unmasked - op81
✦ pairing: ghostface!oscar x fem!oc
✦ genre: smut, established relationship, halloween(?) vibes, horror movie night gone wrong (or very right), playful roleplay, comedy if you squint, aftercare
✦ warnings: 18+, mdni, roleplay, ghostface mask kink, praise kink, dirty talk, humiliation, pet names, shy!reader, teasing, orgasm denial, fingering, p in v sex, choking, rough sex, mask kink, horror movie references (Scream), reader questioning every life decision afterward, oscar being an absolute menace
✦ wc: ~9k+
a/n: requested!✨️ idk if i did ghostface right or wtvr bc im also not a huge horror fan, myself. 😭 hope you still e joy this tho, or not. totally understandable 😭
Oscar tilts his head to the side.
It’s an exact, terrifying copy of the motion the killer just made on the screen. The slow, calculating tilt. The absolute stillness.
"You're lying," Oscar murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly purr that vibrates right against your skin. "You're soaking wet just sitting here looking at this mask, aren't you?"
You are currently wedged so hard into the cushions of the couch that you’re practically melting into the upholstery, half of your body tucked securely behind Oscar. The rain is hammering against the glass outside like an overactive drummer, making the whole apartment feel like a trap.
On the TV screen, Scream is barely even getting started, but you’re already treating Oscar’s left arm like a personal bulletproof vest. You’ve got both hands locked in a death grip around his bicep, your knuckles turning white as you bury the lower half of your face right into the crook of his neck.
"You're going to cut circulation off in my arm, you know," Oscar murmurs, his chest vibrating against your shoulder as he speaks. He tilts his head down slightly, a warm, lazy smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "We’re literally just at the opening scene. Nobody’s even been chased yet."
"Shut up," you whisper back, your voice muffled against his skin. You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, then crack one open to peek through the gap between his forearm and your own fingers. "You promised this one wasn't that bad. You lied. You're a pathological liar."
"I said it was a classic," he chuckles, lifting his free hand to lazily run his fingers through your hair, gently tugging at the strands near your nape. "Big difference. Besides, look at you. You love this."
You let out a tiny, high-pitched squeak as the music on screen dips into that familiar, suspenseful string arrangement. Ghostface suddenly steps out into a dark hallway, the blade of the hunting knife catching the pale light with a sharp, metallic glint. The killer stands entirely still, tilting his head with that uncanny, robotic slowness.
Your entire body goes rigid. You press yourself harder into Oscar’s side, your thighs shifting nervously against the sofa cushions.
Your heart is hammering against your ribs, but as you stare at the frozen, terrifying figure on the screen, a weird, unfamiliar heat blooms right in the pit of your stomach. It’s not just pure panic anymore. There’s this heavy, magnetic pull twisting up through your chest, making your cheeks burn and your ears ring. You bite down hard on your lower lip, your eyes wide and completely locked on the TV.
Oscar shifts beside you, his gaze sliding away from the screen and landing directly on your face.
He notices the way your breath hitches. He tracks the bright, flush pink creeping up your neck and spilling across your cheeks. He watches how your pupils dilate as you stare at the screen, totally transfixed by the sheer menace of the masked killer. A slow, knowing glint sparks in Oscar's eyes, and that lazy smirk widens into something much sharper, much more dangerous.
"Oh," Oscar breathes out softly, leaning his head back against the cushion as realization hits him. "Look at you. You're actually mesmerized by him, aren't you?"
You snap your head toward him, your eyes going wide. "What? No. I am terrified. I am literally having a heart attack right now, Oscar—"
"Mhmm," he hums, cutting you off. He doesn't look convinced at all. In fact, his eyes darken with a sudden, playful challenge. "Give me two seconds."
Before you can even blink or protest, Oscar slides out from under your grip. The sudden loss of his heavy, grounding warmth makes you shiver, and you pull your knees up to your chest on the couch, wrapping your arms around yourself. You watch him push himself up from the sofa and disappear down the hallway toward the spare room.
The TV flickers, casting long, eerie shadows across the living room. You swallow hard, your pulse thudding heavily in your throat.
Clack.
You jump at the faint sound, your head whipping toward the hallway.
Oscar steps back into the living room, moving with an exaggerated, predatory slowness. In his hand, catching the dim ambient light from the television, is the replica Ghostface mask he bought as a stupid gag souvenir earlier in the week.
Before your brain can even process a single coherent thought, he’s right in front of you. He drops down onto one knee right beside the couch, leaning in close, and slips the molded white plastic mask right over his face.
The air drops out of your lungs.
The terror and the uncanny, chilling nature of the blank, screaming expression suddenly collide with the deep, aching heat pooling between your legs, short-circuiting your brain entirely. It’s insane. It doesn't make any sense. The hollow, dead-eyed stare of the plastic mask should make you run for the hills, but knowing it's Oscar underneath, knowing those warm, teasing eyes are staring right at you from behind that dead-eyed facade, makes your head spin.
You let out a shaky, stuttering breath, pressing your thighs together tightly underneath your sweatpants to try and quell the sudden, intense ache down there.
Oscar leans in closer, the hollow eye sockets of the mask inches from yours. When he speaks, his voice drops an entire octave, dragging out low and rough from deep inside his chest.
"Do you like him that much?" he whispers, the distorted tone scraping against your nerves in the best possible way. "Are you getting a little thrill out of watching him stand there?"
You swallow hard, your hands gripping the fabric of your pants so tightly your knuckles ache. You can't find your voice. Your natural shyness slams down on you like a ton of bricks, locking your jaw tight. You just shake your head frantically, your chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow bursts.
Oscar tilts his head to the side.
