awkness

[awkness]

Project Ichor:

After finding a cheap laptop at a garage sale, you find a curious program on it...

Project Ichor is about exploring a visual novel game left on a secondhand laptop. While it may seem normal at first, certain choices begin to reveal the main character's unraveling psyche.

...

Welp, I'm trying to learn how to make a visual novel, using the program Ren'Py. Still basically a concept right now, but I did make some placeholder art for the main menu. I've made this blog to hold myself accountable, as I really want to make this idea into a reality. While this is just the first post, feel free to send in any thoughts or questions.

[awkness]

Hiii, um so I've definitely gone down the rabbit hole of platonic yanderes and just love em, and I had this idea I just wanted to drop and lowkey ramble about.

So like, what about a platonic yandere that is actually, biologically family. Maybe he's an uncle or and older distant cousin that you don't really seem much, and you think borderline hates you. Maybe they tease you a lot, and "joke" about you being a baby, and you think its like their way of making fun of you maybe cause you like more childish stuff like watching cartoons or having stuffed animals, or whatever.

But! What you don't know is that they are actually being genuine, and while they tease, their just tryna get close with you and so get confused when you get grumpy and push them away :(

And maybe you domt have the greatest relationship with your parents, and they see this, and think about how they aren't appreciating you as much as you deserve, that they don't deserve you. And the something happens and they kinda snap and take matters into their own hands cause they know they can give you a much better life

And yeah that was just my ramble, I don't really do these sorta things a lot, so sorry in general? Don't even know what I'm apologizing for :p But please continue to write stuff cause they seriously boost my mood every time I read!

Baby of the Family

(Thanks for the ideas! I don't mind the rambling at all and I hope you enjoy my take on your suggestion!)

Family gatherings had always made you feel uncomfortable. At every single one there was this tense energy. You'd picked up on it since you were a young child, picked up on the whispers and the awkward small talk between relatives.

You'd also felt like the energy was centered around you. Like everyone knew something you didn't and they weren't planning to tell you. Oftentimes you were left to play by yourself, as the only child. Your mom's two sisters had kids, but they were all grown up and 'too cool' to play with their baby cousin.

Then there was your dad's brother, your Uncle. No one really talked to him. He would sit on the edge, silently observing with a drink in his hand. A lot of times he'd be watching you, staring as you silently played with your toys or read a book.

The few times he'd actually joined you in playing were okay, but ended quickly. Your dad was always fast to come between the two of you, dragging you off to do something unrelated to him. You felt a little bad, like maybe he was being let out of the communal secret too.

He had cool piercings, and you'd caught a glimpse of tattoos beneath the crisp dress shirts he always wore. He was never aggressive, never loud, just a silent presence that was always there. Despite that your parents made it very clear they didn't want you alone around him without actually giving you a reason.

You never really listened to them. You'd sit near him sometimes, just far enough that your parents wouldn't force you to move away. It was nice having someone to feel like an outsider with.

Everything seemed to change when your mom got pregnant. In some ways the awkwardness got better, but it also got worse. The tension eased as your family gushed over your mother, but you still felt left out. Your family had never been so loving with you, never treated you like that.

That was when your uncle began to actually talk to you. He'd smile at you, teasing as he murmured about how you were still the baby of the family. He'd pull your knife away when it was time to eat, a certain glint in his eye as he cut your food for you.

The longer your parents went without interfering the more bold he got. You weren't sure how to entirely feel about him. For one, he was an outsider, like you. You liked his piercings and his style, even if your father muttered about how he was just a delinquent playing dress up.

But he also treated you like a baby. He'd smear sunscreen on your face when your parents forgot to, smirking when he told you that you looked like a ghost. He'd have this look of pride when you did normal kid things, this air of superiority when you'd go to him because no one else would pay attention.

Sometimes your dad would pull you to the side, but he'd hardly start on his lecture about staying away before your mom was calling him for something. One of those times your uncle had placed a hand on your shoulder, tension mounting as he made eye contact with your dad.

"Run along now like a good husband. After all, thats what your entire thing was, wasn't it?" He asked, a certain darkness and bitterness creeping into his voice. "There's nothing wrong with me spending some time with the baby of the family, is there? Especially since everyone else seems so preoccupied."

"Don't touch them like they're yours. They're my child. Mine." Your dad snapped, grabbing your hand and dragging you away. You were the only one who caught the dark glint in your Uncle's eyes as he watched you be forced into a seat across the room from him.

You were the only one who saw how his hands clenched into fists and his eyes narrowed as he turned sharply on his heel and left. You didn't see him again for the rest of the night.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

Things were only getting worse at home. It seemed as your mother's pregnancy progressed she changed towards you, becoming cold and unloving. This was more than just a distance between you, it was the Grand Canyon.

Your father wasn't much better, waiting on her hand and foot and following her lead. When she asked him to make you leave, he'd tell you to go to your room and stay there. When she asked him to take down the few pictures of you around the house he did.

You hated the baby, hated how it was getting all the love while you got none. Then your father would lecture you about not being excited for your baby sibling, about how it was time for you to grow up and learn to share. You hated it all.

Then came the fight. You had just come out of your room to get a snack only to be met by your irate mother. She was already mad about something, but seeing you just seemed to set her off even more.

"Why do you have to look so much like him?! I want you gone! I want you out of my sight, out of my house, out of my life!" She yelled. "Get out!"

You ran when you saw her reach to grab something. You didn't stop when you heard it crash to the floor somewhere behind you as she screamed, bolting out the front door. You were in your pajamas, no socks or shoes or jacket.

You were so angry, so hurt you didn't wait outside the apartment for her to calm down. Instead you left. You walked out of the building, determined to not go back until you'd be loved the same as the stupid baby.

You walked down the street, ignoring as pebbles cut into your feet. It was quiet out, hardly anyone on the street despite it being late morning. You just walked aimlessly, being careful when crossing streets as you walked away from home.

By the time your legs started to hurt you'd walked a fair distance away. You looked into the windows of buildings you passed, watching people working in one, a cafe in the next. Eventually you saw a gym, watching as people lifted giant weights.

You glanced over at the treadmills in time to watch as your uncle noticed you peeking in and almost fell off the one he was using. In an instant he was outside, scooping you up into his arms as he looked around.

"Y/N? Why are you all alone? Where are your shoes?!" He asked, looking you over as he carried you back into the gym. The lady at the front desk barely spared him a glance as he swiped back in, quickly grabbing his stuff from the treadmill he'd been using.

"Mom told me to get out. So I got out." You said bitterly. His eyes darkened as a low growl was heard. He set you down outside the locker room for a second before coming back with a bag and a hoodie he procceded to throw at you.

The second you'd put it on, looking unimpressed at how much it dwarfed you, he picked you up again. "You aren't going back there. I've reached my limit. I've wanted to fight for you from day one, but they tried to tell me that I would be a danger to you. But now? I'm not taking no for an answer."

You were quickly carried to a sleek black car, placed into the back. He didn't move you when you pouted, even if the darkness seemed to leave his face. "You are way too tiny to be in the passenger seat. Just a little baby, remember?"

He carelessly tossed his phone onto the passenger seat when it started to buzz as he drove. Instead, he turned on the radio, some loud rock music blasting from the speakers which he quickly turned down. Along the way he stopped at some restaurant to grab you some food before driving you home.

His apartment was nice. He had two big dogs he'd put in his bedroom as to not overwhelm you as you finished eating. He listened to you complaining the whole time you sulkily finished your chicken nuggets about how much you hated your family and the baby.

"You may be little more than a baby yourself, but I'm sure even you've picked up on how everything isn't as it seems in this family. They have secrets they don't want to tell, but I'm tired of waiting." He said, disappearing into a room.

He came back with a picture frame of a boy. A boy who looked kind of like you, except well into his teenage years at the time of the picture. "Y/N, Kyle... your father... isn't actually your father." He eventually said, setting the picture down.

A chicken nugget slipped through your fingers as your mind reeled. Then again, it made sense to you. Your father's hair was way lighter than yours, despite claiming that you had gotten your hair from him. A bunch of other small things that had never seemed important before now reminded you of their presence as you sat there shellshocked for a second.

"When I was 18, I met a woman. Your mom. We were dating for a couple of years. I was having some problems with being possessive and overly controlling at the time and was seeing a psychiatrist and therapist for it." He began, sitting down across from you as he swiped a nugget.

"When I discovered she'd been sleeping with my brother, I was pissed. Even more so when I realized she was pregnant. I beat Kyle so badly, not that he didn't deserve it. But, it meant that I was essentially kicked out of the family until after you were born." He sounded bitter, kind of like how you had sounded bitter complaining about your family just a little ago.

"They thought you'd be their kid. You aren't though." He said, a small smirk crossing his face as he tapped on the picture of the teenager. "See this? That's me when I was 16. We look so similar, don't we? They did a DNA test shortly after you were born proving that I was your biological father."

"If you're my real dad... why was I with them?" You asked quietly, staring down at your nuggets as your world both fell apart and suddenly made so much more sense.

"They used my mental issues against me. Convinced me I wasn't safe enough to be a parent." He sighed, a dark look overtaking his face. "But now? Now, I don't even care anymore. You're staying here, with me and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

You considered it before shrugging, stuffing a nugget in your mouth. "Okay. But I want chicken nuggets and ice cream every day. And I want to be able to decorate my room. And I want to pet your dogs."

He blinked for a second before a grin crept across his face. "I think we can make that work. Finish your food and I'll introduce you to Brownie and Rocky."

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

"Where are they?!" Milo was standing in the doorway to his apartment, arms crossed and eyes narrowed as he stared down his younger brother.

You had long since fallen asleep on his couch, watching some animated princess movie or something. Last he saw you were using one of his dogs as a pillow, the other lying on top of your legs like a living blanket.

"They're safe." He said, refusing to move when Kyle tried to look past him into his apartment. "I found them over twenty blocks away from your place. Twenty. They crossed all those streets by themselves, barefoot and in pajamas."

"Look, she made a mistake-!"

"Kicking out your 7 year old isn't a mistake. I'm not letting you convince me out of caring for my kid again, not after how you've treated them. They're mine, Kyle. Do I need to beat that through your thick skull or will you back off?" He asked, voice dropping as he stepped forward, a dangerous grin crossing his face when his younger brother stepped back.

"You're just as much of a psycho as you were back then! You could never be a good parent to them you possessive freak!"

"Go play happy family with your horrible wife you cheating bastard. Don't you ever darken my doorway again with your 'i'm a better person than you' spiel. Next time, I'm swinging before I hear you out." He growled, watching as Kyle practically ran off down the hallway to avoid his anger.

Inside his apartment you were still asleep, a very tolerant german shepherd laying there as you drooled on him as the move played on in the background. Milo quietly approached you, watching as you slept.

He would be the father you needed, the one he'd been dissuaded out of being. It didn't matter if he was a little possessive or overprotective, as long as the two of you built a good relationship everything would be fine in the end.

"Welcome home, baby. Dad's got you now."

[awkness]

Platonic yandere!cowboy x reader, part two

Part 1

I have names for all my other OCs stored in notes/my head, but I don’t have one for this guy yet. If you have any suggestions, I’d love to hear them!

You’d arrived at the camp about an hour ago and had since been left in a tent. It was tall enough to stand up in but there wasn’t exactly room to walk about, just enough for you to be on the bed and another to sit next to it. 

After some deliberation, you’d decided it was best to stay put. The men outside had guns and no matter what that man had said about “taking care of you”, you didn’t trust it one bit. These sorts were dangerous and cruel. You weren’t about to take your chances with him and especially not the men who he commanded.

He’d told you that he would come round to talk soon, but he had a few things to deal with first. It didn’t sound like anything was being dealt with though. What it sounded like was a bunch of men celebrating and drinking around a fire. Hopefully he’d pass out drunk before he had a chance to come back, you thought.

You were wrong though, and when he entered your tent he only smelt faintly of whiskey, likely only from a couple drinks and mingling with those hitting the bottle heavier. He sat on the dry, dusty ground across from you on a roll mat and a few blankets. Nothing was said for a moment, until he cleared his throat.

“Sorry I took so long. Just had to talk to a few of my men…,” there’s a pause, like he’s not sure what to say next. “Now I know you must be scared, pumpkin. But you don’t need to be.”

You opened your mouth, but a response didn’t come, you were too overwhelmed by the whole situation. 

He watches for your reaction but as none comes and he takes it as an opportunity to explain himself. “I saw you a few months back when you were coming from east ways. Been trackin’ you since. You bumped into me and you were so sweet ‘bout it. Apologisin’ far more than needed. Looked terrified though, like you didn’t know how to talk to anyone or what to do with yourself.”

Taking in a breath, he looks down and stops for a beat before continuing. “I tried to find out more ‘bout you, namely where you were headed and what you were called. But some other things too. Found out you didn’t have much in the way of parents, or any family for that matter, and thought maybe… maybe you could do with someone lookin’ out for you.”

He stops again to gauge your reaction, and you’ve finally found the ability to form words, although you know they’re ones he doesn’t want to hear. “You need to let me go. I won’t tell anyone anything but this is-”

“Pumpkin, no.” His voice is strict when he cuts you off. It’s not like the voice he used when talking in front of his men, but there’s still a level of warning in it, telling you to cut it out before you push it too far. You want to object, to beg to please be let go, but the underlying threat is enough to silence you. 

“You ain’t going anywhere and you’re gonna have to accept that real quick, cause I don’t want to get mean. But I will if it means keeping you safe. Now, I won’t ever hurt you, but I ain’t above making sure you can’t run. Understood?”

You look at him like a madman because, well he is. But with his men out there and all those guns… It would be nice if you could believe that he wouldn’t hurt you, but from the look of him, it seems an unlikely promise. So for now, you nod. When they pack up and head to the next town, you can try to find the sheriff.

He looks you over and gives what you can only assume must be an attempt at a kind smile, but years of cruelty have warped his face and personality in such a way that it comes across as more of a sneer. You suppose you can appreciate that he’s trying to be gentle though.

“You hungry at all? We’ve got plenty left over, something could be cooked up for ya.”

After hesitating, considering if this could be seen as already giving in to this idea of his that you somehow need to be looked after, you decide it doesn’t matter right now. You are hungry, tired too. Any fighting can be left for later when you’ve recouped all the energy that’s ebbed from your body due to the stress of tonight. 

You nod and after you do, he stands and holds open the tent doors, inviting you to follow him out. When you exit, the men out there steal glances and occasionally throw you a smile, but otherwise keep to themselves. It’s clear they’ve been told to mind their own business, but it doesn’t stop some from sitting behind tents and gossiping about the kid their boss has brought along.

The food is surprisingly good and it does make you feel better, but it only seems to have decreased your energy further. Soon you’re back in your tent and falling asleep, reminding yourself as you fall in and out of consciousness that when you wake up, you have to start fighting this.

[awkness]

Platonic yandere!cowboy x reader

The bar was loud and lively, constant chatter from people starting their night and from the day drinkers, already too hammered to realise the volume they were talking at. It was nice to be around people. Usually you might feel the opposite but recently being alone has been terrifying. Tales whispered on the wind of people being killed in nearby towns and violent robberies. Based on the last town that got hit, it seemed like yours would soon be next and you wouldn’t be caught out alone in the streets or at home to be robbed and killed. But it seemed like for some, it didn’t matter how strong a crowd was, they were willing to take from whoever, whenever.

When the gunshot cracked and part of the wooden roof split from the impact, people started screaming. They ducked out in the way or ran towards the back or front entrance. You ducked. And that seemed to be a mistake, because the shooter and his gang were happily letting people run past and into the safety of the street. In fact, they were telling people to get out. The people who hid have started to be not so gently ushered out. You stand and quickly head towards the door but before you can reach it, a hand wraps tightly around your arm and yanks you back.

“Hold on there pumpkin, you ain’t leaving just yet”

The voice alone would be enough to make you panic, nevermind the situation. He sounds rough and cruel. You can hear a smile in his voice and you shiver at what that could imply. At what he could possibly want with you.

The bar is empty except for you, the outlaws and the bartender who is currently putting all his money into one of the men's bags. You flinch when the man with an iron grip on your arm pulls you closer and lowers his voice.

“Shhh, it’s ok. Ain’t gonna hurt ya. There’s no need to be scared. Just gon take you back to camp. That’s all”

The voice, once harsh, is now gentle. He’s quiet enough that only you can hear, his macho persona lessened when he doesn’t need to perform in front of frightened civilians and his gang.

When you talk, your voice comes out just as quiet. “Why? What do you want?”

As his men leave the bar and gather in the street, he replies. “To take care of ya. Lookin’ at you, you’re such a sweet little thing. And all alone. But don’t you worry ‘bout anythin’ anymore pumpkin. I got ya”

He leads you out of the bar and towards where his men are readying the horses. As soon as you realise what’s about to happen, you dig your heels into the ground, doing everything you can to stop your forward trajectory. But he’s not the sort of man to let that stop him. He picks you up bridal style and for a moment you’re too stunned to fight back but you soon return to your senses and start to squirm. You put your hands against his chest and push as hard as you can, desperately trying to break free. You’re almost at the horses now, you don’t have much time left. He leans down slightly so his mouth is closer to your ear.

“Listen, I don’t wanna have to tie you up, but I will if you cause me too much grief. I’d really rather not though. And I don’t think you want any of that either.”

His words make you stop and as he lifts you onto a horse, you stay sat there, rigid. When he gets on behind you, you move forward, avoiding his touch at all.

Once he and his gang are all ready, he shouts and kicks a leg and the horse sets off. As your town fades into the distance, you get the sinking feeling that you’ll never see it again.

[awkness]

Pre bedtime thoughts-

Imagine a clingy dami au except your mom never died and you grew up without knowing Bruce was your dad.

Imagine you find out while donating blood, doing a 23&me thing or something and you have to have a very uncomfortable talk with your mom and dad.

“I just didn’t think he’d be a good father figure for you.. we met when we were both so young, I was doing research in another country and he was also there to study. We weren’t careful one night and when I got back home I was pregnant with you,” your mom explained gently while the man you thought was your dad sat next to you, comforting you.

“And when he returned to Gotham he started to party a lot, got into fist fights, drank and slept around with so many models that I just.. I just didn’t trust him to be a good and active father in your life… I’m so sorry for not telling you baby, I-I just didn’t want you to get your heart broken..” your mom said, tearing up a little as she held your hands. “I met your dad when you were 1 and we just fell in love,” she continued as your dad reached over and held her hands, smiling softly.

“We wanted to tell you when you got older but…” your dad sighed, gently squeezing your mom’s hand. “But we were scared. We didn’t know how to tell you so we put it off. ‘Just one more year’ we kept telling ourselves, but one year became two, then three then so on. We are so sorry for not being honest with you.”

I think it takes you a couple months to process it all, I mean you just found out you were the first born child to one of the most powerful men in the country, THE playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne. That man owned the city of Gotham practically and his humanitarian work is what inspired you to pursue your dreams and studies. It was a hard pill to swallow.

But after those months you came to a conclusion, this changed nothing. You understand where your mom was coming from and your dad, even though you weren’t his by blood, was your dad. He was there for you sing you could remember and nothing was going to change that.

But that didn’t stop the curiosity and slight worry. You were curious about how similar to Bruce you were as well as concerned about possible medical conditions that you might develop one day, so after going through the proper channels, you get in contact with Bruce.

It was a email at first, a polite introduction of who you were and why you were emailing it. You showed the dna proof that you two were related and expressed that you did not want anything from him other than his family’s medical history and possibly a chance to meet face to face.

I like to think that Bruce is way more into getting to know you than you are into getting to know him. Like he’s so excited to know you exist, offering to pay for whatever schooling or trade you’d like, offering to house you if you plan to go to Gotham university any university for that matter and your just like.. chill dude.

Like you don’t hate him, you just don’t know him and he’s trying to play a paternal role in your life when you already have a dad. The man who married your mother is your dad in your eyes and in your heart, no amount of money can replace that, but it seems like Bruce is trying.

But after a while of being in communication, he invites you to Gotham for the summer so that he can get to know you, his first born, and so that you could meet Damian and the others.

I think Damian would be very hostile to you at first, after all you threatened the whole structure of the family. You made him nervous, because what if father liked you more than him? What if everyone liked you more than him? He doesn’t want to be replaced… especially not with someone who clearly couldn’t do what he could.

