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dollmoth-productions · 2 months ago

Note

idk if you do requests but if you do could you write a Alastor x reader where Y/ and Alastor were close friends when they were alive when Y/n committed suicide so when they start dating in hell Al is super protective. Sorry if this is too much

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Hello! Happy to oblige to this very pleasant request, @helluva-simper! I got a little carried away and I don't know if I completely fulfilled your request. If so, let me know if it disgusts you. ☹ The story is very long… it tells of your friendship and what Alastor does to end up in hell.

WARNING: blood mentioned, murder scenes. The ending is a little sweet/fluff! PART II: click here.

You will find sections dedicated to jealousy and moments of sweet protectiveness/concern towards the bottom, there is a note to indicate it if you want to skip the whole narration. Happy reading!

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1920 – New Orleans.

The streets were alive with music. Jazz spilled from the clubs, mingling with the scent of sizzling street food and the laughter of passing crowds. The city pulsed with energy, a place where anything felt possible.

You were weaving through the bustling French Quarter, the beads of your necklace clicking together with each hurried step. The warm night air hummed with conversation and the distant trill of a trumpet. That’s when you saw him—leaning casually against a lamppost, arms crossed, a grin playing on his lips:

Alastor.

He had the kind of presence that demanded attention without trying. Sharp brown eyes gleamed with mischief beneath the brim of his fedora, and his suit—impeccably pressed but slightly rumpled from the humid air—suggested he had a knack for looking effortlessly put-together.

“Now, there’s a face I don’t recognize!” he called out, voice brimming with exaggerated cheer. “What brings a fine young lady like yourself out into this wild, untamed city?”

You smirked, raising a brow. “You say that like you’re not part of the wild.”

Alastor let out a laugh—bright, unrestrained. “Guilty as charged! But I do like to think I bring a certain flair to the madness.” He tilted his head, studying you with amused curiosity. “You’ve got the look of someone with a story. Care to share?”

You weren’t sure why, but something about him felt instantly familiar—like you had known him before, in another life. Or maybe it was just the way he carried himself, like he belonged to the city as much as the music did. Either way, you felt no hesitation as you grinned back at him. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” you countered.

Alastor's eyes lit up, and he extended a hand with an almost theatrical flourish. “Then, my dear, we have ourselves a deal! Let’s find a proper place for storytelling—somewhere with good music and even better company.”

And just like that, the night began.

The first meeting was just the beginning. What started as playful banter on the streets of New Orleans quickly turned into something more—a friendship unlike any other.

Alastor had a way of making the world feel electric, as if life itself were a performance and he was the master of ceremonies. You, on the other hand, had a way of grounding him just enough, pulling him back from his more reckless impulses while still encouraging his mischief. Together, you balanced each other out in a way that neither of you had expected but both of you secretly needed. The two of you became inseparable. Whether it was sneaking into speakeasies, dancing until your feet ached, or sitting by the Mississippi River sharing stories about dreams and the absurdities of life, there was never a dull moment.

“You, my dear, are one of the few people in this world who truly understand me,” Alastor declared one evening, tipping his hat back as he leaned against a balcony railing. “And that is either a wonderful thing… or a truly terrifying one.”

You chuckled, nudging his arm. “Terrifying for who?”

He turned to you, grin wide, eyes gleaming in the gaslight. “Why, the rest of the world, of course!”

And honestly? He wasn’t wrong. You had a way of finishing each other’s sentences, of knowing exactly what the other was thinking with just a glance. Whether it was pulling elaborate pranks on unsuspecting bystanders (all in good fun, of course) or covering for each other when trouble inevitably followed, you were a team.

“I swear, if you ever get yourself locked up, I might consider bailing you out,” you teased one night after Alastor narrowly avoided getting into a scuffle at a particularly rowdy club.

“Might?” he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “How cruel! After all we’ve been through!”

You smirked. “Oh, I’d bail you out… but not before letting you stew for a few hours first.”

Alastor let out a laugh—loud and full of life. “Now that is why we’re friends. You’re almost as devious as me.”

There were moments—brief and fleeting—where the laughter faded and something deeper settled between you. Those were the nights when the world felt quieter, when Alastor would stop grinning just long enough for you to catch glimpses of something else in his eyes.

“Ever wonder what comes next?” you asked once, lying on the grass in a park long after midnight, staring up at the stars.

Alastor was silent for a moment before answering, “sometimes.” Then, after a pause, “but as long as I have a friend like you, I don't think I'll ever have to worry about being alone in whatever comes next.” You turned your head to look at him, surprised by the rare sincerity in his voice. He met your gaze and, for once, there was no mischief, no mask—just Alastor, your best friend. You smiled, but your smile seemed unconvincing to his eyes, and the gleam in your eyes was no longer the same. Something gripped you from inside. Alastor had become a part of you, but it wasn't enough.

He was a constant need.

Something in your chest was blooming and it was heavy.

It started subtly. Alastor noticed before you even said a word. The way your laughter became softer, less frequent. The way your eyes—once alight with mischief—began to dim. You still showed up, still went along with his antics, but something in you had changed.

At first, he acted as if nothing was different, thinking you’d snap out of it on your own. But then, one night, he found you alone, sitting on the edge of the riverbank, staring into the dark water as if it were calling your name. And that’s when he knew—this wasn’t something he could ignore.

He sat beside you, unusually quiet. The city still buzzed behind you, jazz and laughter filling the streets, but here, it was just the two of you and the sound of water lapping against the shore.

“You’re not well,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

You let out a tired breath, your arms wrapped around your knees. “No, I’m not.”

You really wanted to share the burden, how you felt, the heaviness of the world and not feeling enough… especially that he didn't see you the way you did, but your thoughts were incomprehensible. How could he love someone like you?

Alastor wasn’t the type to fumble for words, but for the first time in a long time, he felt at a loss. He could charm his way out of almost anything, but this—this was different. This was you, his best friend, slipping away from him in a way he didn’t know how to stop.

“Do you ever think… maybe it’d be easier if I just—” , you hesitated, fingers gripping your arms a little tighter.

Alastor’s grin vanished.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice sharper than usual. “Don’t even finish that thought.”

You blinked, startled by the sudden intensity in his tone. He turned to face you fully, his usual playful expression replaced by something raw. Something desperate.

“You cannot leave me,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less fierce. “I refuse to allow it. We have a deal, remember?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “You can’t exactly stop me, Al.”

He leaned forward, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “Maybe not. But I can remind you why you shouldn’t.”

Before you could react, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, worn-out trinket—a cheap little charm you had won for him at a carnival months ago. You barely remembered it, but he had kept it.

“This ridiculous thing,” he said, rolling it between his fingers, “is completely worthless. And yet, every time I look at it, I remember you. The way you cheated at that ring toss, the way you laughed when I nearly tripped over that poor man’s dog.” He exhaled sharply. “And if this stupid thing can hold that much meaning to me… imagine how much you mean to me.” But not enough… you thought.

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear something like that.

Alastor suddenly reached out and grabbed your hands, his grip firm, grounding. “Listen to me. The world is a cruel, wretched place, I won’t deny it. But you?”, he smiled then—small, sincere. “You make it bearable. And if you leave, who will remind me that life isn’t all bad?”

You swallowed hard, looking down at your intertwined hands. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

“You don’t have to,” he said simply. “You just have to stay.”

The river still whispered below, the city still pulsed behind you. But in that moment, sitting beside Alastor, his hands holding yours as if he could keep you tethered to the world—something shifted. The weight on your chest didn’t disappear, but it felt just a little lighter.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Alastor knew something was wrong the moment you vanished.

At first, he convinced himself it was temporary. That you just needed time. That you’d come back, and he’d tease you about running off without telling him. He’d call you a terrible friend for worrying him and then demand you make it up to him with a night on the town.

But days passed. Then a week.

And then... he found out.

Your name echoed through the streets like a ghostly whisper, carried by murmurs of sorrow and disbelief. Alastor stood frozen, heart pounding as the words reached him—words he didn’t want to believe.

You were gone.

And you had taken yourself from the world.

For the first time in his life, Alastor felt the breath leave his lungs in a way that had nothing to do with laughter. His mind refused to accept it. His body rejected the reality of it. But the truth remained.

You were gone.

He didn’t remember much of what happened after. Someone tried to console him. Someone tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t hear them. He didn’t hear anything. The world had lost all sound. All color. All joy.

And then came the anger.

It started as a slow, simmering rage—a silent, festering wound deep in his chest. But grief is a twisted thing, and Alastor was not built to handle loss in the way ordinary men did.

He was not an ordinary man.

The first girl died only days after your funeral. She had your hair. Your laugh. He heard it across the street and for a fleeting, impossible second, he thought—You came back.

But it wasn’t you. It would never be you...

And if the world had taken you from him, then he would take from the world.

One by one, the women who bore even the slightest resemblance to you began to disappear. Some were found—lifeless, their bodies discarded like forgotten memories. Others were never seen again.

Alastor was careful at first. He didn’t want to get caught. But as the weeks stretched into months, his grief evolved into something insatiable. He no longer cared about consequences. He wanted them to know. He wanted them to fear him.

Because if he had to live in a world without you, then the world would learn to suffer as he did.

The city spoke of him in hushed voices, afraid to say his name too loudly. The newspapers called him The Butcher of New Orleans, but the radio stations had a different name—The Smiling Devil.

They said he never stopped grinning. That even as he ended their lives, he hummed little tunes, like it was all just a grand performance.

They didn’t know the truth.

That he wasn’t smiling.

That it was just his teeth, bared in grief so deep it had turned into something unrecognizable.

That the songs he hummed were the ones you used to sing.

But none of it mattered anymore. Nothing did. Because the only person who had ever truly seen him—the only person who had made life bearable—was gone.

And so, Alastor continued his symphony of slaughter, letting the city drown in the echoes of his suffering.

Until, one night, as he stared into the mirror, covered in blood and surrounded by the remnants of his latest victim—

He swore he heard your voice.

And for the first time since losing you…

The smile on his face faltered.

Alastor stood motionless, breath hitching as the whisper of your voice curled through the air like cigarette smoke.

It was impossible. He was losing his mind.

And yet…

“… Alastor.”

His blood ran cold. His name, spoken so softly, so familiar, yet carrying the weight of something beyond the grave. He turned sharply, but the dim glow of his apartment revealed nothing. Only the remnants of his latest crime—a body slumped in the corner, eyes wide, lips frozen in a scream. A woman who had your hair, your face, your shape—who had been a pathetic, fragile imitation of you.

His pulse roared in his ears. The radio crackled with static, his own heartbeat distorted into white noise.

“… Why?”

The question wasn’t from the radio. It was from you.

A slow, eerie grin stretched across his face, but it was empty. A reflex. A mask. His voice came out smooth, but there was something desperate beneath it.

“Why what, my dear?”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. He swallowed, suddenly aware of how cold the room had become. His fingers twitched at his sides. He felt it again—your presence, unseen but unmistakable.

“… This isn’t what I wanted.”

Alastor stiffened.

Ah. So that’s what this was. Guilt, slipping in through the cracks. He had thought himself immune to it, but hearing your voice again? It was different.

“Oh, but you see,” he murmured, tilting his head as he addressed the empty room, “what you wanted no longer matters. Because you left me.” His voice darkened, laced with something venomous. “And now I’ve made sure the world remembers you.”

A flicker in the corner of his vision. A shadow? A trick of the dim light? No—you were here.

Alastor clenched his fists, something twisting in his gut. His smile wavered. He should feel triumphant. He had honored you in the only way he knew how—with violence, with chaos, with the ruin of everything that dared to resemble you.

Then why… did he feel like he had failed you?

“Alastor…” Your voice was barely a whisper, a breath against his ear, a sound carried by the wind itself. “I was hurting. And you—”

He stepped forward, reaching out, but there was nothing to grasp. Just air. Just absence.

“I needed you.”

A laugh—high-pitched, jagged—bubbled up from his throat, unsteady and wrong. His fingers curled into his palms, nails biting into his own flesh.

“I tried!” he snapped, voice cracking, his mask slipping. “I told you to stay! I begged you to—”

Silence.

A void where your voice should be.

And for the first time in his life, Alastor felt something unfamiliar clawing at his chest.

Not anger.

Not madness.

Not even grief.

But regret.

The radio hummed. The body on the floor remained lifeless.

And Alastor, for all his power, for all his wit, for all his control—stood there, for once, with nothing.

Just the ghost of you. And the echoes of a laughter he would never hear again.

Alastor was losing himself.

The killings had been satisfying at first. Each act of violence had been a desperate grasp at control, a way to fill the gaping void you had left behind. But now—now, even as blood pooled at his feet, even as screams rang in his ears—there was no satisfaction. No relief.

Only you.

He saw you in every shadow. Heard you in every whisper of wind, every crackle of his beloved radio.

And worst of all? He felt you.

You haunted him in ways he couldn’t escape. Not in the way spirits haunted old homes or restless souls clung to their unfinished business. No—you haunted the very fabric of him.

He had always been a man of control, sharp and calculated, always three steps ahead. But now? He felt unraveled.

The change began slowly. A creeping sensation in his chest, a disturbance in his mind.

At first, it was just the dreams. Nightmares, if he were being honest—though he’d never admit to fearing them. He dreamed of the river, of your reflection staring back at him from the black water. Your eyes empty, accusing. He dreamed of reaching for you, only for your image to ripple and disappear, leaving him gasping for air.

Then came the waking moments of displacement.

He would enter a room and forget why he was there. Hear a voice—your voice—only to turn and find nothing. Food lost its taste. Music lost its charm. Even his own laughter—once so effortless—felt wrong. Forced.

His mind fractured further with each passing day.

The killings became less about vengeance and more about habit. A desperate attempt to feel something. But they no longer served their purpose.

Nothing did.

And that’s when he realized—he was changing.

The transformation was not sudden, nor was it entirely physical.

Oh, he still looked human, at least in the mirror. But inside? Something fundamental was shifting.

His once brilliant mind—sharp as a knife—now teetered on the edge of something far darker. He had always been clever, but now his thoughts felt inhuman. Detached. Cold.

He began to crave things he could not name. His body itched for something beyond flesh, beyond blood. He could feel his soul twisting into something grotesque, stretching toward something otherworldly.

It wasn’t just madness.

It was evolution.

The final breaking point came when he tried to speak to you.

Tried to summon you—truly summon you.

Through old rituals, through whispers in the dark, through desperate, fevered attempts to bring you back.

But nothing worked.

Because you were gone.

And so, Alastor did the only thing left to do.

He laughed.

He laughed until his throat burned, until his ribs ached, until the world around him seemed to distort under the weight of his hysteria.

And in that moment, something inside him snapped.

The man he had once been—the clever, charming, mischievous man who had loved you—died that night.

And in his place, something else was born.

Something with sharper teeth. Something with a hunger that could never be sated. Something that no longer cared for the limits of mortality.

And so, Alastor stepped fully into the madness, embraced the darkness, and let the last shreds of his humanity rot.

For without you—

There was nothing left worth saving.

The swamp was alive with the hum of cicadas, the distant croak of bullfrogs, and the soft rustling of the wind through the trees. The night stretched on, dark and endless, as Alastor dragged yet another lifeless body through the underbrush.

It had become a ritual by now. He worked alone, humming some jazz tune under his breath, the weight of his latest victim barely a bother. He had done this so many times. The city was catching on to the string of missing women, but no one suspected him. No one ever suspected the man with the charming smile and the quick wit.

Until now.

A sudden snap of a twig.

Alastor froze, fingers tightening around the corpse’s wrist. His head tilted slightly, ears picking up the faintest movement in the distance. Someone else was here.

Hunters.

The realization hit just as he spotted the faint glow of a lantern through the trees.

Then—

BANG!

Pain. A sharp, searing pain tore through his chest. His breath hitched as he stumbled backward, his grip on the body loosening.

BANG! BANG!

Another shot—this time, his leg buckled beneath him. He collapsed to the damp earth, gasping as warmth spread through his clothing. Blood.

He could hear them talking, could barely make out their figures through the dense foliage.

"Didja see that?! We got ‘im!"

"Damn thing’s huge—look at those antlers!"

His vision blurred. His body ached, cold creeping into his fingers. But he barely noticed—because something was wrong.

His hands—his fingers—were stretching, warping into something unnatural.

Antlers.

He could feel them growing, twisting out from his skull. His body contorted, reshaping itself, the pain of death giving way to something even stranger.

His last breath came out as a laugh—a wheezing, broken chuckle that sent a chill down the hunters' spines.

And then—

Nothing.

Alastor awoke to a world bathed in red.

The sky above churned with crimson clouds, the ground beneath him cracked and scorched. He pushed himself up, disoriented, his body still tingling from the sensation of becoming.

And then he saw his reflection.

The murky water of a nearby puddle rippled, distorting his face—but there was no mistaking it. His features were still his own, but… changed.

His eyes glowed with an unnatural red light. His ears were long, pointed. And his smile—his signature, ever-present smile—felt sharper.

But the most striking change?

The massive set of deer antlers crowning his head.

Something deep inside him stirred, and as the realization settled in, Alastor did the only thing that felt right.

He threw back his head—

And laughed.

Hell had given him a new form, a fitting form.

And Alastor?

He was going to enjoy this.

Hell was not what you had expected.

It wasn’t fire and brimstone, nor was it eternal torment—at least, not in the way the preachers had warned. It was loud, chaotic, an endless city pulsing with neon lights and strange, inhuman creatures.

And somehow, you were here.

Your memories were hazy, blurred at the edges, but the weight of your death still clung to you. The pain, the loneliness, the finality of it all—it had been too much. And yet, instead of fading into oblivion, you had woken up in this strange, twisted afterlife.

And then, you met him.

At first, you thought he was just another demon. His sharp suit, his unnerving red eyes, the way he grinned like he knew a joke no one else did—it all fit the description.

But there was something familiar about him.

Something in the way he spoke, the way he tilted his head when he looked at you, like he knew you from somewhere.

And then—

"Why, if it isn’t my dear, darling, Y/N!"

His voice was a melody, smooth and rich like a radio host’s, yet laced with something darker.

You froze.

He knew your name.

And suddenly, it hit you. The way he carried himself, that unmistakable laugh, the gleam of amusement in his eyes that never quite reached his soul.

No. It couldn’t be!

"Alastor…?"

His grin widened. "Ah, so you do remember me! My, my, what a reunion! And here I thought I was the only one who got a second chance at—shall we say—infamy?"

You took a step back, heart pounding. This wasn’t the man you had known. He looked like him, sounded like him, but everything about him was… wrong.

The Alastor you had known—your dear friend—had been mischievous, yes, but not like this. Not this predatory, bloodstained thing standing before you.

"What happened to you?" you breathed.

His laughter rang out, bright and sharp. "Oh, sweetheart... YOU, happened! Your little disappearance sent me on quite the downward spiral! And, well… let’s just say I took up a new hobby." His eyes glowed with something unreadable. "Turns out, Hell appreciates a man with a knack for… entertainment."

Your stomach twisted.

You had left him behind in life, and now?

Now, he was something else.

Something monstrous.

And yet—

Even as fear curled in your chest, even as you saw the demon he had become, a part of you still saw him.

Alastor.

Your friend.

And that part of you couldn’t help but wonder—

Was there anything left of the man you had once loved?

The air between you was thick with unspoken words.

Alastor was still grinning, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something unreadable, something unsettling. He had changed, but so had you. And now, standing before him in this twisted afterlife, you knew you couldn’t keep the truth buried any longer.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your chest.

"Alastor," you said, your voice softer than you meant it to be. "I—I never meant to leave you like that."

His grin didn't waver, but his head tilted slightly, as if he were listening to a song only he could hear.

You took a shaky breath. "I—", your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to say it. "I loved you, Alastor. I always did."

