don't hang up. ghostface!simon riley x reader
a string of murders haunts your city, and when the masked man who’s been calling finally comes for you, he doesn’t want your life, he wants your body*. ⋆ 1.5k words
cw: smut. fem!reader. home invasion. stalking. obsession. dubcon. oral (fem!receiving). fear play. mask stays on. piv. unprotected sex. light choking. praise and degradation. knife use (no blood tho). forced restraint. creampie. no safeword. cursing.
a/n: idk how to feel about this one, i just needed to do something about ghostface!simon. remember english isn't my first language!
it starts with a phone call.
it's late, past midnight. you're half-asleep on the couch, phone slipping from your hand when it buzzes with a number you don’t recognize.
you answer anyway.
“…hello?”
at first, there’s silence. a static crackle.
then a voice, low, distorted, mechanical, scrapes into your ear like gravel over a speaker.
“you sound sweet when you’re tired.”
you blink, pulse stuttering. “what?”
“mmm. I like it when you sound confused.”
you sit up. “who the fuck is this?”
“wrong number,” the voice hums. “or maybe not.”
the call ends.
you stare at your screen. brow furrowed. a wrong number prank? a friend fucking with you?
you forget about it. for a while.
until the next night, and the one after that.
the calls keep coming.
every night around midnight.
always a different number. always that voice.
distorted. controlled. but always watching.
he never says your name, but you can tell he knows it. he makes references, to the show you’re watching, to what you’re wearing.
“that blanket’s not hiding much, is it?”
“I liked the red set you wore last night better.”
“do you always keep your hand under the waistband that long before you touch yourself?”
you try not to react. try not to let him know he’s scaring you. but your body gives you away.
he comments on that, too.
“you breathe faster when you’re scared.”
“I bet you’re wet now. don’t lie.”
“scared and turned on. my favorite combination.”
you call the police.
you file a report. they log it, tell you not to worry. “probably a prank,” they say. “don’t engage. don’t answer.”
you block every number. he always finds a new one.
your friends tell you to stay somewhere else. you refuse. you’re not going to be chased out of your own home.
but deep down, you know.
you’re not being pranked.
you’re being hunted.
then the murders start.
not far.
the first is downtown. a woman stabbed in her apartment. no signs of forced entry.
the second is just a mile away. a couple killed in their sleep. no witnesses. no suspects.
the media goes feral. “new wave of ghostface copycats,” they say. “modernized. smarter. crueler.”
and you start keeping a knife under your pillow.
the night it happens, you’re in bed. half-asleep. wearing nothing but one of your oversized tees and a thin pair of underwear.
it’s hot. the windows are cracked.
the air is quiet. dead quiet.
and then your phone buzzes.
unknown number.
you answer it without thinking. habit.
“...hello?”
you don’t even get a word from him this time. just breathing.
long. slow. controlled.
you sit up.
“…what do you want?”
the silence stretches.
“I want to fuck you.”
you freeze.
“I had other plans for you,” he says. “but you’ve been such a good girl. so obedient. answering every night. letting me listen to those soft little moans when you thought no one was watching.”
your skin prickles.
“and now… I want something else.”
you hang up.
you reach for the knife.
you don’t make it.
‘cause he’s already in the room.
you scream. loud. raw.
a gloved hand clamps over your mouth.
you thrash—kick, elbow, twist—but he’s huge. towering. broad. and strong enough to make it look easy.
you’re pinned flat on the bed in seconds, wrists trapped above your head. and that mask stares down at you.
ghostface.
except not the flimsy halloween kind. this one’s reinforced. tactical. matte black and bone-white, custom-carved. sharp edges. dark eyes.
his voice is even more distorted in person.
“even prettier up close.”
he lets go of your mouth just long enough for you to gasp, and for his other hand to catch your throat and squeeze. not hard. just enough to silence you.
“shhh. I don't want to hurt you… not unless you make me.”
you’re shaking. trying to scream again, but your breath won’t come.
he leans down.
“don’t worry, sweetheart. you’ll like it—eventually.”
he lets go of your neck.
you try to bolt.
he catches you by the ankle and drags you back up the bed like it’s nothing. like you weigh nothing.
you scream again. he pins you harder.
you hear the click of a knife unsheathing, then cold steel touches your cheek.
he doesn’t cut, just traces.
