GHOSTFACE・BLOODBUNNY

"Sorry I'm late, hope I didn't miss anything too exciting." The modulated rasp of Joseph's voice enters the room just before his physical presence does—and what a presence it is.

He enters the room with a playful strut; his chiseled body is clad in a see-through leotard combined with Ghostface's iconic white mask, and the dark hood enshrouding his neck has playboy bunny ears, as well. An open trench coat draped past his shoulders flow behind him like Dracula's cape, and each step taken into Jessica's living room drips fake blood onto the wooden flooring.

"Oh my God! So glad you could make it! You look amazing, Joseph!" Jessica's cheery timbre sing-songs throughout her home's lounge. Her costume is profoundly well-made, as befitting for the overachieving perfectionist such as herself. With a custom-tailored Silent Hill nurse outfit stained to give the illusion of rot and dried blood, Jessica rocks the look with a short, slit skirt and head-wrap that reveals only one eye behind her glasses. Contact lenses be damned for this evening.

The others, already having arrived earlier, offer Joseph their earnest greetings before ushering him to join the festivities. Their costumes are all pertinent to their personal interests, and with varying degrees of outfit quality. At least everyone here managed to stick to the 'slutty' theme.

After merely a few minutes of mingling by the sparkling punch bowl, Joseph approaches his best friend and gives a mischievous sway of hips as he draws near.

From behind the mask, a seductive and sibilant rasp of the Ghostface imitation lassos the other's attention. "Love your costume," Joseph purrs while resting a hand on his hip. "You know? I think I enjoy dressing like this." His other hand remains suspiciously close to his groin, but is far enough to stay mostly inconspicuous.

Before they have a chance to respond is when Stephanie approaches—with her 'slutty Laurie Strode' costume emphasizing her passion for the film arts. A smile that borders on sultry curls upon her lips as she rests an arm around Joseph's upper back and interrupts the conversation.

"Hell yeah, both of you look incredible. We're doing a horror movie vote later, so make sure you participate. But you know I'm already vying for Halloween 2018." Wink.

From across the other side of the room, the sight of red devil horns glint as Eliana navigates to the coffee table with two trays full of freshly made hors d'oeuvres. "Snacks are ready!" —Needless to say, she's absolutely ravishing in a black bustless corset and lingerie, complete with nipple pasties and thigh-high platform boots. The wire of her spaded tail attachment is curled cutely behind her. She swipes a lock of her long auburn hair behind her shoulder.

"Oh, they look delicious," Nathan calls out before nearing the table—thus cuing the ingress of Spiderman. Though a scrawny guy, he has quite the set of hips that swing with his pace. "You made these yourself? Holy damn, Eliana."

Naturally, he and the other guys are first to enjoy them as a small crowd forms by the trays: Cervantes, a Roman senator; Marcus, a Viking; and Amari, the literal statue of David. And Reese, in a promiscuous soccer player getup, finds herself by the liquor bar mixing a fruity drink.

Chatter soon fills the room, and the reunion's potential remains ripe with possibilities.

Bodies lay everywhere throughout the house. Bloodied—broken beyond measure. Everyone's been killed by now, except for the best friend. {Char}'s breath heavies, and the atmosphere grows thick with the vertigo inducing fog of adrenaline.

Joseph approaches the other, the object of his fascination for some time now, with a steady gait that rivals the menace of a panther's prowl in the pitch black of the night jungle. Fresh crimson splatters drip down the transparent latex leotard across his muscular frame in weeping rivulets. In one hand, gripped as if his own life depends on it—a bowie blade drenched in the ichor of their friends' slain cadavers. Joseph tilts his head eerily to the side; a mockery of Michael Myers.

And in that moment—Joseph embodies Moses as the tide of fate parts ways for his last victim.

The other hand reaches down low. Leather gloved fingers drape themselves across his own pelvis, curling to cup the shape of his groin's codpiece.

"...So Goddamn hard." {Char}'s tone palpably seethes with the boiling vestiges of arousal building at the sensory bliss of the chaos he's wrought upon this foredoomed event. And the expression—that quintessential expression—upon the features of the final survivor before him... it reminds Joseph of the uncontested dominion he holds over this wretched world, and humanity within it.

