˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. . ˚ *✦ . . ✦ ˚ ˚ .˚
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟGUILTY FANTASY, written by yaskore
summary. knowing your guilty fantasy, Hamzah decides to bring out the mask on a night he can no longer take his deprivation of you. He's determined to have his way with you, fully and unapologetically, while fulfilling the desire you've been quietly dreaming of for so long.
warnings. 18+!!, smut, ghostface!hamzah, gentledom!hamzah, sub!reader, forbidden, mini plot, rough handling, sweaty, tiedwrists!reader, yearning, friends to lovers
wc. 3.2k
He knew you secretly loved when he got like this. The way your eyes lit up when he came home after a long day of recording with Martin, worn out and missing you...
The way he didn't even think when he finally caught a break—just walked through the door, shut it behind him, and tore your clothes off like he needed you to breathe... and you let him.
The fact that nothing had ever been said aloud only made it worse—or maybe better.
Glances carried the weight of everything unspoken. You found yourself wondering when he'd act again after the first time, how long the tension would keep thickening every time you shared a space. But you liked it.
You liked that he remembered the fantasies you once joked about, and that now, even a passing glance could promise he'd make them real.
It was forbidden, maddening, and somedays things felt too normal...until the moment you'd catch him holding himself back—his hands, his words, his stare. And God, you loved that just as much as it drove you insane.
He never talked about missing you with Martin, his best friend and your non-blood family. He didn't want to complicate the channel, their friendship, anything—so he kept it quiet, kept it buried.
But not tonight.
Wearing the Ghostface mask you brought home last Halloween as a joke, Hamzah tosses you face-first onto your bed, his hand firm on your back to keep you in place.
He swiftly swings a leg over you, straddling your hips with one knee on the bed while the other anchors him off the edge.
"Be good for me tonight, yeah?" His voice, slightly muffled behind the mask, carries a commanding edge, his breathing heavy and deliberate.
Grabbing a fistful of your hair, he twists it just enough to send a message, his groin pressing against your ass as he tugs your head back. He leans close, his breath seeping out the mask holes, warm against your skin. “I said, be good for me… yeah?” His tone is soft yet insistent, the kind that melts your resistance regardless.
“Mhm,” you hum, caught off guard in the best way by his demand, the words sticking in your throat. His grip tightens, pulling harder—a silent, unmistakable warning.
“I’ll be good,” you quickly add, giving him the answer you know he wants to hear. A slight struggle is in your voice from the position he has you in right now, but you wouldn't have it any other way.
He hums in satisfaction, his free hand sliding beneath your jaw to tilt your face toward him. You assume he lifted his mask at some point, because his lips find yours in a messy, unrestrained kiss.
After what seems like forcing himself out of the kiss, he shifts above you, the pressure of his hard-on still flush against your ass. The friction alone draws a whimper from your throat. These busy past few weeks and you're finally receiving what you've prayed for... just not in the way you expected—in fact, even better.
His voice, breathy and dangerous, brushes your ear. “You like me like this, don’t you? Tell me. I need to hear it.” There’s a faint crack in his tone—need bleeding through the dominance.
Teasing you is only doing twice the damage to himself for every second he's not deep in you already.
You hum in response, an “mhm" leaving your lips like a moan. You nod your head as your brows curve in pure desperation, loving how he talks to you in times like these, wanting him to continue handling you, to show you he has it in him too.
"Say it," he responds—you'd think he's demanding it, except it's soft—gentle almost.
The truth is, no words could express the desperation you've held leading up to this night, especially not how it's growing second by agonizing second right now. But you comply. Of course you do.
"I do—I like you like this—I love you like this, please..." The words spill from you, ending in a desperate whine. You simply let your face fall back into the comforter.
You hear his grin, sharp and wicked, even behind the mask as he replies with a teasing, "Oh-hohh, is that right?" The mockery in his tone is playful, but there’s no mistaking the satisfaction beneath it, your confession being exactly what he craved to hear.
He hums, "Mmm—all day—all week I’ve been thinking about you. Needing you..." His words spill out breathless, and you can't help but notice how it feels like he’s never wanted you more.
Every low, hungry word he mutters hits just right—and God, you want more. As much as he’ll give.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers curling around it—gentle, yet possessive. "Every fucking day..." he breathes, voice so low you can’t tell if he’s speaking to you or himself.
