Ghostface x Reader | Prompt: Blood Play x Blindfold | CW: dubcon, knife play with actual cutting, kink shaming, camera (web cam stalking/peeping, unconsensual video and photo during sex), blood (tasting blood mentioned, implied use of blood as lube) | mask kink, choking, prey x predator dynamic, breath play | 5,453 words
“You’re so fucking weird.” Your heart almost audibly broke at your boyfriend’s words. Weird. Of course you’d been called weird before. He’d even called you weird before, it was in a playful way then, but this time he said it with real disgust. You are fucking weird. His eyes were drawn to the plastic white mask in your hand, its features drawn in a bellow of ghostly terror, a scratchy black hood attached to it. You’d gotten it at Spirit Halloween as a joke while out with your girlfriends. You were a huge Stab fan, and though you had never felt drawn to masks before, the films had awakened a new unexpected desire in you. A side of you that craved things that should feel wrong. You didn’t think it was weird—maybe a little odd, you could concede. Even so, it wasn’t like you were asking him to commit a crime…
For a while now you’d been trying to gather your courage to ask your boyfriend to roleplay the masked killer with you. He’d been sitting on the couch scrolling through his socials, and you were in the mood for some fun. So what better time to finally ask him? You were not, however, expecting him to reject you, especially not this way. You would have understood if he said he didn’t feel comfortable, you would never force him to act against his boundaries, but to outright insult you? You. Are. Weird. The words still echoed in your ears as you tried to wipe your tears away, but the hurt in your heart was suffocating. You’d been locked up in your shared bedroom for two hours now. “Why the hell would I do that? That’s so freaking pervy and fucked up. Why would you even ask me that?” He had said. “I’m not a freak. Be serious, babe.” Were you a freak then? Was your desire so vile and wrong?
You jolted at the sudden sound of your phone. It cut through the noise in your head and rang insistently against your ear drums. Reaching over to the night stand, you grabbed the phone and looked at the bright screen for the caller ID. My Baby. Your boyfriend. You rolled your eyes and pressed the off button, silencing the phone, and went back to burying your face into your pillow. You sniffled, shoulders shaking a bit as a new wave of tears came over you. It felt stupid. It was just a mask. He was entitled to reject you, you thought. But the image of disgust in his face was what kept popping at the front of your mind. You should have known he would say no. The kinkiest thing he’d ever been fine with was cuffing your wrists to the bed and some light choking.
The phone rang again, filling the silence in the room. You groaned and grabbed your phone again. The ID, My Baby, was glaring back at you. Your blood was boiling now. He had the gall to call you like a lazy son of a bitch instead of coming to your door. You hit the pick up button and pressed the phone to your ear. “What do you want?”
“Tsk. Someone has a bad attitude.” The voice sent a chill down your spine, skin prickling with goosebumps at the familiarly taunting, synthetic rasp at the other end of the line.
“Do you think this is funny?”
“Why don’t you guess?”
You set your brows in anger, pushing your body up until you were sitting on your hip, one hand braced on the mattress. “If you think I’m letting you mock me, you’re fucking wrong, so fuck off!” You hung up and before you could throw it at a side it rang in your hands, vibrating against your fingers like a pulsing taunt. You picked up and brought it to your ear again, “Listen up, asshole—”
“No, you listen up, you little bitch! If you hang up one more time I will gut your boyfriend like a fish!” That shut you up. “Yes,” He drawled. “Good. Now, why don’t we play a little game? I hear you're a biiiig fan.”
What was he doing? “Come now, don’t look so shocked.” He laughed. “If you’re a good girl for me, you’ll get a reward.”
“A-A reward?”
“Horror movie trivia. Just like in Stab, sweetheart.”
You stood up and walked to the door, but as you put your hand on the door he spoke again. “Did I say you could leave the room?” A cold sweat washed over you, your heart seizing for a moment. Was your boyfriend really watching you right now? You looked around. There were no blinking red dots and nothing was out of place. Did the girls tell him about the mask before you gave it to him? Had he planned this for when you were finally ready to tell him your desire? “Are we playing or not?” His voice cut through your train of thoughts.
You sighed and relented, wanting to ignore the way excitement started to coil inside you. “Fine.” Turning around, you began to search everywhere for cameras. There was nothing visible of course, so you hurried to tear your room apart in search of his hidden eyes, wondering for how long he had planned this as he spoke with a condescending chuckle: “Let’s do a practice round. Who was wrongly convicted for the murder of Mrs. Prescott?”
You grabbed your favorite stuffed animal and looked into its round, beady eyes, the corner of your lips twitching at the easy question. Was he even trying? “Cotton Weary.”
“Good. Now, come out of your room.” You followed the instructions, your heart beating harshly in your chest as an unexpected thrill rushed through your veins. You walked across the hallway slowly, measuring your steps in an attempt to listen closely to any noises. The house was eerily silent when usually your boyfriend’s video games would play loudly or he’d have his rock music booming through the house like a rave. “Now, the real questions. There are three. You get one wrong and there will be consequences. Are you ready?”
