#jed night manager

[arttsuka]

WHAT IF

Jed with an undercut and Octavius is obsessed with it

Is this an undercut?

[lizmaximoff]

The Night Manager (2016)

[insanityclause]

Meanwhile...

[atomicradiogirl]

top 10 bond girls who aren’t bond girls

[nyahkmenrah]

A collection of incorrect NATM quotes

Bought to you by my exomemories

Octavius: for the love of Jupiter Jed, you are a COWBOY. HOW did you manage this?

Jedediah, tangled in his lasso: I don’t know help

Ahk, wiping makeup stains off his cheeks: haha it’s fine, I’m fine, everything is fine

Larry: Ahkmenrah I mean this in the nicest way possible, you are the most mentally fucked up person I know

Larry: Jesus Christ how do I get a bunch of ancient people mental help?

Nick: therapy dog

Larry: we’ve got Rexy for that

Nick: two therapy dogs

Larry: no

Nick: therapy cat then

Jedediah: Pardner with a ‘d’ is friendly, Partner with a ‘T’ is romantic

Larry: so you DO like octavius

Jedediah, just now realising he’s been using T with Octavius: … listen

*the end of Ahk’s first night out*

Larry: you should probably get back into the sarcophagus befo-

Ahk: if I have to go back in that thing I’m going to start crying

Larry: … ok that’s definitely a trauma response

Sacagawea: three separate people have accidentally called me mum tonight, I feel like I should just adopt everyone at this point.

Jedediah: ahk you gotta hide me

Ahk: why?

Octavius, in the distance: GET YOUR ASSLESS CHAPS BACK HERE COWBOY-

Ahk: you broke something didn’t you?

Jedediah: …maybe

Jedediah: I was a gay cowboy before it was cool, before brokeback mountain made it trendy

[trick-or-fucking-treat]

The Knife in You Brings Out the Life in Me - Danny Johnson x Reader

Masterlist

Prologue ~

Summary:

Y/n was never close with her cousin Billy and hadn’t seen him in years, but when he shows up at her roadside home, running from the law and with a Stu on his arm, she figures it’s best to let him stay. He wouldn’t.. gut her? Right? Best not take any chances! The real kicker, however, is when their inspiration - the real and original Ghostface - shows up. She has less faith he’ll let her live if she isn’t careful.

"How could this happen? Am I dreaming again? Her body's not moving I'm assuming she's dead"

- The Greatest Story Ever Told, Ice Nine Kills

———

"Fuck, Billy! What'd we do now?" Stu stressed, knife in hand, gesturing wildly.

"Well... our face is on every news station, too many people around here know who we are." Like Stu, Billy still wore his shitty dollar store Ghostface costume, albeit their masks were tossed off to the side. Both were covered in blood, Billy slightly more so, and Billy was trying to keep his cool while Stu made every effort to panic.

"Ok, so.. we need to lie low?"

"Exactly. I have a rich cousin who doesn't live far from here, but still pretty out of the way. She's a recluse, we won't be bothered there... assuming she'll take us in."

After pulling off their first couple murders scot free, Billy and Stu decided they couldn't let the thrill go. Of course it was going to bite them in the ass eventually, but how were they supposed to know karma is a cold hearted bitch? Welp! They sure do now...

Their latest victim managed to get away, and while she didn't see their faces, she was damn sure she knew the killers. The two slash happy teens had taken a hit at another one of their classmates who they weren't too fond of, and they got cocky. Gave a hint hint, wink wink, at who they were behind the masks to scare the poor victim into thinking she was going to get her guts spilled by the guys who sit across the classroom to her in chemistry. It's all part of the thrill!

Except this time the bitch got away and ran to the police.

Stu was quiet for a moment before another thought occurred to him. "What about... you know who..? How will he find us if we drop off the map?"

"For all we know Danny's watching us right now! He's probably laughing about us fucking up.. he'll find us or he won't, that's up to him. Right now we need to get out of dodge."

———

Danny Johnson. The original Ghostface. Billy and Stu thought they were funny copycatting such a famous psycho. He was their role model of sorts.

Things changed when good ol' Jed Olsen started being pally with Billy and Stu, though. He was older. Sort of came out of nowhere. Knew things he shouldn't have known.

At first the pair were worried he knew what they were up to and just needed confirmation before going to the police, but Jed seemed to find it more funny than anything. He had this energy about him that made them cautious.

One night they were getting ready to start stalking another future victim (Miss run-away-and-blab-to-the-police funnily enough) when they got a phone call.

"Do you like scary movies?" The familiar staticky voice had spoken. "Who am I kidding? Of course you do! Why else would you both be starring in one? The question is... are you really the predators? Or are you actually... the prey?" The line had gone dead a moment later.

But when they shared a slightly concerned glance and decided to continue to leave for their midnight hobby, they opened the door to see a matching - though much more pristine mask  - staring back at them.

The Ghostface at the door didn't wear a cheap, scraggly, dollar store Halloween costume like Billy and Stu. He wore thick, black, sturdy material with straps and combat boots. Ohhh fuuuuuck... this guy is serious.

Danny gave them a good scare and let them fear for their lives for a while. Danny's a better killer than them. More experienced. More ruthless, and far more premeditated. But despite planning on killing them at first (they stole his entire thing, they couldn't get away with it, Danny had been planning this for a while) in the moment, he saw potential in them. Also they were a good laugh.

From then on, Danny took them under his wing and turned up when he felt like it to guide them in stalking and nurture their talent for murder.

Danny wasn't typically the kind of guy to help out other killers, especially ones who steal his likeness, but these guys had the same raw psychopathy that Danny sees in himself. And also, what the hell, he gets bored, they buy him free meals, they treat him like a god, what's not love!

And so Billy and Stu met their hero and dedicated their time to someday be as great as him. (Danny knew they'd never live up to him, he can always kill 'em when they get boring).

But now they've fucked up. Their victim got away. Danny's laughing and hiding in a bush somewhere vowing to never let them live it down. And Billy and Stu are hitching a ride to Billy's cousins place, hoping y/n will look past the blood and murder and let them crash for a little while.

———

A/N: ok this is the prologue for my new fic! Now I know I've written fuck all in a long time, and I apologise to anyone who's been waiting on updates to my other fics if you've read any, but I've got to go where the inspiration takes me!

I hope you enjoyed this little intro and please leave a comment if you have any ideas!

Have a great day/night,

~ trick-or-fucking-treat

[imtooscaredforthis]

Entrapment

Chapter Twenty Four: Unexpected

Mentions of: Dubcon/noncon themes, stabbing, death, and murder, etc.

A/N: some more pervy Johnny for you lmao

Tags: @dead-bxxxtch-walking @mama-miya @moonshineinasippycup @stwbwwychan @vandeaad @the-fandoms-georgie

“I feel like we haven’t talked in forever. How are you? How is everything?” Rachel asked as the two of you exited the building together and walked to the parking lot.

“I’m good. Work has been pretty good. Jed is a great partner.” You admitted with a shrug.

“I’m sure he is. You guys getting along good?” She asked with a teasing grin. “Yeah- what’s that look for?”

“Nothing. So you guys are close?” You don’t like where this is going.

“I mean, yeah- but..” You scoffed when you noticed Rachel’s smug grin. She’s onto you.

“Will you quit it? He and I are just friends. He’s like a brother to me.” You lied.

Rachel laughed at that. “Bullshit. I’m not dumb. I can tell when two people are fucking, and you and Jed totally are. But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. No judgment here.”

Before you could finish your conversation, the two of you split up, and she went to her car, while you walked home. You looked over your shoulder to make sure the coast was clear before you called after her.

“Jed and I aren’t- we’re not fucking, okay?! We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night, babe!” She called back. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you walked off, trying to ignore how flustered she had gotten you.

It’s fine. She won’t tell anyone. At worst she’ll just keep teasing you like this. Even if it was annoying, there wasn’t much you could do about it.

—

Once you got back home, you changed your clothes and had a glass of wine to wind down. But you didn’t relax, no. You never relax anymore. How could you when you know he’s still out there, harming more innocent people? Jesse, Lucia and Nate all deserved justice. You weren’t going to rest until you got it for them.

