger—his body pressed to yours, caging you in like you were nothing but prey.

Your muffled cry bled against the leather of his glove.

“Shhh,” he cooed, the ghostface mask tilted down toward you. “Wouldn’t want the neighbors thinking something’s wrong, would we?”

Your eyes darted toward the window. The rain was still hammering down in relentless sheets, drowning out any chance of your screams carrying past the walls.

“Good girl,” he purred when you stilled, though your chest heaved under his arm. His voice was clearer now, no longer distorted by the phone. Smooth. Rich. Almost familiar. But your brain scrambled to place it and failed.

The cold press of his knife’s flat edge dragged up your thigh, lifting the hem of your sleep shorts like it was nothing. Not cutting. Not yet. Just teasing. “You look better trembling. Fits you.”

Your muffled whimper made him chuckle.

He leaned down, the plastic mask brushing your temple. “Thought I was just a voice on the phone, didn’t you? Poor thing. You thought you were safe.”

With a sudden jerk, he spun you around, pinning your back against the kitchen counter. One gloved hand on your throat, not choking but holding, keeping you still. The other let the blade ghost along your hip.

Up close, the mask was even more grotesque—the hollow eyes reflecting only your fear.

“Look at you,” he murmured, head tilting. “Trying to decide if you should run, fight, or just give in.” His thumb pressed under your chin, forcing your eyes back up to the blank black holes of the mask. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll decide for you.”

You froze against the counter, pulse hammering so loud it drowned out the storm outside. His gloved hand held your throat in place, not enough to choke, but enough to remind you that your body belonged to him in this moment.

The flat of his knife skimmed your hip, dragging deliberately slow. “Relax,” he whispered, his voice rich, smooth, far too calm for the chaos in your head. “If I wanted to gut you, sweetheart, you’d already be bleeding.”

A sharp whimper escaped you, your thighs pressing together instinctively.

“Ohhh,” he drawled, mask tilting as though he could see straight through you. “Not fear, then? Or not just fear.” His thumb pressed just under your jaw, keeping your chin lifted, your gaze trapped by those soulless black eye sockets. “I can feel it… the way you’re shaking isn’t only from terror.”

Your breath stuttered, heat crawling up your neck despite every instinct screaming at you to run.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips close enough behind the mask that you swore you felt the faint warmth of his breath. “You’re not sure if you want me to stop or—” his knife dipped between your thighs, grazing the hem of your shorts, “—if you want me to go further.”

The hand at your throat tightened just a little, forcing a gasp past your lips. His chuckle was low, dark, indulgent.

“See? That’s better. Your body’s honest, even if your mouth isn’t.”

He leaned closer, the grotesque mask brushing your cheek. “Tell me, sweetheart—should I scare you out of your mind tonight… or fuck you until you forget your own name?”

The knife shifted, cold steel slipping under the hem of your shirt now, dragging upward in a slow glide that made goosebumps erupt across your skin. He wasn’t cutting, not even close—but the possibility that he could at any second had your chest heaving.

“Every inch of you is trembling,” he said, voice low and taunting, almost tender in the way it curled around your ear. “But you’re not begging me to stop. You’re waiting.”

You bit your lip, willing yourself not to make a sound. Not to confirm what he was already peeling out of you.

His gloved thumb smoothed along the side of your throat, deceptively gentle. “So stubborn. You want to act like this isn’t getting you wet—” the knife tapped lightly against the top button of your shorts, “—but I’ll bet if I slide my fingers down, I’d find you dripping for me.”

Your thighs clenched tighter, your body betraying you in the exact way he described.

The mask tilted again, studying you like you were nothing more than prey on display. His chuckle came dark and sharp. “God, you’re eating this up. Do you know how easy it would be to ruin you right here in your kitchen?”

His hand pressed firmer at your throat, not enough to choke, just enough to feel your pulse flutter frantically beneath his glove. “The fun part is watching you squirm… wondering if I’m going to kiss you, carve you, or fuck you against this counter.”

He bent closer, the mask nearly brushing your lips now, the eye sockets nothing but black pits reflecting your own wide-eyed stare. “Tell me, sweetheart…” His voice dropped, smooth and commanding. “Which one are you hoping for?”

You tried to steady your breathing, but the silence in the kitchen made every shaky exhale sound like a confession. His mask loomed inches away, those black hollows swallowing up every thought in your head.

“Not answering?” he purred, mock disappointment dripping from his words. “Then maybe you’re hoping for all three.”

The knife trailed a lazy path up your stomach, tapping against your sternum like a metronome for your racing heart. His chuckle came again—low, amused, cruel. “Thump, thump, thump. Can feel it right through the blade. You’re practically screaming your secrets at me.”

You swallowed hard, heat prickling across your skin despite the icy edge of the knife.

“You’re wondering if I’ll hurt you,” he continued, voice dropping to a rasp meant only for you. “But the bigger secret is that you want me to. You want to know what it feels like to be at my mercy. To give up every last piece of control.”

His free hand tapped lightly at your chin, urging your head back, forcing you to look at the mask no matter how desperately you wanted to look away. “I could keep you guessing all night,” he murmured, the words brushing against your ear like a phantom touch. “Make you doubt every shadow, every sound, until you’re begging for me to step out and claim you.”