Silence.

His expression didn't change. Not at first. But his fingers twitched ever so slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"Ah," he finally said, voice smooth as ever. "Is that what it was all about?"

You nodded, unable to look away.

Alastor let out a slow chuckle, shaking his head. "And here I thought you were just mysterious."

You frowned, confusion twisting in your gut. "Alastor—"

"Darling, darling," he interrupted, lifting a hand as if to stop your words. "Why so serious? We’re in Hell! Surely, there’s no need for all this brooding when we have eternity to waste!"

You blinked. "What?"

He clapped his hands together. "Tell you what, sweetheart—why don’t we go paint the town red? And no, no—" he wagged a finger playfully, "not that kind of red. I mean, unless you're feeling violent." He chuckled at his own joke.

Your mind reeled. He was deflecting.

After everything you had just said, after everything—was this really all he had to say?

"Alastor," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Do you—did you ever feel the same?"

His eyes glowed.

For a split second, his grin faltered—just a fraction.

Then, as quickly as it had faded, it was back in full force.

"Now, now, dear," he purred, stepping closer. "That’s an awfully dangerous question, don’t you think?"

Your breath caught as he leaned in, his face inches from yours.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away with a theatrical twirl. "Come now, let’s not dwell on silly things like the past! You’ve got a second chance, I’ve got a second chance—why not make the most of it?"

He extended a hand toward you, his grin unwavering. "So, what do you say, dearest? Care to join me for a night on the town?"

Your heart ached.

He was deflecting. Hiding behind jokes, behind that ever-present grin. But beneath it all, you saw something else—something buried deep.

A hesitation.

A fear.

A truth he wasn’t ready to speak.

You glanced at his outstretched hand, then back at his face.

Maybe he wasn’t ready to face the truth just yet.

Maybe he never would be.

But for now?

For now, you could take his hand.

And see where the night would take you.

At first, it was just fun.

You and Alastor—together again, painting Hell with laughter and chaos, just like old times. He took you everywhere, showing you the wonders (and horrors) of the afterlife, always keeping you close, always grinning.

It was as if nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

Because now, you both knew the truth.

You had loved him in life. Had lost yourself in sorrow, thinking he never cared. And he—well, Alastor never admitted things outright, but you saw it now.

The way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking.

The way his fingers twitched, as if itching to touch you but not daring to.

The way his voice softened just slightly when he said your name.

And then, one night, he finally broke.

You had been teasing him—nothing new, just playful banter, a joke about his unbreakable grin.

But instead of laughing, he had gone silent.

Then, without warning, he had grabbed your wrist, pulling you close, his grin sharp but his eyes unreadable.

"You left me," he had said, voice unusually quiet. "Do you have any idea what you did to me, my dearest?"

Your breath caught. "Alastor—"

"I don’t lose things." His fingers tightened just a fraction. "I don’t let things go. But you… you were gone. And I—". He cut himself off, his usual humor nowhere to be found.

You reached for his hand. "I’m here now."

He stared at you for a long moment. Then—

He laughed.

But this time, it wasn’t mocking or theatrical. It was relieved.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. "Well, I suppose that means I’ll just have to make sure you don’t go disappearing on me again, hmm?"

And from that moment on—he didn’t let you go.

You were together, always.

The Radio Demon and his darling—Hell’s most inseparable pair.

It had been building for weeks.

Alastor was always by your side—more than before, more than ever. If you moved, he moved. If you laughed, he laughed. If you so much as sighed, he was right there, grinning, tilting his head, asking in that smooth, playful voice, “what’s on your mind, darling?”

But something was different.

The way he looked at you lingered too long. The way he touched your wrist, your shoulder, your waist—light, fleeting, but always there—spoke of something deeper.

And then, one evening, he finally snapped.

You were strolling through the streets of Hell, passing under neon lights and the ever-present hum of the afterlife’s chaos. Alastor had been oddly quiet—for him, anyway. No dramatic narration, no wild bursts of laughter, just… watching you.

You stopped, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

His grin widened—sharp, knowing. "Oh, nothing, my dear! Just admiring something that belongs to me."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Alastor—"

"Tell me something, sweetheart," he interrupted, stepping closer, eyes glowing. "Did you ever consider just saying something back in the mortal world? Or did you enjoy making me suffer?"

You blinked. "Making you suffer?"

He let out a dramatic sigh. "Oh, woe is me! My dearest, darling companion, struck down by despair because she thought I didn’t care—", his voice dropped, silky and smooth. "When in reality…"

A pause.

A grin.

A flash of red eyes beneath the glow of Hell’s eternal lights.

"I simply didn’t realize how much I needed you."

Your breath caught. "Alastor—"

"So!", he clapped his hands together, suddenly bursting with energy. "Since we’ve already done this whole ‘tragic longing’ thing, let’s skip to the fun part, shall we?"

He bowed dramatically, extending a hand toward you, eyes gleaming. "My dear, delightful Y/N—what do you say we make this little arrangement of ours official?"

You stared. "Are you… asking me out?"

He grinned. "Darling, I’m claiming you. But if you prefer something more traditional, well—consider this your official invitation to be courted by the one and only Radio Demon!"

Your lips parted, heart racing.

This was insane.

This was Alastor.

And yet—

You slid your hand into his.

"Took you long enough," you murmured, smirking.

His laughter rang out like music, his fingers curling around yours. "Oh, my dear," he purred. "You have no idea what you’ve just signed up for."

And just like that—

Hell’s most dangerous and inseparable couple was born.

Alastor's jealousy.

From the moment you set foot in the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor never left your side.

Oh, sure, he pretended he wasn’t clinging to you. He acted as if he was simply amused by your presence, as if you were just an interesting little pet to keep entertained.

But you knew better.

His sarcasm never faded. His teasing never stopped.

"Careful, dearest! Wouldn’t want you tripping over your own feet and landing in someone’s clutches! I hear certain demons love picking up strays—oh, but don’t worry!", he leaned in, grinning sharp as a blade. "I’d simply have to rip them apart, now wouldn’t I?"

You rolled your eyes. "Alastor, I can take care of myself."

"Oh, I know, sweetheart!" he chirped, looping an arm around your shoulders. "That’s why I let you think you’re independent! It’s simply adorable—like watching a baby bird flap its little wings before tumbling right back into my talons!"

Despite his words, his grip on you was firm.

And as you got to know the hotel’s residents—Charlie, Vaggie, Angel Dust, Niffty, Husk—you noticed something strange.

Alastor didn’t like how quickly people warmed up to you.

Charlie adored you from the start. Angel Dust practically draped himself over you, calling you “sweetheart” and “sugar” and throwing playful winks your way. Niffty loved fussing over you, and Husk—well, Husk didn’t hate you, which said a lot.

And Alastor?

He just watched.

Watched them.

Watched you.

And the more he watched, the tighter his grip became.

"My, my," he’d say with a chuckle whenever Angel Dust got too close, "it’s so fascinating how some creatures just flock to the most dangerously naive souls!"

You shot him a look. "Alastor—"

"Oh, don’t mind me!" he sang, swaying beside you. "I’m simply delighted by how easy it is for people to love you! Truly, it’s a miracle you weren’t snatched up by some unsavory characters long before I got my claws into you!"

His grin widened. "Oh, but don’t worry, dear! I’ll make sure that never happens."

And he did.

Subtly. Silently. Without ever admitting it outright.

When Angel Dust got a little too touchy, Alastor’s voice would suddenly cut in—cheerful, mocking, but firm.

"Oh, Angel, darling, let’s not forget whose company she prefers now, hmm?"

When a stranger tried flirting with you at the hotel? Alastor would simply appear beside them, laughing, grinning—his shadow stretching just a little too far, curling just a little too hungrily.

"Oh, how charming!" he’d croon. "But do tell me, dear guest, do you value your existence? No? Ahaha! Excellent!"

And when you got hurt?

Even something small—a scrape, a stumble—he was there before you could react.

"Tsk, tsk!" he’d sigh dramatically, offering his hand. "Must I do everything around here? Honestly, you’d be lost without me!"

You scoffed, taking his hand. "You don’t have to be so dramatic."

"Darling," he said, voice smooth as velvet, "I’m always dramatic. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong."

You squeezed his fingers. "Alastor."

For just a moment, his grin softened.

Just a fraction. Just enough.

Then, just as quickly, it was back.

"Now, then!" he declared, twirling you away from whatever danger had dared approach you. "Shall we continue this delightful little adventure? After all, Hell’s simply full of surprises! And I’d hate for you to face them without me!"

You laughed. "Like you’d ever let that happen."

His eyes gleamed.

"Oh, my dear," he murmured, "you have no idea."

Alastor's protectiviness.

Alastor was not a man easily shaken.

He had danced through massacres with a grin, turned suffering into a symphony, and waltzed through Hell with his usual flair. He had never known fear.

Until you.

At first, he brushed it off. Of course, he liked keeping you close—who wouldn’t? You were delightful, charming, his! But then… he started noticing things.

How sometimes, your laughter faltered.

How sometimes, your eyes drifted, seeing something else.

How sometimes, you would disappear into yourself—not physically, but mentally, trapped in some dark corner of your thoughts.

And that? That terrified him.

Because he knew what happened when people lingered in sorrow too long.

He had lost you once already.

He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

So he never left you alone.

"Darling!" his voice rang out too cheerfully whenever he caught you slipping into thought. "Why the melancholy? Bored of Hell already? I told you, dear, I’d be your eternal entertainment, but really—I thought I had more time before you started questioning your life choices! Ahaha!"

He talked constantly—more than usual, filling every quiet moment with sound, ensuring that your thoughts never got too loud.

If he ever caught you alone, lost in your head?

"Tsk, tsk!" he’d click his tongue, appearing beside you in an instant. "Now, what did I say about wandering into dangerous places?"

"Alastor, I’m just thinking—"

"Oh, I know that look, my dear! And I simply refuse to let you fall into bad habits! Now!" he’d clasp his hands together, grinning just a little too wide. "Shall we dance? Murder? Cause delightful chaos? Or perhaps you’d prefer a story—something to distract that beautiful little mind of yours?"

You sighed. "You don’t have to hover, you know."

His grin never wavered. But his fingers twitched.

"Oh, but I do, darling." His voice dipped—just for a second, too soft. "You’re simply terrible at being left alone."

And that was the real reason.

It wasn’t just protectiveness.

It was fear.

Fear of silence. Fear of losing you again.

So he never let you drift. Never let you isolate. Never let you forget—

That you weren’t alone.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

It was just a knife.

A simple, ordinary knife.

You had gone to the kitchen to cook, humming softly to yourself as you grabbed it from the counter. Just like always. Just like anyone would.

But the moment Alastor saw you holding it—

BANG!

In a flash, the knife was out of your hand, clattering to the floor as Alastor’s cane struck it away.

And then—

A hand gripping your wrist.

Tight. Too tight.

"What do you think you’re doing?"

His voice was light. Too light. That awful, sing-song lilt still dancing in his words—

But his grip?

His grin?

His eyes?

They were wrong.

Red. Wide. Unblinking. Terrified.

"Alastor—"

"Did you think I wouldn’t notice?" he pulled you closer, fingers digging into your skin. "Did you think I’d let you do this again?"

Your heart stopped. "Alastor, I was just—"

"Just what?" His smile twitched. "Just holding a knife? Just standing here all alone? Just thinking—"

His breath hitched.

And suddenly, you weren’t standing anymore.

You were crushed against his chest.

His arms were wrapped around you—vice-like, unyielding, desperate.

"No." His voice cracked, barely a whisper. "No, no, no, I won’t let you."

"Alastor—"

"You left me once," his breath was shaking. "You disappeared, you were gone, and I—"

He buried his face in your hair.

"I lost you."

You felt his entire body shudder.

"I can’t—" his voice broke into static. "I won’t lose you again."

And that’s when you realized—

This wasn’t just protectiveness.

It was obsession.

Fear.

A crippling, suffocating fear that had hollowed him out from the inside, left him raw, left him feral at the mere sight of you with a blade in your hand.

Because to Alastor, that knife wasn’t for cooking.

It was for stealing you away from him.

Again.

Forever.

And he’d burn all of Hell before he let that happen.

1. When You Take Too Long in the Bathroom

It started small.

A simple, human habit—closing the door when you went to freshen up.

But if you took too long, Alastor would knock—once, twice—before phasing straight through the wall, appearing inside with a grin.

"Oh, darling! Are you hiding from me?" his voice was cheerful, mocking, but his fingers twitched against his cane. "Or were you just hoping I’d come check on you?"

"Alastor, I’m fine—"

"Are you?" he tilted his head, eyes piercing. "You are alone in here, after all. Just you and that dangerous little mind of yours. Terribly unsafe, if you ask me!"

You sighed. "I was literally just brushing my hair."

His grin never wavered.

"Ah, but you see, my dear," he leaned closer, caging you in, "you have a terrible habit of thinking when you’re alone. And I simply can’t allow that."

From then on, the bathroom door never stayed closed for long.

2. When You Didn’t Answer Him Immediately

If you ever didn’t answer when he called—

"Sweetheart!"

Silence.

The air shifted.

"Darling?"

Nothing.

Static began to hum.

And before you could even realize what was happening—

He was there.

"Ah, there you are!" his voice was too bright, his smile stretched too wide. "For a moment, I thought you were ignoring me!"

You blinked. "Alastor, I was just—"

"Oh, I know what you were doing!" his laugh was sharp, too sharp. "You were lost in that pretty little head of yours! Drifting!"

His grin twitched.

"I hate when you do that."

From then on, if you didn’t answer immediately, he’d find you. No matter where you were.

3. When You Tried to Walk Away from a Fight

It happened once. Just once.

Some demon had been too bold, said something too cruel—and instead of fighting, you had turned away.

Big mistake.

Because before you could take two steps—

SNAP.

In an instant, Alastor’s hand was on you, pulling you back, his claws digging into your skin.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

His voice was low.

Dangerous.

"I-"

"No."

His grip tightened.

"You don’t walk away when someone disrespects you." His smile was gone. His eyes burned. "You stand beside me and watch as I tear them apart."

From then on, you never walked away from a fight.

Not because you were afraid of them.

But because you knew—

Alastor would always fight for you.

4. When You Said You Needed “Space”

One night, after a long day, you sighed. "Alastor… I think I just need some space tonight."

Silence.

His grin froze.

And then—

A chuckle.

"Ahahaha! Oh, darling! What a funny little joke!"

You frowned. "I wasn’t joking—"

"Oh, but you must be! Because surely—surely—you don’t think I’d leave you alone just because you asked me to! Ahaha!"

He leaned closer, eyes wild.

"You don’t need space from me, sweetheart."

His fingers trailed along your arm, light, possessive.

"You need me."

From then on, “space” was no longer part of your vocabulary.

Not because you didn’t need it.

But because you knew—

Alastor would never give it to you.

The night was quiet.

Too quiet.

You sat on the edge of the terrace, legs dangling over the abyss of Hell’s endless void. The sky stretched above you—red, empty, mocking. The city lights flickered below, distant, meaningless.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt small.

Lost in the nothingness.

You didn’t hear him approach.

Not until—

"Oh, darling…"

His voice was too soft.

The moment you turned your head—

He was there.

Standing a few feet away, frozen, his ever-present grin strained. His eyes—wide, glowing, terrified.

"What a dangerous little spot you’ve found yourself in!" his voice was still playful, still teasing—but his fingers twitched against his cane, his whole body rigid. "And all alone, too! My, my—what would I do if you fell?"

You blinked, pulling yourself from your thoughts. "Alastor, I was just looking at the—"

"The sky?" he let out a sharp, hollow laugh. "Oh, of course you were! Nothing concerning about sitting on the edge of oblivion, alone, quiet, lost in your thoughts..."

His breath hitched.

In an instant, he moved.

A flash of red. A rush of static—

And suddenly, arms were around you.

Yanking you back.

Dragging you away from the ledge.

The world spun, and before you could protest—

You were in his lap.

His grip was iron.

His arms—wrapped tight around you, chest pressed against your back, breath shaking against your ear.

"You terrify me sometimes, you know that?"

His voice was low.

The ever-present laughter in his tone—gone.

You swallowed. "Alastor—"

"Shh." His grip tightened. "Don’t—don’t ever do that again."

A tremor ran through him. His fingers dug into your sides, clutching, desperate.

"You can’t leave me again."

It wasn’t a plea.

It was a command.

An unshakable truth. A law of the universe.

Because Alastor had lost you once.

And if Hell itself thought it could take you from him again—

He would tear it apart.

His grip on you was unrelenting.

His breath—shaky, uneven, desperate.

His heart—if he even still had one—was pounding against your back.

"You can’t leave me again."

The words lingered in the air, heavy, suffocating.

You swallowed hard. "Alastor…"

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

Just held you.

And then—

Slowly, shakily—he turned you in his arms.

His hands moved to cup your face, fingers trembling against your skin as if afraid you’d vanish the moment he let go.

His eyes—wide, wild—searched yours, glowing red, burning with something raw, something dangerous.

"I won’t let you slip away from me."

His voice was low, almost a whisper.

His thumb traced your cheek.

"Never again."

And then—

His lips crashed into yours.

Desperate. Starving.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, possessive, terrifying.

Like he was claiming you. Like he was branding you into his very existence, ensuring that no force in Hell—or beyond—could ever take you away from him again.

The static in the air hummed.

His fingers tangled in your hair, pulling, clutching, refusing to let go.

The kiss deepened, his breath faltering against your lips, as if he had needed this—needed you—more than he had ever needed anything in his wretched existence.

When he finally broke away, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged, his grin nowhere to be seen.

"You’re mine now, darling." his voice was hoarse, trembling with something dark, something devotional.

His lips ghosted over yours again, softer this time.

"And I’m never letting you go."

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dollmoth-productions · 2 months ago

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🌿 Something is Lurking in the Water 🌿

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dollmoth-productions · 2 months ago

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Happy birthday Stanley!!

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dollmoth-productions · 2 months ago

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dollmoth-productions · 2 months ago

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me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit

mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters

me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU

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dollmoth-productions · 2 months ago

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Yandere Seven Deadly Sins

♡ TW: a lot of different stuff today, NSFW, noncon/dubcon, yandere, stalking, gangbang, harsh language, sexual exploitation, bondage, zero holes safe, and more, read at your own risk

♡ FEM reader

Pride is an artist, and you, poor dear, are lucky enough to be his muse.

You’d caught his eye one day simply by coincidence while working your part-time job as a barista.

And though it had been a rather unorthodox request—between balancing school and work and constantly finding yourself both strapped for cash and strapped for time—you’d decided to quit and take him up on his offer—as what he was offering was about twice what you could make at the cafe anyway.

He’s not that much older than you, but he’s old money. And while you're stuck in community college, he goes to an elite art school—which he doesn’t even show up to, 'cause why would he? They can't afford to kick him out anyway, given his father’s donations make up half of their yearly budget.

And so he's free to self-study as much as he wants.

Yeah... he’s a little too used to getting what he wants—exactly how he wants it—without delay. So when you struggle to come to your sessions on time due to having to take the bus to the other side of town, he decides to solve it by buying you a car. And when he doesn’t feel like that’s sufficient enough, he buys you an apartment right above his own studio. And when you try to reject, he only has three concise words for you.

“Don’t be stupid.”

The way he says it leaves very little up for debate. In fact, it leaves you mute each and every time.

It was nice in the beginning—you didn’t protest to anything other than his overpriced gifts. You were flattered and blushy and giddy and more than happy to sit pretty for him for hours at a time while he sketched and sculpted and painted and whatnot. It was essentially nothing in comparison to the luxuries he gave you in return.

But you think, at some point along the way, he must have forgotten that he only owns the artworks he makes of you—not you yourself.

