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hyuniemyunie · 4 months ago

Text

Sleeping Together

slashers x gn!reader

sfw

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(ФωФ): established relationship, cuddling, sleeping next to them.

I LOOOOOOVE BRAHMS. BUT I ALSO LOOOOOVE BUBBA. BUT I ALSO LOOOOOOVE STU. should i do aftercare scenarios?🤔 but after they got fucked/pegged😞🙏 so dom/top reader scenario😞😞 nvm im gonna do it

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

ᯓ★ Brahms cannot sleep unless you’re touching him in some way. He’s like an overgrown child in that sense—if you try to roll away, he’ll grab onto you immediately, pulling you back with surprising strength.

ᯓ★ Sometimes he keeps his mask on, sometimes he takes it off in the dark when he knows you won’t see. If you try to touch his face, he’ll freeze up for a moment before leaning into your touch.

ᯓ★ He mumbles in his sleep sometimes, little, breathy "stay with me"s or "don’t leave." If you answer back, even just a quiet "I’m here," he’ll calm down instantly.

ᯓ★ Sometimes, he’ll pretend to be asleep just to see if you try to sneak away. If you do? He’ll wake up immediately, whining. "Bad. You’re being bad.."

ᯓ★ He doesn’t sleep much, so you might wake up to find him just watching you. No noise, no movement—just staring. He thinks it’s comforting. (It’s not.)

Brahms is not a quiet sleeper. He breathes heavily, even behind his mask. You learned this on the first night you stayed in the mansion. He watches. Always. Even in the dead of night, even when his arms are wrapped around you, he does not sleep easily.

Tonight is no different.

You stir in bed, feeling the weight of his body pressed up against yours. Brahms clings to you, desperate for comfort, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. His breath, warm and slow, fans against your neck. It should be unsettling—should send shivers down your spine—but it doesn’t.

Instead, you find yourself relaxing into his embrace, despite the feeling of his masked face resting against your shoulder. He lets out a low hum, a noise of contentment, and his grip tightens ever so slightly.

"Don’t move." His voice is thick with drowsiness, but there’s a quiet possessiveness to it.

"I wasn’t planning to," you murmur, shifting just enough to get comfortable.

Brahms lets out a sigh, nuzzling into you like a cat seeking warmth. You wonder if he’s actually asleep or simply pretending, waiting for the moment you slip away. He does that sometimes—tests you.

The old pipes in the house creak, and you feel him tense. His fingers twitch against your side. "Stay," he whispers again, softer this time, like a plea rather than a command.

You reach up, brushing your fingers over his arm. "I’m here," you reassure him.

And with that, Brahms finally drifts off, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours, his paranoia momentarily eased by your presence.

ᯓ★ Bubba runs hot. Laying next to him is like sleeping beside a furnace, and if it’s summer? You’re gonna suffer. But in the winter? Absolute heaven.

ᯓ★ Once Bubba’s out, he’s out. Thunderstorms, screaming victims, even Drayton yelling? Nothing wakes him up unless you shake him really hard.

ᯓ★ He has nightmares a lot. Some nights, you’ll hear him whimpering, and if you rub his back or whisper his name, he’ll calm down instantly, snuggling closer.

ᯓ★ He doesn’t mean to, but in his sleep, he’ll just… roll on top of you. And given that he’s built like a truck? Yeah. RIP you.

ᯓ★ Bubba holds onto you with pure affection. He’s like a giant, overly attached teddy bear.

Bubba sleeps like a rock. A very warm, very heavy rock.

The moment you settle into bed with him, it’s like being trapped under a weighted blanket made entirely of muscle. Bubba curls himself around you, practically cocooning you with his sheer size. His body radiates warmth like a furnace, and while it’s comforting, it also means you’re at risk of overheating within minutes. ESPECIALLY in a place like texas.

His head rests against your shoulder, the sound of his soft, occasional pig-like snorts filling the room. Every so often, he lets out a little grunt in his sleep, twitching as if chasing something in a dream.

You shift slightly, trying to peel yourself away just a little so you don’t combust. But the moment you move, Bubba lets out a distressed whimper, his thick arms pulling you back in an instant.

"No, no, I’m not leaving," you whisper, gently patting his arm. "Just getting comfy, big guy."

Bubba responds with a content sigh, nuzzling into your hair. His fingers twitch against your side, gripping onto the fabric of your shirt as if afraid you’ll disappear in the night.

And so, you let him hold you, even if it means waking up drenched in sweat.

ᯓ★ Unlike Brahms’ creepy staring or Bubba’s snorting, Thomas is eerily silent when he sleeps. If not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, you’d think he wasn’t breathing.

ᯓ★ The slightest noise will wake him up. He’s used to being on high alert, and if you move too much, he’ll stir immediately.

ᯓ★ He’s not naturally affectionate in his sleep, but if you lean into him? His arm will instinctively come around you, pulling you close.

ᯓ★ Even while unconscious, his body is positioned between you and the door, keeping you safe.

ᯓ★ He may be a massive, intimidating man, but when he’s resting? His grip is surprisingly gentle. His hand will rest on your side or your back, just to make sure you’re there.

Thomas is the definition of a silent sleeper. If not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, you’d worry he wasn’t breathing at all.

Thomas is more… reserved. He doesn’t wrap himself around you completely, but his presence is felt—a heavy, solid weight beside you, protective even in rest.

You shift slightly, rolling onto your side to face him. Even in the darkness, you can see the faint outline of his face—his strong jaw, the scarred skin, the way his lips are slightly parted as he breathes in deep, steady intervals.

Carefully, you reach up, brushing your fingers over the back of his hand.

His reaction is almost immediate. His grip tightens ever so slightly. You whisper his name, just to see if he’s awake. He doesn’t respond, but the faintest twitch of his fingers against your side tells you that he hears you.

And with that thought, you close your eyes, resting against him, knowing that no harm will come to you so long as he is by your side.

ᯓ★ His breathing is deep and slow, a steady, soothing rhythm that lulls you to sleep. Sometimes, if you listen closely, you’ll hear him let out soft, almost content sighs.

