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Legion (Joey) x Reader

just this once tw’s: kidnapping ? sort of lol, strong language

“Scarlet!” Comes your desperate wail, climbing over snowflakes and frigid wind only to be swallowed up by the ghost town that was Mount Ormond, “where are you?”

In a ballsy show of defiance, your little sister had made a secret escape into the fog after you turned her down for the fifth time to venture outside of camp.

“Why not?” She had demanded with a stomp of her foot, fists balled by her sides. “We already know we can’t be hurt outside of trials. What’s the harm in a little adventure?”

“Because we can’t know for sure,” You warn her sternly, not even bothering to cast her a glance. Your hard gaze focused on the fire you were too busy stoking. “We don’t know what’s out there.”

Thinking that was the end of the argument, you allowed Scarlet to stomp away in a huff of pre-teen angst, telling yourself that she would eventually cool off and forget about it. To your sheer terror, she was not waiting for you in the tent when you came to console her ten minutes later, not being able to stand the guilt that began to fester inside of you.

She was just a kid. Of course she would want to explore—she endured horrors in the trials no child, no person, should ever have to go through. She probably just needed some sort of outlet, some form of escape from the day to day monstrosities that your group fought against. You felt awful for not even trying to soften your approach.

But you swore, once you found her—you were going to rip her to pieces.

“Scarlet!” You cry again, arms curled protectively around your middle to shield against the cold. A shimmer of hair resembling your own whipped around the corner of an old ski lodge, your footfalls quickening to a light trot once you noticed. “Scarlet, I swear I’m going to kick your a—“

Your threat quickly dies in your throat as you round the building, finding your little sister hiding behind the figure of a man that struck terror in your heart.

A Legion member.

“Scarlet,” You don’t take your eyes off of him, voice wavering, “run away, now.”

“Why should I?” She sneers. “I’m fine right here.”

You want to cry.

You don’t know his name, but you recognize his all-black outfit immediately. Dark paint is smeared around his eyes resembling that of a mask—another form of hiding his true intentions behind a veil.

He gives you a once-over before speaking, “I didn’t do anything to her.”

Yet, you want to say, but instead purse your lips. “What do you want from her?”

The bastard has the gall to raise a brow quizzically at you. “Nothing,” He says. “She was all by herself out here when I found her. Not very responsible of you, might I add.” Your blood boils at that.

“Great, thanks for the input, asshole,” You hiss, voice thick with venom. “Why don’t you go and fuck off now? Don’t you have things to murder?” The way his brow comes back down and knits together with the other one tells you that you struck a nerve this time. You almost smirk in satisfaction.

“He’s not a murderer,” Scarlet defends almost immediately, stepping out from behind his legs. “Joey and I were just about to have a snowball fight.”

“Joey?” You bark out in disbelief. “You’re getting all buddy-buddy with the enemy now?”

“He’s my friend,” Scarlet growls back, going a step further to forcibly grab his hand. You’re ready to come to her rescue at that moment, but “Joey” doesn’t even flinch. He just looks down at her with an unreadable expression.

“Scarlet,” You try again, starting to lose patience with her, “seriously. Come back with me, now.”

“Or else what? You’ll put me in time out in the tent?”

That did it.

“Fine!” You snap, throwing your arms up in exasperation. “Fine. You want to be killed? Be my guest. Don’t come crying to me when he puts you on a fucking meat hook.”

You spin around after that, stomping away back to camp before the feeling of being hit by something cold stops you in your tracks. You turn your head, snow falling from your shoulders as you stare your little sister dead in the eyes.

“Beat us in a snowball fight and I’ll go back with you,” She wagers, already packing another one. Before you can tell her “no”, she hurls the next throw at you, causing you to ungracefully dodge out of the way and fall on your ass. Joey lets out a snicker, smirking at you as your icy gaze locks onto him. As if sensing your apprehension, he holds his hands up in a display of surrender.

“You heard her. You win, she goes back with you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You stay here with us.” At your unsure frown, he rolls his eyes. “Not forever, obviously. A trial will pull you both away sooner or later.” You look back at Scarlet before taking a deep breath, standing to your feet.

“You’re on.”

Three missed throws, rosy red cheeks and five successful hits later, you’re down to your final match with Scarlet and Joey until either you or they win. And, as much as you hated to admit it, you’re having fun.

You’re out of breath and your heart is pounding from excitement rather than fear just like it used to years ago when you were a kid, and you can’t help but smile every time you peek around the corner to see Scarlet grinning wildly at Joey because he scored a hit for their team. The fucker had good aim.

It was like you were transported from this world back to your own for a few blissful minutes, no longer survivors running for your lives from bloodthirsty monsters but rather people having good old fun in the snow. The burden of trying to figure out how you were going to keep your little sister (and yourself) alive seemed to melt away all but for this moment.

As you peer around your shelter to get a good visual on where Scarlet was, your smile quickly gives way to that of a frown when you don’t spot either her or Joey hiding behind their snow mound. Fear immediately seizes your heart, but you give it a minute. Then two. Then three.

“Scarlet?” You call out nervously, spying no signs of movement. Silence brings you out from behind your hiding place. “Scar?” You start to panic. “Scarlet, answer—“

Cold, cold cold cold sensations steal your words away, a scream coming out instead as snow is incessantly dumped down your clothes. You try to jump away, arms flailing and making contact with your assailant who ends up falling with you—and on top of you.

“Son of a bitch!” You wheeze, eyes opening wide to that of Joey’s face right above yours. You immediately seize up, heart skipping a beat at the close proximity of the killer. It definitely wasn’t because of his boyish, charming white smile that made the sun behind his curly black locks brighten tenfold.

Laughter rings in your ears, and it takes a second to register that it’s coming from him.

It’s husky, hearty, and full of life. Not the usual sadistic, maniacal cackled that turned your blood to ice as it boomed behind you during a wild chase. It makes him surprisingly… human.

The next sound to process in your brain is Scarlet’s laughter; wheezy, and utterly amused at your reaction to being mowed down.

“Oh man!” She wipes a tear from her eye. “Your face looked so stupid, dude!”

Despite the remark, you can’t help but puff out an eased sigh. You were glad to have your sister back.

Joey pulls himself off of you, surprising you further by offering his hand to help you stand. You eye it warily, next searching his face for a beat before tentatively accepting the gesture. You’re on your feet in one fell swoop, disconnecting your hands the moment you’re steady.