The knife dropped suddenly, the handle clattering against the counter beside your hip. His gloved fingers pinched your chin instead, firm enough to sting. “But the game’s sweeter when you don’t know if I’ll ever give you that mercy.”

He leaned in closer, so near the carved mouth of the mask almost grazed yours. “Do you like my game, sweetheart? Or are you already too scared to play?”

The knife clattered fully onto the counter, leaving a ringing echo in the kitchen. His gloved hand still held your chin, thumb pressing against the hinge of your jaw. For the first time you felt his breath — hot and damp through the slits of the mask — slide across your cheek.

“I’ve been patient,” he rasped, voice dropping low enough to vibrate against your throat. “You’ve been so good. Sitting there. Shaking. Pretending you don’t want it.”

His grip shifted, glove dragging down the column of your throat until his palm was flat at the base of it, not choking you but letting you feel the weight of his control. The other hand slid down the front of your trench coat, tugging at the belt lazily until it came loose. He didn’t open it all the way yet, just enough for the edge of his glove to brush the bare skin of your thigh beneath.

“Do you know what happens,” he murmured, mask tilting closer until it nearly pressed against your temple, “when the girl answers the phone and doesn’t hang up?” A slow drag of his fingers up the inside of your thigh, almost tender, almost cruel. “She gets exactly what she was hoping for.”

The sound of your breath caught in your throat. His gloved thumb stroked the pulse point under your jaw as if measuring your heartbeat. “You can tell me to stop,” he whispered. “You can push me away. Or…” The mask tipped back a little so you could see the shadow of his mouth through the mesh — a curve of lips that was more smirk than smile. “…you can finally play the game properly.”

With one swift movement he pressed you back against the counter, his thigh sliding between yours to pin you there. Not rough yet, but heavy enough that you knew you wouldn’t easily slip away. The knife still lay on the counter beside you — close enough to glance at, far enough that his body blocked it from your reach.

“You were waiting for your favorite scary movie,” he whispered, gloved fingers teasing the hem of your coat again, inching it higher. “Congratulations, sweetheart. You’re in it now.”

His thigh pressed firmer between yours, forcing them apart just a little more. Enough to make you aware of the deliberate grind, the way his weight pinned you without really pinning you — as if daring you to push back, to make a choice.

“I like the way you tremble,” he drawled, his voice pitched low, intoxicatingly smooth, almost… familiar. The kind of familiar that made your stomach flip, like déjà vu laced with danger. “It’s cute when you can’t decide if you’re scared… or excited.”

Your lips parted to protest, but the sound died when his gloved fingers brushed just under your jaw again, tracing the slope of your throat down to your collarbone. A light touch, teasing, cruel in its restraint.

“God,” he whispered, leaning in close enough that you could see the faint shadow of a jawline behind the mesh of the mask, “you look like you want me to ruin you.”

The words sent a pulse of heat straight to your core, betraying you. You hated it — hated how the dark thrill thrummed through you even as your mind screamed that this was insane. But the voice — his voice — was too smooth, too precise.

You tried to steady yourself. “Who are you?” you demanded, though it came out breathier than you intended.

He chuckled — a soft, knowing sound that made your skin prickle. “Don’t tell me you haven’t guessed yet,” he murmured, thumb grazing the corner of your lip. “C’mon, sweetheart. You know me.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. I do?

The mask tilted, the mouth opening hovering just above your cheek. He lingered there, teasing the edge of intimacy without giving it — the hot whisper of his breath, the ghost of lips that could press against you at any second.

“You’ve heard me like this before,” he added, husky and unhurried, dragging the syllables out like velvet. “Late at night. In your ear. When you’re begging for more.”

The implication slammed into you like a fist to the gut. Your stomach twisted, your breath catching in your throat.

No. No, it couldn’t be—

But god, that voice. That inflection. That low, patient tone curling into something darker, something rougher.

You swallowed hard, fingers twitching at your sides, torn between tearing the mask off and leaving it there — because part of you wanted to see, but the other part wanted to believe.

And he knew it.

That’s why he didn’t rush. Instead, he leaned in and pressed the cold, firm plane of the Ghostface mask against your cheek in a mockery of a kiss, gloved hand splaying against your hip now, tugging you closer into the line of his body.

“Say my name,” he whispered. “If you’re so sure.”

You pressed your back harder against the counter, trembling, trying to convince yourself this was all a stranger, a prank, a Halloween nightmare. Yet every brush of his glove along your skin — the curl of his fingers teasing the inside of your thigh, the weight of his thigh pressing just enough to leave you breathless — betrayed that instinct.

“You’re holding back,” he murmured, voice low, silk over steel. “You know me. You know exactly how I touch you.”

You wanted to scream, wanted to push him away, but your body betrayed you with a sharp intake of breath, your hips inching involuntarily toward him.

“Stop pretending you’re innocent,” he whispered, thumb ghosting across your pulse point at your throat. “I hear it in your breathing. Every quick inhale, every shiver… You want this.”

Your head shook, but the tremor ran through your body anyway. You didn’t know if it was fear, lust, or the cruel overlap of both.

