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angelharness · 7 months
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My typical multi-month break and return, any requests to get back into it?
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angelharness · 9 months
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Started writing this right after seeing the movie like yeah this’ll be a nice short, sweet work, 1k words maybe. Ended up being around 3k lol
Just something sweet, guy’s been through a lot and I couldn’t find much in the way of writing that was just simple and sweet with him. Reader getting some special treatment
Soft Spot / Weak Point
WARNINGS: none come to mind, no meaningful spoilers
MIGUEL O’HARA  / SPIDER-MAN 2099
It’s hard work, and you pride yourself in that. It’s hard work, and also unpaid and unending. No weekends or holidays away to intersperse long days and longer weeks. Rest is brief if managed at all and never enough to work away the hours spent on duty. But it’s your work and your dedication to it is unquestioning. 
Today’s share of work, which has you maneuvering and slinging through a sunny seaside cityscape saturated to overwhelming vibrancy, is particularly grueling. Two anomalies of differing origin thrust into one dimension incredibly distant from their own makes for a burdensome pain. This is a case that’s spanned days now, you believe on it’s fourth by the time you are wrapping it up, and has ranged across even more universes. Sun-cooked dessert towns, cities that rise infinitely, worlds of buildings floating above the earth on platforms, all converging at a fight on the side of a high rise lurching miles above the sea.
It’s only when it’s done and the offenders are sealed away does it all come crashing down suddenly, the force of a plunging wave hitting land crest first. The hunger from skipped meals, exhaustion from numerous hours awake in bed, the ache in your muscles that is nearly omnipresent in your life now. Although your new form, advanced beyond your entire understanding even now—some three years into your vigilantism—allows you to soldier through more damage than imaginable, it only means more pain to fill that new capacity. It’s in your new line of work that you’ve forgotten the dangers of negligence on the body. It isn’t something to cross your mind when you’re being flung into apartment complexes and having chunks of sidewalk chucked your way.
You’re heaving as Jess takes them away, lugging them by a handful of webs through glinting, crackling portals. One half of your ribs is especially tender, but you force yourself not to slouch as you watch. The thought of sinking into your mattress nearly makes you sob. 
You don’t know where the weight was when you were ripping your way through endless variations of New York and splitting your knuckles on villains’ faces, but now it’s sinking fully and deep into your bones, pooling as liquid lead in your feet. The blood, rising from cuts focused on your shoulder, your calves, is temporary and will dry up and scab soon enough; you’re more worried about the damage you can’t see. Tendons and bones that pang and nerves that throb. 
You’re afraid your grip will simply slip as you sling off the windows of tall office buildings, trying to find a more secluded rooftop, appropriately hidden, before taking your portal home. 
Your feet hit the hot blacktop of a parking lot rooftop, a landing that burns in your ankles, shit, and pull yourself up, but you feel all lopsided. You’re mulling over what to get for dinner between the drifting black spots of sleep that pool in your vision (maybe you want to sleep for a day first) when you pull your arm up to bring your watch into view—even the motion requires a considerable deal of effort and a bit of momentum to bring your elbow up to the height of your shoulder. Now that you think about it, you believe you’ve heard something about putting in requests for days off at the society. That sounds nice right about now. A weekend in bed. A cold shower to ease the burns, flush the dirt from wounds; your suit could also go for a cycle in the wash. Nobody realizes how high maintenance such a costume is. 
You think of Miguel even though your head feels like it’s being squeezed. A part of you, the softer self from earlier years in your line of work, longs for him to be proud, but the voice of reason you’ve honed is knowledgeable enough to understand recognition in an organization so densely populated is a luxury, and expecting it from Miguel is praying for rainfall in a desert. 
You think of other things. Bed, sheets, cotton warm from the dryer. Steamed vegetables, fat dumplings, sandwiches and thick-cut fries and beans over rice, your mouth is watering, your everything is aching, and then you’re falling face-first into the cracked, black turf. It burns momentarily, but you’re gone before the pain can form fully.
You try to peel your eyes open but can’t manage the will. Sleep is still recent and enticing, still ebbing, running over you in streams of backwater flow. Even the colors behind your eyes, the watery yolks of browns and yellows, are fuzzy. A particularly large breath in stings your senses awake and reminds you that you’re in fact alive. 
You expect the blue gradient of deep night when you do pull your eyes open, but light tells you it’s day, just now seeping into evening. Your eyes close again, reaffirmed. The deep ache in your stomach and sides has left, to which you untense in relief. The sweat along your hairline, your neck, collecting on your wrists, is gone, as is the weight from your eyes. That was a ridiculously good nap. 
As your senses lag behind in waking up, folding out into each limb and prickling muscle awake, you realize you’re not in your bed. Too firm, folded at angles; when you sink into it it’s not the sweet depths of your mattress or blanket but the constructed mass of muscle. You open your eyes again, let the light bleed in, gradually, then close them again, seeking refuge in the amber of sleep. 
You shift. A touch swipes across your head, fingers pushing through your hair and then draw gently along the scalp. The motion repeats, nails drawing careful lines inward. Again, again. You force tired eyes open for a longer moment, long enough for colors to sharpen into discernible shapes. Reality is delivered, served on silver platter but without flourish, abruptly. You jerk forward, finally forcing out your first sound, a questioning grunt, frazzled by sleep. 
“Don’t sit up so quickly,” you’re eased back so that your head meets—thigh? “You’ll make yourself woozy.” 
Miguel’s voice.
You slept in, it’s not today but tomorrow. Apologies and half-baked explanations tumble to the forefront of your tongue but unravel there as well. You crane your neck back to take in more bleary shapes, still sifting into finer images. It’s the colors of him, though, brilliant red and blue, a bit hard on the eyes when you’re just stirring from sleep.
You place a hand out to ground yourself, fingers stretching out curiously over ground, no, a woven, padded seat, then your palm rises instead to grope at the intrusion beneath your head. Warm, defined, not the flattened pillow back in the apartment of your personal New York. 
Realization is the best wake up call, a dose of heavy, heavy caffeine without the thick syrup introduction from coffee. Both of you jolt, you more so, him to a degree more contained, but you do feel the tips of claws flicker out from the pads of his fingers, barely grazing your scalp. You’re in Miguel’s lap, head resting on his thigh. 
A pang of silence rolls around the room, rattled like a lone coin in a silver piggy bank, silent in a way that is intrusive and impossible to ignore. The coin falls. 
“How was your little nap?” Miguel asks, focused in front of him.
You wonder if it’s said in humor, but that’s not what he does, so maybe it’s a patronizing jab. You’re going to wake up with the entirety of the HQ pooled around your desk like it’s high school and you fell asleep during the lecture. The realization that it’s only you two is almost worse. 
It takes a concerning deal of will power, maybe down to the last drop, not to take a quick squeeze of appreciation (the fixture of the suit prompts the eyes to wander). Even still, your fingers still linger in one spot before you can rip them off with the urgency as if you’d been scorched, looking at them with the same expectancy of warped scars, but it’s only your hand that you look back at. No singed or scalded skin. 
Again you place it in front of you then slide your weight forward to prop yourself up on your forearm and elbow, sluggish and gingerly, like rising through a coat of snow, comparable to its allusions to hibernation. 
“You’re fine where you are,” Miguel says again, and now you can 
He holds his voice in such an authoritative grip that you’re late to realize he’s attempting to settle you and not chastise you. He must sense your anxiety, maybe something he can sense simply through touch, to hear the rapid thrumming of your pulse in your neck and ribs. The speciality of your accelerated senses vary from spider-person to spider-person, so who can say?
You’re in Miguel’s office—but the word never felt right to tack onto the odd, grand intricacy of the bizarre auditorium he conducts the majority of his universe observation; it's a little more abstract than that word constitutes. It was always a sort of amphitheater to you, fixed around the platform of his desk and display of screens and windows, live feeds of little worlds piled over each other in adjustable tabs, screens staggered by video lag. He whisks away a clip of a world you’ve seen him linger on time and time again but never let yourself ask about. 
You let yourself still, and so he resumes petting your head. All the feeds stop suddenly, paused onto snapshots of worlds of every palette.  
“…did I fall asleep?” you finally say when your throat is no longer dry as coal. You did, but you’re looking for a little further elaboration. You have an idea, a very sensible reason in mind, but are lost when it comes to how you got here. Miguel gives you special attention, no doubt, a fact that’s become less and less hidden over the progression of your time together. It goes relatively unquestioned though, sparing you of a deeply uncomfortable but arguably justified confrontation. It’s likely his constant present at your side that wards off such altercations at all. 
He doesn’t answer straightforwardly. 
“You weren’t taking care of yourself,” is his response, but it sounds less like a reply and more like the introduction of a grim matter. No matter how close you do draw, he never entirely drops his formality, except for catastrophic events of frustration. He still isn’t chastising you, but his tone is more equipped for a serious intervention at the dinner table.
Mentally you turn your word bank this way and that, give it a few solid smacks, and hope a series of clever words will tumble out and into a quippy, lighthearted reply, the majority of your side of your guys' banter, but you only manage a guilty sounding noise of agreement, on its own a confirmation of his observation.
His hand stops and allows him a second to glance down at you impassively and then back ahead, apparently unbothered by whatever was transpiring. Now that your senses have sharpened back to working order, you can feel all your blood burn in your cheeks and warm your skin with a sudden flow of heat. 
“I guess I have,” you continue, embarrassed by your lackluster response. Your tongue never works so well around him, vengeful in its drive to embarrass you in his presence. 
“I mean that seriously,” Miguel says, and he surely does, since he ends that with your name, a personalization he doesn’t often bestow upon others. You never especially noticed until it took you by surprise when he addressed you directly and it hit like a crisp, open-palm slap across the back of the head. Your neck could’ve twisted with how quickly you snapped your head towards him. 
There’s a million and more half-formed, undercooked explanations clanging around in your head but the words don’t fall into place, jostled by an anxiety you can’t place. 
You try to lift yourself up another time by swinging your weight upwards but this time Miguel places his hand on your chest to sink you down onto your back. 
“You know that’s a problem,” Miguel continues.
“Yes,” the first word you can dish out of your scrambled vocabulary. 
“That’s part of your work—making sure you’re in operating condition. We need you functioning properly.”
“Yes,” you say again, blinking. Miguel keeps petting you. Is he going to address that? You’re nervous that if you mention it he’ll stop, so just let your teeth sink into your bottom lip, only enough to burn distantly. 
“There’s no point in working at all if you’re not in working order.”
You watch the mask of his suit dissolve, threads of light glittering and then melting to reveal the face beneath it all. The red and blue of his second face, with slanted, fierce eyes, erodes, the color retreating into the neckline of the suit. And then it’s just him, eyes still fixed forward but without the glassy reflection of a screen lighting a kaleidoscope in the iris and whites of them. 
You stare a bit too longingly and let your teeth grind further into your lip until it outright hurts and you stop. 
“Entendido,” you finally respond, attempting to sound unbothered and lightsome, as much as your buzzing nerves will allow. Attempting to explain oneself never goes well with Miguel; if it doesn’t suddenly escalate things, it’s a lost cause. In one ear and out the other if it had registered in the first one at all.
He, again, looks back down at you, now with his face, his features, his heavy eyes, dark with deep lines streaked beneath them. And still uncomfortably pretty. 
“You taking care of yourself too, though?” you ask. Something in his expression twitches, his lip pulling to the side. You watch his chest bob with a noiseless laugh. 
“Let’s get you something to eat, a proper meal,” Miguel begins, turning his head away. Blue light runs along his profile like a torrent of vivid, colored rain, mapping the dimensions of his features, searing gray and purple on his skin. 
“You too,” you snap back, laughing when he grunts dryly in response. The pain in your skull is distant, maybe gone entirely. 
Carefully, you draw a hand back up to your head and let it settle gingerly on Miguel’s thigh beside your chin. He doesn’t react, so you let it rest fully on his leg and dare your eyes to flutter back closed. 
He works so hard, more so than you, than perhaps anyone in the organization; he’s dedicated his entirety to this line of work, and the stress is evident and insurmountable. You can only imagine the extent of the weight on his shoulders, only a quarter of the total made visible on his face. You could turn this all around on him and it would likely be even more relevant than when directed at you. For the moment, you can only furrow your brows and hope your concern is palpable in its sincerity and depth.  
You are hungry, very much so, can feel the insistent ache roll around in your empty stomach, couldn’t ignore it for the world, but your attention is drifting, stuck on the warmth of Miguel, the tightness in your chest that isn’t unpleasant but unquiet. Not entirely excitement, but something not far off from it, either. If this is his approach to you overworking yourself, you’re not sure it will be effective in dissuading you. 
Suddenly, energy thrums across his arm and centers on the wrist on his watch, energy that sparks orange lighting up the screen. Lyla’s little flickering likeness sprouts up from the device, pushing her glasses back up to her eyes with a pointer finger. 
“Miguel,” comes her voice, crackling through a bout of brief static. She’s seen too much of everything from every numberless span of universities to comment on your current position, even as you catch her eyes dart over to you with a crease between her brows. And maybe a cruelly amused, sharp smile.
“Spider-Man Poland wanted to get back to you on t—”
“Te escucho, I’ll see to that, mute for an hour, Lyla,” Miguel replies, collected. He hadn’t exactly jumped, but you noticed how he straightened his back, and again the momentary intrusion of the claws from his fingertips. You had assumed up until now that he had full control over its functions.
“..Mm?” Lyla closes the hand she had been gesturing with. Her eyebrows are raised so high they nearly float off her head.
“Mute for an hour.”
She blinks, again pushes her glasses back up although they’re already at the summit of the slope of her nose. Her fiddling causes them to slouch back down anyways. She tucks her arms into her sides and purses her lips before relenting, disappearing back into the watch, the screen flickering off with her departure with a begrudging, “Of course.” 
Against your better judgment and knowledge of Miguel’s temperament, you risk to ask, “are you mad?”
He moves his hand to run along your shoulder instead, down to the elbow and then jumping back up, repeating. Your throat is dry again. Not in fear of his answer, but more akin to the deep thrumming of your heart. 
“Disappointed,” he offers after a pause, but it isn’t said with commitment, only proposed as a response to appease your inquiry. It’s said soft enough to dispel your worries in that regard. It’s not fatigue that eases the tone of his voice but something gentler. Everything in you burns. There is another pause that leaves you reeling for words to sate the silence with, but Miguel speaks first.
“Yes,” he starts, apparently answering himself, “why don’t we get lunch? Food would do us both good.”
He turns to you, not frowning, his version of a smile. His expression is lighter, at the very least, missing the distinct, pronounced lines of a scowl or sleeplessness, muffled at least by something discernibly sweeter. With eyes fixed on his, you nod slowly. He ruffles your hair briefly and your heart does something weird, a skittish, lopsided cartwheel, in your chest.
“Five more minutes, though,” you say, hoping the humor in your voice is more audible than the sheepishness. 
“You know how busy I am.”
You do, god you do, you’re not sure how he thinks such a thing is something that could slip your mind like. His schedule, packed until it bulges at the seams, is one you are fully and extensively aware of, especially since he never usually has the time for little moments like the one you’re sharing now. Never surrounded by so many people, and so many people so alike you that share such specific beats in their history have you still been so deeply lonely. 
“Two more minutes,” you suggest, instead. If not for an extended history with Miguel, you wouldn’t joke with him like you did. You sling your banter back and forth, mostly forth and at his expense, only because he has an undeniable soft spot for you that hadn’t been hardened like the rest of him, the gap between the armor. It might, soon, with your consistent pestering, but you know him, know when to stop, know or at least think he holds a tenderness for your joking, if a little touchy.
He is unamused, leaning his face on a fist, lips tight, but he doesn’t push. 
“Two more minutes,” he relents, “but I hope you’re taking this all seriously.”
You are, a bit too much so, if your hammering heart is anything to go by. You’re too flustered to manage a smart response, opting again to nod wordlessly. You let your eyes close again and lean your head back against his thigh.
“Use the claws again,” you say, opening your eyes enough to stare, half-lidded, up at him. He makes a gruff noise of question. You take his hand by the wrist to guide it back to the top of your head, your fingers daring to brush up to his, linger there, too, palm to palm.
“It feels nice, use your claws,” you continue. He squints at you, maybe mistaking your request for another joke to ease the startling gentleness of the situation, and therefore the embarrassment that burns in you (and must in him too, you imagine, despite the level expression and casualness of the act). How do you muster the sincerity onto your face?
He doesn’t, just lets his hand lay stiff against yours and remain there even after you’ve withdrawn your own. You think you’ve ruined it all until he looks away and continues petting you, drawing the peaks of his angled claws lightly down your scalp. This continues in silence until it burns at him and he realizes he’s gone rigid, tension bunching his shoulders and wringing his guts through anxious, thorough hands. Soon it’s his head that’s scrambled by embarrassment, a feeling that was, before this, distantly and safely in the past. He busies himself with a screen, hoping the light of it drowns out the deepening color in his cheeks. Fuck. Acting like some schoolboy. He crashes a fist down on his desk and it rattles an assortment of things, including you.
“Sorry,” he manages, curtly, through the fingers pressed to his mouth. Shitty coffee and a weirdly damp, pre-packaged sandwich from the cafeteria would do wonders for his embarrassment right now. 