ᯓ★ Jason doesn’t sleep much, but when he does, it’s light. The smallest noise will have him waking up, ready to defend you from whatever danger he thinks is lurking.

ᯓ★ He sleeps with an arm around you, keeping you close. If you try to move away, even in sleep, his grip will tighten automatically. If you somehow manage to roll out of bed, he will gently pick you up and place you back like it’s nothing.

ᯓ★ If he ever catches you watching him sleep, he’ll get weirdly flustered, shifting slightly like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

The camp is silent at night, save for the distant chirp of crickets and the occasional rustling of the trees. You’re nestled against Jason’s broad chest, his warmth keeping the night chill at bay. He doesn’t need sleep the way you do—whatever supernatural force keeps him alive seems to have erased the human need for rest—but he still lays beside you.

Your fingers rest against his chest, tracing slow, absent-minded patterns over the worn fabric of his shirt. His breathing is deep and even, but you can tell he’s still awake.

"You don’t have to stay up, you know," you murmur, shifting slightly to look up at him.

Jason doesn’t respond with words—he never does—but his arm tightens around you, fingers flexing against your back. It’s his silent way of saying, I want to.

You exhale softly, nuzzling against him, pressing your forehead to the cool metal of his mask. He still wears it, even here, even now. Maybe he’s afraid. Afraid you’ll see him—truly see him—and decide you no longer want to be here.

So you do the only thing you can. You press a gentle kiss against the mask, just over where his cheekbone would be.

Jason stiffens, his entire body going still. Then, after a long pause, he exhales a slow, shuddering breath. His fingers twitch against your side before he pulls you even closer, tucking you beneath his chin like something precious.

And in that moment, despite the horrors of the world, you’ve never felt safer.

ᯓ★ Michael is used to watching people sleep, not actually doing it himself. He doesn’t need much rest, but when he does sleep, it’s eerily still—no tossing, no turning, just pure silence.

ᯓ★ If he wakes up before you (which he always does), he just… watches you. If you wake up to find him staring, good luck falling back asleep.

ᯓ★ Michael isn’t really affectionate, but if you lean into him or drape an arm over him, he won’t push you away. Instead, he’ll slowly adjust, letting you stay there.

ᯓ★ Even in deep sleep, if you get up to leave, he’ll wake up instantly. No words, just a heavy hand grabbing your wrist and pulling you back down.

ᯓ★ No pillows for you. He is your pillow. No exceptions.

Michael doesn’t sleep. Not in the way normal people do. Tonight, like every night, you wake to find him watching you.

His head is tilted slightly, the dim glow of the moonlight casting shadows across his mask. He’s barely inches away, sitting on the edge of the bed, just staring.

You sigh, rubbing at your tired eyes. "Michael, you’re supposed to be resting."

No response. He just keeps watching, the dark voids of his eye holes locked onto you.

You groan, reaching out blindly, fingers curling around his wrist. You expect him to pull away—Michael isn’t exactly fond of touch—but instead, he lets you guide him down. Lets you pull him into the bed beside you.

"Lay down," you tell him softly. "Just for a little while."

He obeys without protest, stretching out beside you. His body is tense, like he’s unsure how to relax. You move closer, resting a hand on his chest, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing beneath your fingertips.

After a long, long moment, he finally reacts. His arm moves—not to strangle, not to harm, but to rest against your side, hesitant but firm.

It’s the closest thing to an embrace you’re going to get.

And it’s enough.

ᯓ★ Years of surviving in the mines have left Harry with a deeply ingrained sense of paranoia. Even when he sleeps, his muscles stay coiled, like he’s always expecting an attack.

ᯓ★ Some nights, he’ll suddenly jerk awake, breath ragged and hands clenched. If you soothe him—whisper his name, rub his back—he’ll calm down quickly, grounding himself in your presence.

ᯓ★ Harry will drape his arm over you, and there’s no escaping it. He doesn’t even realize how heavy he is, but at least he’s warm.

ᯓ★ If you can’t sleep and shift restlessly, he’ll reach out—without opening his eyes—and rest a hand on your hip, rubbing slow, absent-minded circles to lull you back to sleep.

The scent of coal and metal clings to him, even in sleep. It’s ingrained into his skin, his clothes, the very air around him. You don’t mind. It’s comforting in its own strange way—earthy, familiar, him.

Harry sleeps still and silent, body coiled with tension even in rest. His arm is thrown over you, holding you close, a subconscious need to keep you safe.

You shift slightly, tilting your head to press a soft kiss to his collarbone. "Relax, Harry," you whisper against his skin. "You’re not in the mines anymore."

His breathing hitches for just a second before he exhales, body sinking just a little deeper into the mattress. He doesn’t respond—not with words, at least—but his grip on you tightens ever so slightly.

You know what it means.

You’re the only thing in this world that makes him feel human. The only thing that keeps the nightmares of gas leaks and cave-ins at bay.

And as long as you’re here, he’ll never let you go.

ᯓ★ Some nights, he sleeps curled up like a cat. Other nights, he sprawls out like a starfish, trapping you under an arm or a leg.

ᯓ★ His curls are soft but everywhere. If you sleep facing him, expect a mouthful of hair at some point.

ᯓ★ Loves touch but won’t ask for it. Vincent won’t initiate cuddling often, but if you reach for him? He’ll melt into your touch instantly.

ᯓ★ If you’re sleeping back-to-back, he’ll slowly shift closer until you’re touching. If you’re apart, he’ll move a hand toward yours, just close enough that your fingers brush.

ᯓ★ When he thinks you’re asleep, he buries his face against your neck or hair, inhaling deeply like he’s memorizing your presence. It’s both sweet and a little creepy.

ᯓ★ If you ever fall asleep working on something, he’ll carry you to bed and wrap around you like a koala.

He sleeps curled around you, his body fitting against yours like he was meant to be here. His hair is soft against your cheek, his breathing slow and steady.

You run a hand through his curls, untangling them gently with your fingers, making q soft hum rumble in his chest

"You’re warm," you murmur, lips ghosting over the top of his head.