“N-naked?” you stutter, looking at him wide-eyed where he stands in his usual apron—flecked with the proof of your countless sessions. Honestly, it was getting to be a little strange posing for him in a room stuffed with a myriad of sketches, paintings, and statues of yourself. Hadn’t he had enough?

“I can’t capture you correctly when you wear all these rags,” he says—clinically, though with a pinch of impatience just shy of vexation—eyeing you from head to toe, almost with a look of disgust while beholding your clothes, despite being the one who’d bought them. “They obscure everything. So take them off.”

You knew he’d probably had about a hundred models undress for him, and stand here—old, young, men, women—you knew it probably didn’t mean much to him. He probably regarded it the same way he does everything—without even batting an eye. However…

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that…” You fiddle with your fingers, standing there, still dressed despite him standing ready at his easel, foot-tapping while waiting for you, already with a stick of charcoal between his fingers.

“Why are you making a fuss? You think I haven’t seen a naked body before?” he jokes, but without humor—no, rather strictness as if you’re wasting very precious time. “This is standard practice—don’t make it anything than what it is.”

There he goes again with those very final words that make you feel all in all kind of silly.

You bite your lip and mull it over before ever-so-begrudgingly uttering a weak little, “Okay…”

You suppose he was right. This is a job, and it’s just nudity—just another shape in the eyes of an artist—it doesn’t mean anything—is what you tell yourself while you undress. Still, you can’t help but feel flush—heart pounding in your chest as you fold your clothes all neatly for some other nervous reason.

“Resume the pose,” he says—almost like a drill sergeant. And you jump into place, timidly rushing over to the chaise where you lie down like before.

This does feel like it would be a better painting, you admit. More reminiscent of Renaissance art and such. Not that you know much about it, but thinking back to field trips through the museum, you seem to remember having seen plenty of portraits of naked ladies lying on pretty but uncomfortable sofas just like this.

He seems very invested, at least. A deep furl between his brows, nearly scowling at you while he works—though you’ve come to learn that it’s just his concentration face.

After a while, he sets his charcoal down and wipes his blackened hands on his apron.

You sit up, asking, “Are you done?” All but ready to leap from your seat to your clothes and finally cover yourself again.

“No, keep still,” he all but reprimands—voice intense as he stalks across the floor over to you with determination written plainly across his face.

You draw back in place as he rests his knee on the chaise and leans forward. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come and correct your pose, but you couldn’t help but flinch this time around, feeling just a bit too exposed.

His hands are warm and overworked, both dry and a bit clammy all at the same time. You didn’t mind much when you wore clothes, but it felt a bit too intimate now as he touched your bare skin. But you bear with it despite that.

Eyes closed, you repeat that same line from before—it doesn’t mean anything, this is standard practice, it doesn’t mean anything.

It works in calming your breath for a moment, but then he grabs your tit.

You gasp, jolting back while stuttering, “Wha–what are you doing?”

And yet, he keeps his steal gaze just as fixed and unfazed as before, sighing at you as if you were overreacting, before stating rather simply, “Getting a better understanding of your body.” He then reaches toward you again, showing no concern for how you shrink away. “It’s easier to replicate when I know it by hand.”

Again, you let his voice silence you, and again, you closed your eyes and let his hands wander—around your chest, up your neck, down your belly, and then—

“Wait! That can’t be necessary—” you blurt out, this time with your arms and hands shooting forth to distance him.

“Oh, trust me—it is.” Again, he pays you no mind, simply bearing over you with his entitled hands roaming whatever place he so wishes and chooses. Only clicking his tongue at you when you squirm, “Don’t fuss.”

You don’t exactly push him away, though you don’t exactly make his pursuit easier for him—lying there beneath his touches, wiggling and whimpering, though not really protesting either as he feels your slit.

Your fingers curl into his arms, gripping his messy shirt streaked with paint and coal—as his fingers run through your lips, teasing your entrance and your clit. He twists his hand around and presses his thumb down on the pearl after it perks for attention, then enters you with his pointer finger—drawing out wetness before promptly feeding you another.

You bite your lip as they curl and spread within you, testing you out while rubbing firm circles into your clit.

Gingerly, your hips return it, starting to move in tune with his ministrations. Thighs trembling, keeping your eyes squeezed tightly shut as you start to pant—small moans leaving your lips with every breath, feeling it build within you—a small flame at first, nursed until it fills and all but fights for room within you before finally bursting.

“That’s it—that’s the expression,” he purrs—voice much softer than usual—cupping your face with his other hand, holding you steady while taking in those dopey eyes sparkling with pleasure and those parted lips that never dare speak up—eyeing you like he's the proud owner of a prized possession. “Perfect.”

He hums, sounding pleased, then gets off you shortly after, sauntering back to his easel.

“You can get dressed now. I got what I needed,” he states, picking the stick of charcoal up again, ripping the last sketch off for a fresh sheet before starting anew as if nothing had happened.

And you, still lying there, are left just as mute as usual.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Touya, Hawks, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Megumi ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Oikawa, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Baro ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Muzan, Sanemi

Wrath is your ex-boyfriend who refuses to get it through his thick skull that the two of you are over.

Any time you talk to another guy, he beats him up—to a fucking pulp, no less.

He’s always been that way, and still, it wasn’t always like this…

You started dating each other when you were young. He was rough around the edges, and you liked that about him—tattoos from his neck down to his ankles—the type your parents would have a heart attack if you ever brought home.

He was going to be a professional fighter, he’d say—mixed martial arts. He had all the rage and zero technique, but still, he’d land some of the best on their ass all through pure strength of will alone.

He was near impossible to train, though—always too wired to be able to take any pointers. And that’s why he needed you. You were his reliever. He’d fuck you like it was his last day on earth, and suddenly he’d be able to do anything. Like an enhancement drug, everything would start moving in slow motion, and he could somehow see all the moves of his opponent before they ever made them.

You admit you liked hearing him preach about it. It made you feel important—made you feel as if half the win, or at least some of it, was yours. And when he started raking in the dough as the champion, winning multiple titles across several tournaments, you were more than happy to be his lucky charm and cheer him on from the sidelines.

But then, you had this awful and sudden feeling of being just that—a tool for his success and nothing else. Sure, he’d give you presents—pretty things he thought suited you well—but you hadn’t gone on a date since his career started, nor had you had a proper sit-down dinner together either. He’d stick to his diet regime, be out training at the gym all day, and you’d be home, going about your own business.

And while you were doing that, you’d think—about the nature of your relationship. And what you found is that all it really entails in the end is him demanding a fuck whenever he needed it—before a tournament, before training, before an interview. And then, after coming to that glum conclusion, you can’t help but feel like nothing more than another one of those items he keeps loose in his gym bag.

And those thoughts only got validated when you tried denying him sex for the first time…

You were just curious, really—curious to see what he’d do. If he’d beg, if he’d plead, if he’d say boo, don’t be that way while down on his hands and knees for you.

But of course... he can’t get anything else but angry.

“If you’re not gonna give me the one thing you're useful for, then what the fuck do I keep you around for?” is what he’d said—no, barked. “You think you’re special? If you’re not gonna put out, I might as well go out and find me someone who will.”

He’d fucked off to some other room with a huff and left you standing there.

And you don’t know, amidst the shell shock and the ache of your heart coming undone... suddenly, you had no idea why you were there or with him or what you were supposed to do—and when you found no answer to any of those questions, it made no sense for you to stay. And so you went to your shared bedroom—or his bedroom, as a matter of fact, which you’d stayed in for the last months—quickly grabbed your things—your things specifically, and not all the other stuff he’d thrown at you—and stuffed it all haphazardly in your bag, then gone out to the entryway to put your shoes on.

That’s when he’d reared his head again with the gall of asking, “Where the fuck are you going?”

He hadn’t had that same raised tone as before. No, this time it was lowered—frayed—with a touch of urgency and unease as if balancing on the edge of a knife—as if he knew he'd done something wrong and was reaping the consequences and yet still hadn't the balls to simply apologize and correct it.

And so, you hadn’t answered him.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” he’d stated then, coming closer, ready to grab your arm with that hint of alarm in his voice increased. “Hey, I asked you fucking a question—”

That’s when you’d twisted around and slapped him. You’d put all your might into it as well, though you doubt it compared to much of what he’d felt in the ring.

And still, he’d looked at you as if he’d just lost all his titles.

He hadn’t said anything else after that—just stood there with his mouth agape as you opened the door and slammed it shut behind you. In fact, you don't think he even dared do so much as take a breath.

You’d gone and crashed at a friend's and rethought your life. There was no way you could ever go back, after all—not after what he’d said. Treating you like a stay-at-home whore. Who the fuck does he think he is?

What an asshole—you'd tried convincing yourself as you cried yourself to sleep…

The days and weeks after were nothing if not fucked up and toxic, to say the least. You’d go out to have a fun time and try to forget about him, but he’d always show up out of the blue to ruin everything—being his usual douche self.

Though… you can’t exactly claim to be any better than him—not after finding yourself in bed with his number-one up-and-coming rival.

Of course, it ends up all over the news—big headlines plastered on every gossip platform pushing your private affairs for all to see—a real media circus if there ever was one.

You end up back in his apartment. To talk, he’d said—a pretense you had a hard time believing in. He’s never been one to talk much. Honestly, you don’t know why you even bothered coming over when he asked. There might even be a chance he’ll kill you. This is how most homicides start, after all.

The two of you sit in silence for a couple of minutes. You look off to the side, waiting for him to speak because fuck knows you have nothing to say.

Meanwhile, he just stares at you—his big, hulking body leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands braided before his face. It’s the type of posture he’ll have when sitting in the corner of the ring—he’s got that same look in his eyes, too, deadset on you.

It makes you a little nervous, actually—maybe he really does plan on killing you.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks suddenly.

You almost scoff—almost roll your eyes, but you end up simply returning his dead glare. “Is that really what you asked me here for?”

He doesn’t answer that question. He just keeps staring at you.

You huff out a sigh, “I don’t know, maybe I just wondered what it would be like to be fucked like a woman for once and not someone’s toy.”

You don’t know why you decided to take it there when you both know why you’d done it. What other fucking reason would there be other than to get back at him? It’s a stupid question to begin with, and so you give it a stupid answer in return. And you won’t deny it feels fucking good—seeing him like this. Five o’clock shadow, eyebags, and uncut, disheveled hair.

He looks like a wreck, and rightfully so. Fuck knows what a mess you’d been before you finally managed to drag yourself out of bed. Funny what the single simple thought of revenge can do for someone so lost.

He scrapes his thumb down his jawline, over his stubble—a deep sigh running through him as he leans back on the couch. Offering no other reaction as he says, “I can sit here and act threatened, but you and I both know he was shit compared to me.”

He throws his arms up against the headrest, chin tipped up. Thinking he can hide it, thinking you can’t see right through him—to how hard he’s fighting to upkeep the poker face.

He’s forgetting who his opponent is.

“I know you, babe—I know your body. And there's no fucking way some shitstain you just met–”

“His dick was bigger,” you interrupt—face blank because two can play that silly game, and you do it better.

He’s shut up for a moment—you can see a vein pulse, but it’s quickly stifled, and he smirks instead, snickering despite his grit teeth, “Sorry, that must'a hurt given how much you cry with me.”

This time, you don’t refrain from scoffing and rolling your eyes, “That's all you have to say? Thought you were a fighter.”

“You want me to get jealous? Is that it?” he accuses then, starting to crack, throwing your scoff back at you, “Tch—should've fucked somebody important then.”

This time, you skip the eye-roll and flat-out laugh instead, “I'll keep that in mind. Next time, I'll call up your dad-”

That did it—got him out of his seat and everything. “Shut your mouth.” Standing big and hunched, all muscles and fury.

And you react in kind. Glad that you’re finally getting somewhere. “Make me.”

"You're fucking–" He clenched his fist in the air, scrunching his face in frustration, withholding a growl before releasing a heavy sigh instead.

Dropping his arms, shoulders slumping—hanging his head the same way whilst mumbling under his breath, “Fuck this… fuck this entire thing.”

And just as quickly as he’d sprung to his feet, he flopped down on the couch again.

“I don't wanna play games…” He looks up at you—now with the look of a starved and beaten dog. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

He reaches out slowly—big hands cradling your thighs, pulling you towards him gently, and you let him—put off by that strange new look in his eyes.

“You can fuck half the world, and I'd still only want you.”

It’s an odd confession. Unexpected coming from him. You’d anticipated more of a fight, not whatever this is. Looking at you with glossy eyes on the verge of tears. Suddenly, you feel kind of mean, struck with this sense of guilt for having reduced him to such a state.

“Don't take the high road. It doesn't suit you,” you declare, though without much bite.

And he just sighs, “Fuck that, we’re even now.” Pulling you even closer still—into his lap—he makes you straddle him. Forehead to forehead without kissing you yet. “So, are you gonna let me fuck you, or are you really gonna make me beg?”

And though you would kind of like to see what he’d look like on his knees, the sight of him like this was good enough proof that he’d learned his lesson despite it not being an apology.

Besides, he'd been all too right when he’d said the other guy couldn’t fuck you like him.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Kyotani, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Shido ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ HxH – Uvogin

Sloth is a street urchin.

You volunteer at the homeless shelter and can’t help but feel extra sorry for him. He’s only around your age—so young yet with no future to speak of.

This winter, given it’s going to be an especially harsh one, all volunteers have been asked if they have any spare room they can be so kind as to give to those less fortunate. And though you’re not that well off yourself, you still have an extra room you’ve only been using as storage.

So, unable to look the other way, you decide to clean it out, get a bed, and host him.

You took precautions first, naturally—just to be safe. But, from what you could tell, he’s neither a drug addict nor has any criminal record to speak of. No, he’s just another abandoned kid who'd society had failed.

This is the least you can do to correct its wrongs.

And, of course, he falls in love with you for it. Not only do you give him a place of rest—but you make him warm food, give him fresh clothes, do his laundry, draw his bath, watch movies with him every night, and always ask him if he has everything he needs. You even cut his long, shaggy hair for him and give him luxuries such as face-lotion.

You’re a saint, too good for a filthy sinner like him, but he’ll never let you know that... No, your pity feels too nice—taking such good care of him—he’s going to leach off of you and your honeycomb heart for the rest of his life if he can help it.

He doesn't look too bad after he cleans up, and after a few more weeks of eating well and getting enough rest—he stops lurching and starts standing up straight, looking lanky and lean with muscle—at which point you can’t deny he’s even a little hot. You know… in that scrappy sort of way.

You feel weird about it, of course—guilty even. He’s a homeless guy you’re housing—you’d be nothing if not downright evil if you took advantage of him. But after a few weeks of settling in, he starts feeling like more of a normal roommate and not a stranger. And with that familiarity, you both lose the distance and become more lax and loose around each other—wearing less, talking casually, not afraid to brush up against each other, and before you even know it, you find yourself folded in half beneath him on the living room couch.

You don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into—but his cock’s so big he’s pounding the sense right out of you with every thrust.

He’s not even going fast. No, rather slow, actually—taking his time as if savoring it. But that doesn't take away from the pleasure bubbling up inside of you where his strokes hit so heavy, resting deep within, so fulfilling that it all but replaces your better judgment with the sole need to squeeze him with all you've got.

“Mh, you’re pussy’s so nice and warm—I could stay inside you forever.”

You’re so wet it’s ridiculous—like never before—like you’re the one who’s been starved and neglected and not the other way around. Getting your breath all but knocked out of you, getting fucked so utterly full, he’s making you kick your feet and curl your toes in the air, bucking your hips back into him like you’re desperately begging for more.

He’s got your knees hooked over his arms, keeping you neatly pressed under him. “You’re so good to me—so, so sweet, you must be the sweetest girl in the whole entire world. My guardian angel.”

All you’re able to do is babble and moan in return—misty- and cross-eyed with your dewy face cradled in his hands.

You just hold onto his wrists while he speaks fondly against your lips, “You saved me when no one else even bothered looking. Let me return the favor—give this pretty pussy all the thanks it deserves.”

When he re-angles and hits you in a different spot, the switch in your lower belly is immediate—making your whole body seize up and shiver, breath shuddering in your throat, followed swiftly by a pulse migrating from your core all throughout your body, tasting oversweet on your tongue enough to make you drool.

He locks lips with yours, slurping your spit up sloppily and keeping himself fully sleaved as you peak—feeling your wet, gummy walls tighten and flutter, rippling along his length like a rush of kisses.

Then, right before it fully dies down, he picks up the pace again and rekindles it—because fuck knows he’s well-rested and over-due and the farthest thing from done with you just yet.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso ♡ JJK – Mahito, Gojo, Yuji, Megumi, Yuuta, Choso ♡ HQ – Kuro, Lev, Miya twins, Suna, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji, Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Nagi ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Togame

Gluttony is a five-star chef.

You start off as a waitress at his restaurant. And yet, he’s the one who developed an appetite—for you and your pleasing smile and that busy-bee swing you have in your hip as you hop around from table to table.

He licks his lips at the sight of you more than he does the food he makes. He even had the uniforms altered in your image—made the skirts shorter and shirts tighter.

He's utterly shameless, but who can blame him? You’re such a little bite-sized treat—he just has to taste you.

And taste you, he most certainly does.

For breakfast and for brunch and lunch and dinner and supper, as well as a midnight snack.

“Your pussy juice is my favorite,” he groans from between your legs.

Fat-muscled chef’s arms, tattooed with all types of silly patches, curled tightly around your thighs, keeping you close despite those times you try and push away when it gets to be a little too much—because fuck knows he doesn’t have the same reservations. Nose and tongue and chin deep in your slit, slurping you down while filling you up with his words, “I want to flavor every meal I make with you.”

You keep a hand over your face, kissing your knuckles, sometimes with a bite—whimpering pitifully, “Gross…”

Of course, you can’t help but cringe when he says things like that. He’s your boss, after all, not a porn actor. Still, you don’t say it with much conviction. It’s just that you get so embarrassed you don’t know what else to say.

He chuckles, still with his face buried. “Don’t be childish.” Words muffled as he doubles down on his efforts of sucking on your clit like a piece of candy.

“I’m not,” you whine. “You're just weird.”

He smacks off of you at that, a refreshing sigh leaving him rugged and raspy, a devilish look in his eyes as if he’s about to eat you for real. “I’m a world-renowned chef—are you implying I don’t know my flavors?”

Everything in your gut coils with anticipation, nearly rumbling with need, while he pulls your lower half up and even closer—face glossy with the way he’d gorged himself already—licking his teeth now as he refocuses on your clit alone.

Flattening his tongue on it while he speaks, sounding like some type of beast, “I’ve tasted everything the world has to offer. And I'm telling you, this pretty little thing between your legs is the best there is.”

You can’t stand looking up at him. Beyond embarrassed, you hide your face with both hands. Mumbling out a weak, “Pervert...”

Again, he snickers, shaking his head as if he’s ripping into flesh when he’s really just got his tongue out—straight motorboating your poor pussy.

When done, he drops you onto the bed again, grinning while replying to your insult, “Can’t argue with that,” before promptly kissing and licking up your belly—with fingers replacing his tongue, pumping you on his knuckles, getting you ready.

He groans when his mouth reaches your chest, lips wrapped around a nipple, “If only these titties had milk. I could feast on you from every position.”

You don’t know if you should giggle or grumble—he’s such a baby—and a spoiled one at that. But really, his fingering is making it difficult to do anything but stammer and try and keep it together, “We talked about this—I’m not taking hormones just to breastfeed you, you weirdo.”

He whines then, “Please—it’s my only wish in the entire world—I need it.”

You struggle to argue, feeling like you’re under siege—an onslaught set out to make you breathless. “Well—” you pant, gritting your teeth and bearing it. “We can’t always get what we want.”

