"And here I was, thinking we were talking about sex the entire time." He supposes he'll take his dirty humor to heart and throw the Entity's blank expression a bone this one time. Only because the majority of the jokes he'd made earlier will go stale if he doesn't sort out his audience soon. During the ordeal, he manages to sound about as innocuous as a mutt lifting its leg indoors. If innocence deadpanned at all, he'd be a saint by now. "Try saying the plot 'thickens' with a straight face now."
Wait, what? Was he trying one of his jokes again, or was he serious? The Entity did not know. It was still a bit … rusty when it came to catching onto his sense of humour. With arms crossed, she arched a brow at him and cocked her head to the side. It didn’t see what the big deal was.
“The plot thickens.” Oh, wait. It kind of got that one. A puff of air released through her nose, followed by a shake of her head. Really, what a buffoon he could be. It supposed that it was an interesting change, albeit weird.
The very first group of souls ensnared within the realm of ruins both poorly recalled and reconstructed by their omniscient weaver, had not arrived at a mutual agreement to refer to him as Chuckles because he giggled all the way to the hook, no--even if they thrashed with all their pitiful might after he slung them over a welt-ridden shoulder, they wouldn’t milk a single grunt out of him when he was hard-focused on a hook rising out of the distant fog. After ramming the rust through their collars, he’d wait for the tortured tantrums of his victims to settle in their bodies until they swayed in place as if a light breeze had nudged them. If there was a better and more respectful time to crack a joke, he didn’t care. The longer it took them to answer “who’s there” to his “knock-knock”, the longer he’d linger until the life draining out of his captive audience wasn’t even worth prying off the hook.
He never needed them to laugh at his dry wit, only to listen and stew over their helplessness that only magnified as he drenched their last hopes of wiggling free with his unnerving presence. So really, the Entity’s hardened stare isn’t an odd response at all, in fact--it’s the sort of reaction he’s always gotten from from petulant prey too proud to humor his taunts with more than whimpers. It’s different with her though. The black-hearted beast that lashed its whips across his back to speed him after a burning trail of scratches hotter than the sort that littered his hide from centuries of prodding, he’s certain, doesn’t come equipped with the capacity to digest humor, let alone his odd variety.
Filtering a snort through his mask as the ravenous god’s vessel repeats the suggestive phrase with about as little color to the tone as the barn wall after Billy had knocked the paint loose with the ricochets to his chainsaw revving, the Trapper cocks his head for a better look at the short stature studying him with a hint of disapproving steel in the stare it stuck him with like the fangs he knew it hid beneath the feminine facade. “Hasn’t done much of that lately. Wouldn’t get your thorax in a twist over it.” A serrated grin seems to welcome the idea, though he’s sure the only appendage that will suffer through any twisting will be his arm if the Entity takes hold of the iron barbs to steer him again.