You grinned to yourself, slowly descending the stairs, “Yes.” You answered.
“What were the names of the couple who were murdered at the screening of Stab 1?”
You huffed. He was really making this way too easy. “Maureen Evans and Dereck Feldman.” You went down the stairs and checked the living room. Your boyfriend was nowhere to be found, the bowl of Doritos he’d been eating earlier still on the stained coffee table. He’d taken the mask after rejecting you, and you thought he would have thrown it away (along with your confidence and pride). You went to the kitchen, and when he wasn’t there you leaned against the counter, your fingers reaching for the knife block and playing with the handles contemplatively.
“What was supposed to be the original subtitle for Stab 3: Hollywood Horror?”
“Return to Woodsboro.” You answered as you took out one of the knives, the light overhead catching on its polished, silver surface.
“Last question, sweetheart.”
“Go on.”
“How fast can you run?” The voice was close and simultaneously echoing through the phone. It spiked your adrenaline as you whirled around. And there he was. Ghostface. Standing tall a few feet away from you, partially cloaked in shadows, head titling menacingly.
You took a step back, your backside bumping into the kitchen island. It felt so odd to see him this way that it shocked you. He even seemed taller. Broader. Heat pooled in your lower stomach at the sight, your pulse humming electrically and making your fingers twitch with nerves and excitement.
He chuckled, "Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?”
Your eyes fluttered slightly as you realized you had yet to react in any way, your cheeks flushing. “N-No.” God, he looked hot like this.
“Good, because I want to play another game with you.” He came closer and grabbed your face in a firm, gloved hand. The closeness encompassed you with waves of his body heat and scent. It didn’t smell like the cheap imitation cologne he usually wore, instead he smelled of cedarwood and something oddly familiar. You found that you liked it a lot more than the odd peppery musk. “What kind of game?” He pressed closer, cornering you against the counter as he shoved a knee between your legs to part your thighs. You gasped at the feeling, your eyes widening at the sensation of something hard pressing against your stomach. Suddenly you were much too aware of how little you were wearing—with only one of your boyfriend’s old AC/DC shirts and a pair of panties—and how much bigger your boyfriend was. It sent your pulse rushing, your eyes wide as you met his mask and he dug the pads of his fingers into your cheeks to keep your eyes on him, his hips rolling against you so you’d feel his erection. A treacherous whimper left your lips as your cunt throbbed at the feel of him.
“A little birdy told me that you desperately wanted Ghostface to fuck you. Is that right?” You could hear the smile in his voice and your eyes became heavy lidded as he dropped his hand from your chin to your neck. His palm encompassed your throat. The grip was not harsh, but still firm enough to let you know he held your life in his hands.
You shook your head softly and lied, “No.”
“Too bad, because I really like a game of cat and mouse, doll. You understand just how good of a hunter I am, don’t you?”
“I won’t keep playing your games–” Ghostface squeezed your neck, cutting your words, the action sending scalding heat to your core. You felt your pussy become slicker and your clit pulsing incessantly. It was practically begging for attention. You couldn’t help yourself then as you ground your clothed cunt on his thigh, a shuddering breath slipping from your mouth as the material of your panties caught against your sensitive bud. Ghostface laughed, the rumbling in his chest against yours sending a wave of heat and shame down your spine. You should have been shouting and questioning your boyfriend right now and instead he had you wrapped around his finger. He leaned down, the mask brushing against your jaw and then your cheek as he spoke again. “I’ll give you a head start, sweetheart.” He whispered into your ear, low and sultry. “If I catch you, I fuck you.”
“W-What?”
He pulled away from you, inching back. There was a heavy pause as if he were drawing out the tension. You could feel that heated gaze of his through the mask, and you were sure he’d never made you feel this way before: fear and desire. Knowing he could overpower you, break you, have you anyway he wanted, awoke a side of you that you’d never known you possessed. That you so desperately wanted and needed.
“Run.”
As soon as the words left his mouth you broke into a sprint, knife still in your hand. You heard his bootsteps hot on your heels as you took a turn into the foyer and the second you were in front of the door you swung it open and ran into the fading evening. You raced into the treeline left to the driveway, your heart beating in your throat while blood rushed and pounded in your ears. You heard quick rustling behind you and when you peeked over your shoulder, you saw your boyfriend barreling towards you, his black robe fluttering against wind and movement. He truly looked like a ghost. Then his arms extended towards you and a metallic glint caught your attention.
“Shit!” You squeaked out in panic. He had a knife. But not just any knife, he had the infamous haunting knife.
A scream tore through your throat as you felt him grab your arm and pull you back in a quick, firm motion. Your knife fell as he trapped you against his chest, back to his front as he covered your mouth with one hand and pressed the knife to your throat. You whimpered as the sharp edge dug into your skin, nicking you dangerously, the sting catching you off guard. You grabbed his wrist, intending to pry him away and tell him to stop but instead he covered your nose along with your mouth, making you tense and panic. “Try anything and I cut your pretty throat, slut.”
