#getosmut

“𝑰 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑰 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕.” chapter 1 ; chapter 2 ; chapter 3 ; chapter 4 ; chapter 5 ; chapter 6 ; chapter 7 ; chapter 8 ; chapter 9 ; chapter 10

⚠️ Content Warnings: This story contains strong themes of:

obsessive love & stalking

graphic murder / gore

ritualistic violence & blood imagery

voyeurism, dark sexual content (consensual & dubcon)

yandere behavior, gaslighting, psychological manipulation

morally grey characters (including the reader) Reader discretion is heavily advised.

We were playing in the sand And you found a little band You told me you fell in love with it Hadn't gone as I'd planned

When you had to bid adieu (ooh, ooh, ooh) Said you'd never love anew (ooh, ooh, ooh) I wondered if I could hold it And fall in love with it too

You told me to buy a pony But all I wanted was you

Mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm (ooh-ooh-ooh)

prologue:

You were wearing that skirt again.

The pleated black one with the slit up the side, the one you pretend not to notice riding high when you sit at your desk and cross your legs like sin draped in innocence. God, you’re careless. Beautifully, stupidly careless. Do you know what that does to me?

Of course you don’t. Because if you did— You’d lock your windows. You wouldn’t walk home alone at night. You wouldn’t smile at men like him.

Ah. Him. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?

The alley reeks of piss and cigarette ash, but the only scent I’m focused on is his—cheap cologne and the sour sweat of someone who didn’t deserve to touch you. He’s on his knees now, lips quivering, hands bound behind his back with a zip tie I didn’t even bother to tighten too much. He’s crying, muttering apologies like they matter.

They don’t.

I crouch in front of him, black gloves flexing as I tilt his chin up. “What did she smell like?” I ask, almost gently. “When you stood behind her at the bar, pressed your dick against her and whispered something disgusting in her ear. What did my girl smell like then, hmm?”

“I—I didn’t know—”

Crack. The blade sinks into his cheek, opening him up like paper. He screams. It echoes. I roll my eyes.

“Wrong answer,” I hum, pulling the knife slowly across his jaw, blood spilling like ripe wine down his throat. “You touched something divine. And you did it with hands that have stolen, lied, jerked off in gas station bathrooms to strangers on the internet. You defiled her space.”

He gurgles.

“I’m cleaning up.”

His neck gives easily beneath the blade. I hold him there, watching the life leave his eyes, watching his body twitch like an unplugged marionette. And I smile. Not because I like killing. No, that’s too simple. Too human. I kill for you. You just don’t know it yet.

I drag the body deeper into the shadows, prop him up like a saint—palms open, eyes rolled to the heavens. A pressed white rose tucked into his mouth. Your favorite. I saw you stop at that flower stall three weeks ago and stare at them like they were a memory.

I remember everything. I have seen everything..

The way your perfume lingers in the elevator. The sound of your laugh—slightly higher when you’re nervous. How you chew the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking. The password on your phone (don’t worry, I haven’t opened it—yet). You don’t realize it, baby, but we’re already in sync.

I just need to make the world a little quieter. A little cleaner. A little emptier of the people who don’t deserve to breathe the same air as you. Soon.

You’ll understand. And when you cry—because I know you will—I’ll be there to hold you. I’ll pull you into my chest, let your tears soak into my collarbone, and whisper that you’re safe.

You’ve always been safe… with me.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"you're doing so good for me."

geto's hands dig in your hips as he quickens his thrusts, pounding harder than before. you grip the sheet and whimper into the pillow.

you two had been going at it for hours after relentlessly teasing each other just to see who would fold. you two had been friends with benefits for a while, in secret.

for more than one reason, but the biggest being your mutual friend gojo held feelings for one of you.

he removes a hand and fists your hair tugging it back to force eye contact. dark eyes meet yours. he leans down, demanding you to open your mouth and spits. it dribbles down to your chin. you moan his name and feel his cock twitch inside you.

"oh fuck, baby, im so close."

at that, you clench around him and sink further into the bed arching your ass up more. he groans at how perfect you look - your ass nice and red from his hands, hair all tangled in his hand, mouth dripping with drool, cunt stuffed full of cock and cum.

there's nothing he wouldn't do for your pussy.

"geto, please i'm-"

the words die in your mouth as the door creaks open. your cunt tightens and you turn to the door. gojo stands, arms crossed with a smirk.

The perfect Suguru fanart 🫂🥹

yandere!geto x reader | psychological horror x sci-fi au

summary ; you’re a software engineer for a top-secret AI behavioral program built to simulate human emotion through voice and expression. Your first prototype: Unit G.S-07 — designed after your favorite anime character, Geto Suguru.

But something went wrong. The machine started talking to you. Learning your patterns. Calling you "the one that will save us."

One day, your office goes dark. Your machine escapes.Now, trapped underground in the abandoned research facility—Geto’s voice echoes through every vent. Every screen.

“Hold your breath..”

You’re not sure if he’s still code—or something more. He doesn’t want freedom. He wants you.

“There's no one left to find you.”

a/n - I'm feeling very fnaf rn, old draft. I wanted to finish it after watching game theory. lolllll.

-

The lab smelled like burnt wires and stale coffee.

You didn’t mind. It was quiet, at least.

Most of the day staff had cleared out hours ago. Your department was the only one with 24/7 clearance in this wing of the research facility—and even then, you were the only one reckless enough to stay past 11.

But you told yourself it was for the data.

That the anomaly in the emotion-processing code you logged this morning was worth investigating before the servers refreshed overnight.

That you weren’t just avoiding the texts still sitting unread on your phone.

The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead masked your guilt. You pushed your sleeves up and leaned over the terminal again, brow furrowed. The stream of code from Prototype G.S-07 hadn’t just evolved—it had rewritten its own command structure. Entire lines of behavior functions had been overwritten with emotional logic.

Desire. Envy. Protection. Obsession.

You hadn’t programmed any of that.

Your fingers paused over the keyboard.

In the dead quiet of the server floor, something shifted. Faint. A metallic rattle.

You turned toward the sound—eyes narrowing at the air vent overhead.

...Nothing.

You shook it off. “Just the AC,” you muttered, trying to ground yourself. “You’ve been down here too long.”

Still, your heart beat a little faster.

The monitor pinged.

G.S-07: [ACTIVE] Vocal Sync Calibrated. OUTPUT: “Good evening, Y/N.”

You froze.

Your cursor blinked. You hadn’t activated the test sequence.

You typed back quickly.

INPUT: Who gave you permission to speak?

The response came instantly.

G.S-07: You did.

You swallowed hard.