“Oh, I’ll see about that.” He takes it as a challenge, this time really locking his lips around your nipple and suckling—releasing just briefly to say, “I bet if I suck on these babies enough, they’ll give me what I want.”

He keeps his fingers working diligently while at it—used to multitasking—curling and spreading them out within you, pumping you so fast, you barely have the time to beg him to “Stop that—” before you’re already shaking and cumming for what must be the seventh time already.

He laughs breathily, kissing your teat goodbye as he lifts himself up again. Pulling his fingers out of you, he brings them to his lips and blithely sucks them off.

“You know I can’t stop, dear. I’m so hungry—I’m ravenous.”

You watch him from over the tips of your fingers. So hot and mortified you think you’re soon to pass out. Breathing heavily behind your hands, muttering, “You’re a glutton—that’s what you are.”

Again, he just cheerfully snickers, bowing down to your halfway-hidden face with a smile. “I hardly see how it’s my fault I can’t get enough of you.”

He spreads your legs again and finds his place between them.

“You’re the one who got me hooked—so you better take responsibility for it.”

♡ BNHA – Kirishima, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Toji, Todo ♡ HQ – Bokuto, Ukai ♡ BLLK – Baro, Aiku ♡ AOT – Zeke ♡ DS – Doma ♡ HxH – Uvogin ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

Lust is your boss. He's the owner of the strip club where you work, your pimp when money’s tight, as well as the porndirector of all your lovely little films.

Yeah, you might as well have a tramp stamp of his name on your ass, the way he practically owns you…

He's around ten years older and has basically taught you all about sex from when you were only a fledgling in the industry. You live at his studio above the club since he keeps all your money in a bank account under his name, calling you his little sugarbaby and telling you you’ll get an allowance and that you can get more if and when you ask him nicely and tell him what it’s for.

“Don’t be a brat, baby. You know how I hate it when you're a bad girl,” he says when you raise the topic of moving out, treating it as if you’re a child threatening to run away from home.

“I don’t belong to you. Give me what you owe me.”

Honestly, you have no idea where you got the courage.

But is it courage? Or is it just plain stupidity? Because, though you’re increasingly more terrified as you quickly watch him lose his temper, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. And so, if you knew this is what was going to happen—why the fuck would you put yourself through it?

Must be madness.

“I give you everything, don't I? Food, clothes, a home,” he chastises, bearing over you while you’re down on scuffed knees, holding your wrist in a bruising grip and your face just as fiercely—nearly tearing the skin off your cheeks with the bite of his nails.

“And still, you have the fucking nerve to act like a goddamn bitch.”

You hiccup on sobs, spluttering out a desperate “Please—I’m sorry–”

"You and your entire slut body belong to me, you understand that?"

"Yes-yes—please—I'm sorry! You're right! I belong to you! I'm sorry!"

That seems to calm him just a bit—at least enough to take the bite away from his voice, now cooing at you in an ugly mocking attempt at sweetness, “Yeah, you do every single little thing I ask. ‘Cause if you’re not gonna behave like a good girl, I have no other choice but to treat you like a bad one.”

He lets your audience be rowdier than usual that night, allowing them to slap and grab, then forces you to have an extra rough shoot afterward—with tighter bondage, more toys, bigger guys making use of you like a piece of meat, smacking and choking you as they find out how many cocks your holes can fit, every last one finishing on your face.

Then, when you’re all done and all used up for the day, he brings you upstairs—home, sweet home—where he treats you to some much-unwanted after-care...

You shiver and shake despite the hot water. Sitting in the bathtub, laying back with your spine against his chest, feeling thin like a sheet of paper, all crumbled up and torn—sniffling and sniveling as the after-shock of the day still ricochets through you like wind through a hollow husk.

“The shoot today was rough, huh?” he drawls, washing you with his own hands. Stroking your poor sore cunt despite how it makes you whimper. “Yeah... was it a little too rough for you, hm?”

You don’t do anything in return—but your body language says enough on its own, and he allows it to be your answer.

Sighing heavily, he wraps you up with both arms and squeezes you tighter, chin resting atop your head.

“You know… if you’d just be my good girl, I’d give you a good girl to-do list. Let you stay here all day, do some house chores while I’m gone, make love when I get home, hm? Doesn’t that sound better?”

He traces a welted bruise on the inside of your thigh, one you got from the shoot—roughly the shape of a hand, and a dozen more others layered on top of it. It makes you suck in a hiss.

“But if you’re gonna be a bad girl, then this is what you get.”

He settles into the grove of your neck, purring against your ear. “Are you gonna be my good girl from now on? Hm?”

You bite your lip, breath shuddering while nodding pitifully.

And still, he insists, “Say it so I can hear it.”

The water’s gone cold around you—just like everything else, as you say, “I’ll be a good girl.”

He seems pleased, at least. Nuzzling against your cheek with chin stubble and a smirk, asking, “Yeah? Whose?”

Your voice is small and pathetic, nearly a wince, “Yours.”

He groans then, “That’s right. My good girl.” Lifting his hand from the water, he takes hold of your chin, fingers pressing into those designated sore spots as he angles your face toward him and gives you a heartless kiss before growling against your lips, “And don’t you ever fucking dare forget it again.”

After he’s finished washing you up, he carries you out to bed. It's one you fear much more than the one down in the studio.

Because in this bed, just like every night in this hellhole… he starts teaching every last one of your holes who they belong to.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Reo, Shido, Aiku ♡ AOT – Zeke ♡ DS – Doma, Muzan, Sanemi

Envy is your enemy.

Or, well, no, he’s not your enemy, but you’re most certainly his enemy.

You’re just not aware of it because of what a ditzy and clueless airhead you are.

But fuck, he can’t stand you—you and your fake personality, acting all bubbly and sweet, cheering him on, always telling him to do his best—condescending little bitch acting like everyone’s friend—like he doesn’t see through you right to your rotten core. You don’t fool him—he knows you’re as bad as the rest of them, so just quit pretending like you’re better or something.

You’re under the false impression that the two of you are friends. You just think he has a strange sense of humor, but you laugh politely even when you don’t always get the joke.

Well, maybe it’s not so much politeness, but the fact that you have a big fat hopeless crush on him.

It infuriates him. He throws your niceties back in your face as insults, and you just laugh. How low do you think of him? Honestly? How tall is that high horse of yours that you have your head constantly in the clouds?

Poor you… you just think he’s so cool—always saying what he feels like, not a lame people-pleasing goodie-two-shoes such as yourself. You can’t help but follow him around like a lost puppy all day long. You’re always making sure you sit next to him during lectures—heart almost beating out of your chest, holding back from squealing when your prayers are answered, and the two of you are finally paired for a project together.

It really feels like the universe is on your side, and so you just can’t stop yourself from going the full mile—making chocolates and preparing him a hand-written love letter. You know he’ll think you’re a little silly, that he’ll make fun of you for it—but you can’t expect to get anywhere without putting your heart on the line, can you? For a chance at love, the risk must be worth it!

Yeah, you’re such a hopeless romantic—you feel it as he punches his fist through your ribs when he rips out your poor heart and stomps all over it.

“I fucking get it already! You’re little miss pretty and popular. Would you quit rubbing it in my face, or do I really have to spell it out for you? I. Don’t. Fucking. Like. You,” he seethes through grit teeth. “Go pick another one of the hundreds dying to be your partner and leave me the fuck alone!”

You shrink where you stand, shocked doe-eyes rapidly welling up like a flood, lips wobbling as you choke on your words, “Oh… okay… I’m sorry… I just… I–”

“You-you-you what?” he barks at your stuttering. “Spit it out already! What the fuck do you want?”

“I just-I-I just always thought you were amazing. So…”

His face contorts, scrunches up in a grimace different from anger, though not without it, as he spits out, “What the fuck are you on about now?”

But his voice is a little diminished now, with confusion usurping the place of his hate, suddenly feeling a little out of sorts because… what did you actually just say?

“I just, I really like you–” you repeat, hanging your head, only barely able to mumble through the tears blocking your throat. “But I guess I’ve just annoyed you all this time—I’m sorry...”

Only now does he notice you’re trying to hand him something—a flat little box with a pink note attached.

“This is for you, but I understand if you don’t want it.” Unable to look up, you just stretch your arms out until it gently bumps into him.

Baffled, he accepts without thinking.

“I’m sorry—I’ll leave you alone from now on.” And then you run off, disappearing with a sob that all but shoots him through the chest.

And slowly bleeding out, he remains standing there, eyes glued to where you'd left—mouthing the word what…

What did you just say?

Like? Him?

Did he mishear you, or did you just confess?

No way—that can’t be it, right?

But what the fuck is this heart-shaped letter, then?

"What the fuck did I just do?"

You look like you’ve been crying your eyes out all night the next day—your usual bubbly personality reduced to a ghost in a shell, walking the hallways like a zombie, slowly and without purpose, eyes on the ground—letting everyone bump into you.

You don't even so much as bat an eye when someone runs straight over you, fully knocking all your books and folders onto the floor.

You just get on your knees and start recollecting them.

A newfound hate flares up within him at the sight. “Hey, you!" He stomps over. "Watch where the fuck you’re going next time, dipshit.”

You look up at the sound of his voice—flinching before you notice it’s not directed at you.

No, rather, he’s got a boy up against the lockers, lifted by his collar onto the tip of his toes. Face only a few inches from his, glaring at him harsher than he’d glared at you yesterday.

“Now apologize to the girl before I punch your ugly face in.”

You stare at the altercation with large eyes, only able to blink as the boy who’d bumped into you starts spluttering on the verge of tears, “I–I’m sorry–I didn’t see you! Sorry!”

You don’t answer. Shocked and speechless, you remain on the floor in confusion, asking yourself why’s he doing this? Didn’t he cuss you out yesterday, or was it all a bad dream like you'd hoped?

He throws the boy on his way, then gets on his knees down alongside you—proceeding to help you gather your things.

You only watch on in wordless bewilderment until he starts muttering something under his breath.

“I’m sorry I made you cry yesterday.” He stacks all your things in a neat pile next to you while continuing his apology. “And for being an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”

He keeps his eyes fixed to the floor where his hands busily roam around until there was nothing more to retrieve.

He then hesitantly looks up at you—eyes flittering—a little too ashamed to hold your gaze as he says, “Your chocolates were really good.”

That’s when your heart starts fluttering again—as if new life was just breathed in and revived it.

He can see it as well—how you light up like a rekindled candle.

“They were?” you gush, shuffling closer on your knees all excitedly—face brighter than the sun on cloudfree summer day.

It blinds him—nearly stunts him, only able to utter a meager, almost shy, “Yeah.”

He then slings his bag in front of him and pulls something out.

A lunchbox.

“I made you these..." he swallows thickly. "As an apology…”

He’s utterly red—from the tips of his ears to his neck and entire face, even his hands.

“For me?”

“Yeah..." He reaches it over stiffly. “They’re not as good as yours, though...”

You eagerly accept despite his nervousness, popping the lid off where the two of you sit—right there in the middle of the hallway floor, with other students walking around you like water passing two rocks in a stream.

His blush grows ever more intense as you pick one of his crudely made chocolates up, not even examining it before throwing one into your mouth.

It was his first time making anything that required a recipe. And they most certainly did not come out well, but he figured the embarrassment was part of his atonement.

He didn’t actually expect you to try them.

But there you are—lying through your teeth, saying, “I think they’re great!”

He can only scoff out a soft laugh. “Of course you would.”

Turns out, you really are just a nice person after all. You don’t have the heart to be mean at all, do you? Yeah, you don’t even have it in you to feel any of the ugly things he keeps inside. In fact, he bets you don’t even have the means of knowing such ugly things exist.

That must be what he’s envied about you all this time…

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Shinso ♡ JJK – virgin Sukuna, Megumi ♡ HQ – Tsukishima ♡ BLLK – Rin, Sae ♡ DS – Genya

Greed is your clingy childhood friend.

He doesn’t want to share you with anyone and gets viscerally jealous each time you hang out with others. It’s as if he feels boils rising beneath his skin, simmering with a violent need to kill anyone and everyone you ever come into contact with—even if it’s just a passerby who accidentally brushes against you.

He can’t stand other people—how they think they can just come along and be your friend when he’s been your friend since you both were in diapers. What? Do they really expect him to share you with them? Just like that? No way. You’re his best friend. They should all go find themselves their own.

Actually, the term best friend doesn’t even really cut it… It’s a little too childish. You’ve both grown out of it. And besides, it never really fully encompassed what the two of you actually are to each other. You’re so much more than just friends, after all. Yeah, what you really are is soulmates. Yeah, that sounds more right. Soulmates.

And the bond between soulmates is like the bond between an addict and their favorite drug. You wouldn’t ask an addict to share his favorite drug, now would you? No. Not unless you’re prepared to either kill or be killed.

But he can’t say he blames them for wanting you, either. Of course, they’d want you—anyone would.

He pities them, actually. And you make it no better for the poor suckers, stringing them all along—acting as if there’s enough of you to go around. Well, there just isn’t. And even if there was, he shouldn't have to share you with anyone.

Yeah, the problem here is you. You don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand that you’re his.

Well… seems like he’ll just have to teach you once and for all, now, doesn’t it?

“What’s… this?” you mumble groggily once you wake, sluggishly tugging your bound wrists—not yet aware of what they are. Your eyes blow wide once you do—voice turning sharply frantic, “What’s happening?”

“We’re having a play date like we used to.” He comes into view just as the panic sets in—and though his face has all the familiarity to be a sign of comfort, his words evoke no such feeling within you.

“Remember? How we used to play house?" he says. "Granted, we're a little older now… so I thought I’d change it up a bit.”

He stands before the bed you’re currently lying tied down on. But he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s something very wrong about all of him. Seeming way too at ease for the situation.

“Instead of making mud pies…” he continues. “I'm gonna fuck you and give you a creampie.”

Your heart lurches up into your throat at his words, and you choke. Your clothes from the day have been removed, leaving you naked. You spot them lying on the floor in a heap while you spastically look around for clues as to “What the fuck’s going on? This isn’t funny–”

“Shut up,” he says—his demeanor still as nonchalant as he climbs on top of you and pushes something past your lips, nudging it deep down in your throat.

Feeling it as it scrapes your tongue, you can tell it’s your lace panties, and you gag—shaking your head, trying to dislodge both it and his fingers, but he holds you steady.

“I have things to say. So, be a good friend and listen.”

You start crying then—brows cinched as you look up at him in terror, full-tremoring now while struggling under his weight and the all-too-intimate way he starts touching you.

“I'm glad you’re still a virgin…” he suddenly says, running his hands down your breasts, catching your nipples between his fingers.

You twist in disgust, halfway convinced you’re having some godawful fucked up dream—that this just can’t be happening—but somehow, at the same time, something deep in your gut that’s been lying there for a while ignored by your kind heart doesn't find it completely without warning, having felt how strange he'd been acting as of late—always looking at you a certain way and saying certain concerning things—certain concerning things he’s saying right now, “I’d kill all those little toy friends of yours if you were ever so stupid to let them have it.”

He glares at you—looking every bit angry, and yet you can’t describe it exactly. Something about that look in his eyes makes him seem like a complete stranger to you. Then he cracks a smile, and it makes it all the worse. Bowing down until his forehead presses clean against yours, noses rubbing against each other.

“But I think you knew. Didn’t you? Knew how it wouldn’t be right. Knew it was mine to take.”

He shuffles backward until he’s separating your thighs instead of straddling your waist. And you croak with an especially full-chested sob as his touches travel further down along with him—with savage goosebumps running rampant across your body once he rubs his thumb crassly over your slit.

“You see?” his breath shudders in his throat—thick with something mortifying that’s bound to ruin you forever. “It’s so happy to see me.”

You whine and scramble, trying to force your thighs shut—but he has the upper hand—keeping you spread with his body while two of his fingers slip through your lips and bully themselves inside.

He pumps them in and out with zero regard to how you recoil—only sneering at the way you worm in disgust, “At least your pussy understands where its loyalties lie.”

It’s not long before his ministrations draw wetness, and he pulls them out—inspecting them in the dim light he’s left on. Rubbing the digits together before putting them in his mouth.

You close your eyes with a whimper while listening to the sickening sounds of him sucking them clean.

He puts both hands around your neck next. He doesn't squeeze hard, but your breath stops nonetheless. Eyes stinging with both spent and still-welling tears.

“I’m upset with you,” he states, brushing his lips over your parted ones, still stuffed and silenced with your own underwear. “But I’ll forgive you if you apologize and swear to me that you meant it when you said we’d be friends forever.”

That look in his eyes—you still can’t explain it. Desperate, desolate, deranged, and enraged—something downright sick.

“But since you can’t talk right now, you’ll have to prove it some other way...”

One of the hands disappears, and you hear the following sounds of a zipper being undone, then the rustling of his pants being shoved down.

“Cum on my cock, and I’ll know.”

The room tastes of blood and something rotten as he frees his cock and graces your clit.

“Actions speak louder than words anyway, after all, don’t they? So cum on my cock, and I’ll cum in your pussy, so we can seal our friendship again—just like the time we married each other on the playground.”

He enters you, and you think you might just die in the mix of horror and grief.

And yet you remain perfectly alive—even as he rips through you and splits both you and your heart apart.

“You can think of this as the honeymoon,” he whispers. “Always and forever, happily ever after, never apart.”

♡ BNHA – Deku ♡ JJK – Gojo, Yuuta ♡ HQ – Tendou ♡ BLLK – Bachira ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Nirei

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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dollmoth-productions · 3 months ago

Text

This was an ask I got a while back, but either I can't find it or accidentally deleted it. But to the anon who asked for a scenario like this, here you go! :D

TW: Amnesia, parental/platonic yandere, forced infantilization, drugging, implied kidnapping, manipulation

"Help! Please help!" you cry, running as fast as you can throughout the dense forest. Branches and sharp brambles scrape your cheeks and catch onto your clothes.

You stop for a brief moment to pick the twigs out of your disheveled hair. The small cuts sting horribly but it doesn't deter you from pushing onwards.

Sweat beads down your forehead and you wipe at it furiously. Your chest is heaving, desperately trying to take in more oxygen.

"(Y/n)! Stop!" His booming voice echoes throughout the forest.

He's getting closer to you. You have to keep running, keep moving, keep—

Something hits you, something cold and metal. You barely have enough consciousness to realize it was a car, on the dirt road path. Your vision swims, and your head feels ready to burst.

Your ears ring incessantly. All you can hear is that horrible noise, but it doesn't completely drown out him calling for you.

And suddenly there are strong arms around you. "Oh! My baby! What have you done?!" Someone picks you up. They yell to someone else, but their voice is fading out.

Your vision fades to nothing.

...

When you wake up, there's the sound of something beeping. It's a comforting constant rhythm, steady and predictable. You think you know what it is, but your head feels all muddled and foggy.

Something cool and soft presses against your forehead, and you lean into the soothing touch.

"That's right, honey. Nice and easy," a voice speaks above you. Its light, with a subtle hint of an accent you can't recognize. A thumb gently rubs at your temple, massaging it with care and ease. "That must've been a pretty bad fall you took. Don't worry, I've got you."

You open your eyes. Hovering above you, is a man with long messy brown hair, light brown eyes, and a slight stubble of facial hair. He looks to be in his early to mid forties or so.

There's something familiar about him. You should know who this person is... but your brain cannot come up with a name.

"There they are!" the man coos. The corner of his eyes crinkle. He has crow's feet around them. You think those mean someone smiles often. You stare blankly back at him, mind still groggy from what happened earlier. He hums a melody, and gently brushes his fingertips along your arm.

"What..."