As you ate your dinner, you stared at the bulletin board you put up on your wall, with pictures of Ghostface’s victims, reports of his last sightings, and anything you could find. You managed to make some connections as to where he would find his victims.

You did find quite a few that went to Walleye’s but there were still inconsistencies here and there. All you knew was that most of them were average people, middle class and normal, which makes it even harder for him to figure out who he’s after next.

You stared at the board for a little while, before sitting down on your couch, running a hand through your hair. With all the time you had been spending with Jed, you haven’t been able to focus much on this. But today, he was out sick, giving you more room to think about Ghostface, even if you didn’t want to.

With a frustrated sigh, you grabbed the remote, clicking on the TV.

“Breaking news: Couple Marie and Carlton Thomas have been found dead in their home this afternoon.”

You stared at the screen in complete shock as a photo of them flashed onto the tv, listening as it continued. “The couple was found by a neighbor this evening when they noticed that their back door was open and their dog had escaped. They were stabbed to death, both having almost twenty wounds each. So the question we’re all wondering is: could this be another Ghostface murder?”

“We’re still figuring out motives, but the possibility is there. We’re working as hard as we can to catch this guy and all we can say right now is follow the curfew and lock your doors at night, and if you see anything suspicious, don’t be afraid to say something.” The sheriff said.

You couldn’t watch any more of this bullshit. You reached over and shut off the tv, sighing softly. Staring at the black reflection of the screen, you realized someone was standing behind you.

“Boo.” You sprung up from the couch, gasping in surprise. You turned on your heel trying to face him straight on. You moved so fast that you stumbled forward, causing him to catch you.

“Careful there, sweetheart, we don’t want you getting hurt do we?” Ghostface cooed in that same condescending tone. You tore yourself from his grip, glowering at him.

You stepped back into the kitchen, grabbing a knife and raising it threateningly. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

How did he even get in? How did you not notice him? He has been standing behind you while you were watching, and you were completely vulnerable. He could’ve easily killed you, but he didn’t. He was toying with you.

“Oh, come on, Dollface. Don’t be like that. I missed you. And from what I can tell, you missed me too.” He gestured to the bulletin board on your wall, before walking over to you. He took slow steps, like a predator ready to pounce.

Just because he didn’t want to kill you didn’t mean he didn’t want to hurt you..but you knew attacking him would only end badly. You lowered the knife slightly, but didn’t let it go.

He moved swiftly, grabbing your wrist and slamming it against the wall, making you drop the knife. “There you go. Good girl.”

“What do you want from me?” You couldn’t help but ask, angry and fearful. “What? Can’t we just have a nice little chat? You’re the one who pulled out the knife.”

He released your wrist, letting you go. “I think it’s time we catch up. You’ve been doing a lot lately, haven’t you? Had a lot of fun with your little Boy Scout?”

“Boy Scout? You mean-”

“Your little boyfriend? Jeb or Jed or whatever? The one who’s helping you write articles on me? Yeah, him. I’ve been watching you two..and you really seemed to be enjoying yourself, slut.”

You felt yourself grow flustered from humiliation and embarrassment. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Awww you want to protect him, how sweet. Don’t worry, toots. I’m not planning on it. As long as you behave, that is. Though I will say, I am jealous.” You felt his other arm hook around your back, the cool blade pressing into you and making you arch forward and into his touch, and his hand moved from your wrist to your chin, tilting your head upward while he examined your body.

“Such a pretty thing. I wouldn’t mind having you myself.” He pressed his knife into your back, forcing your waist to press against his, feeling his hardness.

He forced your shirt upwards, and you tried to stop him, but he smacked your hands away. He smirked. “No bra? How naughty.”

He eyed your tits, while you squirmed slightly in his grip, trying to get him to stop, but the harsh press of his knife and his groin managed to get you to still. His gloved hand caressed your breasts, before sliding down to your stomach.

“Yeah, we’re definitely gonna have some fun later.” You could hear the lust and smugness in his voice.

“What makes you think I would want to do any of that with you? I don’t even want to touch you! I hate you!” You hissed in disgust.

“Oh, I know you do. But you don’t have a choice do you? Not if you want your friends to live.” He leaned over and pressed his mask to your ear, his voice lowering. “You think Jed’s good? I’ll have you screaming and crying for me. And you’ll love it like the good little whore you are.”

He slightly ground his hardness against you, and you bit your lip to hold back a whimper. He removed his knife from your back, pressing it against your front instead. With the flick of his wrist, he cut your stomach, causing you to cry out.

“Just something to remember me by. Don’t worry, I’ll be back, and we’ll have fun very soon.”

He let you go, stalking off into your bedroom, and leaving out the side window onto the fire escape.

Yeah, you need to change your locks.

[gabessquishytum]

Ok so you know how the comics take place in the same universe as the justice league and all those guys? And you know how in the comic of 24/7 there's some local, small town superhero on TV, suggesting that any random loser can be a superhero? Do you see where I'm going with this?

Superhob: mild-mannered professor by day, scourge of London's criminal underworld by night. Calls himself The Immortal, doesn't appear to have any superpowers but fights with all kinds of old-timey weapons like maces and crossbows and stuff. He's been shot and stabbed and blown up and all kinds of things that really should have killed him, but he just keeps coming back. Probably has an ongoing rivalry/sexual tension with Johanna.

Could be a fishbowl rescue, and/or maybe he manages to catch the Corinthian? Or like, he somehow manages to cross paths with Dream shortly after he gets out of the fishbowl and they just do the Spiderman pointing meme at each other. Idk, I didn't have any particular plot in mind but I feel like there's a lot of potential there...

-🍓

This is such a great idea!!! Especially with the whole plot with The Sandman becoming a superhero through Jed's dreams (in the show)

I like the idea of a fishbowl rescue - Hob’s been hearing these rumours about fawney rigg for years, and one day he just happens to be in the area. He figures he'll take a look, since he's already in costume/fully equipped with weapons. Turns out he only has to bonk an old man over the head with the butt of his sword, so it's not very complicated to infiltrate the Manor. But what he finds in the basement in a lot more complicated, that's for sure.

He gets Dream out of the glass, glad that he's got such array of pointy, heavy medieval weapons. He can't get over the fact that he's just rescued his stranger. His stranger apparently can't get over the fact that Hob is trying to be a superhero (Hob resents the word trying - he's a very good superhero thanks very much).

Dream is like "Well thanks very much but now I have to find all my stuff" and Hob is like "cool! I'll help!" So superhob and the sandman join forces, to look for the sand (Hob has a pretty good idea that Jo had some weird magic pouch at one point). Maybe along the way they discuss the whole 1889 misunderstanding. Dream admits that maybe they are friends now. Even if Hob’s superhero identity is kind of cringe.

I quite like the idea of Dream going to hell (and refusing to let Hob come), so while he's gone Hob goes and looks for the Corinthian and a lot of stabbing goes down, but ultimately Hob captures Cori and when Dream comes back, he finds his rogue nightmare bound up with ancient magic while Hob sits on his chest and smiles smugly.

Maybe Superhob is a little more competent than Dream was willing to admit...

[novelmonger]

Continuing to watch through the Writer/Director commentary of LotR (with Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh) and jotting down any new-to-me information I come across. Here's what I gleaned from TTT:

When they got the New Line logo to put on the movies, it was very old and scratched, so PJ gave it to Weta to touch it up. They joked about how they should bill New Line for it XD

Originally, the studio wanted TTT to start off with a prologue too, with Cate Blanchett narrating what sounds like it was basically going to be a "Previously on..." spiel, even though they didn't like the idea of the prologue in the first one. Thankfully, these three ignored the studio's advice both times XD

The Uruk who says "Manflesh" is also the guy in Sauron's armor in the prologue!

In the scene where the Rohirrim find Theodred, it's not actually raining! They used rain towers for the close-ups, but any wide shots just have CG rain. I would never have guessed!