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angelharness · 1 year
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angie, I just wanted to tell you that your writing is so amazing and that rereading your posts made me get back into dbd!! I was wondering if you were currently accepting requests? I just wanted to make sure before sending anything in 😅
thank you so very much!! and yes i am : )
i'm typically picky about what requests i choose which i'll apologize for ahead of time, but i'd love to get to write for some new characters
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angelharness · 1 year
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I hope you dont mind me writing more of this timeline? Scenario? I have a few more ideas for this version of the reader and ghostface, not all in chronological order, though i’d place this one after my first writing. If there’s interest in this series I’d love to expand on it
These and Other Lucky Witnesses 
WARNINGS: off-screen murder, still fairly descriptive
DANNY “JED OLSEN” JOHNSON / THE GHOSTFACE
You didn’t expect anything for your anniversary. Both of you worked, had to, to consistently scrape by. Danny picked up every project he could, whether or not it was manageable with his already swamped wordload. You were thinking of taking on another job, since your current one was so resistant to giving you more hours. In short, the two of you had loaded plates and waning time together, even one year into living with each other.
Even knowing this, there’s a deep disappointment as you whittle away at your last hour of work. 
The holidays mean an influx of customers at work in your tailor shop. Velvet dresses brimming with foamy lace, pristine suit jackets, matching dress pants, carefully embroidered button ups, all divided cleanly and safely in sheets of plastic on color coded hangers. No one ever picks up their items on time; instead, they love to wait until the last half hour before closing to all rush over and come stampeding in like loose cattle, typically requiring you to stay open an extra twenty or so excruciating minutes. 
Today, that works in Danny’s favor.
He had been stressing. He hadn’t planned on taking on another victim this week—it was shaping up to be a slow one, and he was very much ok with that. Nearly getting unmasked in a skirmish a month ago had sent him into a period of hiding and reminded him of his humanity. It was weird to say he was rattled by the experience. That is all to say the night was meant to be uneventful. Money was tight, as it always seems to be around the holidays, in time for the blinking assault of green and red lights and the spray of white paint in shop windows to imitate a snowy landscape. 
The two of you had agreed you wouldn’t be able to do anything particularly fancy today, no extravagant gifts or pricey restaurant trips. He had been saving, even still, with the hopes of buying you something. He had never been great with picking out gifts, given that he had never been on the receiving end, either, so he had struggled to find something meaningful. Not to mention, a medical bill all over a few stitches had eaten through his last couple of paychecks (only cementing the idea to him that he ought to learn how to close up a wound on his own). 
A nice dinner at home is planned for the evening. It won’t be anything spectacular, he reminds himself, but he’s insistent to show that he’s remembered. He’s been so caught up in his other identity, only recently breaking from this character to wonder if he’d been neglecting you. Danny knows he’s too involved in orchestrating the script of Ghostface, it’s an all consuming aspect of his person, he’d never be able to part from the persona he’s drained so much thought into—there’d been incredible hesitation from the get go when he met you and things advanced further than expected. Inevitably, between you and the Ghostface, one would end up untended to, and your recent sourness suggests that has been you.
That’s why this display seems too insultingly minor. A nice dinner and time spent with a loved partner should communicate appreciation, but Danny was never great at operating interpersonal relationships. It would be naive to say they scared him, rather it’s like handling an exotic animal. That’s his problem—Danny performs, directs, coordinates, he doesn’t truly live, does he? Everything is a value he wants precedence over. He earns a look from a passerby when he scoffs out loud. 
He’s off early, headed to the grocery store, admittedly bitter thinking about the trek back on foot, but there’s a delightful little change in plans when he sees her.
Gold, curled hair, with gleaming green eyes and cakey foundation that flakes at her deep smile lines. She’s a beautiful woman, no doubt about it, but his attention is fixated on the hand clutching her purse; some forgettable designer brand, presumably, but he looks further at a finger wearing a glittering ring (he didn’t think or care to check if it was her ring finger, his mind was set.) It’s gorgeous, a gentle gold that’s not overwhelmingly yellow—rosey is the word—curling delicately around a gleaming gem. It’s undeniably opal, with how the light on it shifts in a kaleidoscope of colors, not diamond, but he thinks he prefers it. Everyone does diamond, anyways. His mind is made in that moment. 
The lady nearly shoves past him, too entrenched in a loud conversation with the man next to her, decidedly not a partner, given the many feet of space between them. Danny stops for only a second, not letting himself stare, but he feels his heart thunder.
He thinks. But not for too long. He listens to their voices fade until they’re unintelligible before he stops again, thinks again, purses his lips and pretends to pat desperately at his pockets, making a show of sighing and throwing his head back, frustrated, before turning on his heel and starting down the sidewalk in the direction the two had disappeared. There had not been anyone else around, something he had eventually begun to note subconsciously whenever in public, but he’s practiced the display so much it was almost subconscious itself. 
She never thinks to look back. Not once. Not after parting with her friend, not after taking a shortcut down a considerably darker street, slipping only infrequently under the weak shower of light from buzzing street lamps. It’s too perfect, he almost wonders if he’s being led into some elaborate trap. In hindsight, it would have been smart to keep track of the street names, but he’s just a little clumsy tonight.
He must practically be stepping on her heels when she finally tenses and flips around, eyes already wide, a misty gray in the dark gradient of the night. So wide. This might be the only instance where he’ll remember the color of a victim’s eyes. She goes for her pocket knife, only, at most, the size of her hand outstretched. He goes for his own knife. 
He didn’t think about the clean up that would follow, or about the time. Fuck, fuck, he wants to kick himself, get a good, solid punch in there that would make him stagger back. He has to hope the ring will fit you as he tries to screw it back and forth, inching it off her finger. In increasing desperation, he’s attempting to wrench it off, something crunching. If he waits too long, the joints will go rigid and he might then have to saw the digit off entirely, and it wouldn’t be too pleasant of a gift if the ring came with a knifed finger attached. He wished he would’ve just reverted to his high school ways of petty robbery, but his face is bare to the pungent, stinging night, no usual robes to conceal himself. 
That’s not what the Ghostface does, anyways—theft at knifepoint. The papers would mischaracterize him after all the careful, deliberate consideration gone into his depiction, both on Ghostface’s and Danny’s parts; for Ghostface, the victims, chosen not irregularly on a whim (randomly, to any outsider) with no connections or immediately discernible motives. He loves to make them really think, so much of the threat is built in the wildly intense imagination of the public. The playfulness and the brazenness and how they intersect in shameless pictures, taunting notes and evidence left purposely. For the latter, nights of writing and rewriting paragraphs, descriptions, careful word choice to hammer in the threat that the next victim could be anyone, could be the reader. The Ghostface never has to kill, he wants to and does so without reason, that’s what makes him so unnerving, Danny thinks, scowling to himself. He finally twists the glimmering ring free from her limp finger, almost taking the skin with it as he digs his fingernails angrily beneath the band. He lets himself laugh once in triumph, a single, full exhale like he’d been struck in the sternum.
His work gets sloppy when he gets frustrated. He reminds himself of this as he turns the ring over in his palm, finally free. He thinks about your delighted face and his expression finally softens. 
Danny massages his forehead and the lines that are certain to form there with all his grimacing and scowling. How late is it? He looks up to the darkening sky like the moon itself will reveal the time engraved onto its surface. This might be the first time he’s killed in plainclothes. He thinks he should remember something like that, but all the bodies, different as they were, mold together in his memory. Every face, the ones he can visualize, overlay each other. There won’t be a fancy dinner for the two of you tonight, but he’s decided this is much better.
He lifts his arm just to watch the blood on his hands travel down his wrist and then down his forearm, two thin, winding snakes. 
He could risk rushing home and pray to every God from every doctrine that you’re not there yet, or wait out the night and return home late, praying, then, that you’re deep in sleep. It’s your anniversary, though—he imagines he could live with you believing he’s cheating on you over you finding out, but he must be going soft, because the image of you waiting all evening, alone, perking up at every noise outside at the possibility it’s him at the door, it makes him feel like someone has his guts in a fist. Plus, the Ghostafce is out and about, it’d be stupid to leave you on your lonesome. 
You have no idea what he does for you.
He stands outside your house, streaked with browning stripes of blood, disheveled, empty-eyed, probably appearing like an intruder. He still has no idea what hour of night it is, but the lights in the house are off, and for once he is unsettled by the sight of it, a cold dread that spider webs under his skin, drastically unlike the flush of relief as he might trudge up the same pathway after a cruelly long day of work.
Finally he forces himself up the steps of the porch and snags his key from his pocket (and now there’s blood on it, too), essentially slamming it into the lock and twisting it open while he clutches his bloody shoes by the heels in the other hand. He careens inside, pulled along by the tilting weight of his own body, finding himself hoping that the neighbors assume him to just be deeply, profoundly drunk should they be watching at this time of night. He slams the door and the house shudders with it then moans in relief as it settles. Fuck, darling, I’m so sorry if I kept you waiting, I actually, really fought tooth and nail to get you this gift. Haha. Like it was the last one, some other guy had the same idea, Christ, we got in a scuffle and nearly got kicked out. Ah, my nose hurts, is it bleeding? I didn’t notice. He’s vomiting words in his head louder than the voice that berates himself for his carelessness (he might even be saying these things aloud, expecting you to be there, horrified). You’re not there. He should be unimaginably relieved, but his stomach only tightens and he can feel the burn of bile stirring at the bottom of his throat. 
Danny can’t bring himself to turn on the light, to douse himself in sudden vision and see the red that he nonetheless feels wet on his chest. He’d never been too disturbed by the sight before, or even the tangy scent that seems so oppressively pungent now, but at the moment he just doesn’t want to think. He really does start to feel like an intruder. He shoves the door closed with his elbow (had he touched the knob with his hands when he opened it?) suddenly silencing the whisper of crickets humming behind him.
Finally his eyes fly to the clock on the oven, artificial red painting out the numbers 6:04. You get off at 6:30, and usually arrive home fourteen after. Fuck. This time he does kick, his target the gray loveseat in the living room. Carefully, he turns on the light with the back of his left hand, the one kindly less bloody.
In an instant he’s ripping a pan out from the kitchen cabinets and tossing in a cup or more of water, setting it to boil. The ring will go in there—for his poor work shoes, though, he’d just gotten them, and they’re genuine leather. They’re not fancy by any extent, but comfortable, and again, a pretty, toffee-colored leather. He throws them in a wash bin for now. He peels off his uncomfortably wet socks, stained from the night and damp from the lawn. Gross, whatever, he can make himself part with those. He tries to tell himself the same for his shirt as he rips down the buttons (he’s got a closet with nearly a dozen more indistinguishable dress shirts, bought in bulk from an acquaintance’s department store). Necessary sacrifice, his internal voice barks, ever cold.
His eyes never leave the clock, and then when they do, the harsh lines of the digital numbers are seared into his eyes like the blackened letters of a branding iron, and are just as blistering. 
It’s 6:13, as he lets the ring soak in a bowl of steaming water, standing to the side, using a toothpick to carefully pick the blood out from under his fingernails. 6:14. The minute had gone by in the length of a second. There’s no candle in the world strong enough to mask the searing smell of bleach-based cleaning products, but he still steals one of yours to light. At 6:22 he nearly breaks down crying. Five minutes are spent glaring at his reflection, looking for traces of blood, staring so long and without blinking that he begins to see red where there is none. 6:30, he breaks down, but into disbelieving laughter.
It’s past seven when you do get off, bursting out of the tailors shop like a bird trapped indoors, tugging on your jacket and feeling for your keys as you jog around the building to the side parking lot, your car the only one left. The pulsing lights of neon shop lights are your personal holiday display, speckled and frosty as they’re reflected on the sidewalk glossy with rain. Your breaths are accentuated in white foam, dissolving quickly into the oppressive air of winter nighttime. You scan the parking lot to confirm it is as vacant as it looked upon first glance. You find yourself staring out into the darkness just outside the chain link fence enclosing the parking lot, picking up tens of silhouettes in the dark treelines. 
You hurry into the driver's seat, key in the ignition immediately, no idling like you may have earlier this year. Danny has never been especially worried about the killer ever-present in the headlines, never a degree that seemed appropriate. You’d snapped at him once about a little joking comment and he’d been quick to protest that humor is how he tends to deal with tension, but you still worry he doesn’t take it all entirely seriously. You’ve been begging him for what must be a week by now to stop walking home. There’s only one car between the two of you, and you’re the one to end up with it most days; Danny’s work is closer to your shared home and in a more well-lit, populated part of town, in between an intersection of office buildings and cafes and sleek looking restaurants. Your job at the tailors is nearing the very outskirts of the town, where the roads broaden, much less busy as they wind through collections of strip malls and perpetually open gas stations. The walk back home, on foot, would be half an hour with few witnesses, so therefore you end up with car privileges most shifts.
The car rattles to life. You go to turn the knob for the headlights, watching out the front windshield, imagining he’ll be there in the beams of light when they blink awake.
You and Danny both have knives. A variety. He jokes he’ll never need to use his, but brings one whenever leaving the house, as is the same for you (in addition to the pepper spray he’s persistent you keep on your person). Your hand crawls towards your jacket pocket, feeling the concealed shape of it to confirm its presence. The Ghostface isn’t standing opposite of you when the headlights do power to life, but you don’t waste any more time before you reel out of your parking spot and onto the main road. 
The drive home doesn’t seem to happen at all, glides by mechanically until you’re stepping out of the car and onto pavement and staring at your own house. You blink, eyes all smudgy from viewing stop lights from a foggy windshield. It only really takes the walk up to the door to reawaken all your muscles and remind yourself you're alive, thankfully, pushing open the door just as you realize the doorknob is slightly dewy, and unlocked. 
The warmth of your kitchen is unearthly, or heavenly is the right word. You smell something heavy and hearty, intersected by the less pleasant stench of an assemblage of cleaning products (a smell so progressively common in your household your only hope is you’ll become used to it). 
Danny appears from the hallway, or had been standing there already, and smiles tiredly. Poor thing. You can only imagine he’s worked himself to the bone, maybe with you on his mind. He always tells you how you’re his driving motivation, that he has to remind himself of you when work is additionally cruel. 
You’ve yet to say a word to each other, something not entirely necessary; his arms are around you already, drawing you in tight. 
“I’m sorry I’m late,” you huff, but he shakes his head quite intently.
“No worries, not a single one,” he replies honestly, finally pulling away to meet you face to face. You had presumed he was going to heckle you a good deal for being late, just given the tension around the city and recent crime, but it never comes up. He only rubs the sides of your arms with a twitching smile.
Danny steps back fully, but still guides you, ringing you in from the entryway over to the kitchen. 
“No fancy dinner, like we agreed,” he starts, obviously alluding to something that has you a little worried—not unpleasantly, really, but a tight feeling in your side that is likely guilt. He’s the sort of guy to say he won’t get you anything but go ahead and do so anyways; a part of you knew you weren’t gonna shake that from him this year, but with money a concern, you had hoped he would swallow his pride and resist. 
“I got you something else, though,” Danny continues, smiling more genuinely, nearly relieved. He retrieves a brown satin pouch from the dinner table, something only the length of his palm. 
He instructs you to extend your arm out so he can place the pouch in your hands, and now that almost wince of a smile is genuine. 
“I really work so hard for you,” he laughs, but cuts himself off quite suddenly. Something like shame twists at his expression. “I don’t want you to feel guilty, though, no—I’ve just been saving up for a little something.” 
The smile is wider, now with teeth.
“Jed,” you say, low. He shakes his head, dismissing you before you can object.
“I really do love you.”
It’s genuine when he says this, but also not his fault that you always react perfectly. He really is so fantastic as a director, and you as the set piece. 
Dinner might have to wait.
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angelharness · 1 year
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any requests for newer characters would be great i have some catching up to do
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angelharness · 1 year
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love your ghostface stuff <3 his characterization is the best ive seen so far ❤️
aww tysmm!! Q__Q he's loads of fun to write, and yet i used to hate him so much lol
have more planned for him but will be switching it up with some other characters first
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angelharness · 1 year
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Was already planning on some so this works out! Like most characters I’m writing for the first time it’ll probably take some time for me to distinguish how I characterize them, currently finding things out with him. This admittedly feels more like a character study than anything.. I’m sure I’ll get to write more explicitly romantic stuff for him at some point
WARNINGS: blood (is that even worth tagging anymore) and plenty of mentions of killing
TARHOS KOVACS / THE KNIGHT
It’s hard to imagine how he maintains any non-strictly-professional relationships, even more so when considering the romantic variety. He tends to categorize most people he meets into relatively loose classifications of enemy, associate, asset, useful, or not worthwhile. In his line of work, he’s never had those lines blurred or challenged. Meeting you means rare introspection on his part. 
It’s weird to chat casually, to talk about personal or daily matters rather than the specifics of a contract or even the passing chatter over dinner with his companions. He does not ask questions and doesn’t expect you to. When answering any, though, he seems to respond curtly and explicitly matter of factly, like running down a checklist. This is not out of disinterest, it’s just the way he goes about most matters. It’s not so clear if he doesn’t enjoy talking about himself or cannot think of anything he deems worthwhile to reference.
On that note, it’s a long and maybe frustrating path of trying to get to know him. You won’t be having the traditional sort of dates in the Entity’s Realm, and communication is limited by a number of barriers; English is only Tarhos’s third language, and he has just an elementary understanding of it. All things considered, he doesn’t have a very in-depth grasp on any spoken language; he grew up speaking Hungarian but was taken too early to ever attain fluency and forced to take on Italian, learned primarily through barked orders and the background chatter of his cellmates. His English, when he chooses to use it, is even more sparse, and is very much different from the vocabulary you are more familiar with. You can attempt to teach him some, but it is unlikely he’ll hold onto anything longer than a sentence. He very honestly might establish his own system of sign language before he can make himself speak comfortably.
Your best bet for getting to know him is familiarizing yourself with and learning to read his reactions and body language. This is harder to get a grasp of without a visible face to interpret, but you’ll begin to pick up on things you hadn’t noticed before; he rolls his shoulders back and points his feet forward when he’s interested. He’ll begin to gradually look aside if he isn’t. The flexing and twitching of his fingers is somehow infinitely expressive in the absence of words.