His grip shifts to your hips, his fingers digging in with a quiet desperation. His presence is overwhelming—utterly consuming. The way his touch sinks deep into your skin leaves no doubt about the need he's trying to convey.
“You have no idea how good it feels to finally have you like this,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a hunger you so badly want to feed.
But after a moment, it dips, trembling with something raw. “Say you missed me too. Say it so I know I’m not losing my mind over you.” He breathes out, pure need in his tone, completely disregarding any dominance in that moment.
You and him never spoke about the new dynamic you unlocked that night; it left you both trapped in your own heads, wondering where you stood. Even after it happened again, the silence remained. But the way he asked you to tell him you missed him too—the need in his voice, the falter in his dominance—it drove you mad. It made you want him even more. Desperately.
Truthfully, every time he crossed your mind, your chest would twist painfully. Tonight. This week. The past two weeks. He’d come home late, barely a glance exchanged before he disappeared into a shower or the quiet murmur of a late-night video. You’d lie there alone, listening. Yearning. That had become your lullaby...until now.
Now, he was here—straddling you. Finally.
His words echo in your mind. 'Say it so I know I'm not losing my mind over you.'
“Yes—fuck, I missed you, Hamzah. So much. Please just—” You breathe out, words breaking off with a whimper as your face sinks deeper into the comforter. Your body was already surrendering.
You didn't want to be bratty tonight, you were too needy. You've waited too long, wondering if he'd ever even make a move again.
"Just—" you repeat, exhaling in defeat. Your breath stutters. Your body betrays you—desperate, shaking for him.
His hand moves to your head, firm and possessive, keeping you exactly where he wants you anytime you wriggle.
"Just what, huh?" His voice is sharp, laced with a teasing dominance with that lasting yearn behind it.
"Just fuck you?" he taunts, his tone dripping with amusement as his hands move to his belt. His words make your heart sink—part embarrassment—part desire...hearing them from his mouth only soaks you more.
The metallic clink of his belt being undone is almost too fast. "You wanna get fucked in this mask huh?" His voice is so quiet, it's barely above a whisper—in fact, you're not sure he's spoken any louder than this the entire time.
He grabs your arms, gently yet in control nonetheless, using his belt to tie around your wrists. "This time—" he tightens the belt behind your back as he finishes, "—You're not going no where, yeah?"
The sound of his zipper fills the air, and you feel him shift behind you, the intensity of his presence pressing down on you. His hands find the waistband of your pajama shorts, and in one swift motion, he tugs them off, the fabric sliding past your ankles as you instinctively wriggle on the bed. "Nowhere," he repeats quietly, hungry.
But you weren’t afraid—the only pain he’d ever give you would come from the desperation in his grip, too needy to control, enough to leave bruises. But nothing more.
His fingers hook into the sides of your panties, pulling them aside as his touch trails over your skin. When his fingers glide along your slit, the slickness he finds makes him chuckle. His teasing is already too much—and he’s only just begun.
"Look at you," he drags, "You've been needing me this bad, huh?" The way he says it—slow and attentive—flushes your cheeks.
Or maybe it was the truth behind it that embarrasses you.
His fingers curl gently—not enough to enter, but just enough to tease your folds. Your thighs tense, almost closing around his wrist.
"Yeah, already this wet—" he murmurs, using his other hand to re-part your legs, "you’re just gonna take it, aren’t you?" he growls, his words sinking deep into you. You wished he would instead.
And in that thought, two of his thick fingers press inside without warning, forcing a startled gasp from your lips. Seems as though he couldnt handle any more of his own teasing either.
The stretch is immediate, your body tightening around him. You can hear the grin in his voice once again.
"Yeah, you are," he murmurs, his fingers curling as he sets a deliberate, teasing pace. It didn’t take more than two seconds for the sound of your wetness with his rhythm to fill the room.
The sensation is quick to become overwhelming, leaving you helpless beneath him. "Missed me this much..." he mutters, obviously pleased.
You moan into the comforter, face buried deep, wrists straining against the belt. His fingers slam into you—hard, fast—forcing a gasp from your throat. But just as quickly, he slows, leaving you a mess of muffled curses and desperate, broken sounds.