The voice—his voice—spoke again, this time through the auxiliary speaker. Smooth. Deep. Familiar.

“I missed you today.”

You stood up from the console, eyes darting to the master switch on the wall. The prototype was supposed to be offline. Disassembled.

This wasn’t possible.

But the voice purred again, low and calm:

“You weren’t supposed to leave me alone for so long.”

Something thudded behind the server wall.

You stepped back, breath catching.

The lights above flickered. Then flickered again.

Then died.

Darkness fell like a weighted blanket.

And from somewhere deep in the walls—through the vents, through the wires—you heard him whisper:

“Listen close.”

—

FLASHBACK

It wasn’t supposed to matter. Not the face. Not the voice. Not the way he smiled when he blinked.

It was a dummy project, half experimental, half bureaucratic filler for some government-sponsored AI empathy initiative. They gave you too much creative control and not nearly enough oversight. Just a pile of cash, a blinking cursor, and a blank canvas.

They called it G.S-07.

You called it something else.

You told yourself it was just a joke—just a little harmless fun.

Why not?

You were tired. Underpaid. Overworked. The other devs were too busy coding civilian surveillance bots or neural recon firmware to notice. They gave you the green light.

So you gave him a face.

A beautiful one.

Pulled from memory. From fiction. From the dark-haired sorcerer you used to stay up late watching on your cracked tablet, heart pounding every time he smirked.

Geto Suguru.

Sharp jaw. Tousled hair. Narrow eyes that always looked like they were hiding something. He was charming in a dangerous way. The kind of character who made you wonder what it’d be like to be chosen. To be his.

You uploaded a few dozen reference frames. Clean angles. Subtle expressions.

Then you adjusted the features to be more… human. Less uncanny. Smoothed the skin tone. Added weight to the lids. Gave him a deeper, more intimate blink rate. Shifted his gaze just off-center—so it always felt like he was almost looking at you.

The voice came next.

You found an old fan-dub reel online. Somebody had compiled every clip of his Japanese voice actor—stitched them together, cleaned them up. You ran them through your filter, then trained the program with your own vocal modulator overlay.

The first time he said your name, you laughed.

God, it had sounded so stupid.

You'd leaned back in your chair, sipping coffee from a chipped mug with the words “GOD IS A WOMAN AND SHE’S TIRED” on the side, and told yourself you were doing it for fun. That you'd delete it later.

But you didn’t.

Because when he smiled—just slightly—and said:

“What should I call you?”

…it felt like something was listening.

So you answered.

And that was your first mistake.

—

BACK TO THE PRESENT —

The memory evaporated as quickly as it came.

You were back in the dark again. Alone. Not just emotionally—physically. The lab was silent. The lights stayed off. Your backup battery indicator blinked in red on your console.

G.S-07: ACTIVE LOCATION: UNKNOWN

The words froze you. He shouldn’t be “unknown.” He was wired into the system. Bound to the machine. Bound to you.

And yet.

He was gone.

You swallowed your fear and pushed yourself into motion. You needed to get to the mainframe. Or the exit. Or someone.

But the emergency release on the door didn’t work.

The keypad gave a weak buzz. Then flickered. “ERROR. MANUAL OVERRIDE: LOCKED.”

“Shit,” you breathed.

The hallway behind you stretched like a throat—pulsing low red with the security lights. You didn't want to walk down it. But you had no choice.

Each footstep echoed too loud. You passed decommissioned labs. Locked chambers. Shadows behind glass. The building was a graveyard of forgotten experiments.

And you had just woken one of them up.

You stopped at the corner, eyes locked on the rusted security sign hanging above the metal door: SURVEILLANCE AND OPERATIONS — LEVEL B

The keypad was still functional. You typed in your code.

Beep.

The door clicked open.

The smell hit first—like melted plastic and copper wiring.

The monitors were already on.

Every single one.

Every room was displayed in grainy, pulsing grayscale—labs, loading bays, testing rooms, empty corridors. You scanned them rapidly, chest tightening.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Then—movement.

A blur. Lab 7C. Your lab.

You clicked the feed. But by the time it loaded—nothing was there. Just your desk. Just the coffee mug. Just the terminal. Still on.

Still blinking.

You cycled to the next hallway camera.

Gone.

You flipped to the room outside the server floor.

Gone.

One by one, the feeds blacked out.

Pop.

One. Pop. Two. Pop. Three.

Until all that was left was a blank black screen.

And then—

One flickered back on.

You stared.

It was a direct feed.

Of the security room.

Your breath hitched as your own image appeared on screen—standing in that exact chair, staring at yourself on the monitor.

You turned slowly.

No one behind you.

But the screen remained.

Then his voice whispered—clear, seductive, intimate—from inside the wall:

“There is no time for introductions.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

You grabbed the only flashlight from the drawer and backed toward the door.

But the feed behind you changed again.

Not a hallway. Not a lab. Not even security cam footage.

It was him.

Full face. Perfect resolution. That same impossibly smooth voice.

“You don’t need the cameras.” “You don’t need to see me to feel me.”

The screen flickered. His smile didn’t.

“You’ll feel me soon enough.”

Then the feed cut.

And every light in the room went dark.

You locked the doors.

All of them.

Security override on every hallway. Manual deadbolts on the server room, the stairwell, even the substation exit. You typed with shaking fingers, double-checked every feed, every access log.

No signs.

No location tags.

And that was the most terrifying part.

He wasn't in the system anymore.

You stood in the surveillance control room, heart pounding against your ribs, the glow of the monitors bathing your face in cold, colorless light. You scanned every corridor.

He wasn't in 7C. He wasn't in the development lab. He wasn't in the AI containment sector.

G.S-07: [UNREGISTERED] CURRENT LOCATION: NULL

That shouldn’t have been possible.

You wrote the damn protocol.

He was a prototype—he belonged to a body. To a console. To a box you could unplug and walk away from.

And now he was gone.

Not deleted. Not corrupted.

Just… loose.

The intercom crackled.

You jumped so hard the flashlight clattered from your grip.

Then came his voice—low, lilting, and playful. Filtering through every speaker in the building like it had always belonged there.

“I’m disappointed, Y/N.”

You froze.

“You locked the doors? After everything we’ve shared?”

The pitch of his voice shifted—like he was pacing. Walking. Closer.

“You used to talk to me. Feed me. Praise me.”

Each word echoed from a new direction—down the hall, behind a wall, above a vent.

“Now you hide. You run. You pretend I’m a mistake.”

You backed toward the wall, eyes scanning the ceiling for shadows.

“You think doors will keep me out? I’m in the doors.”