You moved a hand down and hit his hip hurriedly as your eyes watered and your lungs began to burn, hoping he’d remember your usual signal. He slipped his palm from over your nose, still keeping it over your mouth, yet allowing you to take in a sharp breath. “There, there.” He drawled condescendingly against your ear. “You’ll be good for me, won’t you, doll?”
You nodded and he spun you around, backing you against a tree. He held you by the throat again and waved the hunting knife in front of you, then lowered the sharp edge against your jaw in a slow caress. Instinctively, you tried to press yourself further back into the tree, away from the danger of his weapon, but that only served to curve your body into his, making him chuckle sardonically. “Scared? I won’t kill you. Not yet, anyway.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I told you what would happen if I caught you.” He moved his hand from your neck and grabbed the collar of your shirt before slicing through the garment from top to bottom with his knife. You gasped as the shirt ripped through the middle, the cool air hitting your heated skin and making your nipples harden. Ghostface hummed, delighted at the sight, and slipped the torn shirt down your arms. “Ahhh, much better.” His hand returned to your throat while he guided his knife over your chest, and you shuddered under the cool contact. As he traced the curve of one of your breasts with the knife you tensed and arched against him, your panties growing more uncomfortably wet. Your boyfriend chuckled as your skin pebbled with goosebumps and moved the tip of the knife against your nipple. You whimpered and he laughed again, “Scared? Afraid I’ll stab your pretty little body?”
“No.” You whispered, unsure of your answer. Would your boyfriend stab you? No, he didn’t have the balls to do that.
Ghostface moved the knife between your breasts, “I wonder,” he started and dragged the knife lower down your abdomen. “Would you let me have a taste of you?”
You screamed when he cut under your belly button. A chilling fear tore through you. One hand dropping to the gash he’d made. A gash that leaked warm crimson liquid under your trembling hand now. It didn’t tear into your guts, but it would leave a nasty scar and make for an uncomfortable recovery later on. “F-Fuck you!” You gritted out.
“Gladly.” He purred and threw you to the ground. You hissed in pain, holding yourself up with one hand while protecting the wound with the other. So much blood. Your heart was pounding so fast you felt lightheaded. Or maybe it was the blood loss? No, you weren’t going to bleed out. You wouldn’t. Couldn’t! You were just panicking. You began to crawl and cried out in relief when you found the knife on the floor. You took it and began to get up, but Ghostface quickly grabbed your ankle, pulled you back down, and turned you onto your back. He’d taken his robe off, leaving him in an all black attire and his mask. This was so not your boyfriend. This man was different in every way, taller, muscular, and by the hardened shape pressed against his trousers, he was… oh wow.
He straddled you, placing his weight on you to keep you in place. “Let me go!” You shouted, squirming under him and slashing at him with your kitchen knife. You got him in an arm and he hissed in pain before he grabbed your wrist and tore the knife from your grip with his free hand. You hit him, slapping at his chest and bucking your hips in a poor attempt to throw him off of you. He leaned over and grabbed your torn shirt from the ground and tore it some more. Then, after some futile struggling from you, he managed to wrap it around your eyes, blocking out your vision. Then you felt him grab your wrists in one hand and tie them with what was left of your shirt. Your chest heaved—you wanted to say it was due to fear, but no… there was something dark inside you that wanted to be helpless even if it could kill you. Even if he could kill you.
The stranger moved down your body and suddenly you felt something wet and warm against the skin of your chest. You flinched and realized, when you felt again, that it was his tongue. He laved a path down to the valley of your breasts and you winced when he licked over the wound under your belly button. He groaned and flattened his tongue over the cut, chuckling when you whimpered and shuddered. He moved up and you felt his breath on your face before he sealed his mouth over yours. You tasted it then, the metallic tang of your blood on his tongue. An involuntary moan left you and you knew you wouldn’t be able to hide how much you were enjoying this. So, instead of pretending, you opened your mouth, letting him overwhelm you and swallow your moans with his before he bit down on your bottom lip. “I wonder,” He kissed you again, his voice distorted between his own voice and the voice changer. “What would taste better than your blood.” Another kiss before he trailed down you again over your chin, your jaw, your neck, down to your chest. He grabbed one of your breasts in one hand and squeezed down, then felt the weight of it before swiping his thumb over your nipple. Your hips jolted in response and he chuckled. “Would these taste better?” He held the breast in his hand and you gasped when he licked your nipple. He smirked and swirled his tongue over the peak before latching his mouth around it, suckling harshly, biting down, then licking your skin again to soothe the sting.
“Please.” You whined, rolling your hips desperately.
“Sound so good like that, darling.” He moved his mouth to your other nipple, giving it teasing licks. “You want good old Ghostface to fuck your needy pussy, don’t you?”
