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misericordia-writing · 1 year

Text

Lightning Bugs

"𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙜𝙤 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚, 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙩𝙤 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙙-𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙨𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚.

𝙎𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮, 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙮, 𝘿𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙡 𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙’𝙫𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨."

Chapter 1 of Matchbook

Pairings: Danny Johnson/Gender-Neutral Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Angst, Fluff

Summary: A character exploration of Danny. I've noticed most fics make him super funny and sardonic, and while I love that, I imagine I'd have huge moral qualms about dating a serial killer. So I wrote this. Not particularly dark, but depressing? I don't know. I’m sorting things out. Probably super OOC. Enjoy.

TW for canon-typical violence, implications of mental illness, and unhealthy relationships/power imbalance (naturally)

Ao3: s://archiveofourown.org/works/45585013/chapters/114704077

"I hate that you're right."

The words come out quietly one night, while you're sitting on a muggy balcony that smells like cigarettes and acetone. The green-gray haze of Floridian night swamping you in swaths of gnats, only gently dissuaded by a mesh screen.

A streetlamp flickers and dulls, the painted metal cart of a dollar store clinks against its siblings, and an old man sputters and coughs up into his shirt collar.

"About what?"

"About people. Humanity. Life. Society. That type of stuff." You say, balancing a bottle of black nail polish on your thigh while you try to paint your toes. "How it's just primal violence. You're pretty much right."

He doesn't respond. Normally, you wouldn’t be allowed to talk about this stuff so openly, outside, where a neighbor could hear you. But everyone is busy tonight. You’re not too surprised that he’s memorized their schedules. Furtively scratching pens into notebooks almost every single second that he’s not busy playing out stories. Too enamored to eat or sleep or wash the dishes. ‘That’s one of the reasons I keep you around,’ he had said, in partial jest, as if you were his mid-century housewife.

"Listen, I'm not just sucking up to you like some chick in a horror movie, trying to persuade the killer that she's on his side. As applicable as that may be. You're right. Genuinely."

"I thought you were into all of that spirituality stuff. Being good. Reaching nirvana and donating to the thrift store." He mutters, methodically scraping the debris of last night out from under his nails. Jed has work tomorrow.

Jed Olsen is who you signed up for, back when you were still a recent college graduate, finally having gotten to the 'good' part of your life. Feeling hopeful, cheery even. Watering your plants, picking up dandelions off the side of the road, smiling at strangers. Saving up to buy a nice house someday, with a garden and personal study. Somewhere you could bake in, read in, live in. Maybe even find someone to share it with.

‘You were just so sweet,’ He said one time, while you were in his car. He had locked the doors and told you that he just couldn’t trust you that much, yet. But soon.

‘Always so withdrawn, cautious. But sweet. Barely able to deal with playing nice to co-workers, but then turning your back and smiling at weeds in the cracks of a sidewalk. Surprising, considering the way you dress. All rock n’ roll, usually. Black looks good on you. That scraped-up Walkman attached to your hip. Diverse taste. I mean, the way you seamlessly went from Bauhaus to Blondie in the span of an hour was truly something.’ Sip.

‘All while performing an elaborate routine in your bedroom- complete with costume changes and a hairbrush microphone. You really could be a rockstar, sweetheart. Too bad though, I don’t think that’ll happen. Maybe in your next life.’

He paused to look at his milkshake, then dipped a fry in it. ‘Different- odd and unusual, but not in the predicable early-twenty-year old way I see a lot. Talking to the spiders you would find in your room, politely asking them to leave. So observant and smart. But ultimately, I guess you just weren’t observant or smart enough, were you?’ He barked out a laugh, triumphantly.

He was so charming, the way he would stop by your job before work. Monday through Friday. Pretending to think for a minute, before ordering the exact same coffee as he always did. Coincidentally loving the same books, talking with you about the new episode of a sitcom you had been watching the night before. Handsome, and only a few years older, with a degree from a similar program to yours under his belt. Good reputation, wonderful penmanship. Enthusiastic, kind- but with a quick wit.

He made you feel special- which, apparently, you were. Just not in the way you’d think.

"I am, still." You sigh, painting, the brush spreading smooth inky black across keratin. A drop of paint drips onto the skin of your foot.