Andy Serkis did the voices for the Uruk-Hai who says the "maggoty bread" line, and the orc who says, "Yeah, why can't we have some meat?" (The actor in the suit for the latter is, of course, Jed Brophy, who went on to play Nori in the Hobbit movies.)

Somehow it never registered for me that Orlando Bloom has brown eyes, and so he had to wear blue contacts when he played Legolas ^^' But sometimes he wasn't able to wear the contacts (or forgot), so there are some scenes where they had to fix it in post.

PJ called the Treebeard from the animated Bakshi movie "a walking carrot" XD He also said that Treebeard is his favorite character!

The scene with Smeagol killing Deagol was originally going to be a flashback right after Frodo says his name, and then the Nazgul shriek would pull the audience out of the flashback. They decided not to do that for pacing reasons and because we haven't spent much time with Gollum yet, so that's why they put it at the beginning of RotK instead.

Bernard Hill had his son with him on the shoot and would play with him in his downtime on the Edoras set. Puts things into perspective when you hear that he was the one who came up with the line "No parent should have to bury their child."

They were originally looking at Bernard Hill for Gandalf! (I feel like I've probably heard this before, but anyway.)

They filmed a flashback to Aragorn and Arwen's first meeting?! Viggo shaved to make himself look younger, and it was a scene of the two of them "frolicking about the forest." It was originally going to be put in the Lothlorien sequence, but they cut it out in favor of that scene between Aragorn and Boromir, because they decided it was more important to earn Boromir's death scene than to remind the audience of the romance. I agree with that decision, but it would be cool to see that footage! (I say as someone who prefers to skip the TTT Aragorn/Arwen scene entirely XD)

Originally, the warg battle was going to happen at Edoras itself. It was going to be at night, everything was going to be on fire, and ultimately that was going to be the reason everyone evacuated and went to Helm's Deep. Also, a warg was going to be set on fire and end up dragging Aragorn through the streets, and that was going to be how Aragorn would be left for dead. Ultimately, the reason they did it the way they did was because the studio wasn't sure Weta could do a flaming warg (something all three of them laughed about, considering everything Weta did manage to do with flying colors), and because it would have been a nightmare to light the Edoras set at night, because that location was so remote and so windy. Which is why every scene in Edoras takes place in the daytime!

In the scene where Faramir talks about his dream where he saw Boromir in the boat, you can see a sort of pinkish color in the water around Boromir's body. That's because the dye from his shirt (surcoat? idk) was leaking out into the water! XD

When Andy Serkis did ADR for the Forbidden Pool scene, he couldn't manage to sing the song off-key, so they had to use the audio from the motion capture footage XD

They shot some additional footage of Aragorn unconscious on Brego's back, riding past an orc encampment, that they never ended up using.

Theoden was originally going to give a speech to the soldiers in the armory, but Bernard Hill's performance was so inspiring that it defused most of the tension they were trying to build up before the battle, so they took it out. Would love to see that footage!

So the boy Aragorn encourages before the battle ("There is always hope.") was Philippa Boyens' son, who was 13 when they filmed the scene. But by the time they went to do ADR, his voice had broken, so they had to get a different child actor to say his lines.

Aww, the extra who was missing an eye said he always felt self-conscious about his missing eye, so he always wore an eyepatch. But then after they gave him a close-up and the guy saw the movie, he said he felt much better about his appearance! :')

Treebeard's line "I always like going south; it feels like going downhill" was ad-libbed!

When Saruman turns and reacts to all the water pouring in and washing his machinery away, that shot was actually a reaction shot to Wormtongue on top of the tower from the RotK movie that they repurposed for this scene instead, since they hadn't shot any reactions to the flood.

At least at the time of the recording of this audio commentary, the final shot of Gollum, where he's arguing with himself and ultimately decides to lead Frodo and Sam to Shelob, was the longest CG shot in any movie. (I tried to google what the current record is, but couldn't find anything, so if anyone knows, I'd love to hear about it!)

Fran Walsh: "All cinema storytelling, to a degree, is shallow. That's the nature of the medium. You've got two or three hours to present a world and a dense story with a hundred themes and a ton of backstory, in this instance, and 22 characters...so you can only really have the veneer of depth. You really can't have anything that comes close to the depth of the books, or the experience of the books. So I think what we attempted to do was to use the language of the books where we could and to certainly invoke them, the iconic images, where we could, but to keep the storytelling very much...to modernize it, if you like, in terms of cinema language. So we didn't, for example, use the style of storytelling that was in the books between these different after-the-fact storytelling, of Sam and Frodo and then a chunk of the Aragorn story. We completely undercut it. That was a far more immediate and engaging way to connect it to the audience. You can't really hope to satisfy people who adore this book, with the movie. You can only ever give them the sense of what might have been. That's all a film can do. I think, in that sense, films...I mean, they're entertainments. They're just not going to give you the pleasure that a book can give you."

[mara-xx217]

A Match Made in Hell- (A DBD Commission) Jed Olsen (Ghostface)/Reader

This was a paid commission! I hope you enjoy~

How could he think that you wouldn't learn this fact? How could you not think that he would learn the same about you? Really, you are a match made in hell...

Warnings: Serial Killings, Murder, Stalking, Arson, Murder, Super Toxic Relationship, Choking, Implied NSFW

You came across the find of the century. There was another on the turf of your home city serial killer. No matter what the police say and your newspaper prints, you know that it was someone else. A new face but someone that wasn’t new to the game. You had gotten a peek of a crime scene that the police had only just arrived at. Blood was everywhere but it wasn’t haphazard or sloppy, almost as if the killer had tried to make art out of their kill. You managed to snag a handful of photos before the police shoved you out of the way, calling you a ‘vulture’ as they threatened to arrest you should you obstruct them further. As much as you wished that you had gotten some better pictures, this was more than enough to prove without a shadow of a doubt that there was another murderer in Roseville. 

“You… do realize that we can’t publish any of this, right?” The chief editor of the Roseville Gazette had a sickly pale green hue to his face as stared at the photographs you presented to him. Several of the other editors had to turn away, some shaking their heads and others leaving the room entirely as they claimed they had ‘other things’ to do. The giddy rush of your find was quickly soured as the chief editor flipped the photographs around, so that they faced the desk underneath them. 

“W-Wha-? Are you being serious?! Do you have any idea of what this means? Doesn’t the public deserve to know just how dangerous the streets are-?!” The sudden wave of a hand has you silenced. Of everyone in the room nearly everyone seemed almost scared that you had brought such information inside of their building. What are they? Cowards or something?! There was only one person that didn’t seem perturbed by what you had shown them. Only one, and unsurprising to you, they were the one person that has irked you from the moment they set foot into your place of work.

“Just-! Get this shit off my desk and burn them for God’s sake! Jesus Christ-!” The chief editor sat back in his chair, looking exhausted. 

“And get out of my office while you’re at it!”

You snorted as you picked up the photographs. You didn’t spare a moment before you stomped out, yanking the door open with enough force that it bounced off the wall behind it. As you took a step out of the chief editor’s office, your eyes locked onto the new guy’s, the one that you didn’t like for… whatever reason. For a fraction of a second, you saw… something. Whatever it was, it was over before you even had the chance to internalize it but in your core, you knew exactly what you saw. 

A challenge… 

What kind of challenge was it…? One between reporters? Or was it-? 

It kept you up all night. There was a gnawing in the back of your head like a nagging question. It made the hairs on your body stand on end but it also made excitement pool in your gut. Could it be…? What would be the odds of such a thing? Low, almost improbable… But likely not impossible, right? You remember the interviews that the new guy had with two people that were killed by the new serial murderer- what was his name? Jed?- and remembered that they both were stalked and received phone calls and photographs of themselves from within their homes days before they were found killed in their homes. One was stabbed to death in the shower, ‘Psycho’ style and the other looked like they were surprised as they were cooking breakfast, their house nearly catching on fire from the unmonitored stovetop that was still on.

 You got up after the clock struck two a.m. and glossed back over all the articles that the Roseville Gazette had published over the past few months. Indeed, all of them were written as though the same killer had perpetuated all the recent hot topic murders in the city. You frowned at the fact that all the articles that you had written were nowhere to be found. Actually… the more that you read, the more that you realized that all the articles on the new murders were written by the same reporter. You quirked a brow. Oh? 