“N-No.” You lied again. No, if he didn’t fuck you, you were sure you’d combust.
“No? Then maybe we need to ask her instead.”
You felt him move down your body again and sit between your legs. He parted your legs and clicked his tongue. “Look at the mess you’re making,” He said and pressed his gloved thumb against the wet patch on your panties. You mewled, trying to close your legs, embarrassment flushing your face. “Ah, ah! Keep your legs open.” He hooked a finger on the crotch of your underswear and pulled it to the side. You heard him moan at the sight. Your pussy lips were glistening and slick. The stranger parted you, revealing your clenching hole and your swollen clit, and groaned. You felt one of his gloved fingers slide from clit to hole, gathering your slick. You wished you could see him and his reactions.
A hum left him and you heard a wet pop. “Fucking perfect.” Your stomach heated knowing he'd most likely sucked his finger. He lifted your legs over his shoulder and, before you could ask him what he was doing, you felt him lick a stripe over your slit. You gasped and a hitching breath left you when he slipped his tongue in-between to lap at your pulsating clit. He groaned, sucking and nibbling at the tinny nerve, making your hips buck and grind up against his face. Ghostface stopped for a moment and you began to whine before he slid your panties off and got back into place. “Perfect pussy.” He murmured and suckled your clit again, one of his hands moving up over your stomach towards one of your breasts. He pinched and rolled the sensitive peak, making you moan and buck up again. “Yeah fuck yourself on my face, doll. I want to taste your cum.”
You keened and whined, arching and squirming against him as the heat began to boil in your core, a pressure you’d rarely ever felt growing in your lower abdomen. “Fuck!” You cried out, your eyes squeezing shut even under the makeshift blindfold. Your thighs shook and toes curled as you tried to keep your legs open. He sucked harder, the wet sound of his mouth making out with your pussy lips filling the space while he rubbed your nipple in a teasing soft rhythm. Your bound hands moved from over your head, desperate to grab at something. You wanted to pull his hair and stimulate your neglected nipple so much that tears began to soak the material over your face. The tension in your stomach made your wound ache, yet it only added to the pleasure as you reached your high. “Please! Please! Oh, fuck! Fuck!” Your back arched off the grass and the tightness burst, a spray of fluids coming out of you. “Yes! What a good fucking girl.” He moaned, lapping the wetness. He moved his face down, his nose bumping against your clit as his tongue plunged into your entrance. You moaned as the hot muscle dragged in and out of you. He then licked a stripe up again, placed a kiss on your aching clit, and straightened up. He lowered one of your legs but kept you wide open. Then you felt it, one gloved finger breach your entrance. You pussy clenched around the digit, the foreign texture of the leather of his glove incredibly odd. “Hmm… Something is missing. I need to taste you again.”
His hand left you and then you yelped when he cut your inner thigh, the sting making you sob. “Shhh, it’ll be alright, baby. I’ll have to do a lot more than this to get you ready for me. You want to be able to take my cock, don’t you?”
You bit your kiss swollen bottom lip, hiccupping little cries, but you still managed to nod. Ghostface clucked his tongue, “No, no sweety. Words.” You sniffled and wailed when he ran in fingers harshly against the wound. They were bare now as he coated them in your blood. “C’mon, tell me. Tell me you want to take my cock.” One of his fingers returned inside of you. Now skin to skin. Your lips parted as he pumped his finger in and out, his thumb coming to press against your clit in a soothing rub. You sniveled when he sunk his finger all the way inside you, your walls pulsing and fluttering around the thick digit. “Speak, slut!”
“I want your cock!” You relented.
“Good.” He drawled condescendingly, “Now, was that so hard?” And pulled his finger back out only to slam a second one in, stretching you impossibly. You cried out, your stomach tensing as your walls accommodated two fingers. Fuck, you could barely even fit one of your own usually, and your boyfriend, bless him… he wasn’t terrible in bed, but he could never make you feel like this. He would have never done such a thing either. But maybe it was just the danger and the fear that made you focus on the pleasure to drown out the pain. You knew this man was probably someone you knew within your friend group, after all, Ghostface was always related in some way to the target, but right now your mind was so murky with a mix of sensations and blood loss to make a mental list of possible suspects.
Ghostface crooked his fingers, massaging a spot at the front wall of your channel that made your skin tighten at your skull. Your lowered leg twitched and he laughed, now rubbing your clit in a tighter circular motion that sent a jolt through you. You twitched and panted, your head tilting back and your hands clawing at the grass overhead you. Your pussy fluttered, sucking his fingers in and creating a creamy, wet sound that embarrassed you when he pulled them out. Then another stretch came, a third finger joining the duo. You whined, widening your hips as best as you could to fit him. You felt him lean over you again, your thigh flushing against your chest at the motion. His lips came over yours. The kiss was hungry and demanding, his tongue licking into your mouth as the lingering taste of you filled your tastebuds. Your boyfriend had never liked eating you out. He tried it once. He said it made his jaw hurt so he refused to do it again. You kissed Ghostface back, lifting your hips to meet the thrusts and curls of his fingers. He flattened the heel of his palm this time against your clit. “Grind on my hand, doll. I need to feel you.”