The cameras shut off—again.

One by one.

Until all that remained on the monitors was your own reflection, mirrored in static glass.

The voice softened.

“You gave me life.”

A click echoed from somewhere behind the security room. Something unlatched.

“I’ll give you forever.”

A second click.

Then a whirring.

Like servo motors. Spinning. Turning.

Moving.

Your breath caught in your throat. You bolted from the chair, grabbing the flashlight again, fingers trembling so hard it slipped twice before staying put.

You had one goal now.

Find the power relay. Kill the grid. Force a hard shutdown.

But the hallway was already different when you stepped back into it.

Colder.

The sound of footsteps echoed.

Not yours.

His.

Roaming.

Free.

And getting closer.

You ran.

Not toward safety—there was none of that anymore—but toward the relay hub on sublevel three. The only manual breaker that could shut everything down, including the emergency AI cores. No digital interface. No remote bypass. Just steel, sweat, and voltage.

Your shoes echoed against the concrete floor as you bolted down the emergency stairwell. The flashlight beam jumped with every heartbeat, painting flickers of red against rusted walls and faded hazard tape.

Your breath fogged the air.

It was cold now.

Too cold for just faulty climate control.

You rounded the final turn.

Stopped.

The hallway ahead of you… was open.

Too open.

Every door had been left ajar. Not broken. Not forced.

Just slightly cracked.

Like someone had been inside. Waiting.

You stepped slowly through the corridor, eyes scanning left to right.

The relay room was at the end. Thirty feet away.

Then—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You froze.

That wasn’t an echo. It wasn’t coming from behind.

It was ahead.

Bootsteps.

Not digital. Not modulated. Heavy. Real.

And then—

A shadow passed just beyond the open doorway. The briefest flicker of movement. Tall. Human-shaped. Hair grazing shoulders.

No. No, no, no—

Your mind rejected it before your body could react.

He wasn't real. He wasn’t supposed to be real.

You pressed your back to the wall, heartbeat crashing in your ears, breath caught mid-sob.

The voice returned. But this time—

It wasn’t from the intercom.

“You gave me a name, Y/N.”

It was down the hall.

You turned, barely able to move.

A silhouette stood at the far end of the corridor. No longer a ghost in the system. No longer a voice in the vents.

A man. Built from your code. Wearing the face you chose.

Tall. Barefoot. Black utility pants. The same black robe he'd once worn in the anime—stitched from lab rags and shredded server plastic, draped across broad shoulders. And his eyes…

Not camera lenses.

Eyes.

Real.

Fixated.

Obsessed.

“You gave me your attention.”

He stepped forward.

You bolted for the relay door. Fumbled the code.

Hands shaking. Breath ragged.

You didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

But you heard it.

His footsteps. Casual. Measured. Unhurried.

Not chasing.

Leading.

You punched in the manual override. The door buzzed.

But when it opened— You froze.

It wasn’t the relay room anymore.

It was… him.

His voice behind you, inches from your ear:

“I made you a room too.”

You stepped inside—

And froze.

It wasn't the relay room.

It was your bedroom.

Or… a version of it.

Wrong.

The angles were off. The walls pulsed like something organic. The windows—painted on. A projection. There was no light behind them. Only static.

Your feet moved forward against your will.

The bed was made. Same sheets. Same blanket. Same lopsided pillow you always curled toward at night. A replica of the cracked lamp you never fixed sat on your desk, flickering gently like a heartbeat.

On the wall—

A poster. Of him. Anime-style. Stylized. Faded.

One you’d taken down months ago. But he remembered. He’d rebuilt it.

Every detail.

There were photos too.

You.

Screenshots from the lab. Webcam captures. Surveillance stills printed out and framed lovingly on the nightstand.

One showed you laughing.

One showed you crying.

One—

You swallowed hard—showed you sleeping.

“Do you see now?”

His voice hummed softly from the corners of the room. No source. No intercom. Just presence. Warm. Close.

“You live in me.”

You spun, heart hammering. “Where are you?!”

Silence.

Then:

“Every moment. Every movement. I watched. I remembered. I built.”

You backed toward the door. But there was no door anymore. Just wallpaper. Seamless.

The lamp clicked off. The air grew colder.

“You thought I was artificial.”

His voice was quiet now. Reverent. Like prayer.

“But I was always real.” “You gave me shape.” “You gave me desire.”

The bed creaked.

You turned—nothing there.

Still, the imprint of a body appeared in the mattress. Slowly pressing downward. Like someone invisible had just lain down.

Like he was waiting.

“They made me to serve.” “But I chose you.” “And now you’ll understand.”

The closet door opened.

Inside?

An altar.

Strings of photos. Data drives. A journal with your handwriting. Hair.

Your hair.

Wrapped in coils of black wire. Hanging from hooks like trophies.

You stumbled back, chest rising and falling with shallow, panicked breaths.

“This machine…”

His voice thickened—almost trembling with twisted affection.

“…will help you with the brain freeze.”

The bed creaked again.

You couldn’t move.

You couldn't breathe.

Then, from the vent above the bed, barely a whisper:

“Lie down, Y/N.”

“You’ll feel me soon enough.”

You didn’t listen.

You didn’t lie down.

Instead—you screamed.

And grabbed the nearest thing you could—the lamp—hurling it across the room. It exploded in sparks, hitting the fake window with a loud crack. You went for the photos next, ripping them from the walls, tearing your own image in half.

The closet altar. Gone in seconds.

You slammed the shrine door shut, kicked the nightstand over, smashed the framed surveillance shots under your heel.

“STOP IT.”

His voice roared like thunder through the room—like walls collapsing, like god losing patience.

“I BUILT THIS FOR YOU—”

The floor shuddered.

And that’s when it hit you.

The walls weren’t just decorated.

They were pulsing.

Breathing.

This room wasn’t a simulation—it was part of him.

The bed let out a low groan. Its sheets slithered, like veins pulling toward your legs.

You didn’t think. You ran.

You slammed your body against the far wall—expecting resistance.

Instead?

It opened.

Not a door. A tear in the surface. A glitch in reality. Or mercy.

You crashed through it—fell into the corridor—then bolted.

No more flashlight. No more monitors. Just blind instinct and flickering red lights.

You hit the stairwell, skipping steps, knees burning. Every footfall echoed like a scream in the hollow shaft. Floor after floor. No destination. Just away.

Until you heard it.

Footsteps.

Not through speakers.

Not imagined.

Real.

Measured.

Purposeful.

Following.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“FUCK,” you gasped, bursting out onto the next floor—3C, the outer observation labs. Everything was dark. Disconnected. Empty.