Now this is interesting… 

As you looked over more and more articles, the hairs on the back of your neck began to rise. A thrill ran down your spine and pooled in your gut. You just knew that something was going to happen. What, you didn’t know, but whatever it would be, it would be exciting. You sat back in your chair and waited, exhaling sharply through your nose as you stared at your cell phone that was resting on the table in front of you. You knew this guy’s type very well.

He’ll call you, without a doubt. 

Unsurprisingly, your phone began to ring. This asshole is probably watching you as you sit at your kitchen table… If he wasn’t watching you through a crack in your blinds, then he was likely inside of your house. As excited as you were, you couldn’t help but to feel a wave of apprehension washing over you at the thought of this creep being in your house. What was he? A dirty pervert? You scoffed to yourself and picked up your phone, answering it with your name. 

“....” There was soft breathing on the other end of the phone. You felt your eyes nearly roll out of your skull as you listened, leaning back further and propping your feet up on your table. 

“Sweetie, if this call isn’t going to contain some ‘Black Christmas’ level of obscene caller shenanigans then I’m not interested.” You quirked a brow as you heard a snort then a short bark of laughter. 

“Well, well! I’ve never had that kind of reaction before!” The man on the other side sounded totally unfamiliar to you. His voice was deep and smooth, almost a purr as he was no doubt staring at you lounging in your dining room.

“Hmph, perhpas… I think that you’re just the rest.” You could hear the squeak of leather on the other side of the line. 

“Oh? Like what?” You sighed heavily as you inspected your fingernails.

“Disappointing.” There was a pause on the other end of the line, as though the new Ripper of Roseville was genuinely surprised. Everything about you screamed that you were bored: your posture, your voice, your sheer nonchalance in the face of someone that you knew was stalking you and who was incredibly dangerous and no doubt homicidal. It was…

“Hmm…~ I want to play a game.” The man’s voice was as smooth as it was at the beginning of the call. He was judging your reaction, wondering if what he was seeing was real or if you were going to be another disappointment for him. 

“A game? No, I don’t think so-”

“C’mon… What’s the harm in a little game?”

“If it’s not ‘what are you wearing’ then I’m not interested.” Again, the squeak of leather hit your ears. To say that your own pulse wasn’t quickening and that heat wasn’t pooling in between your thighs would be an outright lie. Many men have tried to play a dangerous game but they always pussied out just as it was getting good.

You just knew that this one would be different. 

“I like how you think.” The man’s breathing was slightly laboured, as though he was out of breath. 

“Are you already jerking off, you little pervert?” You let one of your legs slip off your dining room table, revealing the nice lace panties that you had worn to bed. It wasn’t like you were expecting such a thing to happen. No! Not at all… Not at all… 

“Aw, you aren’t wearing the red ones? What a shame…” Your heart skipped a beat. An electric pulse shoots through your body as you hold your breath. 

So he can see you… 

“Those are my favourites… Red really suits you-” From your cracked bedroom door, something was thrown out of the darkness. You yelped and jumped, nearly falling backwards in your chair from surprise. A pile of what sounded like paper was thrown, whipping all over the floor of your living room. No, wait- Not paper.

Photographs. 

“-just like blood.” His laughter made your heart pound in your ears. You shot up from your chair and snatched a kitchen knife from the knife block in your kitchen. As you stormed towards your bedroom, the photographs caught your eye. T-That’s-!!! 

Unsurprisingly, there was no one in your bedroom when you kicked your door open. No one was in the bathroom, in your closet or underneath your bed… Son of a bitch-! Your breaths come out in short bursts as you throw your bedroom door back open, it bouncing off the wall behind it and likely creating a dent. Your eyes were trained on the pictures strewn across the floor. You already knew what was on them but you were still hoping that you weren’t that sloppy-

“GODDAMN IT-!!!” 

The knife flew out of your hand and clattered to the floor across your home. How could you be so fucking careless?! That- That fucking asshole-! He-! H-He had fucking-! Your fingers trembled in rage as you quickly collected all the photographs. None of the photos had your face in them but they were damning. If this asshole is using them as blackmail, then he knows- One of the pictures especially caught your eye, one that did show your face. Your breathing hitched and caught in the back of your throat as you looked at yourself, masturbating beside- b-beside- a-and covered in- i-in-

These weren’t the only photos of you, you were certain of that. You were about to burn them but… Shit, you’ve got a serious problem. As damning of evidence this was, you just… couldn’t destroy them. You felt a sick, twisted sense of pride as you looked over them more and more. Wow, he had actually captured you wonderfully… You aren’t sure what you were feeling at the moment. Anger? Definitely. Rage? Absolutely. Flattered? Y-Yeah… Turned on? W-Well…

You dragged your feet on deciding whether or not you wanted to go back to work or if you were going straight over to that asshole’s house and killing him for getting involved in your business. Actually, there are many different reasons why you wanted to kill Jed Olsen: for stealing your promotion at the Roseville Gazette, for being a creep, for being an all around piece of shit, for trespassing on your turf-

“Hey-” You didn’t immediately look up from your work to answer him. You continued typing for some time, slowly tearing your eyes away from your work as you looked up at him with a scowl. 

“What?” God, you hated how much more attractive you’ve found Jed after learning the truth about him. His face was smug and confident, punchable and kissable-

“Now, is that any way to talk to a partner?” You felt your ears heat up as he leaned against your desk. He licked his lips as he looked you over. 

“You’re going to get some coffee with me.” You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“What’s the magic word, jerkwa-” The words were choked in your throat as Jed grabbed you by the throat. Your eyes went wide, not wide like his other victims, but still showing your surprise plainly. He felt your pulse throb beneath his fingers and he pressed into it with enough force to make your face turn red. 

“Coffee. You. Me. Got it?” Jed’s thumb pressed against your lower lip, calloused from working with his hands for the majority of his life. Your tongue reflexively flicked out, gently trailing against his thumb. You don’t think he was expecting this, as his grip relaxed for a fraction of a second before it became so tight that you felt something pop in your throat. 

“You fucking slut-” The look on his face was dark and there was no warmth in his smile. He forced you to lean up as he leaned down, meeting you halfway. 

“What do you say we burn this shithole to the ground and get the fuck out of this town, hmm?” There was a dark violence in his eyes that you were intimately familiar with. You had often seen them staring back at you in the mirror whenever you were washing the blood off your body after a successful hunt-

“G-Go w-where?~ H-Huuuh-?~” You were getting light headed from lack of oxygen but you were still acutely aware of what was happening around you. Your coworkers were going about their daily routines, totally unaware that you were talking to another coworker that was actively strangling you as the two of you talked about killing them all. They were so stupid it pissed you off. 

It’s just natural selection at this point if they are killed- 

“Anywhere… Just me and you…” A soft wheeze escaped from between your lips as your airway was crushed in Jed’s palm. There was a crossroads that was forming before you: say ‘yes’ and your life is over as you know it or say ‘no’ and your life is over as you know it. 

Fuck, how can you pass up the opportunity to go out with a ‘bang’? 

Your body was still sore from when Jed had dragged you to the supply closet at work. Fuck, how did no one hear the two of you?! He was not gentle with you and even though you were able to hold your screams of pain and pleasure at bay, the sound of your body being repeatedly banged against the closet wall as Jed fucked your brains out. Ah- You keep calling him ‘Jed’, even though you’ve known for a while that it was merely an alias for him. Danny… It’s something that you could get used to saying. Or maybe you should say screaming his name… 

It was so spur of the moment for you… for you both. Spontaneity was something you and Danny both were known for but pure impulsiveness? Well, maybe you both had been lying to yourselves. It’s much easier to do stupid, dangerous things when you have an equally dangerous and stupid person encouraging you to go further and further, until you both had two canisters filled with gasoline each and you both had broken into the Roseville Gazette and doused the whole place. One small spark would be enough to engulf the entire building…

What a shame your ex-chief editor was locked in the supply closet… 

The Roseville Gazette went up in flames within seconds. The heat of the flames exploded outwards, engulfing both you and Danny within its harsh light. The two of you were dressed in your murderous best: black and masked as you both heard your ex-chief editor screaming from within the hot inferno. Your entire body was trembling with excitement as the fire continued to rage hotter and hotter. It could spread to other buildings if things keep up… God, you fucking hoped that it did. You fucking hate this place and you guess that Danny did too, because he was just as turned on as you were as the screams of agony died down from within the destroyed Roseville Gazette. 