“so soft,” he murmurs.
the blade trails lower. down your jaw. your throat. between your breasts.
your chest heaves. your body shakes. but you don’t fight, not anymore.
you’re too scared.
too still.
too wet.
and he notices.
“already soaked?” he hums. “knew you’d be a little slut under all that attitude. so fucking ready to be taken.”
he cuts your shirt off.
just slices down the middle.
the fabric falls open. your nipples harden in the cold air.
you make a sound, something between a whimper and a sob.
“look at that. so shy now.”
he kneels between your legs.
you try to kick him again, and this time he laughs.
“cute.”
then he grabs your panties and rips them down.
“please,” you whisper.
you don’t even know what you’re asking for.
“you want me to stop?” his head tilts. “say it, and I will.”
you open your mouth.
nothing comes out.
you’re terrified. shaking. but there’s heat spreading fast between your legs. a pulse thudding low in your belly. your cunt is soaked and clenching for something you don’t want to name.
he sees it all.
“didn’t think so.”
his gloves come off.
his bare fingers are warm where they slide between your thighs and spread your folds open.
you choke on a sob.
“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re dripping.”
he leans in. presses the mask to your inner thigh. inhales.
“you smell like heaven. no wonder i couldn’t stay away.”
his mouth is on you so fast you barely have time to process it.
you cry out.
it’s wet, hot, overwhelming—his tongue flat and greedy, licking up your slit with filthy groans that vibrate into your bones.
he eats like a man starved. hands locked on your thighs, holding you open.
he doesn't stop when you shake.
doesn’t stop when you plead.
he licks and sucks until you’re crying and coming and trying to crawl away.
but he doesn't let you.
he just growls, “where do you think you’re going?” and buries two fingers inside you.
you arch off the bed with a sob.
“so fucking tight.”
“your pussy’s perfect. fuck.”
he curls his fingers, finding your sweet spot instantly.
you scream.
“louder.”
he adds a third and makes you come again.
harder.but you can’t stop it.
you’re sobbing, trembling, breaking, and he loves it.
“that’s it. let me see you fall apart.”
he pulls back just enough to press a gloved hand to your throat again.
“one more.”
“gonna make you gush for me.”
you do.
you come a third time with a scream that rips through your throat, soaking his hand, your sheets, everything.
you can’t think. you can’t breathe.
and then you feel it.
his big, meaty cock pressing to your entrance.
“ready for me, pretty girl?”
you shake your head. “n-no, I—”
“that’s not a no—that’s a scared yes.”
he pushes in.
all the way.
slow. deliberate. huge.
you sob. you’re so full it aches.
“tightest cunt i’ve ever felt,” he groans. “fuck, I was gonna gut you, you know? slice you open and watch the light leave your eyes... but then I thought, why waste something so fuckable?””
he starts to move.
and you break.
you lose track after the fifth orgasm.
you cry. you beg. you come. you plead again.
he doesn't stop.
he fucks you like he owns you.
whispers praise and filth in your ear.
“such a good girl.”
“so pretty when you cry.”
“you were made for this.”
“made for me.”
you don’t know what’s worse, the pain or the pleasure.
he presses his mask to yours. kisses you through it. you moan into the hard plastic, delirious, ruined.
“I was going to kill you,” he murmurs. “but i think i’ll keep you instead.”
when he finally comes, it’s inside you.
he groans like an animal. burying himself deep. holding you still.
“mine.”
he doesn’t pull out right away. just lies there. heavy. breathing hard.
then finally, he gets up. adjusts the mask.
you lie there. trembling. legs spread. slick everywhere.
dazed, ruined and empty.
he tucks himself away, leans over you one last time.
“you’ll see me again.”
you blink. your lips part. “w-what?”
he strokes your cheek through the glove.
“you’re mine now.”
he disappears into the dark.
the next morning, you wake up alone.
the front door’s locked. windows shut.
your knife, once hidden, is nowhere to be found.
there are no signs he was ever here except for the ache between your legs, the bruises on your hips and the cum dripping from your thighs.
your phone buzzes.
unknown number.
you answer it with trembling fingers.
a voice, low, amused, filters through the speaker.
“miss me yet, sweetheart?”
you don't answer.
you just lie back on the bed, eyes wide and your pulse racing.
and your body already aching for more.
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