“Well,” You clear your throat, “I guess that means you beat me, huh?”

“Oh fuck yeah it does,” Scarlet grins. You glare disapprovingly, but decide to ignore her foul language by rolling your eyes.

“So then… what now?”

Scarlet’s face falls, and she suddenly hangs her head. “Actually, I.. want to go back to camp,” She says, which surprises you. “It’s getting darker, and I just want to be back by the fire…”

You want to be mad—want to yell at her all over again for bringing you all the way out here just to go back, but a hand on your shoulder has you jerking your chin towards Joey. He fixes you with a look that is all-too-easy for you to read and understand, and you sigh, shrugging it off before placing your own hand on Scarlet’s shoulder. She looks up at you with sad, vulnerable eyes, and your resolve crumbles.

“Okay, let’s go,” You agree, then pause. “Race back?”

Something unreadable flashes across her face, and then she swats your hand away. “Pssh, I’m not five. I’ll walk back,” She harrumphs, pushing past you to high-five her teammate who chuckles endearingly. “Bye, Joey.”

“Seeya, kid,” He rasps, then focuses his eyes on you.

You can’t help the way your muscles contract and squeeze, expecting the assailant to lash out at any moment; to flash an evil smile, to brandish the knife he’s been hiding the entire time just waiting for the perfect time to drive it far between your ribcage until it crunches and twists your innards. But it never comes.

No words come to you, either. You don’t know if you should thank him—don’t know if you want to thank him—or if you should simply dismiss yourself and catch up to Scarlet. You opt for the latter, wordlessly stepping around Joey and trotting backwards before bounding after Scarlet.

He watches you go, the sun finally dipping beneath the trees, taking the last moments of daylight with it. Sighing, Joey pulls his mask from his jacket pocket, burning holes of hatred through the cutouts. Still, he puts it on and makes his way up the mountain; heeding the call of the Entity as the familiar pull of a trial gnaws at his bones, demanding to be reckoned with.

He just hoped it wasn’t one with you.

♡ Hello there ♡

Coming in to politely ask if you'd be happy doing a request for Legion (of the Frank variant please). 100% fine with creative liberties, but I'd adore a story following along the lines of the reader being an old flame before he ended up in the fog, and he is delighting in being a general nuisance for old times sakes. Why be nice and romantic when you can be a pain ♡

ALSO! All the best to you, your writing is really cool from what I've read, and I'm hyped you opened up requests ♡♡♡

h-HI *VIBRATING UNCONTROLLABLY* KSKSKSKDJ

YES ABSOLUTELY <33333 i love the dynamic, hehehehehheehhe

THANK YOU SO MUCH btw ;;A;; it makes my day / makes me want to write more when I hear things like this !! I really appreciate it <3

Legion (Frank) x Reader

ghosts of the future notes: soulmate au, legion members are 18+ at time of disappearance and during reader’s interactions w/ them before the fog tw’s: frank is an ass, strong language, canon typical violence & maybe some torture ?

What would it take to find out what happened to Frank Morrison?

That would be your question for the next two years after his disappearance along with his friends (if you could even call them that—they mostly just followed him around like deranged cult members… but, then again, they were your friends, too). The fucker left you with far too many questions, an unforgiving anger, and the tragic mark of a soulmate.

Yes, Frank was your soulmate—it was proven by the unsuspecting fingerprints wrapped around your wrist in an attempt to grab you during one of your more violent moments of roughhousing. It left Frank speechless, for once; meanwhile, you went berserk. Julie was his girlfriend, not you—you were just some bonus lackey with far too much time on your lonely hands and a concerning obsession with crime.

You avoided him and the Legion for days; only coming into contact with Frank when he approached you one night, alone and seemingly troubled.

“We’re finally doing it,” Frank muttered with his hands in his pockets, masked face turned away from you. “Making a name for ourselves. It’s happening tonight.”

“Good for you,” You barked out bitterly, arms crossed as you stood uneasily in your living room. “I won’t bail you out if you guys get caught.”

“Come with us,” Frank offered after a beat of silence, finally facing you with an outstretched hand. Just looking at it made you shudder—made you want to run and hide. He seemed to sense your discomfort and pocketed his hands instead, straightening himself out before you.

“I—“ You shifted, glancing away warily. “I can’t.” Frank seems to pick up on the double meaning, huffing in irritation.

“Look, Toots. Just because we’re marked or whatever doesn’t mean we haf’ta act like strangers or nothin—“

“I don’t care!” You had snapped, baring your teeth like a caged animal. “Maybe it doesn’t mean that much to you, Frank, but it does to me.” He doesn’t respond. You curl in on yourself even tighter and turn your back to him. “So just—just go.”

You didn’t mean for him to take it literally. He left you alone after that, going so far as to vanish seemingly from existence after the uncovering of a janitor’s dead body just a few days later.

But you wouldn’t let him get away that easily.

The stubborn fire that kept you alive this long coaxed into you following Frank’s trail, leading you down the same path that ended up with blood on your hands. The fog came shortly after. And when it did, you were still the one hunting. Hunting answers, hunting a hunch, hunting feelings that wouldn’t go away.

The trials were easy. You simply had to slash, stab, and destroy through them until the fog returned you to the same decrepit building that quickly became home; and, the place that you continued your search.

“Still obsessing over lover boy, hmm?” A sickly sweet voice purrs from behind, stirring you from your pondering. You barely flinch.

“What do you want, Danny?” You sigh, removing your mask to rub at your face in exhaustion.

“What, I can’t visit my favorite psycho?” He chirps playfully, fiddling with the decaying photo of you and the Legion from where he sits in the dark. You swipe it from his grubby little hands with a look that could kill. “Easy, tiger,” The masked murderer lifts his hands in mock defense. “I was just looking.”

“Yeah, well, could you not?” You groan, hunching over various notes splayed out messily on a desk. “I’m trying to concentrate.” You feel his stare on your back, the sensation louder than the silence that follows.

“You know, I could just show you where he and his puppets hang out.” The way you turn around and stare at Danny is almost comedic.

“What?” You seethe out after a moment, bones popping from how tight you ball your hands into fists. “You mean you knew where he was this whole time and said nothing?” Danny shrugs.