He goes about a similar process with you—he spends more and more time just watching you and how your face changes, or the variation in your voice, in your posture. Admittedly, he can only tell so much from a facial expression; he knows the telltale signs of pain, the deep lines of anguish or outright despair. He knows the gritted, grinding teeth and furious brows of someone enraged, even the glow of satisfaction, but anything beyond that may as well be new territory to him. 
One way, though, to tell that he certainly likes you is that he looks at you fairly frequently. This would seem insignificant in just about anyone else, but Tarhos looks at people only when speaking with them. Not when spoken to or at, but when he puts himself on equal footing with another person so that they may discuss. He almost regards the world and other people like a single, separate entity. He does not always immediately look away when you catch his stare, but certainly doesn’t appear that he wants his interest to be known. You might never fully know what he’s thinking, but you might be somewhere momentarily in those thoughts. 
He doesn’t ever really properly hold your hand, which requires him to bend down or slant his shoulder down uncomfortably—instead, he’ll more often wrap his hand around the back of your arm. It’s a little funny, appearing as if he’s taking you prisoner rather than attempting casual affection. 
At some point in his life, if not during his initial capture, he realized there would be no place for him to have a lover of any sort, and given his asocial tendencies, he thought he had come to terms with that notion. Now that he’s met you, there’s been a pretty significant shift in his outlook for the future; he’s lost in how to fit you into it, and though at first this disruption is greatly offending to him, he realizes that there is an appealing aspect to perhaps settling down. For once there is an end in sight to the torrent of still, bleeding bodies. Just understand that his decided code of chivalry is very far disconnected from the stereotypes lovingly illustrated in adventure books. He’s more acquainted with the sight of mangled meat between the silver plating of ruptured armor. 
He wouldn’t have ever considered himself affectionate, at any earlier point would’ve have loudly scoffed at the term, but if you can get him out of his grungy helmet and coax him into letting you brush his hair, he’ll become insistent that you do it routinely. 
Tarhos might enjoy sparring with you on occasion, but these sessions tend to become more of him fixing your form and instructing you than actual skirmishes. He repeatedly has to stop to walk over and correct your stance. He’s infinitely more knowledgeable and trained than you—it’s more than second nature, but first—it’s unrealistic you’ll ever best him, but then again, you have the eternity of the Entity’s Realm to train. He’s certainly going easy on you, otherwise you’d be wiped out in the first few moments, but there’s been a handful of times you had gotten a legitimate hit on him. You had even sent him to his knees in one instance (he was at his feet again in seconds, and you suspect he had only ever got him there, in the first place, by surprise, but it felt unspeakably good).
Will not kiss your hand unless outright asked to, sorry. It had never been customary for him, beautiful maidens with rich dresses were not the ones enlisting him to go out and kill and shed pails of blood, were certainly not being saved by him, and never did spare him glances, unless they were colorless and terrified. Even the curt shake of hands was not typical in deals between those who enlisted him. However, he’ll oblige upon your request, and soon it becomes the only way he greets you when meeting again after time apart. This seems to work better after you had talked him out of bowing to you everytime.
He finds himself on edge whenever you’re away, now, especially when in a trial. He trusts you to hold your ground and keep yourself alive, but worry is such a new feeling to him that it feels, at times, unbearable. He’s never even worried for himself—things just happened and he would soldier through it, that is how his life had always been. No threats of torture or unrelenting whips had made his stomach turn and roil like it did as he paced in your absence. Days spent in sunless, lightless cells had seemingly passed faster than the time he would await your return to the campfire, to him.
He won’t run to you and hug you and sob at your feet when you reappear, but he’s back at your side before the hazy fog of the trial can leave your system. He similarly appears to search for you first when he returns from a trial.
Pet names don’t immediately appeal to him, but if you beg him for one, he’d settle on something like ‘my treasure’ or culver. ‘My heart’ is another, but he struggles to get it out and will oftentimes just stare intensely at you, trying to force the words together, hoping maybe you’ll understand and spare him the vulnerability. It’s odd, dated, and not what would come to mind when thinking of a nickname for a lover, but he actually likes it when you refer to him as your suitor. Maybe it is its explicitness, that it serves as a declaration and can only be said wholeheartedly.
ALTRUISTIC S/O
Tarhos wouldn’t believe you to be naive or ignorant for your benevolence, only ineffective. He’s found what works best for him and scarcely strays from that; slaying carelessly, indifferent to whoever stands opposite of him and his sword. He never reprimands you, nor ever feels the need to, even if your choices may puzzle him. He decides that the world will straighten you out if it so necessary, that everyone will come to learn of its ruthlessness (however life decides to show that side of its many-faced form). 
He’s aware there are less violent, distastefully bloody ways to get what he wants, but the both of you can imagine he hails from a comparatively more savage background where brutality could be called common; in his eyes, Tarhos only adapted to the cruel circumstances of the society he found himself in. Nurture and nature were equally unkind to him, a pair of twin demons. He might struggle to conceptualize the drastically different life and time you came from, but never looks down on you for your selflessness. He might, however, feel the need to look out for you, knowing how ruthlessly unforgiving the world can be at times. 
Eventually might develop a greater appreciation for your abundant kindness when he finds himself on the receiving end. He’s especially appreciative if you’d offer to rub his shoulders from time or time, or help him with shedding or donning his armor. Unfortunately, with such underdeveloped interpersonal skills, his only means of expressing gratitude is extending his services to you, i.e. slaughtering an individual per your request.
Tarhos will hold back on displays of violence if you are present, but it will be strange to him and require a restraint he had never utilized before. Once he does, he realizes he’s never stopped to think before bringing down his sword on the skull of an opponent. This introspection won’t change his ways in the long run, certainly won’t sway the taste he’s acquired for killing, but he tries to be more mindful of your sensitivity to bloody matters. 
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angelharness · 1 year
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Still trying to find how I want to characterize Danny. I think this specific writing is the closest I’ve gotten to how I want him, unnerving, bizarre, and devoted.
Reader uses a strap, not gendered otherwise. 
With The Intimacy of a Knife
WARNINGS: a little blood, not yours
DANNY JOHNSON / THE GHOSTFACE
He makes it easy for you tonight. You wouldn’t have caught him against the watery black velvet of nighttime, but he stands very purposely within reach of the porch light, so when you flick it on his outlight is caught against the flood of yellow light. 
Your body stills immediately, as if doused with a cold spray of water, but you catch yourself quick enough to recover and pretend you hadn’t noticed him, as striking as his silhouette is, tailed by fluttering ribbons of fabric.
You pry the sliding glass door open, prickled instantly by the evening wetness and smell of damp grass. Crouching down, you extend a hand to the darkness, the side of the backyard opposite from the one he occupies. From the night, your cat pads up to you, tail flicking.
“C’mere, baby,” you call, wanting to hurry up and head inside, back to the movie you have on pause.
Your cat pauses, turns, tail curls, and meets eyes with the Ghostface.
“What, huh?” you ask, stroking its neck with the side of your fingers. 
“C’mon, it’s so cold out here.”
It stands there another moment before pushing past your leg to trod inside. You close the door behind it, not bothering to lock it. The porch light comes off and darkness reclaims the outside, the still blackness resuming.
He knows you know better, so when he follows, it is willingly and adoringly, but still your pulse flits in your chest. Your breaths draw tightly, like drawing back the taut string of a bow, pulling into a knot in your chest.
Assuming the role of observer, you sit in your own darkness, far enough to be out of sight as he makes his way across the porch, but still only a generous stride or two away from the door. You watch a gloved hand reach out and sit on the handle of the door, waiting a beat. Two, three. It could be five minutes or your impatience stretching out the seconds painfully. The fingers curl, drive the door open somehow silently, a feat you could not replicate. 
Another pause that makes you despise his tremendous supply of patience. Your legs burn with restlessness. 
Finally, one boot inside, he manifests in the doorway, resembling his namesake; he is a phantom against the backdrop of a bleached moon. His white, howling face is expressive but unreadable. The leather of his boots is old and crisp and hardened with wear, and yet somehow every step is soundless, even when his movements become comfortable and comparatively careless. He knows your house well; the initial chill of the water warms. 
There is no indication that he is breathing until he inhales a long breath, taking in smell of your home. Neutral, woody, maybe the afterthought of your dinner the prior hour still in the air. 
He steps forward again and scans the room. When his mask then fully faces you, the gaping expression bordered by intruding moonlight, you lunge. 
Your palms press against the muscle underneath his collarbones, tight with knots and fitted with scars. You make eye contact briefly before he’s tipping down towards the floor with you after him. His back thuds hard against the wooden floor and he exhales, almost gasps, as you push yourself above him, your hands moving instead to restrain his wrists and pull them above his head.
For the most momentary second he panics, thrashes and rapidly flexes his fingers upon finding them captured. Not a cornered animal, but a hunter disarmed. He recovers quickly and falls still, chest heaving slightly.
You’re smiling. Finally, he laughs croakily, hinges on an old door. 
“Hi,” you say, leaning forward onto your wrists. You rub your thumbs over the veins in the tender skin of the gap between his gloves and sleeves. He’s as cold as a body long dead—always is, if you did not feel his pulse under your fingers now you could believe he was not alive at all. 
“Did I get you? A little?”
Your conversations, if such a casual word could be applied to your bizarre dynamic, are frequently one sided, but you really don’t care; on the occasions he does open his mouth, it’s never the most charming dialogue, so you appreciate his inclination for silence.
“I missed you,” you mutter. Your voice sounds so brittle, splintering in your throat. 
He jerks his wrists aside to signal his impatience; never the one for fond words. You’re a little saddened by his dismissal of your vulnerable, tender honesty, but you’re forgiving tonight. 
You lead this wraith through your house and to your room. He’s soundless, drifting behind you—one day you’ll ask him what oil he uses on his boots. You glance back only once to confirm his presence, then stare, watching the way he phases in and out of protruding shadows, discernible only in brief gaps of moonlight. 
His white mask—the awful specter—somehow intrudes your thoughts and dreams affectionately. Feverishly, too, in visions where he squirms under you and smiles open-mouthed, inviting you to devastate him. He’s cold as you hold him right now, but in those scenes his skin sears you, hot on your tongue when your teeth sink in the vulnerable bridge between his neck and collarbone. 
Now in your room, you draw the blinds tight. They were only ever open so late to invite one intended voyeur; you need no more.
You turn around and watch as he breaches the threshold of your doorway. His hand goes for the belt you know holds a lineup of small knives—you reach him first, taking him suddenly by the shoulders down to the floor. He folds to his knees so hard he gasps. Up to this point in this interaction, you’d been very restrained about jostling him around, not that he could easily stop and just as easily overpower you if inclined, but this sudden harshness is 
Before you fully feel the intrusion of guilt, even if it is unrealistic to have hurt him any significant amount, he laughs. 
“You’re so good,” he commends you, stopping to laugh some more. “But don’t you want to do more?”
It’s very transparently an invitation. By the way his chest is lurching with each breath you can tell he’s excited. How he loves to badger you, perhaps that alone supplies him with pleasure. 
He extends his arms outward then makes a show of twisting them and securing them behind him. 
“All yours,” he says, a statement as much as it is a request. 
You pet him and he nearly lets himself lean into it, but does not.
“I had something specific in mind,” you prompt. You jerk him back up to his feet and he happily relents.
Leaving him in your bedroom to step away to the bathroom feels mildly bizarre. As you turn your hands under the run of cold water, you envision him, this phantom, sat patiently in the room over, on your bed and on your sheets, cross-legged. If you had been anybody else, emerging from their bathroom to drag themselves back to bed, he would’ve stood, silently, then jolted forward, dug his knife up into your stomach and still smiled when you dropped. 
It’s a discerning thought, one that reminds you who he is, who he had almost been to you, too, until you step back into your bedroom with the intention to ruin him.
He’s where you expected him to be, sat on your bed like it’s just as well as his. 
“Your boots,” you scold as you settle down next to him, moving his knee aside. He ignores you and presses his mask up to your neck eagerly, listening to the hot throb of blood. 
“You missed me,” he says. His hands crawl over your thighs and then grab for your own, but you take them and return them to his lap. He’s disappointed, but you give him a reassuring smile before darting down and retrieving a plain box from beneath your bed. It’s only really distinguishable by the white crust of a sticker you unsuccessfully tried to scratch away. He tilts his head at the sound of items shifting inside. 
You retract the lid and unfold a layer of crushed gift paper.
He laughs noiselessly when he sees the strap, but then falls still, fingers curling in on his palms. A second later, Danny is back to clawing at you, shuddering, encouraging your hands to search him. 
“You’re so impolite tonight,” you say even as you relent, rubbing up and down his strong thighs.
“Hurry, hur—ry,” he beckons, the syllables drawn out and curling mockingly. 
He lets you wrestle him into a position you can work with—pushed onto his stomach and knees, hips tilted up so you can work off his belt. 
“Ahaha.”
His laugh is airy but cruel and makes you feel like the exposed one as you tug his pants down to his knees, boxers next. The sound stutters to a stop when you run your thumb up the curve of his thigh. 
“Ah.”
You graze his hole and he jerks forward, sucking in his gut and holding the breath. It would be hard to get any amount in when he’s so tense. You stroke his thigh as you lean away. He tries to play it off with a laugh but there’s no air in his lungs to produce the sound.
You reach for your nightstand, pushing past the clutter and unopened mail, as well as your own embarrassment, to tug open the drawer. Various things are rattled; pill bottles that couldn’t find space in the bathroom, your hairbrush, loose pens, dog-eared sticky notes, and lube. It’s new and still has the plastic seal on it, which you pick at before successfully peeling off. 
You hear him sneer.
“What?” You turn to him, accusatory, but the mask only stares back, and you can envision the amused smile just beneath it. 
You pour a quarter-sized portion into your hand, then more, and rub it vigorously between your palms in an attempt to warm it up. Still, he flinches when you push a single, slick finger in his entrance. He flexes his hands into fists then lets them uncurl. 
“Cold?” you ask, sympathetically but entertained. Now presuming the role of the voyeur, you almost get how he finds satisfication in watching someone squirm, just as he does, delightfully, under you. 
His eerie giggling makes it hard to focus as you push further in in the smallest of increments, waiting between each for a sign to stop. It never comes, even as he twists and huffs and even laughs or sobs at one point. You’re about to pause and ask outright, but he leans back into your hand and snorts.
“Get back to it.” It sounds like a threat disguised as a suggestion, but you know that’s just how he is; he’s not one to earnestly request something, he needs to sound like he’s still the one in control. 
“Are you asking for more?” you stop and laugh. You take him by the thigh and work the soft flesh under your thumbs. You’re surprised it’s so soft and not rugged and shredded up with the same distinctive, serrated scars that you’ve seen all up his forearms. There are a few thin, almost white streaks of scarred skin, like long, stray stitches, which you give special attention—otherwise, the skin not tight with muscle is soft and welcoming.
The pace of his breathing waxes as he tries to even it out. You retract your finger to push in two. He’s silent, this time, but squrims still, rocking himself with the motion of your hand, mimicking the curve and pull upward as you curl your digits. 
You continue like this for another minute until you feel him fully untense, a little put off by his impossible noiselessness. You focus on the pattern of your bed sheets warping as he twists them into his palms in fistfuls. The wood of your bed thumps like a steady, solid heartbeat.
He leans forward, away from you, initially you think it was too much and go to apologize, but a second later you feel him press a knife to your side. It’s a somewhat funny sight, the way he’s resting on his side, leisurely, robe flipped up to his waist and a knife angled almost casually up your abdomen. 
“Get it on, put it in.” For someone with such an expansive and colorful vocabulary over the phone, he’s notably more blunt in person. Sometimes you’re thankful for this, other times it’s that much more unnerving. 
You laugh, mostly, as he guides you back onto your knees. It’s still a real threat, but somehow you’re comfortable enough to get in a chuckle at his expense. You take the time to peel off your shirt, tastefully slowly, but don’t extend the same tentativeness to your pants when the blade sinks further into your side (not yet breaking skin, but intending to remind you of the sting of it).
Dealing with the many bands of the strap is not such a graceful scene, fiddling a lot less patiently with buckles. Now he laughs, slower and much more cruel. 
“Pretty thing,” he says, strung out, maybe mocking. You take him by the hip and he shuts right up.
You turn him so both knees meet the mattress and push him down, forwards, onto his elbows, filling in behind him. 
“Tear me up, get in my guts,” he encourages. Such a grotesque way to put it, but there’s a pleasant hotness in your core as you drag your hand up his thighs and watch him watch you. 
There’s no noise when you first enter, but it all comes when he must, inevitably, release the breath that had coiled high in his chest. Half a cry, a dying snicker, a sound of excited pain, he howls and cries.
You rock and drag against him until you find a comfortable nook to saddle up against him and he shudders. 
“You’re doing good,” you say as you stroke his thigh. He hisses at you and laughs when you’re taken aback, but it looks as if the handle of the knife will snap in his hand with how fiercely he clenches it. 
Soon you have to hold him by the thighs to keep him in place as you distinguish a steady rhythm, fucking into him, forgivingly, for now. Your own breaths start to match his own, heavy and tight, a deepening pressure low in your belly, in your guts. 
He’s forgotten the knife as he grips instead at the pillow. The mask looks back at you offering no guidance, no context, but his dizzy mewling tells of sickening pleasure; heaving and panting already but unrelenting, fucking himself back against you even as his head spins and vulnerable insides burn. He loves the ache and the fullness, he thinks, as his eyes sting with smoldering tears, thankfully hidden. It’s nearly as intimate as a knife. 
Your face begins to glitter with sweat. It takes more than a moment for the both of you to adapt a shared rhythm. You tangle your fingers deep into his robe until you’re pulling on the tattered coattails like reigns. The friction you get in return as you fuck him is slight, nothing susbtantial on its own, yet still manages to burn tenderly. Sweat glosses his thighs, your brow, the line of your collarbone. 