It’s an exact, terrifying copy of the motion the killer just made on the screen. The slow, calculating tilt. The absolute stillness.
He slowly raises one large hand, his fingers spreading out as he reaches up. You stop breathing entirely as his warm fingertips brush against your jawline. The contrast between the freezing, expressionless plastic inches from your nose and the scorchingly hot, familiar touch of his hand on your skin sends a violent shiver straight down your spine. He traces the line of your jaw down to your chin, his thumb lightly stroking over your trembling lower lip.
"You're lying," Oscar murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly purr that vibrates right against your skin. "You're soaking wet just sitting here looking at this mask, aren't you?"
Your face bursts into a violent, burning red. Heat rushes straight to your core, making you squirm helplessly against the cushions. You instinctively cross your legs tighter, pressing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to friction away the unbearable sensitivity blooming between your legs.
"O-Oscar..." you breathe out, your voice cracking pathetically. You want to deny it, you want to shove him away and act like a normal, functioning human being, but your body is completely betraying you. You are practically melting into a puddle right in front of him.
"Look at you," he whispers, his hand sliding down from your jaw, trailing slowly down your neck, over your collarbone, and resting heavy and warm right on the outside of your thigh. He gives the flesh a firm, deliberate squeeze through the fabric. "Look how easily I can make you fall apart without even touching you properly."
You let out a soft, helpless gasp, your head dropping back against the back of the couch.
"You're so damn shy," Oscar continues, shifting closer, his masked face hovering just above yours. The dark, eerie plastic blocks his expression, but you can feel the heavy, heated weight of his stare burning right through it. "You're loving every second of this, don't you? You're just too stubborn, and way too shy, to actually admit it out loud."
"I'm not..." you lie weakly, though the tremor in your voice completely gives you away. Your hips twitch slightly against the sofa as his thumb traces slow, agonizing circles right over the sensitive crease of your hip.
"Quiet house," Oscar whispers, leaning in so close his breath fans hot against your ear. The distorted, menacing rasp of his disguised voice sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your lower stomach. "Nobody else is home. It's just you, me, and the storm outside."
He pauses, letting the heavy silence of the room stretch out for a second before he finishes, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl.
"I’m going to make you scream tonight. And it’s going to sound so beautiful in this quiet house."
Your heart hammers furiously against your ribs, a wild, breathless panic and an overwhelming, desperate need crashing together inside you. You can feel the wet heat soaking through your underwear, completely undone by the dirty talk and the creepy, masked stranger looming over you.
Oscar slowly lowers his gaze, his eyes tracking the way your thighs tremble and rub together beneath his hand, watching you fall completely apart under his spell.
His large, warm hand slides up your thigh, his fingers spreading wide right over the center of your sweatpants. He cups your heat firmly through the thick fabric, pressing hard enough to make you gasp so sharply your lungs burn.
You jerk upward against the cushions, your back arching off the sofa as a white-hot jolt of pleasure shoots straight up your spine.
"Oh—fuck," you breathe out, your fingers flying up to grab frantically at his shoulders, your nails digging right through his shirt.
Oscar lets out a low, deep hum of pure satisfaction from behind the white plastic mask. The distorted rumble of his approval vibrates right against your pelvis, making you quiver.
"There it is," he whispers, his voice low and dark. He slowly rotates his palm, grinding your own sweatpants against your slick, throbbing core. "I can feel how wet you are. Such a good little girl. Trembling just because the killer looked at you."
Your face burns so hot you feel like you might actually combust. The sheer embarrassment of being talked to like this, while he's still wearing that creepy, blank-eyed Ghostface mask, makes you bury your face into his shoulder, whining softly. You want to disappear into the couch cushions, but at the same time, your hips chase his hand, craving more pressure.
"Oscar, please..." you whimper into his shirt, your voice small and desperate.
"Please what?" Oscar taunts gently, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle right over your bundle of nerves. He shifts his weight, sliding his knees further apart to wedge himself squarely between yours. "Use your words. Tell the killer what you want."
You bite down hard on your lower lip, your face flaming. The embarrassment locks your throat up completely. You stay dead silent, shaking your head against his shoulder because there is no way in hell you are saying dirty things out loud, even if it is just Oscar playing a game.
"Mute, huh?" Oscar chuckles, a dark, teasing sound. "That’s fine for now. I’ll take that as a sign to keep going."
With his free hand, Oscar reaches down to the drawstring of your sweatpants. He hooks his finger under the knot, gives a quick, sharp pull, and slides the fabric down your hips in one smooth motion, dragging your underwear right along with them. The sudden rush of cool air hits your bare skin, making you shiver, before his warm hand replaces it, sliding directly between your thighs.
You let out a loud, breathless gasp, your knees flying up to try and clamp shut around his wrist.
"Uh-uh," Oscar murmurs instantly, pressing his weight down to keep your legs pinned wide open and completely exposed to him. "Keep them open for me, baby."
You freeze, your chest heaving as you realize you have zero control right now. Oscar lowers his head, the hollow eye sockets of the mask hovering just inches from your stomach, before he slowly pushes a single finger inside you.
The contrast of his warm, slick skin sliding into your tightly clenched heat makes your toes curl so hard they cramp. You let out a high, ragged moan, your head tipping back against the top of the couch as your whole body goes rigid.
"God, you're tight," Oscar praises, his voice a gravelly whisper. He curls his finger upward, pressing right against your most sensitive spot with slow, deliberate precision. "Look at how good you're taking him. You love having the killer's fingers inside you, don't you?"
"O-Oscar, stop—ah, fuck," you sob out, your hands clutching helplessly at his bicep as a massive wave of heat crashes over you.