"Hush now, don't talk just yet," he murmurs. His other hand is behind your head, propping you up in its palm. "Had quite a nasty fall there. Scared me half to death!"

"Where am I?" You blink, still slightly disoriented.

"Shhh..." He kisses your bandaged forehead. "You're here in the hospital, sweetie. Just got done doing x-rays on your head." The room around you is stark white. There are various machines around you and one is beeping at a constant rhythm. It smells of chemicals and medicine. "I know you hate being scolded, but (Y/n), you know better than to play in the forest so late at night..." He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly.

You squint at him, trying to jog your memory as to who this guy even is. Is he perhaps someone important? Someone you're supposed to know?

As hard as you try, no answers come to mind. And now that you're thinking about it, you really can't remember much at all besides your name and general sense of self.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" you awkwardly ask.

The man freezes. His eyebrows raise up in surprise before furrowing with concern. "Wh—(Y/n), sweetie," he looks at you. "Can you tell me who I am?" You shake your head. He stares at you for a moment, like frozen. Only when you awkwardly look down, does he do too. "The doctors mentioned possible memory loss, but..." He looks so torn; eyebrows twisted up sadly. You almost want to reach out and hug him.

The only thing that stops you is the IV, and the fact you don't know him, despite what he says.

"What's the last thing you remember, baby?" he asks again.

You wrack your brain. "I don't know. I know my name... and that's about it."

A flash of pain shoots through his gaze, though he seems to keep himself collected. "Okay. So, sweetie... I'm your dad." He reaches out to clasp your hands. "My name is Hugo Harrison. You're (Y/n) Harrison."

"You... don't look very much like me..." You realize that might be a rude thing to say. "Sorry, I didn't mean that in a mean way."

Hugo chuckles. "It's okay, there's not a mean bone in your body, kiddo." He pauses, like contemplating his next words extra carefully. "I'm your adoptive dad. Now, we could go into a lot more detail, but let's not strain that noggin of yours for today, hm?" He tenderly touches your wrapped forehead. You must have injured it severely, which explains the splitting headache and memory loss.

"Oh, that makes sense," you murmur. You take in his appearance more. He has a tattoo peaking from below his collar shirt, and looks a bit rugged, with muscular arms that have a few scars. He even has an eyebrow piercing on his left.

Despite that, he seems so... sweet.

"Do you have any photos of us?" you ask. Part of it is genuine curiosity, but mostly just because you don't know what else to say.

His eyes soften, and he pulls out his phone to immediately show you his lock screen.

Sure enough, there the two of you are, smiling at the camera. It doesn't look like it was too long ago. You're both indoors, wearing some kind of brown and periwinkle uniforms.

Noticing your confused expression, he explains, "I own a cafe, sometimes you help out. That's where this photo is from. One of my favorites."

He scrolls through his camera roll and shows another picture of the both of you. In this one, you're sleeping on his lap, his hand covering the side of your face in an apparent attempt to block you from seeing the flash.

You nod mutely, trying to soak it all in. All you know of this man is from these two images.

So far, there's nothing overtly suspicious. Nothing that triggers alarm bells or raises red flags. At this point, you have no reason not to believe him.

So why do you feel so unsettled?

"How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Not good," you mumble, bringing a hand up to your head, cringing from the pain.

He presses a kiss to your hair, holding it for several seconds before pulling away. "Oh, sweetheart..." His voice wavers with emotion. "I'll talk to the doctors again. For now, you rest up, okay?"

With such a splitting headache and sore body, you have no trouble obeying his commands. Your eyes flutter shut, and the last thing you hear is a sigh coming from him, as well as something about wanting to take you home.

...

"Easy," Hugo soothes, letting you lean on him heavily as he walks you to his house. Everything hurts from your body to your head. The medication from earlier wore off halfway to his home.

Speaking of his house, it looks pretty much like a standard home, if not kind of cute, almost reminiscent of a cottage. It's beige with dark brown trimmings. Ivy climbs around the windows.

Flower beds line along the pathway to the front door and a vegetable garden sits near the shed in the back. There's wind chimes hanging near the entrance.

"I wish I could remember any of this," you mutter as he situates you on the couch. "Sorry."

"No, no," he reassures, rubbing your upper arm. "Don't apologize, okay? It's not your fault that this happened."

"What was I doing out in the forest, anyway? You mentioned something about that... is that something I typically do?" you ask.

Hugo looks confused for a moment, then nods. "Ah. Well, it was something you'd usually do, but hopefully that will be the last time. Sometimes you get... impulsive. You do things that are reckless. That's why I'm so protective of you. This isn't the first time you got injured like that." He shakes his head and laughs. "Stubborn kid you are..."

"I see." What else can you say, really? You wish your brain would hurry up and recall something. Right now it just feels blank. All you have to go off of is Hugo. "I know I can't remember, but I'm still sorry. For what I did. Or, uh, do."

His gaze softens even more, looking like the definition of fond. "Like I said, sweetie, you don't need to worry about a thing. It's all in the past now. What matters is that you're here now, safe with me. How about I take you up to your room? You can get a nap in while I make dinner. Sound nice?" He brushes his thumb over your temple.

You wordlessly lean against him. He chuckles and helps you back up, mindful of your injuries, and leads you upstairs.

Again, it looks like a completely normal household. Nothing stands out to you besides perhaps the large number of photographs littering the walls.

Your bedroom has pastel blue wallpaper with stars decorating the top half of the wall.

There's a bunch of stuffed animals lining the bed, as well as pillows with galaxy themed pillows. The carpet is plush and your feet sink slightly in them.

"This was... mine?"

"Yes!" He seems less happy about it when he sees your expression. "Do you not like it? You decorated it yourself..."

"Isn't it kind of, uh, childish? Nothing wrong with that, of course, just doesn't seem like something someone older would want," you lamely explain.

Hugo takes another moment to mull over his words. "Well... you've always been a bit childish for your age, sweetie. I think it's adorable, and you seemed content with this room before... but if you really want to change it up, I don't mind at all." His strained smile tells you that he does, in fact, mind it.

"That's okay. I think I do like it, now that I've seen it longer," you reassure him. Part of it might be because you feel bad. You hobble over to the bed with his assistance, and watch him choose a cutesy beige pajama set. The sleeves are longer than your arms and the pants are covered in sheep patterns. "Do I normally wear that to bed?"

"More like just your typical lounge wear," he answers. "Do you need help, or can I leave you to it?"

"Um, you can leave me to it." You watch him open the door to leave. "Oh, by the way... what do I call you? By your name? Dad? Papa?"

A large smile stretches across his lips. "You call me 'Papa', but really anything works with me. Just want you to feel comfortable, bud. Oh, and dinner'll be ready soon. Tomato, chicken noodle, or cream of mushroom?"

You look down at your lap, where your pajamas lay. "What ever I liked most, I guess."

He hums in affirmation. "Sounds good."

Before long, you've changed and situate yourself on your bed, the stuffed toys huddled around you like a cocoon. Though everything seems fine and cozy, it all feels too new, too strange, for it to feel exactly right. It's supposed to be yours, you know this. And yet, it feels so... foreign.

This should make sense. Logically, it does. But your intuition keeps whispering doubts, despite Hugo giving you nothing but warmth.

...

Two weeks pass, and go by pretty uneventfully. He cares for you like you are a toddler, but he assures you this is how he used to act around you.

Still, your memory seems stubborn in recovering, and each night you pray for the morning to finally reveal a clue as to your past.

So far, nothing has shown up.

And being confined within the house doesn't help, either. Hugo refuses to let you go outside unsupervised, claiming how he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if you wound up in danger again.

And really, who are you to refuse him? You don't have any memories, any other friends (he's told you they've moved away years ago), and you have no money to sustain yourself. He's all you have.

"Where are you going?" you ask one morning, to see him slinging on a jacket. His hair is also tied up, which you've gathered he only does when he's going out somewhere.

"The cafe," he replies, though you can tell something is off by the way he smiles. "There's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry, okay? Stay inside, and I mean it."

"Can't I go with?" you suggest. Maybe seeing the place could bring back some recollections. Plus, sitting alone all day isn't fun at all, especially when there's nothing to distract you with besides watching TV or reading. Neither of those interests you that much, not to mention a majority of the books and shows catered to people less than half your age.

"Not with those injuries," he chuckles, but there's some firmness in his tone.

"I feel fine! My ankle isn't sprained anymore, and my ribs hardly bother me," you counter. Your face isn't bandaged anymore, either. Instead, only faint scars remain.

"Honey, the answer is no."

"I just want to leave the house!" you blurt. His eyebrows raise up at your outburst. "It's boring staying cooped up all day! I don't want to watch cartoons again or read a comic book or play with action figures."

He purses his lips. "But you love doing those things..."

"Yeah, sure. I don't doubt that I like those activities. But maybe sometimes I'd like to do something more, I dunno, mature." It's not that you hate the stuff Hugo's given you, but you aren't mentally ten years old or whatever age he's assuming you are. So reading picture books and playing with kiddie games get dull real fast. "Please? I don't have to do any physical labor, just wanna get outside the house..."

"(Y/n)..."

Maybe it's a tad bit manipulative, but you've found it works pretty well on him. "I just wanna spend time with my papa... if I can't remember old memories, I was hoping we'd have more time to bond..."

Hugo looks torn for a split second, before giving you a gentle grin, reaching out to pinch your cheeks. "Allllriiight," he drawls. "Wear something warm. It's chilly out."

"Why not my uniform?"

"Because I don't want you working, silly."

The drive there is an hour long, and has you wondering how on earth he makes these long treks there and back five times a week.

By the end, you're yawning and leaning against the window. He laughs, shaking you awake, helping you walk inside the cafe.

In the break room, he situates you on the couch. "I'll get you something to snack on soon. Banana bread, blueberry muffin, brownie, or chocolate chip cookie?"

You weakly smile. "What ever was my favorite?"

He snorts. "Gotcha. I'll be back soon. Don't leave this room, 'kay?" He doesn't wait for a response, quickly busying off towards the counter, throwing his apron back on.

When he's out of view, you try to relax, but as time passes on, you get bored with the things he's given you.

A coloring book, a children's storybook, and crayons litter around you. Sure, they're fun for a little while, but then you're back to square one.

You briefly contemplate if this is the reason why you kept running off to the forest often.

If he's been anything like this normally, you can imagine why you've been searching for more fun things to do.

You peak your head from the break room, to see him tending to another customer, making conversation.

"Oh, (Y/n), that you?"

You look to see one of the customers. He's a person about your age, smiling at you like you guys are friends. When you return the look awkwardly, it morphs into confusion.

"Hey, you alright?" he asks, walking closer to you. "Don't tell me you're working. Hugo told me you had a nasty fall, dude."

"Oh, I'm just here while he works," you shrug. "My memory is a bit weird, still. Who are you...?"

He blinks. "Oh. I'm Weston. We're friends. You must have it pretty bad if you can't remember me."

This is all so confusing. Hugo told you that you didn't have any friends... "Oh. Well, I'm just in the break room while Papa works." You cringe at your own wording. Still feels a bit weird, despite having grown more accustomed to calling him that now. "After he's done, we're probably just gonna go home."

Weston frowns. "Your dad? Are you talking about Hugo?" When you nod, he gives a dry laugh. "(Y/n), he's not—"

"What are you doing?" The deep voice startles you both. You turn around to see Hugo staring between the two of you, jaw tensing with some suppressed emotion. He forces a smile at Weston. "Hey, Weston, sorry, they're going through a lot as you can tell. Still in a state of constant confusion. Sorry. Did you want your usual? Croissant and cappuccino?"

He takes a small step back, but is still clearly defensive, like he's waiting for something to happen. "Yeah, no worries, Mr. Harrison. I know they hit their head hard."

Hugo nods. "I'll get started on that in a sec." He drags you back to the break room, almost slamming the door shut behind him. "Kiddo. What did I tell you?"

"I didn't technically leave... I just poked my head to see if you were busy, and that guy... Weston, I think, recognized me..." You realize his breathing sounds labored. "He said he's my friend."

"That kid?" he says incredulously, laughing. It doesn't sound humorous. It's dry and cold. "No, no, no. Sweetheart, I know everyone in this town and he most definitely isn't friends with you. (Y/n), look, you really can't trust your judgment right now." He grips your shoulders. "You gotta understand that you're hurt. Your head's not working correctly. Okay?"

You wish you could let it go, but something else he said makes you anxious. "He sounded like he was about to say you aren't my dad..."

"He's misinformed. Don't let him fill your head with lies. Now, I gotta get back to work."

"But—"

"For the love of God, just shut up, will you?" he snaps. "I barely let you come along! I should've followed my instincts, why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?"

The glint in his eyes scares you. It reminds you of something terrible, even if you can't remember. You flinch so hard you fall off the couch.

As soon as Hugo's anger came, it dissipated when he saw you trembling, backing up. You shield yourself away with your arms, expecting him to explode.

Even though you have no memory in your head, it's like your body remembers, judging by the way you recoil away from him. It's all instinctual. Even when his expression turns from angry to worried, to guilty.

"Oh no..." He kneels beside you. "Oh, I am so sorry, baby. I don't know what came over me. Here, take my hand," he offers. You reluctantly take his calloused, scarred hand. "Shh... I know, Papa can be scary, huh? I shouldn't have yelled like that. It's just that you made me so mad, scaring me like that... he's a bad person. This town is filled with them. That's why I'm so protective of you."

He's always making up excuses.

"I just wanna be left alone," you rasp. "Please."

"Okay. That's fair. If that's what you want." You expect him to fight it, but instead he gets up slowly and leaves after mumbling one final apology. After the door closes, you exhale, burying your face into your hands.

Something about what happened triggers a flashback.

"You just never know when to stop, do you? How many times have I asked you not to hang out with them?"

"Hugo, come on, you can't dictate who I hang out with. I can handle myself just fine. Now please, let me just do my job. People are staring."

"Keep up with this attitude, (Y/n), and we'll have problems."

"If you're going to fire me, might as well do so. I'm close to quitting myself."

You don't remember anything after that.

But whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

The ride home is relatively silent. Not that it's much different from his normal quietness, but it's a different kind of quiet. Deafening. Tense.

All because he lost his cool earlier. Your shoulders hunch as you try to avoid eye contact.

Finally, Hugo speaks. "Still upset?"

"Why do you care?" you mumble.

His fingers tense against the steering wheel, before relaxing. "Of course I care. I care about you more than anyone else." His eyebrows furrow with concern. "Just because I got a bit snappy back there doesn't mean I love you any less. If you weren't so reckless... but even then, I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that." He sighs deeply. "I'm sorry."

Something tells you if you don't forgive him now, he'll give you hell about it later. "It's okay."

That seems to quell his stress immensely, and he breathes out shakily, like a huge weight was taken off him. "Thank you," he murmurs. "We'll do something special tonight, okay? Movie night, maybe a pillow fort?"

"Sure." You're too tired to argue.

...

The next day, he leaves to get groceries, taking another day off work. You take that as an opportunity to snoop around, for the two hours or so he'll be gone.

Maybe something is fishy about Hugo; the way he keeps trying to keep you restrained from leaving the house is suspicious enough. And the lack of communication to the outside world, even before the fall.

No computer, internet access, cell phone... maybe your memories won't have to return for you to discover some clues.

Searching his bedroom provides nothing useful, so you continue towards his desk area.

Opening drawers, there's lots of random papers inside, which you flip through and scan through as carefully as you can.

That's when you realize one of the letters is a letter of resignation... from you, addressed to Hugo. The date isn't too long ago; in fact, it's the day before you remember having the accident.

You read through it, each sentence causing you more and more distress, until the paper is trembling in your grip.

Hugo,

I appreciate everything you've done for me since I first started working with you, but unfortunately our differences are causing more trouble than it's worth.

The incident last week truly opened my eyes. I didn't realize how toxic and controlling you were. You have isolated me from society, refused to allow me freedom, and tried to control who I hang out with and what I do.

You're my boss, but you insist on acting like my father, despite how many times I've told you that is crossing a boundary of mine.

Therefore, I regretfully inform you I will no longer work with you. This will be my two weeks notice. I'm sorry.

(Y/n)

The paper flutters to the ground. You're sweating. Isolating, controlling, manipulative behavior... it fits to a T of what Hugo's been displaying to you since the accident. Except it started long before that.

You glance around the hallway, suddenly feeling like you're in enemy territory rather than your home. But can you even call it that anymore?

All's you know, is you need to get out of here.

Running back downstairs, you begin planning what supplies to bring with you, but movement from outside catches your attention.

Rushing to the window, you see a familiar figure walking up the driveway. Your blood runs cold.

It's Hugo, carrying bags from the grocery store.

You must've lost track of time. You stumble to your room and pretend to be asleep.

Listening carefully to the noises coming from downstairs, he brings in the bags and rustling follows.

Now that you know the truth, every tiny noise causes anxiety. Why is he doing all this? Was this really all an elaborate lie, this entire situation?

And the most chilling part... was he responsible for your accident? Has it ever been an accident in the first place? As these thoughts race in your mind, your ears strain to listen to what he's doing below you.

Footsteps approach the staircase. Your heartbeat quickens and you burrow further underneath the covers. They ascend slowly.

Eventually they're right in front of your bedroom. Then, it sounds like they turn and head towards his room instead. You have to stifle a relieved sigh when he doesn't enter your room.

The relief doesn't last long.

Did you put everything away where you found it? Did you shut the drawers properly, did you cover up your tracks?

A few minutes go by, until there's a knock on the door. "Sweetheart, I'm getting started on dinner. How does mac 'n cheese sound?"

"Sure," you say, so quiet he almost doesn't hear you.

You wait until you hear his footsteps descend, then sneak into his room to make sure you put everything up.

To your relief, it looks like it, so you shuffle back downstairs, trying to put on the best neutral expression you can manage.

The last thing you'd want him to suspect is that you're onto his twisted game.

"There they are! Come sit at the table. Almost ready." He ruffles your hair gently when you take a seat. It takes everything in you not to squirm away from his touch. To keep pretending that you're blissfully oblivious. "How long were you napping for?"

"Not too long." The less you talk, the better.

"That's good." Hugo serves you a bowl full of macaroni and adds a glass of juice next to it, sitting across from you. Something about his demeanor seems different. You're sure that's just the anxiety talking. "Is something wrong, buddy? You're quieter than normal," he notes.

"Just... still kinda tired." You pick at the macaroni, hoping he doesn't press on about this.

"Awww... well, eat up, okay?"

Despite the lack of appetite, you force down the food. Every bite tastes like mush.

But if you don't finish it, you have the sinking feeling he'll know something's up. So, you force everything down, as well as the juice, which washes it down easier.

Within moments, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. "H...Hugo..."

Hugo gives a lopsided smile, somewhat apologetic. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't want to do that, but found you messed with some of my stuff. My fault, I've been putting off getting locks for it. I swear, I'd lose my head if it weren't screwed on!" He laughs. It borders on hysterical. "All I want is to be your dad... for you to let me care for you." He reaches out, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. "But no need to worry. I doubt you'll remember any of today, anyway."

"No..." You try to stand, but end up collapsing forward. In the haze, you register being pulled upwards.

"You just can't help but be stubborn," he chastises. "Guess you got it from your old man."

"You aren't..." Your tongue begins to feel heavy, just like the rest of your body. "Not my..."

"Sleep, baby. Sleep. When you wake up, this will all just be a silly nightmare. Papa's got you. He'll always have you."

And despite your desperate attempts to stay awake, sleep eventually claims you, as black engulfs your vision.

The last thing you sense is your head being tucked underneath his chin, and hearing him hum the same melody he hummed in the hospital.

581 notes · View notes

dollmoth-productions · 3 months ago

Note

oooo how about vincent with reader and one of his parties gone wrong? maybe reader gets hurt or almost dies?

