misericordia-writing

[misericordia-writing]

he’s celebrating

[misericordia-writing]

crying bc i just checked my inbox,, my darlings how long have you been sitting in there?? im

[misericordia-writing]

the urge to write good omens fanfic is real

[misericordia-writing]

hi i'm not dead. just haven't felt like writing anything recently.

[misericordia-writing]

🐝  *  ―  𝑪𝑶𝑳𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑭𝑼𝑳 𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑽𝑰𝑬𝑾. ( send one or more of these to get to know the person behind the blog a little better. )

[ cherry ]  what is one thing you love about yourself? [ crimson ]  what is one thing you wish you could change about yourself? [ scarlet ]  what is one thing you wish you could do? [ ruby ]  give one random fun fact about yourself. [ tangerine ]  do you speak other languages? if yes, which? [ amber ]  which is your favorite season? why? [ bronze ]  if you were stranded on a deserted island, which three things would you want to have with you? [ apricot ]  what do you think your life will be like in ten years? [ canary ]  do you have pets? if yes, how many and what? [ lemon ]  do you believe in ghosts? how about aliens? [ bumblebee ]  where have you always wanted to travel to? [ blonde ]  what is your favorite type of music? favorite artist? favorite song? [ lime ]  describe yourself as a character / mix of characters you've always related to the most. [ emerald ]  bonus round: coffee or tea? morning or night? extroverted or introverted? hot or cold? fruits or vegetables? sweet or salty?

[ mint ]  when did you start your blog? what made you start it? [ olive ]  what gives you the most inspiration for your muse(s)? [ cerulean ]  what is your favorite ( type of ) character to write? [ teal ]  which fandom has been your favorite to be a part of? which has been the least favorite? [ azure ]  is there a specific character or type of character you want to write but never have? why? [ navy ]  what do your muse(s) mean to you? [ indigo ]  when did you first start writing / roleplaying? [ denim ]  have you ever roleplayed on any other site(s) besides tumblr? [ mauve ]  give one random headcanon about your muse / one of your muses. [ lavender ]  if you could change one thing about the rpc as a whole, what would it be? [ plum ]  are you more of a dialogue or a description writer? [ mulberry ]  what tips would you give someone with writer's block? [ coral ]  give a shoutout to one of your favorite blogs. [ fuchsia ]  bonus round: angst or fluff? one-liners or paras? plotting or winging it? memes or starter calls? single muse or multimuse?

[misericordia-writing]

i'm bored and on spring break, so there isn't much work to do. if anyone has requests for drabbles/headcanons/questions, now would be a great time to send them :) i promise i don't bite.

[misericordia-writing]

Malevolence

""It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it. But it’s going to be alright.”

 You can’t believe you’re sitting here trying to comfort a murderer, but life is unexpected."

Chapter 5 of Matchbook

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

Word Count: 650

Summary: some more fluff. figured y’all needed to be fed, it's been a little bit since the last chapter. ~650 words, set after danny’s laser tag incident in the malevolence tome.

Angst, Fluff

TW for canon-typical violence, toxic relationship

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45585013/chapters/115889152

               He had entered the room hastily through the living room window-- the front door was reserved for Jed, not the Ghost Face. The hooded figure threw his bag down on the floor and stomped away to the bathroom, before slamming the door shut.

               You jump from your place on the couch, having bundled yourself up in blankets, trying to stave off the bone-chilling cold of anxiety, despite the thermometer reading a stable temperature of seventy-two degrees. Abandoned tapes litter the floor, barely shoved back into their cartridges.  Movie after movie after movie, a pathetic attempt at distracting your brain from his absence, and the implications associated with it. You can’t sleep when he isn’t here, and so you’re up at four AM waiting.

               Distantly, you hope that whoever he killed-- or is planning on killing, at least-- deserved it. Clearly, though, something hasn’t gone as planned. Did they get away? You doubt it. Maybe he messed up.

               You shuffle to the bathroom, against your better judgement. It’s been nearly twenty minutes, and the door hasn’t opened. You don’t like being around Danny when he’s angry, but maybe you can help. You listen through the door, hearing him huffing and pacing.

               “Danny?” You ask, quietly, knocking on the door as softly as possible. “Danny, what’s wrong?”

               He doesn’t answer, and so you sit against the wall, pulling your knees up to your chest. “You don’t have to let me in, but I care about you.” You walk back to the living room, picking up the mess you’ve made. You don’t want to set him off any further. Dishes in the sink, sweep the floor, clear away wrappers. You decide to leave his bag in it’s spot on the carpet, in case he gets mad at you for moving it.

