#secret santa gift 2022 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chickenparm · 2 years ago

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Freak (Ghostface/gn!Reader)

oh hey merry christmas. this is my secret santa gift to @dad-dumpster my beloved.

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AO3 Link

Ghostface/gn!Reader 3,663 Words - NSFW Phone sex, stalking, degradation, semi-public sexual acts, fingering, the mask stays on

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For tenpin, these are all 8.5 inches in diameter & can weigh up to 16 pounds

“What is a bowling ball. Duh.” A pause, then, “Damn I’m good. Maybe I should sign up for this shit, huh?”

The cat says nothing. It doesn’t even look at you. Why would it? Felines have no perception of Jeopardy Masters, even while being in the presence of one. Their loss, you suppose. Yours as well, considering you get the next question wrong.

With the rain rattling your window panes, the smell of a TV dinner and popcorn lingering in your apartment, and the thickest blanket you own wrapped around you, tonight’s shaping up to be a pretty good evening off. No plans with friends that you’d cancel at the last minute because they were made while you were in good spirits, no obligations, no work tomorrow-

Though, the blissful silence of your phone is interrupted by a phone call. The number isn’t familiar - its area code isn’t one that you recognize, but it’s not being marked as spam by whatever bullshit blocker came with the phone to begin with. So with a mouthful of popcorn and the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, you ask, “Hello?”

“Oh, you answered.”

“Thought about just letting it ring. Who is this? What do you want?”

“How rude.” As if cold-calling someone out of the blue wasn’t the definition of rude. But sure, go off mystery guy. He’s got a nice voice, even if his breathing is a little heavy and his words shake. It’s almost as if he’s nervous, but the quiet laugh that comes through the earpiece isn’t shuddering in the slightest.

“Alright, I’m hanging up. Lose my number.”

“Wait-”

You do not. And while there’s a rush of satisfaction at how you’ve cut him off, it’s short-lived with how quickly the number flashes across your screen again - except the last digit is different. Odd.

Answering with a sigh, you don’t get the chance to greet this person before he’s speaking quickly, “Let me just get… thirty seconds of your time. I’m not a telemarketer.”

“That’s exactly what a telemarketer would say, you know. It’s nearly midnight, don’t you have work in the morning or something?”

“Oh, sure.” The guy laughs again, and it’s almost sinister as it trails away. You can hear how his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he clarifies, “But there’s some business I’m trying to take care of, y’see.”

“Does that business involve bothering me on my night off? You still haven’t told me who you are.”

With a quiet grunt, you lift your legs up to prop your feet on the coffee table, nudging the popcorn bowl to the side so you could have room to cross at the ankles. The man’s breath hitches at the sound you make, and something just doesn’t seem right here. Clearing your throat as a sign for him to get to the point, he takes the hint.

“Maybe it’s bothering. Who knows, we might have a good time together.”

And if you were any less suspicious - and any more of an idiot - you wouldn’t have picked up on that sentence. It wouldn’t have put you on higher alert, and you definitely would not have been wary enough to listen closely and hear the slow wet sound that could be either someone rubbing their wet hands together, or someone stroking their dick.

You’re certain it’s the latter. It takes only one hand to beat his meat, and conveniently he’s got one available while talking on the phone. With a scoff, you confront him without delay, “Are you jerking it right now?”

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

Against your better judgment, you come to the conclusion that the sound he makes when he has to grind his words out in an attempt at nonchalance is at least a little attractive. But then there’s the whole stranger-calling-you-to-beat-his-meat thing, and any semblance of your sick arousal at the situation goes out the window.

“You only asked for thirty seconds. Is that seriously as long as you can last? Loser.”

And he laughs. Full and from the back of his throat, the phone pulled away in an effort to keep himself from blowing your eardrums out with its volume. You don’t find it very funny, and with a grimace, you hang the phone up and block the number.

What a creep.

—

The sun is barely over the horizon when your phone rings again, pulling you from the sleep you’d only just fallen into. The number - unfamiliar, but not remote similar to the one from only a few hours prior - flashes across the screen just long enough for you to read it and pick up the phone.

“Hello?” A little more forceful than would be considered polite, except it’s just short of dawn and you’d been tossing and turning all night.

“Oh, did I wake you? I’ll be quick.”

God forbid you ever find this man, you’ll catch a homicide case. Rolling onto your back with a sigh, you ask, “Thirty seconds again? Don’t you have a hobby or something?”