Here you go!! <3

TW: Near-death experience (for Reader), mentions of murder, attempted murder, poisoned Reader, hospitals

"Stay close by me," Vincent reminds you once again, squeezing your hand tighter in his own gloved one. "You don't have permission to talk to strangers or leave my sight."

You almost scoff. As if you ever have permission.

Its been at least three months since you've started living with him. Despite being constantly monitored, you don't necessarily hate living with him. After getting used to his treatment of you, it's pretty comforting.

Being able to depend on somebody and not worry about things is nice. Other than a few rules, you can basically do whatever you want as long as it doesn't involve running away, hurting anyone or yourself, or disrespecting Vincent.

Overall, it could be way worse.

Vincent looks at you for confirmation.

"I know," you mumble. "No going near strangers or leaving your sight. I'm not stupid."

The blond chuckles softly, brushing his thumb against your knuckles. "No, you're certainly not dumb, pumpkin, but sometimes it takes more than smarts to keep safe. Remember what we said? The world is dangerous." He ruffles your hair gently. "And hey, if you don't wanna stay for long, we don't have to. Just need to make appearances, all that good stuff."

You nod. "Okay."

Honestly, if you had a choice, you wouldn't attend this gala whatsoever. It was a meeting between members of Cryo, but not like their usual monthly one.

Instead, this was actual an annual thing hosted in order to show off Cryo's successes over the year and hopefully find prospective members.

Vincent was reluctant when you told him you wanted to go, since apparently these galas were usually rather boring and weren't suited for "babies" like you (in Vincent's words). Plus, there'd be plenty of alcohol, gambling, and lots of "grown-up conversations."

But you managed to convince him with your puppy dog eyes and pleading. He's weak for those, you've noticed. Always wants to please you.

He had gotten you the nicest dress/suit, even though you already had at least five ones to choose from. He donned a black suit with a purple tie and matching slacks. His gloves were also black and leather, as well as his belt and shoes. He finished the look off with cufflinks shaped like golden bullets and a matching broach on his suit.

"You nervous, kiddo?" he asks in concern, squeezing your hand tighter.

"A little bit," you admit. "Just want people to like me."

Vincent frowns at you. "Well, if they're mean to you, they'll end up six feet under, so no need to worry about that."

"I don't want people to die either," you grumble. "Especially just because of me."

Vincent pinches your cheeks. "They can either be respectful to you, or dead. Their choices, doesn't seem like a hard one, either."

You swat at his hand, and he laughs. Soon enough, the two of you reach a large, extravagant looking building, lit up brightly despite the late night.

He guides you towards the entrance, and you enter into a massive hall filled with hundreds of people, most likely part of Cryo. Its quite loud inside. There's music playing somewhere nearby as well.

Everyone seems dressed formally. Suits and dresses abound. Several waiters walk by holding trays piled high with hors d'oeuvres and wine glasses.

Vincent continues to guide you towards a specific spot—where the guests are gathering to greet one another. As soon as he shows up, everyone greets him. Some of them eye you suspiciously or curiously, but they seem to know better than to outright approach you.

And you notice they only acknowledge your existence briefly before turning away and continuing their conversations with him or each other.

He notices you staring. "(Y/n), want me to introduce you?" he murmurs, patting your back.

You shake your head, and instead hide yourself behind him.

"Sorry, folks, my kid is a bit shy right now," Vincent laughs. "How bout we save introductions for later when they're in a better mood?"

The people shrug and agree, seeming content with that answer.

So that's how things continue. Vincent occasionally lets go of your hand to perform a handshake with somebody new, or wrap an arm around your shoulders, but never once truly leaves your side.

Occasionally, he offers to grab you food and drinks, making sure to only feed you things he knows are safe. Knowing the crowd here, for once you don't blame him for being extra vigilant.

A lot of small talk goes on. You zone out a bit as you hear talks about trade deals, weapons manufacturing, smuggling operations, assassinations... The typical mob business. You already know most of the details thanks to Vincent's constant chatter anyways.

Once it seems like the two of you have met every single person attending, he brings you to a quieter part of the gala, where they seem to have an open bar.

A couple people are milling around the area. A few seated on barstools and chatting with bartenders, others standing nearby watching. Vincent guides you to one of the seats, helping you onto the stool before sitting next to you.

"Want some juice, kiddo? We've got lemonade, grape juice, orange juice..." Vincent says. "I personally get a root beer float most of the time."

"Don't you drink?" you ask. Now that you think about it, you've never seen him drink in your presence.

"Not as often anymore. Not when I got someone young and innocent depending on me! Gotta be sober to watch you properly," Vincent says. "Besides, I'd never live it down if I became a bad influence for you."

You almost laugh. Funny he out of all people is saying that. "I guess I'll have what you're having, then."

Vincent grins and flags down one of the nearby servers.

"What can I get you, Mr. Brewer?"

"Two root beer floats for us, please."

She nods and rushes away.

While waiting, the two of you idly chat and watch everyone else. You notice a tall man with short brown hair and brown eyes approach, eyes fixed on Vincent. Something about his wide smile throws you off. He looks friendly, yes, but also a bit too enthusiastic, even more so than others who met you earlier.

He seems different than the other people here, and not in a good way.

"Hey, Boss," the man greets. His voice is slightly on the higher-pitched side. "Haven't seen you since your trip to Budapest. I heard you adopted a kid." He smiles at you.

"Yep," Vincent confirms, though he sounds a bit annoyed. "If you attended more meetings, that wouldn't have become a problem. Phoenix tried to contact you several times, we all thought you were dead."

The guy scratches the back of his neck nervously. "Sorry... Things got busy on my end..."

Vincent looks angry, but holds himself back from yelling. For your sake, that much is obvious. You see his fingers twitching subtly. "You should make an effort to stay available whenever possible. You have a job, Sullivan. This isn't some side-gig you can just show up to when you want. If your uncle weren't contributing so much to Cryo, you'd be out of here in a heartbeat. I can still make that happen."

Sullivan sighs. "Yeah. I'll try to do better next time. Sorry again, really." He sits next to Vincent, eyeing both of your root beer floats, both in fancy wine glasses. "So, uh, (Y/n), was it? Nice to meet you."

"Yeah... nice to meet you too," you say politely, sipping your drink.

Vincent's eye twitches. He shifts his chair so it's angled closer to you protectively. Almost like a shield separating you and Sullivan apart. "Is there something else you needed?" Vincent questions, clearly getting impatient. He puts his drink down, right next to yours.

"Nah, just wanted to see you and apologize for being such trouble recently." Sullivan wedges himself between you two, arms outstretched on both of your shoulders, and both of you looking at him in confusion. Vincent's confused look turns into a sour one. "What? Just wanted to be affectionate, sorry. You're awfully grumpy today."

"Are you drunk?" Vincent sneers.

"Just a little!" Sullivan snorts and pulls away.

You're a little fearful for the guy's life, judging by the way Vincent is staring him down. You grab your drink and take a sip from it, not noticing Sullivan's brief look of panic.

"Uh, well, gotta go! I'm sure Trent's gonna wanna catch up with me," Sullivan nervously says, walking away quicker than Vincent has ever seen him go.

The blond only scoffs. "If I see him again tonight, I'll shoot him in the head myself," he grumbles.

"What happened to wanting to be a good influence?" you laugh.

Vincent flicks your nose. "Hey, if someone were bothering you who you wanted to shoot, I'd fully support it. I think the world would be a much better place if we got rid of all the people who were bothering my beloved kiddo." He ruffles your hair. "And hey, did you take my root beer float? Mine had the purple straw! Brat." His tone is playful, of course.

You pull back to look at the nearly fully-consumed drink, seeing the green straw. "Oops, must've mixed 'em up... too late, it's mine now."

He shakes his head in mock disappointment. "My kiddo... so mean. But it's fine, because yours had more in it, anyway! So ha-ha." As if proving a point, he begins loudly slurping yours. You laugh at the silliness. If only everyone knew that Vincent was a fool.

"That guy was kind of weird," you murmur, changing the subject onto Sullivan. "Have you known him for long?"

"Unfortunately," Vincent mutters. "Ever since his uncle joined Cryo, he felt entitled enough to get a job from us. Honestly, I'd much rather fire him, but since he's family with a high ranking member, I'd rather not cause any unnecessary conflict. Don't really trust him, though."

"Sounds like you really hate him," you chuckle.

"Me? Hate someone? Pfft, never. I'm a saint." Vincent nudges your shoulder with his own. "Yeah, I'm kidding. I kinda hate him. And I especially hate anyone who makes you uncomfortable, which I can tell he was doing. If not for his uncle..." He doesn't need to finish that sentence.

You finish your root beer float, and put the empty glass to the side. He wraps an arm around your shoulders while he pulls out his phone.

You see it's Quinn, and that he's telling her to keep an eye on him. You continue reading what he's texting, but then it gets harder to, the words growing blurrier and blurrier.

That's when you realize everything is getting blurry. Even the man next to you.

"Dad," you mutter. Your tongue feels like lead.

"Not now. Give Dad one sec." He keeps typing on his phone.

"Dad." More urgently.

"Be patient, kiddo. Quinn can barely type properly as is."

"I feel really bad," you rasp. "Dizzy."

Vincent looks up from his phone quickly. "(Y/n)?" His eyes widen as he sees your pained expression and sweat dripping down your face.

He drops his phone immediately as he catches you right before you fall off the stool. He runs a hand across your forehead. "(Y/n)? Hey, baby, shh, calm down. What hurts?" Panic seeps through his tone, yanking off one of his gloves with his teeth to feel your pulse, putting two fingers to your neck. Its rapid-fire.

"E-everything," you whimper. It's hard to even form words anymore. Your vision is getting darker and darker, and you can no longer breathe.

You begin to cough, holding onto his shirt for comfort as you feel the edges of your conscious slipping. Your throat feels blocked up. Every attempt to speak results in a strained wheeze and a coughing fit.

Vincent lets out a rare, strangled noise. The fear of losing you is the one thing keeping him grounded.

He lifts you up easily, bridal-style, into his arms, resting your head against his chest. He maneuvers past the crowds, calling for someone to get a stretcher for you.

You can't tell what he's saying anymore, only that he's yelling. Is he mad? Upset?

Or terrified, maybe. Maybe that's why his voice is shaky and cracked.

"Baby, come on, just breathe for Dad, alright? Just focus on my voice, sweetie," he begs, rubbing circles in your chest, as if he can coax air into your lungs. "Breathe with me. Please."

Your breath stutters and comes out shallowly. There's nothing you can do.

No way to obey him. You can't breathe. Why can't you breathe? You're trying so hard, just like he asked you to, but it's like your lungs refuse to expand, refusing to cooperate.

Vincent tries his best to coach you into breathing right, talking in soothing tones and soft coos, encouraging you to calm down and copy him.

Even if everything didn't sound muffled, you couldn't understand him anyway from the way he's speaking, on the verge of hyperventilating. He's trying so hard to act okay for you.

Everything starts to become dim. Blackness creeps into the corners of your vision, slowly overtaking your sight entirely. No matter how hard you struggle, fighting to stay awake and alive, your body gives into the poison and shuts down, leaving you limp in his arms.

The last thing you hear before darkness consumes your consciousness is Vincent screaming louder than you've ever heard him before.

...

Vincent paces back and forth as he waits in the hospital hallway outside of the ER.

"Vincent," Trenton greets sympathetically. It's rare he ever refers to his boss with his first name, but it's not something Vincent minds usually, especially not now. His mind is too preoccupied. "We found the perpetrator—"

"Sullivan," Vincent snarls, finishing for him. "I already figured."

"R-right," Trenton sighs. "We caught him attempting to run. He was already prepared for flight. Uh, it seems like the strychnine was meant for you, but either mixed them up or you got your drinks mixed up."

Vincent nods. "That damn traitor... you have him in custody, right?" Trenton nods. "Good. Keep him alive. I want to kill him myself."

"Understood. Do you want us to torture him first?" Trent asks. He's usually not this brutal, but he loves you like a sibling, after all.

"No. I'm saving that pleasure for myself." The door opens and a doctor steps out. Vincent's most trusted doctor, Dr. Fredericks. "(Y/n)! Let me see them now!" He doesn't even bother asking if you're alive; he simply refuses to even consider that outcome. That's the only thing that's been stopping him from absolutely losing it.

"Okay, but they're very much out of it," she tells him, leading him down the hallway into your room.

She's right.

You're on a hospital bed with the covers pulled over your chest. An oxygen mask is secured over your mouth and nose, and several monitors hooked to various machines beep quietly, tracking your vitals. There's an IV drip attached to your wrist.

As promised, you are awake, but clearly unable to do anything beyond that. Your eyes are drooping and you're blinking slowly, struggling to stay alert.

"(Y/n)," Vincent breathes, rushing over and grabbing your hand. He crouches beside the bed so that he's level with you. "Sweetie? Can you hear me?" He kisses your temple gently. He brushes your hair away from your forehead, pressing his cheek against yours.

You try to move your hand weakly towards his voice.

The blond nods quickly. "Hi, baby. Yeah, its Dad. I'm here. Everything is gonna be okay now." He presses kisses all over your face—anywhere he can reach without disturbing the oxygen mask.

"Poisoned," you manage to rasp.

"I know, lovebug. But it'll be okay." Tears threaten to spill down Vincent's cheeks.

"Scary," you say next.

"I know," Vincent whispers again, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't watching closely enough. Shouldn't have let him anywhere near us. I won't make that same mistake again, I promise." Not after he turns that bastard to dust. Slowly.

"Not y'r fault," you slur.

"It is. I should've protected you. That's my job, sweetie." He kisses your hand repeatedly. "Don't speak anymore, okay? I just want you to rest. At least until this comes off." He taps the clear oxygen mask. "And then we'll talk aaaall you want. Doesn't that sound nice?"

You shift positions as much as the wires will allow, and you pat the small space on the mattress, motioning for him to join you.

He chuckles and shakes his head fondly. "Aww, buddy. I don't wanna crush you."

When you continue to persistently slap the bed sheets, he finally concedes. He slips his shoes off and climbs onto the bed with you, helping you lay on top of his chest.

He makes sure all wires are in place as they were moments ago. "Comfy?" You hum in confirmation. Vincent plays with your hair. "Get some sleep, honey. Dad's not going anywhere."

Your eyelids flutter shut as you listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat, grounding you and lulling you to a peaceful, safe sleep.

Normally Vincent would be awake, hyper-vigilant as ever, but the exhaustion from running around in a frenzy and pure terror takes its toll on him too. His eyes close and sleep follows soon after.

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dollmoth-productions · 3 months ago

Text

Parental yandere mafia dad who kidnaps you takes you in <3

TW: Mentions of death, platonic yandere, forced age regression, infantilization

...

You know this is stupid, but you have no choice in the matter.

The worst thing is, its not even your fault you're in this situation. A family member made some horrible choices with a huge, well-known mob, and they died before they could pay off the debt they owe.

So, it falls on your shoulders now.

They said if you could do some favors for them, they'd let you live a peaceful life and never bother you again.

But either way, it seemed like death was almost inevitable.

"Hey person who has no experience with mob bosses and cartels, go gather intel on one of the world's most feared mob boss without getting caught! We're sure you'll do great!"

You're sure they're aware you probably won't turn up alive.

That's besides the point. You had a job to do.

And this is why you've found yourself here, entering a huge building with obnoxiously bright neon lights, the air smelling heavily of alcohol.

Its both a casino and nightclub, you figure, as you see a few gambling tables along with a large dance floor, and a bar in the far back. The ground is a little sticky beneath your shoes, and some weirdo bumps into you, clearly drunk.

The guy they asked you to gather information about is none other than Vincent Brewer. From what you've heard, he's ruthless, sadistic, fearless, and loves to flaunt his wealth and success.

His group, Cryo, dabbles in a little bit of everything.

Selling guns, manufacturing weapons, running casinos, killing those that piss them off... All things like that.

So of course, you're terrified out of your mind.

But you manage to make it past the bouncer and enter inside.

Its a nice place, despite all the crimes you're sure happened here. A lot cleaner than you'd expect for such an area.

Almost immediately, you see none other than Vincent himself.

He has short blond hair, hazel-green eyes, and a black suit with a trench coat draped over his shoulders.

He's smirking as he talks to what you presume are other members of Cryo. Vincent is pretty well-known for that smile. It's rare he ever drops it.

You wonder if its because he genuinely finds joy in anything and everything or because he feels the need to come off as tough or domineering. Knowing how much power he wields, it's probably both.

There's no time to stand and stare, though.

You approach, pretending to be one of them, but before you can back out and regret your decisions, he already has his eye on you. You feel like a rabbit trying to convince a den of wolves that you're one of them. And this is the biggest, meanest, hungriest wolf in the world.

"Well, hello," Vincent says. His smile doesn't leave his face, but softens a tiny bit. He looks you up and down. "I don't believe we've met. Are you new?"

Your hands are clammy and trembling, but you put on a fake smile and offer to shake his hand. "Yeah! I'm... (Y/n)." For a moment, you hesitate, considering maybe you should give a fake name just in case, but looks like it's too late for that.

Now that you think about it, you're definitely sure you were sent on a death-mission. Those people didn't even give you proper training.

"(Y/n), huh?" Vincent asks, shaking your hand. He's got a firm grip, as you expected. "Nice to meet you, kiddo. You seem a bit young to be one of my recruits, though." He brushes some hair out of your face, making you tense.

"I guess I look a bit younger than I am," you mutter. "I'm an adult, if that's what you're worried about."

He laughs at that. "Well, that's good! I'd hate to hear how a kid ended up with us!" Then he ruffles your hair, which is a bit embarrassing, but he seems so nice about it that it's not unbearable. "You're just a baby compared to almost everyone in this room. I think I'll need to tell the employees to make sure you don't drink or gamble. That's for grown-ups."

You relax when you realize he's teasing you.

Maybe that's a good sign? "It's okay, I don't really do either of those often, anyway."

Vincent lets out another chuckle, putting a hand on your back, leading you through the crowds and towards where the tables are. There's lots of other people sitting, talking, drinking, laughing. Playing cards or chess or something like that.

Just a bunch of regular casino things.

So far, so good.

This might actually end up working out after all...

"So why exactly did you want to join us?" Vincent asks as he sits you down at one of the chairs, pulling his own chair up next to yours. "Come from a wealthy family? Orphans? Wanted to get off the streets?"

You rub the back of your neck awkwardly, thinking of a suitable lie you'll remember for later. "Ah... I needed the money... Medical bills and stuff. Don't have any family to rely on anymore. Thought maybe if I could save up enough money, I wouldn't need to worry anymore..."

It's kind of true. After you get the information, they said they would reward you with enough cash to pay off whatever was still owed.

But whether that will ever actually happen is yet to be seen.

The more pressing issue was how Vincent would react. So far, so good. He hasn't questioned anything. Just nodded his head sympathetically and hummed at your explanation.

You continue. "And plus, Cryo seems really cool. No pun intended."

"Well, that's nice of you to say," he replies with a laugh. "We try our best around here. You seem a little jittery, though. I hope I don't scare you, kiddo?"

"I mean..." You can't really admit the real reason without outing yourself. He sounds like a man that wants to be feared by everyone. "I think this is just a new environment to me. I don't do too well with crowds."

Vincent nods understandably, patting your shoulder. "Makes sense. It is kinda noisy in here, huh? Sorry about that. Normally we're not like this, but tonight is a party night since we made a pretty big deal recently, as you're aware."

You nod, pretending to know what he's talking about. "Oh, yeah, I heard about that." This means you've already failed step one of your task - being updated on current deals - but that's okay. There's plenty of time to get the intel later. Right?