He would act passive aggressively to you at first, ignoring you when you talked or being exasperated as if when you asked questions it was the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

He’s so angry at you and your existence, stealing his place as Bruce’s first born. He’s angry at show inferior he feels compared to you bc you just seem so… unbothered by this all while he can’t even focus on patrols anymore. And he hates that. He hates how bad he feels with you around him, he hates it all, he hates you.

… well he thought he did.

What changed for you two was one night you accidentally bumped into Damian in the hallways and asked him what he was doing up so late and Damian just couldn’t hold back anymore and demanded to know why you were here, why are you barging into his home and life!? You’re a stranger and you will never be apart of HIS family!

He’s so angry that there’s tears in his eyes. He hates you. He hates you! HATES that you’re stealing all of his father’s attention now!! Hates that he can only spend time with his father on patrols and even those are getting rare now bc YOURE HERE in HIS HOUSE!!

You let him rant, watching the boy as his words get wobbly and his voice gets a little choked in some parts. You watch and wait, feeling bad for this asshole kid in front of you.

You wait until he’s done and nod, thinking for a moment before you pulled a set of car keys out of your pocket.

“Wanna go for a ride?”

I like to imagine you and Damian ‘borrow’ one of Bruce’s not as nice cars and go for a ride on the back roads outside of Gotham, I like imagining that the only time you two stop is at a gas station where you both get some drinks and snacks. You let him have control of the radio, you let him talk if he wants to or not if he doesn’t, your patient and answer questions if he asks you any.

You don’t return to the manor until early in the morning, with him asleep in the passenger and you ready to pass out yourself. Hell neither of you make in back to your bedrooms, parking the car in the manors garage and turning the car off and falling asleep in the driver’s seat with the windows cracked open a little.

But after that night, Damian begins to cling to you, you remind him of Dick a little, but better? He knows you won’t snitch on him to Bruce, he likes that you try to include him and the others when Bruce tries to do some father child bonding with you and he especially appreciates the drives you two start doing together… it makes him feel like you truly see him like a brother, not a teammate, not a Robin, not a assassin.. but a brother..

He’s never been a brother before.

So imagine his reaction when you prepare to leave to go back to your home state? Imagine the betrayal he feels when he over hears you telling Bruce that you don’t plan to go to Gotham for university?

No, he just started getting use to you, you can’t leave him now! You can’t abandon him, not now!!

And Bruce doesn’t want you to leave either, he’s missed out on so many chances to be there for you. Yes your mom was generous enough to show him pictures and videos of you when you were little, but that doesn’t change the fact he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there for your first steps or words. He wasn’t there to teach you how to ride a bike or to pick you up when you fell. He wasn’t there and now that he knows you exist, he wants to be there so badly it hurts.

This these two joining forces to keep you in Gotham, to make sure that they don’t miss out on anymore opportunities to be apart of your life and your family.

[awkness]

꩜ cat-like shadow 𑣲 B. POINDEXTER.

𖦹 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𖦹 𝐛𝐮𝐲 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐨-𝐟𝐢!

「 ꜜsummary,, a short drabble on Dex's intense and desperate need for closeness. author notes at the end. 」

「 ꜜcontent,, obsessive behaviour ⋆ brief and subtle touch on Dex's bpd ⋆ self sabotage ⋆ intense watching. ꜜwc,, 0,3k. 」

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

you noticed his habit of being close nearly immediately in the start of your relationship. in little things like-- standing beside one another while cooking. or always needing your legs in his lap while you two sat on the couch.

then you noticed it in other ways-- the way he'd sit with you in the bathroom when you showered, waited outside the bathroom door when you went to pee.

when you'd take a nap he'd be curled up at the foot of the bed like a kicked dog. he isn't one to take naps, you knew that. it felt to him like you insisted on time apart when you said you were gonna take a nap. like a kick to the stomach.

you catch him watching you, a lot. those intense hazel eyes watching each movement you make as if you're going to vanish any second. it's intense, but welcoming in a way.

it's when none of the above happens and you don't feel those heavy eyes on you that you worry. when he pulls away, as if you've burned him. or when he claims he's just had a tough case. you know nothing at work could get to him like that.

it takes hours of little words that morph into pleading to get him to stop the self sabotaging behaviour. because you haven't burned him, you never want to. you're there and you're not budging.

sometimes all it takes is you starting up a routine-- getting ready to get cozy on the couch to watch a show in the evening. knowing damn well that his mind won't let him break the pattern, no matter how much he wants to tests you and himself.

in a matter of a few hours he's back to his usual intense and observing self. watching you closely, trailing close behind you like a stray cat.

it might be a little off putting sometimes, the breathing down your neck and the constant eyes-- but it's also safe and reassuring. like you know you always have a safety net beneath you when something goes wrong. like a knight in shining armor who suddenly, but conveniently pops out of an alley when someone outside is bothering you.

「 authors note,, if anyone has any Dex requests, lmk! cause y'all i'm fresh out of ideas 🥲 this took hella effort to write up. ꜜdex taglist,, @imnez-daydreams @lovelydivs @babyangeldex @cosmic-marauder @13eyond13elief @weallhaveadestiny @princessstar655 @kittytw0 @karinas-void @dragonamongwolves @madelynneb . 」

𑣲 join the taglist ٠࣪⭑꩜.ᐟ

[awkness]

꩜ chemical reaction 𑣲 B. POINDEXTER.

𖦹 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𖦹 𝐛𝐮𝐲 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐨-𝐟𝐢!

「 ꜜsummary,, requested by a lovely anon; can I request a comfort-y thing about Dex and a reader with anxiety, maybe they’re having a rough time keeping the panicky thoughts in check and feeling a lil hopeless and like a bother? (I also feel like feeling his scars would feel really grounding and I have no idea why). author notes at the end. 」

「 ꜜcontent,, i made up scars for Dex ⋆ semi detailed panic attack ⋆ hurt/comfort ⋆ Dex hating comforting but hating seeing you in pain more ⋆ awkward comforting ⋆ poor in-the-moment self image ⋆ title is from a Radiohead song. ꜜwc,, 1,1k. 」

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

you don't know how it became a habit-- running your fingers over the grooves and bumps of Dex's scars. but it beyond soothed your anxiety for the time being.

Dex first noticed it a few weeks ago. you two were out in the grocery store when your anxiety spiked. maybe you saw someone, maybe you just felt really overwhelmed, he doesn't know.

but a few seconds after you started thumbing the thin, few-inch long scar on the back of his hand you slowly calmed down. he had felt you physically and visibly calm down as your thumb swiped back and forth the raised skin.

a week and a half ago you had a bad panic attack-- Dex was fumbling for something in his own panic to soothe you. when he suddenly thought back to the moment in the store.

it was a spur of the moment kind of thing, but Dex took your hand and pushed it beneath his shirt as he pressed your fingers against the nasty healed scar that was left by a shotgun shot.

he watched as your face scrunched up in surprise, taken aback by the action. he felt your fingers trace over the scar, fingertips slightly dipping into the grooves of the unpleasant mark.

it took no less than fifteen minutes for your breathing to slow and your panic to subside. Dex merely stood there as he held your hand to his side. " i didn't know that was there, " you had croaked out after a while, mapping the scar out with your fingers without seeing it.

Dex swallowed, having felt stiff but relieved that you were speaking. " it's been there a long time. " it was true, but maybe not the answer you were looking for.

Dex catalogued that moment, carefully and neatly filing it away in his mind for if the panic got that bad again.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

Dex's fingers twitch at his sides as walks through the hall to your shared apartment. you had been rather quiet over text, and that sent his thoughts spiralling. what if something happened while he was at work? what if you were hurt? what if you left him?

the keys push into the lock in a rhythmic way, they way they always do each evening he comes home. he pushes the door open, the apartment is quiet-- too quiet.

Dex closes the door and locks it before setting the keys in the dish on the side table. " Dex? " he spins around at the shaky sound of your voice, wide hazel eyes finding your wide, tear streaked ones.

neither of you say a word as you immediately wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your face against his firm chest. Dex goes stiff for a second, before sheepishly wrapping his arms around your shoulders firmly.

your panic washes over you-- your chest heaves and your finger tips tingle. that same tingle slowly spreading through your hands and feet.

Dex can feel the way your hands tremble against his back, he knows what stage of panic you're in. your hand manages to move, as it hesitantly hovers and shakes above where the scar on his stomach sits.

he knows that hesitation-- the one where you crave something to soothe yourself, but your brain tries to talk you out of it. makes you think like it would inconvenience him or someone else.

before you can let out another shaky and panicked breath Dex has hiked his shirt from his jeans, his calloused fingers almost forcefully guiding your hand beneath his shirt. his brows twitch as your fingers find the large scar once more, pressing them against it with his palm.

he watches you swallow and hiccup, trying so hard to regulate your breathing. he keeps his eyes on tour face, observing how you're trying and failing. his jaw ticks as he thinks-- his brain going to the only other thing he can think of. his other hand grabs your free hand, sliding it beneath his shirt as he guides it to his lower back.

Dex watches your face as your eyes widen as your fingers are being pushed against another scar. this one is the same length as the one on the back of his hand, though a little wider in width. if you'll ask, he'll answer honestly that it came from a knife fight when he was in the army.

he presses both sets of your fingers into each scar as you two stand in the hallway. Dex's face is rigid during this, his posture stiff and strained. he wants to be there for you, but too many emotions and feelings feel uncomfortable to him. Mercer's urge to still try and comfort others rings loud in his thoughts.

it takes you a while, longer than the first time, to calm down. Dex observes your tells, cataloguing them as they present themselves.

finally, you slump forward against him, resting your cheek against his warm chest. it's quiet now in the apartment without your heavy breathing. " where'd that one come from? " you croak, your index finger tracing the length of the scar on his lower back.

Dex swallows. " the army. " alright, maybe he'll spare the details, he thinks to himself.

you nod against his chest, slowly and reluctantly moving your hands away from the scars and wrapping your arms around his waist. you hug him tight, but tiredly. he can feel the exhaustion in every single move.

" thank you. " you mutter after a few minutes. " i know this is hard for you, but i'm grateful for you. "

Dex swallows the lump in his throat. he blinks, wide, before trying a response. " anything you need. " it feels a little heavy, a little intense in the way that you can feel that he means 'anything'.

your lips twitch in a small, sheepish smile. you let out a deep breath, before slowly pulling away from him. you look up at him, and his heart skips a beat. you swallow, smoothing down his shirt. " how was work? " he clocks the deflecting question immediately.

Dex's jaw ticks again, he'll let it pass for now. but he notes to himself to make sure to find out what caused the panic later. he huffs, combing a hand through his hair. " the same as always. but my day's better now that i'm here again. " it's the simplest and lightest way he could phrase his feelings about today.

you let out a hiccupy and slightly raspy laugh. you hold out your hand, testing how much it still trembles. once you seem satisfied you look back up at him. " how does takeout sound? i don't think i have it in me to cook at this hour. " you sound guilty about it, but he can tell you're trying to mask it.

he puts on reassuring smile. " takeout sounds great. i'll order your usual-- you go grab some blankets for the couch. " he gently orders as he's already pulling out his phone.

「 authors note,, this was very soothing to write-- and honestly Anon, i needed this too 🫠. i hope you're doing alright and this helped a little! ꜜdex taglist,, @imnez-daydreams @lovelydivs @babyangeldex @cosmic-marauder @13eyond13elief @weallhaveadestiny @princessstar655 @kittytw0 @karinas-void @dragonamongwolves @madelynneb. 」

𑣲 join the taglist ٠࣪⭑꩜.ᐟ

[awkness]

You Found Him

Platonic Yandere! John “Soap” McTavish x GN! Reader

Wordcount: 2220

AN: I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Soap is a little much a lot of the time and I wanted to write something that reflected that. It’s a bit shorter than usual but the big guy is more of a short and sweet type and I’m working on more stuff so I’m chilling with it. Happy Mother’s Day to all of the moms and mom adjacent individuals out there! Y’all are real ones. Another major thank you to @foolphenomenon for beta reading for me!!!

TW: Yandere behaviors, this man is nuts frfr, delusional behaviors, a very unhealthy attachment style, kidnapping, drugging with side effects, “I’ll find you” family dynamic

♡♡♡

Johnny was the type to cling onto any type of affection that he could get. He wasn't used to being able to have anyone to be affectionate with and he has a tendency to act like a stray dog, following anyone who treated him with an ounce of kindness. It was why he got attached to Simon so easily. It was why he obeyed every order that came out of John's mouth. It was why he never missed a hang out with Gaz on the rare occasion that they both were on leave. 

He knew that he didn't have anything on Ghost's childhood but his wasn't exactly pleasant. He has plenty of brothers and sisters that he was pitted up against and starved of both food and attention in favor of. He had to fight for every scrap he got and only bulked up once he joined the military. It was easier than he was used to and he thrived. He still had a bit of an attitude problem and an authority problem but he likes his job and did his best to do well.

He was used to being treated almost like a piece of meat when he was off duty. He knew that he was a pretty boy and he got plenty of attention at bars and clubs thanks to it. It felt transactional and hollow to him in the end. He didn't like how there wasn't truly any affection to any of the contact. He wanted something more. He wanted the relationship that he craved from his siblings growing up. He already had the approval that he wanted from the captain, the one that replaced the approval from his parents that he was desperate for. He had his friends and every other part of his life was fulfilling except for at home. He wanted something pure and good and innocent and he would kill to get it.

He went looking for someone that would be a good little sibling. He wanted to be treated with the admiration that he felt an older brother should get. He wanted to teach someone new skills and have them love him more than anyone else. He was excited to be able to have someone to care for and come home to when he was on leave. He was desperate to have someone that loved him as much as he loves them.

He looked everywhere that he thought the perfect little sibling would be, regardless of whether he was on or off of duty. He visited book stores, libraries, craft stores, cafes, and restaurants. He searched through video game stores, comic book shops, sporting goods stores, and anywhere else that he could think of. He was getting impatient. He couldn't find anyone that he thought would be good enough. Not until he ordered some new clothes online and came face to face with you.

He had a tiny cottage off base where he had all of his packages delivered. It served as an excellent place to crash on leave and as an even better place to relax with the team. It was a typical bachelor pad, minus most of the mess, and it was where he called home. He could afford it and it was nice to be able to have somewhere to call his own. He was playing a game on his couch when he heard a knock at the door. He lazily got up and opened the door, looking down at you with a startled expression.

“John McTavish?” You chirped.

He couldn't believe it. You were right there. You were so young and adorable. He wanted to scoop you up right there.

“That's me.” He said, looking down at you with starry eyes.

You were perfect. He was so happy that you were finally here with him. He didn't know how you found him but he was so excited to have you. He didn't have a room set up for you but he was happy to give up his room and sleep on the couch until he figured out how to turn his weapons room into a bedroom for you. He already adored you.

“Sign here please.” You said with a smile.

He blinked as you held out a clipboard. Oh. He didn't notice the box that you were holding. He paused for a moment. He carefully signed his signature and delicately took the box from you. His hands briefly brushed yours and he couldn’t help but smile a bit wider. It was the first time that he had ever touched his new little sibling. It was a magical moment for him and he knew that he had to record it so that you two could look back on it.

He then realized something a bit important. You hadn’t been seeking him out to meet your new big brother and were instead just doing your job. That was okay. It was actually better than okay! It meant that your meeting was fate. It was destiny that you both would meet and become family. He looked surprised as you thanked him and took your clipboard back. Where were you going? You hummed as you walked back down to your van.

You happily sat in your van and checked the address for your next delivery. You brushed off the excitement of the man and just went about the rest of your day. You were used to people being a bit too eager for their packages. It wasn't anything new for you. It was rare that someone wasn't excited to get their purchases. He just watched as you drove off and felt a bit empty again when he was alone.

Johnny hurried inside to get a pen and his journal. He didn’t even sit down before he started to sketch you. He didn’t stop until it looked exactly like him. He smiled at the picture and then started obsessively writing every single detail that he could remember. He wrote about how your uniform was a little too big for you and how cute it was. He wrote about the sparkle in your eyes as you looked up at him, as if you knew that he was supposed to be your big brother. He sighed happily as he wrote about your sweet little smile and how well you did your job.

He felt pleased with his entry to his journal. He looked it over and grinned. He’d have to do some research on you, his new baby sibling.

It was definitely wrong to use the computers at work to learn everything about you but he figured that it would be alright. He was your new brother, after all. He had to make up for lost time. He needed to know how to be a brother that you would want. He showed Simon the picture that he drew of you, earning a nod from him. That was enough to keep him going. Johnny knew that Simon was an awful lot like him, even if Simon didn’t like to show it. It was why they got along so well. 

By the end of the week, he knew everything. He was good with technology, being a demolitions expert. It was his job to be good at it. He learned about everything you liked and disliked, where your favorite places to go were and where you hated, and every other possible thing about you. He started getting cute clothes and shoes for you, beaming at you when you delivered them for him. He knew that you didn’t know what was in the packages but he was sure that you would love everything he bought for you.

At night, Johnny would just think about all of the fun things you both would do together. He wanted to have movie nights where you’d both gorge yourselves on junk food and cry laughing at inside jokes. He wanted to go on road trips and chat about anything and everything. He wanted to buy you anything you wanted and see you smile at him. He wanted to see you looking up at him in awe when he tells you about the cool things that he’s done on missions.  He wanted to see your eyes light up when he rigs up an explosion that you can both watch safely. He’s sure that you love explosions too. You’re his sibling so he’s sure that it’s in both of your natures.

He knows that he can be more than a little excitable and aggressive. It’s how he’s always been and he did his research on your personality so he knows that you both are going to get along like a house on fire. That's why he gets so confused when you wake up in his cottage and start struggling against your restraints. He didn’t think that you’d actually get scared. He figured you’d both get a laugh out of it and then you’d eat the lunch that he made for you.

“Hey, hey, calm down jus’ a wee bit, kiddo. I need ye ta relax. You know me! It’s just Johnny!” He coos at you.

You continue to struggle in the ropes binding your hands and feet. He had tucked you into your new bed after drugging you in your apartment and bringing you home. If it weren’t for the duct tape over your mouth, you would’ve looked like the perfect little angel while you were sleeping. He frowned. Maybe tying you up wasn’t as funny of a prank as he thought it would be. He hummed and patted your head while you squirmed, then carefully took the duct tape off of your mouth. 

“There we are! Look at ya! Cutest lil’ thing on the planet. C’mon, let’s get those nasty ropes off o’ ya. I’ll admit it’s nae my best joke but I made some sandwiches for us. Got some crisps too for while we’re watching our show together.” He said cheerfully, quickly undoing the ties of your restraints and tossing you over his shoulder like a weightless sack of potatoes.

The world was spinning and you were trying your best not to throw up. You could barely understand what he was saying and everything was blurry. You weakly grabbed onto the back of his shirt for stability, which he took as a sign that you were warming up to him already even though you were out of it.

“My cooking isn’t that bad bu’ I think I’ll order us somethin’ fur dinner. It’s a very special occasion, after all! I finally get to live with my favorite lil sweetie!” He said happily.

His words were loud and made you wince. You had a splitting headache and he was too excited about having you over that he didn’t notice. He happily plopped you onto the couch, hurrying towards the kitchen and grabbing two plates and a family sized bag of chips. He sat down next to you, tucking you next to him and snuggling you up to him. He put your plate on your lap. The sandwich on it was massive and you wouldn't normally be able to finish it, let alone when you have such an upset stomach. He wrapped an affectionate arm around you as he turned on the TV to one of the cartoons that he liked as a kid.

“This is great, right? Your first day with your big brother and we're already having a grand time. I love you, kiddo. I really do.” He murmured before opening the large bag of chips and placing it between the both of you on both of your laps.

You were so out of it that you just watched the show on the screen. You barely noticed the man next to you scarfing down his own equally large sandwich and then eating plenty of the chips. He looked down at you occasionally, smiling as he watched you. He figured that you were just sleepy and easily entertained. He seemed overjoyed to be sitting on the couch next to the drugged up delivery person.

“No’ hungry, are ye? That's okay. Ye can eat whene’er ye want. I don't mind.” He said in a genuine tone. It was clear that he wanted you to feel comfortable. 

It made him happy that you were just sitting there with him. He gently petted the top of your head, clearly doing his best to be gentle with you. He enjoyed being able to hold you like this. It made him feel like this was real. He liked feeling like he had a new little sibling to look after. He reached over and grabbed a blanket, lifting up your plate and carefully putting it over you. He put your plate down on your lap and settled back in, all but hugging you as he goes back to watching the show.