Vincent shifts, burying his face against your neck. His arm tightens around you, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. You sigh, wrapping your arms around him in return, letting him hold you as tightly as he needs.

In the daylight, Vincent is silent, a ghost among the living, hands stained with wax and sin.

But here, in the quiet of the night, he is yours.

ᯓ★ Billy? Light sleeper. The smallest noise wakes him up, especially if it sounds off. If you roll away from him, expect to be yanked back within seconds.

ᯓ★ Stu? Sleeps like a damn rock. He can snore through a chainsaw massacre and not flinch. You could literally sit on him, and he’d just groan and roll over.

ᯓ★ Billy does not like admitting he’s a cuddler, but he is. He needs to have a hand on you—hip, stomach, thigh, doesn’t matter—just to know you’re there.

ᯓ★ Stu, on the other hand, is needy and will completely engulf you. He sleeps like an octopus, limbs everywhere, sometimes even throwing a leg over you so you physically can’t escape.

ᯓ★ Billy runs hot—he’s like a damn heater, which is great in the winter but suffocating in the summer.

ᯓ★ Stu runs cold and will shove his freezing hands under your shirt just to hear you scream.

ᯓ★ Billy sometimes keeps his mask nearby, almost like a security blanket. If he falls asleep before taking it off, you might wake up to him still wearing it.

ᯓ★ Stu? Nah, he flings that thing across the room and immediately collapses on top of you.

ᯓ★ Stu mumbles the weirdest shit in his sleep. Sometimes it’s a movie quote, sometimes it’s nonsense like "Dude… cows are just meat puppies…"

ᯓ★ Billy rarely talks in his sleep, but when he does, it’s always your name. Always.

The room is dim, the flickering neon light from the parking lot outside casting shadows across the ceiling. The bed is too small—way too small for three people—but that hasn’t stopped Stu from sprawling across it like a damn starfish, his arm thrown haphazardly over your waist.

On your other side, Billy is awake. You know he is. He’s too still, too aware. His arm is draped possessively over your stomach, fingers idly tracing circles against the fabric of your shirt.

"You’re awake," you murmur sleepily, tilting your head just slightly toward him.

Billy doesn’t respond—not with words. Instead, his fingers tighten against your side, pulling you just a little closer.

"You guys are so clingy," you tease, voice drowsy.

"Pfft—says you," Stu mumbles against the pillow, his breath warm against your shoulder. His voice is thick with sleep, but that doesn’t stop him from blindly groping around until he finds your arm, flopping his own over it in an attempt to keep you pinned. "Ain’t going anywhere, babe. You’re trapped."

Billy huffs, a soft almost-laugh, but you can feel the tension lingering in his shoulders. He still hasn’t let go.

You reach up, brushing your fingers against his wrist, grounding him. "I’m right here, Billy."

His breath stutters just for a second. Then, slowly, finally, he exhales. His grip on you doesn’t loosen, but his body relaxes just a fraction.

Stu, half-asleep, suddenly nuzzles against the crook of your neck. "We make the best blanket, huh? Two-for-one deal."

"More like a human straitjacket," you mumble, trapped between Billy’s intense grip and Stu’s dead weight.

Neither of them responds. Stu has already drifted back into sleep, and Billy, still silent, just pulls you even closer.

You sigh, but there’s a warmth in your chest—something safe, something real.

And in this moment, with two killers wrapped around you like you’re the most important thing in the world, you know you’re never getting a peaceful night’s sleep again.

But honestly?

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

#gender neutral reader #gn reader #gn!reader #slashers #slashers x reader #slashers x you #slashers x y/n #billy loomis x reader #stu matcher x reader #bubba sawyer #bubba sawyer x reader #thomas hewitt x reader #harry warden x reader #jason voorhes x reader #michael myers x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #brahms heelshire #brahms heelshire x reader #brahms heelshire x you

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rottenstrawberrymilk · 29 days ago

Text

trying to leave

slashers x reader

michael myers (halloween), jason voorhees (friday the 13th), thomas hewitt (texas chainsaw massacre), brahms heelshire (the boy), pyramid head (silent hill), chris walker (outlast), daniel robitaille (candyman), harry warden (my bloody valentine), bo sinclair (house of wax), bubba sawyer (texas chainsaw massacre), kazan yamaoka ('the oni' dead by daylight), philip ojomo ('the wraith' dead by daylight), quentin shermer ('the blissfield butcher' freaky)

preferences

not healthy not condoned

Michael Myers

Obviously, you only ever tried to leave early on in whatever defined this "relationship" you had with Michael. That was back when you didn't fully understand how things worked now that Michael was in your life. Back when you didn't fully understand what he would do to keep you where he wanted you. Back when you didn't fully understand how dangerous of a man he really was.

Your plan had been to just get in the car and fucking bail. You'd had a bag packed, ready to go, and little attachment to the house or the people in this small town. Michael's knife had been to your throat far too many times now for your comfort despite your complacent nature and usual lack of energy. He'd been wearing on you. Slowly. So you thought you could leave. He certainly wasn't going to anytime soon.

Apparently, when you hadn't been paying attention, he snuck into the backseat because you'd only been driving for five minutes before you felt that familiar blade to your throat and a hand gripping hard at your shoulder to keep you pressed back to the seat. He was lucky your nerves were steady enough that you didn't crash the car off the side of the road, and instead the steering only shook lightly before you stabilized the wheel again.

When the blade never fully slashed over your throat, instead remaining steady against your skin, you figured he didn't intend to kill you right then and there. It'd have been pretty stupid to do that when you were going forty down a road with plenty of curves and poles to crash into.

He didn't have to say anything to get the message across. He never did.

You turned the car around.

He never took his knife away from your skin.

The cold bitterness was mutual and the silent tension became thicker and thicker with every passing second. Your hand tightened on the wheel so much your knuckles turned white.

The knife only left when you pulled back up to your house. You grabbed your bag from your passenger seat, silently, storming back into the house. You hoped when you slammed the door it was in Michael's face, part of you wanting to aggravate him as much as he aggravated you. A dangerous move on your part. But you never heard the door open behind you, leading you to believe he was going to leave you alone for awhile.