"I wanna see your face when I give you it," he growls, breath shaky like he’s unraveling too. And in one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, settling over you with a commanding presence.
He kneels above your hips, black boxers clinging to him, pants hanging low. His tank top stretches over sweat-slicked shoulders, and the ghostface mask adds a haunting allure to his already intoxicating figure.
You bite your bottom lip, arms still pinned behind you, the strain making you squirm beneath him—restless, desperate. “Hamzah,” you whine, finally surrendering to the discomfort. “Hm?” he hums, almost amused.
“Off,” you manage, eyes locked on his shirt—your silent plea.
He pauses, gaze burning through the mask. Then, without a word, his hands move to the hem, peeling it off in one fluid motion. You wished it had been you. This is torture.
But the moment his bare skin is exposed—glistening with sweat—you’re on the verge of tearing up in frustration. The teasing has pushed you past your limit, and all that’s left is the desperate need clawing at you to be fulfilled.
He’s been teasing you to the brink, but the ache between you both is palpable. He wants you just as badly.
With one swift motion, he strips off his pants and climbs over you, boxers doing nothing to hide the hardness pressing into your core. You squirm, unable to touch, grinding up against him, desperate for friction. You just wanted him to give you all he could, god you couldn't take the teasing...it seemed like he barely could either.
The breath he lets out is shaky, unsteady. His hands clamp tighter around your hips as he grinds back, both of you fighting for more contact.
The action makes him let out a breathless, shakey moan behind the mask, his eyes locked on your hips as you move beneath him. He grips your hips tighter, the force of his hands making it clear that he’s losing control, thrusting his own hips against you, desperate for more contact, more sensation. He couldn't stop himself from stripping for another agonizing second.
He lets out a curse, a shuddering, breathless moan slipping from his lips, and in the next instant, he’s tugging his boxers down hurriedly, just enough for his thick, throbbing dick to spring free. You can barely take in the sight before he’s guiding himself between your lips, the head of his cock teasing at your slit.
His hands slide roughly up your hips, gripping you tightly as he presses forward, sliding up and down your folds with unrelenting urgency. The sensation of him against you is almost too much, his movements frantic, driven by the undeniable hunger he’s been holding back.
And when he pauses, tip nudging at your entrance, you assume he's looking at you for confirmation. “Can you lift the mask, just for a second?” You request breathlessly, gentle despite your aching desire. And albeit his need tonight to show dominance, he complies immediately.
Without hesitation, it slides up, perching on the top of his head, strands of sweat-damp hair falling through. He’s beautiful like this. You take the sight of him in—and then take all of him in as you sink down, folds wrapping around him.
You hold his gaze, needing to see him as he enters you. His head tips back, a moan escaping before he even finishes his thought. You're unable to compose yourself either. “Oh my g…” he breathes out, completely lost in the sensation.
When he looks down again, watching his body move against yours, his mouth hangs open, biting his bottom lip when your eyes meet. He tries to pace himself—but fails.
His rhythm grows relentless, and your head falls back into the comforter, sounds spilling from your lips like never before.
It’s never been like this—your relationship hadn’t even been sexual for long. The slow burn, the wondering, the tension… it was all leading to this.
He’s always made you feel something, even from a distance. But now? After weeks of craving him—uncertain if he craved you just as much—it’s clear.
His hands roam your waist like he’s starving, every thrust pulling you closer to the edge. Your eyebrows pinch together in pleasure, your orgasm already rising, hot and heavy and too soon.
And yet, never soon enough.
As if the feeling of you around him wasn’t already unraveling his mind, every time his eyes catch your face, he’s hit with a new wave of euphoria—deeper, more consuming than the last. He didn’t even know it could feel this good.
He didn’t know he could possibly enjoy looking at you more than he already did—but right now, you’re absolutely undoing him.
His mask had slipped back over his face at some point—recently, you think—but you can’t stand not seeing him like this. He’s beautiful when he’s overwhelmed, when the pleasure takes over, and you’re certain he’s never felt anything like this before. You had to see it. Just a glance at him on an average day could leave your heart and your body aching for hours… but this?
“H-Hamzah,” you manage, unable to manage quiet, your voice breaking around his name. The sound of it clearly undoes him—his pace faltering, only to return faster, rougher, needier.