When you inevitably pass out from the drug in your system hitting you hard for a second time, he sighs happily and just keeps snuggling you. He was so happy that you were finally home with him. He figured that you were just a bit tired and needed your beauty sleep. He was perfectly fine with that. He was going to make sure that you got everything that you wanted or needed, including a doting older brother.

[awkness]

Requiem of Another World / platonic yan! horror protagonist Theon Kennedy OC

A/n LOVE Y'ALL LOTS OF WORK DRAMA... hope this makes up for my absence :,)

◇

Imagine having an absolute failure of a father who, despite the fact he is so insecure he ends up writing a best-selling horror series that's (somehow) disguised as his dream self insert... Theon Kennedy, who is an absolute heartthrob! Along with being the smartest person in the room, of course....

Writing such vivid fantasies always made your father feel so more fulfilled than interacting with his personal life. He can't help but feel burdened by you. Though it wasn't your fault that your Ma had walked out on you both - nor was it your fault when you needed attention that pulled him away from his precious story...

Now that you are older, you are smarter than to try and seek out something more. The only time you see him ever is when he comes out of his study. And your shared dinners last around a dozen minutes, never more. He has to get back to writing after all....

But tonight takes a turn for the worst when you make a small comment about his latest book.

"Even if he is the smartest man alive shouldn't he struggle a little bit when faced with the villain that you have been hyping up for the last six books? That seems like the definition of plot armor to me".

It was an honest critique- and if he had a reasonable answer you would have heard your father out (his work was very good beside this small factor you have to admit).

"I don't think that's something someone like you would understand". Is all your father says quickly storming off after breaking both his cup and plate.

You really shouldn't have been surprised the man had a mean temper when it came to his beloved series.

You wonder then if you went missing how long it would take for anyone to notice. But you had never thought this dark thought would finally come true. As you are cleaning up the ruined dish set there is a knock at the door. And when you open it all you find is a box on the porch- it looked perfectly innocent. Even wrapped in a pretty yellow ribbon. You expected this to be a gift from one of the publishers- but at this time of night?

And fan mail had never showed up on your front porch, so you crossed that off as a possibility. You almost turned, ready to leave this gift on the porch. But something had caught your eye at the last moment...

Nothing had ever arrived here before with your name on the tag. And greedily, you picked up the present before quietly coming up the stairs to your bedroom. Inside is what looks like the upcoming book in the series. You begin reading before you start to weep. the pages sending you into a familiar tale. The story starts out the same as all the others. The villain and main characters continue their fight from the last novel. Usually, the scene comes to a close with the villain getting away by the skin of his teeth. But the scene you are reading is anything but that.

The hero refuses to back down.

And then the gun goes off, hitting the villain in the chest- it will be a slow death, one that is so unlike him- when he starts to talk to himself, you realize the hero must have finally gone crazy...

"You don't even know how lucky you are - I lost everything. My wife... my child, and you had the audacity to think I wouldn't find you? That I wouldn't know that for every cruel tragedy of my life is just a wish for your own reality?!"

You swear you can hear the maniacal laughter of the hero ringing in your ears... You always wondered about the heroes sanity, as much as the author tried to push it under the rug. His wife and child's death changed him....

But your father never focused on that beyond writing that death scene in the first book. Turning his attention instead into various love interests and

"If God has assigned you to be the author of my fate then it's only fair I can have my dreams come true as well."

The hero says before looting the villains body, finding a vial that any fan of the series was quite familiar with.

Compound H was unstable, rumoured to allow the user multiverse traveling powers.

Well, that was certainly a plot twist! And certainly a meta one to boot. This bound fanfic was even better than the books.

If your Dad ever found out you thought something like this he would probably kill you. You end up hiding the book in the farthest corner of your closet. Just in case.

Your dreams that night are so pleasant that you don't even stir at odd sounds coming from your fathers study.

Even if you were to wake up, it wouldn't change anything. Your Daddy was a dead man... Theon didn't wouldn't stand for anything less than retribution, not only for himself. But for your sake as well.

"I don't know how anyone could have overlooked all the details in your writing... It's so obvious that you had my backstory be what you actually wanted to happen in your own reality".

Theon said as he carefully looked through the toolbox he found in the garage. Plyers would have to do for now, it seemed.

"Even though I know all your dirty secrets. I still you wanted to sew your own kids mouth shut..."

There was a glint in Theon's eyes, manic glee because really this was killing two birds with one stone. He got to punish this man for making his life a tragic shit show and, most importantly, come morning after he hid the body... Theon would get to be a father again.

He would wake you up with pancakes and all would be right in the world. He couldn't wait...

[awkness]

Far Better Than Any Pill

Platonic Yandere! Ghost x GN!Barista!Reader

Wordcount: 3292

AN: I’m on a roll, babes. I love writing descent into madness oneshots. My dog is sitting on my lap, my blankets are warm, and the semester is over. Life is good. Another very grateful shoutout to @foolphenomenon for beta reading for me!!!

TW: Yandere behaviors, drugging, kidnapping, delusional loser man behavior, somewhat realism, mental health stuff but nothing in detail, mentions of the horrors of the service industry, an attempted mugging, violence, murder

♡♡♡

Simon didn’t know why he wanted a kid so badly. It didn’t make sense. His childhood was a nightmare, to say the least, and after seeing his mother’s marriage, he never wanted to get married either. He saw the men he went to bootcamp with settle down and start their own families and his heart burned with envy. He would go to team barbeques just to get to be around the chubby little babies that toddled around. The partners of his teammates always thought it was sweet that he was so good with kid and joked around about wishing he was always free for babysitting.

He stopped going to those barbecues after becoming a sergeant. It got to be too painful for him to see the others living the life that he dreamed of. He spoke to adoption agency after adoption agency during every single one of his days off and none of them would allow him to adopt from them. He knew why. He was a single man and his lifestyle wasn’t exactly conducive to having children. He was traumatized and was legally required to attend therapy. After an exceptionally bad mission, he was declared unfit for the field. He received a very generous pension but the one thing that he really had going for him was over.

He withdrew into himself after that. He only had his tiny shoebox apartment that he stayed in while he was on shore leave and it was awful. All he would do was dissociate, go to the gym, and take care of only his most basic needs like eating, drinking, and showering. He went to the store once per week and always got the exact same things. He knew how much he consumed and how much he needed to restock. It was the same every week.

Simon wasn’t really living and he knew that. He barely felt human. He was stagnating and he couldn’t get out of the pit that he was trapped in. He was on his way back to his apartment from the gym when something caught his eye. There was a tiny coffee shop with a “Grand Opening” sign in the window. The window panes were painted bright colors and he could see that the walls were covered in book filled shelves. The rich scent of hot coffee wafted out of the open doors, inviting him to come closer.

He hadn’t read something that wasn’t a bill or a report since… He couldn’t remember how long it had been. His guilty pleasure when he was younger was reading old classic novels. He used to have a small library of tattered paperbacks that he would drown himself in when things got bad and when his nightmares felt too real. He slowly walked towards the small shop while displaying an uncharacteristic hesitance. He stood in the doorway of the half filled shop before slowly getting in line. The coffee smelled divine and he’d be lying to himself if he said that his mouth wasn’t watering a bit. There were signs all over displaying the genres of the books on the shelves and advertising that customers could borrow any book they wanted.

He eventually got to the front of the line and peered down at the barista. You were smaller than him and had a chipper expression. Your face was shining with the excitement of starting a new job and it made him pause. You were young and happy. Your apron was quilted cotton fabric and it suited you. The pattern was a happy pastel floral and it made the cheerful look on your face look that much more sincere. He took a moment to read your name tag and was almost surprised when you spoke.

“Hi! What can I get started for you today?” You chirped in a cheery tone.

“I’ll have a black coffee, please.” He said quietly. His voice instinctively took on that gentle quality that it always did when he was speaking to a child. He had forgotten that it could do that.

“For here or to go?” You asked.

“For here.” He said in the same voice. There was no mistaking it. There was something about you that was just so… Childish. He couldn’t help himself.

“Great! Can I interest you in a pastry? You seem like the kind of guy that can appreciate a good strawberry danish. They’re my favorite.” You offered.

“Sure. I’ll take one of those.” He almost immediately said. He knew that being nice was your job. He knew that you were just trying to make a good impression on a customer but he couldn’t help but melt a bit for the first time in years when you mentioned liking the dessert.

“Wonderful! Can I get you anything else?” You asked.

“No.” He answered. He immediately regretted how harsh it sounded. A little thing like you shouldn’t have to deal with any sort of roughness or harshness. He felt like you were just too small for that.

You rang his order up and had him take a seat at one of the few empty tables after he paid while one of your coworkers made him his coffee. He sat for a few moments before grabbing a book that he had been eyeing for a little bit. It was an old hardcover copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. He flips it open and starts reading the first page. 

He was surprised. It was the first time that he had felt truly comfortable in ages. The cushioning on the chain helped calm the ache in his back that had been there since the beginning of his time in the military. The book was familiar and the smell of the coffee shop was delicious. The air was filled with the smell of coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and sweet baked goods. There was soft music playing in the background and the soft chatter of customers and employees made the atmosphere that much more cozy. The soft sound of footfalls caught his attention and he looked up to see you with his coffee and pastry.

“Oh, is that Frankenstein? I loved that one! I begged the boss to get that copy for the coffee shop. It’s the same version as the first edition. I liked it better than the later versions. There’s also a promotion going on. You get a free bookmark every time you come in this week. I hope you enjoy your order!” You babbled happily at him as you placed the food and drink on the table. You also put a bookmark next to his coffee. He looked over the bookmark, noting the whimsical art of the coffee shop and how it seemed just as bright and lively as you. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it helped to lift his spirits a bit. 

Over the next few weeks, he religiously visited the coffee shop and got the same coffee and whatever pastry you recommended. It made him happy and he liked being able to see you. You became less cheerful as time went on and the bags under your eyes got worse. He realized after a particularly eventful visit to the cafe that you were dealing with unpleasant customers and a grueling work schedule. You were there every day, after all. 

He decided to help. He was a scary guy and he was well aware of that. Instead of visiting after the gym, he started visiting a bit before the lunch rush. He would get his order with the addition of a sandwich and would simply read one of the books on the shelf while making sure that no one was rude to you. He gave unkind looks to customers that didn’t behave themselves and it easily cowed them into behaving. He was very pleased when you seemed less stressed and more chipper again.

He knew that you had a life outside of your job but he tried not to think about it after coming home from visiting you. He had recognized that he was making progress with going outside more. He would regularly go out of his apartment at least twice per day and he was starting to feel happy when he wasn’t with you. Granted, he was thinking about you, but he felt like it still counted for something. He had started cooking new things in order to have more things to chat about when he occasionally struck up a conversation with you. He was coming home from the gym again when your life outside of that little store truly came to his attention. 

He didn’t quite recognize what was going on at first. There was a group of people jostling around and he didn’t think much of it. He thought that it was just a gang of boys looking to make trouble until he heard a familiar voice. It was you. You were asking them, more like begging them, not to take your wallet or phone. He was looking over and finally saw your face from the other side of the street.

You were crying.

Oh, he hated that.

Nothing and nobody should ever make you cry. 

Not when you were the one thing making his life bearable. 

He ran across the empty street and immediately slammed one of the men onto the ground. He made quick work of all of them, systematically hitting each of the men in a way that left very noticeable and recognizable bruising on their faces. While he was busy smacking around the last one, the rest of them ran off. He was distracted by them running and took a few steps to make chase before being entirely blindsided.

You hugged him. 

You hugged Simon of all people.

You were still crying and he was so stunned that he just let the last man run off after the rest of the group.

It was fine. He would take care of them later. He had something significantly more important to handle at the moment.

He gently hugged you back and it was like a floor of dopamine straight to his brain. He had been on every antidepressant available on the market, plus a select few that weren’t, and none of them had any kind of effect like this. You were far better than any pill.

He finally coaxed a sob filled explanation out of you after hugging you and rubbing your back for about fifteen minutes. Your tears had soaked his hoodie but he didn’t mind. It was you, after all. You were walking home after work and the group had come out of nowhere. You were so scared, especially after they had threatened you. You were so scared that when he offered to walk you home, you accepted with no hesitation.

He carefully walked with an arm around your shoulders as if he was shielding you from the rest of the world. This felt good. Simon was in heaven. He didn’t know that this kind of human connection would feel so nice. He walked you the few miles to your apartment and politely declined when you offered to make him some coffee, making a lame joke about how he’d get some from you tomorrow during lunch.

Simon practically floated back to his own apartment. His heart felt full for the first time in a very, very long time. He decided to use an old notebook that he had gotten to record every positive experience that he had from now on. His life had a light in it and he wasn’t going to ignore that. He carefully scribbled down the date, the time, his experience, and how it made him feel in his terrible handwriting. He smiled as he looked down at the entry and tucked his new happiness journal under his pillow before falling asleep that night. 

He woke up in a much better mood than usual that morning. He couldn’t explain it but he was just so happy that you had relied on him for something. It was a similar feeling to when he would open a juice box for one of his friends’ kids or was given a poorly made drawing by one of them. He was actually happy and felt a bit of pride in himself. You trusted him to watch over you and keep you safe. He loved it.

That day during lunch, you were even friendlier with him than usual. Your smile was brighter and your laugh at his bad jokes was louder. You had such a warmth to you that he just basked in it. He made sure that you were okay after the incident the night before and then settled in to keep watch over the lunch rush and read his book. This would absolutely be going into his happiness  journal when he got home.

After lunch, Simon made a detour before going home. He had found the social media of the men that had attacked you the night before while he was eating breakfast. It wasn’t hard for him to find their locations and where they lived. It took him less than an hour to finish what he had started the night before but it took a while longer to dispose of the evidence. He was a professional. He may be retired but he isn’t out of practice and it felt good to do what he was skilled at.

He continued going to that little coffee shop and visiting you for months. You were adorable and he loved being one of your regulars. Over time, he learned all about you. At first, he was content to just enjoy the tidbits of information that you gave him while you two chatted but then he started getting greedy. He found your social media and learned about everything that you like and dislike. He learned everything that there was to know about you. It got to the point where he hacked into your phone to watch you through the camera when he got lonely. He loved seeing your concentrated expression when you searched up silly questions that he could easily answer for you if he were there with you. It helped him to justify the way that he saw you. You needed him to help you and take care of you. You couldn’t defend yourself and you certainly didn’t know enough to be able to take care of yourself. 

Every time he went to the little coffee shops you worked at, he felt an incredible sense of relief. He didn’t like how many shifts you had to take to keep a roof over your head but he liked that he got to see you every day. He still worried about your stress levels and safety and was trying to come up with a solution to the issue. One lunch, he realized that there was a very simple solution. 

He decided that the next step to helping you would be helping himself. He started looking at two bedroom houses in the countryside. He ended up buying one outright. Decades of doing the absolute bare minimum to keep his body healthy and alive helped his bank accounts get fat enough for it to not be as big of a deal as it should’ve been. He had it remodeled to make sure that it would be warm in the winter and cool in the summer. He had also started to pick out furniture and decorations for the rooms. It gave him a sense of purpose that he had never had before, not even in the military.

He had you tell him which decorations you liked better. He mentioned that it was for the child that he was going to adopt soon. You gushed over how you knew he would be a great father and how wonderful it was for him to give a kid a home. Simon just smiled and thanked you. You had no clue about what was happening and it was all the more reason to protect you. You didn’t even pick up on anything when you asked what the child looked like and he gave a vague description that matched you. You were just happy to help him choose paint colors and tell him which stuffed animals were cuter.

There was no warning when you woke up in a strangely familiar room. You went to bed in your own apartment and simply woke up somewhere else. You didn’t have a headache or any grogginess. There were no side effects to help you understand what had happened to you. You were just… Not in your apartment. You looked around the room and immediately began recognizing everything. The walls were the color that you recommended to Simon. The shelves were the type that you had recommended to him. The rug on the floor was the kind that he showed you while asking your opinion on it. Everything was just like you told him would be best for the kid he was adopting.

There was a set of clothes neatly laid out for you at the foot of your bed. They were colorful and exactly in your size. They weren’t anything crazy, just a soft cotton t-shirt and comfortable looking jeans. Your stomach filled with dread when you remember how you told him how much you didn’t like the trend of parents making all of their childrens’ toys, clothes, and homes beige and bland. You also remember talking about how natural fibers were better for the skin and how he should try to get more cotton and linen than polyester clothing for his kid. You remember his thoughtful nods as you look around the bright and happy room again.

You felt like throwing up. You were still in the pajamas that you had changed into the night before, thankfully. Nothing on you seemed amiss. You hesitantly get out of the bed and creep towards the windows. The sunlight streaming in through them makes the room glow in a comfortable light but you can’t focus on that. You try to open each one but they’re locked and you can tell by the thickness of the glass that you won’t be able to break through them. You stare outside and realize that you’re in the middle of nowhere. You can’t even signal for help. You take a few deep breaths before moving to the next logical choice.

You quickly and quietly walk to the door leading out of the room. You slowly turn the knob and, to your great surprise, it’s unlocked. You slowly open it and look around. The hallway ahead of you is clear and cozily decorated. You pause before tiptoeing your way through and glancing around. There’s a sizzling sound and you freeze. You take a few sniffs and your eyebrows furrow in confusion. Blueberry pancakes. You’re smelling blueberry pancakes. You decide that you just need to keep going.

You try to sneak past the kitchen and living room but freeze again when you hear a hearty chuckle. You turn around to see Simon smiling kindly at you. It was weird. It was really, really weird. You stare up at the tall man and look terrified. He takes a few steps towards you and you flinch, prompting a frown from him. Once he reaches your side, he reaches out and gently starts guiding you back to the room that you woke up in. You seem confused that he’s being so soft with you but you’re not about to complain about it. Once you both reach the door, he finally speaks softly, as if he’s afraid that the harshness of his voice and accent is going to scare you even more.

“I’ll finish up breakfast for us, sweetheart. Get changed and I’ll set the table.”

[awkness]

Current platonic yan stories I'm working on:

My Brothers Keeper: platonic yandere older brother story set in a yandere purge universe

After readers' parents die, instead of ending up in their brothers' custody, they end up in their abusive aunts house. They brother tries to fight for custody and loses, so he fakes his way through the multiple psych evals/other government hurdles to be registered as a yandere so he can take you on the night of the purge. But once you're in your brothers care, you begin to notice disturbing developments in the way your brother acts, seemingly growing more controlling and paranoid by the day. You can't help but wonder if he actually faked his way to his yandere registration, or if he genuinely earned it

Coming Home: platonic yandere father

Three years ago, your father was arrested for kidnapping you after failing to win cusotdy of you in the wake of your parents divorce. Now, he's been released. Coincidentally, there's been odd occurrences happening in your house, including missing items and strange noises late at night. You can't help but wonder if it's your father, and if it is, if he plans to take you away for good

Give and Take: paternal platonic yandere and zombie apocalypse

While being chased by zombies during a snow storm, you're separated from your parents. Afraid you're going to die from the cold, you stumble across a farm in the middle of the woods inhabited by a gruff looking middle-aged man. He invites you in and offers to take care of you until you're able to travel again. As the weeks stretch on, the rough exterior of the farmer melts as he turns into a concerned, almost doting parental figure. But when the weather starts to warm, his care begins to turn more sinister, controlling, and desperate, and it becomes obvious that leaving this farm house won't be as easy as entering it

One For You, One For Me: platonic yandere father and multiverse shenanigans

Your father is an award winning physicist who has done groundbreaking work in proving the existence of the multiverse. It was something he had always been passionate about, but he had completely immersed himself into after the death of your mother, spending all of his waking hours trying to find the right universe so he could bring her back, nevermind the child he left neglected at home. But, suddenly, his behavior has changed. Now he's eating dinners with you, helping you with your school work, taking an interest in your hobbies, but also switching you from public school to homeschooling, not letting you leave the house unattended, and guilt tripping and punishing you whenever you disobey. The sudden change has baffled you. It's almost like he's a completely different person...

