@ferociium | Drabble | After the Trial . . .
word count: 812
Small circles traced on Dwight's bare skin, along his right shoulder blade and down his back; beginning exactly where a brutal sacrificial hook would often find its unwelcome home. Gingerly placed digits would follow the morbid scar as it faded, as if encouraging it to do so might somehow lessen the hurt in Dwight's soul that he had come to accept as a necessary evil.
The exhausted survivor lay stomach down, his arms crossed beneath where the side of his face would come to rest. He'd taken his glasses off, the bridge of his nose sore from the end of an especially exhausting, gruesome trial; his lids closed as he attempted to take himself somewhere far away from here. Where there was no looming Fog that threatened to rip him away. But wherever he pictured, Danny was always with him.
The damp basement had a way of filling him with dread, should he not have frequently found his home on the softness of the killer's bed. His back rises and falls as his lungs savor unburdened breaths, his stare reemerging listlessly at the dilapidated wall to his right. His eyes are empty, almost soulless, the trauma still sweltering inside of him as Danny silently allows his body & mind to recover. He knows better than to speak during these times . . . Dwight needed time, touch, and nonverbal reassurance. He hadn't a voice to be used...
Another trial, another series of hooks, another one of his lives offered to the greedy, spidery talons of the Entity. He never got used to it . . . as much as he would have expected to by now. Each sacrifice still haunted him to his core. But the weary survivor had difficulty condemning the other man for his actions. Even still, Dwight Fairfield had empathy. Here he laid, a killer tracing gentle circles on his skin, willing the scars to fade faster by the minute. It was inexplicable, the time it took for magically mended wounds to vanish completely from his broken body; they served as a fleeting reminder of his suffering.
He can hear Danny breathe, breaking up the silence that felt both frighteningly tangible and calming at the same time, so long as the unmasked man's touch kept him grounded and at ease. As the touch fades, he feels weight shift behind him. Dwight doesn't even blink. Dark blurs cloud his vision without his glasses, but he doesn't want to have them on right now. He's been more than vulnerable in Danny's presence before, so this was really no different. As the man's form lowers, Dwight feels the warmth of his lips retracing the path of his fingers. It sends a chill through his body as dark brown hues retreat once more into the darkness of his mind.
A sigh leaves the survivor's lips, attempting to simply exhale the weight of his condemnation to so much ceaseless pain and suffering. With each small kiss pressed to his skin, a warm sensation floods the radius of the area. The last trial had been particularly brutal . . . Dwight had, for the first time, failed to trick himself into seeing the Ghostface as anything more than a stranger. It made the pain so much worse . . . Dwight often wondered what Danny's face looked like in those moments, beneath the mask. A strong part of him convinced himself he wouldn't be able to handle it if he knew. . .
This is what you get for falling in love with a killer.
Tears threaten to break through fallen lids and he feels his breath hitch as the sensation of touch travels to the small of his neck. Danny's breath, warm against his skin, communicates affection nonverbally. Perhaps more than affection . . . a fierce, protective possession. As Danny's lips continue to pepper small gestures along his neck, Dwight's eyes creep open as he feels a tear begin to blur his already functionless vision. Nothing is said . . . because what is there to say? This was just how things were. It was a small sacrifice to pay to lay with the unmasked man for even a minute. . . to feel his embrace and forget about his vices towards the rest of the world. How could someone so bloodthirsty deny his compulsions for just one individual? And why was that Dwight? As much as he didn't want to question it, the thought often plagued his worried mind.
Danny would come to rest his weight comfortably around Dwight's form, face nuzzling into the same spot on his neck as the emotional dam began to burst without a sound. Tears escaped Dwight's heavy eyes in silence, his gaze locked in on an indistinguishable blur of the brown and black hues of the wall.
For now, he would savor the moment. For now, he would blink the tears away and attempt to forget reality. For now . . . he would allow himself to be painfully, tragically in love. . .
don't mind ghostface stalking adriana, and disable her drones along the way because he is nothing but thoughtful when he does want someone to notice his presence.