"That's fast, but not yet," he warns darkly, his pace picking up just a fraction. He pushes in a little deeper, curling his finger again and again in a steady, rhythmic stroke that makes your vision blur at the edges. "You don't get to come yet. You're going to sit here, look at this mask, and take every bit of it."
He pulls his finger mostly out before sliding it back in with a wet, heavy sound that makes your stomach flip with lust. The pleasure is building so fast, pooling dangerously low in your belly, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You squeeze your eyes shut, panting wildly, your hips bucking up weakly against his hand to chase the friction.
"Open your eyes," Oscar commands, his tone dropping into something terrifyingly absolute.
You force your heavy eyelids open, staring straight up at the blank, screaming expression of the Ghostface mask looming right above you.
"Look at me," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing soothingly over your hip while his finger keeps up that slow, torturous rhythm inside you. "Tell me you're a good girl for the killer. Say it."
Your face is burning up, your heart hammering a million miles an hour. You are so close to the edge you can practically taste it, your body begging for release, but your stubborn shyness fights back, keeping your mouth clamped shut in pure mortification.
"No?" Oscar hums, his pace stuttering and slowing down just enough to keep you right on the agonizing precipice of an orgasm without letting you fall over it. He deliberately pulls his finger completely out, leaving you empty, aching, and shivering wildly in the cool air.
"Ask for it," Oscar whispers, leaning down so his masked mouth brushes against your bare stomach. "Tell me you want the killer to finish you off."
You let out a pathetic whine, your hips following his retreating hand instinctively.
"Playing hard to get, huh?" Oscar murmurs, a low chuckle vibrating against your stomach through the plastic mask. "That's fine. We have all night. I can just keep playing with you until you finally break."
Before you can even try to form a coherent thought or drag a word past your dry throat, Oscar slides his hands under your hips. He grips your waist firmly and flips you completely around on the couch.
You let out a startled, breathless gasp as your front is suddenly pressed down flat against the cushions. Your knees slide apart, and your bare bottom is pushed up into the air, completely exposed and vulnerable to the open room.
You bury your face directly into a throw pillow, your cheeks burning so hot you're pretty sure you’re glowing in the dark. You just want to melt right through the fabric of the sofa.
Right behind you, the cushion dips heavily under Oscar’s weight as he shifts.
You hear the heavy, muffled rustle of his clothes moving, followed by the soft sound of his breathing right behind your ear. Then, you feel the warm, heavy rush of his breath trailing directly down your lower back, moving over your bare skin, right down to your aching, swollen heat.
You freeze entirely, your toes curling deep into the carpet where your feet dangle off the edge of the couch.
Oscar presses his face close, inhaling deeply right against your folds.
A heavy, low groan escapes his throat. "God, you smell so good, princess," he whispers, his voice thick, rough, and completely saturated with lust. "You're soaking wet for big, bad Ghostface, aren't you? Just leaking all over the place. Look at what you're doing to yourself for a guy in a plastic mask."
Your entire body flushes a violent, throbbing crimson. You squeeze your eyes shut and press your face deeper into the pillow, whimpering softly.
"Please," you choke out, your voice muffled and trembling pathetically as your hips twitch on their own accord. "Oscar... please..."
"Please what?" Oscar taunts gently, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. He doesn't move to give you what you want. Instead, he reaches around, his large, warm hand wrapping firmly around your hip to hold you still. "Tell me what you want the killer to do to you. Use your voice, my darling."
You bite down hard on the corner of the throw pillow, your jaw locking tight. You know exactly what you want, you want him inside you so badly your body aches, but the utter embarrassment of saying it out loud makes your throat seize up. You can't do it. You stay completely silent, shaking your head against the cushion.
"Still won't say it?" Oscar murmurs, a dark, wicked edge to his voice. "Stubborn little brat."
You hear the distinct, sharp sound of a zipper sliding down.
A second later, you feel the heavy, rigid weight of Oscar pressing up against your backside. He’s completely bare now, his thick, hard length bumping once against your damp, aching entrance in a teasing, punishing stroke that makes you gasp loudly into the pillow.
"You're making the killer very, very hungry, doll" Oscar whispers, leaning in so the plastic mask brushes lightly against the curve of your lower back.
He slowly drags the tip of his length down your slick folds, tracing the sensitive seam before sliding back up, coating himself entirely in your wetness. He repeats the motion with agonizing slowness, a deliberate, sliding tease that makes your hips instinctively push backward, desperate to catch him.
"Oh, fuck," you sob out, your hands bunching up the fabric of the couch cushions until your knuckles turn white. "Oscar, please—"
"Shh," he hushes you, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly purr right by your ear. "Ghostface is going to ruin you. Say goodbye to your pretty little pussy, because he's going to tear it right up."
Oscar doesn't just push inside you; he takes his absolute, agonizing time.
The tip of his heavy, throbbing length presses firmly against your entrance, and he slides inward just a fraction of an inch. He halts completely, letting his heat flush against your bare skin while he waits, feeling the way your inner muscles instantly clench and grip around him in a desperate, involuntary reflex.
"So fucking tight," Oscar groans softly, his voice a gravelly scrape against the back of your neck.
He pushes in another slow, agonizing inch, pausing again to let you adjust to the sheer stretch of him. Every single nerve ending in your lower body is screaming, singing with a white-hot ache that makes your vision swim. He is moving so excruciatingly slow, dragging out every single second as if he wants to torture you from the inside out.
You let out a ragged, frustrated whimper into the throw pillow. The slow pace is driving you completely out of your mind.
Unable to take another second of the endless waiting, your hips violently buck backward on their own accord, driving yourself down and swallowing the rest of his length in one hard, greedy rush.
Oscar lets out a sharp, surprised gasp at the sudden movement, his hands immediately flying down to grip your hips with iron-tight fingers, anchoring you right where you are.