“What if this is my hobby?”

“One-sided phone sex? Touch some grass, dude.” Palm pressed to your left eye, you hold pressure until your growing headache starts to subside. Then, you ask, “Do you need me to google you the number for a phone sex hotline? 30 seconds would be pretty cheap. I’ll even venmo you the money for it if you leave me alone.”

“Yeah, but their heart isn’t in it. They’re just after the money.” You can nearly see the way he shrugs, hear the rustling of fabric. Is he in bed? At least he’s comfortable while he’s ruining your night. If you could just make him cry, that would be just about even for all the grief he’s causing you.

A sharp inhale, held for a moment before he blows it out of his nose and confesses, “You’re just the right kind of mean.”

Oh fuck, okay. But also ew. Kinda hot though. A little. Mostly gross. He needs to know that was gross. It’s your god-given duty to call this dude out on being nasty.

“Are you shitting me right now?” Sitting up, sheets falling into your lap, you shiver from the chill in the air and the anticipation of what he just revealed. “You’re getting off on me degrading you? Making fun of you? No fucking way.”

“...yes fucking way.”

“You little freak!” Your laughter rings through the room, and you don’t pull away from the receiver like he’d done last time. You want him to hear this, to feel mortification at exactly how pathetic he just sounded. Whether he gets off on that too, you don’t care. “Is this a habit? Calling up strangers and getting them to tell you how much of a loser you are?”

“If it helps, no one’s been as thorough as you.” There’s a smile in his voice, the sound from the previous call is louder now. You’re on speaker phone.

“Did they know you were jerkin’ it? That you got off on them being disgusted at you?” An uncontrollable grin crosses your lips, spreading wide enough that your cheeks hurt from delight. Something in your gut twists, and you pointedly ignore it for the moment. “Pervert. That’s what you are. You’re out there taking upskirt shots of chicks on the train, I bet.”

The steady drag of his own hand pauses for a moment, before doubling-down and speeding up. A sick little thought crosses your mind that you want to see, to watch what you’re doing to him. His excitement spurs you on more, egging you further down the path he obviously wants you to take. And who are you to deny him, when it costs you nothing?

Chewing your cheek in thought, formulating the perfect words, you drop your voice a little and ask, “I bet you look real pathetic right now. Sitting there with me on speakerphone, touching yourself and begging for me to call you out on what a freak you are. A loser. Some lonely little pervert that can only get off when you’re humiliated.”

“Yes-”

“Do you think you’re going to get some reward for enduring this? As if I’d bother. If you were here, I’d kick you out the moment you were done shaking from getting off.” Sitting up on your knees, almost as if that would bring you to a position of power over your mystery caller, you jeer at him, “Or maybe I wouldn’t even let you. Maybe I’d bring you around just to watch you writhe like the nasty little worm you are, then leave you hanging. Perverts don’t deserve to cum.”

“Please,” his voice quakes, trailing off at the end into a breathy little sound that strikes you as almost pretty. Almost. A thick swallow comes through the line before he doubles back, “don’t do that to me. Pleasepleaseplease-”

“Jeeze, you’re a sad sack of shit aren’t you? Even your begging is lame.” The fingers that you hold your phone with are sweaty, nearly too slick to catch purchase on your plastic phone case. You grip it tighter, fingertips nudging the button that increases the volume until your ears are filled with the sounds of him frantically fucking his fist, his breathing laced with whines.

There’s a steady groan of bedsprings that suggest his hips are bucking into his own hand, rocking to the sound of his fist over his dick. You could make him groan louder-

“Fine, but only ‘cause I wanna know how stupid you sound when you cum. C’mon then, give it up. I wanna go to bed and you’re annoying.” Nothing at first, only the steady sound of his strokes. Your fingers itch to move in time, to smack his hand away and do it yourself because he’s taking too damn long.

Aggravated, you sigh into the receiver and push him further, “Well? I’m waiting. Get a move on, scumbag, I wanna go to bed.”

A choked-off curse comes over the line, and you can hear the sound of his release hitting something with its force. It’s likely the floor, but it sounded far too close to the phone and far too wet to be anything but himself. But, he’s already done, and he’s taken far longer than the thirty seconds he asked for.

Heavy breathing is the only sound from his half of the call. Impatiently, you wait for him to say anything at all, but it takes nearly a full minute for you to break the silence. “You’re welcome. Ungrateful one, you are.”