Wrong.

While you were furiously throwing your bag back onto the bed, ripping your clothes out from it, he showed up again, like he normally did, just out of the blue. Was he really quiet or was he supernatural? You didn't know. You didn't care. What you did know was all the sudden his hand was buried in your hair. With force that you'd come to expect from him, he yanked your head back once again, overpowering you with his larger stature and forcing you partway down onto the mattress, your fingers gripping at the sheets as you bit back a cry of pain.

Michael's knife made itself known against the delicate skin of your throat for the second time that day.

"Okay. Okay. I get it," was all you managed to get out--some strained excuse for an apology.

Apparently it was good enough for him. The blade went away in favor of his bare, rough fingers, forcing you to stand back up fully again as your fists clenched at your sides. His chest was heaving against your back, his masked cheek against yours. You could hear him breathing behind it, deep and slow in contrast to your quickening breath.

You hadn't tried to leave him since.

Jason Voorhees

The one thing you hadn't expected when you'd finally made a move to get away from Jason was the strange sense of sadness and sudden pity that had made it's home deep in your chest. You thought you'd shake it off the farther you got away from him, you thought you'd break out of whatever strange, trance like state seemed to overcome you when he was around. Like an instinct to keep you docile and sedated and ultimately alive.

You'd actually gotten somewhat far, you could almost see the entrance signs of the camp. You should have kept going. You knew damn well you shouldn't have stopped. You shouldn't have stopped to stare, your hands close to your chest, wringing at each other nervously, suddenly unsure of whether not you really wanted to go back...out there.

Despite his size, Jason actually managed to sneak up on you. The minute he grabbed you with a clumsy hand, too strong for his own good, fear came crashing all around you like a tidal wave that you'd been secretly waiting for this whole time. Drowning you. Suffocating you. So much so that you couldn't even scream, only stare dumbfounded at him as he hunched lower to begin dragging you back.

You couldn't help but start crying, stifling your sniffles and cries with one hand while Jason practically crushed your other free hand in his own. He was cold. He was very, very cold. When his grip only continued to tighten, you could no longer bite back sobs and pitiful apologies. Over and over you apologized as he pulled you back up the rotting cabin steps. You were surprised that they didn't give out under your combined weights as he shoved the door wide open with a powerful shoulder, the chain around his neck jangling as he moved so suddenly.

You wanted to think that it was your incessant, pitiful, trembling apologies and tears that kept Jason from doing anything to you. But weirdly enough, a part of you believed he didn't plan on doing anything to you in the first place. If he'd wanted to hurt you (on purpose) he would have done it already. If he intended to kill you for trying to leave the machete would have already been through your chest.

All he did was sit you down, his hand still firm on your arm as he stared down at you. In this...strange, sad way of his that only evoked further conflicted feelings of pity. All you could do yourself was look away from him, fighting back even more tears as you trembled. You felt his hand stroke slowly up your cheek, a clumsy thumb rubbing under your eye to vainly dry your tears.

He's lonely and he's chosen you as his. So you're not getting away from him anytime soon.

Thomas Hewitt

Being initiated into the Hewitt family wasn't exactly an easy feat. Although at the moment when you had agreed to stick around them, not having anywhere else to be or any awareness of what went on in that hellhouse, slowly your decision was becoming more and more regrettable.

Even Luda Mae's favor couldn't exactly save you from the less charming parts of the house and family.

But you kept your nerve and your promises. You kept busy with chores Luda Mae gave you and you avoided the basement just like she told you to. But it wasn't long before you saw one. Another person in the house. Not a family member.

You'd just been passing by the sliding door that you knew lead into the basement. You'd heard a scream and you'd frozen in place. Looking back, you wished you'd minded your business and continued on walking. The door moved. You stared, a hand covering your mouth in shock. Some terrified looking teenager covered in blood missing an arm came shrieking out of the door, frantically trying to shove it open all the way. And then a large, bloody hand grabbed them by the back of their head, yanking them back in. You caught a glimpse of the beast of a man lurking behind the door. And that was what sent you running.

Not for long, obviously. You didn't even reach the front door before that same man reappeared, literally blocking the entire doorway. You almost fainted out of fright when you first saw him. Did the Hewitts know this man was living in their basement? You considered calling for Luda Mae as you stumbled back, gasping for air.

"Grab 'er, Tommy, don't be shy!" came the Sheriff's voice from a flight above.

Tommy? They know him? Why hasn't anyone introduced him to me yet?

He'd grabbed you tightly by your arm and pulled you back into the kitchen where Luda Mae was waiting, an exasperated hand on her hip. He'd thrown you forward, so hard you had to grasp at a kitchen counter to regain your balance. Fingers arched against the surface, you raised a hand to brush back some of your hair as you looked up at her, still trying to get your breath back.

Luda Mae cracked a half smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "So you finally met my Tommy..."

Raising your eyebrows and casting a quick glance over your shoulder at the hulking man standing almost...shyly (?) near the entrance of the kitchen, his dark eyes trained on his shoes rather than on you.

All you managed to say was, "Apparently."

Brahms Heelshire

You really did try to stick around for a few weeks, hoping to find an out from this unfortunate situation. You did have a spot in your heart from Brahms and pitied him and knew of what had happened to him. You thought he was just...misunderstood and hurting and was emotionally stunted. You'd always been the type to give people the benefit of the doubt, no matter what they'd done and you'd found it easy to forgive him for his grievances against you. Whether it was spying on you or going through your clothes, stealing your undergarments or things and denying any knowledge of it, throwing destructive tantrums that even made you fear for your safety...you somehow found it in you to forgive him over and over and over again.

Maybe it was the way he'd hold your hand in his, the way he'd nuzzle into your neck and wrap his overly strong arms around you, telling you whatever it was you need to hear, whatever it was you wanted to hear from him. He was manipulative like that and you could almost say you loved him for it, loved him for the way it made you feel.