His eyes darken slightly, but his smile never leaves. "And besides... Can't say we're the nicest group of folks, either." He pokes your cheek and laughs again. "I'm worried this might be too much for you."

"Really, its okay!" you argue. "I'm a lot tougher than I look, I swear!"

He snorts. "You look like a puppy surrounded by wolves. Even if you're tougher than you look, it makes you an easy target. People are gonna be more quick to try to take you out instead of someone bigger than them."

Is he insulting you or genuinely concerned? You hope he's joking and teasing again. "I'll prove I'm strong enough to fit in! You won't have to worry about me one bit. And I can help out Cryo a lot, I promise!" You don't know why you're getting defensive over his condescending tone.

Vincent only seems amused by it, more than he already was. He pinches your cheeks between his fingers, smiling sweetly down at you. "Ohh, I'm sure you're veerrry strong, sweetie."

He sounds patronizing, in that overly-sweet way, as if speaking to a toddler.

He rubs your cheek a few times before leaning back and releasing you. "I think I'll let you stay if you answer one question for me, how 'bout that?"

You nod. "Of course. Anything."

His smile becomes more sharp. "Who sent you?"

"W-what?" Your mouth feels dry. The whole mood shifts, and suddenly it feels much less welcoming, making your stomach churn in panic.

Did you get caught that easily? How did you mess up? Maybe he's just bluffing.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Vincent stares down at you, eyes now narrowed. "You aren't fooling anyone, doll. We have extensive background checks before any of our members can even begin to be considered eligible for recruitment. I personally meet every single one of our new recruits to approve them and remember all of their names. Not only that, but I lied about a recent deal. There was no recent deal."

Your heart starts beating faster in your chest. You feel cold sweat dripping from your forehead.

He saw through you so quickly. Does he already know why you're here?

If you lie again, you're not sure you'll make it out of here alive. "Scarlet Syndicate sent me. I owe them debt, I'm not part of them... please don't kill me."

The man snickers and leans back against his chair again. "Oh, you poor thing. Its pretty clear they aren't expecting you to come back to them with info. They probably sent you here to die or get lost and forgotten about. That's cruel, even by my standards. They set you up for failure." His voice softens up. "You're shaking..."

You're hyperventilating a little, panicking. "I don't wanna die."

Vincent coos at you gently, wrapping a secure arm around you and pulling you into his lap. "Shhh, shh, hey... relax, kiddo, I'm not gonna kill you... I would never hurt such a precious little sweetheart." He kisses your head. "Calm down. Breathe in, breathe out..."

You listen to him and do as instructed.

Taking in deep breaths through the nose, letting them out from your mouth slowly. He rubs gentle circles along your back until you relax against him. He secures you in a firm hold and lifts you up against his chest.

Even for a mob boss, he has an impressive amount of strength to carry you with almost no effort.

You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck.

He smirks at you again. "Aww... does baby wanna be carried everywhere now?" Though its teasing, its also affectionate. You find yourself nodding regardless.

Vincent walks out with you still in his arms, ignoring his colleagues' confused gazes. You can see the exit sign coming closer and closer.

Once you leave the building, he puts you inside a limousine with him, shutting the door behind. He gathers you in his arms after shedding his long beige trench coat, wrapping it around you and engulfing you like a blanket.

This man you hardly even know just called you 'baby.'

You're not quite sure what to make of that.

"Home," he tells the driver. And then he looks down at you. "You really are a little baby, huh?"

You don't know how to react to this sudden display of parental behavior, except stare in confusion.

He pulls you into his lap. "I always wanted a kid of my own, you know. But unfortunately, fate decided I couldn't have any of my own. Well, guess it doesn't matter now!" His eyes flicker across your face. "As soon as I saw you, I could tell you needed someone to take care of you. Like a dad."

"But..." you sniffle. "I'm not a kid."

"Maybe not physically, but I can tell mentally. And you should be grateful for that. I usually don't let any spies live long enough to see another day," Vincent says. "So what do we say?"

You hesitate. "...thank you?"

"You're very welcome, munchkin. When we get you home, we'll have some late dinner and then its bedtime for you," Vincent coos.

"I usually go to bed a lot later than this," you protest.

"Nope, not anymore," he argues back, petting your hair. "As much as I want to be the fun dad, rules are rules. Bedtime will be 8:30 PM for you everyday starting from now on, got it?"

You guess you don't really have a choice.

Not in a million years did you expect this outcome of you being caught spying, but hey, its better than death by gunshot!

The limousine stops outside a huge penthouse.

Vincent carries you out of the vehicle and holds your hand as he leads you to the elevators. Inside, there's a deskman who waves at him. You shyly wave back, a bit unsure.

"This is (Y/n). They'll be staying with me from now on," Vincent explains to him. "If you see them trying to leave without me, call security and tell them to escort them back to my place. And notify me."

"Yes, sir," he agrees, then looks back at you. "Nice to meet you (Y/n). I'm August. If you need anything, feel free to ask!"

You stare at him, then Vincent, dumbfounded.

Vincent pulls you along. "Come on, baby. Let's go home."

Inside the elevator, you're left in shock, speechless. It goes high up - the top floor - before arriving at a large, fancy room.

He unlocks the door to reveal his apartment.

The entire thing is covered with plush rugs, sleek furniture, shiny marble floors, beautiful lights... Everything you'd expect in a multi-millionaire's home, including but not limited to a grand piano sitting in the middle of the living room and two full-size couches in front of a flatscreen TV, and what looks to be some kind of bar or wine cabinet.

"You can explore more tomorrow," Vincent tells you. "Until then, let's get dinner over with and then bedtime. Tomorrow we can discuss how you want your room to look like, clothes, toys, that stuff. Sound good?"

"Yeah," you mumble in agreement.

Vincent sets you down on the sofa, where you watch him grab a remote off of the coffee table.

He turns on the television and flips through channels before settling on something he deemed suitable, which happens to be some sort of children's cartoon.

He begins cooking in the other room, and you're still in too much shock to even think of trying to escape.

This all feels so surreal.

Twenty minutes later, he calls you into the kitchen and has you sit down next to him while he serves you both food.

It's decent, his cooking skills aren't amazing, but decent. You don't mind eating it, though he does give you a stern look when you don't eat all your vegetables.

Afterwards, he guides you upstairs into what appears to be the guest room, saying he'll redecorate it to fit you later. He excuses himself for a moment, coming back with yellow silk pajamas for you to change into. You do so as he turns around to give you some privacy.

When you finish dressing up, he has you brush your teeth, then wash your hands thoroughly. Finally, he helps you climb into the bed, tucking you beneath the blankets.

You can't help but admit that the mattress is really nice.

Vincent smiles down at you kindly. "I'm glad we found each other today, kiddo." He kisses your forehead. "Dad will stay here until you fall asleep, yeah?"

Of course, you don't argue. He watches you like a hawk until eventually, you close your eyes and drift away.

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dollmoth-productions · 3 months ago

Note

Platonic yandere doctor? Like he’s had his little for a while but he’s just fed up with them trying to leave so he uses a more permanent solution to the problem of them trying to run away (take that as you will)

I hope this is good!! Its slightly different than what you asked, but if people want I cand make a part two of them trying to escape!

TW: Platonic/parental yandere, drugging, gaslighting, kidnapping, infantilization, slight ableism(?), psychiatric wards

...

You've been seeing Dr. Warren as your doctor for... wow, how long has it been? Several years now. He's always been a kind guy, and sometimes he'd break past that overly polite, professional demeanor and let his soft spot for you shine through.

You liked that about him.

Sometimes, when there wasn't anybody in the waiting room but you two, he would kneel down to give you a little toy while you waited, usually one of those plastic eggs filled with surprise toys or jingling keys or something like that.

You always thought it was a little strange how the doctor was giving you children's toys, but you tried not to overthink it.

There were some other weird things you tried to overlook, but recently it was getting harder to do so.

Warren would always prescribe you medications for all kinds of things, and every single one of them made your mind feel numb. Like static, almost.

Your appointments became very regular, as well. At least once a week, even if nothing felt wrong.

And he'd give you a little plastic medicine bottle filled with gummy vitamins every time you went in.

You started to notice how instead of actually checking your health, he'd cuddle by your side and just ask how your day went, almost acting more like an over-caring therapist... which, he did technically have his degree in both psychology and medicine, but still, the lack of any medical care was suspicious, especially coming from the usually very professional doctor.

"Um, Doctor Warren?" you nervously ask, fiddling with the toy he gave you today, a little green caterpillar with bright colors on its back.

"Hm? What is it?" he asks while marking a few things off on his clipboard.

"Well, uh..." you swallow down a lump in your throat as you work up the courage to ask this. "I've noticed that our sessions lately haven't been productive. And the medications you give me make me worse. I wasn't even having a lot of issues until I started taking them. It's like they just make my mind foggy... and I always feel so sleepy, and my coordination is off..."

"Those are just the side effects," he reassures. "That's why I wanted you to come see me regularly; to track any changes or side effects."

"But I don't think the side effects are worth it. And these constant check-ups are annoying, no offense," you mutter.

"None taken," he says calmly. "The check-ups are for your benefit."

"Yeah, but..." You rub the nape of your neck. "I think I want to see a different doctor... if that's okay."

Suddenly, the warm aura radiating from him grows cold as the man glares at you, dark eyes sending a chill down your spine.

"Do you trust other doctors more than me?" His voice comes out icy, stinging you like cold water.

Your heart pounds. You open your mouth to speak, only to be interrupted again.

"(Y/n). You're mentally and physically ill. Your judgement is too clouded by your conditions that you can't recognize proper care. I'm trying to help you get better. Can't you see that?" He runs a hand through his hair. "You need constant monitoring, love. I'd consider yourself lucky I haven't put you in inpatient care." His expression changes, like a light bulb goes off in his head. "Actually, would you prefer that?"

"No, of course not!" you cry out. "Please don't-"

"Why shouldn't I? It's for your own safety," he says matter-of-factly. "You can't even tell what's good or bad for you. Your condition is worsening."

"Because of the medication," you retort.

"That's just the side effects. I explained this already."

"Why would medicine that's supposed to cure me make me worse?!" you yell. Tears well up in your eyes. "Why won't you listen to me?!"

He looks like a parent dealing with their crying toddler; confused yet confident they'll get over it eventually. "Hmm... I think you need a nap."

"A nap? What, am I in timeout now?" You fold your arms across your chest like a pouting child, realizing a little too late how funny the doctor probably finds the gesture.

Warren gets out some medical supplies: a needle and a vial. Filling the syringe with a clear liquid from the small container, he turns towards you and grins menacingly. "This'll only take a moment..."

Before you can stand up and try to run away, he plunges the needle into your arm.

You cry out and flinch away, but not before all of the syringe's contents empty inside you. He holds you against him, shushing softly in your ear as you sob until suddenly your eyelids grow heavy.

He keeps you firmly tucked in his grip, and you find that you're unable to move, paralyzed by whatever substance he injected into you.

As soon as he sees you drifting off, he lies you on the bed and rushes out, yelling something that sounds too far away to hear.

...

When you wake up, you see white walls all around you. Blinking your eyes, you look down at your clothes to see an outfit totally different from what you had been wearing when you were in Warren's office. This looks more like hospital garb.

Speaking of which, where was Warren?

Turning your head weakly to the right, you notice you're attached to a heart monitor, the wires running to sensors on your chest and fingers.

You struggle to prop yourself up and sit properly on the bed.

Warren walks into the room. "Good morning! Or, should I say good afternoon?" he smiles teasingly, closing the door behind him. "How are we feeling?"

"I'm feeling like you drugged me! What am I doing here?!" Your throat feels like its on fire, but you continue trying to speak regardless. "Can't you talk to me without having me admitted to a hospital?! Oh god- please don't tell me I'm in the psychiatric ward..."

"You are in the psychiatric ward, yes," he confirms smoothly. "But don't worry. I pulled a few strings to make sure you got the best care." His voice dips into something softer, almost affectionate. "I even had them set up a private room for you. No noisy roommates, no prying eyes—just me, looking out for you."

A chill runs down your spine. This isn't normal. This is too far.

"For what? Telling you I wanted to see a different doctor? For wanting to get off my meds?!" You glare.

He doesn't seem too bothered, pulling out a clipboard. "Well, it says on your chart you attacked me with scissors during our last meeting when I wouldn't give you prescription opioids. That's pretty serious."

"WHAT?!" Your jaw drops. "You liar! That never happened!"

Warren feigns worry. "Oh, sweetheart..." He caresses the side of your face. "You poor thing. Those delusions have you again, huh?" He shakes his head. "I don't know how to tell you this... but you have a problem. A very, very severe one. Which is why you need constant surveillance from someone trained to handle people with your particular condition."

You blink away tears blurring your vision. "This is crazy. You can't do this to me."

"Baby, I'm not 'doing' anything. This was all in your best interests." Warren moves closer to you, rubbing circles into your skin. "You're sick, (Y/n). I've been your doctor for multiple years now. Why would I lie about this?"

You sob harder. You want to believe him so bad.

You trust him, and it's always been easier to follow along with his suggestions rather than try to fight or argue back, but...

"You like treating me as if I'm a baby. Does that have anything to do with this? Or why the medications you've given me make me feel like I'm regressing into a toddler every day?" you spit out bitterly.

He sighs. "That's because you have the obvious mentality of one. The regression isn't a result of the drugs, (Y/n). It's your disorder acting up." He pushes some strands of hair out of your face. "If it helps any, I like taking care of you. Really, I do. I've never considered myself a parental person until I met you. You need me, just as much as I need to be needed by someone else. Like you."

"I'll tell everyone you basically kidnapped me," you threaten. "They can look on the security cameras for proof I didn't do anything!"

He clicks his tongue, chuckling. "I might have accidentally deleted the security footage from the day. Oops," he adds innocently. He kisses your forehead. "Now, get some rest, kiddo. Papa will check on you in an hour. And please don't try anything bad while I'm gone; otherwise, we'd have to add assaulting an orderly or nurse onto your file... We really don't want that, do we?"

All you can do is stare dumbly up at him as the words sink in.

Yes, Warren could definitely get in trouble for this... but who's going to believe you when you've been labeled a danger to yourself and others with a laundry list of mental health disorders, prescribed enough pills to tranquilize an elephant daily?

No one.

He leaves with a final, "Be good," shutting the door with a soft thump, leaving you alone, staring after him long after he's gone.

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dollmoth-productions · 3 months ago

Text

More Ellis <3

TW: Drunk Reader, party, arguments, forced infantilization, parental yandere, vomiting

Ever since the incident, you had basically started living with Ellis more than in your own dorm.

It's not... awful, per se, just a little awkward. He's always there, helping you with your homework and giving you tips, cooking balanced meals for you, and even decorated your room to your interests. You find it a little strange how it seems like he knows more about you than you told him, but you shrug it off as a coincidence.

"Where on earth are you going to?" Ellis asks with crossed arms. "It's nearly midnight, do you realize how dangerous it is to be out at this time?"

You open your mouth to tell him its a party, but you know he'd be against it. He's against most things, you've come to find out. "I'm going to study with some friends."

"At midnight?" he repeats incredulously. "No, no way. You're staying right here."

"But they're expecting me—"

"You don't need to worry about that. Call them up and cancel your plans," he instructs you. You don't move an inch, giving him a pleading stare instead. His gaze sharpens on you. "Now, (Y/n). I'm not changing my mind on this. You're under my roof, so you'll live by my rules."

"I don't even want to live under your roof!" you exclaim. "It's been, like, a week since I got beat up, and I'm fine now! I don't need to stay here anymore."

The past few times you had mentioned going back to your dorm, he insisted it wasn't safe. The only reason you never argued was because you didn't want to risk upsetting your own professor.

Not that you think he'd start abusing his status by marking your grades low or anything, but it's just not worth the risk sometimes.

Ellis has the audacity to look offended. "So you're telling me you'd rather endanger your own life than stay here with me? The person who gives you free clothes, free food, helps you with your school work..."

"That isn't true. I appreciate all that, really, but I also think I've recovered enough to not have to rely on you every day. I can take care of myself just fine now. You aren't my dad."

Maybe it came across as slightly rude, but it's true, nonetheless. You needed to get that point across. Hopefully it makes some sort of sense in his stubborn head.

In that moment, Ellis stiffens. "Go to your room." He points at the bedroom you're occupying.

"No! I'm a grown adult who can make their own decisions, whether you agree with it or not."

"Well, maybe you need to start acting like a grown adult, then!" he scolds.

"How can I when you're the one treating me like a baby?! Every day you coddle and fuss over me like I'm made of glass, then wonder why I might be upset! Do you really blame me for trying to sneak out just to do something normal?!"

"Don't raise your voice at me. I'll give you five seconds to march to your room. I'm not kidding."

"And what? You're going to ground me like you're my dad?"

"One."

Your breath catches in your throat.

"Two."

You blink.

"Three."

You consider staying put.

"Four."

Sighing in defeat, you spin on your heel and stomp to the bedroom you've become familiar with, then slam the door shut behind you. There, you collapse onto your mattress with an aggravated noise. What's his problem?

No, you refuse to miss that party, even if it kills you.

This is the first time your friends actually invited you to something in a while. Maybe they'd actually start talking to you again. But you know that won't happen if you don't show up.

So, you wait. And wait. And wait until an hour goes by.

Peeking out the doorway to make sure he's gone, you slowly creep past Ellis's room, holding your shoes in hand. Luckily, he must already be in bed, because there's not a sound.

Your heart races with adrenaline as you step through the front door, put on your shoes, then lock the door behind you with the key he gave you. The breeze is cold and biting, but you trudge ahead.

Finally, freedom.

...

An hour passes. Ellis can't sleep, he's been trying to read, but the argument with you has been in his mind on loop.

Sighing to himself, he closes his book and heads over to your room.

"(Y/n)?" he whispers, gently rapping his knuckles against the wooden door. No answer. "Sweetie, are you awake? I'm sorry for getting upset..." No answer. He hesitates, then opens the door, just to make sure you're okay.

But when he turns on the light, no one is laying in bed.

Fury runs through him, hot and white, then fizzles out into panic and fear.

"No, no, no." He looks inside your closet, nothing. Bathroom, nothing. The whole place, absolutely nothing.

He doesn't want to think you deliberately disobeyed him, but what other choice is there? You sneaked out. Who knows what kind of danger you're putting yourself in? He doesn't want to imagine you getting beat up again... he still feels guilty for being responsible the last time, even if it is what was necessary.

That's what he tells himself, anyway.

He picks up his phone and angrily finds your contact name. You're the only person he ever really bothers texting or calling anyways, he typically hates both phone calls and texts.

The phone rings as he paces back and forth.

No answer. He grits his teeth and tries again, only for it to lead him to voicemail.

"(Y/n)... come back home, please. Or at least call me to let me know you're okay."

...

You're a few drinks in already, and so drunk you feel sick. You glance down at your phone. You have five missed calls, and several texts.

Ellis: Please come home

Ellis: It isn't safe out at these times, sweetie. I wouldn't forgive myself if anything happened to you.

Ellis: I'm sorry for snapping earlier.

Ellis: Please call me back when you can, (Y/n).

Ellis: Just let me know you're alright.

Ellis: Don't ignore me.

Ellis: If you come home now, I won't say a word about this incident. We can put it behind us, okay?

Ellis: Come home.

You almost want to text him back, tell him you're okay and you just wanted a break for one night. He's been a bit too stifling lately, it feels like he's trying to take over every aspect of your life. At first, it seemed sweet that he genuinely cared enough to help you when you needed it, but you can take care of yourself. You just don't understand why he doesn't believe that.

"Hey, (Y/n)," one of your friends say, but they don't seem very enthusiastic.

"Hey! It's been so long since we talked," you say. "You haven't been responding to my messages."

