“Ghostface?” Kevin snorts, making his condescension for your interests quite clear.

The audacity you have, is quite astounding. For you to ask him to indulge in this, of all things.

Banal. Trite, even, and that is not often a word he uses to describe you. How else could you last so long as his quote, unquote, beloved? (Kevin has never been happy. Yet, with you, he achieves content, rather than boredom. Before he had met you, he’d never understood the difference).

“A mass murderer not enough for you?” Kevin drawls, turning the mask over in lithe hands. They’re large. One palm spread out, spans the entirety of its screaming plastic. Fingers long, and lithe—perfect for pulling a bowstring taut.

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

“You’d have me roleplay as Baby’s First serial killer, instead.” Kevin slips the mask on, black cloak draping over his shoulders. He stares, without eyes, up at you, head tilting in a creepy little motion.

He’s smiling, under there. Though, the mask is almost preferable to his coal black gaze.

He doesn’t hate it, which is surprising. It’s not so dissimilar to what he does, everyday. Not that he’s so pathetically cliché to claim he puts up a mask up every day. He did as a child. Now, his smarmy smirk and unfeeling eyes have become apart of him. Like that Goosebumps story Lenny used to babble his ass off of—fused.

Perhaps a new one is in order. One over the other.

Kevin wanders to the wooden block, and slips out the silver plane of a steak knife. His height is accentuated by the costume you’ve christened him in. Stature looming, unimpeded by the beauty of his features to distract.

“Ba-by,” Kevin sing-songs, stepping forward, pressing metal to the underside of your chin.

He’s indulging you.

(Your price for this, later, will be a news report of five dead, by some sick fuck in a Ghostface mask. His price to you, for this little whim of yours. What’s the fun in roleplay, when you can have the real thing?)