But eventually it wasn't enough.

You tried to leave late at night, long after you'd tucked him in and kissed him on the cheek. Strangely enough, that night, he didn't try to get anything more from you. He'd just given your arm a tight squeeze before rubbing his hand down it softly. Which made you feel even worse about what you planned to do.

Apparently, he'd woken up right as you began to sneak downstairs. You heard him call your name. You ignored him--something you weren't used to doing less he have a tantrum. He called again. You flinched, but held you ground, continuing quicker down the stairs, eyes set on the front door. You hadn't even touched the handle before you heard him begin to cry. And good God you'd never heard a sound more heart wrenching in your entire life. Something that made your chest twist. But you shut your eyes and continued on, pushing open the door.

He wouldn't be able to stop you if you left right now. There was nothing to threaten you with. There was nothing to say to you once you were out the door. No words.

But even as you sat outside, the door still partway open as you stared out into the trees, into the night, you could hear him begin to scream and cry even louder. You could no longer recognize your name in his call. Only the incessant sobbing and howling. The begging. You bit your bottom lip, bowing your head.

And realized.

You couldn't leave him.

You turned around and went back into the manor and there was Brahms, standing only a few stairs away from the floor. His tears had created streaks through the dirt and blood gathered on his porcelain mask and his head hung pathetically. You closed the door behind you and he looked up, eyes reddened. You stood before him, bottom lip quivering, hands clenched into fists at your side. You felt Brahms come closer to you, steps slow. The slightest hint of his breath stirred at your hair from the nose of his mask as he leaned into you. His hand stroked up your arm before his fingers tightened, digging into your skin.

Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes. You refused to look at him.

Pyramid Head

Silent Hill residents are quick to accept the idea that there's absolutely no way of getting out of this semi-purgatory.

There's no where to go in the fog itself anyways. You know from experience that even outside the winding, decomposing buildings the roads are mysteriously collapsed trapping you on this tiny hell island. You'd prefer to stay in the building anyways, knowing that they did an okay job of protecting your lungs from the soot and ash in the air.

You were sure trying to find yet another way out would just me run-ins with monsters and more blood and rotting gore.

Ultimately, it's safer with the seven foot tall monster with a pyramid for a head and a big ass sword that might weigh more than he does. At least he fucks good.

Chris Walker

You only tried to leave Chris Walker when he was resting and his guard down. You'd been somewhat amused and confused to find that variants like him even needed something akin to sleep. You'd assumed the morphogenic engine just constantly had him with adrenaline coursing through his veins and bloodlust in his brain. Either way, you didn't know when you'd find the opportunity to sneak away without Chris muttering a quiet "come back, little whore..." under his breath between shredded lips, wrapping thick fingers around your waist and picking you up like you were no more than a doll to him.

Which, to be fair, you kinda were. He's not good at remembering to handle you gently and there's tons of bruises on your arms and body from when he grabs you too tight or shoves you to the side to chase down a variant nearby. But a part of you thought he might have even liked you or actually been attached to you. There was never any sort of defined expression in his milky white, blank eyes. But you thought maybe he might have cared a little for you or your well being. He definitely did like you, which in this asylum could have been defined as love.

But it's not enough to convince you to stick around him for long. What convinces you is the fact that you'd never be able to make it on your own if he wasn't there. If he wasn't your protector.

That was made clear to you when you tried to leave him as he dozed, clawed hand resting on his stomach, his eyes half shut. You hadn't even been able to make it through the hall before a variant attacked you, slamming you hard into the wall. If the sound of your body hitting wood that roughly didn't wake Chris Walker, your scream of fear sure did. The only thing that had stopped that variant from practically ripping your head off had been the top of the Mount Massive food chain himself. You could finally breathe as gnarled hands were swiftly removed from your throat and you collapsed down to the floor, hand to your neck, coughing as you pressed back into the wall to try and stay out of Chris' way.

He made bloody work of that variant. If you weren't mistaken, you might have thought he was purposefully dragging out the variant's death, twisting his head slowly, painfully before snapping it off completely, his palm swallowing the variant's face whole. Your chest moved rapidly with fright as you let the back of your own thankfully intact head hit back against the wall. The floorboards creaked and you opened your eyes to see Chris squatting before you, hulking shoulders blocking your vision as he traced a bloodied finger down your cheek. Hoping he'd be quick to forget your grievance and forgive you, you took his hand in yours, pressing it further against your cheek even if you could feel it wet with blood. It didn't matter. As long as it wasn't your blood.

You hadn't tried to leave Chris' side again after that.

Daniel Robitaille

Trying to leave? Daniel Robitaille? The Candyman? Bad fucking move all the way.

He doesn't just spare random people you know, you're chosen, you're special. You're his. So why in the fresh hell would you ever try to escape him? He has no ill will towards you...only desire. It's extremely insulting to him when you think you can leave him in the first place.

No matter where you go or try to stay to get away from him he just...shows up. He's supernatural, he can just do shit like that apparently. Benefits to being a vengeful ghost. There's no way to escape him for long. The longest you've ever gone after moving somewhere in secret was maybe a day or two before he shows up in the room, all powerful, all terrifying, arms tucked neatly behind him as he glared down at you.

"Why are you still running, dearest? I'll always find you. Always."

There's a threatening aura behind his words, all of his promises to you. He tries the nice approach first, but you can see right through him. You could always see the hunger in him, the burning anger. So it's not long until he begins to get aggressive.

Boy is he fucking pissed that you keep moving. Obviously he can always find you but it's beginning to get less helpless and charming and more annoying. He's never been a fan of straying too far from Cabrini-Green. But he figures if he keeps it up eventually he'll be able to drive you back to your original home, closer to his familiar hunting ground. He can tell that you miss it. You wear your expressions clear on your face.

It was a game of persistence, basically. One that he did, eventually, end up winning. You did last long though, a couple months at least before one day you felt his hook at your throat and decided you had pushed him too far.

You stopped trying to move around the city as much and actually ended up moving back into your old place. Settling down in a familiar place was easier on your mental health which was quickly becoming more and more fragile. There's no point in trying to leave anymore or trying to lose Daniel.

