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apocalypse-shuffle · 6 months ago

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DANNY "JED OLSEN" JOHNSON | THE GHOST FACE (dead by daylight)

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“Try Not to Scream” (Danny “Jed Olsen” Johnson | The Ghost Face x Fem!Reader)

| After you’ve been with Danny for a little while, the instance of him kidnapping you and revealing who he really was behind you but not forgotten, he decides it’s high time he start desensitizing you to what it is he does.

| NSFW, canon typical violence, murder, mature themes, moral dilemma, the reader-insert has in braids (TW: general sadism, kidnapping, unhealthy relationship) -dark!reader & goth!reader

| This fic is a continuation of sorts to the “Jed Olsen” section in this imagine post. This also doesn’t take place in the Entity’s realm. (Pic source: DbD promotional material)

| 2k+ words

EXTRA HC: The justification I’m operating on, in regards to Danny sparing anyone and/or genuinely “dating” anyone, is that Danny has to see some sense of kinship in the other person. A sense that you’re not lying to yourself like everyone else but him about your darkness, and seeing the potential for murder in you. Then he’ll allow for a little partnership action.

“Stop trembling.”

You flinch.

That low timbre travels through all the nerve endings in your spine like an electric shock, jolting you ram-rod straight out of your curled up position close as you could get to the door of his new school vehicle.

In spite of his talking to you your lips remain sealed in a thin line as you glower out the window. At the bottom level of an otherwise uninhibited parking tower where Danny figured you could make the least trouble. Staring at nothing but white lines on the asphalt lit sparsely by dull yellowing lights.

Even now his voice still has heat pooling in your gut that makes you want to grind your teeth into a fine alabaster powder. The less pleasant queasy feeling in your stomach that accompanies that warmth isn’t much consolation.

Jed— Danny was full of possibilities, and not one of them was conventional or safe.

Really the only ‘good’ thing about tonight was that he wouldn’t have time to keep all his focus on you, to weigh you down with the force of it, because he had a target he planned on killing tonight and an op-ed that would need finishing right after.

Horrible though it may be, you’re glad you're not the center of his obsession right now. Pierce, his newest victim since you guys settled into town that he’s been dragging you along to watch for weeks, firmly held that position in your stead tonight.

He clears his throat. Reluctantly, you turn your head to watch him.

Cracking his knuckles, Danny gives you a long look, full brows furrowed. You give the thicket above his eyes more attention than you do the dark orbs themselves.

“Don’t do anything dumb, yeah?” he says. He doesn’t wait for your response or stick around to try hammering in his point more, however, twitching fingers a clear sign of his being more eager for carnage than any type of lecturing.

He slips on the mask right before he leaves the car; the rest of him decked out only in civvies and hunting boots. The ghost mask is one you’ve gotten plenty familiar with in the past. Vividly, you can remember the sight of that mask hunting you down and then directly in your face as the news dubbed “Ghost Face” slit your then boyfriend’s throat and christened you in his spray of blood before Danny had done you the disservice of sparing your life.

It's hard to look away as your ex(?) makes his way from the car with the hood of his black hoodie up, leaving you sitting pretty and still struggling to hold back your trembling in the passenger seat. Left to do nothing but watch.

Or to call the cops once your sense finally daigns to come back to you.

He had seemed so certain last night that you wouldn’t, and you hate that you even have to wonder whether you’ll prove him right or if you’ll finally buck up, reactivate your stalling-like-shit morality, and call the cops on his pasty ass right now regardless of your general distrust of the police.

As Danny waltzes without a hitch across the parking lot to where Pierce’s car is bracketed by two thick concrete pillars on either side at the back corner of the lot, though, no part of you moves towards Danny’s burner phone where it rests in the cup holder beside you like a taunt.

Or an opportunity.

Your painted nails tap against the button to turn the window down, a light rhythmic clicking sounding through the silent car while your eyes stay transfixed to Danny. Danny, who might as well be invisible as he closes in on the car without incident just as Pierce is ducking down to get in.

The transition after that is well timed and impressive enough that your eyebrows raise in place of where you should be screaming your head off.

Heedless of good citizenship, your lips stay stubbornly shut as you watch Danny wait until the exact moment Pierce — still unaware of where the seasoned killer is crouched out of immediate sight by the passenger door — closes the driver’s door shut behind him to open the muscular man’s passenger door and slip inside like he belongs there too.

When your window slips down a crack you don’t even bother acting surprised, you just stop moving, hold your breath, and listen.

In the immediate seconds after Danny enters Pierce startles, his face contorting in disbelief, and then he has a knife through his sternum from one blink to the next.