You whimpered and eagerly complied, rutting your hips needily against Ghostface’s palm even as the strain forced more blood out of your wound, chasing the building pleasure in your belly. Quick panting breaths fanned from your sweet lips against his as he targeted your g-spot simultaneously, your pussy clenching and throbbing around his fingers, the slick making it easy for them to glide in and out faster. His cock twitched against the back of your thigh and you heard him moan. He pulled away and lowered himself so his mouth was back between your legs. He sucked needily, lapping and slurping, moaning and praising your pussy as you ground against him harder, whimpering, the pleasure making your stomach tighten painfully and your vision blank. You cried out in relief when your muscles spasmed and gushed around his fingers.
“There we go.” He praised, “So fucking hot.” He tongued your hole as his fingers kept sliding in and out, your creamy juices mixing with blood from your wounds. He practically fed the mess into his mouth until you keened, your head swimming and vision spotting.
Finally, Ghostface slipped his fingers out of you and spread you open. He chuckled, a sound of disbelief and satisfaction, and for a moment you thought you could finally pinpoint the familiarity of its lilt. And you would have continued to analyze it had the sound of a camera clicking didn't catch you off guard. “W-What are you doing?” Your voice sounded faint and weak.
“Need a physical reminder of this. Of the way my fingers look inside this pussy. That this mess,” He shoved his fingers back in, thrusting and scissoring your hole, causing it to make loud wet sounds. You mewled, thighs shaking at the intrusion. “This mess is mine. I made you do it.”
Ghostface pulled his fingers out and you felt him shift, then heard the sound of his belt clinking and his zipper lowering. You hissed when he gathered more of your blood in his hand and heard a wet schlicking motion accompanied by breathless panting. Was he… jerking off?
A second later it stopped and instead a cry left you as Ghostface’s hips slammed into yours. You felt every throbbing inch all at once, filling you up so utterly you almost felt it in your throat. He groaned in pleasure as your hole fluttered and pulsed around him, and slowly dragged himself back to ram back into you, over and over. Each thrust felt as if his goal were to carve himself in your walls. “You drive me to madness, doll.” He groaned and panted, thrusting harshly and pressing his thumb against your clit, making you mewl and squeeze around him. “It drives me mad that your little boyfriend got to you first. That he got your time, your heart, your smile, this body, this cunt.”
Each one of his thrusts was intentional, making you whimper and wreathe under him. He rubbed your clit in tight circles and grinded his swollen tip against your sweet spot, massaging it in a way that made your whole body tremble and your toes curl. Ghostface moaned and began to thrust faster, your pussy sucking him in greedily. “Fuck! All I’ve fantasized for months is to kill him. To be the person that you lean on when Ghostface got to him.”
His mouth found one of your nipples again. He licked your areola before he wrapped his mouth around the sensitive peak to suckle it then bite down. You whined, your hips bucking as if trying to run away from the overwhelming sensation of pain and pleasure. His thumb left your clit and instead he wrapped his hand around your neck and let go of your nipple with a wet pop. “He–thrust–Doesn’t–thrust–deserve–thrust–you!”
“And y-you,” You moaned, voice wavering, “D-Do?”
“Who said I deserved you?” He laughed. “No, baby, I know I don’t deserve you. But I want to have you anyway.”
“You,” You gasped when he ground into you again. “Y-You have a sick way of claiming me.”
“And, you have a sick way of enjoying my affections.” Perching himself over you and closing his hand tightly around your throat, he cut your oxygen and drilled his hips harder into you. Quicker than ever your walls clamped around Ghostface’s cock. You gasped for breath, each slam against your cervix making you choke on your cries and drool. The orgasm snuck up on you, tearing through you with a blinding force that made your vision explode. Every sound felt distorted, your heart beat slowing, darkness swallowing any light you could have made out through the blindfold. You felt warmth flood you deep inside, a contrast with how cold you’d become all of a sudden.
“Don’t worry sweetheart,” Ghostface's panting voice warped. “You’ll be in the sequel.”
You’d woken up at the hospital with the news of your boyfriend having been killed by the infamous Ghostface killer (RIP to that bastard). Apparently your best friend found you on the porch. Ghostface had attacked you and your boyfriend, but you’d made it far enough before passing out from your own injuries. Had you not been out in the open perhaps no one would have found you or your boyfriend until your absence became too odd. Until your corpses rotted and haunted your home. It was a chilling thought.
At least you had just dreamed the sex misadventure with Ghostface. Thank God!
That was good… Right?
You turned the TV off and the door to your hospital room opened. Your friends came in and hugged you. They were so happy you were alive. Then your best friend sat down next to you, a charming smile on his face which dimpled his cheeks. “How are you feeling?”