For Family (and Fun): platonic yandere slasher older brother

Your older brother is the best person you know. He's funny, charismatic, smart, and incredibly kind. He helps you with homework, takes you out shopping, and always makes time to hang out with you. This is also on top of being your pseudo parent, as your actually parents are either too busy with work or caught up in their own lives to be there for you. Most siblings would have resented being forced into the role of a caretaker, but your brother has completed embraced it, often joking about being both a mother and father to you all at once. However, now that you're getting older and trying to act more independently, he seems to grow more distressed. A rigid perfectionist like him is unequiped to handle such a change. There's also a serial killer at large, targeting people at your school. Curiously, they're all people you know, and more strangely, people your brother has talked about being bad influences, people who take up too much of your time, teachers who are too hard on you, students who bully you. But that's all a coincidence, right?

[awkness]

No Man Is An Island (Part 2)

(Paternal Platonic Yandere oc & Injured Teenage Genderneutral Reader)

(Part 1)

After discovering the flare gun the Henry kept hidden and the confrontation that comes after, you become more determined to leave the island. But Henry becomes more determined to make you stay

Content warning: forced confinement, delusional thinking, briefly mentioned death, general yandere stuff. This one's pretty mild tbh

Word count: 5.7k

Authors note: okay. I know this has taken forever to put out after I said I would and tbh I have no excuse. I just suck at keeping a decent writing schedule lol. This is going to the finale for the series because plot wise, this is the best stopping point. However, if anyone has any suggestions for little drabbles or oneshots I would be okay with writing them. Henry is a fun little critter to write for

You stare down at the flare gun in your hands, trying desperately to grapple with the implications of it existing in Henry's room

How long did he have this here? Why didn't he tell anyone he found it? Why didn't he use it last night when the plane was flying over the island?

While you scramble for answers, you hear a commotion coming from the entrance of the cave. You dully realize that Henry and his fishing group had come back

Adrenaline kicks in, and you shove the flare gun back in its bag and tuck it into its hiding place. You don't know why you're so afraid, but there is something in you that doesn't want Henry to catch you with it

You're making your way to the cave entrance when Henry spots you, walking up to you and telling you about what they've caught: clams, crabs, and whatever else could be foraged

Under normal circumstances, you would be happily talking with him, excited about the successful fishing trip and grateful you didn't have to eat sea cucumbers again. But this time, you were nodding along distractedly, letting Henry carry the conversation as your mind stayed preoccupied with the flare gun that rested a few feet away

He noticed how distracted you were, and he became concerned, asking if you were okay, or if you were starting to get sick, as you seemed pale. He had become much more vigilant over your health since you blacked out after hitting your head a few weeks ago

You reassured him that everything was fine and that you were only hungry. It seemed to have convinced him, and he happily walked you down to the small cooking fire just outside of the cave where everyone else was gathered

As you sat around the fire eating, you found yourself unable to listen to the conversations happening around you, absorbed in your own thoughts about the flare gun and everything its existence implied

Your first thought was to tell the others, let them know that Henry had kept something so vital hidden away from the group because... you couldn't fathom why. Or maybe you could, you just couldn't bear the thought

But that was a serious accusation to makend, especially against Henry, who everyone looked up to not only as a leader but as a means of survival. If you were being honest, you're pretty sure the entire group would have died long ago without him, and everyone knew it. They practically worshipped the ground he walked on, and no one dared to question his word. Their faith in him was unshakable. Why would they believe he kept something so important from them?

Besides, even in the best case scenario where everyone believed you, what could they do? Even though a couple of the people have managed to pick up on his hunting and fishing skills, they weren't at the point where they could sustain the group on their hunts alone. Henry was still pulling in about half the group's food. Everyone was dependent on him, especially you

Despondent, you resolved to keep knowledge of the flare gun to yourself. Instead, when Henry left tomorrow to go hunting again, you would take the flare gun and hide it somewhere only you knew, so that the next time a plane or boat passed by, you would stand a chance to get off the island

As you were deep in thought, you failed to notice the way Henry kept glancing your way, a suspicious look in his eyes

Later that night, when you were getting ready for bed, doubt and anxiety clouded your mind. What if he had a good reason for keeping the flare gun hidden this entire time? What if you were making a mistake in trying to take it from him?

Logically, you knew there was no good reason to keep the flare gun a secret, but your mind couldn't fully accept it. Henry had been nothing but kind to you since the moment you crashed here, a safe, stable presence you could depend on without fault. Even with physical proof and the weird conversation you had the night your group saw the plane, you still couldn't believe he would do this

You wanted to confront him about it, but your more rational side held you back. Still, youu still wanted to ask him something, anything, just to know if you were making the right decision

So you blurted out the first thing you thought of

"If you were home right now, what would you do?"

He looked up briefly from where he was fixing the palm leaves on his makeshift bed, a slightly bewildered look on his face.

"Home?"

"Yeah. If you were magically transported back home right now, what would you do?"

He gave a small chuckle as an easygoing smile spread on his face.

"Kid, this is my home."

Your heart rate spiked at his words and you shifted in your seat.

"Okay, fine. If you were taken back to the mainland, what would you do?"

"I'd do everything I could to get back."

A brief moment elapsed as the weight of his words sunk in.

"And you? What would you do if you were back there?"

His words were casual, but there was something hopeful and searching in his eyes.

You spoke honestly.

"I would find my family, and I would have them take me home."

He gave you a slight smile and a nod, but it was all wrong. Even in the dim light, you could see that it was tight and sour, like he was fighting to keep it on his face

You didn't bother speaking after that, and neither did he. You simply went to bed. As you lay awake on your own pile of crushed bamboo and palm leaves in the dark, listening to the snores of your fellow survivors and the buzzing of a million insects both in and out of your cave, any doubt about what you needed to do was gone. You were going to take the flare gun and rebuild the signal fire on the coast, even if you had to do it by yourself

When morning came, your nerves were calm, making it easier to play along with your normal morning routine. Wake up at sunrise, gather water so you could bathe, and then wave goodbye to Henry and the rest of his hunting group as they went to get breakfast.

As soon as they disappeared into the trees, you went back into the cave to grab the flare gun

You found the bag right where you left it, but something was off. It didn't feel right. You opened the bag to find a moderately sized rock inside. No flare gun in sight

Shakily, you put the rock inside and tucked it back into its hiding spot. Only one thought rattled inside your head: he knew

You stand there for the longest time, shock keeping you rooted to the spot before you got a hold of yourself. With little choice left, you grabbed the flint and steel that Henry kept in his side of the cave and hurried out as fast as your makeshift crutches could carry you

As you passed the cave entrance, you barely took notice of the person tending to the cooking fire, Jessica, you think, until she called your name

You turned and she began to ask you about where you were going and why you looked so distressed

This was... odd. You knew this girl or, to be more precise, knew of her. With everyone living so close together, of course you had talked to her before, but it was never over anything meaningful. She had certainly never asked where you were going or expressed concern for you before. Hell, it took her a few weeks to even learn your name!

You told her you were headed for the beach, and that seemed to make her nervous. She stammered out something about how the weather would turn bad soon, and that you should stay inside of the cave. You looked up, and the sky was clear. Not a cloud in sight. You then stared back at her nervous face for a moment, not a word exchanged between you two, before heading towards the beach

She quickly got up and followed you, saying something about how she had wanted to go on a walk anyway

As you made the trip, you gathered whatever dry wood you could find, making Jessica carry it for you

When you made it to the edge of the beach, you gathered up the wood and began striking the flint and steel, trying to get a flame to catch. Jessica stood off to the side, shifting in place while eyeing the jungle, neither offering help nor discouragement

After a few minutes, a small flame caught, and you gently blew on it to get it to grow, until it was able to survive on its own. Slowly, you began feeding it dried twigs and sticks

Jessica eventually decided to sit next to you, watching the flame for a while before asking you why you built one so far away from the caves

You explained that you wanted a signal fire on the beach so passing ships and planes could see you. Something sad and conflicted crossed her face as she tried to tell you it had been nearly half a year, and that no one was coming. You cut her off and told her that as long as you were alive, there was hope of leaving. She didn't say anything else, and you didn't either

The sun crawled across the sky, and the temperatures rose with it. Jessica tried to get you to head back to the caves to get food or at least some water, but you refused. You may be thirsty, hungry, and miserable from the humidity and the exertion it took to walk out here with a broken leg, but the thought of returning made your blood run cold. Something inside of you said that if you made the choice to go back, then it was all over. You would never be able to leave the island

By mid-afternoon, Jessica left, mumbling something about going to get water. You didn't acknowledge her, almost certain she wasn't coming back

When you heard the sound of footsteps half an hour later, you thought she had actually returned. Surprised, you looked up to greet her, only to see Henry smiling, a jug of water in his hand and a couple of skewered fish in the other

You reluctantly accepted the food and water, and the both of you sat in silence while you ate

The sun was starting to set by the time Henry tried asking you about the fire. You didn't respond. He kept pressing the issue, then tried switching to different subjects, asking about your leg, how you were feeling, anything and everything to get you to talk. Eventually, you interrupted him

"Where's the flare gun?"

That got him to shut up. For a moment, he said nothing, staring into the fire like it could give him the answer. Finally, he spoke.

"... For a while, there, I thought I was being paranoid when I moved it. That I read the situation wrong. But then Jessica came back and told me where you were, and I realized I never doubted my decision, I just didn't want to be right. I was afraid of having this talk. "

"Where is it?"

"Bottom of the ocean."

Your heart plummeted to your stomach, but Henry pressed on.

"I know you're not gonna believe me, kid, I don't expect you to. It still sounds crazy to me, but it's true."

"After... the accident, I was lost. All I had ever wanted was to be a dad, and it was taken from me. I spent years trying to find myself again. I sold everything; my car, my house, and anything I couldn't carry in my pack and traveled. First, it was just across the US, roughing it in whatever place I'd end up, then backpacking my way across Europe, trying to find some kind of revelation that could make sense of what happened, but I never found it. I was on my way to Australia when our plane crashed, and I thought it was a punishment. That after failing to protect my family and running away from it all, that this is what I deserve, to die on an island in the middle of nowhere with no one to grieve me."

He began to smile, but it was tight, like he was fighting to keep it down.

"But then I saw you, the spitting image of my baby all grown up. And then we found the cave, and the fresh water, and I realized this wasn't a punishment. This is my reward. After all the pain and the suffering, I finally have what I want. I can be whole again."

"What about all the other people? They don't deserve to be stuck here!"

He shrugged, his smile never wavering.

"Collateral, I suppose. They don't matter much."

"What about me? I had a family already and I loved them, and they loved me! I didn't deserve to be taken away from them."

"I know it seems like they loved you and that you were happy, but I promise, you weren't. It wasn't real. The island wouldn't have brought you here if it was. You're meant to be here, just as much as me. It might take a while, but you'll realize it eventually. You'll grow to love it more than you ever loved your old home."

You looked at him, his smile almost ghoulish in the waning light of the sunset. You tried to reconcile this man with the same man you saw the first day of the crash, his calm, comforting demeanor of him talking you through those horrible events of the first day, and it clashed with the deranged image before you. It made no sense. How long had he been like this? Was it the effects of the island, or was he always like this? Unable to make up your mind, you say the first thing that pops in your head

"You're fucking crazy."

His smile didn't waver. He merely nodded at your words.

"I had a feeling this was how it was going to go."

He clapped his hands on his legs as he pushed himself up and walked towards you.

"But it'll all turn out fine. There's plenty of time for you to come around."

With that, he kicked sand on your fire until it fizzled out. You tried to stop him, but it was gone in only a matter of seconds

The most disturbing thing about the island that you had never been able to adjust to wasn't the bugs or isolation, but the dark. Every night, after the sunset, you were practically blind, unable to make out anything in front of you. And on moonless nights like tonight? Complete and utter darkness. Unless you had a torch with you, it made navigating the island impossible

You yelled at him, asking him why he would extinguish the only light you had. How would you get back to the cave? He waved off your concerns like they didn't matter

Suddenly you felt a pair of arms lift you up, and your first instinct was to struggle against it, but you stopped yourself. Even now, you knew you couldn't make it back on your own. So you clung to him, letting Henry carry you back to the cave

As he walked, you noticed no hesitancy in his movements. No bumping into bushes or trees, no feet getting caught in roots or holes, absolutely nothing. And you knew that he was just as blind as you were out here. It was like he knew the island like the back of his hand

Jessica was at the cave entrance, tending to the fire like she had this morning. She gave you a wave and a small, apologetic smile, but you didn't return it

He took you to your bed and wished you a good night before he returned to his own

It took you hours to fall asleep, and when you finally did, it was troubled, full of half-remembered nightmares and fear. When you woke up, it was well past dawn, and Henry was already gone

You sat up and tried to reach for your crutches, only to realize they weren't anywhere near you. Panic and confusion flooded your mind until you remembered what happened last night. You didn't walk back here, Henry carried you, leaving your crutches behind. Distantly, you wondered if he did that on purpose

You sat there for a while, trying to wrap your mind around your mobility problem when a voice called out to you. It was Jessica, carrying your crutches

After she gave them to you, she started to explain that yesterday, Henry had expressed worry over your mental state, telling her that the fall you took might have been more serious than he previously thought, and that he's only catching on to it now. He had asked her to watch you and make sure you didn't leave the cave

She wasn't sure what to make of it. Though she didn't believe there was something wrong with you, she also didn't know you that well, and who was she to question Henry? And, according to her, she had always been a pushover, so she agreed

But then you were leaving, and she couldn't find it in herself to make any serious effort to stop you, so she followed you instead. Watching you navigate your way with your broken leg, and your determination in starting the fire, your reasoning for it all, it spoke to her. Maybe Henry and the rest of the survivors were resigned to stay, but she still wanted to go home, too

A spark of hope lit in your chest. For the first time since learning about Henry's betrayal, you didn't feel alone

Hesitantly, you told her that Henry had put out the fire when he brought you back. She seemed shocked, but not disbelieving, commenting that he seemed to enjoy living on the island a little too much for her comfort. If only she knew the full story

You considered telling her, but you didn't want to sound crazy and lose the only ally you had. So, you simply nodded, and together you formed a plan

The both of you would go down to the shore and pick a spot that Henry wouldn't suspect. Then at night, one of you would go down and start and maintain the fire throughout the night

Unfortunately, Henry had figured out what was happening rather quickly. One night, he followed you down to the beach, only revealing himself when you started the fire

You expected him to put it out and carry you back to the cave, but instead, he sat down next to you and apologized for kicking out your fire the other day. You didn't think he was sincere for a second, but you nodded at him anyway. He took that as a signal to start talking, ang he eventaully started telling stories, and not just any stories, but the corny kind you tell around a campfire while roasting hot dogs and marshmallows to try and scare each other. All overdone spooks and muffled laughs and good cheer. The non-serious attitude he had made you uneasy, but you didn't know what to do, other than let him continue

The next time you came down, he walked with you, and you saw that between your shifts, he had made two elevated cots made of bamboo, cordage, and palm leaves next to the firepit

He seemed proud of himself, going over to them and telling you how they were made, where he had learned how to make them, and other bits of information you didn't bother listening to, too caught up in your own thoughts to care

Seeing these cots finally made you realize why you disliked him telling you those campfire stories the night before: it meant that he didn't care about you trying to get rescued, because he genuinely didn't believe it was going to happen. That this was all useless, and that you would eventually fizzle out and stop trying to contact the outside world. That this would all amount to nothing more than memories of camping and bonding with the man who was convinced he was meant to be your father

Mechanically, you went about lighting the fire and carefully tending to it like you had every other night. Henry watched you work, a passive look on his face. He complimented how fast you put it together, and how much better you've gotten at it since you started. You couldn't hide your grimace

Two months had passed since you lit the first beach fire, and emotionally, you were worn out

It wasn't how humid and hot it was sleeping outside of the caves, or how much the night shifts threw off your circadian rhythm, or how isolating it was to spend most of your waking time maintaining the fire. (though all of these did suck) What really did you in was Henry's company

Despite everything that he had done, he still acted like the same Henry you knew. Patient, soft-spoken, slightly socially awkward, with a penchant for terrible dad jokes. And above all, he was caring. It didn't matter how much you bristled at him trying to care for a cut palm, or how often you brushed off his concerns over your worsening sleep, or rebuked what seemed like honest sympathy in your worst moments when you were all but convinced that help wouldn't arrive, he would still find ways to talk you into letting him help

And when he finally did... it felt nice. Of course, you also felt anger and a deep sense of shame, but none of those could drown out the relief of having someone take care of you. You had missed your parents so much, and even though you knew he wasn't a substitute for them, the attention and concern from him felt so similar. You often felt a pang of sadness when you thought about it. In another life, he would have been a good dad

Then, there were those nights when you were so worn down that you couldn't help but give in and talk to him. In those moments, it felt like nothing bad had happened between you two. Henry wasn't a sad, delusional man trying desperately to fill the hole in his heart, and you weren't a castaway kept prisoner by him

In your mind, you could imagine that you and your parents went on a camping trip with Uncle Henry, a close family friend. They were off gathering supplies from the car while you and Henry tended to the fire, him teaching you about wilderness survival and stories of his trips abroad to pass the time while waiting for them to come back

You wondered, when you finally got rescued, if that has to be a fantasy. Maybe when you got back, you could urge him to seek help, and perhaps, he could get better. Introduce him to your family, invite him over for Sunday dinners with your other aunts, uncles, and cousins. Let him know that he doesn't have to be alone or suffer in his delusions. That he can still have a family without having to keep it trapped, that you can be free and loved

By the end of the second month, you were on the edge, wondering how much longer you could continue doing this. Jessica was worn out as well, and you could see the conviction slowly leave her eyes, day after day. You wondered when she would finally come up to you and tell you that she was done

Tonight, you were alone, slowly feeding the flame dry sticks and grass, staring aimlessly into the horizon

You barely noticed it at first, it blending into the night sky like a wallflower. But then it got a little closer, a little brighter, and your eyes refocused, fixated on it. A light in the distant, black horizon creeping closer

Adrenaline pumped through your body, lighting your chest aflame as you raced into the edge of the jungle and started gathering more wood to pile on the signal fire. You ignored the bites from mosquitos and cuts and bumps from the trees and plants around you. Your pain didn't matter, not like the fire did

You began feeding the fire as much wood as it could take without smothering it, eyes rapidly moving back and forth from the light to the flame

As the light grew closer, and closer, your heart beat faster and faster, threatening to burst out of your chest. You were almost lightheaded with joy, unable to think straight. The moment you began to make out the faint outline of a ship heading your way, you started screaming and waving your hands like a lunatic, not caring if they were still too far away to hear you. You couldn't stop yourself

A few minutes later, rustling could be heard behind you, and then a burst of noise, cheers and screams tearing through the night. You turned to find that a few survivors had come out of the cave to see what you were yelling about, Henry included

The group was ecstatic, yelling and waving and crying in joy, but Henry stayed back, stock still, staring at the boat with the same subdued face of panic that a person seeing an oncoming tsunami would have. Full of despair and fear over what was to come, but knowing you were useless to prevent it from happening

It dampened your delirious excitement for a brief moment, and you walked up to him, touching his shoulder to get his attention. His eyes snapped down to yours, alarmed at the sudden touch. You gave him a small smile and tried to reassure him

"I know you didn't want this to happen, but this is a good thing, I promise."