“You never asked.”

The urge to strangle someone was never stronger than in that moment, and you told Danny as much. He just smiles coyly from behind the mask.

When you arrive at Mount Ormond, the numbing cold is a welcomed sensation as freezing winds nip at your skin. Anything to distract you from the nerves that ate at your insides like maggots feasting on a corpse.

The instructions Danny gave you were simple enough, and even though the drawing of the cabin where the Legion supposedly camped out in was utter shit, you found yourself on the doorstep of a to-be reunion with your old mates. It felt way too formal to knock; so you fell into the familiar habit of entering unannounced, climbing through a second-story window that was left unlocked after discovering that the front door wouldn’t budge. Typical.

Tiptoeing through an unwelcoming room consisting of one worn-out couch and a busted TV, the telltale mark of a Legion mask—Susie’s, from the looks of it—resting on a torn cushion has your heart lifting as your fingers stretch to brush against it. They really were here. You swallow thickly.

“Susie?” You find yourself calling out, stepping into the empty corridor. You look left, then right. Nothing. You try a room down the hall, finding no sign of life there either. “Joey? It’s me!”

“They’re not here,” A strikingly haunting voice that makes your breath stutter says coolly from behind, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up straight and chills to prickle all along your arms. Turning to face your ghost, your gaze strikes like iron against Frank’s green one hidden from behind a smiling mask that looks like it’s taken a decent beating over the years. His arms are crossed, and he leans nonchalantly against the wall in an unbothered display. But you knew Frank, and he was pissed. And, quite honestly, so were you.

You find your fists tightening as you stand across from him just like that night, becoming more and more angry. Even more annoyingly, Frank senses this and sighs, unwinding his posture to mimic that of someone trying to calm a wild beast. “Toots—“

That did it.

With a snarl, you spring forward; your fist connecting with Frank’s stupid smiling mask and cracking it nearly in half. He grunts out in shock as he tried to dodge your right hook, hands instinctively catching your wrists just like they did that fateful day and pulling you with him as Frank is sent careening to the floor.

And, just like that, the two of you are whisked into a trial.

You’re still on top of Frank when you spawn outside, wrestling him into the snow.

“What is wrong with you?!” Frank hisses, teeth bared visibly from where you broke his mask.

“What’s wrong with me?!” You laugh cruelly, using your hips to pin him down. “What’s wrong with you?! You fucking disappeared, Frank!” He exerts an impressive amount of strength in order to throw off balance, flipping you over.

“And why would that fucking matter to you?” He retorts. “You’re the one who shut us out!”

“Well excuse me for needing a minute!” You bristle, struggling against his hold. “I had just found out that my soulmate is an asshole who also happens to be insane!”

That strikes something in Frank. He growls audibly as he pulls you up, immediately shoving your face into the snow and making a hasty retreat. You gasp as you stagger to your feet, spitting out melted chunks of ice. You whip around to search for your culprit, eyes narrowing at the sight of Frank running towards the town.

“Coward!” You call after him, giving chase.

You pass multiple survivors that are surely watching on in a stupor as you catch up to Frank, tackling him to the ground again. The two of you grapple until he has you pinned again, this time holding a knife to your throat. Your fury flares.

“Enough!” He commands. “If you want to prove something so badly, why don’t you show me what you can do?” Frank emphasizes his point by pulling his knife away and hurling it at the first unlucky bystander that attempts to flee, sending him to his hands and knees. As the man—Dwight, you bothered to remember—cries out in agony, you glare up at Frank’s slowly-forming smirk, knowing he’s caught your interest.

“Fine,” You relent, and Frank releases you. You stomp to where Dwight grovels, brandishing your own weapon and striking him down without a moment’s hesitation. Jutting your chin over your shoulder at Frank—who fails to hide his smugness—you remove the knife embedded in Dwight’s shoulder and toss it at the brute’s feet, pulling your own accoutrement free. Without waiting, you move on to your next victim, leaving Frank behind to watch you ruthlessly chase them down. He grins, joining you in the hunt.

The two of you manage to bring down five of the eight survivors, wreaking havoc to generators along the way. It becomes a sick sort of game between the two of you to see who can kill the most, and just how diabolically you executed the final blow. Unexpectedly, it does a lot to bring your anger to a simmer; your tensed muscles finally relaxing from their coils as you hack, hack, hacked away.

Another survivor falls to the ground beneath you, dead.

“That’s six,” You announce, Frank just a few feet ahead of you. He laughs—a sound that tickles your brain.

“Keeping count, are we?” He teases. There’s a playful lilt to his voice that you haven’t heard in years—a welcomed gesture.

“Someone has to,” You quip back, and Frank laughs again. You smile.

You step over the carcass and vault the window that was so narrowly missed by the unfortunate woman Frank has trapped underfoot, coming to stand by his side as she squirms and fights to no avail.

“You’re sick!” She gasps, moaning in pain as Frank increases pressure, surely breaking a rib or two.

“That’s no way to talk to the lady,” He jeers, eyes flickering at you. You snort.

“Both of you! You t-two are—ack—psychos!”

You half-expect another witty remark from Frank, half-expect him to snuff her out.

What you don’t expect are his next words.

“Then we must be perfect for each other,” He mumbles, making your ears perk. “We’re soulmates, you know?” Your heart backflips.

“Frank,” You begin to warn him, but he continues.

“Fuckin’ soulmates, you hear?” He suddenly grabs your hand and you go rigid, the contact making your stomach turn. The two of you had been wearing gloves for the entirety of the match, so no marks would be visible—but the touch was enough to make your skin tingle underneath the material. The woman’s brows tighten.

“K-Killers can’t have soulmates,” She wheezes. “You don’t have souls.” Frank’s hand tightens around your own.

“Well it’s a good thing you ain’t God, ain’t it?” He utters snidely before driving his heel down as hard as he can, ending her life. Seven. You let go of Frank’s hand and step back, Frank letting you.

“What the hell, Frank?” You whisper in a shaky breath, clouds of white dispelling the sentiment.

“…I’m sorry,” He tells you finally, turning to face you in shame. His eyes speak of the remorse he feels. “I completely disregarded your feelings when we found out we were marked, and I’m sorry.” Your chest swells in a flurry of emotions.

“But… but you disappeared,” You remind him, unconsciously drawing in on yourself. Frank, ever so cautiously, takes a step towards you.

