second installment of that one-shot (now two-shot) where ghost discovers you're serial killer too. this' the part where you hunt ghostface for sport. prepare for walls of text, i was feeling very purple-prose and romantical.
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your footsteps stopped, he flinched when you stabbed the ground with a shovel, finally content with which patch of dirt and grass you'll ruin with the impromptu funeral service.
he attempted to suffocate the sounds of his breathing with a hand, only managing to press his mask painfully to his face. he's panicking at the proximity, his crouching form adjusting---stepping on a twig. and you rise sharply like a paranoid deer, abandoning your task of digging, eyes a few inches wrong to spotting him.
then, like an owl, your body soon followed to meet the head's direction, one hand still holding a body-less limb and the other your trusty dealer. your face was expressionless as you swivel your head around--- he kneeled deeper against the ground--- and eventually dropped the carcass to the floor with a squelch, stepping towards him.
his breathing began to quicken, the muffled sound from inside his mask giving himself away for free. high and dizzy from adrenaline, his knees shake and tremble, almost ignoring the signals in his brain to run. you get a few footsteps closer, then finally, finally he ran like a good little prey.
he's reminded of that scene in snow white during her escape from the hunter; branches wrenching it's fingers into his hood and cloak, rooted legs tripping him and wooden torsos cutting him off, everything falling into place to give you the upper hand--- the forest wanted him dead, were you working together to get him killed? the goal of ridding a witness coinciding with feeding the woods; symbiosis.
his foot gets caught and he falls like a desperate bimbo in those b-grade horror movies that feels like soft-core snuff, those with the shots of them running around with gratuitously bouncing lacy-bras while covered in blood, often scrambling all-fours on their hands and knees, arched back as if they wanted to get stabbed or stuffed and mounted at a fireplace--- it reminded him of... of...
---of, brain reminding him of the few times his father took him hunting (when sober enough to fire a gun, properly): an elk stumbling about with chronic-wasting-disease; drooling despite needing all the water in it's system, brain simply too dumb and rotted to recognize human (?, you felt more than) threats. welcoming them, even.
he swallowed the saliva that escaped his lips and it tasted alkaline, mouth filled with cotton and throat heavy from running and panting. his body reacted with pure revulsion, sick with self preservation but his mind was relishing at the hunt.
when the running got to their brains, exhaustion tenderizing their muscles so that they have no choice but stay put and wait for death--- did they feel that too, the sense of fulfillment when their purpose of being prey has been granted? did the blondies present themselves bra-less for easy access to the lungs, throat and heart? did the deer give a good chase but kept their neck-up and horns pristine for display?
he felt fear but he wasn't scared. it was the tightening knot in his gut that reeled him in by the neck like a noose, it was anticipation during a scary part. the feeling of wanting to get to the next part, to see it through until the climax and the relief; tensing tensing tensing until--- pop! it burst like a distended vein, messy and satisfying. the feeling akin of scripting his next headline, blowflies fluttering around his guts in excitement, making everything picture-perfect until the story is completed as he adds the final piece that puts it all together, the crowning jewel, the cherry on top, the tippy top of the rollercoaster, the climax; and he's left with nothing but the high.
he will be your prey until he makes you feel nothing but the high as his neck tightens, tightens under your fingers.
you aimed for the throat with open hands--- lax in the way of open handcuffs, forgetting or forgoing your weapon during the thrill of the chase. crouching atop bruising ribs to further smother him, you leaned in as if to take a bite (or to be at the edge of your seat, like watching a movie), mask to bare face as you reached his cervical spine through his skin.
you looked as if you were to hum in contentedness, pupils looking as if you went day-drinking with his father and swirling around his twitching form like a tongue savoring wine. no need to forsake the screaming mask if it already shows what is underneath, even if you wanted to see, the skin of his neck was such a lovely shade of asphyxiation.
his eyes rolled to his skull, your happy face blotted with tears and dark spots, he could feel himself grow hotter like cut circulation or hypothermia, body writhing with the lack of air as it escaped him through strangled moans from his closed up throat.
you murmur something loving, not towards him; god no, why would you? but how he oh-so wished it was.
he sees fireworks in the back of his eyes, one of his gloved hands grabbing at the grassy earth below and ripping up the vegetation in his haze and the other holding your wrist closer. his sounds came out louder, more frantic, just a little more.
constricting tightening strangling until---! you let go and air invades his lungs as he gasps and chokes like a man in an oasis gorging himself on water.
he rolls over and you let him, catching his breath and composure, he feels the flat of your weapon scrape his back, poking him through layers of clothing; making him aware of a head start as you begin to count down, he gasps again and starts with a crawl, that becomes a limp that becomes walking and then a full sprint like before.
he has been on a near-death situation but he couldn't feel more alive.
it's almost morning, he can see the flayed-pink begin it's ascent slowly in the horizon lighting his path once again, the sounds of wildlife returning.
he sees the black smudge of his car parked ways ahead of him and he feels his body slowly give out, adrenaline crashing down and exhaustion sink deep to the marrow.
he steps where moss and weed meets the gravel road, his paranoia turns his back for him and is greeted with the sight of you.
you're standing still underneath the gaps where sunlight doesn't reach, beneath the foliage of the trees, waving him see-you-soon's. you're not a sore loser, but still competitive enough to begin a rematch when you cross paths again.
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i'm debating if i should add M cause it's kinda obvious he popped a fear/adrenaline boner and also the amount of double meanings i added, but eh lmk.
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Saccharin『 yandere o.shots』(Requests: OPEN)
ספרות חובביםself explanatory. more info in first chap +lower case