There was no response, only wild, fearful eyes. You could only hope it brought him some kind of comfort

The rest of the group made it to the beach and began yelling and cheering as well, and you decided to join them, finding Jessica in the crowd. She all but jumped on you, hugging you close as she cried

Some way off the coast, the ship, a commercial fishing vessel, came to a stop and a smaller boat was lowered into the water, a lone man naviagting his way to shore

When he finally made it to land and the excitement was overwhelming. Everyone welcomed him with an enormous amount of joy before he could even speak a word. One survivor even ran up and flung themself on him, kissing him on the cheek, to the fisherman's amusement and shock

It took a few minutes for everyone to calm down long enough for the man to speak, informing the group that they could only bring over a few people at a time. To your surprise, Henry asked to be a part of the first group taken to the ship. After everything that he had done for them, no one in the group questioned it, easily allowing him the spot. You were also part of that first trip, considering you were injured. There was a medic on board, and they wanted to have a look at your leg. A few more people were placed on the small boat, and then it was back on the sea, heading towards the main ship

You gave a brief wave to Jessica as the before the boat sped off, and she waved back, eyes still watery. For the first time since you crashed, you thought you would be okay

As the ship grew closer, you spared a glance at Henry, who hadn't taken his eyes off it the entire way there. His face was fixed, eyes glazed, like he was lost in thought, completely immersed in his mind. You let him be. You knew how tough this was for him, and you were happy that he was finally accepting his this

Everyone was pulled on board, and the ship's crew became preoccupied with taking care of the survivors, with you being taken to see the ship's medic. You easily lost track of Henry in the confusion

You were taken to a room, and inside a middle-aged, graying man with a worn-down face and a warm smile greeted you. He looked over your leg and commented that it looked nearly fully healed, and that you must of been well taken care of. Wistfully, you agreed

He tells you that you're all set to leave, and points you in the direction of where all the other survivors were being kept

In the short walk between rooms, you let your mind drift, thinking about all the things you'll do when you finally make it home, and how wonderful it will be to finally have a real shower, sleep on a real bed, and finally not eat food with seasoning again. You were completely lost in your daydreams. Perhaps this is why you didn't hear anyone sneaking up behind you

One moment, you were walking down the hall, the next a hand clamped over your mouth, and another secured itself around your torso, dragging you into the nearest room

Cloth was stuffed in your mouth, and you were easily wrestled down to the floor, limbs pinned down as your attacker hogtied them together

You tried to fight, but it was useless, the figure easily outclassing you in height and weight. But you tried to anyway, survival instincts already kicked into overdrive

In your frantic struggles, you finally caught a glimpse of who your attacker was and stopped moving

It was Henry

He locked eyes with you, and for a moment, no one moved. He only stared, his face grim and regretful, mouth pressed into a thin line

Shock finally wore off, and you took this opportunity to headbutt him in his nose

He easily dodged your attack, and then finished binding your limbs. With practiced movements, he dragged you over to a closet and placed you inside, disturbingly gentle in the way he handled you

He gave you a look before muttering a quiet apology and closing the door

You immediately started squirming on the floor like a wild animal, screams trying so hard to leave your mouth, only for it to be muffled by your gag

No amount of pulling or wiggling could get you free of your restraints, the knots were too tight, the rope too strong

You resorted to kicking against the door, hoping beyond hope that someone would hear you and come to your rescue

Minutes passed, and though you slowed down, you didn't stop, despite how tired and heavy your legs grew. You couldn't stop. You were almost home. What was Henry doing?

Finally, the door opened, and for a moment, you were overtaken with joy, only to see that it was Henry again

You pushed yourself as far away from him as you could, but there was no point. You couldn't get away from him. He picked you up and carried you out of the room, rapidly making his way to the deck, towards the same tiny lifeboat you had been rescued with

He lowered you into the boat, and next to you were boxes of food and medical supplies that weren't there before, before getting on the boat himself and starting the boat's motor, making his way back to the island

The fight was burnt out of you now, body sore from the exertion and emotional rollercoaster of the past hour. You could only lie down and try and think of another way out

Quickly, you realized the futility of what Henry was doing. Okay, he had managed to get you and him back to the island, but so what? People were going to notice that you and Henry were missing. Couple that with the missing lifeboat, and it would become pretty clear what had happened. The fisherman may not be able to reach you without the boat, but they knew where you were. They would go back to the mainland, inform people of where you were, and rescue would come again. Henry had only bought himself time, but he still lost. You were going to get off this island. You were going to be okay-

A skull-shatteringly loud explosion and a blinding light came from behind the lifeboat, drowning out your thoughts. Shockwaves were sent from the explosion that caused waves, rocking the tiny lifeboat and pushing it even closer to the island

You tried to prop yourself up to see over the walls of the boat, to show yourself that what you thought happened didn't happen at all. But it was only after the boat came ashore and Henry pulled you out and gently placed you on the sand did you manage to finally get a look

Out in the horizon, in the dim twilight of the early morning, the sinking wreckage of the ship you had just been on only minutes before was up in flame. There was no movement other than the floating debris, no sound other than your muffled cries

You could only stare, watching the fire get smaller as it sunk into the sea

"You know I had to do it, right?"

You glance back to Henry, and saw the worried look on his face. Desperate, almost pleading. It aged him more than a million days on this island ever could.

"I didn't have a choice. They were taking us away. I couldn't let that happen."

He kept staring at you like he was looking for something. Forgiveness? Reassurance? Even if you did want to offer those to him, you couldn't. Your mouth was gagged, and your hands were tied. All you could do was watch him fall apart

"I couldn't go back. There's nothing out there waiting for me but pain and loneliness. Do you know what's it's like to be so alone? To not have a purpose? It would of killed me. I can't-"

He placed his face in his hands, took a deep, shaky breath, and released it. He gripped the side of his face as he slowly fell to his knees on the sand, eyes wide and far away as you continued to cry into your gag and stare

"I had to. I didn't have a choice. They would of taken you away. I had to, I had to, I had to..."

[awkness]

Hello! i was wondering if you could do serial killer/slasher yandere parent? Dont know if thats too dark tho 😅

Here it is!! I've gotten a few requests like this, and since a lot of people also want to see more willing readers, I added a little of that to the mix!

TW: Implied/attempted murder, loss of child, implied assault/creeps toward reader (not the yandad), parental yandere, light forced infantilization, violence, reader implied to kind of has issues of their own

You know it wasn't a good idea to walk home alone, especially in this hour of the night, and double-especially when there had already been six murders around the same general area you live in, all clearly by the same person.

But, your phone had died, you couldn't get an Uber, and there wasn't really anybody you could call to come pick you up, even if your phone was working properly.

So, you decide that walking home will have to work tonight.

That probably wasn't the best choice you've ever made.

When you're halfway to your house, you hear a slight rustling around behind you. You spin around, hoping to catch whatever (or whoever) was following you in the act of making the sound. There's nothing there.

Shaking your head, you continue to walk down the street, subconsciously walking faster.

It must be that murder case that's been hanging over everyone's heads lately that's getting you nervous like this, right?

Wrong.

When you start speed-walking, the same noise as before starts up again, but it sounds closer than last time. You don't have much time before someone tries tackling you.

In the corner of your eye, you see a gun pulled out from under their trench coat. Quickly reaching out for the murderer's arm, you grab it, and try to stop them from aiming at you.

You shove them away and run in the only direction you can without getting tackled; the alleyway.

Seeing there's no time to hide, and all the hiding spots are obvious anyway, you succumb to a panic attack and crouch down onto the ground with your head in your knees.

You take out what money you have and chuck it in his direction. "Please, just take my money and leave me alone! That's all I have! If you want my phone too, just take it!"

The man almost cackles. "I don't need any money," he states matter-of-factly. You can hear the grin in his voice. He walks slowly towards you as if to intimidate you more, though it does little to affect your mindset more than it already has. He's still holding the gun. "Don't take it personally. It's nothing against you. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

At this point, you've fully come to terms with your demise, which is clear to the other party.

You look up at him with puffy eyes from sobbing, and tears and snot running down your face. Most of his face is covered, but you can see his eyes.

And much to your surprise, you see them widen.

A few seconds go by, and now you're afraid to break eye contact. You watch as the man before you put his gun back in its holster inside of his trench coat and curse under his breath while looking away.

He clears his throat after a few more dramatic seconds go by. "Go home, kid." You stand up on shaky legs. "Grab your stuff first, then get outta here. I won't chase ya."

Hesitant, you do so anyway, because who would refuse such an offer?

Grabbing your money, you stuff it in your pockets and wipe your face. As soon as you're ready to go, you dash past the stranger, not wanting to spend another minute around the killer.

...

After that incident, you feel as if you're being watched.

Well, obviously you'd think so; you were just almost murdered.

But, when you're going to anywhere, you can feel eyes staring at you wherever you go.

A car with tinted windows follows each time. It isn't unique by any means, just a black Mitsubishi.

But still, it's there. Every time you leave your house, the same vehicle parks near you until you return to your home. Sometimes you try going on wild goose chases to catch the bastard following you off guard, but when you make your way back, it'll be parked somewhere near your driveway.

For almost two months this becomes a cycle, and it especially starts becoming concerning whenever you get sick, or have a bad day, there's always a basket of goodies on your porch steps the next day.

You don't eat them, and instead just throw them away, but it's clear none of them have been tampered with. The most disturbing part about it all is they have your favorites—your favorite animals now into plushies, your favorite snacks and candies, and other such things.

Is this his way of just messing with you until he inevitably comes to finish the job?

One night, when you're walking home from work, you notice the same vehicle tailing you from your workplace to your house. You walk with speed and reach your porch step, where the driver can see you enter your house, and they pull out, as if reassured you're safe.

Maybe they're trying to make sure you aren't hurt in any way?

Another night, one late, you stay out longer than you should, and much like any other time, you're followed once again.

Unlike normal though, there are three men whistling at you, taunting you. You ignore them as best as you can, walking faster and keeping your head down in hopes you won't seem interesting. Your wishes are not fulfilled.

Your arm is tugged harshly backward, pulling you onto the sidewalk with brute force.

The three guys look at you hungrily. "Where are you going this late at night?" the obvious leader speaks up, a greasy, slimy grin on his face, only worsening when he sees how fearful you've become.

"I...I'm going home."

One of them tries grabbing you, and against your better judgment, you take off in an attempt to escape, though you aren't fast enough to avoid your jacket being grabbed.

In your panic, you somehow end up wriggling yourself away and onto the ground. You try to get up, but one of them holds their foot on your back, pushing you back onto the asphalt.

But, oh-so-conveniently, you can hear a vehicle door open and slam shut, and then the pounding of boots against concrete.

The foot on your back lets up, because the guy goes tumbling backwards onto his back.

Now free, you sit yourself up quickly, rubbing the back of your head, which had hit the sidewalk. You blink the blurriness away, to see the man—the same one who nearly killed you and has been following you—hovering over the main creep.

"Hey, what the hell is your problem?!" said creep yells. He tries standing up, but the killer stomps on his ankle.

A crunch resounds through the air, accompanied by a sharp scream. The other two guys stand frozen, watching in horror.

"Get your little buddy and get outta here," he warns the other two, finally backing away. He has a gun pointed at them threateningly, as to tell them not to try anything else.

They quickly help their leader up and hobble away in fear.

You want to yell at this man, to demand answers or run, but you can't. "Thank you, sir..." you whisper.

Now you can get a good look at him. He looks to be somewhere in his forties, maybe even fifties, and has graying brown hair, along with gray eyes.

There's a scar along his cheekbone that adds a rugged charm to him. He smells like expensive cologne and coffee beans. If he didn't try killing you not too long ago, you might've really put your trust into him, he seems like just a grumpy dad.

"Are you alright?" His voice sounds oddly soft, as if genuinely concerned for your health. He reaches toward you, and you close your eyes, readying yourself to be hurt, but he only examines a bruise forming on your forehead. "Thought you learnt your lesson last time about stayin' out late at night."

"I don't think it'd matter either way. You know where I live, I've seen your car," you mutter. You don't look him in the eyes, hoping to avoid seeing any possible rage held within them. He doesn't say anything after that, so you continue. "Why are you doing this?"

A rough hand grabs yours, lifting you to your feet. "Do what? Save ya from gettin' jumped?"

"No! That's part of it, sure, but the gifts, and protecting me, and—and...you were just gonna kill me all those months ago!"

He sighs. "Yeah, 'were'. Not 'are'. I decided I ain't gonna anymore."

"But why?" you repeat, glaring daggers at the older man.

"I usually go after bad people. I mistook you for someone else, and then when you looked up at me like you did," he says while shifting his stance to a more firm position, "'all scared and hopeless and pathetic and—" he pauses suddenly, shaking his head to recollect himself. "Look, I saw my kid in you."

"You have a kid?"

"Had. Had a kid."

You almost want to apologize for the loss of his kid, when you remember the fact he's literally a serial killer. "And that's why you decided to stalk me for the past two months and give me baskets full of stuff?"

"We both know for a fact you hardly take care of yourself well enough. You're clumsy as shit, always irresponsible, you eat terribly..."

"I'm not being scolded how I live my life by a serial killer!" you interject. "Who even are you, anyway?"

"Dante," he answers.

"And I figure you already know everything about me?" It's less of a question and more of a statement at this point.

He chuckles. "If I didn't, would you still introduce yourself to me?" When he gets no answer from you, he smiles lopsidedly. "Get in the car, I'll drive ya home."

You narrow your eyes at him. "So you can kidnap me, or something?"

Dante puts a hand on your shoulder, his expression becoming cold again. "If I wanted to do that, I could have already done it plenty of times before, kiddo. I'm a lot of things; a liar ain't one of them."

"Fine, okay. I'll let you drive me home." You roll your eyes when you hear him laugh victoriously under his breath and follow him into his car. "How do you have the time all day to stalk me like this?" you ask aloud, climbing into the passenger's seat. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"You call it stalking, I call it watchin' over you like a father should his child. So far, we've seen just how helpful it is having me keep an eye on you," Dante replies. He pauses. "And I'm retired, but I used to be a private investigator."

"Oh joy. My own personal PI." You buckle your seat belt. You're still in disbelief. Someone actually gives enough of a damn about your safety, and it's your local neighborhood serial killer? "You said you only kill bad people." He hums in confirmation. "Does that mean 'petty thief' bad? Or, like, actual bad people?"

"The latter, kid. Not 'cause it makes me feel like a good person, just makes me feel like less of a bad person."

"So you can admit you aren't a good person?" you quip sarcastically, arms folded.

"Course not. But I don't think there really are any inherently good people in the world," he says.

"What about me, then? Why protect me if you think there's nobody who's actually 'good'?"

Dante glances at you. "I don't expect you to be a saint. In my eyes, you're amazing, perfect even. And sure, you got flaws—a lot of 'em—but so does your old man."

You cringe at the statement. "You mentioned me reminding you of your kid. What happened?" you pry further. "All I know is they died, right?" You rub the bruise on your forehead.

"They were out with some friends one night. And a few hours later I'm gettin' phone calls about how my baby's in critical condition. I get there, but there wasn't anything I could've done to save 'em. All I could do was sit beside them 'til..." He trails off. "They died holding my hand. But," he adds, looking at you sternly, "that shit ain't happenin' to you. That's why I'm keeping you safe."

After he stops at a red light, you stare up at him, deep in thought. "Is that why you kill...?"

"Because someone killed my kid?"

"Yeah, exactly."

Dante nods his head after a moment of hesitation. "It started with that, yeah. I killed the bastards that put them in that hospital bed. But that wasn't enough. I guess with monsters like that, I get a little trigger-happy."

It's quiet for a while.

"...how do you know I won't come forward about this information?" you question once your home is in sight. "Or try leaving, for that matter?"

Dante laughs. "You wouldn't get far without me knowing."

That shuts you up quick. Your house pulls up soon afterwards.

"Well, uh, thanks for driving me home," you mumble, opening the car door.

"No problem. Oh, wait—" he takes your wrist gently to keep you from getting out yet. He digs in the compartment below your armrest. Eventually he finds a pen and pad. He writes something down, ripping it off and handing it to you. "—call me whenever you need it. Even if ya just need help studying, or whatever." Dante shrugs nonchalantly.

"Or I'll just knock on the window of the car outside my place?" You weakly smile. Despite the oddity of the situation, this whole scenario is strangely hilarious.

At least, it feels that way because you might've hit your head a little too hard.

...

Those people who were harassing you went missing. You know for a fact it was Dante, and while you don't wish for their deaths, it still leaves a sour taste in your mouth when you see them on the news, with their parents crying about how sweet and kind they were.

You don't even know how to feel about Dante anymore. Maybe he is a good person, who really is doing the world a favor, but it's just not worth the risk to associate with him.

Except he isn't going to leave you alone.

Still though, you decide that ignoring him until he just leaves you alone.

Which proves difficult because sometimes he comes around and knocks on your door every so often, to drop off food, and just check in on you and how you're doing.

Some days you wonder what might happen if you answer, or send a text. He did give you his phone number after all.

You fight the curious urge, until one day, when tiredly trudging home after a particularly awful day.

For some reason, you look around the streets for a black car following you, but find nothing of the sort.

You decide to go against your better judgment and decide to call Dante. You don't know why you're doing this, every instinct in your body is telling you to not do it.

The phone rings a few times, until an annoyed voice picks up. "What? I'm busy," he snaps.

"Oh, uh, sorry," you stutter. "I shouldn't have called, that was stupid of me—"

"Wait, no, I didn't—" Silence hangs in the air. "Sorry," Dante says softer this time. "Didn't know it was you at first. Is everything alright?"

Your fingers tap against the wood of the table nervously, trying to make up some sort of excuse to cover for the real reason you're calling him.

"Nothing, just... didn't have a good day." You feel so pathetic right now, too caught up in your own emotions to hear the muffled cries in the background on Dante's side of the call. "But that doesn't concern you, does it? Why am I saying this?"

"It's alright, kiddie. Whatever happened to make you upset is important to me." Dante is definitely smiling right now. "Well, listen. I was busy right now, but it can wait, so how's about I swing by wherever you are and you and I can spend some time together? Get somethin' to eat, maybe? Your choice."

You find it hard to decline him. "...okay. I'm not home right now though. Can I just call an Uber and meet you somewhere?" you suggest.

He snorts. "My driving so bad that you'd rather waste money than spend thirty minutes in the same vehicle as me?"

"No, it's not that. I just feel like I'll be intruding since you're busy, or something."

"Don't be silly. Just tell me where you are and I'll be there soon. Alright? Don't get into any suspicious vans or anything like that while I'm not there." He ends the call with that.

The next ten minutes or so you stand around awkwardly, watching as pedestrians pass by. Eventually though, Dante arrives, driving up beside you. He gestures for you to open the passenger door, which you oblige.

You climb inside, buckle your seatbelt, and turn toward Dante. "So...where are we going?"

He stares back at you for a brief second. "Depends. Where would you like to go?"

After some hesitation, you give your favorite restaurant, which he nods in acknowledgement to and begins to drive.

"Why was your day bad?" he asks. "Did something happen? Someone hurt you?" At the red light, he turns to give you a quick glance-over, searching for any bruises or cuts, most likely. You're not injured, though the concerned look on his face stays.

"No, I just haven't slept much lately," you mutter.

"Have you eaten today?" You look away from Dante as an answer, making him curse under his breath. "The biggest hazard to you is yourself, it seems." He shakes his head disapprovingly. "I'm glad you finally called me, by the way. Why'd you decide to do it now?"

You hesitate. "I was feeling lonely, I guess."

"Really? Is that all?" The light flicks to green again, and Dante continues to drive.

"...I didn't see you stalking me today. Normally I see your car following me everywhere."

His breath hitches. "And...that worried you?" Dante looks at you from the corner of his eyes.

You don't reply.

Soon the conversation dies out, and neither of you bother to start another one up.

He focuses on driving, while you distract yourself with counting the amount of trees along the sidewalk on the way to the destination.

When you two pull up in the parking lot, you expect there to be tension, but surprisingly enough, the silence between you two feels comfortable, safe almost. It's a nice change from the usual uneasiness.

Dante gets out first, and you follow. The bell of the restaurant dings when you both enter.

"How many?" the hostess asks politely.

"Two. Thank you," Dante says with a charming smile. To you, it's an obvious fake persona, but she buys it hook, line, and sinker. You roll your eyes discreetly as she leads you two to the booth. You sit on opposite ends, taking your menus from her before she heads off to take care of other customers.

You think about it, then settle for the cheapest thing on the menu, trying to avoid taking advantage of Dante's kindness.

He notices anyway. "I know I don't dress fancy, or anything, but I've got the cash, kiddo. If you want to order the whole menu, you could, and I'd still be able to afford it tenfold. Nothin' is too expensive for you."

"I..." Your face burns out of embarrassment. You flip through the menu once more. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I am." Dante scans through his own menu, although half-heartedly, considering his focus is still mostly on you.

Once your orders are made, you both try making small-talk, which proves ineffective. Then your orders arrive, and that too, becomes awkward when he insists on helping you cut up your meal into smaller pieces.

You make a show out of being mad, though truthfully it isn't bothersome as you try letting on it is.

After dinner (which he pays for completely) he looks like he's contemplating on something in the car. "Would you like to come to my place, kiddo?"

"Like, your house?" you clarify.

Dante nods. "It's only fair. I know where you live, I figure it'd be polite showing you the same courtesy."

"Sure, but it depends if I'll leave alive," you joke, but part of you is still concerned about that.

"With the way you take care of yourself, I think staying with me might actually help increase your lifespan a little bit."

A few moments pass by, the two of you basking in the company of one another. It's...nice.