“It wasn’t my fault,” He speaks calmly, eyes boring into your own. “I was taken by the fog, same as any washed up bastard that ends up here.”

“But—but Julie?” Frank sighs.

“Jules and I… it’s complicated,” He grimaces. “She freaked when she found out I was marked and it wasn’t wit’ her. She doesn’t know it’s you.” Your mouth feels dry.

“But…”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Frank’s voice is low and a husk away, and you didn’t realize just how close he’d gotten. “I’d say you’re fighting for reasons to stay angry at me. Why did you come all the way out here?” Is his disarming question—that, paired with the way his hand brushes cheek when he moves a strand of hair behind your ear—that has you sharply inhaling.

“I—“ You stammer, searching his face. “I was so angry at you,” You begin. “I was so shocked to find out I even had a soulmate, and then you treated it like it wasn’t a big deal—“ Your breath shudders. “I was so mad at you, Frank. To top it off, you up and disappear after telling me you were finally ‘making a name for yourself,’ and a dead body is discovered a few days later? What was I supposed to think, Frank?”

“You could have just let me go,” He mutters, hand lingering on your cheek. You drop your head in resignation, sighing.

“I know,” You grumble. Frank lifts your chin up between his forefinger and thumb as he raises his mask at the same time, finally revealing that same scruffy face you’d grown accustomed to. An oddly soft expression graces his scarred features, and you find yourself unable to speak over the lump in your throat.

“Do you still want to accept me as your soulmate, even with all of…this?” Frank gestures to the empty space where the survivor’s body once was, it having been swallowed up by the entity minutes ago. The chuckle that escapes you surprises even yourself.

“Frank,” You snicker. “I literally just killed people with you. That’s how I ended up here,” You tell him, matching his gaze evenly. He continues to search your eyes for a beat before stepping back.

“In that case…” Frank lowers his mask over his face again, retrieving his knife in one hand while holding the other out to you. “Would you care to finish what we started?”

Whatever anger you held towards Frank in that moment was now gone, seemingly melted away by those eight simple words. You accepted his hand with a small smile; one that said, okay, I’ll trust you. He begins to lead the two of you forward but stops, catching you immensely off guard when he whisks you into his arms, slides his mask up, and plants a massive, wet kiss on your cheek, surely leaving a mark that wouldn’t be so easy to hide without a covering. You let out incoherent noises as Frank slips his mask into place, laughing at your disposition while dodging your sloppy fists.

“Frank, you asshole!” Your words lack any actual bite to them, this serving to make Frank cackle even harder as he once again evades you by taking off with you hot on his heels.

Ghostface x Reader

deceptive devices tw’s: danny johnson, strong language, panic attacks

Danny was getting bored. Day in and day out, night after night, he was tasked with picking off little worms that gave him the same reactions every time: scream, cry, plead, beg, die; cry, scream, beg, plead, die. And so the cycle would repeat.

“Come on,” He often finds himself complaining to the empty air at night, almost like a prayer to the Entity. “Give me something new. You’re a fan of chaos, aren’t you? Let’s stir some real shit up.”

Soon, his request would be acknowledged—but not without a little coaxing.

The Entity demanded to be fed, to be satiated—and when Danny may or may not have missed his quotas more than once, punishments be damned—he knew he had gotten his way when he woke in a place that was not his home. Smirking, Danny pushed his way through the fog, brushing aside the curious observation that he was not wearing his usual ghostly attire.

It was only when he came upon a campfire surrounded by familiar, undead faces that Danny realized what was being answered was not his fantasy, but actually his worst nightmare.

A girl’s head perks up at his presence before he can even hope to slink away without being noticed, having to force an unnatural smile as more eyes fell on him from the circle. Shit.

“Oh?” The same pigtailed girl raises her brows. “A new survivor?”

“Poor bastard,” An older man sighs with a shake of his head. Danny’s blood boils with indignation, fingers twitching as if they itched for a knife that he did not currently have. He could murder this entire camp within minutes—they were the unfortunate ones, not him. “What’s yer name, kid?”

Just to get a rise out of them, Danny tried to answer with a snide “Ghostface,” but found that his own body would not let him. He fought with the spell for a good few seconds before giving up with a scowl, crossing his arms much like a child throwing a tantrum. “It’s Danny.”

“Nice to meet you, Danny,” A woman with curly hair and glasses smiles warmly at him. He curls his lip in a half-assed attempt at a returned greeting. “My name is Claudette. Over there is Meg, and this is Bill…”

She takes a painfully long time to introduce the rest of the survivors around the fire, sans a few others who were currently in trials according to Claudette. When she finishes, Danny politely asks where he can sleep, claiming to have a whopping headache, and is pointed in the direction of their tent site. He thanks them with a wry smile before abruptly turning on his heel, his face dropping into a sour expression.

This was not what he meant when he said he wanted a change, at all.

“Two can play at that game,” Danny utters under his breath, making a break for it once he’s out of sight. The fog promptly swallows him, chews him up, and spits him right back out to where he started.

So he tries again. And again, and again until Danny inevitably has to accept that he is stuck un the survivor’s camp. “What’s to stop me from killing them?” He asks the fog.

There is no reply. Danny grumbles.

For starters, he didn’t have a weapon—he’d have to swipe one off of one of the meatsacks, if they even had any. Secondly, if they decided to gang up on him and fight back, he would be seriously outnumbered…

The cons outweighed the pros, and Danny unsatisfactorily had to settle for doing nothing—for now, at least.

Deciding on a tent at random—he didn’t care whose it was—Danny slipped inside, snooping around personal belongings until sleep weighed his bones down like an old friend wanting to catch up after decades of being away. And, begrudgingly, Danny allows his eyes to close for the first time in a long, long time.

———

Something cold and wet jostles Danny from his rest a few hours later, causing him to stir with a snort. He opens his eyes to a black nose sniffing at him, followed by a brown-eyed gaze and floppy ears that perked curiously in his direction. A dog?

Danny stretches a hand out to the creature, earning a flinch and it backing up a few inches. He tries to coax it. “Shh, there, there…” It growls lowly before barking at him once. Danny cringes. “Hush, you mangy mutt..”

It barks again, tail wagging. Ugh.