               By the time you’re done, it’s almost five in the morning. The door creaks open, and you see him step out into the hallway. You peer up at him from the kitchen, shoulders tensed. You want to say something, but can’t find the courage or the words to do so.

               He walks past you, picking the bag up and hauling it back to the “dark room.” You aren’t allowed to go in, nor do you want to. You know what you will find, and the consequences of damaging the developing film will be severe.

               You grimace, pacing back to the couch. You really hope he’s okay. Then again, you should be wishing that things went wrong. You feel disgusting for being on his side, washing his dishes and waiting for him at home like a lost puppy. You aren’t any better than him. Even if he got caught, what good would it do you? You’d just go down with him. Danny had made this abundantly clear.

               The dark room door shuts, and he walks into the living room. He stares at you blankly. You stare back, unblinking and unsure of his intentions. He sits, looking instead to the wall.

               “What’s wrong?” You question, frowning. He still remains stoic, and so you lay down on the couch, curling your knees up so that you don’t accidentally touch him with your legs. “It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it. But it’s going to be alright.”

               You can’t believe you’re sitting here trying to comfort a murderer, but life is unexpected.

               He sighs, and looks at you. He looks angry and tired, and so you get up, moving across the sofa to him. “Can I touch you?” You say, gingerly.

               He waits a second, before an affirmative grunt indicates approval. You take his head in your hands, looking into his eyes. “You’re okay. It’s okay.” You press a kiss to his forehead, petting the hair at his nape, before moving your arms down to squeeze a hug around his shoulders. You tuck your face into the dip between his neck and shoulder, putting your full weight onto him.

               And for a moment, all is well again.

[misericordia-writing]

ok i submitted a help request.

[misericordia-writing]

ugh for whatever reason i don't have the password or the password for the email to this account. so i might be moving accounts soon... :( right now i can only access it from one device.

[misericordia-writing]

[misericordia-writing]

Instagram

(C.B)(1.6.19)

[misericordia-writing]

“I’m sorry you were not truly loved and that it made you cruel.”

— Warsan Shire

[misericordia-writing]

Reminisce

"One day, he finally snapped-- crossed the line, and became what his father wanted, but in the last way he’d have thought. He filed a missing persons report the next day.

Danny didn’t win any medals, but he did win the war."

Chapter 4 of Matchbook

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

Word Count: 800

Summary: Reader reflects on what they know of Danny's past. Some sweet cuddling action at the end-- I feel like we need some fluff after the last chapter.

Angst, Fluff

TW for canon-typical violence, mentions of parent-child abuse, and of course mention of murder

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45585013/chapters/115150627

               You knew a lot about Danny.

               You knew about the way he grew up, losing his mother and moving in with an estranged father during elementary school. Balancing meeting his rigorous demands with appeasing the eyes of the church and town standards.

Reading, reading, and reading-- looking for any way to escape, through grisly novels and morbid classics to run away from the horror of daily life. By sixth-grade, reports showed that he had reached a college reading level, focusing on Dostoyevsky and Lovecraft while his peers scraped the surface of The Outsiders.

Danny’s father promptly threw these reports in the trash and lectured his son about what really mattered, more than flowery literature or book smarts.

               The man was ruthless in his training, spending the most formative years of Danny’s life teaching him about how to survive war, instead of teaching him to ride bikes or build baking-soda volcanoes. His classmates were playing football and watching cartoons on weekends, Danny was up at the crack of dawn, making his bed and doing push-ups. Reading wasn’t going to save him.

               He instilled in him from an early age what the truth was. How everything was a façade, the meaning of humanity. Danny’s father had seen and experienced horrific realities, and thus, so would he. But he hardly needed teaching-- he’d learned quickly from the hands of schoolyard cruelty during the day and drunken beatings during the night.

One day, he finally snapped-- crossed the line, and became what his father wanted, but in the last way he’d have thought. He filed a missing persons report the next day.

Danny didn’t win any medals, but he did win the war.

               Naturally, he hightailed it out of there as soon as he could. With a solid 3.9 grade point average and a nearly full-ride scholarship to a school up in Salt Lake, he packed his bags and didn’t look back. Nobody knew what had really happened, only that old man Johnson had finally went crazy and abandoned his boy at some camp-ground. People looked down on him pitifully, unsurprised at the outcomes of his upbringing.

               Of course, Danny succeeded in college as well-- easily surpassing his peers in performance, grades, and comprehension. Amongst the many other passions and hobbies a student might pick up in university, though, he felt more drawn to murder than he did beer pong or debate team. And thus, his career began.