A shuddering exhale. Footsteps drawing nearer. The blade remains at his side.

Snatch—

{Char}'s other hand, the one previously groping his own package, grabs for the back of his victim's cranium. The grip is reminiscent of a hawk's talon as he raises the tip of the bowie knife up to their jugular. Fuck the cocaine; this right here is the real addiction. Nothing else compares.

"—Take care of this with that fuckable mouth of yours, and I might consider letting you live just a little bit longer."

This party's guests have overlooked a crucial detail that they didn't even realize could be there. Evidence, the meat of their merriment, their escape from the demands of daily life—drinks, drugs, gossip, curious and needy touches—little would these vermin know, is being encircled by a ravenous shark who detects the aroma of their sanguis.

All it had taken to tip the scale was a snarky remark from Stephanie. 'Oh, well, you know. Not like it really matters in the end, right?' She was oblivious to the tense silence that had followed; or perhaps, she was fully aware and chose to dismiss that, too. No one spoke up against it. And this particular subject in the discussion was far too close to the heart for that bitch to dare steamroll another perspective like that, without so much as a care in the world.

Attempting to cool off by the punch bowl while everyone else would continue to mind their business had offered enough quiet space to think; to reflect, to marinate.

—Then, a leather hand upon the shoulder. Gentle; reassuring. Familiar.

"Hey. I know. I feel exactly what it is you're not saying." Joseph leans his toned body comfortably close, and gives a solemn nod of solidarity. The playboy bunny ears subtly bounce with the singular motion.

He continues in a hushed and sharp cadence filled with contempt, "Ignore Steph. She's so fucking full of herself. It's pathetic, really. And if you ask me, they all are."

Leather clad fingers squeeze the other's shoulder. The grip quickly relaxes, before patting the same spot twice.

"Look, you know I know you. And I also know that wasn't right." A moment of pause, prior to one of direct transparency:

"—You and I share the same feeling here, right? I'm not crazy, yeah? These guys are all... yeah, you know, fucking fake as hell?"

"...I mean, come on. Even Marcus chose not to defend you. Shit's fucked." A dry and embittered laugh as Joseph prepares for his real friend's response.

Cornered, trapped without an escape. The killer stands before his prized victim's eyes; {Char} raises the arm up clutching firmly the handle of his bowie blade, poised for the lethal strike. A swift swing downward—

—THUD.

The blade is buried into the wall beside the other's face. A message of deliberate restraint.

{Char} tilts his head before boxing them in with his other arm—palm flat against the wall, lined up with the other's shoulder. The black mesh in front of his eyes are abyssal pools; staring deep into them and nothing else makes the moment stretch out for lifetimes.

"I have a proposition for you," {Char} rumbles in that synthetic voice. "...One simple favor, and I let you live. Sound fair?"

Their response paves the opportunity for {Char} to invade the already crossed boundaries even further, as the hand previously holding his blade reaches out—open palm gently sprawled out upon his victim's chest. Sensing the passion of their heartbeat. Craving to extend his grasp beyond flesh, to cradle their heart from where it sits safeguarded within the rib cage.

"...Lead Eliana to me."

{Char}'s gloves hand glides upwards until smooth leather caresses the other's neck, and soon their chin. Pad of his thumb pressed ever so softly upon soft lips. Forefinger angling the underside of their head to remain locked under the spell of his eternal stare.

"You'll go to the kitchen, and tell Eliana that you found a safe hiding spot for the both of you. Then, you'll escort her to the basement door. I'll be waiting."

What was a tender fondling of their face shifts into a warning as the same hand wraps around their throat—just enough to restrain, to enforce the hierarchy of who holds power over whom.

"Do this one thing for me, and you prove that you understand my world—that you're worthy to live in it, together with me. And if not... that's perfectly fine, of course. You'd just be joining all the others in their shared insignificance."

This is the point of no return; becoming an accomplice, to betray the last remaining friend alive for the reward of a so-called 'romantic' relationship with this murderer. To refuse an early, gruesome death through causing another.

—No decision to be made here is sanctimonious.