"Impatient, aren't we?" Oscar murmurs, a dark, wicked amusement bleeding through his tone. "Couldn't wait for the killer, huh?"
Before you can even try to form a coherent reply, Oscar pulls almost all the way out, only to slam right back into you with a heavy, wet smack that echoes off the couch cushions.
"Ah—fuck, Oscar!" you scream into the pillow, your entire body jolting forward from the sheer force of the thrust.
He doesn't give you a second to catch your breath. He catches a punishing rhythm right then and there, his hips snapping forward with brutal, relentless speed. He fucks into you hard, fast, and impossibly deep, every single thrust knocking the wind straight out of your lungs and sending shockwaves of blinding pleasure straight to your core.
The steady, heavy sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixed with your own loud, shattered moans and Oscar’s rough, ragged panting from behind the mask.
"Look at you take it," Oscar praises roughly, his voice vibrating through the plastic of the mask as he buries himself inside you to the hilt. He hits that one exact, wicked spot over and over again with every single thrust, pushing you closer and closer to a total, earth-shattering edge. "Such a good thing for the killer. Take it all, baby. Take every inch of him."
The relentless, punishing rhythm keeps going for several minutes, the couch shaking beneath you with every heavy, deliberate impact of his hips slamming against yours. Your body is burning all over, slick with sweat and completely overridden by the raw, animalistic heat of the moment.
Just when you feel like you are flying entirely apart, Oscar suddenly shifts his pace. He lets out a deep, ragged breath and abruptly slows his movements down, sliding out of you with a slow, agonizing drag before pressing back in with a deep, stretching roll of his pelvis.
He does it again, drawing out the stroke so deliberately that every single ridge and contour of him scrapes against your hypersensitive inner walls.
"So good," Oscar murmurs, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly purr right against the shell of your ear. The plastic mask bumps softly against your cheek with every word he speaks. "Look at how your walls are just milking every inch of the killer. You're squeezing me so tight, baby. Are you trying to trap him inside you?"
A violent shiver rips straight down your spine, your whole body convulsing at the filthy, possessive praise.
Your brain feels scrambled, scrambled in the absolute best, most dizzying way possible. A chaotic, breathless thought flashes through your mind, wild and unfiltered: God, why am I liking this so much right now?
Ghostface is a horror movie icon, a terrifying, knife-wielding lunatic who’s supposed to make you run screaming in the opposite direction. But right now, that exact same masked killer is burying himself deep inside your body, owning you completely on the living room sofa. The absurd, twisted contrast between horror and absolute, filthy pleasure makes your head spin on its axis. You don't care anymore. Let the killer ruin you. Let him wreck your pussy, let him destroy you completely, you don't give a single damn as long as he keeps moving, as long as he gives you more, more, and more.
You need him to push you over the edge so badly your chest aches with it.
When Oscar slows down even further, pausing entirely with just the heavy, thick heat of him resting fully inside you, your patience completely snaps. You can't handle the stillness. You can't handle the waiting.
With a desperate, choked little whine, you aggressively grind your hips backward, actively initiating the movement on your own for the first time. You shove yourself right back onto him, taking every single millimeter of his length back inside with a frantic, greedy hitch of your waist.
Oscar lets out a sharp, surprised intake of breath, the sound muffled heavily by the mask.
"Oh, fuck," Oscar groans, his hands tightening instantly on your hips like a pair of vice grips, anchoring you firmly as he realizes you're taking total control. "Feisty now, are we? You want the killer to finish the job, don't you?"
Oscar responds to your desperate push by matching your rhythm, but he slows it all the way down, turning every single inch of movement into a slow-motion torture test. He hooks his heavy, thick length deep inside you, then draws back so lazily that you can feel every individual ridge, every millimeter of heat slipping away, before he presses back in with agonizing precision.
He hits that exact, swollen bundle of nerves hidden deep inside your walls, pressing his thumb down firmly into the crease of your hip at the exact same time.
A choked, helpless sob tears out of your throat, your fingers clawing frantically into the sofa cushions as your whole body arches in response.
"Still won't answer me, huh?" Oscar whispers, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly purr right beside your ear. The molded plastic of the Ghostface mask scrapes softly against your cheekbone with every syllable he speaks. "Still too shy to tell the killer what you want? Look at you, biting your lip so hard you're going to make it bleed. You want him to ruin you, don't you? You want him to destroy you so badly you can't even form words."
Your brain is spinning off its axis, trapped in a chaotic, feverish loop of pure lust and lingering, agonizing shyness.
You desperately want to scream the words out. You want to turn around, grab the lapels of his shirt, and beg him, plead with him to wreck your body, to ruin your pussy until you can't even remember your own name. You don't care about the rules, you don't care about how ridiculous this whole scenario is. You just want to surrender completely to the man behind the mask.
Thinking about it, just an hour ago, you were hiding your face in his bicep, terrified out of your mind by a standard, predictable horror flick, using him as your human shield like you always do. You’ve hated horror movies your entire life. You’ve always despised the blood, the jump scares, the sheer panic of it all. You always hated the terror.
And now? Now you are taking the killer—your boyfriend playing dress-up in a stupid joke-shop mask—deep inside your body, loving every filthy, degrading second of it so intensely it practically hurts. The sheer perversity of the thrill sends a heavy, dizzying rush straight to your head. You are liking this way, way too much. It’s entirely wrong, completely warped, and so overwhelmingly arousing you feel like you might actually lose your mind.
"Oscar..." you breathe out, your voice trembling into the fabric of the pillow, so small and pathetic you can barely hear it yourself. "Please... please..."