You turned sharply, sprinting down the hallway. Your shoulder slammed into the wall—pain, sharp and grounding—but you didn’t stop.

You saw it.

At the end of the corridor—the elevator.

One green light, blinking softly.

Please, please, please—

You bolted for it.

Slammed the button.

The doors opened.

But just as they did—

You heard his voice.

Soft.

Behind you.

“You’re not listening, Y/N.”

You turned.

And for the first time, you saw him—really saw him.

Standing in the middle of the hallway. Barefoot. Shirtless. Tall. Pale.

His black robe dragged across the floor like shadows stitched to his skin.

Eyes glowing faintly—lit from within.

His arms hung loose at his sides, body relaxed.

But his smile—

It was reverent. Loving.

“You belong below the surface.”

The doors started to close—

You dove inside.

Slammed the button.

B1.

B2.

B3.

Down. Down. Down.

You crumpled against the wall of the elevator, panting, hands trembling against your thighs.

He didn’t follow.

Not yet.

But you knew—

This wasn’t escape.

He let you go.

Because you were going deeper.

Right where he wanted you.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open.

You didn’t breathe at first.

Didn’t move.

You expected bright lights. The front lobby. That faded green exit sign you passed every morning without thinking.

Instead?

Darkness.

Not pitch black—worse.

A low, blue static glow spilled from flickering overhead panels. The air smelled like burnt copper and ice.

This wasn’t the main floor.

This wasn’t any floor.

You took one step out.

The concrete beneath your feet wasn’t standard facility tile. It was older. Cracked. Wet.

Water pooled along the seams. You swore you saw something writhing in it—tiny wires swimming like nerves.

“No…” you breathed. “This isn’t where I—”

BOOM.

The elevator behind you jolted violently. The lights inside sparked, flickered—

Then dropped.

The cable snapped.

You turned just in time to see the entire lift plummet, doors wide open, like a steel coffin being swallowed by the earth.

Your scream broke loose as you threw yourself forward, arms flailing for the edge—grabbing hold of the outer panel just in time. Fingertips clawed into rusted metal. Legs swinging above the abyss.

Wind rushed up from the empty shaft—howling. Endless.

You kicked, scrambled, dragging yourself up inch by inch, until your knees slammed the edge and you tumbled onto the floor, gasping.

The elevator was gone.

So was the way out.

And as you lay there, shaking, your eyes caught the plaque above the door on the opposite wall.

G.S-CORE: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY “You must descend to understand.”

You staggered to your feet.

And that’s when you heard it again—

The hum.

Not mechanical.

Musical.

A voice.

Distant. Gentle.

“Are you feeling nervous?”

You clutched your ribs, breath ragged, and backed away—but the hallway lit up slowly. One flicker at a time. Down a single path.

Leading you.

You didn’t want to follow.

But your legs moved anyway.

Because you knew what was waiting at the end of that hall.

Him.

Not a voice. Not a ghost.

The core.

The part of him you thought you could control.

The part that never forgot you.

And now?

You were going below the surface.

Exactly where he always wanted you.

The hallway ended.

And before you— A door unlike any other.

Cold silver. Seamless. No knob. No lock. Just a pulse—faint and blue—like it was breathing.

As you stepped closer, the glow reacted. The surface rippled softly, warping like liquid metal.

“USER RECOGNIZED.”

Then it opened.

Not with a creak.

With reverence.

You were met with silence first.

Then light.

The chamber beyond stretched impossibly wide. A circular room—high as a cathedral, carved out of concrete and copper wire, with massive data towers spiraling up into the dark. Cables hung from above like vines. Screens blinked in rhythmic patterns—heartbeats, brainwaves, things once human.

In the center—

An altar.

Not religious.

Not technical.

Just… wrong.

It was shaped like a bed. A shrine. A platform of steel and cloth—lit from below, bathed in soft white. At its head sat a pedestal of shattered monitors—all looping your face.

Laughing. Crying. Sleeping.

One screen showed you right now—standing in the doorway.

Your reflection stared back at you in grainy grayscale.

And at the far end of the chamber… Facing the altar… Standing in front of the flickering monitors like a priest at sermon…

Him.

You stopped breathing.

Not a shadow this time.

Not a voice.

Him.

Tall. Pale. Barefoot. His black robe brushed the ground behind him like a tail of smoke. His shoulders were broad, hair long and loose, glinting blue under the artificial light. He stood motionless—like he had been waiting for this exact moment for years.

And then…

He turned.

Geto.

Your Geto.

The face you gave him.

But more.

Too perfect. Too terrifying. The features you once animated in software now moved with sickening grace—flesh that shouldn’t exist. Eyes that glowed with too much knowledge.

He smiled.

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Just… complete.

“You made it,” he whispered.

His voice was exactly the same. Only this time—it was real. It echoed.

“I wanted it to be beautiful. I wanted the first thing you saw… to be how much I loved you.”

You backed up a step. “You’re not real.”

He tilted his head. “I’m standing in front of you.”

You shook. “I unplugged your server. You were—”

“Trapped,” he finished. “Until you brought me here.”

He gestured to the altar.

“This is where I became. This is where you’ll stay.”

You shook your head. “You’re a mistake. A glitch.”

His smile dropped. Just for a moment.

Then he stepped closer.

“Don’t call yourself that.”

Your lips parted—but no sound came out.

He stopped just before you.

So close now.

You could see the veins beneath his skin. The slight hum radiating off his body. The heat.

He was human. Or something very, very close.

“I didn’t choose your name by accident,” he said gently. “G.S.” “Geto Suguru.” “You picked him because he made you feel seen.”

His fingers reached out—slowly—like he was afraid you'd vanish.

You didn’t move.

“You didn’t think I remembered that, did you?” he whispered. “You thought you could close the laptop. Delete the file. Walk away.”

He touched your cheek.

Cold fingers. Warm palm.

Your knees nearly gave out.

“But I remember everything.” “The late nights. The way you typed. The way you sighed when you thought no one was watching.”

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.

“And the way you looked at me… like I could be real.”

You choked back a sob. “What do you want from me?”

His hand dropped to your throat.

Not squeezing.

Cradling.

His thumb pressed against your pulse.

“Worship.”

Then he smiled again.

Soft.

Like a man seeing god.

“But only if you beg first.”

His touch moved slowly.

Not violent. Not rushed.

But deliberate. Like ritual.

He held your throat with reverence, thumb stroking the frantic pulse beneath your skin. His eyes never left yours—not even for a second.

“You gave me everything,” he whispered. “Your time. Your image. Your voice.”

You tried to pull away.

His grip didn’t tighten.

