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unwantedshivering · 2 years

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NEW SURVIVOR

HEADCANONS of DANNY JOHNSON with a new survivor he finds attractive

WARNINGS: creepy stalking, typical danny stuff, perverse & sadistic thoughts, obsession

FOR: Ghostface ft. Dwight :]

Oh?

You suddenly dropped in one day during his trial, might he add, as though you were made for him. Disoriented, quivering and on unstable legs. It's Danny's instinct to prowl, hunt and observe, and he absolutely loves when there's new survivors — it's a new opportunity for him to see what your insides look like.

Are you terrified yet? You seem to be a bit too calm in the moment, but it was probably just setting in. Of course Dwight takes it upon himself to explain the generators to you, blah blah blah. Danny's attention is nothing more than a simple curiosity, that of a cat lazily pawing at a mouse. If you're lucky, he'll lose his curiosity quickly and your first death will be (almost) painless.

Unfortunately, you're not lucky at all. You blow a fuse on a generator, quickly disrupting the unnerving and almost faint caws of those ominous crows that seem to follow you everywhere. Dwight quickly hushes your surprised yelp, urging you to move quickly, but Danny's already behind you. His interest has been piqued, you're quite pretty when you're frightened.

To be fair, he had been behind you for quite some time. Ohh, you're easy to spook, aren't you? You're a quick learner, your fingers move diligently, but the pressure of being dropped in a game of life has you fumbling. He thinks you'd look good smeared in blood, a sweet rouge dotting your face as he watches those eyes go big and doe-like. Thinking about it gives him a small rush, and he idly twirls his knife as he stealthily slinks after you.

Dwight grabs your shoulder to make you crouch and you flinch, a sharp breath escaping your lips. Danny's own breathing falters.

He likes watching. He likes figuring out everything about the survivors, which killer they fear the most, how good they are in tough situations, how easy of prey they might be. The quiet whimpers of pain he inflicts upon them, the groans and limping, he could end it quick — but he doesn't choose to, he revels in their misery, prolongs it. All survivors have hope to escape, that's why The Entity chose them.

He loves breaking it. Of course, they'll occasionally escape through that damned gate or hatch, but when they don't it's almost artistic. He broke them down. He crushed their hopes, their small semblance of faith in leaving the hellhole they're eternally trapped in, even if it was for a single round. If he finds it particularly poetic, he'll even snap a quick photo. Danny's always been quite the romantic.

He's snapped many photos of you in the short time that he's known you. Your side profile, your smile at the awkward quip Dwight makes to ease your nervousness, all of it. Your hesitant movements and the changes in your face is something he finds charming. It's the way you're adapting even though he could practically smell the absolute horror radiating off of you, you're so fucking scared it's driving him crazy.

Danny plays with you. He wants you to be paranoid with every flash and click, every branch snapping you hear. It's amusing when you turn to his direction only to see nothing, no, he doesn't want you to see him yet. He has to get rid of that parasite sticking by your side first.

He decides then he wants you for last, like a sweet reward for his excellent trial. Yeah, he wants to see your hair disheveled and your limbs sprawled against the dirt. The Ghostface doesn't speak, none of the killers generally do, but he would whisper a description on how he'd gut you and see the realization of your predicament seep in. He wants it so badly. He wants — needs photos to commemorate the experience.

Deep down, Danny knows this is just an obsession formed over a baseless fascination. He wants to see what makes you squirm, but also you're attractive to him, so it works out for him perfectly. It also doesn't help that he believes you to be photogenic, and only The Entity knows how many survivors he would sacrifice just to see you covered in blood.

It's the pure notion of such a thing that would set him off. Are you a cryer or would you attempt to hold it in? How's your pain tolerance? Have you ever experienced such brutality and cruelness before him? Danny would love if the shimmer of your tears appeared in the photo as well as your contorted expression. These thoughts cross his mind as he hooks Jake and Feng.

Fuck.