“You think you’re imagining it,” he said, voice curling into a dark chuckle. “But you’re not. I’ve been here before. You know how I am. You know what I do. And God, I love watching you squirm like this.”

The gloved hand at your hip shifted, tracing upward slowly, lightly grazing the fabric of your shorts. You shivered, heat crawling through you, pulse pounding against his palm.

“You want me to reveal myself, don’t you?” he whispered in your ear, cold mask pressing against your temple. “But you’re scared. Good girl.”

You swallowed hard, lips parting, words caught somewhere between panic and desire. “I… I don’t know—”

“Exactly,” he breathed, letting the words linger against your skin. “Don’t know if I’m a monster… or the only one who can make you feel like this.”

He leaned closer, the mask brushing against your jaw, fingers pressing at the small of your back to keep you flush with him. The knife lay forgotten on the counter, a silent reminder of danger.

“Should I call your name?” he murmured, the question teasing and heavy. “Or should I let you guess… while I explore a little more?”

The hand at your hip lingered, then slid lower, slow enough for you to register every inch of gloved leather as it traced over the waistband of your shorts. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts.

“Still trembling,” he murmured, the sound husky, amused. “But not pulling away.”

You couldn’t. Whether it was fear or the dark pull of something else, your body wouldn’t listen. His fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt, dragging the fabric upward just enough to expose a sliver of your stomach. The chill of the room made the skin pebble — and then his knuckles grazed lightly over it, deliberate, teasing.

Your lips parted on a shaky exhale.

“There it is,” he whispered, voice dropping lower, almost reverent. “That little sound. God, you have no idea what it does to me.”

The mask pressed against your cheek as he leaned closer, breathing you in. His other hand, the one not pinning your hip, traveled up slowly — from your side, to your ribs, just beneath the swell of your breast. Not a full touch, but enough to set your nerves on fire, enough to leave you arching before you realized it.

“Sensitive here, too, aren’t you?” he teased, gloved thumb brushing the underside, so faint it could almost be imagined. “I remember.”

Your heart lurched. That word — remember. He wasn’t just some stranger. He was someone who knew.

“Wh-who are you?” you managed, voice shaky, almost pleading.

His chuckle was low, dark, curling into your ear like smoke. “The one who makes you this wet,” he said simply, his hand slipping lower, pressing lightly against the heat at the front of your shorts, the barrier thin enough to betray you.

You gasped, thighs clamping instinctively, but he was already there, fingers pressing just enough to remind you that you couldn’t hide it.

“Mm,” he hummed, satisfied. “Thought so.”

His hand pressed firmer against you, rolling the heel of his palm into the spot that had you jerking with a strangled whimper.

“There she is,” he breathed, the mask tilting so close you felt his voice vibrate against your skin. “All that attitude on the phone, but this—” his fingers dragged along your clothed slit, slow, savoring, “—this is the truth, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitched, the denial dying in your throat as he circled the spot again, a little harder this time, sending sparks down your spine. He chuckled when your hips lifted into the touch, betraying you.

“You’re soaking,” he whispered, voice velvet and cruel all at once. “And I’ve barely even started.”

The gloved fingers slipped under your waistband before you could think to stop him, the cool leather gliding over heated skin. The first press of his fingers against your bare cunt had your knees buckling, a soft cry spilling out before you could catch it.

“Fuck—” you gasped, grabbing his wrist, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he slowed down, dragging one thick finger along your slit, parting you, dipping just enough at your entrance to make your thighs tremble.

“Such a pretty sound,” he cooed, almost mocking, pressing the mask against the side of your throat. “And you’re trying so hard not to give me more of them.”

Your grip on his wrist faltered when he slipped a finger inside, thick and unyielding, curling slow as if he had all the time in the world. He swallowed your gasp with another chuckle, his other hand pinning you harder against the wall.

“Already clenching,” he murmured. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you? Someone catching you, cornering you, making you—” he thrust his finger deeper, curling again, “—lose every last bit of control.”

The words, the touch, the weight of him caging you in — it was all too much, your body betraying you with every slick sound his finger coaxed out of you.

“Answer me,” he demanded softly, his thumb pressing against your clit in the same instant, sharp and precise.

“Yes—!” The confession tore out before you could stop it, your head knocking back against the wall.

That earned a groan from him, rough and hungry. “Good girl.”

Your knees nearly gave out when his thumb started circling, cruelly slow, the friction unbearable. He kept his body pressed to yours, a solid wall of heat and menace, his mask grazing your cheek like a taunt.

“Look at you,” he crooned, his voice muffled but rich, sinful. “Fighting so hard earlier, and now… you’re dripping around my hand.”

He eased his finger out, dragging it up your slit before pushing two inside without warning. The stretch had you gasping, clinging to his arm as he set a deliberate rhythm — not fast, but deep, filling you with each curl. Every drag of his fingers sent shocks through your core, yet he refused to speed up.

“Thought you didn’t scare easy,” he teased, pressing his thumb harder against your clit, rubbing slow circles that made your thighs quake. “But I bet you’re terrified of how much you like this.”