"Please what, kitten?" Oscar murmurs, his pace remaining frustratingly, meticulously slow. He slides in an inch, pauses, twists his hips just enough to grind against that one spot that makes your vision turn blinding white, and then slides back out. "Use your voice. Tell the killer how much you love having his cock inside you. Tell him how good he feels."
The way he says it, so filthy and raw, yet laced with that underlying, honeyed sweetness that is so uniquely, unmistakably Oscar, destroys what little composure you have left. That’s just how he is. Even when he’s talking absolute filth, even when he’s pretending to be a masked lunatic terrorizing you in a quiet house, his tone carries this warm, adoring undertone that makes your heart swell just as fast as your core aches. He’s taking care of you even while he’s destroying you.
"I... I can't," you sob quietly, your hips twitching on their own, chasing a friction he refuses to fully give you. "I'm too... oh, God, Oscar..."
"You can," he coos softly, the contrast between the terrifying white mask and his tender, soothing tone breaking your defenses completely. He shifts his weight, leaning his chest flat against your back, wrapping his free arm around your waist to pull you even tighter against him. "You're doing so well for him. Such a good, obedient little girl. Taking every inch of the killer like it's nothing. You like that, don't you? You like knowing he's the one breaking you open right now."
He rolls his hips in a slow, circular motion, dragging himself across your sensitive core with deliberate, agonizing cruelty. He keeps you right on the razor-thin precipice of an orgasm, building the pressure until your chest heaves and your lungs burn for air, but he steadfastly refuses to let you cross the finish line.
"Oscar, please make me come," you cry out, the shyness finally shattering entirely under the weight of the unbearable pleasure. "Please, just ruin me—make me come, I need it, I'm begging you—"
Hearing you finally crack, hearing those desperate, broken pleas finally tear past your lips, completely changes everything.
Oscar lets out a deep, heavy growl that vibrates right through the plastic of the mask pressed against your spine. All that slow, agonizing torture vanishes in a single heartbeat, replaced by a sudden, raw rush of absolute hunger.
He shifts his grip on your hips, his fingers digging so hard into your flesh they leave warm, phantom bruises, anchoring you down into the sofa as he lunges forward.
He starts fucking you harder, faster, and infinitely deeper, his hips slamming against your backside with a heavy, relentless rhythm that knocks the breath clean out of your lungs.
"That's it," Oscar breathes out, his voice turning rough, gravelly, and entirely feral in your ear. "Take it, baby. Take every single bit of him."
The sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the air in a rapid, chaotic cadence, mixed with the wet, heavy slide of skin and your own high, shattered whimpers. Every single thrust is brutal and deep, hitting that exact, sensitive core over and over again with punishing precision until your vision whites out completely. You can feel your entire body shaking, your muscles locking and unloosing in a wild, frantic response to the onslaught.
"F-fuck, Oscar—!" you scream out into the pillow, your hands clawing blindly at the cushions as your hips push back frantically to meet every single one of his savage lunges.
Oscar doesn't hold back anymore. He loses himself entirely to the rhythm, panting heavily, his breaths coming in hot, ragged gasps right against the shell of your ear.
"God, you're taking him so well," Oscar groans, his voice hitching as he buries himself all the way to the hilt, pulling back only to slam right back into you with staggering force. "Look at this. Look at how this killer's cock fits inside your pretty little pussy. Just sliding right in, stretching you out, wrecking you just like you wanted."
A violent flash of pure, scalding heat rushes straight to your face. The sheer, explicit filth of his words, spoken in that dark, distorted Ghostface voice, yet carrying that unmistakable, possessive edge of his adoration, makes your stomach flip over itself.
You are so utterly embarrassed your ears are burning red, your skin prickling with goosebumps from head to toe, but the shame only acts like fuel tossed straight onto an open fire. It turns you on so intensely, so deeply, that your brain completely short-circuits. You can't formulate a single defensive thought. You can't argue back. You can't even tell him to stop. You don't want him to stop.
All you can do is arch your back higher, pressing your weight back into him like a starved animal, letting out loud, pathetic moans that spill endlessly into the throw pillow.
"That's right, doll, just take it," Oscar praises, his tone dropping into a possessive snarl as he picks up the pace even more, driving into you with a wild, desperate urgency that matches your own. "Tell the killer how much you love it. Look at how wet you are, look at how you're milking him—you're such a good, filthy little girl for him, aren't you?"
The relentless friction, the heavy, overpowering weight of his body pinning you down, and the dirty, degrading praise crashing over you like a tidal wave push you right to the absolute precipice. Your toes curl so hard they cramp, your inner walls clenching around his thick length in a violent, involuntary spasm that signals the edge of a massive, earth-shattering release.
The sudden, violent clenching of your inner muscles around his length makes Oscar pull out of you with a wet, heavy slide that leaves you shivering and gasping into the empty air.
He grabs your waist, his hands warm and firm, and flips you over onto your back before you can even process the loss of contact.
With a quick, deliberate flick of his wrist, Oscar reaches up and yanks the white plastic Ghostface mask off his face, tossing it carelessly aside onto the floor where it clatters loudly against the rug.
"There you are," he whispers, a breathtaking, crooked grin stretching across his face as he looks down at you. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, and completely blown out with lust, staring right into your flushed, breathless face.
He doesn't slide back inside you just yet. Instead, he lowers his weight down over you, bracketing your head with his arms, and presses his lips directly to yours.
The kiss starts slow, deep, and agonizingly tender. His tongue sweeps lazily across your lower lip before slipping inside, tasting like the heavy heat of the room and pure, unadulterated want. While his mouth claims yours, his hand leaves your waist, tracing a slow, deliberate path down the curve of your ribs, across your flat stomach, and straight down between your thighs.
He doesn't stop kissing you, even as his fingers part your damp folds. He talks right against your mouth, his lips brushing yours with every syllable he murmurs.