“Ha… Ha… F-Fuck-” You pulled off your mask and your face was flushed. You’ve never committed arson before… It felt pretty damn good, even if the smell of gasoline stuck to your clothing and skin. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Danny pull his own mask off, your eyes going wide as you felt him grab a fistful of your hair and yank your head backwards. As he pulled you into a passionate kiss. 

It was all tongue and teeth… You moaned as you felt your teeth bounce off of his, nipping at his lower lip and at the tongue that forced its way into your open mouth. Danny’s kiss was wet and overpowering but you wouldn’t let him win easily. You bit him hard enough to draw blood but instead of instantly pulling away, he moaned and kissed you even deeper. 

It left you breathless, even after he began to pull away. Even though you knew that the two of you shouldn’t be sticking around for much longer, you wanted to watch the Gazette continue to burn. This had to be the stupidest thing that you have ever done in your entire life, and you are including going to work for a newspaper that was in your active killing grounds. You always got hot and bothered when you reported on your own murders and you guessed that Danny was the same way with his own. He had grabbed you by the neck and was dragging you back towards the car that he had used to drive you both around for the night. You knew exactly what he had in mind, which was the only reason why you weren’t fighting him every step of the way. He’s the only man that’s ever made you sore after doing the deed…

@prettycutebunny, @infinitewhore, @kennbb, @slutwithadegree, @dead-bxxxtch-walking, @space-arsonist, @pink-soft-shadow, @sinlessdesire, @hoemine, @memoryofheather, @horny-3

[skylarsblue]

Hi could you do the slashers with a yandere s/o who also happens to kinda brutally kill people? Thanks 😊

(This is the ask where I wrote like, 500 words, and then it deleted itself. The audacity. Also, fun fact, when I redid this it refused to save. So I had to go through and copy/paste everything. I barely managed to do it all before the site crashed again. I might do more of these later on, but for now, I'm only gonna do four of them.) Trigger Warning; Descriptions of murder, blood, & gore, kidnapping(mentioned), stalking(implied) Unhealthy relationships and an unstable (Gender Neutral) Y/N. Barely proofread.

Ghostface; Danny 'Jed Olsen' Johnson (A sweet-faced & doting lover; A House Spouse)

Danny had been stressed out of his mind. More so than usual. Combinations of his day job and his "passion project" were intense enough most days, tiring but manageable for his twisted mind. Though recently, a new variable had made it increasingly more difficult. Trying to keep his hobby a secret was easy when he wasn't close to anyone, being overly cynical and critical of others made it easy to keep himself socially isolated. Keeping appearances without risk. However, conflict arose when he met someone he genuinely enjoyed the company of. You.

Danny had managed to go years without this kind of outcome. And yet, here he was, straining himself more than usual to try and keep face. All you had done was move across the street. He'd done his usual sleuthing, played his All-American mask, charmed his way into your home. It was meant to be the same thing as before. Yet somehow, against all kinds of barriers and obstacles, you'd wormed his way into his psyche and stuck there. He knew he was fucked when his thoughts would drift off in the middle of writing articles. Especially when his beloved cat decided you were good enough to like. Months of late-night talks on his lawn chairs or inviting him over for coffee and something you had baked. He mentally berated himself for liking your cooking so much. He'd even opened up to you slightly. Complaining about the woman who wouldn't take no for an answer at his job, how it gave him headaches. The way you portrayed yourself would work so well with Jed. Polite, a bit playful, helpful. It almost made Danny jealous, of himself no less. It felt ridiculous and added a tremendous amount of strife to keep you from seeing anything incriminating. He found himself exhausted as he parked in front of his house, rolling his neck, allowing it to crack loudly. The brunet huffed and took a quick glance at your home. He stopped when he noted something…off. Danny knew your schedule to a T, even if it was a bit sporadic sometimes. The typical times you woke up, what you tended to have for breakfast, hell, he knew how you did your laundry. So seeing all the lights off, curtains drawn so tightly, it sent his nerves alight. Curiosity mingling with…worry? "God, I'm pathetic." Danny huffed as he made his way over to your home. He knew every exit, every lock, every shaky window. Your front door being locked didn't deter him at all. It felt odd doing this in his work clothes, however. With skill and practice, he jumped over your small fence and approached the side door that lead into the garage. Its lock was old and rusty, easy to jiggle out of place. The man let himself in. There wasn't a sound he could discern, no TV or kitchen noises. He shook off the idea that he was concerned for you and chalked it up to only being perplexed by the sudden change in your behavior. Even spaced steps lead him to the door that went from the garage to the main portion of your home, as he walked in silently, he could faintly pick out your humming. He carefully stepped down the hallway toward the sound, seemingly from the kitchen. The closer he got the more he could smell the heavy, chemical scent of bleach and peroxide. Turning a corner revealed the only light on in your home was the small light above your sink. One you essentially never used. For once, Danny showed a bit of apprehension as he went to the doorway to your kitchen. His breath hitched at the sight. A half-cleaned scene of carnage. Blood stained the tile and a few spots on the wall. Some spots were pink and streaked, clearly wiped over. Two bottles of bleach sat on your counter. Where he often had morning discussions with you. Caramel brown eyes looked to the corner where a body lay on trash bags. His coworker, the one he'd complained about. Stabbed so many times her torso barely resembled a body anymore. He tore his eyes from the corpse and finally looked at you. Sat on the floor, pleasantly humming a song he'd shown you from a high school mixtape, back turned to him. Wiping up a plethora of blood from your floor. Dressed in one of the aprons he, almost shamefully, had fantasized you in with nothing underneath.

It took you going to dip the rag in a blood-water bucket for you to notice him. There wasn't a moment of fear or panic. He watched you gasp and then smile sweetly, standing up. "Jed! I didn't know you were coming. I would've cleaned up faster." You said, stepping closer with an aura of peace & joy. Danny looked down at your face. Blown out pupils, a gentle gaze, he could practically hear your pulse. He glanced at the body in the corner. "Oh, right." You speaking made him look back to you. "I know you complained about her, and she was already upsetting me, so I figured I could get rid of her. You already work so hard. She shouldn't be making it any worse." Your explanation was affectionate. As if you'd done him a service… And indeed you had.

"So that's why you were busy today…" Danny smiled, allowing himself to tuck you closer by the waist. He felt bubbling pride at the way you didn't hesitate to melt. "You did a wonderful job, you know that? How about I help you clean up?" He asked softly.

"Then I can reward you."

Leatherface; Thomas Hewitt (A rough-edged soft-souled partner. A protector.)

The Hewitt family was always seen as odd in the tiny town of Fuller. Luda Mae was known as a hardass and Monty certainly seemed a bit off his rocker. Charlie was seen as a jack-ass, pretty rightfully so. But the member of that family that was most rumored about, most insulted, and most disputed? Thomas Hewitt. The baby pulled out of the trash. Luda swore he was her son and would go through hell to defend him. Anyone in Fuller who knew who Thomas was had an opinion, just about every single one of them was negative. It seemed that it was just his existence to be called ugly and stupid for the rest of his life. It got a bit better when he was pulled from school at age fourteen, but the rare time that the family needed to head into town, he could hear the muttering. However, unbeknownst to Thomas, for the longest time, there was one resident who didn't view him that way. Even when you never approached him, your opinion had never changed. You'd viewed Thomas from afar for the longest time. Usually in class when you two were younger. It crushed you when he suddenly stopped showing up. You hadn't forgotten him once despite having yet to see him again. He often plagued your thoughts, even now as a young adult, working for your family. It was easier to do than trying to get a job anywhere else. Cleaning the little shop run by your father now took up a large portion of your time. The world seemed pretty dull. Keeping to yourself and day dreaming about the boy you'd never had the confidence to approach as a child.