A frustrated whine broke from your throat, only making his chuckle darker. He pulled his hand free altogether, leaving you empty and aching. You barely had time to whimper before he shoved the wet fingers between your lips, the slick taste of yourself coating your tongue.

“Open,” he commanded, tilting the mask so you could see the gleam of his eyes through the hollow black. “Suck for me.”

Shame and desire tangled, but your mouth obeyed, lips closing around the leather, tongue swirling over his fingers. His breath hitched at the sight, his hips pressing forward against your thigh.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “That’s it. My filthy little slut.”

When he pulled his fingers free, they trailed down your chin, glistening. He hooked a hand under your jaw, tilting your face up. “You’re gonna let me taste you properly now,” he murmured, dragging the mask lower just enough for his lips to brush the shell of your ear. “Every drop, sweetheart.”

He shoved you toward the couch before you could catch your breath. The storm outside rumbled again, lightning flashing across the room just as he pushed you back against the cushions and forced your legs open.

You gasped as he lowered himself between your thighs, the cool edge of his mask nudging against your inner thigh before his breath ghosted over your soaked cunt.

“Don’t close them,” he warned, spreading your knees wider with a rough grip. “If you do, I’ll stop.”

Then his tongue dragged up your slit, slow, deliberate, and you swore the world outside went silent for a beat. He sucked your clit into his mouth with a groan, alternating between slow laps and sharp, wet flicks that had your back arching off the couch.

Every time you got close, he’d ease up, dragging you back from the edge just to hear your desperate little cries.

“You taste like sin,” he rasped between licks, the mask tilted just enough to expose his mouth, glistening with you. “I could stay down here all night.”

When your hands flew to his hair, trying to grind against his face for more, he gripped your thighs tighter, pinning you down.

“No, no,” he mocked, dark amusement dripping from his tone. “You come when I say you come.”

Every calculated flick of his tongue had you trembling, thighs twitching against his hold. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging desperately as your hips rolled up into his mouth, chasing what felt so close—too close.

He hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. Your climax gathered like a storm inside you, tightening with every lap, every suck, until your body stiffened in that sweet, helpless way that screamed you were about to fall apart.

And then—he pulled back.

The sudden loss had you crying out, hips bucking uselessly into the empty air where his mouth had been. He let go of your thighs just enough to wipe his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, his voice dripping smug satisfaction.

“Almost, sweetheart,” he mocked, his tone low and intoxicating. “But not yet. You don’t get to finish until I decide.”

Your chest heaved as you propped yourself up on your elbows, glaring down at the hollow eyes of his mask. “You—” your voice cracked, needy, trembling, “you fucking tease.”

The chuckle that slipped from him was dark, pleased. He dragged a slow finger down your slit, gathering your slick before lifting it to watch it glisten in the dim light. Then he pressed it to your lips again, demanding you taste yourself once more.

You obeyed without thinking, sucking the finger clean, your gaze locked with the faint gleam of his eyes behind the mask.

“That’s better,” he rasped. “Good girl. I want you pliant, dripping, begging.” His hand slipped back between your thighs, spreading you open just enough to blow a warm breath over your swollen clit, making your whole body shiver. “Begging until you forget your own name.”

And then, cruelly, he stood.

Your stomach dropped as he stepped back, towering over you, mask tilted down in that eerie, unreadable way. He adjusted himself through the dark fabric of his robe, the outline of his cock straining as he took in the sight of you spread open and wanting.

“You’ll get what you want,” he promised, voice husky, dangerous. “But only when I’m ready to ruin you.”

The storm outside cracked again, casting his shadow across the room—Ghostface standing over you like a specter of hunger and control.

Your body quivered with frustration, every nerve ending raw and aching from his cruel retreat. You wanted to scream, to curse him out, but the only thing spilling from your lips was a pitiful whimper. He was winning—he knew it.

Ghostface tilted his head, watching you writhe on the couch like prey tangled in a hunter’s snare. Then, with deliberate slowness, he climbed back between your thighs, the leather of his gloves brushing against your sensitive skin as he spread you open again.

“You’ve been patient enough,” he murmured, voice husky. 

“Let me hear you break.”

This time when his mouth met your cunt, it wasn’t gentle teasing. It was ravenous. His tongue licked broad, hungry strokes over your clit, sucking it between his lips while his gloved fingers finally pressed inside you, curling deep until you cried out.

The combination was brutal, overwhelming, every ounce of denial now fueling the intensity of your release. Your hips bucked helplessly, thighs trembling around his head, as he pinned you down and devoured you like a man starved.

You couldn’t even form words—just strangled moans, gasps, and his name nearly slipping off your tongue before you remembered you didn’t know who was under the mask.

That thought alone made the orgasm hit harder.

It crashed through you in violent waves, your back arching off the couch as the pleasure tore out of you, raw and desperate. His tongue never relented, drawing it out, milking every drop until tears pricked your eyes from how intense it felt.

Finally, he pulled back, lips and chin slick with your arousal, breathing heavy through the mask. He wiped his mouth with his thumb, licking it clean in one slow, deliberate motion.

“See?” he rasped, voice like velvet and gravel. “Told you I’d ruin you.”