“I thought about you inside of me, before,” he confesses dizzily. You’re not surprised. You lean further over him and bring a hand around the back of his neck and hood, adjusting him to your liking.
“Not always in this way,” he adds with laughter. You must not get it, perplexed by the statement and the heaving chuckling he incites in himself. A long, deep thrust chokes it out of him like a strike to the back.
You think he’s shaking, but the darkness of the night does wonders to hide him, quilts of shadows draped where his own robes don’t hide scarred skin. Your fingers twitch (the want to pry his mask away), but you only dig them further into the nook of his hips against his thighs. 
You can’t decide if his eyes would be wide, all watery whites, or heavy and lidded, drowned in the color of blown pupils. You press the hand on his neck further in, curl your fingers around it so the nails nearly meet. The excited flutter of blood in his veins beats against your fingertips.
“You could kill me,” the Ghostface says, “and I’d—ahahaha.”
Does he find himself so amusing, or is it your puzzlement he finds entertaining? He does love those stern, tight looks you give him. He groans. 
Abruptly, you ask, “am I the only one you do this with?” You say this from both a feeling of confidence, of ownership, but also with genuine interest and shame over it all. That most others who touch him must not live long after, yet time and time again he is in your house at your allowance. His hands, with blood soaked into the creases, yield to you or even move to stroke you. 
He’s said nothing in the moments since your question. He appears to, at this point, be fixated on the ceiling, lost in the motion, the crude sound of skin, the pleasure. You tighten your grip and hope it leaves aching marks. 
The Ghostface grabs suddenly for you. His knees jerk inward, a keening, stretched sound curling from his tensed gut. He shakes relentlessly and sobs just as much, clawing at your thighs, gripping them, attempting to twist into the flesh. You rub his sides and his arms and the tight muscle of his back, fucking again, hard and thorough and good into his hole. You see the white catch on his legs, on your bedsheets; the sensation carves into him, all too much, but he still attempts to draw you further inside. It’s all raw and romantically, scarily visceral. His own panting has made the inside of his mask boil, and his eyes steam with tears and euphoria and body heat. You feel so deep in him, but he wants to drag you farther. 
Then he collapses. Heaving and gasping like a sailor washed ashore, coughing out spit but laughing still. You pull out slowly, an inch or so at a time, watching the twitch in his legs.  
“Thank you,” he rasps, mask buried into your pillow, hands back to pulling at the sheets. Tears and sweat run splotchy streaks down your pillowcase. It was about time to change them out, anyways. 
“You did good,” you reply, softly.
He motions you over. You oblige, essentially, shuffling next to him. He grabs you by the back of your neck like you had done to him, fingers pinching between the discs in your neck. He takes you down next to him, not an embrace, exactly, but so you both lie there, faces in your pillows, breathing heavily. You have to angle your hips uncomfortably to the side, lying crooked, panting as if it was you entirely, in body, inside of him. You look deserted, lost in your own house, bedroom, tangled bedsheets. 
“What do I get back?” you try to say, but well accustomed to his routine, you know he’s swift and curt in his departure once he gets his relief. You can only sigh out, before you lift yourself to slide out of all the straps of the harness.
“You’re the only one to live this long,” it says, not the mask with the frigid expression, but the man underneath. He says it with his own tongue and lungs and throat. You raise your brows at him, before you realize it must be an answer to your earlier question. He chuckles hoarsely as the realization breaks across your face, nightly frost cracking under morning sunlight. The declaration must not have been meant to be sweet, even with his bizarre, off-putting idea of romance—it’s cruel, but a reminder, never a threat, seemingly. 
You stand. The Ghostface follows you with his eyes (you think; he doesn’t move, but you know the distinct feeling of his dedicated gaze.)
You’ve discarded the toy on your desk chair to clean when you forget and stumble across it later and retreat into your bathroom. Drowning yourself in yellow, humming light, you duck under your sink into the wooden cabinet to fish for a washcloth. You avoid your reflection in the cloudy square of a bathroom mirror and duck back out the door once you’ve snagged one. You return after soaking it in warm water to see the intruder has sat up and saddled himself on the edge of your bed, hunched over like someone wounded. He sees you approaching and the off-white cloth balled in your hand. He used to flee before you would ever get to this point, but it appears either he’s come to trust you or has resigned himself to your coddling. 
You clean him up, dabbing up his thighs and the back as well, blotting away sweat and stealing glances at shadowed skin all torn with intersecting scars. It’s nearly intimate.
“Where do you go, after this?” you ask. He turns the mask to you. Silver catches on the rim from the moonlight that pushes through your window shades, blue on the white of his ghastly faux face. 
“You want dinner, too?” he asks, another joke. A pause starts, so instead he pushes his mask up against your nose and the angle of your jaw, almost a kiss but cold and momentary. He stands, pants and the assemblage of all those belts and straps back in place, all black as the stillness of your dark bedroom again. 
“Maybe,” you answer after what is surely an inappropriately long duration, but you thought about it, about the premise of something so casual and gentle, it nearly seems more intimate than what had just unfolded, and what will and will again when he makes his next appearance, something that has become nearly weekly. It doesn’t fit him, the image of a relaxed night out, of genuine tenderness, it can’t. 
There’s a second where he thinks about it, then he simply chuckles.
“When will I see you again?” you ask before he can fully move to leave. He looks at you and you know instantly and with certainty that a wide smile is pulling across his face.
“Check the news tomorrow, yeah?” 
He’s swift to your window, pulling it open with little resistance and hiking up a leg to set a heel on the frame. The sting of cold nighttime seeps in rapidly, a torrent that’s practically glacial on your burning body.
“You should’ve locked it,” The Ghostface says, low and suddenly serious, with what he must believe to be dark humor.  “Haven’t you been reading the headlines?”
Was thinking of you, you wish to say, but the words never leave your mouth, just jitter on your tongue, rearranging themselves like perching birds. You only smile, far less exposing than flustered words might be. He hoists himself out of the window and into the dark expanse of the backyard (it’s only a short drop, but the night appears to consume him whole, bones and all). His departure is somehow quieter than even the distant, clicking chorus of crickets and slowly churning wind. 
A minute passes, realistically less, even though time drags sluggishly. Finally, only now, you flick on your bedroom light. The brightness burns momentarily, too sudden and intrusive, and the sight of your bedroom is off-putting somehow. Then you see the red, just little, speckled crescents seared into your pillowcase and sheets by bloody fingertips. What is nearly a full handprint on your mattress, creased with the imprint of leather gloves. God dammit. You might be on the news, too. 
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angelharness · 1 year
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The knight.... hello
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angelharness · 2 years
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I don’t know if I’m happy with how I portrayed Danny here, I wanted to make it somewhat apparent he does genuinely care for you but it kind of got lost. He does, though!
Embroidered Tea Cozy
WARNINGS: mostly fluff but implied murder
DANNY JOHNSON / THE GHOSTFACE
Work has left you considerably more bitter than it normally does. You’re already picking at the buttons of your company polo as you push through the front door. Shuffling out of your rigid work shoes, you take a moment to rub at your aching heels, freed from the creased leather.
Especially nasty customers, a foul lunch you couldn’t finish, and the onset of new pains in your back has you in a sour mood. Thinking about making dinner, even though realistically you’ll just be reheating soup, makes you grumble.
When you turn back from shutting and locking the door, you finally notice the lights in the house are on, something you’d been too groggy to observe while trudging up the front steps.
“...Danny?” you call out, almost warily. The television is on, set to the news as a reporter guides the cameraman about a neighborhood street. In the kitchen, multiple cupboards are flung open, mismatched pots stacked on the floor, silver, lopsided towers. On the counter are two or so white grocery bags, slouched over but not unpacked. Down the hall, the bathroom door is propped open by a plastic trash bin.
Danny never came home before you. He worked consistently late, something you’d grudgingly grown used to, as much as you hated your lessening time with him.
“Danny,” you call a second time, starting to shuffle further into the living room. You shrug off your coat and fold it over the back of the couch, attention directed now to the bathroom where you catch the shadow of a slouched figure splayed across the tiled, gentle yellow wall. The sound of determined scrubbing stops. A lengthy pause draws you closer, prompting the figure to shoot up.
Danny says your name, it’s a question—then, “sweetheart?”
He emerges from the restroom, only halfway in the doorway. You then notice the array of cleaning products at his feet. Bags of powder and unlabeled spray bottles, a collection of brushes and ratty sponges. He’s even fetched the bottle of white vinegar you keep above the oven. Cornstarch, talcum powder… he notices your eyes wandering and steps forward, one hand still clutching the bathroom wall, out of view.
He turns to look at a clock that isn’t in view, then settles on you, fixing a sweet smile on his face.
“Welcome home,” he acknowledges. He frantically whips a hand side to side when you step forward.
“You’re home early,” you say, attempting to peer past him, “what’re you doing?”
You take note of the glossy gloves and apron he’s wearing, the hem wet.
“You were complaining that the tub was pretty nasty, and it was starting to irritate me, too,” Danny explains, appearing shy, boyish. He goes to scratch at the back of his neck but the unexpectedly damp rubber of the gloves makes him flinch. He returns his hand to his side, before he thinks to pretend to fumble with the bow of the apron.
He’s always been prone to go on random cleaning sprees, and takes advantage of the burst of motivation to give just about everything a good wiping down.
“Ah,” you breathe out, as if relieved, and smile appreciatively at him as you nudge past towards your bedroom. After peeling your socks off and heaving your work bag up onto your bed, you walk back out into the hall, only to be rushed along by a mildly frazzled Danny.
“I was going to make you dinner…” he explains as you arrive at the mess in the kitchen. He takes a second to push cookware back into the depths of a cupboard.
“Baked penne,” he finishes a second later, straightening with a huff. He looks sheepish and young when he turns to look at you and smile smally.
“Oh, Danny…” You feel your previously tart mood sweeten a little. He’s never been a brilliant cook, but he puts in more effort than you know you have.
“I’d feel bad to make you cook for me,” you say, turning to him as he swoops you into a close hug. “‘S fine,” he smiles into the crook of your neck, crooked nose in your shoulder, then pulls away to shoo you towards the living room. (Was it always crooked? You steal a glance at his face, a waxy blue blooming under the skin of the bridge of his nose. A tenderly recent bruise.)
“Have a seat, I’ll make you some tea then finish dinner.”
He hums as he leads you along to sit, recovering the remote from the seat cushion to change the channel just as the Ghostface mask blinks on screen with a red banner of text you don’t get to finish reading. More deaths linked to Ghostface killer after—
You remark how nervous the recent murders have made you, and Danny says nothing. You hear him pad back over to the kitchen as he retrieves a kettle. The kitchen faucet croaks, sprays water, the television is playing some home renovation show. You find your eyes wandering to the window and the dark, indistinct landscape beyond, focusing on movement that’s not there. Watery, shifting blackness. Danny laughs a short laugh at your worry, apparently unbothered. He never said anything on the matter of the Ghostface killer, but seems comfortable enough still leaving the sliding glass doors unlocked no matter how much you pester him.
He returns with your tea shortly after, and to press a chaste kiss to the top of your head.
“Dinner will take a little longer,” he explains apologetically. Pauses. “Want me to rub your back?”
You snort and kick your feet up onto the cluttered coffee table. He’s serious, though, and you give a noncommittal shrug. He seems to be in a good mood now that he’s recovered from your unexpectedly early return, however. His cheeks are creased with a fat smile. He strokes your cheek as he leaves, cold skin, not rubber—when did he shed the gloves?
On the stovetop, he sets a tall pot of water to boil, then disappears into the hall. The light of the bathroom clicks off, then the hallway light, and he appears from the dark doorway like a wraith from frothy mist. It still spooks you how silent he can be.
“You gonna sit down?” you ask, feeling a little useless as you watch on from your place on the couch.
“As soon as I get this in the oven,” Danny says, popping open a jar of variously seasoned pasta sauce.
He comes back around to refill your tea. It’s weirdly domestic seeing him like this, brandishing a teapot painted with shiny hummingbirds and lilies, in an apron, juggling dinner and cleaning. You smile to yourself. As he retracts, you reach out to rub the dent in his nose, to which he stills. He lifts his free hand to touch it for himself, feeling out the bent cartilage.
“How’d that happen, Danny?” you ask, turning fully to him. Your hands twitch, wanting to take his face into your palms.
“I don’t know, I didn’t notice that,” he replies, fingertips still lingering on the area. He should’ve said he hit it on the counter, he thinks too late. He turns away and towards the kitchen, both hands on the base of the teapot. You don’t get to see his wide eyes, a tremble in his hands that disturbs the tea. The scalding ceramic sears his palm. He almost tosses the teapot onto the counter and turns over his hand, the skin there all red and irritated. He forgot to put the cozy on. It’s still in a moving box with all those hand-embroidered dish towels.
Danny manifests by your side to place an innocently-intentioned kiss at the base of your neck. The skin of it stings with goosebumps from his cold lips. Still, you lean back into him.
“You look so nice tonight, today.”
You don’t feel like it, feeling a little gross—if anything— clammy at the fingers and with sweat at your neck and forehead, but he reassures you with a torrent of kisses.
“You always manage to be stunning,” he insists as he draws back. The way his eyes stay intently on your face, you believe that he does indeed see something in you.
“Dunno how you think that,” you say, but softly and with affection. You tug him close so that he stays a moment longer.
When you finish your second mug of tea, he swoops in in an instant to claim it from you and runs it under hot water in the sink. He stays there for an extra minute, turning both his hands over multiple times under the flow of water, even as his skin stings and blushes. He picks out crusted blood from beneath a nail with a tight scowl. He worries over if there’s anything else he missed.
Dinner goes into the oven, (it’ll be forty minutes) and now he’s just gotta confine you to the front of the house. On cue, you tug at the hem of your scratchy polo and stand.
“I feel so gross,” you laugh a little, but you still manage to be unbearably pretty, he insists in his head. “I’m gonna hop in the shower.”
You start over to the hall, but Danny quickly encircles you in his arms from behind, pulling you tight to his torso. His thumb rubs circles on your belly, masking the flicker of fear as perhaps excitement to be with you.
“I’ll run a bath for you, alright? You should rest,” he suggests, and when you hesitate he strains his head over your shoulder so you can see his concern. You smile, none the wiser.
“Alright,” you give in, a pause where you wanted to say more, then slip into your bedroom to shuck off your clothes.
Danny listens to you sort through drawers on the other side of the wall as he steps into the backroom. He thought he had another hour. He’s usually not so careless, doing everything, even what was previously unplanned, on a schedule to which he is unquestionably loyal. The time change threw him off, if only he had cared to fix the clocks, he thinks bitterly as he scrubs away the rest of the lines of blood that trail to the bath’s drain. The red goes down with a spume of bath water.
The smell of so many intense cleaning products used to make his eyes water, but now he can withstand the artificial, sour lavender and coppery tang. You always complain lightheartedly when he cleans, but you don’t appear to think much more about it. He rinses the tub multiple times over before he actually draws you the bath he promised. While you’re still occupied in your shared room, he returns the supplies back to the area under the sink in the kitchen. He’ll have to wait to dispose of the gloves, now that you’re home.
Still, he feels floaty from the kill, having to force away the too-wide smile from his mouth. He sucks on the wound on the inside of his mouth from when he bit down from excitement. It’s still fresh and raw. He swallows blood. You’re attentive enough to have noticed his crooked nose, but somehow not the scratch marks on his wrist which he attempts to hide by tugging down his shirt sleeve. It will be a pain to deal with, but that’s for later down the line.
Steam curls up from the sheeny water. He pours in a cap-full of bubble bath that works instantly, giving rise to sweetly-smelling, pink soap. He stirs the water with a hand—it’s only warm, but the shallow marks on his wrist sting slightly. He could do with a thorough shower of his own. You enter and pull a suitable towel from its hook, joining him beside the bath.
He looks at you and smiles, rises, then hugs you close. You swat him.
“Wait till I’m dressed, maybe,” you chuckle, but you let him rest his head on your shoulder and trace the slope of your collarbone. You thumb away the irritated tears that wet your eyes. You don’t get how he stands the smell.
“I’m so lucky to have you,” he says, entirely earnest. He is. He loves you, he’s pretty sure. Your lips lift in a smile and you stroke his shoulder. You want to say you are too, that you’re so grateful for him, but by the time you decide on the words it feels inappropriately late.
“You’re in a good mood,” you observe, shifting so you can look at him. His smile lines have become more prominent since the two of you got together. Comparatively, he always notes how your eyes glitter more around him.
“You’re home,” he replies; his reasoning. He hugs you again, taking you in, and turns back to the tub to turn the water off just as you step in.
One careful foot then the other, then you let yourself slide down to sit. Warm, floral water foams around you. You sigh contentedly.
“I’ll set the table,” Danny says. He squeezes your hand and lifts it from the water to look it over, running his fingers along your knuckles, along the path of the lines in your palm. Then he stands and leaves.
He seizes the remote, switching back over to the news station, then sets off to claim plates and silverware. As he loops around the dinner table, straightening napkins, he watches, heart hammering, the picture of him in the mask and robes slide onto the screen. It’s taken from the backyard security camera of a home just a handful of blocks away. He stands on the back porch, mask tilted upward at the viewer, striking a peace sign in the same hand he grips a wet knife. Behind him, a body crumpled in the grass, hard to discern from the dark of the night but definitely there, he knows first hand.
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angelharness · 2 years
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i want to be known to specialize in sub slasher x readers. if you have any requests of specific characters feel open to send them over!