The drive to Dante's home is around thirty minutes long, and barely in the city, surprisingly enough. His house isn't anything super impressive, but it doesn't look bad either.

A very average, middle-class home. It's comforting to see Dante likes simple things, makes it easier to think of him as a normal person than the murderer you know he is.

He steps outside of the car and opens your door for you. You give him a questioning glance, but decide to ignore it for now, unbuckling and heading over to the porch with Dante trailing behind you.

"This is it," he states, pulling his keys out to unlock the door, beckoning you to go in before him.

The interior of his home isn't anything special either, which you enjoy seeing. It makes Dante seem more human. On top of that, it feels safe here, even if this is the last place it should feel this way. It does have a slightly annoying (and worrying) scent of bleach permeating throughout the house.

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Can I ask something? It might be a little weird or triggering, so..."

"You can ask me anything. Doesn't bother me," Dante says.

"Okay... are you so interested in me because I simply look like or act like your kid? I'm worried you expect me to act like them or something similar..."

Dante sighs heavily, sitting down on his couch, and motioning for you to join him. Hesitantly, you do so, staying silent while you wait for him to gather his thoughts.

"I know you're not them. Sure, you remind me a bit of them, but you're your own person, too. It's fine if you don't want to pretend you're anyone but yourself, y'know? That ain't what I'm looking for, and forcing someone to do that wouldn't make anyone happy." He mulls over his words for a moment. "I guess I just want to be a dad again. I felt useless after my kid died, so you gave me that opportunity again."

You look at the ground awkwardly. "Why couldn't you just adopt a kid?"

"A lot of money," Dante answers. "Not to mention not working anymore and not being married anymore makes adoption agencies wary. Plus, you looked like you needed protecting, so I wanted to do so. Now, my turn. Why'd you invite me out? Wanted to spend some time with your old man?" Dante laughs lightly, but his eyes show clear hopefulness.

"If you insist on acting like my father," you pause, taking in a breath, "then yes. I suppose that means I wanted to spend time with you. Is that okay?"

Dante looks almost ready to cry. His hands twitch at his sides. "'course it is," he mutters softly, barely containing himself from getting overly emotional.

You scoot closer to Dante, hesitating for only a few moments before wrapping your arms around him. "Thank you for inviting me into your home."

He reciprocates quickly, holding onto you like a lifeline, face buried in your hair. "I missed this so much..." His voice is choked-up as he holds you tighter to him. "My baby," Dante whispers.

You don't know why you're letting this happen, but you don't want to dwell on that. His embrace is more comforting than it should be, especially considering what he is. But if he wants to play pretend, to imagine he has a child again, you may as well let him.

Even if that means ignoring the faint noises from the basement, and pretending it's just someone next-door.

"I love you so much," he mutters. He almost sounds hysterical, even if his tone is quiet, almost a whisper. "Never leave me. I can't take that, kid. I can't."

You pretend to be asleep, just so you won't have to answer that. He sighs and only holds you tighter.

[awkness]

dex breaks out of prison and comes to find you, his ex girlfriend and current obsession. he watched you from the building across from you, looking into the window you foolishly left uncovered. even the small glimpses he catches of you make his heart race.

when he decides makes contact, he waits for you to come home from work. you find him sitting on the couch in the dark and he greets you with that handsome, yet sinister smile.

“i’ve missed you. have you been good while i’ve been gone?”

“you… aren’t supposed to be here. you’re supposed to be in jail.”

“they couldn’t keep me from you. they can’t keep us apart.”

“you need to leave.”

he stands up and stalks towards you, slow, dangerous, calculated. you step back, trying to keep your distance, until your back hits the wall. you’re trapped in a cage with a lion, or maybe he’s a shark. maybe he’s not an animal at all. he’s more like a bomb with a hair-trigger.

“then make me leave.” he looks down at you with a smirk as his hands grip your hips. you can’t move, have no where to run, and are certain that if you tried anything, dex would make you regret it.

“please don’t hurt me, dex,” you plead.

“hurt you? i’m always good to you, right? i’d never lay a finger on you.”

it’s a lie and you both know it. if he was pushed far enough, he would kill you without thinking twice. he’s just playing with you, seeing what he can get away with before he has to do something drastic.

you decide, in the interest of self preservation, to play along. “i missed you, dex,” you say softly.

“yeah, i know you did, baby. but it’s okay, i’m here now. everything’s gonna be okay.”

[awkness]

Hanahaki disease/zombie apocalypse concept where if the hanahaki isn't resolved, it doesn't just kill the person, but the flowers take over and control them, turning them into a flower zombie that kills others (think of that fungus that mind controls ants)

This type of hanahaki can work with all types of love, platonic included. The factor that kicks off this disease isn't an unwillingness to confess, but the perceived feeling of rejection. So, if a child feels like they are unwanted by their parents, or a friend feels unimportant in their friend group, or a family member is being ostracized from the rest of their family, then that's grounds for hanahaki to develop. Again, it's about perceived rejection, so the patient can be loved, but miscommunication/other circumstances can make them feel like they're not, still making them vulnerable to the disease

The only way to get rid of hanahaki (before it turne you into a zombie) is to experience acceptance by the person you love or to become completely detached from them. Though surgery is theoretically possible, by the time a person has noticed the disease developing, the roots are so entangled in the lungs/nervous system that it's impossible to remove without killing the patient

How long it's takes hanahaki progress into full-on zombieification depends a lot of the patients mental/emotional well-being and the stability of the other relationships in their life. If someone has no history of mental health issues and has a good support system, they can last for years, some even having it for nearly a decade with minimal progression. With so much time, most are able to find a way to resolve the hanahaki. However, if someone is mentally unstable and has little to no support system, it can result in rapid progression, with complete zombieification happening anywhere from a few months to a few weeks. Few are able to treat the disease in these circumstances

The zombie part comes in as though their are plenty of people who are perfectly set up to develop hanahaki, the disease itself doesn't magically manifest. It needs to be implanted into a viable host. So, if a person experiencing rejection were to get bitten/cut by a flower zombie, inhale any of its pollen/petals, then they would begin developing it. If a person who feels secure in their attachment/has no attachments were to experience the same thing, they wouldn't be in danger of developing it

All parts of a person's developing flowers are capable of spreading disease, so even pre-zombieification, when the only symptoms are them coughing up petals, those can spread the disease to others who are vulnerable

Some hanahaki zombies act like regular zombies, just taken over by flowers. Most, however, are able to retain some of their previous memories/feeling, mostly about the love that rejected them. Usually, this results in a lot of anger at their lost object of affection, resulting in them trying to hunt down and kill the person they used to love, or lash out at anyone who vaugely resembles that person. (Depends on how much memory/feeling is left behind)

Some, however, are actually able to retain varying levels of their sentience. On the extreme end, it's almost like they never became a zombie. They retain human level critical thinking/problem solving skills and can comprehend human speech, and might even be capable of rudimentary communication (depends on how much the hanahaki has degraded their body). They even seem to retain most of their personality, often acting in similar ways they previously did before the disease took over. And even though the disease makes them compulsively seek out their object of affection, if their loved one looks distressed enough, or rejects them enough times, the zombie will leave them alone, finding purpose elsewhere until their body decays to the point it can't support them anymore

But those are rare cases. Most of the time, if a zombie is able to retain sentience, it's minimal, and results in serious personality changes. This includes heightened aggression, and an intense fixation on the object of affection, which in itself can manifest in numerous ways, from stalking, to abduction, and in extreme circumstances hurting/killing their loved one

[awkness]

“safespace” platonic!yandere!og michael myers & gn!bullied!teen!reader [oneshot] ! !

masterlist !

description; For a while now, you've been using the old Myer's house as a home base of sorts; previously, your bullies had never dared to rush in after you, too afraid of the history of the house. That changed one fateful Halloween night, and unknowingly, you'd just sealed yourself into a fate different from death, but not much better.

The Haddonfield Boogeyman has taken a liking to you, and that's not something you can easily retreat from once it happens. Not safely, for that matter.

additional notes; this is. extremely long and I managed to write it within two days. help. i hope you enjoy it, because it was actually really fun to write. it might be in a bit of a different style than normal, because i've been reading. so much junji ito & gothic lit and i don't know if that affects anything.

warnings; bullying, possessive behavior, overprotectiveness, Michael being unsettling, discussions of past murder (judith primarily), violence, blood & gore, murder/murder of teens (reader's bullies), slight/implied neglect (reader's parents are very lax), soft michael (as soft as he can get), kidnapping/imprisonment, and if there's any I missed, please let me know!! i do believe this is the most intense (?) one i've posted so far?? mayhaps?

w/c; 10.2k (OH SWEET MOTHER OF PEARL!)

It’s silly, stupid, some would say-- and you know it is. You know it’s not a good idea to set up shop in the old Myer’s house, and that it was, realistically, the least safe place you could camp out at in Haddonfield,

Structurally speaking, considering how long it’s sat vacant and unattended for the most part. The story and tragedy surrounding it kept squatters away, but it was surprisingly easy to sneak into.

For you, it was one of the safest places possible-- because everyone knows about how unsafe it was. An oxymoron in a way, that you claimed this old rickety house as your safe space because you know it’s dangerous.

Because your tormentors know it’s unsafe, so they’ll leave you be for the most part-- once you’re inside the house that should’ve been torn down ages ago.

It’s a nice house, but you’re sure someone will roll up to a city council meeting and propose tearing down the place. No one’s going to buy it, no amount of polishing the hardwood floors and replacing the peeling wallpaper is going to change that.

The Myer’s house could be renovated into the most gorgeous, affordable home for a good sized family-- and still, no one would buy it.

Judith Myer’s blood, spilt by her own little brother one normal Halloween night, was like a curse laid on the house. Even you have to admit, there’s a strangely foreboding, suffocating atmosphere about it that doesn’t suit how… plain it otherwise appears.

For a few years now, you’ve had your claim staked on this house. Over those few years, you’ve gotten used to that atmosphere. It even began to feel comforting, at some point-- like a hug, kind of.

Your bullies know you’re in here, but they can’t bring themselves to enter it and drag you out. Sometimes they’ll wait outside for you, but don’t take into consideration is that you’ve supplied yourself with enough snacks and various forms of entertainment to be able to wait them out most times.

Cowards, the lot of them-- that’s all they ever were to you. A bunch of unruly, rich assholes that take their grievances out on you for lack of a different outlet,

More like you’re the most interesting outlet-- you’re sure their parents have enough money to get them another way, other than razzing and beating on you constantly-- but they don’t want it.

They like watching you cry, the sickos. But that’s not a sight they get to see too often; not since you’ve almost accidentally made the old Myer’s house into your own kind of fortress,

Guarded by a moat of bad energy and an awful story behind it. Judith still lingers, maybe not her ghost like most would think-- but she’s there.

One time, you walked into her room. It was almost pristine, kept nearly the same as the night she died, you think. The blood is gone, but the chair to her vanity is still knocked over.

You haven’t gone near that room since that one time-- spotting the rotting bag of melted taffy on her bedside table, her brush on the vanity top with golden hair still stuck in the bristles; an opened bottle of lip gloss, long dried up…

It made you sick like nothing before or after could, the knowledge that this was just a normal girl. A normal girl who expected to live another day, to eat the taffy by her bed, knowing she had to clean her hair out of her brush eventually--

She never even got to screw the cap back on her lip gloss, maybe her favorite one if you think about it. A part of you wanted to do it for her, to clean up her room a little for no real reason other than self-imposed obligation.

You’re taking up this space illegally, not quite a squatter, but still a consistent trespasser. The least you could do was clean it up for a family who’ll never come back.

But then, wouldn’t that be rude to mess with a deceased person’s belongings? You stepped out of the room, shutting the door as you clutched your stomach. In your mind, you barred off ever entering it again.

You’ve only had a peak in the little boy’s room-- Michael. Such an ordinary name, and an ordinary room to match. Hell, he could’ve been your little brother, it all appeared so average from the quick look-see you’d gotten.

As soon as you realized who’s room it was, you slammed the door and vowed to never open it again. You didn’t even go near it most times, if at all.

How can someone so normal-- a child so young, just snap like that? It made you sad, thinking about it.

Eventually, you knew it’d come to this, though. When your bullies’ need to torture you overrode the fear, and they followed you into your previously impenetrable fortress.

Your safe-space desecrated, the next time to ran in-- nothing too damaging to the actual house, but your books and magazines were torn. Snacks either eaten or crushed, and the little nest of pillows and blankets you brought from home was tossed around, dirty footprints all over.

“You’re such a coward,” the head boy spoke up, and you know his dad was a real estate agent, the one that oversaw the house, you think. That’s why there wasn’t any real damage to the place.

In your anger and grief, at your one good thing being wrecked like this; you spoke up. These kids-- no, you all weren’t kids anymore by most’s standards. Well into high school, and they were still messing with you for no good reason.

Tears welled in your eyes, not from sadness but from rage. You’d been chased in by two other kids, who were now behind you. Two kids were already inside along with the head boy,

You were surrounded, 5-to-1, and stood no chance. Not because you couldn’t fight physically, but because you knew the consequences of fighting back against these daddy’s money types.

They’ve broken bones before-- your bones, but if you so much as left a scratch on them, they ran to their parents and the repercussions were… dire.

You’d nearly been booted put of school before, because you left a tiny, already healing bruise of one of the girl’s arms after you shoved her down so you could flee.

“Look who’s saying that!” It’s not like you haven’t fought back with your words before, but it’d never been this up close as of late. You’d grown too comfortable, taunting the kids through the door as you did.

Poking a sleeping bear. You really wished this method could’ve lasted a bit longer, hopefully until after you finished high school and left Haddonfield; but beggars can’t be choosers.

You’re lucky it’s worked for this long anyways.

Before the kids could say anything, you started on a tirade. Letting out every little grievance you’ve had over the years-- they can’t let you have this one good thing.

They all get friends upon friends, secret admirers and good partners; they participate in school, they’re active in the community-- meanwhile you’ve been shunned for a good half of your life, resorting to hiding in an abandoned house while they were out living their best lives.

Once you were done, chest heaving up and down, did they say anything further. They mocked you, of course they did-- and when you asked “So what are you gonna do now, huh? Break a couple fingers? Strangle me? Kick me until I’m bruised all over--!”

They called you unoriginal, then grabbed ahold of you. They wrapped rope around your wrists and ankles-- then started dragging you upstairs.

No.

And they didn’t tell you their plan, but you were smart. You picked up on it, especially from how they were talking about the recent breakout from the nearby mental institution.

The institute currently home to none other than the Haddonfield Boogeyman himself, Michael Myers. Or, more accurately, no longer housing the man.

He was among the escaped, one of the few that hadn’t been rounded up after the transport bus crash-- it was October 31st.

You were doomed.

They dragged you to the little boys room, the atmosphere you’d become accustomed to suddenly cranked up to 11, choking you, clinging to the inside of your throat like cling-wrap. Making it hard to breathe, as they tossed you into Michael’s room,

And boy, did they really not want you to leave without their help. They tied you to the wooden poster of the bed, and you couldn’t help but cry.

Ghost stories about Judith staying behind were all fine and dandy, but the very much alive perpetrator being on the loose? The one who’s spent the past god-knows-how-long confined in a mental hospital, since he was a child?

That was a real threat, because it was to some extent predictable and unpredictable what he’d do next. There was no set guarantee that he’d stop by his childhood home, but there was a chance.

And the bullies knew it.

“Stop! Stop, I’m sorry--!” You hated groveling, but this was a real threat. This wasn’t funny-- it hadn’t been for a long time, but this time you can’t comprehend why they’d be laughing at all.

It’s not funny.

You could die. Even if it’s a slim chance of happening, there is a chance nonetheless. A chance greatly increased by Myer’s unpredicted ‘discharge’ from the hospital.

As always, they didn’t care. They were all giggles and smiles as they bid you farewell-- you heard another door open, then a scraping sound as something was set down in front of the door.

You’re sure it was Judith’s vanity chair, that they’d pressed under the door handle. Why? Why do they hate you so much-- there wasn’t even a promise of them returning, either.

Even if the Boogeyman doesn’t show up like you’re afraid of, they might just leave you here to rot with the house. No one would come looking for you, you don’t think-- unless they’re pointed in this direction by your bullies.

What an awful way to spend your Halloween night, huh? Not like you had much planned in the first place, but still.

This isn’t a position you wanted to be in right now. Or ever, thank you very much.

It got dark out a while ago. Inside here, somewhere, there's a clock that still works. Or maybe you’re already going crazy, imagining the ‘tick-tick-tick’ to try and make something for you to do.

Restrained as you are, it’s not like you can do much besides slump against the bed and wait it out. Hope your exhaustion from coming down after an adrenaline rush takes you out sooner or later, because it’s getting awfully boring.

Boredom overrode fear, maybe because your loopy from said exhaustion, but too high strung and uncomfortable, sitting on the hardwood floor with your wrists and ankles tied, to take a little nap as it is.

Throughout it all, you kept your eyes shut. Not because you particularly want to sleep, (though you do want to, if only to pass the time quicker) but because you’re trying to pretend you’re anywhere else but here, on this night, at this hour.

Your only other hope at being released right now was if some stupid kid got dared to come in here, like they did every Halloween. But the outlook wasn’t too good, considering the different framing the Myer’s house had with Michael’s recent escape still fresh on everyone’s minds.

Distantly, you can hear kids laughing, screaming, playing around-- all in good fun. You ache, sad that the experience of it had been cut short for you. For years now, you’ve stayed inside as much as possible.

Even on Halloween, and it hurt. Childhood cut short because some rich kids decided to make you their stress toy, punching bag, and scapegoat all in one.

When you hear a creak downstairs, you fight with yourself not to open your eyes. It’ll be pitch black anyways, your reason with yourself. It’ll only make you panic even more.

It was futile, trying to convince yourself that it was just the house settling. For hours, all you’ve been able to hear for the most part was the house settling.

This was different.

Someone was downstairs-- no joking, no yelling at their friends, no egging each other on; and it wasn’t a cop either, because they’d be shouting by now, telling anyone in here to get the hell out before you’re arrested.

It was uncanny, how quiet this person was-- both literally and with their movement. You first heard them faintly, on an especially creaky board near the front door. Then nothing-- until you heard them on the 3rd step, the one that’s about to cave at any moment from termite damage.

A primal kind of terror curled deep in your gut, the hair on the back of your neck stood straight up; silence again, until you think the person stopped moving.

Straining your ears, you heard a semi-familiar scraping noise. Whoever it was, was standing in front of this room, and was planning on entering it.

Your eyes flung open, desperately blinking as you tried to force your vision to adjust to the darkness. Surprisingly, the room was a lot lighter than you’d think it be.

No doubt aided by the moth-ravaged curtains serving as the only barrier(s) between the moonlight shining in through the windows.

When the door opened, your heart soared for a moment-- someone wearing work-boots and a mechanic’s jumpsuit. An adult, a scarily quiet adult, but hopefully a responsible one.

All hope was dashed when you looked up at your savior-- and saw a sun-bleached, cheap Captain Kirk Halloween mask staring back at you. Something glinted off the moonlight, you looked down and sure enough; he was clutching a large kitchen knife.

Maybe it was an impersonator, or not Michael at all-- But something made you doubt both ideas. The kitchen knife was a big giveaway, not the plastic kind with fake blood, or a retractable prop one.

It was real, as real as your terror-- was this a hallucination? That thought soothed you more than it should have. Or maybe a dream-- and that’s what made you work up enough courage to speak,

“…Hello.” Voice croaky and trembling, it took away from the casual aspect of the greeting. Trying your best not to look at the knife, or the unsettling mask, you took to staring at the person’s boots.

They looked bloody, drying and tacky-- and you did your best to ignore that for right now. The floor was interesting. Yeah, you opted for looking at the floor instead as you continued, introducing yourself with a shaky voice.

The person didn’t answer you, but they didn’t attack you either. You looked back up at their mask and-- wow, you must look pathetic, you realize now. Eye’s puffy and red from crying, lips chapped and bitten to hell and back, your voice nasally from your stuffed nose.

After a couple minutes of agonizing silence, the person started to move forward-- slow, almost placatingly so, like they were dealing with a startled animal.

You think that’s a very apt comparison, right now. As you jerk away, uncaring as the wooden post dug into your spine-- glancing at the person’s knife, you tried to swallow past a lump in your throat “Don’t hurt me-- please. I-I don’t much to say, uhm, other than that.”