You shattered beneath him, the orgasm ripping through you like it had been waiting for hours, maybe days, clawing at the edges of your body until it finally broke free.

But even as you sobbed his name—or maybe it was just a raw, wordless cry—the mask never slipped. The black, expressionless shroud stayed locked in place, hovering above you, faceless and menacing while his tongue wrung every last shiver from your trembling body.

You tried to push him away when it got too much, but he grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the couch cushion, holding you down until he decided you were done. You came undone again in aftershocks, messy and overstimulated, whining into the darkness.

When he finally pulled back, the sight made your stomach flip: Ghostface, crouched between your thighs, chin and mask spattered with your slick, gloved hand dragging slow across his mouth as he licked you from his fingers.

“Delicious,” he rasped , voice low and distorted, impossible to read. 

And then—like it was nothing—he stood, towering over you, adjusting his gloves while you lay boneless and ruined on the couch. No comfort. No explanation. No face. Just that unblinking mask staring down at you while you tried to catch your breath, wondering if you’d just sold your soul to a monster.

The ache between your thighs only sharpened after he left you writhing through that first orgasm, the emptiness unbearable now. You barely had time to steady your breathing before he was on you again — mask looming, body pressing heavy against yours.

The outline of him was solid, unyielding. The weight of his cock pressing against your drenched entrance through his dark jeans had you gasping, arching up without meaning to.

“You’re so fucking needy,” the voice purred through the mask, distorted and cruel. “Already dripping for more. Should I even give it to you? Or just keep you begging like the little slut you are?”

Your hips betrayed you, grinding up shamelessly, desperate for friction. He laughed — low, sharp, like he knew exactly how far gone you were.

The zipper dragged down slowly, teeth of the metal catching your ear as it opened. He didn’t rush, letting you squirm, letting your impatience build until you were nearly sobbing.

The blunt, hot press of his cockhead at your soaked entrance finally hit, and you nearly lost it then, fingers clawing at his black hoodie, mask staring you down as though you were nothing but prey.

And then — he stopped. Just barely pushed inside, enough to stretch, to burn, to leave you hanging.

“Say it,” he demanded, his gloved hand wrapping tight around your throat. “Say you want Ghostface to fuck you.”

The mask never moved, never broke. Just that hollow black gaze staring down as he waited, keeping you teetering on the edge of madness.

Your lips parted, but no sound came at first. The pressure at your throat tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that every ounce of control belonged to him.

“Say it,” he repeated, voice gravel-dark and smooth through the mask’s filter. “Or I’ll leave you like this — stuffed full of nothing but my tip.”

The shallow push was maddening, his cockhead nudging deep enough to make your body clench around empty air. You moaned, broken and needy, still too proud to give him exactly what he wanted.

“Fuck you,” you spat instead, chest heaving.

The laugh that rolled from him was cruel, indulgent. “Oh, you will.” His hips shifted, sliding another inch in, then dragging back out slow enough to have your entire body chasing after him. Then he pulled away completely, leaving you throbbing, empty, ruined.

“Please,” you breathed, the word slipping past your pride before you could stop it.

A gloved thumb swept across your spit-wet lower lip, pressing until you opened wider for him. “Not good enough,” he whispered. “I want to hear it right.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, nudging against your swollen clit before pushing just enough inside again — just enough to feel, not enough to satisfy. He kept you hovering there, muscles clenching, thighs trembling, until you thought you might shatter apart without release.

“Say you want Ghostface to fuck you,” he demanded again, pressing another inch inside, pulling another gasp from your throat. “Beg for it.”

The mask never wavered, dark eyes behind it watching every twitch of your face, every betrayal of your body as it gave you away.

Your body trembled, every nerve wired tight, the need clawing at you so sharp it hurt. The sound of your own ragged breathing filled the room, mixing with his steady, dark drawl.

“You’re dripping for me,” he murmured, voice low and unrelenting. His cock dragged along your folds again, spreading slick across his length, smearing proof of how badly you wanted him. “Don’t think I don’t feel it. You wanted to fight, but this pussy?” He pushed, just an inch, just enough to make your back arch. “She already begged for me.”

You whimpered, nails digging into the fabric beneath you, head thrashing side to side as if you could escape the truth of it.

The mask tilted, his shadow swallowing your expression. “One last chance, sweetheart.” His hand slipped to your hip, holding you still, cock poised right at your entrance. “Say it—or I’ll keep you like this all night. Full, needy, and untouched.”

The words tore out of you before pride could stop them. “Please—fuck, please just fuck me already!”

His chuckle rumbled low in his chest, satisfaction dripping from it like poison. “There’s my girl.”

And then he gave in.

His hips snapped forward in one ruthless thrust, driving himself into you to the hilt. The stretch punched the breath from your lungs, a strangled cry ripping out as your walls clamped down hard around him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, the sound muffled through the mask, rough with restraint he could no longer keep. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and deep, seated fully where you’d ached for him.

You gasped, every inch of him too much and still not enough. “Oh my god—”

The mask hovered over you, black void and white grin staring down. “No god here, baby. Just Ghostface,” he rasped, pulling back only to slam into you again, harder this time, your body jolting with the force.