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angelharness · 2 years
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lost the request, but an anon asked for something sweet with frank. sorry this is so short, i used this as a warm up mostly
Stay a Little Longer
WARNINGS: none, this is mostly sweet + fluffy
FRANK MORRISON / THE LEGION
“At least now we can say we were just taking shelter.”
You stand a bit away, watching as Frank paces around his rumbling car. The engine huffs with a great deal of effort, wheezing a white spray of what is either frost or steam from the motor. The heater’s on blast inside, as well as the defrost, but the thing’s barely chipping away at the thick cover of ice encasing the vehicle. The thing is old, anyway, old enough to drink, with a fried battery and rear lights that don’t work, but with the highways all frozen over it would take a tow truck some two hours to reach here.
The two of you had snuck into Mount Ormond resort—it closed recently without the customers appropriate to cover its cost, but Frank reported seeing the lights on inside the main building, and so dragged you along to check it out. It hadn’t snowed anytime recently, so the sudden storm was certainly unexpected.
Trespassing had come to be a common go-to outing for the both of you, but that didn’t keep you from worrying.
He circles the car again, finally taking his sleeve to feebly wipe at the windshield, cracking away layered sheets of frost.
“I just—” he starts, planting his hands on his hips. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but turns to you. “Can you check your phone for service again?”
You know it’s not gonna have miraculously manifested in the five minutes since he last asked, but you do so anyway, just to sate his irritation. You squint at the screen. Three endlessly pulsing lines tell you you’re still without signal. You tuck your flip phone away into your jacket pocket, your hands following, seeking warmth in the depths of your coat. Your fingers are beginning to lose feeling and your joints feel frozen over and solid.
It’s poor Frank, though, who’s tragically underdressed and shivering like a leaf fighting a storm in his ratty hoodie. His old running shoes are swamped with wet snow, fingerless gloves leaving his digits exposed to the cold. You come up behind him, pulling him into a hug against your front.
“Can’t we just go back inside?” you plead. The bridge of his nose is burning red, flakes of frost caught on his light eyelashes. He replies with a short, indecisive noise.
“Aw, Frankie, you’re shaking.”
You pull him tighter to your chest, attempting to stop his awful shuddering. He leans into you, considering your invitation. He’s not gonna make any progress on the car while it’s still actively snowing, realistically. The weather doesn’t look like it is going to let up anytime soon; the sky is as blinding and unendingly white as the frost it pelts down on your chilly faces.
Frank gives in. He trudges back up the hill with you and clambers inside the main lobby of the resort. When you’d first worked your way onto the premises, all of the doors had been propped open. Clearly the workers hadn’t foreseen the troublesome weather when they packed up for the week, so a crust of snow has collected around the outskirts of the room, piling up in the open doorways.
As Frank goes around shutting the doors, he attempts to shovel out the remaining frost with his boots. You help him scoop somewhere around half of it out and back into the wintery landscape outside before the cold really gets to you and you collapse by the blazing fireplace. You burrow underneath a heap of leftover blankets and call out for Frank, painfully alone on the couch by the twisting fire.
Frank shuts the last door and sighs, loud. Outside, merciless winds pound against the doors and press up against the building, sunken in the depths of snow. He marches over to join you by the fireplace, and you tug him beneath the blankets with you. He’s so cold you almost shove him right back out, but instead you take him in your arms sympathetically.
“You’re gonna get frostbite…” you say as your fingers tangle with his somewhere in the depths of your mess of blankets. Red burns up the fat of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, crooked from a strike to the face.
“I might,” he laughs back, his chuckle ending with a shudder. He hisses in a breath and scoots closer to the fire, freeing his hands from yours to present them to the warmth of the flames. He turns his palms over, sighing with sweet relief, waggling his fingers until they wake up. At least his mood hasn’t soured, you think with relative hopefulness. You’ll do your best to salvage this impromptu date.
“You hungry?” you ask him. You lean against him, rubbing his side. He considers it.
“I’ll be fine,” he finally says back, but you can tell by his drifting eyes that the topic of food has his mind wandering, daydreaming of warm, fat slices of bread and buttery sauces and hearty soups. There might as well be a little thought bubble with a plate, fork and knife bobbing above his head.
You know from poking around before that there’s a community kitchen in one of the side-rooms here on the main floor, so, getting an idea, you shuffle out from under the blankets and stand.
“I’ll be right back,” you promise Frank with a smile. Thankfully, most of the feeling in your legs has returned so you can at least manage to stumble over to the kitchen like a newborn foal on its ungainly legs.
Inside the kitchen, it’s unsurprisingly empty. They must’ve cleared out all the perishable food items, because all that’s left is crumpled bags of microwavable popcorn and stale packets of chips. With enough rifling through the cabinets you score an unopened box of hot chocolate mix. Sadly, there’s no whipped cream to be found, but there is a bag of mini marshmallows, the open end rolled and clipped. All things considered, this has been a pretty successful raid, and you set out to secure two mugs.
Thankfully, it appears all the silverware is untouched, so you quickly find two thick, ceramic mugs. One is painted with brightly smiling snowmen swathed in lovingly detailed scarves and mittens. The other one is plain. You reserve the undecorated one for Frank, as funny as it would be.
You fill both with hot water and stir in the mix, the marshmallows added in last. It smells sweet, and like home.
Grinning with this hopeful turn of events, you make your way back over to Frank, who has stolen all the blankets for himself in your absence. He opens up one end for you as you approach, however.
“Lucky us,” you remark as you present him with his mug. He perks up and takes it in his hands, warming them on the hot ceramic.
“Where’d you find this?” he pipes up, voice noticeably softening. He stares at the drink almost apprehensively, blowing away an ascending curl of steam.
“In the kitchen. They still have some stuff leftover in there.”
You beam back at him, proud of your find, then lift the mug carefully to your mouth and take a ginger sip. It’s warm and rich, and you hum appreciatively, wiping away the ring of chocolate that stains your mouth. It’s just not as good as it is when made with milk and fluffy whipped cream, but you worked with what you had, and it’s still pleasantly filling.
Frank sips away meagerly at his own beverage, making sure to savor it in mild portions. You laugh. He glares at you.
You notice he’s still shaking fiercely, so you tuck him snugly into your arm and pull another blanket over the two of you, stuffing it up to your chins. He’s still for a moment before he lets himself lean into your touch, chasing your warmth. You brush softening frost from his hair and shoulders, crystals catching on your fingers.
“…Sorry I fucked this up,” he croaks out. His jaw clenches shut so hard it’s nearly audible. It’s Frank, so you know he doesn’t want any reassurance, or to dwell on the topic, so instead you rub his back soothingly. The muscles there are drawn tight and tense, but you ease him into loosening up.
You kiss the space behind his ear then sympathetically rub the tear on the helix of it.
“I don’t deserve you,” Frank says as you stroke the hair at the top of his neck. You can’t tell if it’s from the cold, but his eyes are watery.
“Maybe you don’t,” you smile.
He doesn’t look at you, but cranes his arm back as if drawing an arrow and rams his elbow into your side with lethal precision, digging between your ribs. You sputter out both a laugh and a wail, clutching your mug securely. A few drops dot the blanket. You elbow him back.
“Asshole,” he sneers, setting his mug aside, then turning to you, face even redder. He guides your hand to place your drink beside you, then finds the collar of your jacket and reels you forward. His cold lips press against yours. Instinctively, your eyes close, head cocking to accommodate his. You feel the scar that runs through his lip (healed mostly, but still present), raising a hand to rub at his cheek. You’re a bit distracted, so your judgment isn’t the sharpest currently, but you think the roaring outside has mostly ceased. The snow falls gently, like glitter settling in a snowglobe.
Things are alright.
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angelharness · 2 years
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this was a super fun prompt, i hope i did it justice... i still likely could've done more with it aagh
Blood and Oil in the Water
WARNINGS: typical saw themes
AMANDA YOUNG / THE PIG
Amanda was proud of the shotgun collar. Not an elegant name like the angel trap nor as refined as the well-used reverse bear trap, but it worked as intended and without a fuss.
She should have known something was up. John never used the same trap more than once unless it had moral significance—yet four nights earlier he had requested she revise the collar. It was too sensitive, apparently. It was designed to be a hassle for someone unfamiliar with it to safely disarm it, but he’d reported it could prematurely activate if the wearer moved too abruptly.
As she turns it over in her hands, all the shining locks and hefty, overlapping metal strips, she’s reminded of her own trial, her own personal device. It had left scars, set deep into her cheeks, patterned like a jagged zipper. You always kissed the marks; eventually she stopped hiding them under makeup.
But the memory of her test makes her soul burn fiercely. Maybe with the hot embers of anger, but not at John, never, of course. She was weak back then, stumbling through her life drunkenly without motive, ebbing in and out of lucidity. She had never made plans for the future, never thought she’d make it that far. She’s mad it took her such a close experience with death to wake her up. Mad she had to hold its awful, terrorizing stare, to feel its numbing hands. She’s mad that it took its great jaws around her head like a crown of metal thorns to appreciate life.
Life was unfair, she decided. It was about working with the cards you were dealt, no matter how unfavorable.
She doesn’t end up touching the shotgun collar much. She tightens it by a hair's breadth then hands it back over to John. Whoever will be the one to wear it will live if they want to, she thinks as she sets it into a thick box, sliding the lid into place.
You… knew vaguely of Amanda’s work. You knew she didn’t especially want you involved, and though sometimes it felt like she was pushing you away, she made it well-known that it was for the best. She’d been super spacey lately, though. She comes home late and sleeps late. She wakes up frequently and you lay in bed listening to her pace around the cramped kitchen of your apartment. You trace the dark folds beneath her tired eyes when you lie together on the couch and she flinches as if startled from her thoughts, or doused in droves of frigid water.
That night you had planned an outing at the drive-in theater in town. It had been difficult finding the time to set aside for each other, but the two of you settled on a horror movie. A rerun of a classic you both adore. It’s been a while since either of you went out for a film, and you thought that it, along with an armsful of snacks would do her good to unwind. You would stop at a restaurant on the way there for take-out, and arrive early enough to score a good spot with a good view. It was going to be great. The entire day you were especially energetic, clocking out of work with the biggest smile fixed on your face.
As you start up the winding staircase of the apartment building, you notice the halls are unnaturally empty. You look over your shoulder at a flickering shadow as you turn the key into the slot and enter your shared apartment.
Instantly, your heart slumps. It’s only your pair of running shoes by the door, and the lights are all off. The jacket and blankets you folded for your outing are still set neatly on the couch by the entryway.
You drop your bag by your room, which is similarly empty. The sheets of your bed are disrupted, covers thrown to one side of the mattress. Your eyes slink to the closet-sized bathroom in the room, where light leaks through the open door. You flick the lights off, your reflection in the bathroom mirror drenched in blue darkness.
Your phone buzzes. You fish it out from your pocket and slide it open. You try not to be disappointed. Two more consecutive dings sound. You click on her name in your contacts and open the messages.
Out late with work tonight, I’m so so sorry.
Maybe we can go this weekend. I hate to cancel at the last second but it’s important.
Love you.
You sniffle, fingers curling over the sides of the phonecase, shaking. You don’t know why you’re crying. You know you’re upset, but this isn’t something to cry over. Still, glittering tears pool in your vision and splatter across the screen. Using your palm and sleeve, you wipe away the wetness. You tuck your phone away and unzip your jacket, tossing it onto your desk chair. Your shoes come next, abandoned at the foot of the bed as you stumble out of them.
It’s no big deal, but Amanda always stuck to her word, and you have barely seen her at all as of late. She’s been distant, even her sweetest touches seeming unsure or rushed. Her hugs are brief and uncommitted, holding you uncertainly like handling a snake.
You sink into her side of the bed, taking up a fetal position, sinking into the ripples of cottony fabric. Her warmth is still there, dissolving but unmistakable. It makes you feel worse, so you roll over, retreating to your side and beneath the thick covers. Your eyes flutter closed, tears webbing in your wet lashes. You wipe them away too.
Amanda definitely should have known when John had suggested she should join him in observing his newest subject. She was used to being assigned projects then working on them independently, so it’s rare she’s involved with his less elaborate trials.
Still, it’s 11:09 pm and she’s in a thin jacket and baggy jeans standing outside the backdoor of a decommissioned testing facility. She digs in the collar of her t-shirt and fetches a key from around her neck. It slots into the lock of the grimy double-doors. The click as she turns it is like a gunshot in the silence of the alleyway. She opens the doors and passes inside. The interior is cold, made up of winding, frigid halls and grubby tiled floors. Nauseous yellow stains and shallow scuff marks streaking the walls. An itch crawls up her throat like the scraggly legs of a spider.
At intervals are yellow-ish windows that peer into undecorated, clinical-looking rooms. Folding chairs around folding tables, open cabinets, piles of clipboards and the cases of pens.
Amanda scans over the numbers on the placards that are to the right of each door. 304… 305…
She comes to another pair of double doors, sickly, almost jaundiced lights coming from the windows. She sees a long meeting table, a ring of folding chairs, another window on the opposite side. John’s slumped, sagging figure is seated by the glass panel, looking away. Robed in black with sinister red accents. She feels underdressed, not having thought to bring her cloak, the stagnant cold of the building already working its way into her bones.
He doesn’t turn to acknowledge her as she enters. Amanda follows his unwavering stare to the room on the other side of the glass. Another chair settled in front of a pillar. There’s a drain in the center of the room, with dark stains running to it in dried streams. A television is set up across from the chair. Her eyes drift to the VHS player.
“Who?” she wants to ask, but her painted lips stay sealed and in a resting scowl. She hears a set of thuds from somewhere nearby in the building. John’s eyes lift slightly. He looks over his narrow shoulder to Amanda, something like recognition on his pale, drooping features, all a washed-out yellow like the fluorescent lights. Understanding, she takes the seat next to him. Anxiety torches her insides. She crosses her arms protectively across her chest and attempts to quell her stuttering heart.
On the other side of the glass, Hoffman shoves through a door using the back of his shoulder. He’s hoisting a limp body up to his chest. As he passes inside and under the faintly pulsing lights, she sees your unconscious face on the body he’s carrying. Metal wails against tile as Amanda shoots to stand, chair shoved behind her, clattering into the table. John blinks impassively.
Her throat dries up, and though she’s barely processed the situation she’s shaking horribly. Her mouth is moving, but it’s only her pulse she hears thundering in her ears.
“John,” she shrieks, scaring herself. He breathes deeply, his glassy, sunken eyes fixated on the window. She turns back to Hoffman, watching as he lifts you up onto the chair, tucking your limbs back into place. A moment later your arms slide back to swing at your sides. He scoffs noiselessly and tugs them behind the back of the chair, tying them with a thick rope that he loops over itself twice. She catches your eyelids twitch.
“John,” she sneers, standing in front of him now, arms out and raised, “John, what the fuck?!”
He cocks his head up at her. Her eyes are alight with fury, her veins too, where blood boils and seethes, feverish. But she’s shaking. Shaking the way she did on the day of her first test, when she stood outside, shielding herself from the assaulting daylight, her dark hair stuck to her face and damp with sweat, soaked in blood up to her elbows, her eyes so wide with fear. She looks just as she did then, vulnerable and terrified.
“Amanda,” he finally addresses her.
“Open that box over there,” he orders, but it’s weirdly soft. He nods over at a metal rolling cart. On top of it is a thick cardboard box. She knows what’s in it.
“Don’t involve them in this,” she pleads. She shakes to her fingers, to her neck and knees. A headache pounds behind her eyes, throbbing. “Please.”
Her voice is fractured and nearly silent.
“The box, please,” John prompts again. She stands there for a moment, silence stretching the second on infinitely until it hurts to behold. It floods her lungs like a toxic gas, burns her eyes, thickens the air. She turns slowly and steps over to the box. She pries the lid off and sets it aside delicately, like it’s dangerous. The tang of aged steel overtakes her smell.
She lifts the shotgun collar out of its container. It feels so much heavier than before and takes a great deal to carry back over to John. She stands there in front of him like she isn’t sure what to do, but in reality she’s just stalling. Her muscles burn and shake. John only nods solemnly and it nearly breaks her.
She steps into the room but sticks close to the door, like entering a shark’s tank. For another painful moment she stands there before walking to the center of the room, shoving past Hoffman intentionally with a low snarl she hopes John doesn’t catch. He stands behind her, but she sends him an intense glare that gets him to ease off her and back off somewhat.
Amanda, holding her crown of thorns, stares at it. She’s scared. She watches her own chest rise and fall gradually with each breath, just to remind herself that she’s indeed alive in this moment, that it’s real. There’s the sound of ticking somewhere in the room, but she hadn’t seen a clock when she entered. It’s like a heartbeat in the walls. Her head hurts. Someone is thrusting a screwdriver into her skull and twisting it around.
“C’mon, Young,” Hoffman hisses over her shoulder. She wants to sock him in the jaw, maybe dislocate it too, afterward, but she knows John is watching. She seethes silently instead.
“Or I’ll do it myself.”
The threat finally pushes her to action. She lifts the collar over your head, careful as she rests it on your shoulders and around your neck. You sink under the weight, but remain asleep. The lock clicks securely. She knows her way around all the mechanisms, but she’s still terrified it will randomly trigger and (although empty) ignite your face.
Hoffman shuffles behind her and appears at her side, shoving a pack of bullets into her hands. Five, wide, shimmering bullets. Their exterior is cold, almost biting her palms.
Amanda methodically slides each shotgun bullet into place, clasping each tightly in its holder. Each click is deafening. She steps back, breathes in, breathes out, stale air that’s acidic in her throat. None of this feels real to her yet.
She leans forward, her eyes fixed on your face. You look unfittingly peaceful, and it tears her apart entirely. She knows the terror she felt when she woke up in the same situation as you will soon. She knows how awful and raw it is, and she aches to comfort you, pull you from your binds and collar; she wants to promise you a safety that she just can’t.