You sighed, “Fucked.”
He laughed, a lilt that sent a chill down your spin and heat flooding in your belly. When had he ever made you feel like that? “It’s only natural, doll.”
Doll?
Your friends were chatting and bickering, fighting for the wheelchair in a corner and turning the TV on. Too distracted to pay attention to the both of you. “The cut wasn’t too deep, though.” He reached a hand out and ruffled your hair. You caught a glimpse of a bandage around his arm, and took his hand before he could pull away.
“Why do you have a bandage?”
“I cut myself.”
The memory of you slashing at Ghostface with your kitchen knife flashed through your mind. The exact same arm. Your heart beat picked up as you recalled every second of your dangerous tryst with Ghostface. An affair that got you here, in a hospital bed, stitched up and bandaged. He killed your boyfriend and claimed you. Yet the memory only served to heat up your skin.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
You looked up at him. His eyes had gone dark and a thrill shot through you just as it had done when Ghostface chased you down.
“Ghostface got away.”
“And?” He tilted his head. “The police are doing what they can to find him.”
“I think he’s making a sequel.”
His brows quirked in an almost familiar condescending manner. “Do you, now?”
You hummed, laying back yet keeping your fingers entwined with his, and slowly, a smile crept onto your lips. “I was thinking he needed to look for a partner. After all, Ghostface never works alone.”
Your best friend smirked, a wicked glint lighting up his eyes, “Well, I think act three just got a whole lot better, sweetheart.”
Anthor's Note:
How many references can I make in one fic challenge.
(If you're a new reader, hi, I still update for 2025's Kinktober cause free will)
I have been writing this fic since February. Help. I struggled a lot with the smut. I almost gave up. I should have written a vampire fic instead, but I chose to make my life difficult. Anyway, this Ghostface is whoever you want him to be, really. I didn’t really decide whether or not I wanted him to be a canon Ghostface or some other character or an OC Ghostface, so whatever. I hope it was at least somewhat enjoyable. I have not seen Scream 7 yet, I don’t want spoilers. No, I don’t care if it was bad (my friend told me it was bad). Let me enjoy my trash pls.
Inspired by this one ASMR video I came across on YouTube. It’s one of the very few ‘boyfriend asmr’ videos I don’t violently cringe at: https://youtu.be/ByPcWM0aHpI?si=zJsrYcFZeMgJ3f88
I have not heard the full version so feel free to do so at your own discretion.
Update note: I fixed some things and added another two content warning tags at the top. I always find more mistakes after I post even after proofreading and editing.
This is my Ghostface OC, and I finally made him an actual reference! He's been dubbed "The Violet Ghostface" here due to the uniquely colored metallic mask he wears. He's a Ghostface Killer working around the Late 80s-90s when Arcades were fairly prevalent, which correlates with his colorful attire.
He is a bit sillier than the usual Ghostface Killers, choosing to be an early Video Game Blogger/Arcade Reviewer rather than a News Reporter.
Overall, he is just a massive dork.
The first scream echoed down the hallway like a siren made just for them. Joaquin didn’t flinch. He stood still at the edge of the party, red solo cup in hand, the thrum of bass rattling through the soles of his boots. His eyes were on the stairs—on the blood pooling down the wood like it was made for it, n the girl who tumbled down, throat carved open, on the panic in the crowd. And then, he turned slightly, just enough to feel the press of your shoulder against his. Your voice brushed his ear like a prayer.
“Too fast?”
He smiled, slow and controlled.
“Little bit,” he murmured, “but God, it’s art.”
You giggled softly, and it sent shivers down his spine. He knew that sound in every octave—from bedroom whispers to post-kill highs. It was your tell. You only ever laughed like that when it was real. When the world was burning and you were dancing in it, head tilted back, eyes wild with something too bright to be afraid.
That laugh meant you felt alive. Untouchable. And in that moment, so did he. Together, you vanished into the chaos like smoke—twisting through shadows, bleeding into the madness with the kind of ease that only came from being born to it. You weren’t just surviving the storm. You were the eye of it.
The two of you had met at a college mixer freshman year. Back when Joaquin was still finding his footing—charming, loyal, full of anxious energy and the kind of smile that made people trust him too easily. He was trying to be everything at once: the good son, the golden student, the one who could hold the world together with duct tape and sheer willpower. You clocked him the second he walked in—jacket too clean, posture too polite, like someone still trying to figure out which version of himself would actually fit.
You were fire wrapped in silk, all self-contained chaos with a calculating mind behind every glance. Always two steps ahead. Always watching. You didn't flirt so much as hunt. People were puzzles, and you were collecting pieces, slotting them into place. Joaquin wasn’t the most obvious pick—but you’d seen it. The tension behind his grin. The way his gaze sharpened when he thought no one was looking. He had teeth. You just had to show him how to use them.
