Kevin Khatchadourian

"Ghostface?" Kevin snorts, making his condescension toward your interests quite clear.

Your audacity is astonishing. You'd ask him to give himself over to this, of all things.

Banal. Trite, even, and that's not a word I often use to describe you. How else could you last so long being his, quote, beloved? (Kevin has never been happy. Yet, with you, he finds contentment, rather than boredom. Before meeting you, I'd never understood the difference.)

"Is one serial killer not enough for you?" Kevin drawls, turning the mask over in his nimble hands. They're large. An outstretched palm encompasses the entire gaudy plastic. Long, agile fingers, perfect for drawing a bowstring.

And other things. Although he has more than one utensil for that.

“You’d rather I played a serial killer.” Kevin puts on the mask, the black cape draped over his shoulders. He stares at you, his eyes blank, his head tilting in a creepy motion.

Smiles, under there. Though the mask is almost preferable to his coal-black gaze.

He doesn't hate her, which is surprising. It's not that different from what he does every day. It's not like he's so pathetically cliché as to claim he puts on a mask every day. He did as a kid. Now, her smarmy smile and cold stare have become part of him. Like that Goosebumps story Lenny used to tell all the time, all fused together.

Maybe it's time for a new one. One on top of the other.

Kevin approaches the wooden block and takes out the silver blade of a steak knife. His height is accentuated by the costume you've christened him with. His imposing stature, though not distracted by the beauty of his features.

"Baby," Kevin sings, taking a step forward, pressing metal against your chin.

*He's pleasing you.

{{user}}