He'd find you, even if you moved to the ends of the earth.

Harry Warden

You had thought you knew the way out when you tried to leave. You'd watched Harry pass by numerous times and when you'd gotten bold, you'd even explored a little ways from the main cave, hands tracing along the wall, never straying too far. Your fear of the dark still pursued you, even with the lifestyle you were beginning to get adjusted to. It had scared you realizing that you were adjusting to living in a dark cave with a cannibal murderer in a gas mask. Maybe that's what had finally pushed you into trying to bail.

Unfortunately, you became completely lost within minutes in the mines. At first you'd been calm, simply turning around, hoping to head back to where you'd began to try all over again. There were only so many tunnels and caves and passageways you were bound by chance to eventually pick the right one. Right? But when you couldn't find your way back to the more familiar parts of the mines, cold panic began to set heavy on your chest and shoulders.

Eventually, all you could do in the pitch black was slowly drop to the ground, pressed hard to the chilled walls and bury your head in your arms. You had only intended to stay like that for a moment to recollect your thoughts and regain your composure. But your head wouldn't stop spinning and you felt more and more faint. You couldn't help but begin to sob and cry, muffled in your arms in the pitch blackness.

You looked up when you thought you saw a flash of light. You felt a strange mixture of relief and dread, knowing what the light belonged to. You let your head fall back into your arms to spare your eyes from Harry's piercing light. Tears still rolled down your nose.

He crouched down in front of you, only his heavy breathing filling your ears. A gloved hand stroked under your jaw and then over your cheek, fingers beginning to press into your skin. He tilted your head up. You couldn't see past the shaded black lenses of his gas mask, but judging by his body language, you felt like you had less of a chance of him punishing you or hurting you. Maybe he thought you'd simply gotten lost. Maybe he didn't realize that it was a failed escape attempt. It was out of character for you to do that, you were sure, due to your usual meekness and obedience and strange need to depend on Harry.

Then again, it hadn't been a very long time that you'd spent with Harry, so reading his body language might not have been the most reliable bet. He still could be intending to hurt you later, to make you pay for straying off from the designated area in the mines he'd purposefully familiarized you with. He could have been luring you into a false sense of security to make it all hurt worse, with his gentle strokes and soft touches.

Maybe both, you think when he squeezes your arm just a little too tightly when he's pulling you up to your feet. He didn't let go either, his grip staying iron and firm on you as he marched you back through black passageways, the light from him cutting through the darkness like a white knife.

When he finally got you back at the lighted area you recognized, he pressed down on your shoulder, sitting you back down in the exact same spot you'd left several hours ago. He looked down at you as you wrapped your arms around yourself. You only glanced up for a split second before quickly looking back down, instantly feeling guilty.

No words. Just heavy breathing from Harry's end. But the idea was clear enough to you.

Don't. Move. Again.

Bo Sinclair

Trying to leave Ambrose after newly discovering the horrors inside was a natural process, Bo figured. You were already somewhat soft and delicate and oh so meek in nature, so he knew there was no way in hell you'd ever take it well once you learned the truth. He'd given you a somewhat merciful grace period to freak out and try to run. He came to the decision that once he'd caught you, he'd give you the choice between staying with him or becoming a new attraction in the House of Wax. Either way you were fucking sticking around. The world couldn't have you take you back, away from him, not when you were obviously meant for him and him alone.

When he did begin to hunt you down, Bo found that you were much more frustrating to deal with when you had completely lost your shit. Damn you could move. It wasn't that you were faster than him, it was just that you could dodge his grabs and suddenly change up directions a lot faster than he could. At least now he knew what you were capable of when you weren't busying up with that meek, quiet, innocent little act of yours. He wouldn't underestimate you like this again.

When he finally was able to tackle you to the ground, you felt his lips press against your neck. You burst into even more tears. You don't struggle beneath him or try to fight him off. You already know he can overpower you and how scary his hair trigger temper can be. He turned you over beneath him, brushing your hair away from your face as he shushes you.

"Come on, don't cry now, pretty girl, don't cry," he told you. But he never gave you a reason not to.

He's surprisingly tender for a man that was obviously seething with rage. He pulled you to your feet before lifting you and throwing you over one of his broad shoulders. You knew if you had tried you could have wiggled out of his grip and maybe hit the ground. But you had a feeling he'd be back on top of you all over again, with a lot less mercy. You winced and bit back a sob as his hand held over your hips, readjusting slightly so his fingers pressed a little too hard into your ass.

You recognize the gas station he brings you to, but you've never been down in the cellar before. He ends up setting you down in a chair as you continue to cry, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you bowed your head down, tears rolling down your nose dripping into your lap as you trembled.

"Thought I told you to stop with the damn cryin' already, (Y/N)," Bo said, a warning tone in his low voice, tilting your head back up and once again brushing the hair from your eyes.

"I'm s-sorry, Bo," you apologized between harsh breaths, trying to hold back anymore tears. He lifted your chin higher to kiss you.

The bliss was only momentarily, only making you forget about what was happening for milliseconds, before Bo was suddenly strapping your wrists down.

"You ain't gonna kick me or nothin' right, baby?" he asks, although it sounds like more of a command. You shook your head rapidly 'no'. He smiled. "'Course you wouldn't. You know better than that, don'tchu?" A thumb brushed over your cheek affectionately before he stood up straighter, towering over you.

He knows you're not much of a screamer either, so he chooses not to reach for the superglue. Not like anyone else was here to hear you and interfere anyways--he'd taken care of the shallow, conniving mockeries you called "friends" a loong time ago.

"See, here's the deal, sweetheart, you're gonna stay here til you can get your head on straight, alright? And while you're doing that, I want you to think, real fuckin' hard about what's important to you. 'Cause it'd be a real, real shame if you ended up all pretty and dolled up in that damned wax museum with the others."

Bo really didn't intend on giving you the choice between him and the wax museum on the off chance you picked wrong and ended up being made into a statue for real. First of all, he didn't want his brother's hands on your body because that's where his hands were supposed to be. And second of all, he liked you alive and breathing, and staring at him all teary with those soft doe eyes, while he stroked rough fingers over your real skin.