Her forehead meets yours. Your breaths are slow and even. Hers tremble. She closes her eyes and can almost pretend for a brief moment that you’re at home in eachothers arms. The bitter air, the lights burning the back of her neck, Hoffman’s figure lurking over her shoulder; she can only hold the image for a moment before it slips through her fingers and she’s back in the testing chamber.
As she pulls away, she strokes your cheek. The rough pad of her thumb traces over your bottom lip, then cradles your face.
“I’m sorry,” Amanda can only wheeze. The cruel irony of it all isn’t lost on her, and she wants to tear her skin off, claw out her throat, any pain to relieve her from reality. It’s her trap around your neck. A week before she had it on her desk, all her drafts and blueprints stacked to one side. She pressed the butt of the screwdriver to her chin, decides, no need to mess with it, and set it aside. It was swiftly packed away as you appeared in the doorway to her workshop, summoning her for dinner. She smiled at you tiredly; you smiled back sympathetically.
“A lot of work?”
“You about done?” Hoffman asks dryly, not so much a question. Her fingers fall from your face. She stands, and when she turns she doesn’t look back, elbowing past Hoffman again, searching for John—the window is one way glass though, and so she’s left alone in a room that’s not empty.
She pushes inside the observation room, keeping her stare on the gaps between the floor tiling, tracing along them with her eyes. Hoffman shuffles inside behind her, and she hears the lock slide into place. His heavy boots thud along the ground and out of sight. Her vision goes glassy, tears rimming her eyes. A few beads run down her cheeks and drop to the floor below. She’s holding back sobs in her chest; she’s scared of breathing, so she stands there, holding her breath until her lungs burn and her eyesight fogs further.
Click. Two more, a mechanical humming. Static bites through the silence. Jigsaw announces your name.
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angelharness · 2 years
Text
ns/fw tag is junkbox, blacklist that tag if needed
I never really planned on doing this for any character because they’ve been done to death before and i didnt (and still dont) think i’d have anything new to bring to the table, but i’m having fun so i will anyways
NSFW Alphabet
WARNINGS: knives, blood mention, smoking mention, this is probably the most explicit thing i’ve written
DANNY JOHNSON / THE GHOSTFACE
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Weirdly antsy. He has a certain buzz to him, like that you get from a strong shot of coffee on an empty stomach. He’ll always try to lay with you for a bit after the fact, but he’ll eventually want to go leave to attend other unspecified matters. Sex wakes him up; he’ll usually be suddenly focused or energized and want to capitalize on this uncommon bout of momentum. If he’s stressed or overworked though, expect him to collapse into an eight hour sleep.
You usually end up smelling faintly of his woody cologne after sex, the expensive bottle he reserves for you. It’s a heavy leather scent, but it’s comforting, and you don’t usually mind.
When it comes to caring for you, he’s better at tending to you physically than pillow talk and sleepy chatter. He just can’t be vulnerable in that way, but he’ll see to every individual mark and imprint with care. He’ll want to lay for a bit, usually spooning you and stroking your hair. This is the most quiet you’ll ever see him; he says very little, just appreciates you with attentive eyes. Sometimes he strokes his fingers up and down your sides (you chide him for this though; his hands are always freezing). Even when he outwardly appears calm, you know there’s so much going on in his head, so it’s rare to catch him so genuinely placid. It doesn’t last too long, but it makes you appreciate him in a new way.
Danny might pop out a cigarette for a few short post-coital puffs, but he can manage without it if it bothers you.
If necessary, he’s fine with helping you wipe down with a washcloth, and if you suggest a shower he’ll always join you.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Of yours; thighs, all the way and more. A thigh sort of guy first and foremost, through and through. When you’re together in private, it’s impossible for him to keep his hands off them. He paws at them and will subtly drag up the hem of your skirt/shorts, will drag his nails up them, rub circles. Sometimes he grabs handfuls of your thighs or leaves purposely overt hand marks across the skin there. He also loves dragging his knife up them, just barely ghosting the curve of the blade over your flesh. He’s also pretty handsy with your hips and always greets you by snatching them from behind and bringing you against him, shamelessly grinding against them.
For himself: his forearms and hands. They do a lot of the physical work, and their use shows in the well-defined muscle. He doesn't think about his own body much. He’s proud of his scars, though, and wears them like badges. If you ask, he’d tell you the story behind each and every significant mark.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
On you, in you, anything you. If not inside for whatever reason, he’s just as happy to do so anywhere on you. It makes for spectacular photos, he claims. He takes a dozen for every possible angle, and they’ll eventually appear in your possession sometime down the line, a souvenir of your antics.
There’s really no tasteful way to put it—he has a lot in him, and he’s not satisfied unless he sees you dirtied with it. He could cum again just from seeing you in it.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
He’s open with you to a fault when it comes to his sexual interests. You’re well aware of the pictures and have, at this point in your relationship, given the ok for him to indulge in it some. It’s not like he hides the fact, either way, leaving glossy polaroids tucked into your toolboxes or stuffed in the heel of your shoe for you to discover mid-trial. You’ll never get over the embarrassment of having to desperately attempt to rip apart the photograph of you red-faced with his hand shoved down your jeans, failing to, then trying successfully to burn it in one of many barrel fires, nearly poisoning yourself in the process.
Otherwise though, he’s a surprisingly huge masochist. He’ll subtly encourage you to rough him up, but can never bring himself to outright ask, finding it demeaning (and not in a fun way). He’ll ask you to tug him around a bit or strangle him or bruise him or whatever else, but it’s only ever been passing jokes to you, oblivious to the effect those fantasies have on him. He daydreams of you leaving marks up his neck and across his lips, of sweetly burning bruises and bloody noses, but these are personal visions. He finds himself disappointed when you brush off his suggestions with a laugh and not much further thought, but he’d still never be able to bring it up. He just can’t get over the idea of you using his knife to carve your name, maybe across the fat of his thigh or, boldly, across his chest. The mental image makes him pant. He wants to be yours in the way he considers you his.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
His history is complicated. He leaves it at that and you don’t pry any deeper than what he offers. If he is inexperienced, he doesn’t show it; he projects such a smug confidence that it seems like he knows what he’s doing, but you know him well enough to say he’s good at bullshitting his way through most things. His disarming self-assurance would have you believe you’re only another tally mark in an impressive body count. Either way, Ghostface doesn’t tell you, nor does he clarify if that body count is of the sexual variety or something a little more sinister (though ultimately in-character).
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
His personal favorite is anything up a wall, pinned or pressed up to a surface; he enjoys being in either position. He specifically likes to be behind you, arms snaked around your torso or gripping your hands. He also enjoys it when you cage him in a corner and trap his hands above his head by the wrists. Expect him to joke lots when in this scenario, but he always enjoys it and struggles to stay still. He’s so easy to excite.
You’ll find he’s actually very affectionate, just that he’s rough about it, usually without intending to be. He leaves a number of fingerprints bruised up your sides and collarbone. He gives you full permission to grab him and essentially manhandle him; he loves it, encouraging you with plenty of explicit comments and requests.
Overall, he’s all for anything as long as he’s close to you. If he could, he’d want to suffocate in you, lose his breath and go blue just kissing you.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He’s not goofy per-se, but animated and witty. Don’t expect him to play it straight; he’s quick to fill the possibility of silence with plenty of teasing and cruel jokes. It’s his way of flirting, though; he makes it so much worse by going on and on about how cute you look blushing like that. He’ll be grinning the entire time, and treats the experience like how he goes about most things in his life; with cold-hearted humor and a feeling of immortality.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Keeps himself remarkably well groomed. There’s really not a reason to (no one but you gets the chance to see what goes on under the cloak), so it’s out of personal preference. Not too much hair below the neck.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
How I see Ghostface is actually overwhelmingly affectionate and excitable. You’d never be able to teach him to keep his hands to himself; it’s fundamentally against his nature. He’s constantly all over you, and this is no different. His affection for you is hard to label, but could probably and most accurately be described as long-term infatuation. It has all the strength and uncomfortable intensity of a passing obsession, but stretched out for the duration of a relationship and with a wholehearted investment. Outsiders might at that point ask how it’s so different from love, but it would be naive to name it that. He’s fixated on you—he says he loves you, and somewhere in that heartless cavity in his chest he likely does; you just have to understand it’s in his own way, on his own terms. He’s a scarily good actor, making it a real hassle to discern when he’s being sincere, but you can assume he cares for you, or at least is attached to you in a fashion similar to care. Like a new pet or favorite toy. He’s constantly high on the excitement of the Honeymoon phase, long past the time it realistically ended.
His love is equatable to his touches; smothering, forceful, but disarmingly caring and tender.
This attitude carries over into fucking, and is really even multiplied. He’s always pressed so close to you with limbs in inter-weaving knots that sometimes you think he intends to fuse with you. Though he himself is quiet, his love is at a constant and overpowering volume. If you return his affection at all, you’ll find he’s prone to freezing up or retracting. Like most things, he only seems to accept intimacy on his terms, with his explicit control over the interaction.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Does so more than the average person, but it doesn’t interfere with his work. It’s usually just to destress or clear up his mind if he finds himself distracted.
If he’s dating you, he sees no point (he just finds himself more frustrated than before, wanting the real thing, a pleasure specific to you that his hand can’t provide or scratch in the same way). If you’re away or simply not up to fuck, he may deal with it himself with the assistance of one of your borrowed articles of clothing. He’ll wash it for you before returning it, if it makes it any better.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Praise and humiliation in equal amounts. Giving or receiving, he has a dangerous way with words and knows how to use them against you in the best ways.
If praise is more your style, he’ll offer plenty of encouragement, cooing at you, stroking your cheeks, running more kisses down your jawline. He raves about how well you’re doing as he nuzzles his head in the space between your neck and shoulder, as he works you undone with his fingers.
He enjoys some for himself too, even if he may not know how to respond (nor request it, for that matter). It’s really up to you to pick up the pieces. He’s fun to praise, because whereas he has a solid defense system against any teasing (silence), compliments and affirmation really get to him. His voice will get all tight and his shoulders will tense, arms crossed tight across his chest, almost defensively. He’ll nod along like he’s unaffected and reply with curt “yeah”s and neutral hums, but it really does get under his skin delightfully.
You’ll have to wait until he’s in one of his softer moods, or he’ll just laugh off your attempts hard enough he has to mime wiping a tear.
He likes his degradation too, another thing he’ll receive as happily as he dishes it out. He could get off to any insults you hurl at him if he tried hard enough, but most of the time that effort doesn’t seem necessary; anything about you could get him going. Call him a creep or desperate and he happily agrees. “All for you,” he remarks adoringly.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
He could manage just about anywhere. He’s fond of lockers, forced up against you and vice versa. Feeling your open-mouthed breaths and hammering pulse excites him as much as a good chase does. As hot as he finds it, it’s still a bit messy, and you’ll find you only have such limited space to work with. You’ll have to prepare yourself for sore joints and fierce cramps on top of the inevitable vibrant hickeys and bruises. Otherwise, though, any surface he can hoist you onto or pin you to does well.
Prefers indoors, and in that case, he likes to have you up against a window. He grins at you, drooling, as red as you are, in the faint smears of your reflections.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Anything about you, if in the right moment. He could be watching you relax and your shirt drifts slightly up your torso, exposing a sliver of midriff, and suddenly he’s red-faced and his heart is hammering. He’s always admiring you, anyways; it’s hard to escape his permanent gaze. Ghostface tells you how wild you make him, even when going about something terribly mundane, like laundry. “You’re such a tease,” he sighs, throbbing, pink little hearts practically visible in his eyes. “I’m just doing laundry, creep,” you shoot back, and flick him across the face with a washcloth. He pretends to be struck by an arrow, clutching his cold, callous heart.
He thinks you’re pretty, any angle, any moment—like a picture. You can bet he takes plenty, too, and you have a good idea of what he does with them.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Crying disturbs him. Even if you’re clearly enjoying sex, he finds himself a bit unsettled if you’re sobbing. He associates the sound too closely with pain to particularly enjoy it.
He really can’t deal with being tied up. He might give it a try, being an experimentalist at heart, but it’s too vulnerable for his liking. Plus, he always needs to be holding you in some way; it’d practically be torture to rob him of the ability to pet and kiss you. He’s too restless in general and could probably shred through his binds purely out of will.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Ghostface is used to receiving and only receiving. He’d be all for it if you asked him to pleasure you for a change, but you’ll notice right away just how out of place he feels on his knees between yours. He’s clumsy and you have to remind him to mind his teeth, but gives a commendable effort. He gets frustrated easily, so expect it to be a one time thing.
He feels much more comfortable to be on the receiving end. He’s not going to be giving you pointers or obvious indications of his pleasure, so it’s up to you to discern if you’re doing well or not. You can safely presume you’re doing something right if he suddenly grips you by the hair.
For Danny, he naturally gets handsy when in pleasure, but he’ll try to keep your comfort in mind and keep his hand resting on the back of your head instead of grabbing or tugging. He is actually surprisingly gentle, most of the time, stroking your hair or your cheek if in reach, lacing his hand with yours; he makes it feel weirdly romantic, a feeling you wouldn’t contribute to him, or not genuinely. He could so easily work his words to illicit the same feeling, although unauthentically, yet he still makes you feel special.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Ghostface swaps between the two periodically. It has to do a lot with his mood, but generally he’s rough, gripping your wrists or pinning you down, securing your hips between his knees. He’s slow, most of the time; stretching out deep thrusts so he can watch you writhe.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Ghostface likes to take his time. He’s used to sneaking in quick kills in a time limit, but if the stress isn’t necessary he doesn’t see the point. Rushed sex is exciting, yes, but he doesn’t consider it the same. He wants to show you the extent of his attraction, which isn’t so easy when you have a deadline.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
To a degree, yes. He’s not opposed to partial publicity, but he’ll ultimately always want a semblance of control over the environment during sex. The other killers get more than an earful of you two’s exploits, but he doesn’t think they need a first-hand example. Danny loves you and loves showing you off, but the idea of someone seeing doesn’t excite him nearly as much as it makes his chest twist with a bit of jealousy.
He’s realistically way more at risk than you ever will be; he’s quick to get ahead of himself, urging you to manhandle him however you like. He can’t get enough of your touch, whether sweet, feathery strokes or rough and stinging palms on skin, but the latter he’s especially fond of. You can choke him half to death and he would only ask for more.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Depends. The most straightforward answer is that he lasts as long as you do. He’s got an impressive amount of resilience, typically lasting somewhere between two to three rounds.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
He never owned anything before meeting you. He swiped a few paddles and pairs of handcuffs from victims in the past, but only really because it made him laugh in the moment. He doesn’t view them as anything more than gag bits and isn’t likely to actually use them on you.
If he could get his hands on some more discreet paraphernalia, and if you showed interest, he might try out a few toys. On himself is probably a hard no, but he’d love to test them on you. He loves watching your expressions and he could never get sick of the way you squirm deliciously, so he could see the appeal. He’d be up to try them on himself, but still declares your touch to be the best. He’d rather it be your hands on him, breaking him down.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Oh, it’s his favorite thing, he may even like it more than the actual act of sex.
He loves to stroke your thigh or nip at your bare neck; he thrives off of your reactions, no matter how small or subtle you think they are. If he gets a response, there’s really no stopping him. Any slight noise is a victory in his book. He’ll tease you until every ounce of blood in your body is in your cheeks (while his will be somewhere south of the belt). He loves how you look, flushed and shifting under his stare. He could make an album with all the photographs he has of you blushing, it’s one of his favorite views in the world, neck to neck with a freshly bleeding body.
He loves embarrassing you. One of his favorite things is making a show of preparing to fuck you—dragging his belt slowly from the loops of his pants, pulling down the zipper of his fly even slower—then making you please yourself instead. “Show me how you do it,” he encourages you. If he’s feeling nice, he’ll let you grind on his thigh with only a handful of snarky comments. But really, he loves watching you work yourself with your hands.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
He’s naturally silent, to the point some would think he doesn’t breathe at all. The most you’ll ever really get out of him are restrained grunts and heavy little pants. He loves how noisy you are in comparison; part of the fun is watching silently as he fucks you, how noisy you are in comparison, your subsequent embarrassment. He’s made a multitude of brief recordings made up entirely of your pleasured sounds, and if he was present for the era of convenient, compact smartphones and customizable ringtones, it’d be your breathy cries alerting him to calls (as a related side note, you can bet he’s set your blushing likeness as the wallpaper to his beat up flip phone). If you’re fairly quiet yourself, he makes it his personal goal to pull those wonderful noises from you. He has all the patience in the Entity’s Realm while working away at your resolve. You make for such lovely entertainment.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
If you have any scars of your own, he’s very vocal about admiring them. He runs his fingers sweetly over the off-color streaks of skin and presses periodic kisses to them like tender stitch work. He pays special attention to any areas you’re insecure of, despite your embarrassment.
He loves his knife, he loves you, he loves using the knife on you (with your approval). You can’t miss the way he seems to vibrate with anticipation the first time you suggest implementing the blade. He considers it an honor for you—you’re the only one to date to be on the business end of his knife to be allowed to live after the ordeal. His hands noticeably tremble with excitement, but despite all the glaring signs implying otherwise, you’re honestly in safe hands; he’s well acquainted with the knife and works it with the same precision artists do with their favorite brush or pen. If you’d let him, he’d want to carve a small heart somewhere on your person, that or his initials. They’re shallow, careful cuts, never anything deep enough to scar, and he’s sure to tend to them later. Still, seeing those glinting beads of blood makes his pulse race.
He thinks you look so pretty in blood, whether coloring your cheeks or seeping from a fresh cut.