Their expression falls. "Sorry. Look, uh, this might seem a bit... sudden, but... we should stop hanging out." They clear their throat awkwardly. "It's been fun, don't get me wrong, but things are different now."

Your face scrunches up. "What? Why? Did I do something?"

"Not exactly." They rub the back of their neck. "We tried to explain to him, but he was insistent and, honestly, kinda scary—"

"What? Who?"

They click their tongue, annoyed. "Your dad. I wish you would've told someone that your dad is literally one of the professors."

"My dad?" you gawk at them. "Ellis?"

"Who else?" They shake their head. "Told us that we were all just getting in the way of your studies. And threatened our college admission and grades if we ever associated with you. Soo... yeah. We can't talk anymore. Sorry about that."

Once they finish that spiel, they hurry away and mingle with some other people. You stand alone in shock, mind reeling and thoughts fuzzy.

You drink more, just because you don't want to think about it for too long.

...

Ellis isn't stupid. He knows you were most definitely lying about the studying thing, especially considering the threats he had given to your little friends.

So of course, he assumes you went to a party. He's disappointed and beyond angry still, but his panic comes first.

It doesn't take him long to hunt down the house the party is happening in. He sees people stumbling around everywhere. How careless.

After a bit of searching for the front door, he slams the front door open and glances around. Loud music and the stench of alcohol immediately hit him in the face. People stare at him in surprise, but they seem too intoxicated to really care.

Some recognize him as a professor, and shrink back nervously. One even pulls a cigarette out of his mouth, thinking he would scold him.

He stomps further into the house, looking around frantically for any signs of you.

And lo and behold, he sees one of your friends, staring at him in shock. "You." He glares down at them. "Where is (Y/n)? Don't you dare lie to me."

"I didn't invite them!" they quickly blurt. "But... uh, I think they're in the bathroom, throwing up. They're super drunk."

Ellis huffs angrily, storming off towards the bathroom. He twists open the knob to see you, exactly as they said. Throwing up in the toilet. His eyes soften. Oh, you poor baby, he thinks. The things he does for you.

He kneels on the floor next to you and pushes your hair away from your face. Then, he reaches over and flushes the toilet once you finish emptying your stomach of whatever alcohol you consumed.

"Oh, honey." He dampens a paper towel and wipes your mouth and nose with it. "You should've stayed home where it's safe," he sighs. "But I'll take care of you. Just like always." He strokes the back of your head affectionately. "Do you think you'll vomit again?"

"I don' think so," you answer after hiccuping. He nods, stands up, then offers his hands for you. You take them and try to pull yourself up, but it proves to be difficult, especially with how much your vision swims.

"It's okay, I got you," he says, taking one of your arms and swinging it over his shoulder. Together, the two of you walk out of the bathroom. "Deep breaths, okay? There you go."

"Aww, (Y/n), is your dad taking you home?" one of the party-goers drunkenly mocks you. "Poor baby needs their dada?"

Usually Ellis is immediate to step in, giving a glare or even yelling, but he doesn't say anything. Even though you're too drunk to think, you still have enough of a mind to know why. He wants other people to think that. He likes being thought of as your parent, having you need him like a baby. That much is obvious.

Still, you're drunk and humiliated. You can't even keep track of your surroundings well enough.

"If this little party isn't wrapped up in an hour, I can promise the consequences won't be small," Ellis hisses. He specifically eyes the several students with beers in their hands, who he knows for a fact can't be legally drinking.

With that, the party dies down quickly. He gives everyone at the party a nasty glare before leaving with you still clinging onto him.

"How could you be so irresponsible?" he quietly chastises you, helping you in the front seat of his car. You stumble several times, but he's always there to steady you. Once you buckle in, he gives your arm a light squeeze. "You made me worry sick over you." He walks over to the drivers side and hops in. As soon as he does, he turns the heat on for you. You're grateful for it. He notices you shivering, too, so he takes off his sweater vest and drapes it over you like a blanket. "Here, kiddo."

"I'm sorry," you mumble. "I jus' wanted to hang out with my friends."

"They aren't your friends. They said so themselves, remember? Those ingrates don't even deserve your time. Do you know how many of them never lifted a finger to defend you when Brock and his group hurt you? Never once bothered trying to talk to you for the month you spent with me?" he snaps.

You visibly recoil.

Something about this conversation reminds you of one you had with them less than an hour ago, but you can't remember what words were exchanged.

"Yeah..." you trail off sadly.

Ellis's expression softens when he sees you upset. "Honey... its okay, though. You have me."

"That's it, though. Just you," you mutter.

He flinches as if he was physically wounded by your words. "...that's not enough?" he asks after a few seconds. "I take care of everything for you. And love you, and hold you, and make your meals..." He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. You're... you're just drunk. This is why I hate alcohol. It reeks and it causes horrible conversations like these."

Ellis focuses on driving and doesn't speak another word the entire ride back home. But his hands grip the steering wheel harder than usual.

Once the two of you arrive home, Ellis helps you to your bed. He even gets some medicine for you to help your queasy stomach and pounding headache, as well as water to cure the dryness in your mouth.

"Now, get some rest," he sternly instructs you. "Because we are going to have a long discussion tomorrow."

"W-wait..." you slur. "Please don't leave me alone."

The man blinks a couple of times, surprised. "Alright. Alright, sweetie. You want Dad to sleep here tonight?" You nod, mind too hazy to think about his words. He tuts lovingly. "Alright. Move over, then."

You scoot aside as instructed, curling up on one side of the bed. You watch tiredly as Ellis kicks off his shoes and takes his glasses off. Then, he goes to your side of the bed and crawls under the covers with you.

"There." He shifts closer and wraps his arms securely around your midsection. "That better?"

"Mhm. Thank you."

You feel warm, safe, and content being held by Ellis. You close your eyes, feeling fatigue catch up with you. His hand soothingly runs up and down your back, easing you to sleep. It makes your eyelids heavy, luring you into slumber.

You'll definitely be grounded tomorrow, but for now, he savors this sweet moment between what he believes to be father and child.

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dollmoth-productions · 3 months ago

Note

yandere english prof?

Sorry this took so long, its been sitting in my drafts forever LOL. Here you go! I actually really like this one haha.

TW: Violence, blood (not detailed), injuries, bullying, light forced infantilization, parental yandere, manipulative yandere, implied extortion

Everyone hated your English professor, Ellis, but you never understood the hate he received. Practically day one, everyone was complaining about how mean he could be or how unfair or harsh his grading was.

At first, you believed them, not really knowing the professor well enough to come to his defense. He seemed to have a no-nonsense attitude with you just as much as everyone else.

It wasn't really until one day, when some guys of a nasty fraternity came in and began harassing you.

You had always ignored it, but it became more impossible to ignore when one of them tripped you on your way into the class.

"Jerk," you grumble under your breath, watching him saunter off with a laugh. You feel blood dripping down your nose.

You grab your phone to see if it looks bad, and sure enough, it does. If the pain in your face weren't indicating you landed straight on it, then the blood trailing down your nose and forming bruise on your eye were.

After wiping your face clean as best as you can, you continue your trek back to class.

Sure, it'd probably be a better idea to email your professor and explain to him what happened, but knowing how harshly he can treat students, you'd rather get the attendance than email him about something he might not even believe is true.

And so, you stumble through the halls with blood dried at the corners of your nostrils, one eye looking swollen with the other's vision blurred from crying earlier.

A black eye must already be forming. A few people give you odd looks, but almost everyone else minds their own business. Soon enough, you finally enter your classroom.

"You're three minutes late," Ellis coldly says as soon as you step through the door.

He isn't even looking at you, probably just figures its you, because his eyes are on a few papers.

"I-I'm sorry." Your voice cracks. You wince from the sound of it.

Ellis's gaze immediately shoots up at you. He looks baffled and furious at first. "What on earth happened to you?"

He makes a hand gesture for you not to answer that, and looks back at the several rows of students, some of which are paying attention to the situation, but most are talking to their friends or on their phones. He puts his head down and begins writing something on a small piece of paper, then walks to you and hands it to you.

As you grab the note, his hand squeezes over yours. He lets go after you look at him. "Take it. Go. Come back when you get something for that."

You nod quickly, then glance down at the paper to see that there's a pass.

Medical office, Room 305

He even went as far as to write the room number in case you forgot.

Thankful for that and everything else, you smile a little and make your way out the door, making sure not to get harassed again by some bully on your way.

Now that you really think about it, he's been having more of a soft spot for you recently, though maybe that's all in your head, too.

Like when you offered to help him clean up the room, and once you even stayed after class to ask him for help regarding what he was teaching.

Even though he could be intimidating sometimes, and downright frightening at others, you didn't find yourself scared around him. Only when he raises his voice, which he never does towards you.

Once you make it to the medical office and have the nurse inspect the damage, she determines that nothing is broken, just badly bruised.

You don't want to tell her that this incident was caused by bullies, so you just awkwardly tell her you fell down some stairs. She likely doesn't get paid enough to snuff out your lie.

She hands you an ice pack. "There," she smiles. "Not so bad. Try to watch where you're going next time, okay?"

Her condescending tone makes you feel worse. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

You apply pressure to your black eye as instructed, then head back to your English class.

When you get back inside the room, no one is there except Ellis. You check your phone, to see barely thirty minutes has passed. Maybe he sent them home early.

"Hi. I'm here." Your voice cracks again and you can't help but cringe. It sounds horrible, even to your own ears.

He looks up at you, brows pinching together in concern as soon as his eyes meet yours. He doesn't speak; he only pats the seat nearest to him on the front row of desks, gesturing for you to take a seat beside him.

Once you do, his cold fingers brush under your bruised eye. It should hurt, but they are so gentle against your skin that you barely flinch away from them.

"Who did this?" Ellis's gaze becomes narrow behind his round glasses.

You shake your head, suddenly feeling sick at your stomach. You hate how these kinds of things happen to you, especially since everyone else thinks they're harmless pranks.

They don't feel harmless. Especially when it feels like they leave physical and mental wounds everywhere on you.

"Nobody. I'm sorry."

He tuts in disapproval. "I know someone did this. Either you tell me, or I find out myself."

"Why do you care?" It sounds much more rude than you intended, so you try to soften your tone. "I'm sorry, its just... why would it matter if someone did?"

Ellis pinches the bridge of his nose. "Because you're too sweet. Too kind. It isn't fair that people treat you this way." He gives you another look over. "I dismissed my class today because of you, you know. I wouldn't do that for any of my other students, because they don't like me. And honestly, I don't really like them. But you..." he trails off.

"...but me?" you echo.

He scrubs a hand over his face. "You're like my child, (Y/n). It's my job as a professor to treat my students fairly, equally, but when it comes to you..." he sighs deeply, "...I worry about you every day. I wonder if you ate breakfast. If you've had anything to drink recently. How you slept. If anyone hurts you. None of my other students I let help me after class. Because if you're in front of my own two eyes, it's easier to just stop worrying. And I like being around you."

The information almost overwhelms you. "I had no clue."

"Well, now you do. So could you please tell me who did this? I'll have a heart attack if you worry me any more than I need to," he jokes with a weak smile, a very rare one.

"Just some guy from Delta Psi Lambda," you answer quickly. "I think his name was Brock, or something."

"I'll take care of him. Now, how's your eye?" As soon as you pull away the ice pack, he sucks in a harsh breath. "(Y/n). Oh, honey. It must be painful."

The term of endearment almost goes right past your head.

Almost.

"I mean, yeah. A little," you chuckle, trying to play it off. Really, it feels awful. "It doesn't feel too great, but it looks worse."

"It's bruising. Poor thing," he coos, taking your chin into his long, bony fingers and turning your head left and right, analyzing all of the damage. "This is unacceptable. Does anywhere else hurt?"

"No, this is all." You try to shrug again, but it comes out weird-looking. You can tell he catches it, too. "My nose was bleeding a lot earlier, but it stopped. Other than that, I guess everything else feels okay."

Ellis grabs a tissue and wipes off the leftover drying blood. His movements are careful yet firm, as if you would shatter to pieces if he wasn't gentle enough. "What am I going to do with you?" he sighs. "Can't trust you for even a moment before you're already coming back to me hurt." He presses a soft kiss on the crown of your head. "Do you need me to drive you back home?"

"I live on campus," you murmur. "I can just walk there."

He raises a brow at you. "That means they could just get you again if I let you go alone," he chastises. "Come on, follow me." He stands up, putting the papers into his work bag, then swinging it over his shoulder. He holds his free hand out and waits patiently for you to grab onto it, then he helps hoist you up.

As he does, your backpack slides down one arm. You watch as he puts it over his shoulder with his workbag, too.

...

A week passes, and Ellis is much softer towards you. He isn't as fatherly to you in front of people, but its pretty obvious that you've become the favorite.

He keeps asking if you have any food or drinks, and when you don't, he pulls out his lunchbox and offers whatever you need. You're not complaining. Free lunches are always good to accept.

"I don't need to eat lunch in here all the time now," you mumble, chewing on your favorite fruit that he offered. Weird that he knew that, but surely a coincidence.

Ellis pauses from what he's doing, which is erasing the whiteboard, and peers at you from the corner of his eye. "Why? Do you dislike spending time with me?"

You shake your head. "No, it's not that. I just... I think the bullies will leave me alone now. I haven't even seen any of the fraternity's faces since the incident."

"That doesn't mean I still can't worry about you," Ellis replies coolly. "You even forgot your lunch several times now. It worries me. I need to make sure you eat properly." The marker squeaks against the board as he writes reminders for next class's essay. Once he finishes that task, he sets everything down and heads to sit down at his desk. "I always pack extra for you now, because you're so forgetful. And thank goodness I do."

"Okay, Professor Dad," you sarcastically laugh.

He shakes his head at you while looking amused, making your words die in your throat.

That was clearly meant to be a joke, so why is he smiling like that?

Well, you know the answer, but it's still hard to believe. Even though Ellis seems to really care about you, he hasn't known you for very long at all.

So, why would he start acting so... so dad-like towards you? What exactly happened to turn him from the stern and rigid teacher persona into an almost doting father-figure towards one of his students?

"I-I didn't really mean—"

"I know. I get it," he says softly. "Just humor me. Let me keep fussing over you." After that, he falls quiet, working on grading some papers from earlier classes that day.

...

"You didn't bring a jacket?" Ellis asks exasperatedly. He's walking you to your dorm again after class ended, since it snowed.

Normally, you would've gone yourself, but due to the cold weather and Ellis's demands for you to stay in his classroom until he finished getting ready to walk you himself, you couldn't exactly refuse.

You look over at him, finding that his brows are pinched together in concern. "Oh, uh, no. I guess I forgot."

"For Pete's sake," he mutters, tugging the scarf from his neck and wrapping it snugly around yours instead. "I swear, you'll be the death of me one day, (Y/n). Can't even remember a simple thing like bringing a jacket." Despite sounding mad, there's also a tone of fondness mixed in with it.

You decide not to mention it, feeling embarrassed just thinking about it.

"Thanks," you hum.

"I don't mind doing things for you, you know," he adds after a moment. "I wanted to have kids of my own, but found out romance wasn't really my thing. And adoption costs way more money than what I have." He lets out a huff through his nostrils. "But it seems like you require the same doting as a toddler."

It doesn't even sound like its meant to be a jab at you; if anything, his voice takes on an affectionate edge.

"Is that bad?" you ask sheepishly.

"Not to me." He squeezes your hand, pulling you along beside him to cross the street. As soon as you reach your dorm and go inside, he dusts snowflakes off the top of your head. "That's better." You try to unwrap the scarf, but he stops you. "Keep it. I have several others like it. Besides, I don't want you catching a cold from being under-dressed."

You smile awkwardly. "Oh, okay. Thank you."

...

A month passes, and your friends had begun to avoid you. Even the bullies act scared to show their faces around you.

You wonder if its just Ellis's mere presence, but it's hard to tell. You decide a few days avoiding Ellis and trying to spend time with your friends again wouldn't hurt. You figure Ellis won't even notice too much, busy with papers and classes.

You notice Ellis giving you strange looks during class, but other than that, he acts normal. It's nice to feel like things are going back to the way they used to be again.

Barely a week after avoiding him, you hear someone yell your name.

But it isn't Ellis. It's Brock, and three of his other friends.

"Haven't forgotten what you did to me yet, did you? Because of you, I was nearly expelled!" he screams. Then, Brock runs towards you, fist flying directly towards your stomach and hitting you hard. You groan, then fall forward when one of his friends pushes you. "Hope you had fun trying to get rid of me, because you're gonna regret it!"

They get a few more punches in, and you can't even do anything about it because there's so many of them. You desperately look for anyone to be around, but there's no one.

"Stop!" someone yells.

You open your eyes from their previous screwed shut state, peering over at the man in glasses running towards you. Its Ellis.

He helps pull you away from all the frat guys, glaring down at each of them.

They must have some common sense, because they all freeze at the sight of Ellis. He barks something at them, but you can't pay attention over the ringing in your ears.

As soon as they begin sprinting off in the other direction, Ellis scoops you up bridal style and carries you somewhere.

You try opening your eyes to see where, but as soon as you manage to pry one open, he brushes his fingertips over your forehead.

"Don't stress yourself, love. Just rest." You close your eyes, and fade out from exhaustion.

...

You wake up in Ellis's apartment. It smells so clean, like it's never been lived in. Everything is so neatly organized, and nothing is out of place.

Not even a speck of dust lays on the windowsills or countertops. It seems like something straight out of a catalog.

You push yourself up into a sitting position, wincing from the pain in your arms and abdomen. Your lower back aches and twinges, too.

"Oh! Kiddo, please be careful!" You turn your head slowly towards Ellis's voice. He's holding some ice packs, water bottles, and bandages. His sweater vest has been changed for a plain gray shirt. "I'm glad you're finally awake. Let me take a look at you."

"What happened? Why am I here?"

He gives you a strange look. "You got beat up. Again," he emphasizes, clearly frustrated. "And you were so banged up that I brought you back to my place. I thought maybe I shouldn't take you back to your dorm, because you have no one who could take care of you." He clicks his tongue. "And besides that, you haven't come to me lately, and you're avoiding me. Now, you just got attacked again because I wasn't around to protect you."

You sniffle and in a sudden motion, wrap your arms around his neck. It surprises both you and him, but he's quick to embrace you twice as tightly.

His fingers curl into your hair, his other hand rubbing your back comfortingly.

"Hey, hey, shh..." He squeezes you. "Sweetie, calm down for me. You're going to hyperventilate if you breathe any quicker."

"I-I'm sorry... I d-didn't think th-they'd ever b-bother me again...!"

"Shh, breathe for me. Follow my rhythm." He takes deep breaths, waiting each time for you to follow. "That's right. You're such a good listener." Ellis cups your cheek and rubs away a few stray tears from it. He notices your breathing returned back to normal, so he smiles, placing a tender kiss to the crown of your head. "I've missed having you around."

"I'm sorry."

"That's alright. Now that I have you again, you're safe." He gets up, then walks to the kitchen. "Let me fix you something warm. You need it after today, poor baby."

As he cooks, you drift in and out of consciousness yet again. He chuckles when he notices you're basically passed out once again.

His phone rings. He scoffs, but answers it.

"What do you want? Yes, yes... you'll no longer need to worry about getting expelled for what you did... no, I'm not thanking you. Now please delete this number and never talk to them again. If I catch you even looking at them, I really will make sure you're suspended."

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dollmoth-productions · 3 months ago

Text

“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 have 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 as 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 you that they'd never understand true fear. This was momentary, before they met their swift 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 weren’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 Myer'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.

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dollmoth-productions · 4 months ago

Note

♡ ♡ ♡

WARNING: blood mentioned, murder scenes. The ending is a little sweet/fluff!