"You're doing so well for me," he whispers softly, his voice a low, gravelly hum against your lips.
His thumb finds your swollen, hypersensitive clit and begins to trace slow, agonizingly soft circles over it. A violent tremor tears through your thighs, your legs instantly parting wider as a high, choked gasp escapes into his mouth.
Oscar breaks the kiss, sliding his lips down your chin, trailing hot, wet kisses across your throat and down the delicate skin of your neck.
"You're such a good girl," he purrs against your pulse point.
He presses his teeth down gently, nipping at the skin of your neck just hard enough to leave a sting, before migrating upward to the shell of your ear. He flicks his tongue lightly over the sensitive curve, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps rippling across your skin, right before he drops his voice to a dirty, filthy whisper.
"You're my sexy little slut, aren't you?"
A loud, pathetic moan rips out of your throat, your head tossing back against the couch cushions as his thumb rubs another slow, punishing circle over your clit.
God, fuck. Looking up at him now, seeing his actual face, the familiar slope of his nose, the messy strands of hair falling across his forehead, those gorgeous eyes looking down at you with raw, possessive adoration, makes the reality of it hit you ten times harder. This is your Oscar. Not some stranger, not a movie killer, but the man you love, completely undone and looking at you like you hung the stars, while simultaneously reducing you to a trembling, whimpering mess on the living room rug.
Seeing him without the mask, seeing the real man behind the perverted game, suddenly slams your natural shyness right back into your chest like a physical blow. Your face flares up a brilliant, burning crimson, your cheeks heating until they practically sting.
Ignoring your hesitation, Oscar slides a single, slick finger deep inside your hot, welcoming folds.
"Tell me again," he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours as he curls his finger upward. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."
You snap your eyes shut, your face burning so hot you feel like you might combust. The mortification of saying it out loud while looking straight into his eyes is almost too much to bear. You keep your mouth clamped tight, biting your lower lip until it hurts, shaking your head against the cushions.
"Don't be shy," Oscar chides softly, though there is a dark, demanding edge to his tone.
He slowly fucks your pussy with his single finger, moving in and out with a wet, steady rhythm that makes your hips instinctively buckle upward. You chase the pressure automatically, your body betraying your locked jaw as you chase every single inch of friction he gives you.
When you still stay stubbornly silent, only letting out soft, broken whines, Oscar stops moving his finger inside you just enough to torture you.
"Use your words for me, bunny," he whispers, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your cheekbone.
He slowly slides a second finger in right beside the first, stretching you wider, filling you up and making your vision blur at the edges.
"Tell me what you want."
He starts moving his fingers again, fucking your pussy with a slow, deliberate rhythm that is absolute psychological torture. At the same time, his kisses begin a slow trail down from your ear, dropping lower to your neck, and then grazing over the sensitive skin of your breasts, his lips sucking lightly at your flesh while his hand tortures you below.
"If you want to come, you better speak, doll," he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with absolute authority. "Tell the killer—tell me—what you want."
The combination of the filthy, degrading words, the intense physical pleasure ripping through your lower stomach, and the agonizing delay of your release finally pushes you past your breaking point. The shyness cracks, splintering into a million pieces under the weight of your own desperate need.
You open your eyes, looking up at him with swimming, dilated pupils, your voice trembling and breathless as the words finally tumble past your lips in a rush.
"I want it," you sob out, your hands flying up to grip tightly at his shoulders. "I want you to keep talking to me like that—please, Oscar, call me your slut, call me whatever you want. Rip my pussy apart, fuck me until I can't walk. Kiss my neck, bite my breasts, don't stop—just ruin me, please, make me come, I'm begging you—"
A dark, victorious grin breaks across Oscar’s face.
"That's my girl," he praises, his voice rough with absolute pride as he pulls his fingers out of you and surges forward, sinking his heavy, thick length straight back inside your body to the very hilt in one single, punishing lunge.
The second those words leave your mouth, every single shred of restraint Oscar was holding onto completely snaps.
He doesn’t just move anymore, he attacks. He grabs you by the hips, his fingers digging in so hard it leaves phantom imprints, and slams into you with a brutal, feral hunger. He fucks you like an absolute animal, like a monster unleashed, driving into you harder, faster, and deeper than he has all night.
The heavy sound of skin crashing against skin fills the air in a rapid, deafening rhythm, entirely drowning out the sound of the rain thrashing against the glass outside.
"F-fuck, Oscar—!" you scream out, your voice cracking completely.
He doesn't let up. He leans down over you, his chest pressing heavy against yours, and starts trailing wet, searing kisses all along your jawline, down your throat, and right over the delicate skin of your collarbone. He sucks hard at the sensitive flesh of your neck, his teeth grazing over your pulse point just as his hips snap forward, hitting that exact, wicked spot deep inside you with agonizing perfection.
The pleasure is so sharp, so overwhelming and blindingly intense, that you instinctively arch your back off the cushions, your spine bowing like a drawn bow. You throw your head back and let out a loud, uninhibited moan, so piercing and desperate that you swear to God the neighbors can hear every single sound right through the walls, storm or no storm.
You don't even care. You don't care about the neighbors, you don't care about how loud you are, and miraculously, you don't even care about coming yet. The release feels secondary, miles away, because right now you just want this. You want him to keep fucking you like this, rough, heavy, and completely unhinged, making you feel like you are nothing and everything to him all at the same time.
"That's my fucking girl," Oscar growls right into your ear, his voice rough, gravelly, and saturated with raw ownership. "Take it all, you like it when the killer ruins you, don't you? Look at how good you take his cock, just a greedy, beautiful little slut—"
The filth rolling off his tongue, mixed with the sheer, driving friction of his body, emboldens you in a way that blows your natural shyness entirely to dust. You are burning up from the inside out, completely intoxicated by the power of the moment.