You scrape it away with the back of your fingernail and quickly dab it to a folded paper towel.

"Danny." You say, looking at him. "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

He tsks, as if the question offends him. "You really want me to be the judge on ethics? Are you forgetting who I am? What I do?" A gravelly punch dips the last syllable of each sentence, almost like a growl.

"No," You say, "I'm just asking. Besides, I thought you thought you were right? Do you think that your actions are ethical? By your logic, that we are all inherently violent and terrible, then you wouldn't be evil for acting on that. My beliefs lie somewhere in the middle. Just curious."

He pauses, dark eyes looking down into the parking lot. The man is gone, and the cart is pushed neatly back into its place.

Sweltering heat. He smells like detergent, the good middle-of-the-road kind. Sticky notes. Cologne. Sweat. Iron.

"No."

You frown, looking down through the mesh as well. Lightning bugs light up the brush at the edge of the apartment complex. “Fireflies!” You say, with childish glee. You almost forget the crushing guilt for a minute, beaming down at the glowing shrubs.

You’re eight again, bare feet padding through wet grass, trying to catch them in a jar. Somebody is having a barbeque, and you’re going to go to bed tired and happy tonight, with a dozen itchy mosquito bites down your legs.

You wonder what eight-year-old you would think about this situation. You wish you could go back in time, tell yourself to never move to this god-forsaken red state.

Surely, that way, Daniel Johnson would’ve never stumbled into your life, staining you with the blood on his hands.

He still doesn’t say anything, other than a hum, so you sit back down. Finishing the last coat of paint on your smallest toe.

The plastic weaving of the chair digs into the backs of your thighs, and you set the polish back down on the accent table. The thermometer reads 85 degrees Fahrenheit.

“I hate myself.” You say, feeling every bitter moment and truth from your past bubble up at once. Every scrape, burn, and cut. “I don’t understand why you do what you do. It makes me feel guilty for you. Like I’m the one doing those things. Am I not just as bad? I don't try to stop you. I should.”

You often feel that Danny’s twenty steps ahead of you. Just waiting for the right moment. Chess and checkers.

A bead of sweat rolls down your back, the tank top you wear doing little to reduce the humidity. You stand up and walk to stand in front of him. “But yet here I am. I’m still surprised you haven’t killed me yet. You said you were going to. Why not?”

“I probably will when the time is right." He looks up at you for a moment, pausing before looking back at the sky.

"If it makes you feel any better, you don’t really have a choice in what I do, or a choice in being involved with me… I would find my way in, in any situation. This is probably just some type of Stockholm syndrome kicking in. So you survive. Fun, right? Your brain and body are doing the best they can to cope with the reality. Of your situation. Of how you feel about me. Really, you’re lucky. You think all of the others wouldn't have taken this opportunity? Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

He swats a mosquito nonchalantly.

“Yeah, I guess so.” You say, sitting down at the foot of his lawn chair. “Do you care about me?”

“A little bit.” He says, gaze off to the side. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

You laugh, though you aren’t sure if he was trying to be funny. Not that it was very funny in the first place.

“For the record,” He says, “You’ve made it longer than anyone else has. Normally I lose interest. I’m not done watching you yet. I don’t know if I want to end your story. It’s my favorite.”

“Well, if I’m nothing else, at least I’m a serial killer’s favorite 'story'.” You roll your eyes, but there isn’t too much sarcasm behind it.

“You make me feel the way I feel when I kill, sometimes. I don’t know if I love you, because I don’t really believe in that stuff. But I like you more than most things.” He says, fingers reaching out to twirl a lock of your hair.

The same fingers that dig knives into people and then snap pictures of it after. That rip intestines out and turn them into party streamers. The same fingers that would’ve done the same thing to you, too. That still might.

That fantasize about it, twitching sometimes when you turn your back. Itching to grab you by the throat and finally write a conclusion. Aching to make you a headline.

Fingers that move down to your neck now, feeling the red pulse of your blood. Padding up to the side of your face and wiping a welling tear away from the corner of your eye.