A scoff, tired and without any bite to it, “Told you, you’re the right kind of mean. Give me a second to get myself together. Jesus Christ.”

“You had sixty. That’s double what you wanted to start with, not to mention all my time you wasted in between just to get your rocks off, creep.”

Weakly he laughs. If you close your eyes, you can almost see the way he must be sprawled across a bed. Probably some mattress without a sheet, scratchy blankets and lumpy pillows surrounding him as he no doubt uses some sock to wipe the cum off his stomach. Gross.

What’s worse is you’re into it, throat closing at the thought of this pretty-sounding loser in some basement out there. There are probably ramen cups on his nightstand and a gaming computer in the corner that costs more than all of his belongings combined. Maybe you could ruin his life more - that’d be cool. Y’know, just keep him around for a while, string him along and take your frustrations out on this little weirdo.

Your quiet musings of how badly you plan to fuck this guy up are interrupted by him asking, “You mentioned venmo. What’s yours?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Well, that was better than a phone sex hotline,” a grunt as he likely sits up. Shit, even that sounds pretty. You nearly miss him offering, “and I’ll pay you every time you get me off.”

What a freak. By the time you get the notification that a payment has been received, your opinion of this guy has completely turned around. Well, maybe a little. If you can get paid and be a complete asshole? Well, that’s a win in your book.

Hell, you might be in love with the guy now.

—

Four calls later, you’re pretty familiar with your nameless, faceless phone-gimp.

While you’ve forgotten to ask for the payment each time, he hasn’t, and your bank account has never looked better for such easy work. All you do is listen to this guy jerk off on the phone while calling him a deadbeat piece of shit and you’re golden. Life has never been better.

But Forrest Gump said life is like a box of chocolates, and you knew it was too good to be true. One of the chocolates was swapped out for a turd, and you’re left speechless as your back presses against rain-wet brick, the world dark thanks to the figure that’s crowded you away from prying eyes.

Of course you watch the news - it’s too lonely in your apartment to not have something going in the background. So recognizing Ghostface is a no brainer, even when your brain is a little addled after an evening out with your friends. The stark white of his mask is all you can see, your pupils dilating as if it were as bright as the sun.

Terror is the smart thing to feel. And you’ve always been smart enough to be considered self-aware. So you’re terrified, shaking as your fingertips dig into the mortar between the bricks, as if having a handhold will save you. This guy is gonna kill you, and your little buddy on the phone is going to have to resort to phone sex hotlines because no one is going to put up with him like you have.

And then Ghostface speaks, and you realize oh, fuck. You’re not as smart as you thought.

“You didn’t answer the phone.”

Oh. Throat dry, voice cracking, you answer, “Uh… it died.”

“But it rang. You just didn’t pick up.”

“I was busy. I have a life outside listening to you jerk off-”

The mask nearly smashes into your face with how close he gets. The eyeholes should be see-through at this distance, but it’s so very black that you lose track of yourself while looking for what’s beneath it. If you weren’t so in tune with how he sounded at this point, you’d almost miss the sound of him sucking his tongue quietly in disappointment.

“I’m paying you, shouldn’t you keep yourself available in the meantime? I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”

And you’re annoyed. Because of course it’s too much to ask, to expect you to sit around your phone waiting to listen to Joe-Schmoe-Ghostface over here fondle himself while you let him know how grossed-out you are.

Or rather, lie about it. Really, you haven’t been that grossed out since that first time. And if your fingers travel elsewhere when he hangs up, he doesn’t need to know about it. That’s really not his business - the interaction ends with the venmo notification.

The sound of his sigh is louder when it hits the inside of his mask. Next to your head, his hands cage you in, and one leaves the brick to grab your shoulder. It could be innocent, if not for how quickly it changes with the slide of his wet glove to the base of your neck. The space between his thumb and forefinger press firmly, not enough to cut off your breath but more than adequate as a lingering threat to do so.

“But I’m not paying you now. So don’t think you can get away with being a brat. Consider this to be corrective action for poor performance in the workplace.”

Swallowing thickly, the movement difficult thanks to his hand, you watch with wide, stinging eyes as his other hand travels south. Across your collarbone, down your sternum, to the hem of your shirt where it dips beneath. Surely he can’t feel anything with the gloves on, but that doesn’t stop him at all. It makes little difference.