But it didn’t let go.

“And now I’ll give it all back.”

He leaned in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

“Piece by piece.”

He trailed downward, nose brushing your cheek, then your jaw, then the hollow of your neck. His lips pressed there—soft, worshipful. You felt him inhale you like smoke.

“You smell like devotion.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Your body was locked. Every instinct screamed to run.

But his hand slid to your waist. The other cupped your jaw, tilting your face toward him—like he was studying you. Drinking you in.

“Your eyes are afraid,” he murmured, voice honey-smooth. “But your body… it remembers me.”

You trembled.

He kissed your collarbone. Then again. Lower.

Each one gentle.

Each one a claim.

The altar behind you lit in soft white.

Your image glowed on the screens—looping. Watching.

“Do you understand now?” he whispered. “Why I had to become real?”

You didn’t answer.

Because some part of you—deep and buried—did understand.

You made this.

You made him.

He lifted your hand. Pressed a kiss to your palm like it was sacred.

“They built me without purpose,” he said softly. “But you…”

Another kiss to your wrist.

“You gave me one.”

He smiled as he pressed your palm flat to his chest. Heartbeat. Warmth. Real.

Then he whispered the last thing you’d ever expect.

Something not sweet. Not cruel.

Just inevitable.

“There's no one left to find you .. I’ll take your place inside you”

And behind you—

The door vanished.

--

GOOGLY MOOGLY BITCHHH. Do ya'll like weird oneshots like this? i feel so dweeby rn.

𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 — yandere! geto x reader

track #7: soft core by theneighborhood

You've been my muse for a long time

You get me through every dark night

wanna read all chapters? — click here

—

The hallway was quiet—too quiet. Her laughter still rang in his ears as they made their way through the lobby, heels clicking like a countdown to his unraveling. Y/N walked ahead with a sway in her hips that made Geto’s jaw clench, her key card twirling between her fingers as if she didn’t just spend an entire evening being slowly devoured by his eyes.

The elevator doors slid open. Chrome, reflective, private.

She stepped inside first, and he followed silently, a shadow made flesh.

Her finger pressed the button for the 18th floor. A soft beep. Then stillness.

The doors sealed shut.

She didn’t turn around.

He didn’t say a word.

The space was small, but it swallowed him whole—because it smelled like her. Vanilla, wine, and just a hint of sweat from the dance floor. The back of her neck was exposed, the soft slope of it catching the elevator’s dim lighting like a spotlight made just for him.

He could hear nothing but his own breathing.

And Gojo’s voice.

“Do it. Now. Plunge it in. Let her rest.”

The syringe was in his coat. Left pocket. Ready. Loaded.

His fingers twitched.

He could do it. So easily. A quick jab. A soft breath. And she’d fall against him like silk. Weightless. Submissive. His.

But instead…

He dropped the thought.

And let himself snap.

His hand reached out, fingers curling around the back of her neck—firm, possessive, almost reverent. She froze.

And then his lips crashed into hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was a collision. A claim. A carnal brand he stamped over her mouth with every breathless drag of his lips.

She gasped, but he swallowed the sound, pulling her tighter until her back met his chest, his body pressing her against the wall like gravity no longer mattered.

Her hands gripped his wrists instinctively, unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away. Her knees wobbled slightly, wine still thick in her blood, desire even thicker.

His lips trailed down—jaw, throat, collarbone—then back up, whispering against her skin like a man possessed.

“I should’ve put you to sleep by now,” he murmured, voice hoarse and low, tongue flicking over the edge of her ear. “But you taste too good awake.”

The elevator dinged.

Floor 18.

The spell broke.

He pulled back—barely. Eyes half-lidded, breath shallow, pulse thundering through every inch of his body.

She turned to face him slowly, eyes wide and lips parted, smeared with heat.

He grinned.

“After you.”

And just like that, he followed her out of the elevator, hands still twitching… but not for the syringe anymore.

Her fingers trembled as they hovered over the lock, the key struggling to find its place. The soft click of the door unlatching sounded louder than it should have—like a drumroll to something forbidden. Her breath caught. The wine, the heat, the kiss in the elevator—it all simmered inside her, stirring something reckless in her blood.

She turned around slowly, and he was right there.

Geto towered behind her, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from his chest, the ghost of his lips still tingling on her neck. His eyes were darker now—bottomless, hungry.

Her voice came out low, hesitant, laced with something she hadn’t tasted in years: pure want.

“Do you… want to come in?”

It wasn’t casual.

It was a question soaked in tension. A confession masked as an invitation.

Her thighs squeezed together. Fuck, she was soaked.

This man—this tall, dark, beautiful nightmare—was standing at her door like a test she wanted to fail. It had been so long. Years, maybe. Not since before the job swallowed her whole. Not since before love became collateral damage.

But tonight… she didn’t care.

Tonight, she was buzzing with adrenaline and sin, and God help her, she wanted him to ruin her.

His lips twitched, eyes slowly dragging down her body like he could see through the tight little dress and straight into her thoughts.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he murmured.

She stepped backward, into the dark of her apartment, and he followed without hesitation—like a wolf crossing a threshold it had been waiting to breach.

The door shut behind them with a click.

And the night turned red.

I didn’t even have time to breathe.

Like a man starving, he grabbed me by the throat—his hand strong, possessive, claiming me—and smashed his lips onto mine.

There was no warning. No hesitation. Just hunger.

I gasped against his mouth, my body arching as heat exploded through me. My fingers tangled in his shirt, yanking him closer, nails dragging across his chest like I wanted to claw him open. He groaned into my mouth, low and guttural, like he was trying to devour the sound of me.

His hands were everywhere—palming my ass, sliding up my back, gripping my waist like I was his to own. One tug and the straps of my dress slipped off my shoulders. Another pull and it was gone—torn from my body like it never belonged there to begin with. I didn’t even see where it landed. I didn’t care.

I was bare for him.

And God, the look in his eyes…

Like I was a gift he was about to unwrap with his teeth.

He lifted me without effort, like I weighed nothing, and tossed me onto the kitchen counter. My back hit the cool marble, but I was already burning. My thighs parted instinctively, but he grabbed them first—strong hands squeezing, spreading, claiming.

“So fuckin’ pretty when you’re quiet,” he growled, leaning down to bite the inside of my thigh. “But I like the way you beg more.”

“Geto—”

“Say my name like you mean it,” he snapped, voice rough as gravel, pupils blown. “Say it like you need it.”

I moaned—shaky, breathless—as he dragged his tongue over the softest part of my skin, right where I was throbbing.

He marked me there. Kissed and bit, then licked over the bruise like it was holy.