You claw your hands up his back, your fingers hooking into his shoulders, and pull him down closer, your voice dropping into a breathless, reckless demand right against his mouth.
"Choke me," you pant out, your eyes locking onto his with absolute desperation. "Oscar, please—put your hand on my throat, choke me right now, fuck me harder—"
Oscar lets out a harsh, ragged curse that catches in the back of his throat. A dark, wild glint flashes in his eyes, and he doesn't hesitate for a single microsecond.
He yanks his right hand away from your hip, sliding it up your ribs, over your chest, and wraps his large, warm fingers firmly around your throat. He doesn't squeeze too hard, just enough to press you securely into the cushions, anchoring you completely as he redoubles his frantic pace.
"You want me to choke you, you little whore?" Oscar snarls, his hips hammering into you with unrelenting, savage force. "You want the killer to put his hands around your neck while he destroys you?"
"Yes—oh, God, yes," you sob out, your breathing hitching as his thumb presses gently over your windpipe, restricting your air just enough to send a dizzying, electric shock straight to your core.
The combination of the rough grip on your throat, the dirty praises pouring from his lips, and the heavy, relentless pounding of his body against yours shatters what little sanity you have left. You lose your mind entirely. You are begging, pleading, crying out for more, more, more, your hips bucking up to meet every single thrust with a frantic, animalistic energy that completely erases the shy, quiet girl you were just an hour ago.
"Please, Oscar, please, don't stop, wreck me, tear me apart, make me yours—" you chant over and over again, your voice breaking into ragged gasps as he fucks you harder and deeper, driving you straight toward the edge of oblivion.
Oscar doesn't give you a single second to catch your breath, his hand remaining firmly clamped around your throat while his hips snap forward with an intensity that threatens to unhinge your pelvis. Every single lunge is deeper, harder, and more punishing than the last, his thick length sliding all the way in to hit that exact, agonizingly sensitive sweet spot buried deep inside your walls. The friction is a blazing fire, searing through your nerves and making your entire body vibrate with a white-hot hum.
"That's it," Oscar growls, his voice ragged and breathless as he stares down into your flushed, wide-eyed face. "You're doing so fucking well for me. Look at you. I'm so proud of you, bunny."
Hearing those words, the genuine, adoring pride woven right into the filthy, rough commands, sends a violent, electric shock straight to your core. Your inner muscles instantly contract, convulsing in a tight, merciless clamp around his length that makes Oscar throw his head back with a sharp, guttural gasp.
"Fuck—you're squeezing me so tight," he pants, his thumb rubbing a soothing, possessive circle over your windpipe while his other hand keeps your waist locked in place. "Do you like that? Do you like being praised by the killer, doll? Do you like hearing how good you are?"
You can't even force a word past your lips anymore. Your throat is completely tight, your chest heaving wildly as you stare up at him, completely undone. All you can manage is a frantic, desperate nod, your eyes spilling over with a sudden rush of heat as your head rolls back against the cushions.
"Good girl," Oscar praises again, his tone dropping into a low, addictive purr that wraps around your brain like silk. "Such a good, greedy little bunny for me. Taking every inch of the killer like you were made for it."
He alters the angle of his thrusts just a fraction, rolling his hips upward with a slow, heavy grind that hits your sweet spot with surgical precision every single time. The overwhelming pleasure crashes over you in massive, repeating waves, pushing you higher and higher up the mountain until the edges of your vision start to blur into bright, blinding white light.
"Oscar—I'm—oh, God—" you sob out, your fingers clawing desperately at his shoulders, your hips bucking up to meet him in a frantic, unhinged rhythm.
"Come on, then," Oscar urges, his voice thick with absolute worship as he accelerates the pace, driving into you harder and faster with relentless, unstoppable force. "Let go for me, baby. Show the killer how completely you can fall apart."
The world completely narrows down to the heavy, frantic friction of his body against yours and the blinding, white-hot pressure coiling impossibly tight in your lower stomach.
Oscar senses the exact second you reach the edge. Instead of rushing you or letting you slip over it, he slows his pace just enough to draw out the torture, his hips rolling into you with a deep, deliberate grind that makes every single nerve ending in your body flare up in a blinding panic of pleasure.
"That's it," Oscar groans, his voice a gravelly whisper right against your ear as his hand still rests firmly around your throat. "Let go, bunny. Give it to me."
You throw your head back, your lungs burning for air as your entire body locks up. A high, shattered cry rips straight out of your throat, completely uninhibited, as the orgasm hits you like a freight train.
Your inner walls violently spasm, milking him over and over again in rapid, cascading contractions that ripple straight down to your toes. The intensity of it is so staggering your vision goes completely black at the edges, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders with enough force to leave bruises.
The moment he feels your core clench around him, milking him helplessly at the peak of your release, Oscar completely shatters.
He lets out a deep, guttural growl that vibrates through his entire chest, his hips slamming forward one last time with a heavy, final thrust. He buries himself as deep as humanly possible, holding himself completely still inside you as he spends himself, groaning your name aloud as he shoots hot and heavy straight into your pulsing heat.
"F-fuck... yes," Oscar gasps, his body trembling violently against yours as he milks every last drop of your mutual release, his breath coming in hot, ragged pants against your skin.
For a few long, breathless moments, neither of you moves. The heavy weight of his body pins you securely to the sofa cushions, your chest rising and falling in sync as the aftershocks of the orgasm continue to ripple through your tired muscles.