               But now, in the dark, these things do not exist.

               His head rests on your chest, soft puffs of air meeting the skin of your sternum. He mutters something against you, and you gently scratch at the skin of his scalp. He does this, sometimes. Talks incoherently in his sleep. On the rare occasions that he does sleep, that is. It’s always fitful and almost never intentional. You think that he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t have to.

               Danny isn’t very good at taking care of himself. Too invested in his work, in his passion, in his façade. The constant turning of his mind quickly rips him away from basic needs, hyper-focused on making his stories. You distantly feel a pang of nausea, but are drawn away from it quickly, mesmerized by the man laying on top of you.

               You can feel the slow movement of his ribs against your stomach, toned and defined torso melding into your softer one. He sighs, knitting his eyebrows for a moment, and so you steady your hands. You feel like the world is in your grasp as you trace the lines of his face, all the marks and scars and bumps. Threading dark hair through your fingers, making little twists and parts absentmindedly.

               If only something had gone differently, you think, he could be so beautiful. You correct yourself. He is beautiful. On the outside. On the inside, maybe, a long time ago. Maybe a little bit still. But you doubt it. You think he is too far gone, too damaged and corrupted. Too cynical.

               You wonder what he would look like, genuinely at peace and happy. Would he look like he does now? Eyes closed and face soft? Or would he be completely unrecognizable? You wish he was happy and at peace. If he was, he probably wouldn’t have to go around killing people for a fix.

               You cradle his skull to your chest and frown, feeling crushed underneath the man. You don’t mind the pressure, though. He shifts, moving his head down to bury his face in your warmth. The air conditioning thrums soothingly, and you hear a car pass in the distance.

               “I love you.” You say, to the night.

[misericordia-writing]

chapter 4 otw

[misericordia-writing]

okay was nobody going to tell me the difference between a dash and em dash?? years but nobody has told me?? omg.

[misericordia-writing]

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.

        “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.” His voice is crackly with modification, words sounding like they are coming through landline.

        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.

[misericordia-writing]

Jiffy-Pop

“Can we please stick to the ‘mainstream’ stuff from now on?”

Chapter 2 of Matchbook

Pairings: Danny Johnson/Gender-Neutral Reader

Word Count: 400

Fluff

Summary: Short blurb about movie night with Danny.

TW for canon-typical violence

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45585013/chapters/114821185#workskin

      Screams echoed around the dark room, and blood dripped from the man’s face. The grainy camera sways, flashing from image to image of mutilation and gore. How do they manage to make it look so real?

               You cling tightly to his arm, burying your head in his shoulder and trying to ignore the grotesque picture playing on the small television. “Danny,” You cry, muffled into his shirt, “Please, turn it off!”

               “Agreed,” He says, suddenly standing up and leaving you sniffling on the chair. “This is absolute garbage.” He huffs, as he pops the VHS out and slides it back into the cover, not even bothering to rewind the tape. “How do they even market this crap?” He scowls.

               You frown, looking up at him. An abandoned bowl of popcorn sits off to the side, only halfway eaten. “Never again,” You say, crossing your arms. “Can we please stick to the ‘mainstream’ stuff from now on?”

               He sighs, adjusting the antennas. “Listen, don’t knock the whole genre over this one film.” He pauses, adding, “Actually, ‘film’ is pretty generous. Let me put you onto some real stuff…” He crouches down, rummaging through a box of cartridges. Muttering something about chainsaws.

               “No!” You say, whining, but you quickly catch your composure. The last thing you want to do is somehow set him off. “Please, Danny. Can we watch something a little less… Intense? My stomach hurts.”

               “Your stomach always hurts.” He says, rolling his eyes. “But just for you, sweets.”

               And that’s how you found yourself an hour into Steel Magnolias, crying so hard that your head hurts and you can’t breathe through your nose. Danny is sprawled out behind you, aloof, fingers pawing lightly at your sides, in what you assume is more likely a bored habit than it is an attempt to physically comfort you.

               “Relax, it’s only a movie.” He says, pushing your hair back towards him and away from his face. You slump into his chest, getting him soaked with tears and snot. “It’s just so sad,” You say, quivering. “Her poor mother. Can you imagine?”

               He doesn’t respond, probably fighting his tongue to hold back a quip. You sigh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Tonight is not a good night.” You grimace, letting your eyes close. His chest moves up and down against your face, steadily. You can hear the thrum of his heart, low and pulsing.

               He pats your back, drawing you in closer. “I know.”