A muffled scream, high and panicked and quickly cutoff, meets your ears for hardly a second before silence descends around you once again.

His expressions look stilted as they come to him, like he’s lagging, but Danny doesn’t give him the chance to do much but emote as his next three stabs come in quick succession.

Sternum, the joint of his shoulder when he tries to sit up better, somewhere besides his Adam's apple, his damn cheek; all leading up to the final blow where Danny’s blade glints against the lighting in the sports car before being buried to the hilt in Pierce’s eyeball.

Blood flies everywhere.

Danny’s just pushing out of the passenger’s seat to get more leverage, knocking the bottom of the hilt with the heel of his palm so that the knife goes even farther in, when the automated lights go out and plunge the inside of Pierce’s car into darkness.

This time you don’t hear anything.

Not a stray beep of the horn or the drag of soaked fingers over tempered class or a squeak from the slightly rocking cars’ joints.

Not even when the flash of his camera gives you a few seconds of discombobulating previews of the carnage he’s created does the silence break.

Nothing.

Not until Danny’s slipping back out of the car and closing the passenger door with a hardly notable click. In that brief moment the lights kick back on and the scene that greets you is even bloodier than when you saw it last.

Blood managed to spray a dripping arch in front of the driver’s seat window, the skin around Pierce’s eye socket protrudes as if a tiny bomb had been planted in it, and his eyeball dangles precariously from his head by whatever tendon lies behind it.

His throat is slit now too, not just stabbed. One continuous perforated mess that’s compromised the structural integrity of the muscled man’s neck so badly his head, where it’s trying its best to slip over the side of the headrest he’s propped up against, has slipped back far enough it creates the illusion of a gaping cavernous maw below his chin. Crimson and gurgling. Like he gave one last wide grin as he met his death.

You can barely imagine the amount of blood you’d be able to see up close…or the sheer force of how it would all smell. It makes your stomach clench and by the time the lights have shut back off and Danny’s easing behind the wheel beside you your eyes burn too.

Contrary to the mild sample you get of what the inside of Pierce’s car smells like, he's covered in less blood than you had expected him to be. Instead of that striking you with fear all you can think about is how much of a Danny Thing that is to manage.

Of course he’d fucking kill like he’s afraid of increasing his dry cleaning bill even when he’d been so hyped up he was trembling on the drive over; there was control behind all that strange unconventional bravado of his.

He slips off his mask.

All but a single dark smear across the stark white of the masked forehead bears no sign of his misdeeds.

“Don’t faint.”

That’s what he leads with.

No questioning the security of the contents of your stomach or how red your eyes have gotten. He just jumps directly back into conversation like you didn’t just witness him kill a man.

It unfreezes you though, and with a gasp of breath you’re talking before you can fully check yourself, “That doesn’t sound like a ‘me’ issue.”

“Oh?” Danny chuckles darkly. “I can make it a personal issue for you after the fact, I assure you.” He raises his brows in question, the quirk of his lips sharp, and you can’t help the way your saliva turns bitter in the face of it.

At your lack of comeback he lets himself pull out the camera in his pocket. That too is streaked only minimally crimson.

When it slips up and he points it at your face you’re not fast enough to give him your back. You’re gazing directly at him and probably looking utterly enamored in your shock.

The murderer — the man who seems utterly determined to drag you against your will across the country with him — heeding no mind to your displeasure, takes a few more shots before you catch yourself and shift out of the light shining in through the windshield.

Pictures already taken, though, Danny doesn’t bother with you, already flipping his camera around.

“Nice,” he murmurs, clicking through the photos. He glances up at you then, winks. “I think these might be better than the pictures I took with you the night we met.”

You're speaking before you can talk yourself out of it, tone sharp, “The night you tried to kill me?”

He pauses.

His fingers stutter for a second over silver buttons, his camera whirling, before he meets the fire in your gaze with his own inferno.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Spit too much fire and you might burn yourself.”

For a while you hold his stare regardless of his warning. He kidnapped you, he didn’t get to force you to act like this was some kind of fun outing. It didn’t matter how avidly you had stared into Pierce’s car.

The burner in the cup holder still staring back at you — still unused — didn’t mean anything.

Part of you wants to break that damn camera. Maybe then he’d finally fucking cry about something, show some actual genuine emotion for once.

Fuck.

Letting out a harsh breath through your teeth, you turn away from him, hiding your clenched fists in between your legs.

It was best you didn’t provoke him and you knew that. The good thing about Danny, though, was that while he burned hot, he didn’t burn long.