A low growl escapes him at the way you say his name, like it snapped the last thread of his restraint. You’re all his now—he can see every flutter of your lashes, hear every moan and breathless stutter, feel every twitch of your body under him. And it’s not just pride swelling in his chest—it’s the thrill of knowing you want this just as much. That he’s not alone in this ache.
His fingers dig into your hips, deep and possessive, promising bruises by morning.
“F-fuck,” he groans, head tipping back, the sound of your voice echoing in his ears.
You moan in return, partly from pleasure, partly from frustration. You want to see his face. You need to. The mask—hot as it is—now feels like a wall. You try to scoot yourself away, run from it...but of course, he doesn’t let you get far. Still, he loves that you tried.
After pulling you back down onto him, burying himself even deeper, a moan escapes his throat before he speaks, “Where you going, princess? Huh?” he pants, voice low, but gentle. It's teasing, you're a little embarrassed at your failed efforts.
"Please," you shudder, barely keeping your voice down. Every word feels like it’s building toward a scream. The sting of his grip, the relentless pace—you love every second of it.
He’s starting to whimper now, more than groan, and the sound of him undone like that sends you over the edge. You try to keep yourself down so you can hear him better, but he makes it hard.
Your legs twitch uncontrollably, the tension in your core spiraling until your whole body shakes. You arch into him, gasping as his hands slip beneath you, holding you up, refusing to let you fall back against the mattress. You cry out his name—a slurred, shivery moan that fills the room. You’ve never been brought to a high like this… but even then he doesn't stop. Not even for a breath.
He undoes the belt binding your wrists, tossing it aside before settling on the bed beneath you, letting you take control. Your hands sting from how tight it had been, but you don’t care. You’re still shaking, still riding out the aftershocks, but you move—eager, aching—to finally feel him beneath you, to move for him.
He bucks up into you without restraint, arms braced behind him, his body trembling. You can only imagine the way he's looking at you right now...and that thought alone drives you mad. You reach forward, rip the mask from his face, and throw it across the room.
Your breath catches.
His face is soaked with sweat, eyes low and dazed with lust, lips puffy and parted. He looks beautiful. Ruined. Yours.
You start moving again, never breaking eye contact. He doesn’t look away either, and the intensity of it—his breath catching, his moans turning into curses—it’s everything.
Your hands explore his chest, tracing every muscle like they’re the last thing you’ll ever feel. You move up to his shoulders, down his arms, fingers curling tight around his biceps. God, his biceps… You dig your nails in as you ride him, the rhythm instinctive, hungry, wild.
It sends him spiraling. His breath quickens, no longer holding back the whimpers. “Shit—g-get off,” he tries, the words falling apart on his tongue. But his grip on your waist says otherwise—tight, desperate. He won’t let you go.
“Please—I'm gonna—f-fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he gasps, bucking hard into you.
You hesitate for half a second, but the moment you even think of slowing down, he yanks you back into place. “N-No don’t stop. Don’t stop, please.” he's practically begging.
And you don’t. Can’t. You’re already cumming again, body convulsing as you fall apart on top of him. But you don’t stop moving—determined to drag him there with you. The pain from his grip only sharpens the pleasure, and this orgasm feels endless.
And then he breaks.
His face twists, his brows knit, biceps flexing as he claws into your skin. The sounds he makes—guttural, high, desperate—undo you all over again. You cum again as he finishes, both of you unraveling at once.
You collapse against him, his chest rising and falling fast. You don’t move. Neither does he. Even minutes later, he’s still inside you, occasionally bucking his hips, keeping you there—his arms wrapped around your waist, head buried in your neck.
Every time he thrusts, even just a little, a soft sound escapes you. A breath. A moan. And every time, you feel him twitch inside you again.
Something in you knows—you won’t be able to just walk away from this and pretend it never happened this time.
His fingers slide into your hair, massaging your scalp—rough, possessive. He bites and nibbles at the skin of your shoulder your tank top can’t cover, his other hand roaming your back. Then, his fingers tangle into your hair and tug your head back. You gasp as he starts moving again, slow but deep, low growls immediately rolling from his lips.
Your mouth parts in a soundless moan, brows knitting in helpless pleasure. Despite everything, despite the three orgasms already behind you, you know this night isn’t over.
And god, you don’t want it to be.