Fingers that have held your hair back when you puked, and gripped your hand firmly in public when you can’t find the clarity to process all the different sounds of a supermarket. Let you pick out your favorite candy at the video store, made popcorn with you on the stove.

Pressed your favorite VHS into the player for the third time that week, not because he found it particularly groundbreaking, but because you couldn’t get out of bed to wash your hair or eat, and that stupid movie was- for whatever reason- the only thing capable of distracting you from the thought of pink-red water slotting down the drain of his porcelain white bathtub.

“I feel that way too, sometimes.” You rasp. “Minus the whole killing people part. I don’t know if it exists. Love. At least, not as the thing people say it is. Really relates back to the animalistic nature thing, right? Do animals feel ‘love’? We are animals. I’ve felt things like love, but never what I’m supposed to. I wish I knew. Snakes like warm rocks. Do they love warm rocks?”

“You’re probably never going to know.” He says, bluntly, nails scratching at your scalp. You wonder if he's only doing it to get the last flakes of dried blood out. You imagine little beams coming from his fingers, wiggling into your brain and picking out all of your synapses. Mapping your psyche.

He probably would if he could, but then he might get bored and gut you for his collage.

“Yeah,” You sigh, “I know. But… I love you. The closest to love I think I can.”

“I know.” On anybody else, it would sound almost pitying.

You know that even if he loved you, he would never say it. The words will not leave his mouth. But you feel loved. The way that he touches you, the way he presses against your back sometimes, in the middle of dark, foggy nights. Covers kicked off the bed, and a face pressed into your neck. Him keeping a box of special pictures under the bed, just of you, that you don’t think he knows you know about- but maybe he knows that you know. Some of them from before you even met. Almost all of them when you weren’t looking.

And later that night, when you’ve locked the screen door, and he’s meticulously arranged his piles of papers, looked through his hastily (passionately) scrawled designs one more time, and finished the laundry, you two lay down in the bed. As the moonlight streams down onto his face, dark hair reflecting its soft glow, you sigh. A hand reaches out to stroke his neck, and you wonder again why he does the things he does. He lets you. You can feel the heartbeat in his throat.

Danny hates when he falls asleep before you, but you like it. So rarely do you get to see him off-guard- innocent and peaceful, brows finally unknitted. The little scar on his forehead that he keeps covered. The slow rise and fall of his stomach against you, occasionally an upper arm tensing over your shoulder. The way he rests his face in your hair, or the crook of your neck.

Surprisingly cuddly, for a ruthless, taunting killer, who you know for a fact has slaughtered more than enough people to fill the floor-plan of your shared apartment, probably, if you laid them down flat.

‘Thirty-two,’ he’d grinned, proud of himself. ‘Not many others can say the same, can they?’

You grimaced. ‘No, I suppose not.'

Your stomach churns again, before you drift off. You dream about fireflies and going to prison. People screaming and swimming in a pink-red bathtub. Sometimes you think it would be easier if he had just killed you the way he planned. Maybe you wouldn’t feel so guilty for being alive, then.

If you could go back in time, you would fix him. You like to tell yourself that, sometimes. That you could change his outcome, and the fates of dozens of others as well. You would treat him right, never let the sickness twist his mind. Stop his father from planting a seed of despair and overwhelming hatred in his heart. Let him be ignorant and happy, watch the news. Not make the news.

Maybe you would have a nice house together, if it were Jed, and you could make lemonade and watch fireworks together. Kiss him on the cheek and watch him smile. Have deep conversations that take all night, but never reach past the abstract and theoretical, into the realm of reality. Be normal. You were foolish to ever wish for anything other than normal. You would kill to have normal, now. To live without the churning in your stomach.

You really should be more careful what you wish for.

#danny johnson #ghost face #dbd ghostface #danny jed olsen johnson #danny jed olsen johnson x reader #danny johnson x you #danny johnson x reader #dbd x reader #dbd x you #danny johnson x gn reader #ghostface x reader #angst #fluff #matchbook

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misericordia-writing · 1 year

Text

First Meet

“Honestly, sweets, I can’t believe the lack of hospitality you’ve displayed to me tonight. Is that any way to treat your biggest fan?” He huffs, clicking his tongue. “And to think, I was just trying to make sure you were safe. Don’t you know? There’s a killer on the loose, babe.”