In all honesty, you don’t think you’re that important of a person-- in everyone else’s eyes, that is. You won’t be missed by a good majority of Haddonfield, and that’s what makes you want to live this through.

For a moment, the person stopped dead in their tracks-- and slowly shook their head. That could be interrupted one of two ways,

One, they have agreed to not hurt you. They shook their head as in ‘okay, i won’t hurt you’re, or the more likely option in your mind-- considering they still held onto the knife-- they were disagreeing with your plea.

When they went to move again, you jerked back again. It didn’t do much, and wouldn’t do much unless you suddenly gained the ability to fuse with objects, that is.

The person stopped dead in their tracks again-- even taking a few steps back, and shook their head again. You piped up, despite the way your heart pounded and blood rushed in your ears.

“I-I don’t know what you mean. By that-- the shaking your head.” Almost as an afterthought, you tacked on “I’m sorry.”

Make no mistake, it was a genuine apology. Originally brought on by fear, yes, but you did regret not understanding them nonetheless.

When they started moving again, they were slower. You would’ve felt insulted, being treated like a wild animal ready to bolt-- if this had been a normal situation.

Right now, though? You appreciate how careful they seem to be, as they make their way to the little desk pushed up near the head of the bed.

The placement of the furniture in this room was odd, in your humble opinion-- the desk was where a nightstand would be, but what you assume to have been the nightstand was pushed under a window on the far side from the bed.

Then again, you can’t really expect interior decorating to be the specialty of the homicidal 6 year old that once lived here.

Reaching into the second drawer down, the person pulled out a little journal-- and crouched down to grab a pencil off the ground, before standing back up.

they’re too comfortable here, you anxiously realized. Almost like they’d put that stuff there-- but this can’t be Myers. If or was, wouldn’t he be hacking at you with his knife by now?

The stranger (which you’re hoping and praying isn’t who you think it is) set their knife down on the desk, much to your surprise. You don’t want to touch on why it surprised you, not right now, anyway.

Again, the person moved slowly, this time without the knife-- which let you relax enough to stop trying to actively fuse with the wooden bed frame. For now, at least-- who knows what the near future may hold, maybe you’ll succeed in it.

Weirder things have happened, and weirder things are happening right now-- as the stranger plops down on the floor, just a few feet away from where you sat restrained.

You couldn’t help but smile, as they sat criss-cross applesauce-- half delirious and sleep-deprived, yes, but a smile nonetheless.

Flipping to a page, that was random to you, hut didn’t seem to be to the person, they put the pencil to the paper and started writing something.

Refraining from trying to discern what it is they’re writing. you waited patiently until they stopped and turned the pad to face you,

Heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach, you read the words (god he presses hard with that pencil, even left dents in the paper from what you can tell) written on the pad.

“I won’t hurt you. It’s too easy.”

Simultaneously relieving and distressing-- the confirmation that you won’t be hurt (for now, you’re choosing to believe this person), but the ‘reassurance’ that it’s because you were too big of a target. Too obvious of a target,

If only your bullies had taken that sentiment to heart, too. Then you wouldn’t be here in the first place.

Curiosity outweighing your caution, you ask “What’s your name?”, despite being about… 85% sure you know who this is.

Turning the pad back around, he scribbles something else. When it’s facing you again, you can very clearly ready what name he’s written down.

“Michael”

You can tell yourself ‘It’s a common name!’ all you want, but that didn’t stomp out the feeling of dread as your suspicion was proven correct.

This was the one thing you’d hoped desperately to be wrong about. Guess life just hates you like that, huh?

You’d say it couldn’t get any worse-- but this is actually going pretty well, all things considered. You aren’t dead, and he’s actually communicating with you-- so that’s something, right?

“Is… was this your room?” For once, his answer was immediate-- he nodded. You suppose there was no reason to hide it, your face must be showing that you figured it out already.

It fell silent, and you didn’t know how to feel about that. Glancing around, you spotted an older edition of Clue sitting on a bookshelf nearby-- right on the top.

Looking back at the man-- Michael, the Michael Myers, which is a fact you’re trying not to dwell on too right right now-- you hazarded to say “Do you wanna, uh-- do you like board games?”

Tragically, he didn’t respond as quick this time. Leaving you to wallow in your own thoughts, wondering if you’d misstepped right into his steadily growing roster of victims.

a short, almost jerky nod, following by him abruptly standing made you jump. Hilariously, he seemed to jump as well; just a little twitch of his hands, but it was reaction nonetheless. You think that’s the closest you’re going to get to scaring a guy like him.

Then he headed to the bookshelf, and easily grabbed Clue from the top. He hadn’t always been this tall, obviously-- you spotted a step ladder, rusted and coated in dust like a majority of the room (and house as a whole) is;

It’s a cute thought, the idea that the kid this bedroom belonged to needed a step ladder to grab a boardgame. As you looked closer, you saw quite a few boardgames up there that you hadn’t noticed before,

The idea that Michael Myers was such a mundane kid, with an interest in board games-- liking them so much that he needed to have a step ladder of his own because he accessed them so much-- was a jarring idea.

Another jarring idea-- or realization, more like, is that he must’ve been watching your line of sight very closely to immediately figure out that you were referring to the Clue game.

Before you could get pulled into a panic attack in full (you’ve narrowly been avoiding such a thing by pretending that this was some dream, and you had managed to fall asleep against the dusty children’s bed), Michael came back and sat down again,

This time, he was a little further away. He set the box down, and started opening it-- before you stumbled over your words, remembering that you were a little tied up right now.

“Do-- can you undo the rope around my wrists?” Slowly, ever so slowly, Michael’s head rose from where he’d been looking down to set up the game, black eyeholes eventually meeting your gaze.

Another nod, and he stood. Walking over to the desk, you realized your mistake in wording-- and as you feared, he picked up his knife again.

You’d said undo, not untie. It’s not a stretch to think that meant you have permission for him to cut the rope.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t catch any flesh while he does, yeah? When he walked back over, closer than he’d been this whole time, you valiantly fought back the urge to scream. To tremble, kick, try to fight--

Something about the way he crouched down by your side, still taller than you, with the knife gleaming made you feel vulnerable like never before. It made you feel exposed, flayed open and waiting to prepared into clean cuts of meat for packaging.

Michael was careful with it, his hold almost gentle on your arms, silently telling you hold still as he hooked the knife under the ropes and began to pull up.

Must’ve been a pretty damn sharp knife, or maybe some exceptionally cheap rope on your bullies’ parts, but either way, he got you free pretty easily.

Avoiding any sudden movement, testing the waters; you lowered your hands down to your lap. Michael stayed there a few seconds more, before quickly walking back to desk the drop the knife off on top.

When he came back, you’d already started sorting the cards-- which had gotten a little jumbled in the box. He set up the board, meanwhile.

Is it a very sad thing to say, that you felt more connected to this enigmatic, urban legend-esque serial killer (well, he killed one person definitely and a few other were suspected, but the knife didn’t paint a very good picture) than you did your classmates?

In part, that may be your fault. Alright, it may actually be mostly your fault-- but you were self-isolating for a reason.

You wouldn’t want any possible close friends to incur the wrath of your tormenters-- and become another victim, just for being near you.

Something tells you that Michael wouldn’t-- literally couldn’t-- succumb to that fate for obvious reasons. Maybe that’s why, as you two played a couple rounds of Clue before a cop came nosing around the place, you felt the safest you ever have.

And when the cop did show up, Michael was gone in an instant, almost like a ghost; but you knew better. He just had very quiet footsteps, the kind you would think impossible to achieve with his height and all.

You stayed in that room, waiting until you were sure Michael was gone to shout for help-- the cop came, and you hoped it gave Michael ample time to hide or run if need be.

And you didn’t rat on him-- to show your gratitude for him, y’know, not killing you. And being the closest thing to a friend you’ve both been allowed and allowed yourself to have as of late.

The cop walked you out-- but not before you noticed a little note folded on the accent table near the front door. “meet again?” it read, the pencil still lying next to it.

Taking a short detour, you quickly scrawled "yes :)" and while the smiley face was shaky at best, you hope he'd get the message. Besides, something tells you he'd understand that you were being rushed by the cop right now.

Because something also tells you that he's still here, watching-- you just don't know where. It's the way your skin crawls under the feeling of eyes on you, that tips you off.

When you leave the Myer's house this time around, you don't dread exiting it, some part of you afraid that your bullies had waited it out on the porch, or the yard. Maybe it's because you have a cop escorting you out this time,

Or maybe it's the lingering feeling of the Haddonfield Boogeyman himself keeping on eye on you. Presumably, of course.

The next time you visit the Myer's house, you aren't being chased in for once. If you were, there'd be no real reason to hide in here anyways. Your tormentors evolved, now being able to enter what you previously considered you safespace.

But you had to be sneaky regardless, as the country sheriff had been observed walking around the premise. Maybe to catch Michael, who was still on the loose as far as you knew, or to prevent foolhardy kids from entering the house on a dare.

That'd always been an issue, but before now the cops never cared to do much. The kids almost always psyched themselves out after taking a few steps into the house anyways, and there was hardly any vandalism to worry about.

Now, however, it was far more about keeping the kids themselves safe rather than the house. When you got there, the country sheriff was nowhere to be seen; there was a cop car in the driveway, but you recognized it as one of the ones used for false speed traps.

There was no one in there, and no cop in the house either. The car was enough to deter most, but you've been coming here for a while. They've done something like this before, especially around Halloween.

The difference came with the fact that it was November 3rd, and they usually did away with the deterrent by now. They have good reason, considering you know Michael Myer's is definitely in the house, or at least visiting regularly, but it's a little annoying.

Knowing they'll keep this up for a while longer, indefinitely, and you haven no way of telling if they suddenly decide to plant a cop inside the house to switch things up.

You entered through the back kitchen door, something you don't often do. Usually, when you enter this place, you don't care how you enter it-- just the closest possible entryway.

Which was usually the front door, or a window on the side that's easy to open from the outside. But this time, you get the luxury of picking where you get to enter from.

You brought a wrist watch with you, to monitor the time. Your parents never cared about how late you stayed out before,

But after a cop showed up at their door, you in tow, informing them that you'd been 'hanging out' in the old Myer's house (of course he left out the part where your ankles were bound), suddenly they had something to say about what time you returned home.

And maybe you'd think it was annoying, if you didn't know they had good reason for it. Honestly, you don't know what possessed you to come back here. To agree to meet up again, with a known murderer.

Years of isolation and ostracization at the hands of your peers and bullies alike must've corroded a part of your brain, is your theory. Your need for friendship and belonging was so big that you settled for meeting with a Boogeyman for social interaction.

A Boogeyman that was both parts legend and fact, because when you headed upstairs-- and was almost scared so bad you tumbled down the stairs, when you saw that sun-bleached mask staring back at you.

There was no way you could stifle the little shriek you let out when you felt a hand, large and warm and real-- wrap around your upper arm, your entire body going tense s you were pulled forward, and you could already imagine how it'd feel to have the blade of a kitchen knife lodged deep in your stomach and--

But no pain came, your eyes screwed shut out of terror, you didn't keep track of where he was taking you. In this blinding moment of fear, you forgot all about why you came here in the first place.

This was a bad idea, coming back here when you'd escaped last time by the skin of your teeth, and a few rounds of playing a murder mystery board game with a real mysterious murderer.

When you were pulled to a stop, static filling your ears as your heart pounded a mile a minute, you didn't open your eyes at first. Not until Michael let go of you, and your eyes promptly shot open.

It was only 5:12PM, so there was still some sun shining in through the motheaten curtains, but it wasn't much and you knew it wouldn't be staying for long. It casted long, eerie shadows into the room.

But nothing could compare to how to fell on Michael's mask, making it even more menacing than before. Who thought that a cheap reproduction of William Shatner's face was strike such fear in you?

He was just standing there, which you guess you can't fault him for. When he noticed you were looking at him, he pointed to the floor, near the foot of the bed. Where you'd been sitting last time.

Taking the hint, you quickly plopped down, this time unhindered by ropes restraining you. Funnily enough, you were subconsciously treating Michael as a dinosaur; a T-rex, to be specific.

You moved slowly, trying not to trigger his prey drive or whatever. Trying to make yourself seem as small and weak as you could, to try and keep up his sentiment of “I won’t hurt you. It’s too easy.”

Awkwardly clearing your throat, you tried to start a conversation as Michael walked over to the bookshelf again. "Uh-- so... how have you been?" Obviously, he doesn't respond.

Honestly, you don't know where you're going with this. You try to save yourself, by adding on "Have you been good?", and after a moment, you saw him nod from behind-- as he stood, facing the bookshelf.

He didn't reach up for any game, just slowly turned to face you; when you finally realized he was giving you room to choose, you panicked and squeaked out a little "Sorry--"

Comically, you'd forgotten that was a game-- and game he had, apparently, as he pulled away a few other games and got it out from the back. Task failed successfully, as your math teacher always said back in 7th grade.

When he came back over, you weren't any less high strung. He didn't seem to care-- maybe he didn't even notice-- and went about setting up the game. You busied yourself with reading the manual, having forgotten how to play it.

You weren't perfect with it, though. Sometimes you'd mess up, and it'd lead to Michael moving your piece back to where it'd been, or just pointing at the manual again; sitting innocently beside you on the floor, easy access.

Eventually, when you finished up the first game, only 34 minutes had passed. The sun was almost completely down, but something kept you rooted to your spot for a little longer. A few more rounds of Sorry, and you were well on your way to worrying your parents;

It was only 7:18PM now, but it was November. The sun was long set, and you were getting antsy to leave. After your fifth game concluded, you quickly blurted out "I have to go home."

You tried your best to catch Michael before he started setting up for another round, to minimize any irritation-- but it was obvious he'd been expecting to have another go at it.

Slowly, as everything he seemed to do was either methodically slow or terrifyingly quick with no in between yet to be seen, he lifted his head and stared at you point blank. His eyes hidden behind the mask, but that didn't mean there was any room for you to delude yourself into think he didn't have his full, undivided attention on you.

"My parents will be worried, they're already, uh, suspicious of how late I stay out." Michael doesn't move at all, staying still as a statue, just like you are. You don't make any move to get up, not until you get his express permission.

No matter how human he seems, playing board games so innocently with you-- the fact he was a cold-blooded killer never left your mind. There was no lead-up to his original snap, when he slaughtered his sister in the room just across the hall.

There's no reason to think you'd be an exception to that. One moment it could be fine, and the next you'll be bleeding out on the floor; it made you uneasy, for good reason.

Relief flooded you, a weight lifted from your shoulders as Michael nodded, the relief was pulled away when he stood and approached you-- but reinstated when he got close, just to extend a hand and offer to help you up, it seems.

Palm up, slow with his movements. Like he was dealing with an especially skittish dog. You felt like one, cornered as you were-- but you took his hand, and he was...

Well, it was like he tried to be gentle, but he didn't know how to be. He pulled roughly, but the way his grip faltered when you stumbled-- how he caught you with his other arm, almost desperate. Like he didn't know his own strength.

That terrified you more than the idea that he'd stab a knife through you. The idea that it was more likely for him to accidentally hurt you, how he was trying to restrain himself but it'd always end the same way.

In your panic, you didn't realize the way you'd grabbed onto him. Almost like a hug, one you pulled away from quickly. His arm lingered on your back, barring you from gaining any meaningful distance from him. Before you could think to panic some more, he let you go.

Grabbing onto your hand, he led you out of the room. Down the stairs, and to the living room. He didn't drop your hand once, even as he opened the door and pulled it open for you,

It was you, who wrestled away from the hold. You were on edge, freedom so close you could taste it-- the frigid midwestern wind blowing against your face had never felt so nice, a reprieve from the stifling presence that is Haddonfield's own personal Boogeyman.

Belatedly, you realized what he'd done. He walked you to the door, and he let you pull your hand from his grasp. if he didn't want you too, it'd be easy to not let it happen. His arm stayed where it was for a moment, before dropping heavily by his side.

You took a few small, miniscule steps; careful as you crossed the boundary between the inside of the house and the porch. Michael made no move to stop you,

A part of you wanted to run, a vestigial part of the human mind; buried, fear for something so closely human but so damningly not. Something that landed in the uncanny valley, when it should be human but something was off.

Michael Myer's was the only thing that's ever dredged up this forgotten kind of terror, something that was bigger than you'd ever be resided in him, you think. Deep down, though, you knew you two were similar. Similar enough for him to take mercy on you, for whatever reason.

Similar how? Well, you just don't know, but it's all you can think of as to why he's doing this. Why he not only let you go, but asked for your return-- not to cut a loose thread, but to play board games.

A few steps further, and you stood on the edge of the porch. When you turned around, seeing Michael standing in the doorway like it was normal; like either of you were normal, softened something in you.

Fear loosened it's hold on you, and in that moment, all you could do was smile and give a little wave, saying "I'll see you again?" He nodded, slow again. Smile growing wider, you let yourself giggle-- why? You don't know, you didn't find anything funny. It just felt right.

"Okay. I'll... see you later, I might get grounded for this, so it might be a while." You flashed a little thumbs up, before turning around and staring at the three short steps before you.

Feeling freer than you had in years, a bit of your childhood returned to you-- the childhood stolen by your bullies, you let yourself take a few steps back; gaining a running start, you hopped all three stairs.

Landing hard on the concrete, you wobbled a bit. Legs shaky from sitting for so long, but you didn't fall. If you had, you probably would've scraped your knees-- and the idea of it was freeing.

Being able to get hurt in such a meaningless way, getting hurt in a way kids should be getting hurt. Not coming home with broken ribs after school, before shutting yourself away in your room and seldom going outside, But coming home with a big smile, despite the shallow cuts on your legs.

When you turned around again, the door was closed-- but you saw a hint of movement from the window beside it, and sure enough, you saw the telltale white of Michael's mask.

You spared another wave, before you were off on your way.

5 months.

It's been roughly 5 months, since you started hanging around Michael. The feeling of guilt comes and goes on a whim, when you'd remember who this really was. A few more murders, some rich people from the nicer part of Haddonfield; the news attributed it to Michael Myers, which you couldn't argue with.

You could turn him in. You should turn him in, should've done it ages ago, you know-- but you can't bring yourself to do the right thing. It's wholly selfish, your want to keep him a well-hidden secret.

As sad as it was, he was your only friend. He didn't ask questions like your parents, questions that never lead anywhere-- it didn't matter if you told them the truth or not,

Whether or not you said "it was awful, the kids are still bullying me" or "it was okay" when they asked "how was school?", you always got the same kind of meaningless, cookie cutter response.

Sometimes it was more insulting, though, when you used to answer truthfully. Condescending, as your mom once again told you to "Think of what they're going through" and it irked you. She's the one who took the brunt of the bills, had to do the co-pay after you got a cast for your broken arm.

Those kids... they aren't bullying you because their life is bad. The worst they've gone through is their favorite perfume being out of stock, or their siblings got to have the TV remote the night prior.

Why should you give them that kind of consideration, when they obviously didn't spare you a second thought? You had a metal bat by your bed for a reason, walking everywhere with a small switchblade nestled in your coat pocket.

You never used it, but even Haddonfield could be dangerous-- there were three main sections of it, the Diamond District, a gated community for the ultra rich; the suburbs, and the closest to 'slums' as it got.

Where you lived, far from the white picket fences of the suburbs, and the glitzy modern exteriors of the Diamond District

But now, you practically live at the old Myer's house. Your bullies are still after you, but you always try to lose them before making it to the Myer's house. You hated them, but you didn't like the possibility of Michael going berserk on them.

He's probably snap at you too, and you wouldn't know how to cope with it-- for the remaining few minutes of your life, that your only friend would turn on you on a dime. Even though you knew it from the get, that this was dangerous. This agreement.

Sometimes you slept over, and you'd tell your parents that you finally made a friend. They wanted to meet them, but you'd just say they're shy, or something along those lines.

It was on accident, the first time you did it. It was in the dead of winter, bundled up in your outerwear while in the house. It was cold, and Michael was kind enough to wrap a few blankets around you.

And you kept delaying leaving, as cold as it was in the old Myer's house, you knew it'd be worse outside. You ended up falling asleep, waking up when the sun began to rise.

Michael came in, and handed you a granola bar. You don't know how he sourced it-- sourced snacks he'd give you, but you never thought to ask. You wanted to, but you never actually considered prying.