Lucky for Bo, it doesn't take you long to come down from your episode. Obviously, he doesn't stick around all day to watch you, he only returned once every few hours to see how you were holding up. Sure, maybe he cared, but mostly he was hoping he could rush a decision out of you and stop wasting his goddamn time.

You're not very stubborn or strong willed and end up giving in only after the first day. It's an easy choice to make, ultimately. Because it's not like you suddenly don't want Bo anymore, as fucked up as that is. Part of you was still attracted to him, part of you still needed him and wanted him, even after what he's put you through and what he's currently putting you through. Sure, he was involved in the murder and torture of everyone in this town, but...he wasn't the one pouring the wax. So...it wasn't so bad to still want him right? The alternative for being good for him and to him wasn't appealing in the slightest anyways.

Bo will never let you forget how quickly you broke, how quickly you surrendered to him and called his name and chose him.

"Good girl," he praised you again and again, kissing up your neck, to your jaw as he undid the straps around your wrists. He looks you in the eyes, that familiar smirk on his face. "I think you went ahead and made the right choice, didn'tcha?"

Bubba Sawyer

It's pretty hard to integrate into the Sawyer family and lifestyle since you were formerly a menu item and the chance of you being back on the menu was low, but never completely 0%. From the beginning, the rest of Bubba's family obviously weren't lining up for autographs. Everything about you was different to them and they didn't like different.

Normally, it wasn't hard to catch them mumbling misogynistic slurs or insults under their breath. If you're lucky, it's straight to your face, accompanied with a death threat if Bubba doesn't step in or if he isn't present. Sometimes, you found yourself wishing there was another woman in the house who wasn't a mummified corpse, but part of you figured if there was any living female figure in this family, she wouldn't have been too big on you either.

Sometimes you wonder why they hate you so much. You thought about asking, but figured it wouldn't go too well if you opened your mouth in front of them. Eventually, you connected the dots and realized they hated you because Bubba didn't. Maybe to them, you were some symbol of his ability to make his own choices, a testament to his free will and a trophy of rebellion against his family. That didn't make you feel any better. You weren't a symbol or a trophy or a testament you were you. And it wasn't your fucking fault Bubba just so happened to decide he liked you enough that he wanted to keep you around. It'd been fuck or die in that barn those months ago and you did your best to remain confident that you'd made the decision you had wanted to. It wasn't about which one was the right one, there was no right option in a situation like that, anyways. It was just about making you feel like you had a little control still.

His family's verbal abuse and obvious disdain doesn't do much to turn Bubba against you--if anything he gets more protective. And you hate that as a result you began to actually like him way more and actively seek him out. It wasn't hard to seek him out anyways, he seemed to heavily dislike not having you at his side if he wasn't out or busy butchering. His possessiveness and obsession with you scared you more at first than it comforted you. But once again, that was before you realized how much nastier the rest of his family was compared to him.

Every insult drove you further into his rough, scarred, and eagerly waiting arms. Crazy how they made him look like the best option in the house when he was a murderous cannibal with a chainsaw. At least he was kinda sweet...his passive nature somewhat aligned with his soft, dark eyes. You thought you might have had the potential to love him. You thought maybe if his family hadn't been able to influence him the way they did, things could have been different. But you're not living in that timeline.

These feelings of conflict only seemed to depress you more.

So you tried to bail.

It didn't work.

Bubba caught you pretty quick--his only hobbies were tending to you, putting up bones around the house, and chasing teenagers around with a chainsaw so he's quick to notice you're gone and even quicker to track you down to the barn. There was no other place for you to go anyways, not in this heat, but as long as it was out of the house it didn't matter to you.

He found you in the hayloft, staring out the window across the barn, on the opposite wall, knees drawn up under you chin and tears in your eyes. One of his oversized dress shirts clung to your body. If you weren't wearing whatever dress (he normally took those from victims that didn't let him lay pipe like you had) he picked out, you normally only had his shirts to pick from. You imagined that seeing it on your body probably played a huge part in calming him, because instead of the roar of a chainsaw, you only heard his soft growl in your ear when his cheek pressed into yours. Bubba's head settled into the crook of your neck, a heavy, hot breath coming from him.

You wiped at your eyes with a long sleeve.

"I'm not running away. Promise." You sniffled. Total lie. If you'd had a plan and a place to go, you'd be long gone by now.

Bubba's palm pushed up against your cheek as clumsy fingers rubbed over your skin, damp with a mixture of perspiration and tears. His thumb pushed down at your bottom lip lightly. You turned your head away.

"I just needed some time alone. I'm fine now. I'm fine." Another lie. A sigh of your own escaped you as you tucked your head back into your arms.

Awkwardly, like he still wasn't used to being able to touch someone else in an affectionate, romantic way, he rubbed his hand up and down your back. It felt...kinda nice.

You leaned softly into his side, shutting your eyes.

Kazan Yamaoka

In the Entity's sick game of glorified cat and mouse, there is no "leaving". You can attempt escape. Not from this place, though. Maybe from the killer. Maybe to the exit gates. The hatch if you're lucky. But there really is no true escape.

Kazan's possessiveness of you does not soften him, make no mistake. If anything, he's more eager to hurt you--more eager to absorb the blood you leave behind as you limp or drag yourself away. Like he savors it more than any other survivor's blood. In a gross way, you're somewhat flattered by it.

Every single trial you get with Kazan is guaranteed death. He wants you to die by his hand every time. As mentioned before, he absolutely refuses to give you the hatch and targets you constantly, even if you're not marked as his obsession during the round.

When you run from him in a match he will not hesitate to strike you down with his kanabō. You're pretty sure once you heard the crack of your bones against it, he hit so hard. He prefers to use the katana, however--it makes you bleed more. You won't tell him, but you actually prefer the katana to the kanabō because it hurts just a little bit less.