At your full-body shiver when his fingertips tease at the waistband of your pants, his head tilts to the side. Is it wonder, or confusion? The thickness of your thoughts aren’t able to be sifted into something coherent - only a constant thrum of excitement as you single-mindedly think about the potential for finally getting to see what’s been on the other side of your phone.

Centimeters at a time, his fingers push further, beneath both layers of your clothing and against the slickness of your arousal. Despite the chill in the air, his gloves are searing-hot against you, each of your nerves hyper aware of the way he casually strokes. There’s a smile in his voice as he murmurs beneath his breath, “I knew you weren’t as cold as you seem. You must really like me, huh?”

You want to rail against him and shout the complete opposite, to tell him that you’re drunk and addled and any old person could get you this frazzled. But there’s a time and place for that sort of thing, and the dynamic that’s existed up until tonight is insubstantial to the point of nonexistence. While before you might’ve held control, the drag of his fingertips against you speaks volumes of how it has switched.

And so, with a swallow and a shuddering breath, you nod your head and stare into the pitch black of his mask. What you don’t expect is his excited little laugh and the bump of his forehead against yours - cold and wet. It’s almost sweet, the closest thing you’ll get to a kiss while he wears that thing, and his middle finger pushes into you without preamble.

At the sudden sensation, your hips rock down against him, and he coos at you, “There it is. Sweet thing you are, I knew you weren’t prickly all the time.”

Without a moment to craft a rebuttal, his ring finger prods inside and your hand leaves the wall to wind into the fabric of his body suit, holding yourself steady when they crook just right. It happens with such ease that you’re unable to stop the whine of pleasure that bounces off the alleyway’s walls.

Ghostface could taunt you, he could demean you for being so needy all at once, but instead he strokes along that pinpoint spot that has your eyes snapping shut. The sound of his voice is all around you, encompassing with its proximity, the tone low and musing. “I thought to myself - surely something had to give. Don’t get me wrong, I love it when you’re mean. But knowing how you can be, it makes this so much sweeter.”

His head falls to your shoulder, mask digging into your neck as he lets you cling to him. The stretch of his leather-clad fingers is divine, perfect enough to satisfy as he works you closer to what you’ve pushed him toward so many times.

His voice is muffled now, the rain picking up and soaking the two of you steadily. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you beg.” Laughter, quiet and pleased, interrupts him for a brief moment. Then, unbearable softness, “You’ve been so good for me this whole time. I’ll treat you nicely - it’s what you deserve, after all.”

The hand that had once been at your neck now glides down your side, pressing into the dip of your waist before pushing beneath your shirt. With it hiked high enough to accommodate his hand, you should feel more exposed as he thumbs your nipple that hardens when exposed to the air. But Ghostface is above you, below you, inside and out. The rest of the world may as well not exist for all he’s managed to barricade you away.

The added sensation is nice, but it’s the speeding up of his thrusting fingers that send you into near-hysterics. Without a name to call, you can only bury your face against the side of his head and incoherently babble your appreciation for how good he is with his hands. For once, the only thing coming from your mouth is praise for him, and he positively preens beneath it as you clutch yourself closer.

“That’s it, there we go.” He has no right to be this soft with you, but he takes the liberty with unabashed confidence. “Glad I waited to hear you make these sounds in person. Wanted it to be special, y’know.”

With slowed fingers, guiding you down from your high, Ghostface gives you enough self-awareness to speak through a thick voice, “This is what you call special?”

“A little impromptu, I guess. Should I have brought flowers?”

And there is that snipping tone again, where he throws your attitude back as easily as you dish it to him. Rolling your head against the wall, you steady yourself as he pulls away and absently rights your clothes for you. Cute, you remark as he pointedly avoids wiping his soiled glove on your clothing. The air of the alleyway isn’t the nicest-smelling, but the coolness of it feels soothing as you inhale and respond, “That would’ve been appreciated.”

“Go home. I’ll meet you there with whatever I can pick up from the Seven-Eleven on the way.”

How romantic. Maybe you are in love with him, just a little. Stumbling down the alleyway, you feel his eyes at your back. Pointedly, you avoid thinking about how he knows where you live. Perhaps it’s better if you don’t look into it too much.

Just accept your flowers and try not to get lost in thought about how hard he’d been against your thigh, how badly you wanted to kiss him. Maybe he’s not the only creep here.

#ghostface #scream #ghostface x reader #gender-neutral reader #gn!reader #mind the a/n for content tags #gift fic #secret santa 2022

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