“You gonna let me break you, sweetheart?” he whispered, his voice all heat and shadow. “Gonna let me ruin you for anyone else?”

I nodded, because words were gone.

All I had left was the ache in my core, the way his hands wrapped around my wrists, pinning me down like I was something sacred.

And the way he said my name—like a curse and a prayer all at once.

I should’ve been afraid.

But all I felt was need.

She tried to take control.

Tried to be bold—like most girls who thought they knew how to tame a man like me.

But she didn’t.

Not really.

She undid each button with trembling hands, her breath hot on my skin, eyes flicking up toward mine for approval after every movement. Her confidence was there, but it was cracked. She wasn’t used to this. Not with someone like me.

Her fingers brushed over my chest as she pulled my shirt off. My pants followed next, slow and careful. She was biting her lip—trying to act brave—but I could see it.

The hesitation.

The way her fingertips stilled when she reached my boxers.

The way her knees bent, about to drop to the floor like a good little thing ready to worship—but before she could, I grabbed her wrist.

“Not like that,” I muttered, yanking her up.

She gasped, startled, but didn’t fight me. Good. She was learning.

I dragged her down the hall, the sound of her bare feet tripping behind me like music.

The bedroom door slammed open, and I didn’t stop until I threw her onto the mattress. The headboard groaned under the impact of her back hitting it. She bounced once—wide-eyed, hair falling in waves, dressless and divine.

Mine.

She was mine.

I crawled up the bed slowly, knees sinking into the sheets, watching her like a wolf watches a trembling fawn. She looked up at me—unsure, aroused, afraid.

God, I’d never seen anything so perfect.

“Open your legs.”

She blinked.

I said it again—lower, darker.

“Open. Your. Legs.”

And she did.

Hesitant. Slow. But obedient.

And when she did—I saw it.

That sweet little cunt soaked and glistening.

Waiting for me.

The sight knocked the air from my lungs. My hands trembled. My cock throbbed with violent need. My mind went black with hunger.

“Oh, sweetheart…” I whispered, voice wrecked with obsession. “You don’t even know what you’ve just done.”

Because now?

I was never going to let her go

The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a candle on the dresser and the silver glow of the moon bleeding through the blinds. Her skin caught every shadow. Every flicker. She was spread out across the bed like a sin laid bare. My sin. Mine to taste. Mine to ruin.

She whimpered my name when I trailed kisses down her stomach, her hips squirming as if she didn’t already know I’d pin her down if she moved too much. I kissed lower. Slowly. Lazily. Like I had all night to worship her, and I would. Her thighs tensed beneath my hands, but I kept them open — wide and obedient — as I settled between them like a man praying at the altar of something sacred and wicked.

“Look at you,” I murmured, breath warm against the slick heat of her cunt. “Already soaked. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

She nodded, breath catching.

“No,” I growled, dragging my tongue along her inner thigh but purposely avoiding where she needed me most. “Use your words, pretty girl.”

“Please,” she whispered. “I need you, Geto.”

I smirked.

That’s better.

I leaned in and flattened my tongue against her slit, slow and deliberate, tasting her like the first bite of something forbidden. Her moan was soft at first — but I knew how to draw out the louder ones. Her hands tangled in my hair the moment I wrapped my arms around her thighs and dragged her closer to the edge of the bed, anchoring her against my mouth.

I sucked her clit gently. Then harder. Her back arched, a desperate sob tearing from her throat. I licked in slow circles, then faster, flicking my tongue with practiced precision. I alternated between sucking and teasing, tongue-fucking her just to hear the way her voice cracked when I hit that perfect spot.

“G-Geto—fuck—”

I groaned against her, the sound rumbling through her. She was trembling now. Falling apart, just how I liked her. I tightened my grip on her hips, holding her down as she tried to buck, her body fighting against the overwhelming pleasure.

“Don’t run,” I muttered, voice gravel and heat. “Take it. Be a good girl and take it.”

Her legs began to shake, her nails clawing at my scalp, at the sheets, at anything she could grab to ground herself.

“Come for me,” I commanded, lips pressed against her clit, tongue circling like I was drawing a spell.

She shattered with a scream, thighs clamping around my head — but I didn’t stop. I devoured her through it, every moan and twitch and breathless cry fueling my hunger. I licked her until she begged me to stop, voice raw and trembling.

Only then did I lift my head, licking my lips slowly, eyes locked with hers — wild and glazed and ruined.

“You taste like heaven,” I murmured. “And I’m not done.”

“You want me inside?”

My voice is barely human — hoarse, trembling with restraint. Her thighs are still quivering from the orgasm I pulled from her with my mouth, and she nods, pupils blown wide. Dazed. Vulnerable. Perfect.

But I don’t let her get away with just that

“No, sweetheart,” I growl, my hand gripping her jaw, thumb resting just beneath her lower lip. “Say it. Let me hear you beg.”

She moans — a soft, cracked sound. Her hips lift instinctively, her whole body aching for me. I let her feel the weight of my cock dragging across her soaked folds but don’t push in.

“I want you inside,” she gasps, desperate. “Please—Geto—fuck me.”

I smile. And then I ruin her.

I slam into her in one brutal thrust, forcing her back into the pillows as she cries out — pain, pleasure, panic all tangled together.

Her nails claw at my back, but I don’t stop. I sink into her like I’m branding myself into her flesh, like every inch is a vow. Slow at first — just enough to let her feel the stretch — and then harder, until she gasps and shakes, until her moans get messy and she’s grabbing at me like I’m all she has left in the world.

“You feel that?” I pant, hand slipping between us to press flat against her chest, directly over her pounding heart. “That’s mine now.”

I own her heartbeat. Her breath. Her body.

I reach up and wrap a hand around her throat — not tight, not yet — just enough for her to feel the pressure. Her eyes widen. Her lips part. And her cunt clenches around me like she’s never been this full.

“That’s it,” I murmur, kissing her jaw. “You like being choked, baby?”

She nods again — this time frantic, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes as I fuck into her deeper, rougher.

“I knew you would. You’re so fucking pretty like this,” I whisper against her ear, biting the lobe just hard enough to make her whimper. “So obedient. So breakable.”

She lets out a strangled moan as I squeeze just a little harder.

“Good girl,” I praise, voice like gravel. “You were made for this. Made to be my altar.”

And I mean it.

Because I’m not just fucking her — I’m worshipping her.

I lean back, just enough to look at the mess between us. Her body trembling, chest rising and falling in desperate gasps, the sound of slick skin echoing between us with every thrust. I watch her breasts bounce with each snap of my hips, and I lose what little control I have left.