The denial shattered in that instant, every thrust brutal and relentless, like he was making up for every second he held back. The slick sound of him filling you over and over drowned out even the storm outside, the wet drag of your cunt clenching around him as your first orgasm hit sharp and fast.

Your cry echoed, raw and shameless, and still he didn’t let up.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice rough through the mask, gloved fingers digging into your hip to keep you from squirming away. “Come on my cock—show me how much you missed it.”

He pulled back just enough for you to catch a ragged breath, cock still deep inside, pressing and heavy. Your chest heaved, sweat beading along your temples, and your thighs trembled around him.

“You taste perfect,” he murmured through the mask, gloved hand tracing slow, deliberate lines along your hip. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

You whimpered, pressing up, desperate for more friction, more release—but he leaned back, tilting his head as if deciding whether you’d earned it. The cock buried in you twitched at the thought of teasing further, and he did exactly that, easing out just enough to leave you aching and empty.

“Think you’re ready for round two?” he asked, voice low, distorted, smooth. “Because I don’t just let girls like you finish. Not yet. Not until I’ve broken every ounce of control in your body first.”

The mask stayed fixed, dark and unreadable, but you could feel the predatory smirk behind it. Your body clenched again, desperate, needy, and he laughed softly at the sight. “Oh, you’re already trembling. That’s adorable.”

His hands didn’t rush; instead, they traced teasing circles around your thighs, hips, and stomach, letting you writhe and squirm without letting you get relief. Every little brush, every inch of pressure made you ache for him even more.

“Beg for me,” he demanded, leaning close, breath hot against your ear. “Beg me to fuck you again. Show me how much you need Ghostface.”

And even though you wanted him to end the teasing, your pride twisted with your arousal, making you cry out his title in whispers, a surrender that tasted like fire.

He leaned back in, hips snapping forward without warning, driving deep into you in one brutal thrust. Your cry echoed through the room, wet and desperate, and still he held the mask steady, unreadable, merciless.

“You feel so good,” he rasped through the modulator, gloved hands gripping your hips, forcing you flush against him. “So tight, so wet, so fucking eager. And you didn’t even know if I was real.”

The words sent shivers down your spine, a delicious shiver of fear and want. Every thrust was deliberate, punishing, leaving you gasping and trembling. He wasn’t rushing—you weren’t allowed relief just yet—but he kept the rhythm slow enough to drive you insane, hips rocking against him, begging for release without being granted it.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice like velvet and steel, pressing his forehead close to yours. “Dripping and needy and trembling for Ghostface. Does it feel good to be mine?”

You could only moan, voice breaking, body trembling against him. Every nerve screamed for friction, for fullness, for the raw pleasure you’d been denied, and he knew it. Every pullback, every calculated pause, every deliberate tease made you ache harder.

He slid a gloved hand down, fingers brushing over your clit, teasing circles that had you squirming, hips bucking into his palm. “Beg,” he commanded. “Tell me how much you want me to ruin you. Say it.”

“I—I need you,” you gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders, body arching desperately. “Please—fuck me, Ghostface, please—”

The response was immediate. He slammed forward, bottoming out, dragging a guttural growl from the modulator as your walls clenched around him. Your second orgasm crashed into you, violent and overstimulated, and he didn’t relent, keeping the pace slow and deliberate, fucking you through every quiver and moan.

“You’re mine,” he growled, gloved hands gripping your thighs to keep them open, cock buried deep, forcing your body to ride each thrust. “Mine, and you’ll remember it.”

Even as your back arched, lips parted in helpless cries, the mask stayed on, faceless and terrifying—but God, the way he moved, the way he held you, the way he teased you first only to sink fully in now—it made the danger, the power, the raw need between you, all the more intoxicating.

He didn’t stop. Each deliberate thrust, each slow grind of his hips into yours drove you higher, pushing your body to the edge again and again. You were gasping, moaning, shaking beneath him, and still, he held the mask fixed, faceless, as if daring you to look behind it.

“You’re dripping,” he murmured through the modulator, low and intoxicating, fingers dragging teasing circles over your clit with every thrust. “Can’t get enough, can you? Such a little slut for me.”

Your walls clenched around him, trembling violently as another orgasm ripped through you, sudden and merciless. Your head fell back against the couch, lips parting in a strangled cry, chest heaving.

He pulled back, letting you collapse against him, hips still grazing yours, teasing, not letting the overstimulation end. “Not done,” he whispered, voice rough and commanding. “I want to see how much more you can take. How many times you’ll beg for Ghostface before you break completely.”

Every fiber of you ached, nerves screaming, but his touch, his weight, his teasing thrusts kept you suspended between agony and ecstasy. Another slow, precise grind, fingers digging just deep enough to make you shiver, and you nearly lost it again.

“Please—please,” you gasped, voice shaky, trembling with need. “I can’t—I’m going to—”

The mask tilted, gloved hands gripping your thighs, forcing them open as he snapped forward with sudden intensity. Your third orgasm hit like a tidal wave, full and consuming, and still, he didn’t relent, pushing into your quivering body, grinding out every shudder and cry.

“Mine,” he growled, pressing into you with finality, each word vibrating through the mask. “You’re mine, and I decide when it ends.”