Chapter 3 of Matchbook

Pairings: Danny “Jed Olsen” Johnson | The Ghost Face/Gender-Neutral Reader

Word Count: 400

Summary: Reader's 'first' encounter with the Ghost Face. ~1.7k words.

TW for canon-typical violence, threats of murder, descriptions of murder

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45585013/chapters/114940360

The breath catches in your throat, and you feel like the wind has been knocked out of you with the force of a hurricane. Elevated from a normal panic attack, you are frozen. The tightening muscles in your legs are telling you to run until they give out, coiled so tight you fear they might snap if you don’t move, but your brain is pulling you to stand tensely in your spot, feet firmly planted- you can barely process the sight before you, eyes still foggy and blurred with sleep.

The specter sits before you, one hand loosely holding a glass of water, and the other lazily folding a newspaper. As if you’d interrupted his morning coffee or something. One leg crossed over the other, a faint smattering of blood splattered over his ivory mask, rain dripping from his clothes.

Thunder roars outside, and you hear the taps of precipitation knocking at your windows and roof- aside from the ajar one at the end of the hallway, blowing in your curtains with a frantic breeze, as if its open, screaming mouth is warning you of the predator in your midst.

You’ve seen him before, in security photos pasted onto every single newspaper and channel across the country, and especially, across your small town. Bile rises in your throat as you recall the details of his killings- corpses mutilated and defiled, intestines and spleens scattered across rugs. Taunting notes written in blood or ballpoint. You’ve seen things others haven’t, autopsy pictures, crime scene photos - perks (debatably) of dating a reporter, you suppose.

You snap out of it, unlocking from your momentary trance of horror-stricken eye contact with the figure. You bolt to the front door, desperately wiggling at the deadbolt (which really was supposed to do a better job at keeping things like this from happening.) You scream out for help, raggedly, hoping that a neighbor might hear you and call the cops.

Before you can get the second plea out, a body crashes against yours with a thump, and you feel your ribs flare up with pain as a hand grips over your mouth.

“Shut up,” He hisses, “Shut up, or I’ll rip your tongue out!” The man brandishes a knife to your throat, the blade gleaming and flecked with deep mahogany- looking eager itself to make the threat a promise.

You can feel the rumble of his chest behind you, every wire in both of your bodies fraught with tension and ready to strike. You freeze like a rat, clasped deep in the jaws of a snake, though its fangs haven’t quite penetrated into you yet, delivering a final dosage of venom. You distantly think of Jed, and are glad he isn’t here. You don’t want him to die, too.

Hot tears stream down your face, onto rough black gloves, and you nod violently, eyes squeezed shut with fear, pain, and defeat.

He drags you back, shoving you down onto the kitchen floor. “Stay. And don’t go screaming your head off again, or I’ll chop it off.” He holds his knife up in the air, imitating a crude gesture of hand-guillotining you, and you sit there in pure terror, eyes wide and hair completely disheveled. He sighs, shaking his head, circling around you like a shark.

You quiver, sniffling up at him, afraid to speak and say something that angers him, but you’re overwhelmingly confused. “What?”

“Oh, I’ve been watching you for months. I know where you work, where you live- obviously… What time you go to bed, what you order at that restaurant by the park, your hometown… Pretty much everything. I probably know you better than you do yourself.” He says cheekily, and you can almost feel his expression from behind that mask, as he puts a hand on his hip.

Your eyes dart around, hardly listening to him, trying to identify a way out. You glare up at him, mustering your toughest façade. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Kill you?” He says, planting his hand on his chest, clutching an invisible string of pearls like an aghast southern belle. “Of course not. At least buy me some dinner first, before you start getting all intimate. Forward much?” He tsks, crouching down in front of you.

“I’ll admit, I’ve been entertaining the idea, especially with that attitude you’ve caught,” He growls out, before returning to a normal cadence. “But I’d like us to get to know each other first, wouldn’t you agree? Why rush to the main course? I’ve got time to waste. The better you behave-“ He says, emphasizing it with a grab and pull to your hair, yanking your head around with a steely grip, delighting in watching the way tears well up in your already puffy eyes, “The longer you live. Unless, of course, I get bored.”