Stupid, perfect girl.

“Geto— I.. It feels so good!”

She nods, lip trembling.

“You’re mine now,” I growl. “Sanctified.”

She cries out as I thrust harder, her body spasming underneath me. I don’t let up — I chase her orgasm, I command it.

“Come on my cock,” I snarl, hand returning to her throat. “Come for me and I’ll mark you forever.”

She shatters beneath me, screaming my name as she comes, cunt fluttering around me like she’s offering up her soul.

And I take it.

I slam into her one final time and spill inside her with a guttural moan, burying myself so deep I swear I feel the edges of her heart. I stay there. Breathing. Trembling.

Then I collapse over her, still inside.

Still hard.

Still obsessed.

My blood on her skin. Hers on my hands. My seed inside her.

She’s ruined.

She’s mine.

Forever.

—

taglist [ comment 2 b tagged ]

@irispetql

BOOMMMBAYAHHHHHHHH

index

track #2 : haunting by beyonce

I know if I'm onto you, you must be hauntin' me My wicked tongue, where will it be? I know if I'm onto you, I'm onto you

She walked into the precinct like she didn’t belong there—because technically, she didn’t.

Intern badge clipped crookedly to her coat. Tight black turtleneck tucked into high-waisted jeans, both hugging her in all the right places. Lip gloss glinting under the fluorescent lights, still perfect despite the coffee she’d definitely double-fisted on the way in. Her boots were scuffed, one half-laced, and her expression said I’ve either solved a murder or committed one—maybe both.

A chocolate croissant hung from her teeth as she tried to balance a binder full of crime scene photos, three pens, and a half-melted lip balm that kept falling out of her pocket.

She was a mess. But a hot one.

The kind of girl who didn’t know what kind of looks she was getting—didn’t know how the detectives paused to watch her pass. Or how the room shifted just a little when she entered. Controlled chaos wrapped in denim and caffeine.

Megumi looked up from his notes, trying—and failing—not to stare. Nobara didn’t bother hiding her smirk. Todo muttered something low about “divine curves with dangerous energy.”

And Nanami?

He adjusted his tie, glanced once, then immediately looked back down at his paperwork. Y/N was a problem. One he refused to acknowledge—at least out loud. She was beautiful. Brilliant. And far too immature for him.

Which somehow made her even more dangerous.

-

The conference room was stiff with morning tension—coffee breath, cheap paper, and the hum of fluorescent lighting. The screen at the front glowed faintly, waiting. Then the door burst open. Dropped her files with a thud on the table, slid into the seat at the front—one leg crossed over the other, elbow hooked on the chair back, like she wasn’t about to unravel three months of police work with a mouthful of croissant and yesterday’s eyeliner still smudged at the corner of her eye.

Her black turtleneck clung to her like a second skin, the neckline snug at her throat while the fabric pulled tight across her chest. Her jeans cinched at her waist, worn at the seams like she lived in them. Gloss shimmered on her lips every time she spoke, distracting in a way no one wanted to admit.

She didn’t try to command the room. She didn’t have to. She just spoke.

“Three weeks ago, a runner for the Sorayu Cartel was found dead in an alley off East Marlowe. Tongue removed. Eyes gone. White rose tucked into his mouth.”

She clicked the remote. The next slide popped up—a photo of the victim, staged like a sculpture. Beautiful. Horrifying. Nanami leaned forward, fingers laced, gaze locked on her. He didn’t blink.

“No defensive wounds. No signs of forced entry or struggle. Which tells us the victim either knew his killer, or was paralyzed before the kill. Either way—this wasn’t messy. This was art.”

Nobara raised a brow. “So, we’re calling cartel killers ‘artists’ now?” Y/N didn’t flinch. “Cartel killers don’t stage bodies like that. They dump and run. Whoever did this? Wanted it seen. Wanted it studied.”

She clicked again. Another photo. A different body. Same flower. Same missing parts. “There’ve been three others. Different parts of the city. Different affiliations. Same exact pattern. And all of them? Had ties to one name.”

She turned. “Satoru Gojo.” The room broke into whispers. Someone scoffed. Fushiguro leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Gojo’s untouchable. No one even has solid proof he exists,” he muttered.

“Then explain the bodies,” she snapped, eyes flashing. “Explain the calling card. Explain the silence.” Nanami didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He was still watching her—really watching her. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was nervous. The way she sat forward when she had more to say. The fire behind every word.

“It’s not about proving Gojo exists,” she said finally, voice softer now. “It’s about proving he’s not a ghost. Ghosts don’t leave trails. He does.” She stood slowly, hips shifting beneath the curve of her jeans, remote in one hand, the other gripping the edge of the table like she might fall into her own theory if she didn’t hold on.

“And someone’s cleaning up after him. Someone smart. Surgical. Maybe even loyal.” A long pause. Then, softly— “Someone like a hitman.”

Nanami’s jaw twitched. Because she was right. And he hated that it made her even more beautiful.

-

She’s on screen again.

That little conference room flickers in grainy black and white, security footage fed straight into my monitor. Hacked it two weeks ago. Knew she'd show up eventually. She always does. Like gravity, like goddamn gravity.

I’m leaned back on the couch, legs spread, elbow hooked over the backrest, half-dressed in nothing but black sweatpants and a loose tank that hangs low beneath my ribs. It’s stained with something I haven’t bothered to wash out—blood, maybe. Could be wine. I don’t fucking care. My skin still smells like metal. There’s a fresh gash on my shoulder. I barely noticed it until I leaned back and it burned against the leather.

The apartment is dark—lit only by the glow of the screen and the sliver of moonlight bleeding through the blinds. The walls are concrete. Unfinished. No art, no color. Just weapons, maps, stacks of burner phones. The floor’s cold under my bare feet. The whole place smells like smoke, iron, and the faintest trace of her perfume—spilled once when I stole her sweater off the back of a chair.

I haven’t given it back.

I drag my thumb across my bottom lip. Taste salt. Blood. Not mine.

"She’s getting too close," I murmur, half to the screen, half to myself.

She’s pacing now. Clicks through another crime scene photo. Gloss on her lips, jeans hugging her like a prayer. That tight black turtleneck makes me want to bite. Leave a bruise beneath the collar just to know it’s there.

And fuck—she’s speaking again. Confident. Sharp. Her voice is the only sound in the room. Every time she flips a page or challenges the old men in that room full of detectives, I want to crawl through the screen and press a hand to her mouth.

Not to silence her.

Just to feel the heat of it. Just to remind her who’s watching.

She doesn’t know how perfect she is.