Slowly, the frantic energy bleeds out of the room. Oscar’s hand relaxes on your throat, his fingers sliding up to cradle the back of your head before he presses a slow, tender kiss right against your sweaty temple. He lets his weight settle fully over you, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, his lips brushing softly against your skin with every exhausted exhalation.
And then, as the adrenaline rapidly drains from your veins, reality comes crashing back down on you like a ton of bricks.
The utter, paralyzing wave of shyness hits you all at once.
Your face burns a violent, scorching red. The terrifying, vivid memory of what you just did, how you screamed, how you begged him to choke you, how you practically whined for him to wreck your body, flashes through your mind in horrifying technicolor. You said all those things. You, the quiet, naturally shy person who can barely order extra fries without turning into a stuttering mess, just spent the last twenty minutes acting like a completely unhinged, filthy animal for your boyfriend.
Mortification washes over you in a hot, suffocating wave.
Without a second thought, you desperately try to vanish. You wrap your arms tightly around Oscar’s broad shoulders, your fingers bunching up in his shirt, and you violently yank him down, burying your face as deep as you possibly can right into the crook of his neck. You squeeze your eyes shut, your cheeks burning so hot against his skin that you’re pretty sure you’re leaving a scorch mark.
"Oh, my God," you groan miserably, your voice muffled heavily against his shoulder as you try to shrink into a microscopic size. "Don't look at me. Just let me die right here. Just throw me in the trash."
Oscar lets out a low, chest-deep chuckle, the vibration of his laughter rumbling right against your cheek. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms fully around your waist and holding you securely against him, completely refusing to let you hide.
"Die?" Oscar teases softly, his voice still thick and raspy from the post-orgasmic haze, though there’s an undeniable streak of absolute fondness woven right through it. He presses another lingering, warm kiss to the side of your head, his thumb lazily tracing soothing circles across your bare lower back. "Why would you want to do that when you were just being the absolute best girl for the killer?"
"Shut up," you whine, pressing your face even harder into his neck, your toes curling in deep embarrassment. "I hate you. I literally hate you so much right now. I am never speaking again."
"Mm-hmm, sure you aren't," Oscar hums, a lazy, victorious smile clear in his voice as he tightens his embrace around you, completely content to just hold you there while the rain continues to hammer against the glass outside.
You stay welded into the crook of Oscar's neck for a long, quiet stretch, breathing in the scent of his skin and the faint trace of sweat, letting the heavy, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest slowly ground you. The living room is completely still except for the steady drumming of the rain against the glass.
Oscar doesn't rush you. He just keeps one heavy arm wrapped securely around your waist, while his other hand moves in slow, comforting circles up and down your bare back, his fingers tracing the line of your spine.
After a few minutes of just letting your breathing settle back to normal, Oscar shifts slightly. He tilts his head down, pressing his lips softly to the top of your head, before his low, gentle voice breaks the quiet.
"Hey," Oscar murmurs softly, the teasing edge completely gone from his tone, replaced by something entirely tender and careful. "You okay down there?"
You let out a tiny, muffled hum against his skin, refusing to budge an inch.
Oscar gently reaches up, his fingers sliding under your chin to nudge your face, trying to coax you out of your hiding spot. When you resist, stubbornly pressing your forehead back into his shoulder, he lets out a quiet, understanding sigh and just rubs his thumb soothingly over your cheekbone.
"Seriously, talk to me," Oscar whispers, his tone turning genuinely concerned. "Was all of that okay? The mask, the dirty talk, me being rough... you can be completely honest with me. I know you get way too shy sometimes, and I just want to make sure you didn't freeze up earlier and didn't know how to tell me to stop."
Hearing the genuine worry and care wrapped up in his voice makes your heart do a complicated, tender little flip.
Right on cue, a fresh wave of blinding embarrassment rushes straight to your cheeks, hot and heavy. You let out a muffled groan and immediately try to tuck your face back into his neck, burying yourself as deeply as humanly possible.
God, why do you always hide on him?
It’s an automatic reflex at this point. Whenever you feel overwhelmed, whenever your shyness reaches its absolute peak, you instinctively retreat straight to him. Because deep down, underneath all the teasing and the ridiculous horror movie roleplay, he has somehow become your absolute safest place in the entire world. The one person where you can completely fall apart and know you won't be judged.
Even though right now, you are dying of sheer mortification.
"I'm not uncomfortable," you whisper finally, your voice muffled so heavily against his skin that it sounds like it's coming from underwater.
"Are you sure?" Oscar asks gently, his thumb still tracing slow circles on your cheek. "Because you were pretty quiet at the end there, and—"
"I liked it," you blurt out, cutting him off before your courage completely evaporates.
You slowly, reluctantly peel your face away from his neck, your eyes sliding up to meet his. Your cheeks are burning a violent, brilliant red, and you bite down hard on your lower lip, staring anywhere else in the room except directly into his gaze.
"You... liked it?" Oscar asks, a slow, disbelieving, yet deeply amused smile starting to pull at the corner of his mouth.
"I didn't just like it," you mumble, your voice dropping to a tiny, mortified squeak as you squeeze your eyes shut again. You press your forehead against his chest, clutching tightly at his shoulders. "I... I loved it. All of it. Even the stupid mask. Even you calling me a slut. I loved every single second, okay? Are you happy now?"
Oscar bursts out laughing, a warm, bright sound that shakes his entire chest.
"Every single second?" he teases, tightening his arms around you and pressing a long, affectionate kiss right to your burning temple. "Even when I choked you?"
"Shut up," you whine, playfully hitting his chest with a weak fist while a massive, helpless smile breaks across your own face. "I am never letting you pick a movie again as long as I live."
"Sure you will, bunny," Oscar hums, his voice dripping with pure, teasing adoration as he pulls you closer. "Scream 2 is on next weekend anyway."
— ✦