You have full permission to use the knife on him, alternatively. He loves the cold sting of the blade down his skin. The way you look, too, gripping a knife and looking down on him with the rare glint of power in your eyes, is dizzying. He’ll probably stop to fetch his camera for a few impromptu pictures to keep as a memento of your fun.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Nothing unrealistic. Cut and pierced.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Unsurprisingly high but also volatile. Sex with him is uncommon just on account of how fickle his libido is. Though sexual in nature, he has to be in a very specific mood to actually want it, but don’t worry, he’ll more than let you know in that instance.
He struggles a lot with understanding himself; it’s easy to know when he wants to kill, how best to satisfy that incessant itch, but sex is weirdly intimate, and Lord knows he’s awful with intimacy. He can be annoying in a lot of aspects, but patience is really important for him when it comes to sex; he may think he wants it, then upon engaging is unsure and withdraws. It’s not personal by any means, his sense of desire is just inconsistent. He takes note of your understanding, though, and appreciates it.
Still, expect lewd comments on a constant basis. For someone once renowned for his masterful grasp on language and cunning way with terminology, it’s not very apparent through the crude, sleazy commentary you’re personally familiar with.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
He usually gets up later to take his leave, but if it’s already late, sometimes he’ll be out cold. Intense sessions can need him to recover with a long nap, then he’s right back into sexual pestering and grossly loving comments.
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angelharness · 2 years
Text
I’ve been continuously having the worst nightmare for weeks on end now, so i wanted to write something quick just for comfort
I’ll be Your Shelter
WARNINGS: Nightmares (nothing in detail)
PYRAMID HEAD / THE EXECUTIONER
Sleep in this realm leaves you unsure if you’ve ever woken up at all. It’s easy to compare to a nightmare, the menagerie of ghastly killers, the pain, the inability to die—waking just before the onset of death to find yourself before the smoldering campfire again. In fact, you’re not sure if any sadistic nightmares your brain snares you in would be any worse than the one you live and breathe in your current, hellish reality. But they do, somehow. Pain, real pain that burns beneath your skin even after you’ve woken up. You’re unable to stand, or you can’t breathe, or you’re deep in dark waters.
You startle from a restless unconsciousness onto a scene of friends about a ring of logs, chattering over the remains of the flickering campfire. It has seemed dimmer, as of late, its waning energy matching your own.
You watch their faces settle from the blur of your dreariness, watch as the indeterminate masses of color separate and come startlingly into focus within a few blinks. Zarina’s gentle eyes meet your tired ones. She stands from her place on one of the logs and slinks over to meet you. You stare at the tips of her boots, dead grass curling under it.
“Hey,” she rasps. Dark, merlot-red hair sweeps across one glittering eye.
“Are you doing alright?” Zarina asks, her hand rubbing vague circles on your back. You only feel worse at her concern.
You used to wake up crying. Sobbing and heaving, face a suffocating shade of red, watching through the watery mask of tears as unfamiliar people fluttered awkwardly at your side. They couldn’t do much but clutch your hand and frown knowingly.
There’s a weight on your chest. The feeling of constriction, like too many layers of fabric, or a hand grabbing a fistful of your heart. You shake your head curtly, though you’re not sure whether to dismiss her worry or to confirm her question.
Breathing feels too hard. You tear off your jacket and eagerly shove it from your person, the weight lesenning somewhat but still smothering in your throat. Seeping deep in your muscles, creeping down your neck like someone’s pungent breath.
You shiver.
By now, a few other survivors have turned to you or shifted to glance worryingly over at you. Others save you the embarrassment, looking elsewhere. Some just don’t care, hearts long frigid by now. The ones with new, tender souls look a touch disturbed. Zarina explains you had screamed, and again asks how you’re doing.
You inhale, finally propping yourself up and pulling yourself gradually to stand. Your knees wobble before straightening out and you seem to feel your blood even out in your veins. A pang of dizziness rinses briefly through your system. She rises with you, letting you prop yourself against her. You smile slightly, though you already know it doesn’t reach your eyes.
“I’m ok,” you finally say, but your voice cracks, tears threatening to spill. You have to stop to swallow a sob. “
I’m gonna go for a walk.”
Zarina nods, always so understanding; you feel worse yet. She wrings her hands through each other; you can tell she doesn’t want to leave you alone, but doesn’t force company on you.
“Don’t go too far,” she warns. She sways slightly, then adds, “stay safe.”
You nod with a smile more genuine than the first. She watches as you recede into the wafting sea of fog down an unmarked trail. You know the path, marking it previously with a blue stone.
You weave through patches of forest with gray, sagging trees, which thin out into a sprawling plain.
You take a detour only to come across a thin stream amongst a graveyard of dead, withering flora. The water is murky and steals your reflection—swallowed by the brown tide. Still, it’s refreshingly cool when you dip your fingers in and wiggle them experimentally. You cup your hands and scoop a palmful of water up, splashing it on your face. Pleasant on your burning cheeks. Then you stand and dry yourself on your pants, turning and resuming your walk.
It’s dangerous, coming into the killer's territory. You’ve yet to run into anyone but the intended individual, but know it’s still a possibility. You don’t really have a plan of action for that scenario; run, likely.
On that note, you make out a group of figures crouched about some ways in the fog. You steer to the side, intending to pass them without altercation, but a voice calls you out. One of the figures breaks through the dark mist to confront you.
“Fuck are you doing here?” a sneer of a voice barks. A muddy, beaten pair of converse enter your vision, stopping a few feet in front of you. You look up to meet the painted, pin-point eyes of a white mask. One of the members of the Legion. The toothy, boyish grin drawn across the mouth of the mask betrays his furious voice. He steps forward.
“Answer me.”
The way his voice tightens, you imagine his face is absolutely red with frustration. A beat passes.
“All of you survivors are getting way too bold, we ought to fix that,” he threatens. When he doesn’t get a response, he leans forward, hijacking your vision. Two more figures appear behind him, brandishing knives, looking you over as if evaluating meat. The girls of the legion, one swallowed by a ratty hoodie with distinct, pink hair, and the other, much taller, swinging her knife about as if bored.
You step aside. “I don’t want to bother you guys, I promise.”
Frank steps forward. You only know his name since you overhear the Legion talk amongst themselves, always referring to each other by their names. It’s weird to stop and think that the killers have names at all; maybe it seems too human to be comfortable.
Anyway, Frank seems to want a fight, and follows your movement to settle in front of you again. His bandaged hand grips a brutal-looking blade. He exhales a short breath from his nose.
“Wanna make it up to us? We’re all a bit wound up from these recent trials, we could do with a new punching bag,” he says, prodding at your collarbone with the tip of the knife. You flinch but can’t muster the energy to react any more than that.
Displeased by your lack of a response, he takes another broad step forward, now practically chest to chest with you.
“I’ve always wanted to use that mori the boss lady gave us,” came one of the girls, an unsettling, pleased ring to her voice. It’s clearly a suggestion, and Frank appears to be in favor.
Then comes a rasping groan and the long screech of metal. All three members whip their heads behind them as a much taller figure lurches through the mist.
Pyramid Head marches over to the gathering, urging them quickly to their feet to scramble and make way. The Legion watch him closely as he passes, looking like a band of guilty puppies. Producing the great knife, he lets it fall and sink into the soil with a remarkable clang. They get the message and scatter, re-collecting on the sidelines to watch from a much safer distance. Now that they’re not nipping at your throat with knives, they look like nothing more than lost children, bunched up and shuffling to peer over each other.
Pyramid Head turns the helmet to glare at them. The way his muscles strain against his neck looks like it hurts. Finally, the herd of teens dissipates entirely, leaving you in a finally comfortable silence. He swerves back to you, groaning what you believe is a welcome.
The great knife is plunged firmly into the damp earth, and his monstrous figure leans against it dutifully, gloved hand curled securely around the handle. The blade itself distantly reflects a fraction of your frazzled visage. You look yourself in your heavy eyes, rings of shadow permanent around them now. The color of your iris seems so bleak, no shine in them to imply life.
You trudge over to him, carrying yourself as if you were lugging the lumbering knife, heavy, slow steps.
You fall into him and wrap your arms around his waist. Your shoulders ache from the stretch but you don’t care, burying your head into his chest. His breathing rocks your head gently. A minute later and his hand comes to rest on top of it. He attempts to pet you, but snags pieces of your hair. You laugh anyways.
He emanates a warmth you’d label as otherworldly, but in the moment it’s pleasant, like your own personal heater. You pull away after what feels like forever but is much too short to satisfy the horrible loneliness eating away at your chest.
He walks with you for some time. Through an indistinct trail that winds about a hill and a passage of tall, narrow trees. You come across an unbothered patch of grass where you sit and again collapse into him.
He bends his arm so you can shimmy into the crook between it and his side, pressing snugly against him. His breathing, metallic and gravelly, would unnerve most, but to you, it’s comforting.
You wonder if he knows what a nightmare is. You look up to him, always a bit unsettled when you never find a face to look at—he’s somewhat of a nightmare himself. Born from one, at least, forged in someone’s restless daydreams. You wonder if he knows what a dream is, if he knows what sleep is, if he sleeps. Not from what you can tell, but he’s always been hard to read without expressions to pin to him. He’s emotive in his own ways, that’s for sure, and it’s sometimes entertaining how animated he is. “Animated” does not always mean playful or cartoonish, though.
You wouldn’t say graceful, maybe pretty? Distinguished. Something like that. His movements, sometimes fluid, sometimes pained. If you captured him in any moment he’d look unsettlingly posed. Like a statue. He looks lovingly detailed like one, too, down to the ripped skin of deep scars across his muscles.
The broad, certain swings of his grievous sword or the way his fingers twitch and flex.
You realized you’re still staring and almost excuse yourself, but figure he wouldn’t be one to care. Still, you feel embarrassed, the admiration too prominent in your eyes, so you tear your attention away to stay at the grass. A sick yellow-green, it shifts in a wind that you don’t feel. Looking up to scout out the watery moon you’ve grown used to, you wonder if he’s seen the sun before. If he knows at all how it feels on your skin, if he ever saw it glow and draw silhouettes across the grass. You wonder if he could appreciate it. You wonder so much about him.
He finally looks slightly to you. Smiling at him, you again can only wonder if he knows what it means. Still, you sit up and press a brief kiss to one side of the helmet.
“You’re very pretty,” you tell him as you slide back into the nook of his arm. His fingers twitch before he straightens them.
“So handsome,” you continue, rubbing his shoulder. He nudges his head into you. You hope he knows what those words mean; at the very least, you can tell he can pick up on tone. He knows when you’re scolding him so he’ll whip around to address you. He knows what it means when your voice is strained and shakes, and will hover by you curiously.
You stay like that, petting him, nestled beneath him and watching the fog draw past the same way you’d view woolly evening clouds. At some point, a rumbling starts deep from his chest, equatable to the hum of a motor, though gruffer. You can’t help but smile as he drones in what you’ve come to recognize is content.
This peace is temporary; eventually the Entity will invade your little hideaway, tearing into its safe walls to steal you away for trials. For blood and hooks and a chorus of screams. Sometimes you believe it only gives you these moments of reprieve so there’s more to eat when it harvests your anguish later.
The threat is constant and as ever-present as the Entity itself, but you let yourself feel safety in Pyramid Head’s arms. You nuzzle closely to his chest, watching it rise and dip with each breath. You could not have possibly ever met outside of these already nonsensical situations; no dimension could possibly harbor him. You’re thankful for this opportunity, at the very least, so you hold onto that, the same way you grip needily onto him.
His weathered hands search about your back for a place to rest. You’re well aware how easily he could hurt you, and you think he’s beginning to realize that, as well, but you really do appreciate his attempts to be gentler. It’s hard, given his size and natural, although incredible strength, and never before was it something he had to take into account. With you, now, though, and this relationship of sorts, he handles you as if you’re beloved porcelain.
You would label it as worry if you didn’t know better than to apply such complex sentiments to him, who is, at the end of the day, still just a vessel to serve punishment, and now the new god that houses him in her playground. Still, sometimes, you think you catch glimpses of uniquely human nuances in him. He gets jealous on occasion, snarling, or irritated and snappish—sometimes he nudges you for pets, shakes you off, once—you smile—once, during a trial, he’d huffed stubbornly and anchored in place, refusing to walk with you until you tended to the gash on your calf.
You lift his hand and he looks to you silently, then groans. Another sudden jerk runs down his other arm, the muscles fluttering. Even his hands are strong and dangerously skilled. You rub the pad of your thumb over his knuckles and beam at him.
He nudges you again, then reclaims his hand to curl it protectively around you and tuck you closer under him. You smack his chest lightly when the rim of the helmet thuds into your head. It throbs a bit but you giggle, surprised. He groans at you.
You press your lips to his knuckles, right to left, four in total.
He offers you a sanctuary, and you respond with vulnerability.
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angelharness · 2 years
Text
requests very much open btw!!
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angelharness · 2 years
Text
ns/fw tag is junkbox, blacklist that tag if needed
i think this is gender neutral? getting into a pattern of hating certain characters but after talking about my personal interp of them i start to really like them
FACE TO FACE
WARNINGS: none i can think of, ghostface is a bit of a creep
DANNY JOHNSON / THE GHOSTFACE
You wonder how close he’ll get.
He surely hasn’t made the mistake of assuming you’re this unaware, not when adapting to his presence has become an essential skill for your survival. You’ve tricked yourself into a spiral of anxiety, debating how many levels of reverse psychology he’s on.
You’re at Midwich, already a horrible setting to be trapped with him. Far too many narrow, dense hallways, too many splitting rooms he could hide in. The dark, chipped paint of the walls would hide him all too well. Your heart has been thundering ever since you caught the ribbons of his cloak fluttering in the distance. It’s all more trouble than it’s worth, though; he never hurts you, his odd affection for you prevents that.
Ultimately too enamored by you to ever leave more than shallow slashes, it’s all about mind games to him. And you feel like this might be one of them.
You’re sitting alone on a generator in one of the dilapidated classrooms, facing the door, as you know is smartest, and he peers in back at you. You wouldn’t have seen him at all if you hadn’t trained yourself to look for the features of the mask. His drooping eyes challenge you to look. You’re a little too focused on the generator, probably to the degree he would catch on you’re purposely ignoring him. It’s the most you can do, to deprive him of what he craves above all else. Attention, even, maybe especially, negative attention.
It’s currently the most effective method you know for dealing with him, though it’s also temporary. When he tires of waiting, he’ll only press further. Though you’re currently safe, you don’t want to find out how far he’s willing to go if he’s denied his desired attention.
A generator sputters to life somewhere in the school. A part of you wishes that’ll get him off your ass for a bit, but your more sensible side can only sigh internally. He’s willing to throw so much away for you, it’s almost endearing.
You tense up. Touch starvation leads you to such absurd thoughts. You brush it off.
You’ve managed to zone him out mostly, enough so that you’re genuinely focusing on carefully looping the wires of the generator over each other to their respective plugs. Sparks spring out in bright orange, but don’t burn. They never do. Somehow it’s unsettling.
You swore you only took your eyes off him for a few moments, but when you subtly peer back up, he’s a few feet closer, about at the doorway. He knows you know. There’s no way he doesn’t. It’s a silent challenge, to acknowledge him, to scream or run. You don’t, and you hope it frustrates him.
But you’re really at your whits end, and he’s clawing at the threads that remain. Your hands shake. You yelp when the generator stirrs abruptly, heavy puffs of smoke rising from one end. Your frustration got the best of you, but you still find yourself wanting to look to gauge his reaction. He’s probably laughing under the mask. The mental image makes your hands shake again as you brush them off on the thighs of your pants.
You hear the worn leather of his boots crunch, another accentuated step. A breath in. A breath out. At least he’s on you instead of your teammates, though three generators remain, and you’ve been set back on your own by your slip up. Does it really take three people this long to finish a generator, entirely uninterrupted? You corral your anger, for the most part, reminding yourself there’s no use in getting worked up.
You see his fingers wrap around the ridge of the doorframe. Your heart stutters in your chest, breath tightening, and you’re a little afraid it might not be from fear.
He likes you. There’s no denying it. You assume most of the survivors know too; they’ve been capitalizing on it, leaving you to be the bait, relying on you to go fetch hooked teammates, sometimes even so much as shamelessly using you as a shield. Shouldn’t the Entity intervene? Or does it feed on these emotions the same as it does agony and despair?
Your mind wandered again, and you realize with a little too much distress that you must be getting comfortable around him—or just letting your guard down, confirmed when you look up and he’s now in the room with you. Oh.
Your hands leave the exposed wires, swiveling to face him. He’s approaching, and with horror you notice the silvery glint of his knife as it appears from within his cloak.
Running on incredibly misplaced confidence, you force an impassive face and straighten upwards.
“Fuck’s up with you, man?”
He doesn’t look taken aback in the slightest, but you know the regret shows clearly on your face. You can’t stop yourself from scrunching your eyes closed in momentary but pungent embarrassment.
“You’re always following me, what do you want?” you ask. It’s intended to come out as a demand, but sounds too genuine. He’s some five feet away when he finally stops, hands coming to rest at his sides. He tilts his head, the gaping expression of the mask seeming to taunt you.
All that irritation comes at you at once. You’re sick of him. Your words have no effect when his most effective weapon is silence; you have nothing to work with.
Ghostface’s head tilts further. It must not be easy on his neck.
The knife comes out again and he takes two full strides towards you. You jerk back but he’s in front of you within the same breath. The blade rests on your cheek, cold and stinging—he cocks his head the other way, this time.
“You’re cute,” he states plainly. You don’t even think, your hand moves to catch the fabric of his collar, tugging him forward and nearly off his feet. He gasps in a way that seems too human for his unnerving appearance. His hand flies up to grip your wrist, though doesn’t pry it off, just rests there securely. Your fingers tighten, tension turning your knuckles near white.