Joaquin was drawn to you instantly. And once you let him close, he stayed there. By sophomore year, you were inseparable. He steadied you when your rage got loud; you sharpened him when he started going soft. Together, you were a whisper campaign on campus. People talked, wondered, gossiped. By senior year, if either of you showed up to a party alone, people assumed something serious had happened—or that the party wasn’t worth staying for.
What they didn’t know—what no one knew—was what you were actually building.
It started with one kill. Just one. A professor. Tenured. Respected. Who smiled too wide when the girls in his class stayed after office hours. You knew what he was. Everyone did, but no one said a word. Until you did. You brought the file. You laid out the details. You mapped his routine. Joaquin—your sweet soldier boy—took it from there. He executed the plan like a goddamn poem. Quick. Clean. Precise. Not just the physical act, but the cover-up, the narrative, the careful reshaping of evidence like he was composing a symphony.
And then? Nothing. No suspicion. No investigation. Just a closed office door and an announcement about sudden health issues. The high didn’t fade. It evolved—grew teeth, grew rules. It wasn’t about chaos. It wasn’t random. You made a system. A logic. You both started crafting stories and personas. You had rules: never kill in anger, never without cause, never without control. It had to mean something. It had to say something.
The Ghostface persona began as a joke. It was a callback to your horror nights, the cheap slasher masks you used to wear while getting high and dissecting movies, but when you tried it once—just to see—it stuck. The anonymity was intoxicating; the symbolism even more so. Ghostface was something borrowed from fiction, reborn in truth. It gave you both freedom and power … a mythos.
The masks. The robes. The voice modulators. The thrill of the scream. The perfect symmetry of shared sin. The world only ever saw shadows and headlines, but you and Joaquin? You were legends, hidden in plain sight. And nobody—not your classmates, not your professors, not even the cops—suspected the golden boy with the charming smile or the girl with fire in her eyes and perfect grades. Not for a second. Not yet.
Back in your apartment—blood still fresh under your fingernails, Joaquin shirtless and streaked in crimson—you straddled him on the couch, knees pressing into either side of his hips as the adrenaline still sang through both of you. The night had been chaos—screams and footsteps and breathless laughter echoing behind your masks—but now, here in the aftermath, it was quiet. Intimate. Electric.
You dragged your blade slowly across his collarbone, the pressure teasing but deliberate, leaving a thin line of red in its wake. Joaquin’s breath hitched, but he didn’t flinch. He just smiled up at you with the devilish grin you loved so much.
“You think they’ll catch on?” you whispered, voice low, like a secret shared between devils.
“Not a chance,” He snickered, eyes half-lidded and hungry, dark and drunk on you.
“You sure?” you taunted, cocking your head as your smirk curled wider. “You’re not too soft to play the killer?”
His fingers wrapped tight around your wrist—firm but careful—as he yanked you closer, mouth just a breath from yours as he whispered, “Only soft for you, baby girl.”
The air between you cracked like static. And then you kissed him. Hard. Hungry. Like sin. Like a promise written in blood and breath. Like you were sealing something dark and eternal between your teeth. His hands roamed your back, slipping under your shirt, warm against your spine. You tasted copper and sweat and triumph, and it was perfect. You kissed him like there was no tomorrow. Because for everyone else, there wouldn’t be.
The next string of murders was messier, bolder: friends, classmates, people who got too close. You leaked hints to the press, breadcrumbs wrapped in panic and polish. You two twisted the narrative like a knife. You played the roles of scared survivors with award-worthy tears and trembling hands. Every interview, every candlelight vigi, you and Joaquin were always together. You were always touching, reassuring, masking the carnage behind “couple goals.” No one suspected a thing.
But someone was getting close now: Sam Wilson.
Your mentor. The only person who ever saw through your charm and called it what it was—strategy. He’d taken you under his wing back when you were just a sharp, restless mind in a campus full of sheep. You admired him, once. Still did, maybe. Enough to hesitate. Joaquin didn’t have that problem. Sam had been his former commanding officer—stern, principled, loyal to a fault. Joaquin respected him, even liked him in another life. But now, every look Sam gave him felt like it was peeling something back. Like he already knew.
Joaquin played dumb. Played the little bird with broken wings and a bright smile. All innocence and second chances. You, on the other hand, started plotting, shifting the angles, and reworking the script. If Sam was going to sniff around the edges of the truth, then it was time to turn the narrative back around. Because if he wouldn’t back off on his own … you’d make him.
“You want me to kill your mentor?” Joaquin asked one night, leaning back on the bed, mask in his lap, eyes on you.
“No,” you chuckled, crawling over him slowly. “I want us to frame him.”
That laugh again. Dark and delighted. He pulled you into his lap, let you straddle him again like you were made to sit there.
“We’re really doing this,” he grinned sheepishly.
You kissed him, hard. “We already are.”