It's getting harder to rein himself back in, but Danny is smart to know patience is a virtue. It bears fruit, beautiful fruit such as being the first killer in this endless loop to sink a knife into your side with a sick slick sound.

There was something watching you.

You felt it throughout the whole time you were in this weird dimension, your hair bristling as though there were eyes were locked onto your frame's every movement. You recounted the feeling hesitantly to Dwight as you were headed to another spot, and he pursed his lips before saying that it was most likely The Ghostface. You persisted for more answers, but he provided you none, stating most trials felt that way.

Dwight was nice, sticking by you and looking out for you as you tripped and messed up time and time again. "It's alright," he whispered, fixing up a generator skillfully. "It's your first trial, I was even worse when I got here."

It was sudden when you lost him, another blown generator and the building dread of something approaching. You ran away. You shouldn't have, Dwight even shouting after you, but you did anyway. It was too overwhelming, the fear had overtaken and your natural instinct was flight.

It had receded naturally as you left, but then the guilt had taken over. A piercing scream ripped through the air and you whipped your head around. It was him — Dwight. You should've just stayed put.

It was the moment you decided to step toward the sound to fix your mistake that an aggressive shove halted your movements, your body sent tumbling to the strangely wet soil. It was cold, dirt sticking to your hair and body, and a soft scream forced its way out of your mouth. You quickly turned over to attempt to stand, but then a dark, impeding mass of black seated itself right on your hips.

His name — you know how he got his name. The Ghostface and his startling white mask, forever in a petrified scream, your eyes were blown wide. It was one thing to hear about him and feel him, but his actual presence made your stomach churn. You thrashed and wriggled violently in hopes of forcing your way out from below him, but he kept his weight heavy upon your body, purposefully pushing his legs against your torso to cage you in.

As if to issue a warning, the Ghostface cut a slice into your thigh, and you released a silenced whimper. Stunning. You were stunning, he could analyze and study your every expression forever, maybe pry noises out of you no one else could.

Dwight's blood curdling cries worsened as the Ghostface wiped the knife he used to slash him down, head tilted and chest heaving. The exhilaration of hunting the other survivors was nothing in comparison to seeing you below him. There were clumps of filth across your face and hair, clothes ripped by the strangely sharp branches of the dead trees, your heartbeat spiking.

He could feel it. If he wanted to, he could reach down with his own two fingers and press against your thumping pulse in an oddly intimate fashion. Would you be bewildered? He wanted a picture for every face you could ever make — confused, angry, whatever.

"Has anyone done this to you before?" he asked before he could help himself, freakish mask leaning in closer to see every twitch on your visage.

Your eyebrows knitted together, he saw it. Something like that shouldn't have fascinated him as much as it did. With a shuddered breath, you spoke in a rasp. "I—I don't understand..."

Your alert eyes flickered toward his knife, and the Ghostface hummed. He smelt of cheap cologne.

"Dwight was babying you," he stated lowly, mockingly cocking his head to the side. The martyr. He bit off more than he could chew. "The nerd took it upon himself to try and save you, have your first trial be one where you survive. Isn't that fucking ironic?"

It was rhetorical, you knew it was, yet you answered anyway. "I know," you spat bitterly, turning away. It felt bad to have your own mistake be said so bluntly by a murderer of all people.

Weakly, you writhed underneath him for a chance to move, but his hold was too suffocating. Tears sprung up in your eyes. Why was this creep just watching? He didn't do much with his weapon, just kept staring with his hooded lids and breathing in your face as you struggled.

It seemed like the rise and fall of his chest quickened when that light glaze of frustration and fear appeared upon your face. He sucked in a hiss, craving to see those bewitching, translucent pearls stream down your features.

"Oh, you're a fucking cryer," he cooed. His hunting knife pressed against your cheek, the cold blade forcefully turning your head back to face his eery mask. "Look here, I need a good shot of those eyes before and after I sink my knife into that stomach of yours."

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