#ignte

inad im gonna call the police, this is AMAZING? you are SO talented, what the FUCK

with         interior          idiom       ;          cutis          is          armor       ,          brains          are           shields       ,          tongues         are          swords       !          mouth          of          a          𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭          gyrate       ,          *            hearken          commix          sousing          pirr       ,          ❝          you          would          be          deemed          a          𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛  .          ❞

     “   WHY ,     HOLA ,     AMIGUS!     my  -  my ,     now     this     is     what     i’d     call     tight !     so     many     mouths     t’     feed!     you     sure     a     hotdog  -  stand  -  equivalent     of     a     gun     store     can     cover     all     this ?   ”

she is firmly plastered in front of his door   ,   fingers a nervous tap against the hem of her shirt   .      ❛    can i come with you   ?    ❜      POSED as a question   ,   but velma’s most likely going to trail after   ,   anyway   .

        He personally thought he didn’t need a new blade, the one which was YEARS old still comfortably resting in the hollow of his palm despite everything it had been through—from red coated fingers holding the handle and from being roughly forced into various bodies, at times in odd places where the blade should have broken off– And yet it had persisted for so long. Dull it had grown, that much he would give it, but that seemingly only caused a CHILL to run down spine as they all just screamed LOUDER.

        Yet he—one would almost call it lovingly if they didn’t know him better, a most certain POSSESSIVE glint in his eyes—took the knife with rough fingers, turning it in his hands to admire the craftsman work. The very tip of an index finger rand over the edge and he was almost thrilled to see the small drops of blood well up. SHARP and precise, efficient and quick kills—his almost-lover knew him well.

        Almost TOO well.

        Void eyes went from drinking up the silver edge to glancing towards the waiting man, his mask clad features as black and DARK as the shadows Michael so carefully crafted in his wake. A layer of mystery that none were seemingly able to comprehend, a mist none could see too far into without losing their way. Just staring into the glass eyes of the gas mask could make one almost faint—but not Michael Myers. Something that felt like PRIDE built up in his chest ( How long ? How long since a sensation quite like such had been there ? ) and bloomed. With the hand not holding the newly acquired blade he held it out, fished in the air, and finally took a hold of the hand that hung limply by Gus’ side. Thumb swiped over the top of knuckles and although his gaze went away from glancing at the GLASSY surfaces of the gas mask back to the painfully sharp ( New ) knife there was still some kind of attention brought over—the way he shuffled closer, the way his breath HITCHED and then flattened.