You scarfed it, before saying your gratitudes, goodbyes, and rushing out the door-- your parents were surprisingly lax with it. Under the false pretense that you'd been safe and sound in a warm house, with your friend from school.

Besides, everyone assumed that Myer's had moved on back then. There was this 3 month gap between his killings, and even when that broke, they were sparse enough that your parent's still didn't care much.

It was early April, and it was getting nice out again. You've managed to avoid your bullies trailing you as of late, by... just letting them whatever at school. It's not like they want to brave the cold weather anyways, so you knew sooner or later they'd start harassing you outside of school again.

Even if you let them hurt you at school, do whatever they please-- it still won't be enough. It'll never be enough, nothing will for people like them. You just can't wait to graduate and get the hell out of dodge.

The past few weeks, they've been trying to follow you. Every time they did, you managed to lose them; probably because they weren't too intent on it yet. They liked toying with you, but didn't care enough to keep following after a certain amount of times.

As a diversion, you've been sitting around the park a lot, in a little grotto near the playground no one plays on anymore. It's wooden, rotted, and should've been torn down ages ago-- the swings are still functional though, if a little squeaky.

It wasn't a stretch to assume you'd succeeded in tricking them; that they assumed this was your new home base. Again, no matter how much you hated them, you didn't want them dead.

And you definitely didn't want to be the one responsible for leading them to their death; to the murderer you deemed a friend, your only one. It was a moral dilemma. Michael was still a killer, and you should turn him in--

But you don't. Again, it was selfish, but he wasn't... doing that much harm right now. Just a few people, rich people who you have no connection to. It makes you sick, the fact you, by default, don't care that much.

You care, you care when you realize they were people with lives and families, that they were just like Judith. Ever since you started coming to the old Myer's house, you've been making a picture of her in your head.

Those people, too, had taffy left uneaten by their bedside. Hair brushes to clean, caps that needed to be screwed back on lip glosses; not those items exactly, you're sure, but the allegory stood the same.

The guilt is unbearable somedays, the idea that you're also partly responsible for those people's death. If you'd just turned in him, then you wouldn't have gotten in this deep.

just a bit longer, you tell yourself. I'll... report him if he kills anyone else, but maybe he's getting better, you think-- knowing more than well he isn't.

He's stagnant right now, but that's because he's satiated. Maybe by your near-daily meetings, the feeling of human contact that he probably hasn't felt since he was child. Since before he was locked up from such a young age.

i hope it stays that way, and deep down, you know it's in vain; recognizing that hope will do no good in situation like this, when dealing with a man-- an entity-- like Michael Myers.

This can't be real. It's a nightmare, it's a nightmare-- you can scream it all you want, but it won't take away from the scene before you.

You were toying with danger, with death itself; you stared in its face and dared to call it a friend, and look where that got you. It was always going to end like this, wasn't it? And you knew, you knew it would but that didn't stop you from it.

A lonely child will always seek the comfort of anyone who offers it without hesitation, and no matter how much you've grown-- how close you are to being an adult, teetering just on that edge,

Once a lonely child, always a lonely child. The bruises have healed, but it still feels like they're marring every inch of your skin; ribs that were broken are just fine now, but if you move too quick you swear you can feel them like you'd felt them back then.

"Why?" Your voice is choked, and you haven't felt this afraid in a long time. Cowering as you were, in the far corner of the attic. A large circular window loomed behind you, casting light onto you like Heaven was calling you home.

Do you even deserve Heaven, though? You might not have been the one to wield the knife, but you're guilty by association. There was no blood on you, but your hands were still painted red.

All five of them, crumpled on the ground; they looked so scared, but something in the back of your mind told them that they'd never understand true fear. This was momentary, before they met their end,

They didn't know the fear of anticipation. The fear of never knowing what would happen next, when or how it would come about; but just knowing that it would. That you wouldn't at the end of the tunnel just yet, and fearing that you never would be.

Michael just stands there, unmoving. His head tilted like a curious bird, like the crows you fed at the park sometimes. He wasn't wearing the mechanic's suit anymore-- you'd bring him clothes when you could, picked up from thrift shops or garage/yard sales;

It felt even more damning, the red staining his previously pristine sky blue t-shirt. The shirt you’d given to him. Blood once again caked on his shoes, after he'd worked so hard to clean them when you expressed discomfort at it once.

The mask never came off, you never saw his face-- but at this point, you feel like any face that wasn't the mask wouldn't be Michael's. The most you've seen was up to his mouth, when he'd eat with you sometimes.

Again, as you pull your knees to your chest, and fight to hold back a shuddering cry, you ask "Why? Why would you do this?"

And he just stands there. He just stands there and stares at you like he always has, like he always will. You've long come to terms with the fact that he doesn't speak, and in your opinion it makes him a little easier to interact with.

Slow, steady steps-- he turns, and walks to entrance of the attic. He climbs down, leaving you alone for now. With no way to tell the time, you just sit there. The sun doesn't dim, since it was just a little past noon when you got here.

When you saw that note on the accent table near the door, telling you come up to the attic. You didn't question it, you didn't think anything was amiss until you were halfway into the room and Michael stood between you and the exit, bloodied and pointing to the heap of bodies.

Bodies that had once been so full of life, active in the community; beloved by most, feared by others. The golden boys and girls, the ones everyone strives to be or envies in some ways, unless you happen to be their punching bag.

Even with how terrible they were, it wasn't meant to end like this. You shake and tremble as you press your face against your knees; you don't forgive them, you never would, but they have lives.

Had lives, something you were never afforded the luxury of, holed up in your room half the time, and hanging out with the serial killer that did them in the rest of the time.

Michael was being loud, louder than you've ever known him to be. All you could think was maybe... he was trying to ease your worries? Wordlessly let you know that he wasn't going to sneak up and add you to that pile?

For once, you hear when he comes back up. You don't look up, fear seizing every muscle and making you unable to move an inch-- until he's just a few feet away, and your head flies up from where you'd pressed it against your knees.

He was sitting on the floor, right in front of you-- he was writing in a notepad, the same one he used when you first met. Michael's used it since then, but usually just communicates with shakes or nods of his head.

When he turns the book around, it's hard to read the words-- not for lack of light, but because of the way your tears blur your vision. When you're able to blink them away long enough to read, you almost can't believe what he wrote.

"Didn't mean to scare you. They were hurting you, and I didn't like it."

Didn't... didn't mean to scare you? He-- he brought you up here, just to find him covered in blood and pointing at five dead bodies!

five dead bodies of people you knew, even if you didn't like them, you still knew them-- and you knew this was likely to happen, but you tried to convince yourself it wouldn't. For your own sake.

"Are... are you going to..." Kill felt like too heavy of a word right now, too real, so you opted for "...Hurt me too?" Voice small, smaller than you think it's ever been. God, you feel like a child again, asking your mom why the kids at school didn't like you.

Small and helpless, lost and unable to come up with answers on your own. Michael shook his head quickly, and it made you jump-- it wasn't often that he moved quickly like that. He stopped immediately, and turned the notepad around and quickly scrawled something, before turning it back to you.

"Never hurt you" It was hastily written, messy in a way that disturbed you, when addressing Michael. He didn't even add punctuation. For a third time, you ask "Why?" But this time with more intention, knowing what exactly you were asking about.

He didn't move for a bit, and turned the notepad around more slowly, and his pencil hovered above the page-- like he was really thinking this through. A few minutes passed, moving at an agonizing crawl, before he finally turned the notepad around so you could read it.

There were a couple messages scribbled out, but you didn't bother to try and make them out. He'd finally settled on a simple "Because you're my friend."

"How do I know you won’t hurt me?" It was a hard pill to swallow, the knowledge that you just... there's no way to confirm that he won't. He's unpredictable in a way that scares you, because you can't even begin to wrap your head around how he operates.

This time, the answer came quickly; it was messy again, the handwriting, and it made your heart sink to the bottom of your stomach. It made you turn inward and ask why you did this to yourself, why you couldn't have just turned him in at the start.

There's no one to blame but yourself, and that's what hurts the most-- you knew the risk, you took it, and now you're reaping what you sowed.

"I don't hurt what's mine", written in dark letters; once again, he was pressing too hard with the pencil. Once, you thought it was endearing, but now you can't help but realize why he pressed so hard in the first place.

Michael didn't know how to be gentle. Yes, he tried, but there's no telling that he won't give up eventually. For a while, you just stare at the words, at the claim-- he doesn't turn the notepad away,

It's damning, it's a vice gripped around your heart; a steel wire wrapped around your throat. Rope around your wrists, a lock on the door. Everything that can and will be used to keep you here,

To keep you with him.

"I want to go home." You choke out, but he just shakes his head. Oh, how badly you want to scream, to shove him and run; it's broad daylight, surely he won't follow you.

But he's... God, you hate to admit it, but he's all you have. And-- and the bodies, oh god, you're going to be blamed for it, aren't you? It's a perfect story in the making, you've been tormented for so long, so publicly.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say you went mad, that there was something innate to the ground below the Meyer's house; a curse weaved into the floorboards, that makes anyone who spends time in the house lose it eventually, if they're capable of such a thing.

That you took the knife in your hand, and slit their throats yourself.

The notepad was facing you again, and you hadn't even noticed he was writing in the first place. It was an explanation for his refusal, but it only made your skin crawl,

"This is your home.", and you just sit there and stare again. Slowly, Michael sets the notepad down. Slowly, he inches forward-- you don't flinch, eyes glazed, staring at where the notepad had been.

Then, his arms are wrapped around you-- and you just... you just melt. You cry, there's no way you can't. You weep until you have nothing left, face tucked into Michael's shoulder.

The blood, still a bit tacky at first, clung to the front of your shirt as well. Michael pulls you as close as he physically can, without merging you two into one continuous being.

He's right, isn't he? This is your home now, and has been for a long time. Before Michael showed up, even, you were spending nights in the Myer's house. Despite the history, it felt leagues safer than your own room.

When your tears are all dried up, still hiccupping and trembling, Michael carefully picks you up. Handling you like glass, but it's unnatural. Stilted-- not a performance, but it's new to him.

Going down the ladder was a slow process, and you were half asleep from pure exhaustion when he set you down on a mattress-- his old bed. You sat, slumped sideways against the headboard as he pulled the cover back and helped you lay down,

He tucked you in, and the thought crossed your mind that his parents must've done this for him when he was younger. They were a normal family, the Myer's-- over the years, people had tried to prove that Michael's snap was caused by abuse, or neglect, or something bad that happened to him in his early development.

But nothing was found on the topic, if anything, the digging exposed the Myer's as the picture-perfect American family. No reason for a 6 year old to kill his sister, other than he just wanted to.

Demonic possession was also a proposed explanation-- more by the townspeople than actual professionals, but it had merit, didn't it? Something about Michael was off, and even if you removed the mask, you're sure it wouldn't change anything.

By the time you're drifting off, weighed down by bone deep weariness from all that happened, Michael is still sitting at the foot of the bed, off on the edge. He isn't watching you, his head facing forward, but it was still unnerving.

When the news of six missing teenagers hit, the town went into a frenzy. Michael has long since dropped the bodies off in the forest-- he didn't want it stinking up the house, because he knew it'd make you uncomfortable,

They found the bodies there, but that didn't stop the cops from searching the Myer's house one last time. That night, Michael took you on a walk, and you two visited the park his parent's used to take him to often.

You were actually swinging, while he kind of just sat on it. Nobody saw you two, there were no reports of you still being alive. Everyone assumed you'd died with your bullies, but your body was elsewhere.

That you fought more than your bullies had, or maybe less-- either way, you died further away from them.

Isolated, just like you’d been in life; even in death, Michael’s sure those horrible kids would make to not be near you.

The cops never considered the possibility that they were killed elsewhere, and dumped later. An oversight on their part, but Michael obviously wasn’t going to correct them on it.

Michael cleaned the attic, not like they'd check it anyways. They never did when they searched the house, and Michael thought it was ridiculous. It was almost too easy to avoid them, but he didn't want to take a chance with you.

He doesn't know what he'd do without you now that he has you. There's no solid reason why he spared you that first night, the 'it's too easy' had been little more than an excuse to spare you, or why he kept sparing you. Why he began to look forward to your meetings.

Something about you was comforting to him, a comfort he hasn't felt in so long that it feel alien now that he's feeling it. Those kids had it coming, he thinks. He's considered going after their parents, as well-- for raising such awful brats.

To torment someone like you-- it both enraged and confused Michael to no end. You were the most innocent person in his mind, even if it was just dumb luck that he found you when he did; that he wasn't in a bad mood.

He doesn't know what comes next, but all he knows is that he'll keep you by his side the whole time. Maybe... you two could move, he'd take on a false identity and flee to Canada with you. Pretend that you're his... younger sibling, because he doesn't think he can get away with claiming you as his child. He isn't all that much older than you, in the grand scheme of things.

As long as you're by his side, then he doesn't really care about what comes next. He just wants you, and to keep you safe and happy. Michael isn't familiar with this, with being soft or gentle; but he'll try for you.

He'd do anything for you, if he's completely honest with himself.

[awkness]

Stranger Danger

(A little short but one of my favorite one shots from my Wattpad!)

As the lights of the bus were swallowed up by the fog you started to realize how screwed you were. Your phone was dead from the biting cold and your wallet was still in your bag which was in Amy's car. You flopped down onto the bench at an empty bus stop and silently wondered when Amy would realize you never made it home.

Then again Amy was the one who'd kicked you out of her car. She'd dropped you down the road a bit and told you to walk before driving away. It was pure luck that there was a bus stop, but misfortune that the bus had left just as you'd approached and you had no way of paying for a ticket.

The bus stop's light flickered, dimming and brightening with no certain pattern. Staring down the road into the dark fog you knew you wouldn't make it home. Your breath hung in the air and the thin sweatshirt you wore wasn't doing much to keep out the chill. You were a second away from just sacrificing dignity and sobbing when you noticed faint lights slowly approaching through the gloom.

They looked misty through the veil of fog but got brighter as the vehicle drove closer. The vehicle in question stopped in front of the bus stop, directly in front of where you sat. It was a worn black pick-up truck with tinted windows.

You shivered, staring as the driver's window rolled down. The inside of the truck was dark but you could vaguely make out a man and woman.

"You okay there honey? It's past dark and the next bus isn't for a while." The woman asked. She had a thick southern accent and sounded to be in her late 20s. You wasn't sure how to answer that. Sure, you could say you were fine and they would probably smile and drive off but you weren't. You didn't know where you were or how you would make your way home or even if anyone would notice you were gone until it was too late.

You shrugged. It was all you could think to do without trauma dumping and/or breaking down crying in front of two strangers.

"We live down the road a bit. How about you come with us and stay until morning? You'll freeze out here and animals like to hide in the fog." The man said. There was a click as the door unlocked.

"Animals?" You asked, wringing your hands as you stood up. The man nodded.

"Panthers. Bears. If you can't see them coming normally you'll never see them now. Until it's too late that is." You nervously approached the car, freezing as you remembered all those school presentations on never getting in a stranger's car. But it was their car or freezing to death or being mauled, so you carefully climbed into the back, shutting the door behind you.

"I'm Willa and this is my husband, Atticus." The woman, Willa, said.

"I'm Y/N." It was silent for a moment. Your fingers started to itch as they warmed up and the circulation improved. You pulled your sweatshirt closer, relishing the heat of their truck.

"How'd you find yourself out here, honey? It's awfully far from the nearest town. Just farmland really." Atticus asked. This was the question you dreaded. Then again it was logical to wonder how a 13 year old had found themself at a bus stop on a foggy cold night.

"My step mom, Amy, and I were driving to meet my dad. We're supposed to be moving soon." You explained, picking at your cuticles. It was a bad habit you'd picked up from your mom before she'd died. "We got into an argument. She had been flirting with a guy at the gas station we stopped at. She got angry. Said I was 'disrespecting her and my father's relationship' by getting mad she was flirting. She kicked me out of the car and told me to walk."

"I'm so sorry hun. That's horrible. Some kinds of people really shouldn't have children." Willa said, her voice growing dark. Atticus reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"What do you like to do, Y/N?" He asked.

"I like to read. I'm fond of cats and other animals." You continued talking, happy to have some kind of conversation to distract yourself with. Willa calmed down as you spoke and both of them seemed to hang onto your every word. Everything from your hatred of gym class to the way you loved the smell of freshly baked bread from this one bakery.

Eventually the truck pulled in beside a large farmhouse, the kind Dorothy lived in in The Wizard of Oz. Atticus helped you jump out of the truck as you internally cursed at the raised truck bed and your lack of a growth spurt. You kept on telling yourself it would come tomorrow and maybe, one day, it actually would.

In the light of the house you finally got your first good look at the both of them. Willa was taller than you by a bit, maybe around 5'7". She had long strawberry blonde hair that was tied back in a bun. Atticus was taller than that, 6'2" at least, and easily towered over you. He had messy brown hair and warm hazel eyes. They almost looked like a picturesque movie couple, the kind that was painfully in love with each other.

Willa pulled you upstairs the second you took your shoes off and led you to a guest bedroom. It was a rather plain room with gray walls and a nicely made bed.

"The bathroom is right over there. Atticus! Can you lend Y/N some clothing? Mine still needs to be dried!" Atticus yelled something back from downstairs but you didn't catch what he said. Instead you were observing every little detail of the room, a pit growing in your stomach. Those kidnapping PSAs were echoing through your head again, constantly murmuring about the ever mysterious 'second location'.

"Wait here for a minute honey." Willa walked into a room down the hall before returning a few minutes later, clothing in hand. She handed you an oversized shirt and sweatpants, which luckily had a drawstring. You got changed in the bathroom, and when you returned to the guest room Willa and Atticus were waiting.

"Night honey! Sleep well." It was a bit weird and put you even more on edge. Without any other option, you climbed into bed only for Willa to insist on tucking you in. There was a soft look on her face, one of pure happiness. It reminded you of those clips of mothers looking at their newborn babies for the first time. Atticus extinguished the oil lamp on the nightstand but you could briefly make out a similar smile on his face as the light went out.

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You woke up to the smell of freshly baked bread. Something didn't feel right and you couldn't place it until you went to stand up the world spun. You couldn't even piece together the seconds between stumbling out of bed and suddenly staring up at the ceiling from the floor. Your head throbbed and everything seemed to swirl in nauseating patterns. Willa rushed into the room, quickly helping you back into bed.

"Shush honey. You're alright. Just a bit of a cold from being out there last night, hmm?" Willa asked, running her fingers through your hair. Your head hurt and a wave of dizziness would wash over you any time you moved it. You felt like you were freezing but simultaneously burning. Atticus quietly entered, a plate with a few slices of bread and some water with him.

Willa carefully brought the cup to your lips, not trusting your shaking hands but wanting you to be hydrated. Time felt spotty. One moment Willa and Atticus would be fussing over you and the next you'd be alone. You would close your eyes for a second and suddenly you were opening them hours later.

Willa was by the bed, her gentle hands playing with your hair the next time you surfaced. This time there was a straw in the cup of water and you eagerly drank all of it, feeling so thirsty.

"I always wanted a child." She suddenly said, smiling down at you. Your mind took a minute to process the words and once you did you only blinked. Why would she be telling you, who was basically a stranger something personal like that?

"Then the doctors told me I was infertile. That I would never be able to have a child of my own." Her voice was growing angry. Her fingers tugging at your hair instead of playing with it. A small while involuntarily escaped your lips, the tugging only adding to your throbbing headache. Her grip loosened immediately, her fingers returning to gently running through your hair.

"But that doesn't matter now." Willa said, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. She reached over to the nightstand where she grabbed the, now empty, cup.

"It will never matter again. Not when I have you." Your hazy mind finally pieced her statements together, connecting the dots.

"Wait...!" Your voice was scratchy as you tried to sit up, panic filling your body.

"You shouldn't be sitting up yet Y/N. You could fall again." Atticus gently scolded, appearing in the doorway. His arms were crossed but face was gentle, as if he were talking to a child. Not just any child, you realized, as if you was his child.

"You haven't even eaten yet! Your father made some homemade bread, special just for you." Willa smiled, kissing your forehead as she stood from your bedside. "I'll go get you some, okay honey?"

"But...!"

"Hush darling. Just let me and your mother take care of you." Atticus said, approaching you. He kissed your forehead in the same spot, gently tucking you in more. "Won't it be nice to feel loved, sweet pea?"