And then, like the heavens opened up to hear you, a somewhat familiar woman wandered into the store. Ms.Hewitt. You didn't approach her right away, simply listening to her discuss what she needed from your father. You winced when your father demanded more money. Followed by Luda asking for a favor, it was all the money she had. "I'll cover the rest." You said, setting the broom against the service counter. Luda Mae blinked in awe at the sudden act of kindness and you brushed off your father's arguments. "Just give this woman the food crates, pa. It's not like they're sellin' extra well anyway." You retorted, setting some money in the register before turning to get the cart that held said crates from the back. Luda Mae found herself smiling, though it wasn't very wide, it wasn't any less genuine. "So, how we gettin' these into your truck, Ms.Hewitt?" You asked as you dragged the cart out the door. "Oh, I brought my boy Tommy. He can handle it." She explained. Unbeknownst to her, your heart began to soar.

It was then that you watched the long-lost muse to your dreams get out of the truck. He'd grown so much. At least 6'4" now, if not taller. You swallowed as you watched him saunter over, a mask covering his face. He took only a second to glance at your face before he looked down, almost ashamed. "Well, he seems like he can handle the heavy lifting, that's for sure." You commented almost playfully. It made Thomas's attention flick for a moment. "That he can." Luda replied. Finally, after years, you managed to look Thomas in the eye and give him a smile. Something you used to be so fearful of. "Nice to see you doin' well, Tommy. Missed you when ya left school." You were confident he wouldn't really remember you. Even if he had noticed the quiet kid at the back of the class, your newfound confidence almost made you seem like a new person. Still, you felt the words needed to be said.

That day made such a difference. Luda remembered you and anytime she had to make a run to town, with Thomas or not, she'd make sure to clue you in on the family happenings. News about Thomas especially. Never before had someone regarded her son with such kindness, and she was intending to try and keep it. Naturally, word got around Fuller, and you became subject to some public ridicule. Much to your father's annoyance. He took his reputation very seriously, so hearing you had been heading out to the Hewitt house didn't go over well. But, as an adult, he couldn't force you anywhere. You remained there even when Fuller's population began dwindling. Staying in the tiny house about a mile from the Hewitt home despite your family's arguing.

And when the meat plant went out of business, Thomas and Luda were insistent that "Hoyt's" idea stay in the family. That not a word of it reached you. Lest you see Thomas as a monster like everyone else. Charlie & Monty didn't care for you. Harshly opinionated and far from submissive, but Luda refused to get rid of the only person that regarded her precious Tommy with such adoration. And then one day, you showed up unexpectedly, with some canned produce you felt they could use. Staying longer than the family wanted you to. You were about to ask where Thomas was when rapid footsteps and a scream resounded from the basement. Naturally, you turned to look. A bloodied woman arising from the steps and the rev of a chainsaw. Luda felt her heart sink at what you seeing this meant, Hoyt silently rejoiced that this meant he could get rid of you. Thomas was caught off guard by the sight of you, and it gave the fleeing woman ample time to jab him in the thigh with a screwdriver.

"Damnit boy! Pay attention!" Hoyt demanded as the girl went running again. There was nothing in the way of the front door, nearly home free. Bleeding, panicked, but all she had to do was run. She'd be home free.

The sound of something swinging, a blade colliding with bone and tissue, a choking-bubbling sound, and the dripping of blood on wood floor. The house fell oddly silent as the Hewitt family looked at you. Holding an axe grabbed off the wall, the rusted blade implanted deep in the woman's skull, face rather blank. You glanced up at Thomas, then his thigh. With a gasp, you let the body drop and rushed over, disregarding the blood on his hands and the chainsaw he held. "Tommy! Goodness, that's got to hurt like hell! Here, sit down, we need to get that out and disinfected. I don't want you gettin' sick." You insisted, gently pushing him to sit in a dining room chair. Not leaving any time for the family to process what they'd watched you do as you doted over Thomas. Said man however watched you with wide eyes, some of it shock, but so much of it adoration. He'd been so afraid that you'd flee from him if you ever saw what he was doing. Yet you didn't hesitate to keep his family safe and care for him. You pecked his cheek as you got the first aid kit, his breath stuttered in response. "If you're gonna be gettin' your food this way, you're gonna need to be more careful, Tommy. I don't want to see a single drifter put their dirty hands on you again." You said as you held his face tenderly. Whether Monty or Hoyt liked it, you were very clearly staying.

The Shape; Michael Myers (A childhood friend, loyal follower. An Accomplice)

When you arrived in Haddonfield as a kid, the last thing you wanted to do was make friends as your parents so insisted. You'd moved so much and every time you were always rejected by your peers. Then your mother forced you to meet the neighbor's son. A small blond boy, only a year older, with blue eyes so dark they resembled the ocean's abyss. He was offputting and quite frankly rude. Always so blunt the few times he'd spoken. Yet somehow, the universe seemed to shove you two together more and more. Much to your dismay, you found you had far more in common with the boy than you had with anyone else. So you allowed yourself to tolerate him.

Then, with things like bullies, your mother's pressure to live up to her standards, and then your father's growing absence? He seemed to be the only thing stable enough to keep you above water. Finding it easier to cling to him, despite his growing behaviors that clearly caused concern. Overlooking things like pictures of dead animals and ultimately the admission he'd thought of killing someone. It broke you apart the Halloween he finally decided to do it. Having him dragged away from you in a cop's car, sanctioned away from society for over a decade. Not once would your mother allow you to find him, even forced you to leave Haddonfield's safety. The first town you ever genuinely settled in.

Michael's presence remained a key fixture in your life well into adulthood. Never straying from the idea that he'd come back to you. Leading you back to Haddonfield, leading a bland life, a lonesome one. Why bother knowing anyone else when they weren't him?

And then Halloween came once again. Immediately followed by bloodshed, life broadcasts of new bodies being found, the ramblings of a doctor swearing he knew who was behind it all. You'd been out at the time. Leaving a job's late shift, weaving past giddy children on the sidewalk. You loved Halloween and it always ached to experience it alone again. It was when you turned to take a shortcut that you felt the weight of a stare fall on your shoulders. One so oddly familiar and distinct. Turning revealed an impossibly tall man, broad shoulders, dressed in a stained mechanic's suit and a white mask. A bloodied knife in his hands. Fight or flight arose, steadying yourself to run, only for something particular to catch your eye. His knife. A large switchblade with a decorated handle, blue and black. One that used to settle in the hands of your best friend. "Michael?" You uttered under your breath.

He staggered when you unconsciously rose your bracelet. As if to rest if he'd remember it. And it worked, he didn't kill you. Though he certainly wasn't the Michael he was when you were kids, it didn't matter in the slightest. Despite every change, enough stayed the same to ignite the flame in your chest. You snuck him into your home, patched up wounds, and scrubbed away evidence. Managing to keep him safe under your roof even as he continued his rampage. You knew fully what he was doing. You didn't care. Not when you, out of all the people he'd killed mercilessly, you were the one allowed to wash his hair. Make him food, clean his suit, sharpen his knife. He allowed you to see his unmasked face, lean into his side with a movie playing, see the faint playful side that he swore he lost long ago.

But he was on the run, and with the continued homicides, people were bound to go poking around. One of them being a rather snoopy neighbor, a man who'd shown interest in your aloof nature. Mysterious, as he called it. He was pushy and never seemed to take a hint or a no. Hence how why he ended up in your house, allowing himself in despite your attempt to stop him at the door. Ruining a perfect night with Michael.