And you were determined to work that in your favor any chance you got.

From the driver's seat you hear your companion relax and your shoulders slump.

They ache with the remnants of your tension.

“Sure,” you acquiesce, licking slowly over your cracked lips and looking back at him with a little less fire in your eyes. “Why then? Why all the stabs if you were just going to slit his…you know?”

“His. Throat,” Danny stresses. Low, short.

He works his gloves over his fingers with his teeth, stuffing the leather in his waistband near where you know the sheath for his tactical knife is strapped against his thigh behind the center console.

You duck your head, braids knocking forward, force your hands to relax, then begin to fiddle with the rosary beads hung low on your neck. A dower mirth lifts your brows; as if the god you didn’t even believe in could save you now.

And for all you knew this was one of Danny’s gifts that he’d stolen off some poor person's dead body, so what good juju it could’ve had was probably tainted anyway.

“Fine,” you mutter, voice stilted and rough. “Why do all that if you were gonna slit his throat anyway?”

Hands on the wheel Danny shrugs - shrugs!

“I like to slit their throats sometimes, it makes the scene more dramatic, you know? Plus, I wanted to get you as acquainted as I could so I drew it out a bit more. But I’ll admit I went a lot faster than I would’ve if I was in a more private space, that’s why I like killing them in their houses.” He turns to you fully, lifts his hand past the partition without a care for how you flinch, and moves some of your braids interwoven with your fluff of curls out of your face so he can bore his gaze directly into yours. The pad of his fingers are dewy against your umber skin, his touch tender only because of their feel. “Sometimes it’s fun when they fight, when I get to debase them in the one place they feel safe.”

You bite back the urge to grimace.

It figures that the one time you get a straight answer out of him is tonight.

“Oh,” you breathe, fingers stumbling over the beads you’re rolling between them, “I…guess that’s good to know.”

Danny smiles, it’s not fake but now that you know the truth it doesn’t sit right on his face either, before turning back to his camera.

At least, you supposed, you now had more of an idea as to how he’d dispose of you if you stopped being entertaining.

The memory of the glint of Danny’s knife in the light, its own omen, as he closed in on his victim’s car (the victim of his stalking, of his murder) flickers through your mind. Flashes of the dead man’s gaping flesh swiftly follow.

Would you like it when The Ghost Face finally claimed your soul too? Would his being through with you grant you damnation or not?

Silent, you watch him get situated once he’s finished looking over his cache for the evening. His profile stands out starkly against the tower lights behind him, reedy defined features and that blocky nose that once regularly held up glasses he didn’t need to see. He’s almost angel-pretty like this. Makes a pang strike through your chest at the remnants of before, of poking at him while he worked until he couldn’t help but indulge you and his numbing kisses and the dorky (curated) way he’d push up his glasses after laughing at something cute you’d done.

It was ridiculous, this war within you. Everything about Jed Olsen had been a lie and yet still the phantom of him intrinsic to Danny continues to have you yearning.

Still you can’t help but wonder if the stab of his knife through your dark sensitive flesh, the feel of his masked or barren eyes stripping you to tendon as he plunged past your ribcage, would feel like divinity.

Danny brushes the choppy fringe of bangs that line his forehead back, streaks blood through brunet strands, and still your heart’s desire remains. Would it be…better like this? If you stayed with him, let yourself be content with a knife in your hand and a far more familiar devil reigning at your side?

The car turns on and Danny starts driving you guys away from his newest crime scene, flicking the radio on as he goes. The dvd in his player spins and the moody tones of The Ire fill the heavy air between you both. Despite yourself you fall into Maya Brooks’ distorted vocals, letting your body sway and shift minutely in tandem with the music.

Danny’s eyes when he glances at you are dull — you’d say they were grim if you thought he had the ability to feel remorse, but his expression is unusually open. His gaze intent on the way you’re softly mouthing along to Derelict.

“We won’t stay west too long, okay, Honey?” His voice is dry, but the curl of his tongue around the pet name is like a verbal lash. “You just hold on and I’ll have you slitting throats up north before New Years. You’re gonna love it.”

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!

I seem to only be able to write Danny once every year (not necessarily for a lack of trying, I’m a slow creator), but I really love exploring the horror and moral fuckery of these slasher romances so I had a great time writing this. And, yes, I did give Danny glasses as a part of his Jed ruse.

Ignore that I included a band that isn’t 90’s, I just really wanted to include The Ire idk (they’re described as goth/post-punk, but really I just wanted to talk about them a little). Plus the setting is nebulous anyway.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

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