#lavender preview

Ghostface x Transman!Reader Lavender will feature NSFW content, minors DNI.

The phone rang twice, and you heard multiple rapid-fire clicks before his voice reached your ear. 

“Jed Olsen, Roseville Gazette.” He sounds dull, automated. The tone of someone whose mind is elsewhere. In the background, you can still hear swift tapping albeit faint. A computer, you can guess, and you bite your bottom lip. Was he busy? Should you have called a little later? What if this was a bad time…? You open your mouth, and a short, strangled high pitched croak replaces any semblance of the English language and you smack a hand over your mouth to stop it. Though, appalling enough, it was already too late. The clicking on the other end comes to an abrupt halt and you both settle into silence. Your ears burn, and your nose scrunches as you mouth ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ in quick succession, silently screaming when you hear Jed Olsen click his tongue. “Anything else you’d like to share?”

You don’t answer. 

“Great! This has been lovely, bye bye.” 

“N—No! Wait, Mr. Olsen!” You blurt in a panic, your one chance nearly torn away from you. “Sorry, sorry— I just, uh.. We met yesterday.” You give him your name in case his memory still needs some nudging, steeling yourself for the off chance he’s entirely forgotten about your little exchange the morning before. It was selfish to expect to be memorable in someone’s life when he already seemed so occupied. There’s a creak ( a chair? ) on his end, and his dry demeanor changes when he repeats your name good-naturedly, causing you to shutter. Relax, be calm, be normal. 

“This is a surprise, I didn’t expect you to call so soon.” There it was, the unmasked certainty. A man so painfully full of himself. You wondered what it was like to even have a sliver of that kind of self-assurance. “What can I do ya’ for? Couldn’t get me out of your head?” He’s taking way too much pleasure in your contacting him, his tone indicating a full-toothed grin and you’re half tempted to groan in response. It doesn’t wear on your patience like it had on your first meeting, but you may have been too exhausted to care. That, or you actually didn’t mind it nearly as much as you should have. Jed Olsen was charming, he had an excuse to be so full of himself. 

“Mr. Olsen,” you rushed before he could continue. He sure did like to talk. “You know a lot about Ghostface, don’t you?” 

Your question is met with stillness; no smartmouthed comments, no typing at a computer or creaking of a chair. It’s so quiet, that you nearly assume your phone had stopped working. The silence hangs heavy, stifling the breath out of you as you’re left to wonder of your mistake. Something between the two of you has shifted, and it was difficult to pin just what has changed.  “Mr. Olsen…?” Your voice is small, attempting to soothe him if you’ve already managed to piss him off somehow. Not a second longer, and he gives you a curious hum. 

“I suppose. He is my muse.” His tone lightens after a second. However, you’re aware of the bristling on the back of his tongue when he continues, despite trying to mimic his earlier friendliness. “You called me just to talk about another guy? Pretty bold of you.” 

Your heart stutters, stumped when the flirting allegation rears its head again. 

Jed Olsen calling the man who wishes you dead his muse leaves a bad taste in your mouth, but you push past it. Ghostface was Olsen’s big break, he racked up the Roseville Gazette’s sales after the first murder and has kept them going through their hot streak ever since. Despite it coming at the expense of others, Ghostface rose from the ground a self-made celebrity, and Jed Olsen just so happened to snag the tail end of his coat on the way up. If that were you, could you truly hate Ghostface the way everyone else did? “N-No I.. I need your help, I think. I really need your help.”  There’s a sudden breath on the other end that was akin to a sigh. Light, airy, and it stutters at the end. The tip of your thumb is put between your teeth, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. “Hah— On what? Writing your own paper?” Something tells you he sounds oddly excited, much too aware to know that isn’t at all why you had called him. Reporters are scarily perceptive. “Sorry boss, ‘fraid I’m loyal to a fault. But I’ll gladly give you some pointers for your column. All the dirty details you’re going to have to find out for yourself.”