"You need to leave." You insisted again, gritted teeth and burning anger. "Oh relax, I'm just checking in on you! There's been a maniac going around stabbing people, you live all alone. Don't you want someone around to protect you?" It was more a statement than a genuine question. You clenched your fists and ground your teeth together. Anxiety high. Michael was still in the house, if this idiot saw him, it could mean the end of your peaceful moments with the man you'd built a life around. "I don't need anything from you. Get out." You repeated. Your neighbor scoffed a little laugh. Turning around casually. "Man, it's almost like you want to get murdered..." His voice trailed off and his shoulders tensed as his gaze fell on the Shape. Standing at the end of the hall. Mask and all. Your blood pressure rose with your adrenaline as the realization settled over your neighbor. It all went so quickly. Michael took a step forward and your neighbor turned to run. You did the same, but not for the same reason. The fool neared the front door only to be stopped by what you held in your hand. Having cut him off via using your kitchen. His throat landed right into a sharpened blade kept on the counter from dinner. Your heartbeat filled your ears as life left the man's body, sliding off the knife and falling back on the floor, face now permanently locked in a state of fear. You stood with shaky breaths and a tight grip on the knife. Slowly rising your gaze to look at Michael who stood in front of you, taking in what you'd just done. There was no guilt. He watched you take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Mikey, can you get rid of him? Far from here? I can't have the cops seeing anything like this near you..." You asked, voice a saccharine whisper. Michael raised his chin slightly before stepping forward. Like the man weighed nothing, he picked the corpse up and hoisted it over his shoulder. Your posture relaxed and you graced him with a smile. "I'll have brownies for you when you get back." This didn't change anything. He'd still have a safe place with you. No one would take him, not again. Not ever again.

The Problem Child; Bo Sinclair (An unassuming face, sadistic urges. An Actor.)

Out of all three Sinclairs, Beauregard was the one that left the most for his own wants. Lester had to leave for his job daily, but it was rare to catch him strolling through the neighboring cities just to enjoy himself. And of course, Vincent never left. Bo liked to stay in Ambrose but every once in and while it got stuffy. So heading off to a bar or small diner was what he usually did. A small moment to himself to enjoy himself. It was there that he met you. A new bartender at a small biker bar. With a shiny smile and a good sense of humor, he didn't see any reason he couldn't indulge in a bit of conversation with you. Turning up his charm and dusting away his secretive sadism. Of course, he was a little surprised when one day you wandered into town. He didn't notice until you entered his shop. He left the garage and saw you perched up on the counter, flipping through a magazine he knew he had hidden in his truck. Then again, he bought it in an average corner store, you could've just bought one of the same copy. You glanced up and gave him a smile. "Pleasure seein' you again, stranger. How's business been?" You asked charmingly. You didn't allow him to answer though. "Pretty slow probably, last person to come by was two weeks ago, yeah?" Bo blinked at the comment. It was true, but how you'd known that was beyond him. He shook it off as a fluke. "Yeah, you need somethin' done, sweetheart?" He questioned. You nodded. "Oil check and a new set of front tires. Weirdest thing happened, looks like someone jabbed at them. Crazy huh?" You replied. Bo swallowed and nodded. He mumbled something about you bringing your car around, a bit of a struggle with such low air in the back tires but you managed fine. Bo went into raising your car. He wasn't entirely sure why he was keeping up like he was actually going to fix your car. You were alone, it would've been easy to just deal with you now. Though, he supposed it wouldn't hurt keeping you alive a little longer. You were good with conversation. So, you made yourself comfortable seated on one of the tables in his garage. You kept up a conversation while flipping through that magazine, little mutterings about things that had been happening since he last showed up at the bar. As Bo went to take off your tires, propping the car up off the ground, you began speaking about the wax museum.

"It's really impressive, yeah? The entire building is wax. Not to mention in this heat? Your brother's got to be stressed trying to maintain it." You said. Bo paused and his shoulders tensed. He glanced behind him. "Pardon?" He asked, a suspicious glare falling over his face. You looked up from the crinkled pages with a calm smile. "Vincent's his name yeah? You two make quite the impressive duo, really. Gotta say though. I think your methods are a bit more favorable. Maybe that's just the gun though. Y'all been hurtin' for bases though. You can't seem to keep'em, huh? Just last week you had this pretty lil' red head so close to comin' home with ya." Your jovial tone and calm smile sent Bo on edge. Something rather difficult to do. His fist clenched around the X-wrench he held, patiently waiting for you to finish so he could just...whack you? Probably a poor plan but it was the best he had. "Honestly, I was surprised. But can't say I wasn't a lil' happy when she marched her happy ass away from you. Playin' hard to get and all? Annoying, right? Especially when I'm sure your brother could use her as a, hm, maybe a nun in the church? Or do you think she'd fit better as a cashier in the boutique?" You leaned forward a bit. Bo's eyebrow raised and his grip on the tool loosened a bit. Now more curious than on edge. You hummed at his lack of verbal response. Just then, a sound signaled from the back of your car, making Bo's gaze snap to it. He then glanced back at you with shock. You merely shrugged. "Eh, I'm sure you two can figure it out." Bo didn't respond to you as he popped the trunk. Barely conscious and bound, the redhead he'd failed to lure back to town. He looked back at you again as you picked up the magazine. "Oh, and by the way? The lock on your truck is a bit shotty on the back left door. Might wanna work on that." You added cheekily. After a moment to process everything that had just been laid out, Bo gave a little amused huff. He shut the trunk of your car and shook his head. "Darlin', you seem a bit off your rocker." He spoke. "Crazy even." You threw your hands up in mock surrender. "Only for you, big guy.~" The edge to your tone made his blood burn. He sighed and adjusted his hat. "Well if that's the case, maybe I can talk my brother into keepin' ya. After all, you've been a big help" He smirked at the way your pupils expanded. Bo was a playboy, he'd been able to charm just about anyone he wanted. But the crazier the person, the more fun it was.

[lizmaximoff]

Tom Hiddleston Filmography → Jonathan Pine ↳ The Night Manager (1.06 | Episode #1.6)

[gloomyteddybear]

the slang for journalist is vulture

oneshot

tw: emotional manipulation, guilt tripping, stalking;

roseville gazette may be bordering on yellow journalism but it was the only local press that actually went into detail of the ghostface murders, as short-staffed as it is (considering the fact that literally one guy photographed, wrote, interviewed, edited the whole beat--- maybe he used to be freelancer they managed to chain down), it was surprisingly informative on the subject matter, in other news? pun intended, it was comparatively bland in such a way that literally any other corporation would do the job.

but they don't cover the case, who the victims are, how horrific their deaths are, who are the main suspects, what are the patterns (they seemed random but oh-so meticulously planned), they only post obituaries and move on to cake recipes. to your average roseville citizen, who doesn't wish to buy another subscription, which press are they going to choose? entertainment value or a possible survival guide?

despite the short staff, they paid well and had a great newsroom, once upon a time each department had it's own working space and have little to no interruptions but due to the few people that are left--- both physically and metaphysically--- they now practically had their own private office to do as they please with the place.

though, you wished you had your own, too.

you were shadowing a guy named jed olsen, technically you were his fellow journalist. but with the few experience you had bossman decided that you two needed to 'share' an office (it felt more like jed's than anything), to "see a professional in action and get a feel for what you need to do." he said.

he's nice.

the only experience you got is as a lackey. sure, you helped, but it was minimal, he let you handle almost nothing unless under a lot of scrutiny (the guy is a perfectionist) or just flat out did everything himself, he's an over-achieving workaholic.

he was overbearing, but only in the literal by-the-letter sense, over bearing as in he puts too much on his plate.

he wasn't an asshole--- he was frustrating, sure, but he always made sure to let you sign your name in the proverbial group project, he brought coffee too (it was always a bit off from your actual taste, but you didn't want to be ungrateful) and was always nice. so, you simply did the 'seeing a professional in action' bit more than the 'get a feel for what you need to do', twiddling your thumbs as you watched him work.

were you any more lazier and/or more lacking in the empathy-good-for-lasting-healthy-relationships mindset, you'd be cheering and hollering at the opportunity.

you saw his eyebags from staying overnights, though. the faint swaying whenever he stood up, almost spilling or dropping whatever he held, rants growing more... well, affected by his lack of sleep, to put it nicely.

so, you did everything in your power to at least, somewhat share the burden, bring snacks or energy drinks, keep his desk organized just the way he liked it, stay out of his way, listen to his movie-nerd ramblings.