Even as your body shook, hips bucking against him, sobs and moans spilling uncontrolled, the mask stayed. The anonymity, the danger, the power—it was all there, all-consuming. And yet… somewhere beneath the faceless predator, there was an intimacy only you could feel, a familiarity that left your heart hammering almost as much as your body.

The room fell silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the storm pounding against the windows. Your body still trembled from the relentless orgasms, hips quivering every time he brushed even lightly against you.

He leaned back slightly, cock still buried deep, and you felt the weight of him shift—something in the movement was deliberate, almost hesitant. The mask didn’t move, but the pressure of his hands eased, the intensity of his gaze palpable even through the faceless black.

“You’ve been… amazing,” he said softly, voice low, distorted through the modulator, but there was a warmth there now, a softness that had been absent in the teasing and domination. “But I think… it’s time you knew who you’ve been giving yourself to.”

Your heart skipped. Every nerve screamed, not from need this time, but from curiosity, a dangerous, thrilling fear.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up, pulling at the straps of the mask. Your eyes widened as the black shroud slipped upward, revealing the familiar features you hadn’t realized you’d memorized in your mind: the sharp, mischievous grin, the dark hair framing his face, the green eyes glinting with that same intoxicating charm.

“G-Geto?” Your voice cracked, disbelief tangled with relief and lingering arousal.

He chuckled, leaning closer, lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Yeah… it was me, all along.”

Your body, still sensitive and aching, shivered at the revelation. The faceless predator, the teasing, the dominance—it had all been him, your boyfriend, letting you play out a fantasy while keeping that delicious uncertainty alive.

“I… I didn’t know…” you murmured, fingers curling around his shoulders, eyes locked on his as your breathing slowly returned to normal.

“I know,” he said, voice gentle now, hands running along your sides. “But now you do. And I think you’ve earned another reward for being such a good little slut for me.”

And just like that, the faceless Ghostface was gone, replaced by the man you knew, trusted, and craved—still dominating, still intoxicating, but now fully, undeniably, yours.

Geto’s hand stayed at your hip, firm but no longer restraining. His other slid from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip as he watched your dazed, trembling expression. That smile—the one you’d been both terrified of and drawn to all night—was now soft, curved with dark promise.

“You wanted Ghostface,” he murmured, dragging his thumb slowly down your neck, tracing the path his knife had teased earlier. “But you get me too. Both of us. Right here.”

Your breath hitched as he shifted his hips, the slow, deliberate grind of his cock inside you making your walls flutter all over again. He leaned down, forehead nearly touching yours. His voice was still low, teasing, the modulator gone but the predator’s cadence still in his tone.

“Tell me, sweetheart…” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Now that you know it’s me, do you still want to be scared?”

The way he said it sent a bolt of heat straight to your core. You nodded, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes,” you whispered. “I want—”

He cut you off with a slow, deep thrust that made your voice break into a moan. “Good,” he said. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Geto withdrew almost completely, dragging the tip of his cock along your entrance, circling your clit with the head in lazy, maddening strokes, just enough pressure to make you arch and whine but never enough to let you tip over.

“You’re going to take it,” he murmured, voice dipping darker, “slow, deep… and you’re going to look at me while you do.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he pressed forward again, this time bottoming out with one long, unhurried stroke. The mask lay discarded on the floor, but the energy in his eyes was still the same—predatory, knowing, in complete control.

He started to move, not fast but steady, each thrust rolling through you like a slow tide, a deliberate push and pull that made your body tremble with need. His thumb returned to your clit, circling lazily, keeping you on the knife’s edge just like before.

“Every time you squeeze around me like that…” he growled, dipping his head to bite gently at your neck, “…you tell me how bad you want it.”

You gasped, back arching, your hips rolling up into his in a rhythm you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. The mix of the fantasy and the reality—the mask gone but the dark roleplay still alive—was making you dizzy.

Geto smirked down at you, sweat-damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead. “I’m going to ruin you properly now,” he said, voice a promise and a threat. “No more phone calls. No more guessing. Just me. Just this.”

And with that, he rolled his hips faster, harder, the teasing gone but the psychological hold still there—his eyes locked on yours, daring you to look away, daring you to give in completely.

Geto’s hands roamed your body with deliberate intent, every touch igniting a fire that had been simmering since the first phone call. His eyes, no longer hidden, were full of possession and dark desire, a mirror of your own want.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he murmured, lips brushing over yours in a searing kiss. “Let me show you how much I’ve wanted this… all along.”

He slid fully into you in one powerful thrust, your walls clenching around him as a gasp tore from your throat. Every nerve, every ounce of tension built over the night, snapped and burned, spiraling into a wave of release that left you trembling.

“Geto—fuck!” you cried, nails digging into his shoulders as your orgasm tore through you, fierce and unstoppable.

He didn’t pull back, riding you through it, slow and steady at first, then with more intent, pushing you higher again and again. Another wave hit, then another, each one more intense than the last, until your body shook violently beneath him.

“You’re mine,” he growled, hips snapping with the final thrust, cock buried deep, voice thick with satisfaction. “Completely. Never forget it.”

