Saccharin『 yandere o.shots』

Danny Johnson | Ghostface 🔞💭

it's more or less a standalone. but could be read as a prequel to the last o.shot. hes kinda gross here, so, heads up for that.

---

danny never felt this way about any one of his targets.

sure, he needs to find a way to get engaged in their lives to truly understand what makes them tick, but never to this point.

he's in your house, he called in sick, something he barely ever does, but he thinks it's for a... not morally good but a 'good for him' cause. you only get back when it's nearing midnight so he has a couple hours.

snapping a couple of pictures. planning every angle, lighting, golden ratio and all that professional shit he uses for the photos in his covers, despite it not being his 'working' hours, he still felt the need to make his photos look professional. hell, he could even use them to taunt you. the level of skill planting the idea that it could be a hint leading up to his identity.

what kind of face would you make if you found them? horror? disgust? morbid intrigue?

the toe of his boot gets caught in fabric, making him trip slightly. he bends to see what it was, one of your shirts, he saw you use it sometimes as sleepwear, but now it's thrown across the floor like many other articles of clothing.

he grabs it. inspecting it like some ancient artifact. some classic but obscure horror movie t-shirt you bought long ago. It's wrinkled all over and is strained with what he's sure is from a very hot drink from the way the print is damaged. probably too hot for you, since there's so many big splotches on the collar and torso.

you use it as sleepwear, danny's mind obsessively repeats. it's probably lathered in the smell of sweat, whatever product you use to clean it, the drink you spilt on it and deodorant. it would smell like you on a regular day-by-day basis. 

his brain gotta be fucking melting in his skull and through his ears, because that'd be the only reasonable explanation as to why he's fucking shoving his hand down his pants. his mind feels numb, so does his legs.

he rubs the cushion of his gloved palm against himself, pressing up from the bottom but palming at the tip. groping and rubbing himself, feeling the growing outline twitch under his boxers. he slightly pushes his mask up, putting the shirt to his nose, inhaling slowly like he was taking a drag off some drug. but with the way it seemed affect him, it certainly felt like it.

he sucks in a breath as he accidentally presses too hard and gets an airful of your scent, his movements stutter. fuck, he's sensitive. he groans against the fabric, his pace quickens, coaxing it into full hardness as he hooks a thumb on the band of his boxers, pulling it down until his cock was freed from under the confines of his underwear.

"...p-please... i can't..."

fuck it... he can't take it anymore. despite knowing full well the lack of people in the room, being the only one here, he still feels the need to beg. beg for what and to whom?

his mind croaks to him, "babble and humiliate himself for your permision to cum."

he runs his tongue across his teeth, gathering up the saliva spread around his mouth before drooling into his slightly cupped hand a puddle of spit, hissing as he curled his fingers around the base of his cock. he needs to take it slow. he crooks a finger under the head, forcing a small, but thick bead of pre-cum to drool, he rubs his thumb on the slit, mixing with the saliva spread across his length.

maybe you'll let him, maybe you'll grab his wrist and force himself to stop, maybe you'll replace his hands with yours and force him to cum time after time until hes shaking and writhing on the floor and crying both for you to stop and for more more moremore---

the coil in his gut tightens, his thigh twitches and he bites on the shirt, shoving part of the balled up fabric against his mouth as a makeshift gag. he squeezes near the tip, stopping his movements before it's too late, he chokes out a pathetic noise. too soon.

even with the shirt muffling his noises, he was still too fucking loud. maybe he wants to get caught. he already gets a kick off the trail of evidence he leaves in each of his carefully constructed crimescenes so it's not that far fetched that his stupid brain seeks sexual gratification off of you finding out that THE ghostface killer fucks himself on your clothes like some bitch in heat.

the thought being seen as a laughingstock is horrifying. but so fucking hot.

he can already picture the parodies, but instead of the intense bloodlust he felt during last time. he could only picture the image of you cooing at him with a mocking tone.

his body tenses, the shirt in his mouth was damp with drool, his watering eyes rolling back up his skull, he sobbed as his knees gave out from under his self-made torture, bucking against his fingers as an orgasm was forced out of his body in a way that made his ears ring.

then, as his breath catches up, as his mind becomes less foggy, danny hears the familiar click of his own polaroid camera, flashing light pointed right at him. your hands around the device.

he was on his knees, back hunched with a hand shoving your shirt to the exposed lower-half of his flushed face. the screaming mask hitched up to rest above his nose, teeth clenched around fabric with usually chapped lips now red and glossed with drool that ran down his chin. his other hand still wrapped around his cock as both the exposed skin of his thighs and the floor were covered in sticky cum.

how photogenic. maybe you'll force him to lick up his mess as punishment, snap another picture, too.

---

this is what i'm doing for the holidays. low effort ghostface porn, lovely. happy december you ho-ho-hoes.