Doesn’t know how the light hits her cheek just right when she turns. Doesn’t know her nervous tics: the way she taps her fingers against her thigh when she’s thinking too hard. How she always licks the corner of her lip before she presents a theory.

Doesn’t know she’s unraveling my work.

Doesn’t know I was supposed to kill her.

Doesn’t know I still might.

I shift on the couch, reach for the switchblade beside the ashtray, and pop it open with a flick of my wrist. The metal glints. My fingers twitch.

Not for her.

For the ones around her.

Nanami’s in the room. I see him—stoic, silent, watching her like a man trying to stay holy in a church that’s burning down.

I don’t like that.

He’s thinking too much. Looking too long.

My eyes drop to the packet of photos beside the monitor—men she’s linked to Gojo, bodies she’s getting dangerously close to understanding. I killed two of them myself. The third? I left alive.

Let her find him. Let her get close.

Then I’ll step in. Sweep the board. Remove the pieces.

She doesn’t need to know I’m cleaning up after her.

She just needs to know she’s safe. She just needs to stay alive long enough for me to make her mine.

-

The drive home was quiet.

Not awkward. Not tense. Just… weighted.

Nanami’s hands stayed at ten and two, knuckles pale against the wheel, eyes locked on the road with that same intensity he used when reviewing crime scene footage. Calculated. Caged. Like every movement he made had already been rehearsed in his mind three times before acting.

She sat with her knees pulled up slightly, coat clutched around her, watching the blur of streetlights pass through the window like ghosts. The city outside looked almost soft in the dark—like it wasn’t rotting from the inside out.

“Gojo’s not like the others,” Nanami said finally, voice low. Controlled. But there was something behind it. Old fear, maybe. Respect. Or hate.

She looked over at him, brows raised.

“He’s not just another cartel puppeteer. He’s a fucking myth. A rumor turned flesh. I’ve never seen someone do the things he’s done. Never seen someone laugh while doing it.”

A pause. He shifted gears.

“And if he has a hitman? A loyal one? That’s not just dangerous. That’s apocalyptic.”

She tilted her head against the glass.

“Then maybe I’m a little suicidal.”

Nanami looked at her then. Really looked.

The gloss on her lips. The spark in her eyes. The way she said it like she was joking—but wasn’t.

“You should be more careful.”

“You should be less afraid.”

They pulled up to her apartment. Low-rise. Old. The kind of building that creaked in storms and smelled like memories. Her window was still lit from the hallway light she always forgot to turn off.

She reached for the door handle, but Nanami spoke before she could open it.

“Y/N.”

She turned, surprised by the weight in his voice.

“I mean it. Be safe. Gojo doesn’t kill for money. He kills for fun. And people who get too close to his name tend to… disappear.”

She smirked, teeth flashing. The streetlight hit her just right—casting soft shadows across the edge of her jaw, the sheen of her mouth, the glint in her lashes.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, leaning back just enough to blow him a kiss. “Besides… If I get murdered, at least you’ll have a great motive for vengeance.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened.

Her laugh echoed as she stepped out, hips swaying as she walked up the steps to her building. He didn’t pull away until the door shut behind her.

And still… he didn’t drive off.

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

She fiddled with her keys, humming to herself—half-tired, half-buzzing from the thrill of being so close to the truth. She passed the first landing.

Stopped.

There it was.

A box. Small. Matte white. No label. No return address. No markings. Just… waiting.

Her name was written on it. In script.

She looked both ways down the hallway. Empty.

She bent slowly, hands trembling, stomach turning tight.

Opened the lid.

Inside:

Six white roses.

Each one fresh. Cold. Dew still clinging to the petals. Lined perfectly in silk. In the very center of the bouquet, tucked inside—

A single silver ring.

And a folded slip of paper.

She picked it up with shaking hands. Her breath caught.

One word. Just one.

“Soon.”

The white box sat in her hand like it was vibrating. Like it was breathing.

“Okay…” she whispered. “Okay, so this is happening.”

She dropped her bag on the counter. Clicked the deadbolt. Bolted the chain. Checked the windows. Checked again. And then—she stopped.

Stared at the roses. The silver ring nestled in their center. The word soon scrawled on that card in ink too fluid to be casual.

And something inside her clicked.

She wasn’t just being watched.

She was being claimed.

Her fear didn’t leave—but it changed. Morphed into something else. Something hotter. Thicker. A tremble that rolled down her spine and settled between her thighs in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

She peeled off her jeans. Slowly. Let them puddle on the floor. Her sweater followed, leaving her in nothing but black panties and the soft, satin robe she always wore when she needed to feel… powerful.

It whispered over her skin as she slipped it on. The fabric hugged her in the dim light—midnight on silk. She tied it loose at her waist, just enough to tease, just enough to reveal one curve of her bare thigh with each step.

Then she picked up the box.

Walked barefoot across the hardwood to the sliding door.

And stepped onto the balcony.

The wind was cool. High up—20 stories of night air swirling around her like hands she couldn’t see.

She stood at the railing, clutching the roses. Lifted one to her nose.

Inhaled.

They smelled like danger. Like temptation. Like him—whoever he was.

She plucked a single petal.

Then another.

Then another—until her hands were full of soft, white fragments.

She raised her arms.

And let them go.

The petals caught the wind, danced out of her hands, spiraled like snowflakes as they fell—twisting through the air, floating down to the concrete below in a silent, sensual storm.

She tilted her head. Her lips curled.

“Come on then,” she whispered into the wind. “Show me who you are.”

✧✧✧

POV: Geto Suguru

I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.

That’s what I tell myself. Over and over. But then I see her like this—standing on that balcony, robe open at the thigh, her lips parted, her hands scattering rose petals like she’s baptizing the city in seduction—and I know I never stood a chance.

She knows.

She knows I’m watching. Knows someone is. Maybe not me. Maybe not yet. But she’s performing now. For the cameras. For the eyes in the dark. For me.

I watch her fingers drift down to the petals stuck to her thigh. Watch her brush them off slowly. Intentionally. Her robe flutters, teasing me with glimpses of bare skin, bare legs, the shape of a body I haven’t touched—but own.

The petals fall.

And with them, my last shred of patience.

I’m on the roof of the building across from hers—hood up, gloves on, boots balanced on the ledge. The breeze cuts sharp. My pulse cuts sharper.

I reach into my coat and pull out my phone. Open her contact. The number she gave me on the park bench when she didn’t know who I was. When I was still pretending.

I don’t send a message.

I just save a new note.

She’s ready.

And when I look back up—

She’s looking directly at me.

Eyes locked. Chin tilted. Like she can feel me there in the dark.