The last tremors passed, and for the first time all night, you felt yourself fully collapse into him, chest pressed together, breath mingling, hearts racing in unison. The mask lay on the floor, forgotten—its role played, its thrill spent—but the memory lingered, a delicious reminder of how he’d teased, tempted, and claimed you.

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, hands smoothing along your back. “Trick or treat?” he whispered, voice low and teasing.

You laughed breathlessly, shaking your head against his chest. “Best Halloween ever,” you murmured, and for once, the storm outside didn’t matter. You had everything you wanted right here, in his arms.

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The heavy sound of rain hitting the car and the muffled croon of Sade’s Smooth Operator spilling from the radio had Y/N sinking deeper into her mood. She sighed, resting her head against the cool glass of the window, watching red taillights smear against the night. Traffic was at a standstill, and it drove her insane.

The night wasn’t supposed to be like this. Right now, she should’ve been wrapped in her man’s arms, getting her back blown out, not stuck in the back of a cab for what felt like hours.

Her phone lit up, pulling her out of her thoughts. Her chest ached when Nanami’s name flashed across the screen. He was probably worried — she had texted almost an hour ago saying she was on her way.

“Hey baby, are you okay? Where are you?” His deep, steady voice asked, laced with concern.

“Yeah, Nanami. I’m okay, just stuck in traffic. I didn’t think the weather was supposed to get this bad,” she murmured, sighing again.

As if the heavens wanted to mock her, a crack of lightning lit up the sky. She winced, groaning under her breath. Had she just listened and waited until tomorrow like Nanami suggested, she wouldn’t be sitting here sulking. But it had been two weeks since she last saw him, and she had a surprise she couldn’t wait to show him.

The memory made her shift in her seat. Under her trench coat, she wore the lilac open-cup playsuit she’d noticed him eyeing at the mall. The delicate bow draped low enough to cover where the crotch was cut open. It was daring, shameless — and she knew Nanami would lose his mind when he saw her in it. With nine-inch clear stilettos to top it off, there was no way he’d deny her tonight.

“It’s not your fault, babe,” she teased into the phone, voice dipping into a sultry lilt. “I’m just bummed. I was so excited to show you your surprise.”

She smiled when she heard him suck in a breath. He didn’t know what it was, but he already knew it was something dangerous.

“Oh yeah? What is it?” His voice dropped lower, gravelly.

She twirled a braid around her finger, lips curling. “Wouldn’t you love to know, Mr. Kento.”

Her giggle cut short at the sound of a low chuckle — not from her phone, but from the front seat.

Her gaze shot up to the rearview mirror, and her heart skipped.

A pair of sharp green eyes stared back at her, glinting with amusement. His lips curved into a smirk, the faint scar over them only adding to the chill that prickled down her spine. Heat rushed to her cheeks as embarrassment set in. She’d forgotten herself — forgotten she wasn’t alone.

The driver’s eyes roamed boldly over her reflection, undressing her in the mirror before he looked back up and licked his lips slowly. Then he winked.

Y/N’s eyes widened, and she turned quickly to the window, trying to swallow down the way her pulse hammered in her throat.

“You there, babe?” Nanami’s voice pulled her back.

Clearing her throat, she sat up straighter. “Yeah, sorry. Just… lost in thought. I’ll let you know when I’m close, okay?”

Nanami hesitated. “Be careful. I love you.”

“I love you too.” She ended the call quickly, unaware of the driver’s gaze still burning against her.

Another thirty minutes crawled by. They had only inched forward, rain still hammering down. Her patience was worn thin when the man’s voice finally broke through the silence.

“You good back there, sweets?”

Her head snapped up, and she got a proper look at him as he turned slightly in his seat. He was worse in full view. Mid-length dark hair framed a face that was both sharp and alluring. Pale skin stretched over muscles that strained his black compression shirt. Broad. Solid. Dangerous.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she replied quickly, looking back out the window. “I’ll be better once I get to my destination.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “Shouldn’t you be home, snuggled under the covers with your man? I know I wouldn’t let my woman out in weather like this.”

Her thighs pressed together before she could stop herself. His eyes flicked down, catching the motion.

“Excuse me, sir,” she snapped, heat rising in her cheeks. “My personal business is none of your concern. Just focus on driving.”

His lips tugged into another smirk as his tongue swiped slow across the scar. He leaned back casually, voice smooth.

“Toji.”

Her brows knitted. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be sorry. Be careful.” He grinned wider. “The name’s Toji, sweetheart. Don’t forget it.”

She glared, fire blazing in her eyes. If looks could kill, he’d be a dead man. But he just seemed entertained by it, gaze hungry as it lingered.

“Look, Toji. I don’t want to sit here and entertain any conversation about my life. Let’s keep it silent.”

“Silent, huh?” His voice dripped with amusement. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

When she didn’t respond, he glanced at her again, eyes glinting. “Okay, so no conversation. What if we passed the time… another way?”

Her breath caught. She shifted in her seat before she could stop herself. His smirk deepened.

“Bingo,” he thought.

Y/N met his gaze in the mirror, heart hammering.

“And just what exactly,” she asked carefully, “are you suggesting?”