“You’ve been really annoying,” you say, ignoring his comment and the slight red it leaves across your cheeks. “Why can’t you leave me alone?! Why me in the first place?”
You search uselessly for an answer in the empty eyes of his pale mask, and are unsurprisingly awarded none. He’s not mocking you, though, he’s distracted. He readjusts his gloved fingers on your wrist, bringing it closer to him, encouraging you to wind the fabric tighter in your fist. You go quiet.
“...You really do have some weird crush on me,” you remark finally, a joke meant more for yourself although one he replies to with what might be a chuckle. You jerk him in your grip to get his attention.
You want him to say something but you’re not going to ask. The silence is suffocating.
He slides his knife from your cheek back to his side and you follow the motion closely with your eyes, though brushing past where he sets it away at his hip and going lower. Your breath hitches and you hold it.
The tattered fabric of his cloak, though loose to conceal his figure, does little to hide the protrusion at his crotch.
He’s enjoying this way too much. The revelation hits you with horror at first, then interest. You can’t show it, though.
“Christ!”
You pretty much thrust him away disapprovingly, leaving him to wobble and slide (willingly) to his knees. Has he always been this incompetent? His gaze becomes unbearable.
Ghostface slumps over himself slightly, gloved hands propped on his thighs so he can look up at you blankly. A tremor runs down your arms and you play it off as a shiver from the frigid air (but in reality, you’re burning up, red from anger or embarrassment you’re not certain).
“…What do you want?”
This time, the context is different. You both know. You catch him shaking slightly with excitement. He takes your hands and leads them back to grip the neck of his cloak. Being this close, you hear his deep breaths beneath the mask, no longer even and collected. Your heart rate throbs.
“You, anything as long as it’s you.”
His intentions are made strikingly clear, yet you can’t help but be anchored by apprehension. Are you misinterpreting this? Is he tricking you? But the way he looks at you with adoration is too genuine. It’s too much. It’s been too long since you’ve had any true intimacy, and you don’t know if you’ll ever get this chance again. You take it, against all better judgement, which screams at you to think this through.
You step forward so you’re situated between his knees. Your hand leaves his collar to stroke up his neck and find his chin. He tenses.
“You have to be specific,” you say sternly. You run your thumb up the outline of his jaw, just beneath the mask. What am I doing? What am I doing? echoes incessantly in your head, a foreboding drum.
“You’re gonna make me ask nicely?” he asks with a short, cruel laugh, but also with hope in his voice that he probably meant to hide. You’re still reeling from this drastic turn of events; it feels like a dream, a bizarre wet dream you might laugh off but store in your head for later. Your arms feel sluggish and take twice the effort to move as you grace your fingers down his neck. “I’m not asking you for anything,” he tells you. There’s a confident smile in his buttery voice. The sound of it would have made your blood boil earlier, but instead it travels to your groin.
“No, because that’s what you want,” you finally state. Your hands plant firmly on his shoulders, reclining him slightly so you may drop to your own knees in his lap, lifting yourself slightly to straddle him. You can see his chest heave excitedly.
Fuck. You have to admit, you always found the mask a bit cute. The dark gloves and boots too, all so mysterious. It’s an odd feeling to see him in the mild light of the classroom. You’re used to only catching glimpses of him, white and black blurs retreating behind corners. But God, he’s cute, well-built, you think to yourself, as you feel across his firm arms. His voice, too, smooth and rich. It all annoys you, and your fingers turn to claws to bite at him with your nails.
You realize you don’t care too much if he does suddenly whip out his knife and bury it in the muscle of your shoulder; getting to touch anyone in a truly meaningful way is so oddly rewarding. You nearly cry (and hope it doesn’t show on your face).
Even the most caring touches—the dutiful hands of your teammate working bandages around your wounds, a pat on your shoulder after a particularly grueling trial—it’s always too little.
And this is too much.
He shudders against you, spurring you on, the nagging voice of reason drowned out by one encouraging you. You only live once, even though that saying is not applicable to the Entity’s Realm. You might as well.
You feel down his torso, as generously built as the rest of him, noticeably even under the protective leather of his tactical outfit. Momentarily, you play with a handle of one of the blades on his belt, then, in what might be a risky move, testing his tolerance, you pull a sizable one from the lineup and stick it securely in your back pocket. You hope it won’t be necessary; the gesture was only to confirm that you’re the one in control here. He doesn’t seem to mind at all. You know it’s because he doesn’t have a reason to be scared, he could kill you so easily, but you smile at his obedience. With the same hand, you stroke his chin sweetly.
His hand remains on your wrist. You feel his eyes study you with interest, although the holes in the mask are unreadable and inexpressive. You follow the curve of muscle along his gut past his hips to pet lightly at his crotch. It’s such a faint touch, yet he instantly keens into it.
“Geez, you’re already so hard. And from what? Just watching me?” you bite, narrowing your eyes at him. He doesn’t reply, but you can picture a wide grin on his face. Despite your sharp tone, you continue to palm him, fondling him with more pressure. Even concealed under his dark pants, he feels so thick. You swallow nothing but your throat dries just afterwards.
“C’mon, this is sad,” he taunts with a heavy chuckle. His voice takes on a weird clash of mockery and adoration. It makes you shiver under his already smothering gaze.
Your hand moves to grip his thigh harshly instead and he gasps. “I’m in charge here,” you remind him, leaning in.
“Thanks for the clarification, I honestly wouldn’t have guessed,” he laughs back. You really wish you had some sort of gag right about now. You decide on something better, though, stroking him harder. He only now gives a small moan, prompting you to continue with vigor, working him in your palm. You take pity on him finally and reach for the zipper of his pants, tugging it down, feeling the metal teeth part. Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers but go no further. You look back up at him silently.
He’s quiet with you, returning your attentive stare. You almost think he’s going to wait this out, but he breaks just a few moments later, squirming impatiently beneath you.
“Could you hurry up at all? I’m starting to rethink my generosity.”
He doesn’t mean it fully, you can tell. You honestly don’t know if he’d survive if you left him like this.
“Then ask,” you reply, entertained. Ghostface looks back at you.
“Really?” he asks flatly, again, tilting his head to convey the amused grin that stretched below the clean plastic of the mask. It’s less of a question and more of an entertained remark. You tilt your head right back at him, following his face with your eyes. His voice stays composed, but you don’t miss the way he shifts, the way his thighs tremor. You’re whittling away at his resilience the same way he does yours.
You keep your hand there for another second, not moving, almost resting, before retracting it and standing up. He doesn’t apologize or beg for more, but you see the way he follows you slightly, chasing your retreating touch.
“You’re right, I’m being too nice to you, huh?”
The soft, mechanical heartbeat of the generator thumps quietly somewhere behind you. The overhead fluorescent lights burn almost as sharply as your embarrassment as you tug down your pants as well as your underwear. The fabric bunches at your knees, air cold on your sex.
“Oh,” he chuckles softly, playing off his momentary daze. It’s clear he’s used to being on the receiving end of this ordeal as he stumbles for a place to rest his hands. He settles on your thighs and leans forward on his haunches.
You also fumble to get comfortable; your hands naturally rest on his head, slightly disturbed at the feeling of fabric rather than hair. You realize his hesitation likely has something to do with his mask, which you have not once seen him without. You couldn’t possibly imagine a face that would fit him—you just can’t pinpoint him like that, no appearance would look right. Deceptively charming? No, you think he’d be unsettling, with a fox’s smile. Dark and unsympathetic eyes, but you could also picture sharp, bright ones, with slitted pupils like a cat’s.
Still, curiosity keeps your eyes glued to him.
“D’you mind?” he asks finally, displeasure clearer in his voice. You look up to the ceiling.
You hear material, both fabric and solid, shifting, the strap of the mask stretching, and suddenly, his breath fans across your naked thighs.
“Go on then,” you urge him, patting the back of his head condescendingly. You hear him grunt and smile to yourself.
Even though you’re expecting it, the feeling of his mouth on you makes you jump. He’s cold at first, not uncomfortably, but enough to make goosebumps prick at your bare skin. He’s somewhat unsure in his gestures, licking experimentally, rubbing where his mouth leaves you unattended. You try not to moan too soon, looking away now more so to hide your furrowed brows and burning cheeks. He mumbles something drunkenly.
“Oh, this is your first time, huh?” you tease. You expect a snarky response but receive none. You do, however, get a playful nip on your inner thigh as he grazes his canines against the sensitive skin. He exhales a heavy, slow laugh, lapping at the shallow puncture wounds he left. You feel him grind steadily against your lower leg, chasing some sort of relief for the longing in his crotch.
So caught up in the sensation, the tongue lapping devotedly along your sex, you don’t register the distant blast of a generator activating. You rock against his mouth, half-stifled noises dripping from your lips. He’s clumsy and still isn’t entirely sure what to do with his hands, but he’s good, too. He’s giving a commendable effort. It makes you feel wanted. It makes everything ache. You pet his head appreciatively.
You hate how fast you’re approaching release, but it’s been so long since you’ve been touched like this. His fingers dig in your thighs, pushing himself further into you. You guess it’s been a while for him, too. He’s making his own noises by now, as well, choked whimpers and shallow pants when he pulls away to catch his breath.
His mouth is hot and soft, but it’s too much. You pull him towards you and you push him away. It’s hard to stand up straight and you feel the muscles of your thighs tremble. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. You can’t believe this is happening, but at the same time, can’t find it in yourself to care, focused solely on pursuing release.
And you do, pleasure winding tightly like a coil and unraveling in a throbbing snap. Burning white ecstasy leaks into your vision. You grip him tighter, closer, panting shakily as you come down. You whimper through your teeth and shivering lip.
Ghostface reclines on his haunches, breathing heavily as well, his quivering breaths matching yours. It feels so good.
You look down just in time to see him half-masked, only a glimpse of his mouth visible as he wipes your mess from his chin with the back of his sleeve. His face recedes into the shadow of his mask as he brings it down and fixes it into place, not before flashing you a flushed grin, baring his sharp teeth. He licks your wetness from his lips.
You hadn’t realized one of his hands left your thigh to busy itself between his own legs, stroking himself idly.
“Really?” you half-laugh, “you’re so desperate.”
You hate to admit you feel honored at his shameless act of attraction. You tell yourself it’s not personal, he’d do this with anyone who’d give him the chance. You don’t let yourself get soft. It’s easier to retreat into the cover of disinterest, forcing a cruel look on your face as you tug him back by the hood and inspect him. Though the hood cloaks him in a thick shadow, you see the sweat dotting his neck, the intense red of blush.
He swallows. “That good enough?”
“You did so good,” you answer, petting him, managing a crooked smile. He grumbles something, but is enjoying himself so obviously it’s laughable. It was how emotionless he was that had always scared you. The lifeless, unchanging mask worked horrific wonders in his favor in that regard. But seeing him now, like this, he’s almost cartoonish in his gestures. He manipulates his voice so well, sing-songy in one moment, mocking in the next—like he’s playing a character.
Embarrassment catches up and you quickly tug back up your undergarments and pants, praying to whatever insulting equivalent of god this ungodly realm houses that he doesn’t notice your red face. Whatever it is would have to be suitably merciless to thrive in an environment, but it spares you from the embarrassment; Ghostface doesn’t comment on it.
“Now, what do I get?” he asks, expectantly, his fingers hooked on your sides. Of course he’d only do this expecting something in return. You only barely know him but could tell he would be that sort of asshole. Still feeling floaty from your orgasm, though, you humor him, sliding back down to your knees to meet him on the ground.
He tilts his head again, and this time you take the chin of the mask in your hand and correct his neck, holding him there a moment after to glare back at him.
“I guess you should get something, too,” you agree. There’s confidence in your voice that doesn’t meet your nerves.
You draw a hand up his inner thigh, drawing the hem of the cloth up and pinning it out of the way so you can access his pants. You have to work aside multiple tactical straps keeping the garb in place to find the hem of his pants. His skin is scarred heavily, mostly light, jagged streaks that have faded with time. You’re not surprised to see his detailed muscles.
In fairly quick succession, two more generators chug to life somewhere in the opposite corner of the school. You throw a glance over towards the classroom door then hurry to shimmy his pants the remainder of the way down.
“Shit, better hurry,” you breathe out. You curl your fingers tauntingly over the waistband of his plain boxers, tugging the elastic.
He clicks his tongue. “Awww,” he remarks playfully, though he’s just as antsy as you are, likely more. He shifts his hips encouragingly. As you yank his boxers all the way down, you hesitate, biting down on your bottom lip. His chest rises and falls shakily. You knew he was hard already, but you’re still taken aback by his size.
“Make it count, right?” he says, “I don’t want to regret this.”
You don’t need to see his face to know there’s a shit-eating grin plastered on it.
“You were a lot more bearable when you were using your mouth for something other than talking, you know,” you shoot back. He whistles. “Alright, I get it,” he laughs.
You pull back to spit in your palms and briskly rub out the moisture. It’s not ideal, but life in the Entity’s Realm is all about improvising. He sucks in a breath as soon as you take him in your hands. You pause to check his expression for discomfort, a bit unsettled to be met with the white mask. Right.
“You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?” you sneer slightly. It feels weird to force yourself to be mean, but you can’t deny his enthusiasm is endearing. You could get used to this. You don’t process the implications of that thought, focused solely on him. He returns your attention with observant interest.
“Oh, so many times,” he admits breathlessly, “it’s my favorite fantasy; always gets the job done.” You’re a tad surprised, but after a second of mulling it over, no, you’re not really. “That’s flattering, and creepy,” you reply matter-of-factly. You pump his cock in your fist and he loses track of whatever he was going to say.
For once you’re somewhat thankful your teammates seem to be dawdling about the map absently instead of bee-lining for the exit gates. They’re probably off purging totems and rifling through chests, taking advantage of the killer's absence. They have no idea how much they owe you. They don’t know you’re jacking him off, either, though, and they really don’t need to.
As your thumb glides up his length, you take note of a pair of silver piercings on the underside of his shaft. Ah, yeah, about what you’d expect, and a little hot, too. You continue stroking him, rekindling the lust in your belly that had ebbed following your release.
He’s panting already and leaning into you. A part of you wants to kiss him, but finds it inappropriate. There’s no feelings behind this, it’s just for fun, to de-stress, you remind yourself firmly, and right after feel a short pang of longing in your chest. Not that you can say you truly even know what this is—a one time thing, you reasonably conclude. You’re partly hoping that by giving him the attention he’s sought after so insistently that he’ll lose interest and the two of you can return to the familiar chasing and stabbing and hooking. At least then you can put aside the shame burning in your bones for indulging like this.
You can’t help but think to yourself what a nice voice he has, smooth and rich, gravelly at points. His moans are heavy and open-mouthed. You quicken your pace. There’s a dull ache forming in your wrist but you don’t care an awful lot. His little stuttered breaths are delicious.
You want to save the moment with something tangible to look back on later. As you stroke him off, you free a hand to run over his chest appreciatively, squeezing the full muscle. It’s annoying how attractive he is. Your hand wanders elsewhere though, exploring, but with intentions unrealized to him. You feel a weight on one of the inner pockets in his cloak. You free it from the pouch; a camera. An older model, definitely, clunky and blocky and likely before the era of sleek mobile phones. It will do, though.
Ghostface gives a questioning mumble, but his mind is scrambled, focused on bucking into your palm. It’s bizarre to see him come undone beautifully like this. Always so collected and dangerously composed, it makes this exchange feel somehow more intimate.
“Fuck,” he hisses out, attempting to laugh it off but catching himself in a moan. He comes undone.
Hot cum seeps over your fingers, pooling in your palm. More drops run steadily from the slit of his cock head. A camera shutter clicks discreetly; Ghostface jolts. The flash of the camera soaks the scene in momentary white, the picture of him squirming with his dick in your hand captured on the display screen. You grin. He stares back into the black lens of his own device, apparently baffled. He can’t reply yet, still recovering, but his silence asks you “really?”.
You drop the camera in his lap, screenside up so he can view the picture for himself. He looks so pretty, ruined like that.
“I wish I could keep it for myself, really,” you comment sentimentally, this time tilting your own head at him. You stand. “Let’s take more next time, alright?”
He probably thinks you’re just mocking him, which you are, to a degree, but it’s a genuine offer as well.
“You’re something,” is all he can say, utterly breathless.
You pop your fingers in your mouth to clean them of him, high off of confidence.
You leave him to his mess, pants still pulled down and his release painting his thighs. You’ve already run for the door by the time the gates finally draw open, the distant blare of sirens calling you back to the campfire. You expect a chase, but when you look over your shoulder, you see only the dark, churning fog at the other end of the hall.
Molten orange flecks break across the ground, gleaming like glitter. The claws of the Entity erupt upwards to take hold on the generators, caging them in black, spindly claws. The red lights of the gate levers alert you to the exit, and you scurry for them. Your teammates stand in the open gateway, waiting for you. Ace waves you over sheepishly, calling your name (not like you're lost).
As you trot over to him, he swings his arm out to pat you on the back. You return his crooked smile. “We were waiting for you,” he explains, a brow raised, “thanks for getting the killer off our backs. I feel bad it has to be you, though.”
Guilt pangs in your chest. You could only wonder what he’d think if he knew. You keep smiling though, hoping the permanent night sky hides your flushed cheeks.
“Yeah, you owe me majorly.”
Yui nods in the direction of the distant, flickering light that you know is the campfire. You nod back, getting the idea, and start out past the ruined gates of Midwich elementary school. You lag behind the others to grant yourself a shred of privacy, floating through your own thoughts. It’s going to be difficult to face everyone when you get back, all none the wiser.
Absently, you pat your back pocket, surprised to find it empty. He’d apparently retrieved the knife you’d taken from him without you noticing; what an annoying little fox.
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