Adriana pauses as she hears the fourth *ping* from her tracking device. She's infuriated, not because someone is disabling her drones, but because she doesn't understand who could be doing so. "All the survivors are dead," she shouts from her lookout upon MacMillan Estate. "SO WHO THE FUCK KEEPS DISABLING THE DRONES?" Upon poking her head through the window, she spots a cloaked man in a ghostly facade, motionless other than a single raised hand. A sigh escapes her throat as she pinches the bridge of her nose, "All right, you have my undivided attention." She then leaps through the window to meet the man face-to-face, landing gracefully on the ground before him. "Now, how may I be of service to you."
♭ - grip my muse’s jaw to make them look yours in the eye ( he angry
It was ONE of those RARE nights where he was home alone; his roommate Dwight was working a late shift at the video rental place, leaving him to have the place to himself. He just got done cleaning, was ready to settle down and order himself some takeout, when the feeling as if he was being watched sent a chill running down his spine. Sometimes his imagination got the best of him, but this feeling was more than that.
The door to the closet slowly creaked open just a few feet from where he was standing, causing his stomach to flip, even though there was a good chance he just didn't close it right after he grabbed the broom. He was telling himself to calm down as he walked closer, reaching out to close it, when the door suddenly swung up open. Soon found himself against a wall, a strong grip on his jaw causing him to make eye contact with the mask figured. His HEART dropped in chest when he realized he was FACE to face with the the Ghost face.
❝ Look....when I signed the lease with my roommate I made a promise I would not get gutted in this place I mean blood stains and I think Dwight is gonna be bummed when he comes and finds me dead. I mean imagine your friend is dead, and then on top of that, you realize you won't be getting your security deposit back. Talk about a damper. Do you think we can maybe, you know...not kill me...? ❞
The red head couldn't help but blink a few times. Confusion clear on her face. "... is that what we're doing now? I mean not that I mind." She'd rather be poked in the forehead than chased from generator to generator. "Can I poke you in the forehead?" Max asked, but before she was even given an answer, she was already doing just that.. -- Why even ask at this point? She didn't even truly understand why she did the things she did.
"No but seriously, can I help you with something? We on talking terms? Have you decided you like me? -- Just a little? I can teach you to skateboard, ya know? You'd look totally bad ass chasing the survivors on a skateboard."
“&– - Crossing the water, lead them to die. Deep in the water. We press for the water, press for the river, press for the rain.” // @ferociium liked for a lyrical starter
A top hat tumbling down the stairs into the basment of the Ghostface. The moment it reached the bottom of the stairs and rolled before the male the Hypogean popped out. "Hello~! Berial the clown is here to entertain! Why the long face my friend? You look as white as a ghost!" Berial jokes as he laughs now on his words for the killer's mask.
He knows where the fire is, that bodies sit around its warmth for the anticipation of a game designed to torment. Hunger sits like a rock within his stomach. It would be so very easy to pick them off, be free of the troublesome thoughts that lie beneath the simmering surface ready to boil over and create a nasty mess. Was he a lesser creature perhaps indulgence would win; but Rindul had lived with not a drop of blood for weeks on end before. He would not submit now.
It leaves him tired.
Staring out towards the dancing flames in the distance he is quite easily missed, sitting on the ground with legs crossed, a hood pulled over his head. It hides him against those earthy tones, but not from everything, or everyone. His gaze is half lidded and threatening to drag him into the depths of slumber when a gentle heartbeat snares attention. Hunger...
"gosh, did you hear about all those terrible murders?" it's a shame the blonde doesn't know that she's sitting right next to the murderer himself right here in this starbucks. blue eyes look over to his laptop, her mouth falling open into an o shape. so he was a reporter! of course, he knew about the murders. "oh, of course you probably know." she'll motion towards his laptop with a manicured finger. "you're a reporter, aren't you?" she'll suck air through her teeth, eyes widening as she takes a sip of her coffee. her face red, she'll clear her throat. "and probably don't want to talk about work, ha! i'm sorry!" // @ferociium