A voice calls out a name—the dog’s, he supposes—which causes the canine to turn. Moments later, a head pokes through the flaps of the tent and peers down at Danny. “Oh, you’re awake.”

“Against my will…” Danny bites out bitterly. You don’t laugh.

“Well, good. Then you can tell me what the hell you’re doing in my tent.”

“Just having a little shuteye,” Danny groans as he sits up, rubbing at his face. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s slept that long—it was almost as if he was cursed to remain active at all times in this place as a killer while the human survivors were afforded all the luxury of sleeping after trials. It irks him. “And I didn’t know this was your tent. How am I supposed to know whose is whose?”

You cross your arms, eyes narrowing harshly. “If you had bothered to listen to anything Claudette told you, you would have found your tent on the other side of camp.”

“Geez, aren’t you a ray of sunshine…” Danny stands after popping his back, finally taking in your appearance. You must have been in a trial during his arrival, because he doesn’t recognize you—and he would. Fiery eyes, a cross attitude… you were just his type. Danny chuckles to himself.

“Something funny?” You raise a brow. Danny’s back to playing pretend, waving his hands dismissively.

“Sorry, it’s nothing.” He then juts his chin at the dog that woke him up, the animal now sitting on its haunches and looking up at you with its tongue lolling out. “Who’s the pooch?”

Your eyes flitter to it, then back to Danny, your feet shuffling in a way that lets him know you’re uncomfortable with the idea of giving the information away. “This is Daisy,” You introduce after a minute. “She’s my dog.”

“You don’t say,” Danny hums as he bends down to pet her. Daisy’s ears pin back before his hand touches her head, and she lets out a warning growl that has him backing off quickly. “Charming, isn’t she?” Your eyes rake him up and down.

“She doesn’t trust strangers,” You say lowly. “Especially creepy ones. And I find that she’s usually on the right track.” Danny feigns being hurt.

“You don’t even know me, Sunshine,” He juts his lip in a pout.

“That’s exactly why I don’t trust you,” You spit vehemently, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You may have the others fooled, but I know what you are.” Danny stills at that. Could you actually know?

“Oh?” He breathes, losing his playfulness. “And what would that be?” You shudder.

“I—I don’t know,” You veer, eyes flashing with momentary uncertainty. Then you’re back to a steely expression. “But what I do know is that something about you is off, and I will be watching you very closely.” Danny smirks, hackles lowering. So you didn’t know.

He leans in close, relishing in the way you recoil. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” He purrs, tone light. You push him away in disgust, stepping back to give him space to exit.

“Get out.”

He happily obliges.

———

It’s a few days before Danny’s first trial as a survivor, giving him enough time to get a feel for his new teammates. Claudette, Kate, and Mikaela are all bleeding hearts who are quick to accept him without wasting a breath. Dwight and Meg are a bit more on the fence about him, but seem more willing to give him a chance than others. Then there’s you, Jake, and Bill, who are skeptical of his easygoing nature, casting looks in his direction anytime he passed by. Danny didn’t care—he welcomed the attention. Finally, there was Ace, who didn’t seem to care much about anything. He was just happy to have another player.

“Trust me, Danny-o,” Ace says while throwing an arm around his shoulders. It takes everything in Danny not to twist and break the appendage. “I’m like a good luck charm. Stick by me, and we’re sure to win.”

“Oh, sure,” Meg snorts, rolling her eyes from where she sits on a log across from them. “Like you bring us all to victory.”

“I help!” Ace counters, sitting up. “I’m at least better than slick over there who just creeps around with her dog.” You snort.

“And whose dog was it that saved you from nearly having your legs chopped off?”

Ace sputters, unable to come up with a retort. Danny’s gaze drops to Daisy.

“Does she come into trials with us?”

“She does,” You utter without looking up, focused on the piece of wood you’re sharpening. But Danny’s itching to get your eyes on him.

“Where did you find her?” He asks, strategically pinning you with a question. You falter, glancing down at Daisy who is asleep by your feet. Finding your resolve, you go back to gliding the stone against the stick in your hands, beating Danny at his own game.

“I didn’t. Like anything else in the fog—she came to me.”

“That reminds me of how I found my guitar!” Kate chirps, bringing the group’s attention on her. She continues her story about how when she was at her lowest point of despair, she was given her instrument, and blah blah blah blah. Danny wasn’t listening—he was solely honed in on you. Were you looking for Daisy when you found her? If so, how was it that you were given something that you cared about whereas he ended up stranded amongst a group of morons? It made no sense—and, honestly, it was a bit unfair. Frowning, Danny fails to realize you’ve met his stare. You cock a brow suspiciously.

“Something bothering you?”

“No,” Danny mutters, shrugging off Ace’s arm that was still on him and standing to his feet. “I’m going to bed,” He announces before stalking off without waiting for acknowledgement. He feels your eyes piercing his back as he leaves, no longer thrilled that he is your focal point in that moment.

On his way to his tent, Danny feels a somewhat-familiar breeze that whisks him away into a trial, the Entity promptly placing him in the streets of Haddonfield that Danny recognizes instantly. He rolls his eyes, the irritation he felt from earlier starting to take the form of a headache. He sees now why survivors needed sleep so much—they were so damn fragile.

“Let’s get this over with,” Danny sighs to himself, immediately setting out to find his old friend Myers.

He passes by generators, not bothering to fix them as Danny instead sweeps the area for any sign of Michael. He tries houses, trodden gardens, and the outskirts of the woods lining the neighborhood without finding so much as a bloody footprint. Growing increasingly frustrated, Danny follows his tracks back to where he saw one of the survivors—Meg, he thinks—slinking around in one of the homes.

If he couldn’t find Myers, he would just have to use bait.

Upon his silent arrival, Meg jerks abruptly once catching sight of him, causing the generator she’s working on to implode noisily. “Jesus!” She gasps, hand over her racing heart. Danny tries to hide a cocky smirk. “What are you doing just standing there?” Meg hisses, nervously scanning behind him. “The killer could see you!”

“Oh, I’m not too worried,” Danny says nonchalantly, leaning his weight against the wall. Meg narrows her eyes, mouth opening to bark something else at him when she tenses up. Strangely enough, Danny stiffens at the same time as her, an unfamiliar and unwelcoming sense of dread taking control of his senses. Meg inhales sharply, and Danny doesn’t have to turn around to know what she sees.