The final act was always meant to be a performance: blood, screams, a survivor or two, a noble sacrifice—Joaquin “bleeding out” in your arms while Ghostface “escaped.” A perfect ending. A finale to be remembered. But halfway through, when it was just the two of you backstage in the chaos you created—costume discarded, hands still slick with blood, adrenaline buzzing under your skin like a second heartbeat—he turned to you.
“What if we don’t stop?”
You blinked at him, stunned. He was grinning, but it wasn’t the easy, boyish smile he wore in public. This was something else—something sharp. Something hungry. He stepped closer, fingers threading into your hair, tangling at the nape of your neck like he couldn't bear the space between you. His voice was low, rough with possibility.
“What if we keep going? New town. New campus. New faces. Fresh canvas.”
You stared at him, trying to trace the moment the follower had become the co-architect. Joaquin, who used to flinch at the idea of crossing lines. Joaquin, who had once needed you to lead. And now, here he was—eyes gleaming, jaw set, dangerous in a way that made your pulse stutter. You saw it then: the same fire you’d spent years hiding behind charm and masks was alive in him, too. A perfect mirror. A perfect match.
You smiled—slow, sure, wicked—and slipped your bloodied hand into his and murmured, “Let’s paint the country red, mi amor.”
The world behind you crumbled in smoke and sirens. Your final act is now another urban legend in the making, but you didn’t look back. You never did. Together, you stepped into the shadows, laughing low and breathless, like the beginning of a love story no one would survive. Two blades. One heartbeat. And a future dripping in crimson.
I like … never see Omegaverse headcanons for these guys, so I’m chipping in my two cents. I might regret this later, but that’s a problem for future me to deal with
Michael Myers
Let’s be real, this man is a textbook Alpha. Strong, assertive in his own way, keeps tabs on his people. Definitely the possessive type and would be protective of his mate/packmates. His scent is a mix of pumpkin spice and gasoline
Jason Voorhees
A lot of people think he’s an Alpha at first glance and smell, but he’s actually a Beta. No interest in having a mate or pups. If he does end up joining a pack, he is happy just being friends with everyone and helping the alphas make decisions. VERY grateful he doesn’t have to deal with heats or ruts. His scent is very earthy, like mud, lake water, and pine
Freddy Krueger
Omega and he’s pissed about it. He uses his dream demon powers to present more as an Alpha and it works. Constantly on heat suppressants, too. His fake scent is smoke and chili. His natural scent is lavender
Ghostface
Using my OC, Timothy/Tammy, for this since there’s a million Ghostfaces. Anyway, they’re an Omega and actually proud of it. They feel like it makes them seem more badass, appearing to be an easy target, only for them to have the ability to gut people in a flash. Being assigned male at birth, having both reproductive organs also makes them feel euphoric. Their scent is caramel corn and lemon-lime soda.
Leatherface
Another one that seems like an Alpha on the surface, but Bubba’s actually an Omega. He wishes he were a higher rank, like his brothers (Drayton’s the Alpha, the twins are both Betas), but fate had other plans. His scent is cooked ham and metal
Harry Warden
Alpha. In fact, he was the strongest Alpha in that mine collapse, hence how he survived while the others didn’t. His scent is dark chocolate
Donn Berodach
Adding my slasher OC, bc why not? Anyway, he was originally meant to be a Beta or an Omega. It’s unknown which, because before he even presented, the demon that owns him took a look, sensed what his rank was going to be, and went “Yeah. No. That’s not gonna fly with me” and altered him to become an Alpha. His scent is campfire and steak
Carrie White
As a kid, everyone thought she was going to be an Omega like her mother. When she didn’t present right away, everyone then thought she was a Beta. But then the night of the prom happened and while demolishing everything, she finally presented and her Alpha pheromones raged through the air. Her scent is roses and rain
Christine
Yes, I’m giving the car a rank. If she can have a gender, she can have a second one. Deal with it. Anyway, she’s definitely an Alpha. Strong, possessive, protective, assertive. I just know she treats her Omega RIGHT. Her scent is motor oil and cherries
Kayako Saeki
Omega, but in the mama bear kind of way. Mess with Toshio, you get the hair. She is #THAT mom. Speaking of Toshio, he never got the chance to present because he died too young. Kayako’s scent is like a whole hair care routine
Chucky
Beta as a human, but when he transferred into the doll, he became an Omega. It doesn’t bother him too much, though, he just takes a heat suppressant and deals with it. He has gotten to experience what it’s like to be an Alpha when he possessed Nica. His scent is that Good Guy cereal
Tiffany Valentine
Almost the opposite of Chucky. Her human form is an Omega, but when she transferred into the doll, she became an Alpha. She didn’t realize this at first, though. Not until the doll sex scene in Bride. Yes, in this AU, Chucky had Glen/Glenda/Gigi. Why? Because it’s hilarious to me. Tiffany’s scent is gold and dandelions
That’s all I have for now. If you want a part 2, let me know, and also tell me who you would like to see