it was all fine and dandy--- you put a styrofoam cup on coffee on his table like clockwork--- until it wasn't.

you heard squeaky plastic get hit and fall "huh--- fuck! this?!... oh god, no... no no no! shit! shit..." he pleaded.

you leaned over to see... coffee spilled all over his photos and notes.

he blew up, face red and gritted teeth, "god, damn it. all... all those fucking sleepless nights--- the amount of crunching i did, gone! from a fucking shitty ass coffee! how the fuck am i supposed to meet the deadline! fuck!." he yanked on the longer strands of black hair in his scalp.

then he deflated, face in hands, "oh god... what am i going to do? what do i tell boss? how much is this going to affect..." he murmured

he pauses in his rant, eyes peeking through the gap of his fingers, glancing at your expression and immediately straightens up; he sighs, rubbing his arms and playing with the threads of his long sleeves, "it's fine nevermind, i should've told you that this table is wobbly. i'll- uh, i'll tell him that i... we couldn't meet the deadline, it wasn't your fault, i bit off more than i could work so... you ended up not having much to do---"

before he could continue putting fuel into another apology-fest you stopped that train of thought right in it's tracks, "wait wait--- no, you... how about you leave early today?"

"you want me to leave?!" he croaked, grip on the collar his shirt growing noose-like.

"no no! uh," you fumbled, "how about you... go get yourself a nice, deserved break huh? uh, i don't think boss would hold it against you, how about a walk? fresh air? get yourself something nice---" you crushed a bill into his loose hands, ignored his looks and pushed him out the door.

you put your hands at your hips, looked at the mess and sighed.

the wet pages were still on his desk, you carefully separate and spread them, the ones that were less likely to crumble were hanged in the developing-room. the ones that were too blurry you had to transcribe onto a neater page, the ones teared to bits were carefully jig-saw'd.

---jed didn't return, you did get some info on why during breakroom gossip, seems like he took your advice and clocked out early. funny how your schedules been reversed, the first to leave being the one to stay 'til nightfall for work they never contributed to---

pictures and notes neatly arranged all across the pages, many of those photos came varying and evolving in quality, not as in blurry or framed poorly but in what type of camera they were shot with. the drying marks and negative film pointed towards them being raw polaroids, though a few were made with instantfilm. at first, it seemed like nonsense, some type of art project in abstract figures but there was a clear pattern.

lanes fencing around a car, roads filled with a cluster of potholes, harsh angles and perspective shifts turning corners; a window peeking into someone's habitat, a spare key under varying hiding places, then a person hiding under their blanket in their sleep.

you rolled a thumb against the pad of your finger, it was weirdly slippery-- watery? that's weird... a bit stickier. is it still fresh out of the developing room?

you hear it before you no longer see it, just as you were about to investigate further, the telltale de-crescendo of all appliances losing their power and the following silence means only one thing--- the main switch is off. whoever it is, you know where they were.

don't go turn it on. trap. breathe in.

you stay put, crouching underneath a table. one minute, five, six, ten.

you round around a corner towards the fire escape--- stairs clanking with your descent, you skip a few steps, you run outside.

floodlights drenches your vision--- a voice yells your name and a wailing car horn and you instinctively scream, a door slams as a body moves to shield your eyes from the flickering headlights. a black car, in the night, of course you didn't see it in your panic, wouldn't even notice if it were parked right in front of you.

olsen comes out, he looked surprised and--- had the gall, to sound exasperated, "you were about to walk right into my car."

"wait, why are you here?" he answers with a fumbled "i can explain---"

"i told you to take a break and the first thing you do after curfew, is come back here?! i swear jed, do you want to get stabbed?!" you shriek.

'honest and easy-going my ass!'

he relaxes but still has the decency to fake a grimace, "maybe i could give you a ride home?" he offers.

"why would i need a ride? i have my own---" jed points towards the direction of your car, the excess flash of the headlights bouncing around the pavement show your slashed tires.

"i call shotgun."

"there's only one passenger aside from me and it's you."

"you don't know that, some guy tried to break in earlier--- what if they're a passenger princess with a shotgun?"

the rear-view mirror was angled oddly, reflecting only your person and not the road behind.

"good point." he agrees.

he didn't question you about the break-in.

[angelharness]

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.

[dreamofthemaidenless]

hello, my Lord! it’s snowing a lot where I live - have you ever played in the snow with Rose and Jed? Does it ever snow in the dreaming? ❄️

i have rather a difficult time with snow, actually. if you look too closely at snowflakes in your dreams you will find that many of them are, in fact, the same. my beloved nephew jedediah walker has not noticed, thankfully. last night he dreamt himself an igloo engineer. his work was spectacular. my beloved niece rose walker managed to fall asleep within her dream. impressive in its own right.

[simon-roy]

A BRIEF REMINDER:

The final order cutoff for the Image Comics edition of GRIZ GROBUS is TODAY! So if you're a comic book store owner, a independent bookstore manager, or anyone who reads comics, consider ordering the book!

What is Griz Grobus? Here, from the solicitation text:

On a distant planet, a prying scribe, a sentimental constable, and a mayor resurrect a sleepy town’s long-defunct priest-bot. But "Father Stanley" is not what he seems. Meanwhile, in another universe, a hungry wizard accidentally conjures a war-god into the body of a goose. These two intertwined tales make up GRIZ GROBUS, the hit Kickstarter graphic novel sensation now at Image Comics!

Perfect for fans of Hayao Miyazaki, Asterix, and Arthur C. Clarke, and readers 12 and up!

Arriving: June 5, 2024 Lunar Code: 0424IM239 ISBN: 9781534397866

Nice things other comics professionals have been saying about the book:

 "Griz Grobus' dual dovetailing narratives let us discover an alien world and a human heart, full of Ghibli style and the finest Tor-novella poise. The team creates a universe, and is generous enough to let us live there." —Kieron Gillen, The Wicked + The Divine, Die, Phonogram

"Rich, beautiful and very funny—one of my favorite comics. Get every book Simon makes." —Tonči Zonjić, Lobster Johnson, Who is Jake Ellis?

"Simon's worldbuilding skills are yet to be matched, but on top of that his stories are both crazy and profound!" —Carlos P. Valderrama, Giants

“It’s amazing. You won’t get a better world builder than Simon Roy. He’s taking us places and I am here for it. Do not miss this.” —Daniel Warren Johnson, Transformers, Do A Powerbomb, Wonder Woman: Dead Earth

"When Simon Roy announces a new book it's an event - and a must buy for me and anyone who loves the medium of words and pictures!!!” —Geoff Darrow, Shaolin Cowboy, Hard Boiled

“Simon Roy’s science-fiction embraces heady ideas of futurism while never forgetting for an instant the foibles and frailties of the humans that exist in it. Griz Grobus is no different—an alien world made lived-in and real by the very human characters who exist within it, where at the end of the day, a full belly is what is worth aspiring to. Another extraordinary piece of work, an addition to a growing body of modern classic science-fiction, Griz Grobus continues the trajectory that began with Habitat.” —Jed McKay, Avengers, Moon Knight, Doctor Strange

“Simon Roy has a way of making strange & alien worlds utterly charming. His world building is unique & filled with quirky characters I strangely want to eat with. AND—I really want an Elaphure.” —Ben Templesmith, 30 Days of Night

"Griz Grobus combines beautiful art and mystical storytelling with an intriguing look at humanity on a world half-alien, half-familiar. A sly and often funny take on the creation of new myths and the rediscovery of the past." —Adrian Tchaikovsky, Hugo and Nebula award winning author of the Children of Time series

"Seriously, it's the perfect kind of Ursula Le Ghibli world and I adore it. The right measure of everything from the writing to the art." —Goran Gligovic, Dagger Dagger, Company of the Eagle

PS - If any of this piques your interest, I'm also running a kickstarter campaign for the hardcover edition of REFUGIUM, - the sequel to this very book! If you or your customers enjoy Wayne Barlowe's strange creatures, or the work of Dougal Dixon, it might scratch a particular itch for you...