What he does to you every time is painful as all hell and Kazan knows it but he doesn't care. He obviously has a rather extensive history of hurting people--hurting everyone--even those he was supposed to love and care for. His own family. Children. It should scare you that he's capable of that. And it does. But it shouldn't have sent those pleasurable thrills down your spine either that you tried to hard to shove into the back of your mind. It's like he knows he gives you that thrill--it's impossible to hide it from him. It's like the more blood he takes from you the easier he can read you, the better he understands you, the closer he is. And you still barely know a thing about him.

It's just in his nature to be cruel. Something inexcusable under normal circumstances, but once again, these are not those circumstances.

You're almost relieved he doesn't treat you any different from the other survivors--if anything he actively tunnels you and treats you worse. It's like there's a switch in him that's broken and his love language is physical pain. If every slice of his blade, every strike of his club was the equivalent of an "I love you", then Kazan was head over heels for you.

Sometimes when he hooks you, he'll linger for just a moment. He'll stroke a clawed thumb under your jaw or past your bottom lip, hooking on it to draw a light amount of blood. Sometimes his nose will be only inches away from yours, his rough, heavy breathing harsh behind the mask. It's like a reminder that in his own way, no matter what he does to you, he still wants you.

And you lean into his touch, no matter how badly you're hurting. Every time.

Philip Ojomo

You don't want to run from Philip, but you both know that if you don't it raises eyebrows. It looks suspicious and neither of you want to chance anyone catching on to the two of you. Sometimes when you hesitate to run from him, taken aback by his sudden appearances, he'll purposefully lunge for you just to spur you into action. As time goes on, you get more used to it. More used to the idea that no matter how much you might love him and no matter how much he might love you he's still a killer and when there's a trial he has a job to do.

Philip doesn't really try to hunt you down and he doesn't try to avoid you either. He's opportunistic and not obsessive in his nature. If he happens to come across you, that's when he'll go for you, but for the most part if you just stay away from him during matches where he's focused on serving the Entity above all else, he won't go actively searching for you.

He doesn't go easy on you either when he is hunting you. Leaving him behind? Not an easy feat, at all. He often cloaks, herds you into a corner so you can't get away and uncloaks. If someone's watching or nearby, he'll club you in the side--not as hard as he hits other survivors, but your screams suggest differently.

Philip doesn't flinch or anything when he hears the ear piercing cries you make, but he does seem to look...sadder than usual. Like he half believes he's actually hurting you as much as your screaming suggests. What can you say? You're a convincing actor and so far none of your teammates have gotten suspicious--if anything they pity you during Wraith rounds, thinking that for some reason he really has it out for you.

But there'll be times--rare times, but ones that you savor--where no one's watching and no one's nearby and he'll wrap his arms around you when he's cloaked to let you know that he's there, that he's coming for you. Philip throws you over his shoulder when he finally uncloaks and you don't bother faking a scream then.

You know you'll let a very real one out in a few moments when the hook comes through your shoulder.

No matter how gently or reluctantly Philip tries to hook you, it just hurts worse. You prefer it when he does it quickly, when he just gets it over with faster. It's not that pleasant of an experience for him either, so you know it's somewhat difficult for him too.

Sometimes, his gaze lingers on you for a few moments too long when he stands there before you. The look on his face always makes your heart and guts twist.

Once or twice he's aided in your escape and given you the hatch. You usually just lie to the other survivors and tell them you found it on your own. But it's a rare occasion, albeit an appreciated one that only means more to you because of how uncommon of a gesture it is for him to make.

Quentin Shermer

Sometimes you think about how things could have gone for you if you'd just given up on him and left town long ago.

Boring.

Leaving town wouldn't work anyways. He's made himself a second home of your house so he'd notice if you were packing to leave.

Leaving whatever fucked thing you have going on with him won't work either. You can sure try though. God knows you haven't tried to move on from him, choose someone else in town to fawn over and adore. Someone who would match your affections and treat you better than he ever could. But if you find them they don't ever last long so you just stop trying. Trying to leave him just gets people hurt. It hurts you too. It stings to think about ever leaving him when you've put so much time into him.

It's easier just to stay and spare yourself the heartache.

If you so much as hold anyone else's hand or look at anyone else the same way you look at him, they're gone the next day. He's not a stalker type but he's not a fucking idiot either. He notices when you drift from him. So he's quick to reel you back in and keep it all going.

And for you, it's very hard to pick between him and what seems to be nothing at all. He's the only option and you wouldn't honestly have it any other way. Ultimately you can't help just...coming back to him anyways. You can't help wanting him and caring about him the way you do you just can't. It's unbearable to think of him ever not wanting you anymore and the paranoia plagues you constantly.

You can't get a read on him. He's still as unpredictable to you as ever. You don't realize that as much as he's cold and distant from you, he's just as ensnared in your web as you are in his. Otherwise, you'd obviously have been dead a long time ago. It's not like he's got groupies lined up at the shattered windows of his place either. It's just you. Only you. And it's not a bad thing for him. It's nice to have a warm body on his every other night. Maybe it was just a sex thing to him--you weren't sure. But thinking about it too hard just made your chest tight.

All that mattered was he gave you just as much pleasure as you gave him. It's an understanding. And it's not like your life is on the line either. You still feel ashamed to realize that you want him bad. And once he gave you a taste it only got worse. All of the sudden his stupid fucking mattress on the floor of that fucking abandoned dirty house seems much more comfortable than your bed at home.

He sees you. Quentin sees you.

He sees you and if he's the most notorious serial killer in the town's history then what of it.

It's very hard for him to want to let you go at all either. He doesn't share. It's not in his nature. His. His. His. That's what you are.

Again and again you can't help but grow insecure, wondering if it really was all just sex. Nobody's exactly lining up to let him fuck them or touch them the way you let him do to you. Maybe it was all just sex. Maybe. But the way he...has you in his arms after every time makes you confused. It makes you feel differently. It makes you think that maybe just maybe there's some tiny sliver of his heart that isn't dead and cold and it maybe beats for you.

End of the day, you're not leaving. No one's really keeping you there clinging to him.

Just your addled head.

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