He releases you, drawing in close to your face, like he is about to let you in on a secret. “You see, I was just getting back from a little rendezvous with a nice lady… Works- or, worked,” He corrects, “For a law firm, two kids, slacker husband. Well, the kids were at their aunt’s house up north for the weekend, and so I took the opportunity.” He imitates a creeping motion, “Went right in there, and-“ He slams his fist into his hand- “BAM! Waited until right after she sprung the divorce papers on him. Then I divorced them both… each and every limb.” You shake, crying out, gut twisting with disgust. He laughs, a wicked, wretched thing, and stands back up, wiping a tear from the empty black abyss of the mask’s eyes. You curse him with anguish. “How could you do that? They have kids!” You grab your face, pulling down. “Those poor children will grow up without a mother! Do you know what that’s like?” You stand up, balling your hands into fists, leaning down to the kitchen counter and cradling your head in your hands. “You’re a terrible person!” You say, glaring up at him.

He stands there, posture unreadable, before tapping his hands on the table, moving to pick up the newspaper. You stare, quizzically, as he folds it open and begins to read. “’Ghost Face, Caught on Tape- In this footage, a dark figure is seen entering a house late at night… Lock your doors: a Killer is in our midst, roaming freely, like a ghost in the night…’” He trails off, chuckling.

“Your boyfriend must have had a word count to meet, huh? But hey, I couldn’t have put it better myself. ‘Ghost in the night’… So poetic.” He imitates a swoon, fanning himself with the paper. “You think he’s got the hots for me? Seems like he spends more time thinking about me than he does you.”

You tremor, knitting your brows. He starts, “As a matter of fact, I’ve been meaning to pay old Jed a visit. What should I bring? Is he more of a wine or liquor person? Seems like a wine guy…” He taps his knife at the bottom of his mask, in pseudo-pondering. “How would he feel if the articles were about him? I could make him the next headline- ‘Overzealous Pain-In-The-Ass Reporter gets his Guts Rearranged by the Roseville Ghost in Stunning Live-Action Game of Operation’?”

No!” You say, a cold sweat breaking out. “Don’t! Please, I’ll do anything! He’s an innocent person!” You’re so angry, fuming, but it’s overtaken by a helplessness. You can’t physically overpower him, you can’t mentally overpower him- all you can do is beg, like a broken prayer.

“Relax, I’m still in the planning phase. I’ve barely even began to draft the two of your stories… So hang loose,” He says, mocking you with the carefree hand gesture in the face of the most tragic encounter in your life.

“You’re sick,” you say, shoulders tense. He swoops in, suddenly, backing you against the counter, trapping you. He laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t put yourself above it, sweetheart. I’ve seen the way you can be sometimes. You act like you’re incapable of it…” He leans in further, the mask pressed against your ear. “But I bet you’d secretly like to try it, wouldn’t you? Just once?”

You try and push him off, appalled. “No, I’d never. I’m not… I’m not like you! I would only kill people who really deserve it, and only if I had to! Not random people, and certainly not just for fun!” You knit your brows and struggle in his grip.

“Sure,” he says, twirling his knife and backing up. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, doll.” You immediately move to the other side of the kitchen, staring at him quietly. He stares back, before tilting his head.

“Well,” he sighs, “I’d best be on my way. Places to go, people to meet, things to see. I’m a busy guy.” He stalks towards you, and you flinch back, but stay put. He draws a hand into and out of his cloak, placing a small square into your hand. You look up at him, puzzled, but unmoving.

“A token of my affection,” He says, before silently making his exit, slipping out the window.

The thunder has stopped, and the rain is reduced to the occasional mist. You hurriedly shut and lock the window, then make your way around the apartment, double checking every single one, drawing blinds.

You sit down at the table, looking at the little flat shape wrapped in brown paper. You don’t want to open it, but curiosity gets the better of you. You hastily unwrap it, and almost seconds later, find yourself running to the trash can to vomit.

#danny johnson x reader #danny jed olsen johnson x reader #danny johnson x you #dbd x you #dbd x reader #ghostface x reader #ghostface x you #matchbook

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