#ghostfaked

send your muse’s height.

he’s parked outside the high school, noting down important information  -  specifically any talk about sidney prescott.   he’s watching for her, in fact.  from a safe distance, though he wonders whether she’d be attending school this early after the murders.   𝚒𝚝’𝚜  𝚝𝚘𝚘  𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗  𝚝𝚘  𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑  𝚘𝚞𝚝.   highly likely every local reporter is seeking to feast on her vulnerability like a ravenous vulture.  he can wait.  it’ll be worth it, in the long run.   

danny’s aware of a lingering presence.   someone off to his right, their gaze burning a metaphorical hole through him.   his jaw clenches, finishing up the notes in his journal before his gaze flicks over to them.

        “ you need somethin’, kid ? ”   he’s got an accent  -  the same one he’s been practising for the last week.   an impersonation of the real adrian,  𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬  𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧  𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭  𝐨𝐟  𝐚  𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐲 ;  southern drawl eerily perfected.   “ ‘s not polite t’ stare. ”

“ oh - you’re way too fuckin’ baby faced to think that you’re hot shit. are the requirements for getting sucked into this hell just having a knife and ill intent ? ”

                he says it like he’s BETTER than you - years of experience help with the confidence. he’s never been very good at telling human age - but fresh from the flock, he assumes this one is. ripe, just learning to fly, and already so violent. n’aeght speaks of the realm as if it’s both a prison and an exclusive club at the same time, bitter, making no effort to sugarcoat his belligerency. part of him murmurs quietly in protest - picking fights in a place you can’t die is a game for fools, and he should seek to make a friend - but at the same time, what better place to poke and prod, than somewhere you can’t be killed ?