“Run!” She cries, scrambling to her feet as she high-tails it out of the room. Danny merely watches her go, a humorous chuckle escaping his lips.

“Never gets old, am I right?” He angles himself to face Michael, who just seems to stare at him. Danny forces down the terror that seems to rise in his throat, willing his heart to stop its incessant pounding. “Alright, now I know what you must be thinking. Why is he out of costume? Why is he talking to survivors? Well, I’m just as confused as you, bub.” Danny takes a step forward. “Now, will you please help me out of here so I can get back to what I do best?”

Michael, as per usual, is silent. But that isn’t what concerns Danny, no—it’s his body language.

Michael is poised as if he’s confused—which, admittedly, Danny would be at a loss too if he were in Myers’ position—and appears as though he doesn’t recognize him. His knife is half-raised, as if conflicted. He looks like he’s either ready to run away from or at Danny. Danny takes another step forward.

“Come on, bub. It’s me—don’t you recognize me?”

A pause, an uncertain shift, and then Michael’s knife is suddenly plunged into Danny’s shoulder.

Pain lights his every nerve on fire and Danny hollers out of shock and agony, staggering backwards as Michael pulls his knife back with a squelching sound. Blood spills onto his clothes, the floor, and down Michael’s arm, and Danny doesn’t find enjoyment in knowing that it’s his.

“Myers—“ He grunts, hand pressing into his wound. “What the—ngh—fuck? It’s me!”

But he isn’t listening. Michael moves forward threateningly, and Danny is appalled at how he flinches back. His heart is racing, his shoulder is throbbing, and he can’t stop hyperventilating. Panic sets in, blowing his pupils wide. Michael was going to kill him.

A flash of movement clouds Danny’s vision followed by a bright light that sends Michael reeling. Danny feels hands on him, helping him up, and before he knows it he’s being escorted out by someone.

They run, turning corners and vaulting platforms, until Danny asks to stop, his lungs begging for air. The hands let him go, allowing Danny to slide to the grass a bleeding mess, unable to catch his breath. He can’t focus on anything—his vision is all a blur. Everything starts to go dark when suddenly a weight is on his lap, grounding him momentarily. Finding the ability to raise his arm, Danny reaches out to first feel something soft, then a collar, then floppy ears.

“Just breathe,” A voice—your voice—finally registers in his ears, providing an overwhelming sense of calm that washes over him. “You’re okay.”

Danny wordlessly pets who he now realizes is Daisy, allowing her steady breathing to take charge in leading his own uneven breaths. He doesn’t even register that you’ve begun to stitch up his injury until he jumps at a particularly sharp prick.

“Sorry,” You mumble, not making eye contact. “Almost done.” You’re more careful this time, pulling the string taught before clipping it with your teeth. You move his clothes back into place, sitting yourself next to him after closing up your med kit and placing it to the side. You’re quiet, which Danny is grateful for while he searches to find his voice.

“Thanks, Sunshine,” He settles on, forcing a wobbly grin that you don’t return. He drops the act as he hisses out in pain.

“Why didn’t you run?” You ask bluntly. “You know they want to kill us, right?”

“Ngh… guess not,” Danny grimaces. “I thought having a little heart to heart would change his mind.” Your lips barely quirk up. Danny still counts it as finally being able to crack a smile out of you.

You sigh, standing to your feet after a moment. You offer a hand to help him up, Danny using his good arm to hoist himself to his feet. Daisy sits back, panting, carefree.

“Guess you’re not as threatening as I thought you were,” You murmur, more to yourself than to him. Danny still pretends to take offense.

“Not threatening?” He scoffs, leaning his head back. “Dollface, I could slice you into pieces with a toothpick if I wanted to.”

There’s a truth to his words that you don’t quite pick up on. Instead, you roll your eyes, motioning for him and Daisy to follow. “Yeah, yeah,” You dismiss him, throwing Danny for a loop when you take his hand in yours. “We can test that theory after we escape this killer, yeah?” You fix him with a look that is much softer than it ever has been, making Danny simultaneously freeze and melt at the same time. He can’t stop the smile that stretches across his face.

“Looking forward to it,” He banters. You squeeze his hand in retaliation.

Trapper x Reader

an unexpected bond formed with a killer… is it worth it? (continuation of this fic. i made a little playlist for your enjoyment ;0) tw’s: canon typical violence, death, some obsession, evan being kinda delulu

Evan didn’t understand you.

You continued to seek him out during trials and attempt to bridge whatever this odd relationship was by asking him questions—that is, if you were paired together. Evan didn’t really want to think about what happened to you when you expected to face his unexplainable mercy, only to meet the end of someone—or something—else’s blade… or worse.

But, when the Entity did decide to allow he and you the chance to encounter each other—which was a rare occurrence, probably on account for Evan choosing to spare you and your team whenever he was your chosen killer. There were quotas to meet—you stuck to his side like Victor to Charlotte until you were whisked away by a fellow survivor, or until Evan reached his you-limit.

You were pleasant—lovely, even—but you were doing things to him that Evan found himself needing the space to decompress far, far away from you in solitude. It felt as if his identity as the Trapper crumbled anytime you were near, and it made his head ache. You could just be breathing next to him and Evan would begin to shut down, hands uselessly fidgeting with his bear traps as though they were the only things keeping him grounded to reality—and they might as well have been. When you came around, Evan couldn’t control himself.

Maybe you were putting some sort of curse on him.

Maybe he was okay with that.

“Do you remember who you were.. before all of this?” You ask one night while perched on the windowsill—the very same misshapen one that he broke out of not too long ago—of his hideout in the mines. It had become a strange sort of “safe” place for the two of you to meet outside of matches, all because one night you decided to enter into the wolf’s den on a whim.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” went the timeless saying… but Evan rather liked this feline, despite your apparent craving for danger.

Your question pulled Evan away from himself momentarily; brain stretching and reaching for far-away memories that felt dull and lukewarm, yet itched to be remembered. The thought of his father—the only thing that fed both his rage and the entity—was ever-present, but Evan chose to spare you his pain.

“No,” He settles on answering gruffly, frowning past all the bloodshed that seemed to be the only vivid recollection he had. At your disappointed “oh,” he hesitates. “…I drew, sometimes.”

“Really?” You smile. Evan casts his gaze to the floor. “What would you draw?”

“Don’t remember,” Evan answers truthfully, because he didn’t. He was only able to recall the feeling of peace whenever a pencil was held in his hand.

“That’s okay. Maybe you can draw something new sometime,” You suggest with a casual shrug. “I think I can scrounge up some papers and pencils around camp.”

The idea was… actually nice. Evan felt something stir up inside of him—something like hope. He risked a glance at you, the sentiment intensifying.

And then, there was the sudden urge to act on those feelings: to touch you, to hurt you, to kill you. To hunt you down and make you scream and writhe and beg in your own blood. To make you cry, but then to dry your tears. Console you, hold you, protect you. Snap your neck. Caress your face. Gouge your eyes out. Trace your lips. Tear your tongue out. Kiss it better.

Evan turns his back to you, hands balling into tight fists. This is what you did to him—and why he desperately needed to get away so often.

“Evan?” You ask apprehensively at his abrupt change in demeanor, voice grating his ears in the cruelest of ways. He groans, hands covering his mask. Voices whispered all around him, coaxing Evan to gut you alive right then and there. He was familiar with the entity’s influence over him—but never before did he have to wrestle so endlessly with it, until you came along.

“M’fine,” He rasps once he finds his voice, keeping his back to you. “You should—ngh—go.”

Evan is met with silence as a response, and he foolishly assumes you have left until you’re in his peripheral vision, cautiously circling him. Your eyebrows are pulled taut in concern—just like they were the night you rescued Evan from his own bear trap—and your gaze rakes his form for any signs of injuries. The whispers grow yet louder as you come nearer, sending Evan to his knees with a pathetic moan. Kill, they say. Kill, kill, kill.

He wants to resist. He wants to, but…

“You’re too close,” Evan growls. Thankfully, you take the warning, stilling before him.

“Where does it hurt?” You ask, voice low and calm. Evan shudders. Everywhere, he wants to answer, but grits his teeth instead and tries to shut you out. When your fingers brush his cracked skin, Evan snatches your wrist in one quick motion, chin jerking upwards to meet your frightened eyes with his own wild ones.

Your bones feel so fragile beneath his hold—he could snap them within seconds. He adds pressure. You wince, arm twitching in pain, yet not drawing back. He squeezes, and you yelp. This time, you tug your arm away, which he lets slip through his fingers. The entity has progressively decreased in volume, leaving he and you in an uncomfortable silence. When Evan stands, you take a small step back. Something inside of him wilts.

“…You’re afraid,” He states, matter-of-fact. You inhale sharply.

“A little,” You admit, voice quiet—soft. Evan bunches his hands into fists, curling and uncurling them as he debates how to fix this.

The recognizable tug of a trial begins to pull Evan away, severing the tension if only for a moment. Something was off—Evan sensed it the moment the fog cleared. The air tingled with the impression of apprehension and unfamiliarity, as if the land itself was preparing for new terrors. Turning his head ever so slightly, he could see why.

The Huntress stood tall and resilient next to him, gripping her axes with a calm smile that did not match the hunger for blood in her inky black eyes. The cleaver in his own hand weighed heavily and all five of his senses were heightened, confirming the actuality of the two-killer trial.

Evan breathed a sigh of resentment, irritation prickling his skin. He would have to wait to talk to you—if you wanted to see him, that is. Something about you not being around felt deeply, deeply wrong, which only further soured his mood.

He acknowledged Anna with merely a grunt to which she dipped her head in greeting, stalking off moments after while humming a tune that followed her into the dark. Evan set out to place his traps; hiding them in obscure places, counting each unsuspecting human that he passed along the way. He made a mental note that none of them happened to be you.

As he finished locking the final pair of metallic jaws into place, Evan couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he held you in his grasp just a while longer.

Would he have broken your bones? Probably. Would he have liked to break more? Probably. Would he have killed you?

Yes, a taunting voice answers in the back of his mind. You were designed to kill, Trapper. You can’t hide from it forever.

Trapper. That’s right—he was Trapper, wasn’t he? Not “Evan,” like you called him. Trapper.

Maybe this was never destined to work. Maybe you were only allowed to show him a little bit of mercy only to remind Evan why he shouldn’t be granted such a gift—he was in hell, after all. He was being punished for his crimes.

Evan ponders this as he downs one survivor after another; hanging some on hooks, slashing others to death. He’s after one cunning prey that had stunned him with a pallet when, like a ghost, you cut across his line of sight without looking his way, Anna hot on your heels. Evan is stopped in his tracks, head inclined to watch where you and she disappear to, completely disregarding his chase.

A new feeling—one emerging from a dark, twisted place inside of him—rises to Evan’s chest that causes his heart to twinge unpleasantly, and before he knows what’s taken over him, he’s following swiftly behind.

The sight Evan comes across is enough to make him boil.

You’re flat on your belly, groveling in the dirt; an axe is plunged deeply in your right shoulder that fails to drag you away from Anna, who is closing in on her kill without breaking her lullaby. Her heel comes heavily upon your back as she rips the tool from your flesh, eliciting a scream that tears from your throat and goes straight to Evan’s head.

He’s never heard you scream.

He doesn’t like it.

Evan’s footfalls don’t cease; he lumbers forward, weapon beginning to raise. If Anna notices him, she doesn’t care that he’s fast approaching—your fate is sealed.

A swing, a squelching wet sound, and the Huntress comes crashing down next to you.

Her death is quick. The mask she wears is cracked in half along with her skull, split wide open and bleeding profusely. Evan looms above, breathing heavily, covered in the spray. Despite her being dead, Evan leans down close to her fresh corpse, sneering beneath his mask.

“Mine,” He hisses, finally identifying the emotion from earlier. Jealousy.

You’ve spun over on your back at this point, hand clutching at your wounded shoulder that oozes crimson. You look a mix of both bewildered and mortified. As Evan approaches, you, strangely, do not cower in fear. He squats down, leaning in close enough to blow your bangs back from his exhales.

“Won’t hurt you,” He mumbles hoarsely, searching your eyes. “Didn’t mean to.” He brings a hand to your face, gingerly swiping your hair off of your sticky forehead. You lick your lips, trying to find your voice.

“C-Can you pick me up?” Comes your question, soft as a whisper. Evan nods. He’s careful of your injury as he effortlessly lifts you up, the feeling of someone so close foreign to him. You wrap your good arm behind his neck, avoiding the various hooks that protrude like unwelcome parasites from his back.

Without another word, Evan begins his march out of the trial and into the fog, the two of you never to be seen again.

The Wraith x Reader

heaven found us tw’s: none rly. maybe a little bit of dissociation on philip’s end ? he’s just baby idk 🥹

Philip was wandering again.

Outside of trials, he seldom kept still; like a phantom he would float amidst the fog, having no clear direction nor goal to accomplish as the steamy white clouds strung him passively along.

Philip didn’t mind, though—quite literally. Almost as if he was in a haze, he would allow the fog to carry him, like a fish down a stream. Each time, Philip ended up somewhere different; sometimes a familiar scene, sometimes a completely new setting. And, sometimes, if he was lucky—the fog would deliver him something, too.

The cat in front of him stares through Philip with piercing golden eyes, her charcoal fur glinting in the moonlight. She tilts her head ever so slightly, and Philip copies the motion. As if pleased, she mrrrows politely and rises to her paws, padding over to him inquisitively with her tail held high in the air. With his free hand, he stretches out to pet her, which she happily accepts. She erupts into purrs beneath his touch, and Philip is reminded of the goodness that even the entity cannot erase.

Upon running his fingers behind her ear and down her neck, Philip finds a makeshift string collar that he failed to notice before. He traces the material down to the bell that dangles over her throat, the ornament jingling faintly as it is fondled. The cat meets his ivory eyes sweetly as if to answer his wordless question, so you belong to someone? She meows again, rubbing against his legs before sauntering off in the direction she previously came from. Philip stands straight to watch her leave, curiously finding himself being compelled to follow—so he does.

Unwavering gaze fixated on her, Philip trails behind the unnamed cat as she tinkers forward, being careful not to frighten her by the ringing of his own bell. As the fog swallows her small form for only a moment, the atmosphere shifting and exploding into chilly air, Philip finds himself in front of a roughed-up cabin decorated with various plants (native only to the fog) and odd trinkets alike; the paint stretching up and down the wood fresh, yet somehow chipping.

Most interesting of all, the cat Philip had followed was heading towards the only other person sitting in front of the cabin—someone Philip did not recognize.

You sat on a log with a paintbrush clutched delicately between your fingers, a rickety easel holding up an unshapely piece of material that had strokes of oranges and blacks strewn about the canvas. Your clothes weren’t torn or in tatters like other survivors—though they were a bit dull, and covered in paint—and your expression was one of serenity and focus; a stark contrast to the usual haunted, drained look the others usually wore. And, as you are approached by the cat that seems very familiar with your person, you dazzle her with a smile that makes Philip long for something he can’t quite place.

The sound of Philip’s bell startles even himself as he moves to get a closer look, causing your head to lift sharply until you’re pinning him to the spot with beautiful, alarmed eyes that quickly soften into something akin to understanding.

No, you weren’t one of the survivors—you couldn’t have been with the way you were looking at him. So, then… who were you?

“Look, Heavenly,” You say to your furry companion, just loud enough for him to hear, “it seems we’ve attracted another stray.”

Another stray? Philip was not a wraith of many words, but that did not mean he didn’t understand them.

Somehow, though, the way you said it was less offensive and more alluring.

You giggle—charming and angelic—and set your paintbrush down, shifting to fully face Philip. You cock your head, still smiling, and gesture to your current work in progress.

“What do you think?” You ask him earnestly, welcomingly. Philip feels himself tingle and burn with what feels like embarrassment at being put on the spot by someone so unlike him, simultaneously feeling angry at himself for not being more wraith-like. The wailing bell he held was meant for damaging and destroying, not to look like something he clung to for comfort, as he was doing now.

Still, Philip obliges you; inching forward to get a better perspective of your artwork, quickly finding himself at a loss for what to think.

Before Philip’s eyes was a painting of himself, depicted as much more docile than most others probably found him. He was standing tall amongst the throng of needle-like trees, signature wailing bell hanging by his side. The sky was a deep orange, dipping between branches and coming to rest on his shoulders in a gentle glow. Oddly enough, he was missing a face entirely; the shape of his head was there, but no eyes were to be found.

Philip tilts his head as if searching for his face, not realizing he had drawn even closer until he was hovering by your side. You watch him patiently, stroking Heavenly as you wait for a response.

“…Is… that supposed to be me?” Philip finally asks, voice gentle and hollow-sounding, pointing a finger to the painting. He sees you nod and lowers his hand, confusion settling in.

“You’ve been here before,” You explain slowly, earning Philip’s surprised gaze that you don’t meet. “I’ve seen you many times, but this is the first time you’ve come this close. It’s okay if you don’t remember.”

That’s the thing—he doesn’t remember. Why would he come here? He didn’t even know where here was. And, yet…

“…I followed your cat,” Philip says after a moment, and finally the two of you make eye contact. You look in astonishment up at him before looking down at Heavenly, then back up at him again. Then, you let out a bark of laughter.

“Heavenly got you to come here?” You chortle. “She barely listens to me when I ask her to come inside.”

Philip looks down at Heavenly, who simply blinks back up at him. He blinks back.

“…Why did you paint me?” He questions, sounding and feeling suspicious. You merely shrug.

“Ever since you first visited me, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. And when you kept coming back, I just…” You motion randomly with your hands. “Needed an outlet. You were a mystery to me.”

Philip cocks his head. “You’re really not from the trials, are you?” You give him a quizzical look.

“Trial? What trial?”

“…Nothing,” He murmurs, reaching out to pet Heavenly, who bumps her head against his hand. His lips twitch in a half-formed smile.

“Will you stay this time?” You ask, stilling Philip.

“…Probably not,” He answers, drawing away. You frown, then sigh, casting your gaze downwards. Philip feels himself being pulled back by an invisible force; the fog calling him to ‘come, come back home.’ He puts space between he and you, standing at the edge of the ivory mist that laps at his clothes in wispy tendrils. You look up at him one last time, giving Philip a sad smile.

“I guess I’ll see you again,” You say, solemn.

“…You will,” He promises, not knowing why, but knowing that he most certainly would be back. You seem to brighten at that.

“Bye, Philip,” You call as he’s sucked into the fog, into confusion, and into darkness.