#fromatting has been eddited yay

[icarusdoesntdie]

You,

– always knew that you were different. Not in the way everybody was different; in a way that nobody would understand. You were raised by a single father. And he loved you, but he also loved G-d; and his ties to his faith would be very same ones to bind you. He told you to be strong, but couldn't show you how. 

So you would not, you could not think of your dad nor his savior, though you borrowed the lord's name in vain. 

If anything, you thought about your mother. About the accident that took her. It was not your memory, you were there, but you'd been too young to understand. Your mind constructed the images from borrowed bits and pieces. The things your dad told you. What the fire marshall reported. The only thing that was truly yours was the feeling… the rush of emotion that surfaced every time you smelled something burning. Every time you smelled blood. The fear, the panic echoed until your world threatened to fall apart.

(Jeff the Killer x NB Reader/No Pronouns Used for Reader)

You could never mistake the smell, but the alcohol had settled and made your mind sluggish, so that when you came home, you wouldnt pick it up. You slurred your situationship's name, called "im home!" into the empty room as you kicked off your shoes.

Your dog trotted up, a small mutt of a thing, who happily danced at your feet. And you squealed, taking his face between your hands and squeezing. 

"Why's you still up, huh? You wan' a snack? Let's get snacks," you said, gleefully and stood back up. There was a scent in the air, savory-sweet, and followed the trail. Strangely, the kitchenette lights were on and something was boiling over on the stove. You cursed, moving to flip the burner off and shove the pot aside. Removing the lid revealed what was left of a ramen pack, the liquid having been reduced completely, the remaining mush starting to blacken around the edges. 

It pissed you off. Your partner had always been a bit of a mess, forgetting locks, skipping out on feeding your dog (and not because you were entitled, but because you had asked and they agreed). You couldn't even expect a call back, not when you stayed out late. Not a single text had come through that night.

You threw the pot into the sink, and only then did you realize — there was red on your hands. You jumped, looking yourself over for any unnoticed cuts, but it wasn't yours. Your dog barked, and seeing him in the bright kitchen light, you saw the blood staining his pelt. 

Urgently, you scooped him up, brushing your hands through his short fur to try and locate the source. Your thoughts were racing with how, what, where, but panic slowly morphed into confusion, because there was nothing. And the dog didn't cry, didn't flinch, because the blood wasn't his. Your eyes flickered to the floor, where his tiny paws left red smears. 

"What…" you trailed off. You wouldnt dare make assumptions, lest your mind wander to dark places. You had to see, first. Once into the hall, the burnt ramen gave way to the scent you noticed first – and your gut twisted with guilt. You blamed the alcohol in your system. It was cloying, the further you walked, it was the smell of blood. You heard the shower running, the bathroom door wide open. The lights were on and the steam was hot and thick but did nothing to conceal the sight – though the running water had done away with the blood, there was no mistaking what the scene was. Their eyes were open and unseeing, mouth torn open. Their throat was a mess of blood and skin, and you dropped your poor dog in order to slap both hands over your mouth. 

The animal yelped, bounding away, and you threw yourself back until you hit the wall. Sliding down, a sob made it past your lips. 

"Why?" You muttered, a shuddery thing. With a sudden jolt, you realized the better question; who. 

Your dog barked. At the end of the hall, the bathroom light reached out to trace the outline of his small form… you thought about conversations prior, jokes made about your 'guard dog' throwing itself at an intruder's feet. It made you laugh, a desperate sound, with the terrible irony. He dropped onto his back, exposing his tummy, to a man, who crouched to stroke short fur with blood stained fingers. 

You didn't dare raise your eyes nor make a sound, as if there was a chance he wouldn't notice you. Instead, you focussed on the dog. 

"Good boy." 

His voice was raspy. Young, but raked over gravel. He stepped over the dog, crossing that mile wide distance to you. Still, you didn't move, not until he crouched, twisting his neck and putting his face in yours. 

He stared with wide, stained eyes with what might've been curiosity. His expression was hard to read, given the way his mouth was cut into a permanent grin. There was scaring besides the cuts, burns that creeped down his jaw and across his neck. The smell was jarring, iron and stagnant water, but it was the familiarity of your own detergent that caught your attention. 

The intruder wore one of your sweaters. Your eyes flickered down to the logo in the front, and then back up to those ruined lips. 

"Is this yours?" He asked, tugging on the item. "You don't mind, right? Good. Here, I'll give you something in exchange." 

You expected his skin to be cold, but his grip around your wrist was warm and rough. Into your limp hand, he pressed a bloody kitchen knife. 

And then he stood and stepped over you. You hoped he'd head out the door, but instead he ducked into the kitchen. Your stupid dog trailed after him. 

"No," you whispered. "No no no." 

And you got up. If you couldn't do it for yourself, but you had to do it for your stupid dog. 

"Chewie," you whispered harshly, gripping the knife tighter. "Chewie, come here!" 

The intruder scooped it up instead and the animal never stopped wagging its tail. 

The intruder looked at you, eyes dragging down and to the knife in your grasp. He gasped dramatically, as if he wasn't the one who handed it to you. 

"You're a killer!" He exclaimed, covering his mouth of feigned shock. 

"What?" You said. The knife… you flinched, dropping the weapon as if it burned in your grasp. 

"I'm calling the police," the intruder continued his theatrics. He grabbed the land line, dialing random numbers. "Hello? Piggies? Please help, my roommate's dead and I got my prints all over the weapon, but I swear it wasn't me. Maybe you'll make it before end up dead, too." 

And he dropped it back onto the receiver, watching you… expectantly.

Oh. 

"What do you want?" You said, your voice shaking. It felt like the alcohol had completely burned out of your system, but you still didn't trust your body or thoughts.

He really thought about it, leaning back and letting his eyes wander, all while petting Chewie. His hand paused, briefly tightening over the animal's head, before resuming. 

"A roof, a change of clothes…" he said. "A warm meal. It's been a lo-ong time since I ate something real. Do you mind? You don't, right?" 

And through his smile, you felt the weight of his threat. 

Your mom had been a good cook. You thought about her, but the memories had no real substance. They couldn't help. So you cooked what you liked, eggs sunny side up and fried ham. There was leftover rice, warmed and served with the protein on top. Automatically, you had made two portions, like you would have had you been eating with your partner. The intruder waited at the table, letting his weight fall against the wood. You put the plate down without much thought and returned to the kitchen to wash the dishes. The grime left from the ramen didn’t budge, and frustration threatened to call for tears, but you were not ready to cry just yet. It was just time to soak and wait. Your own plate, still stacked with food, sat on the counter. It would be a waste. It was a waste. 

“God damnit,” you said, bitterly, feeling your stomach turn. Your partner was dead. It was guilt that made its home in your throat, impossible to swallow, impossible to ignore. Though perhaps it was for the better, for low in your gut, something much worse rumbled. Its shape was hazy and unknown, but you feared it all the same. It was better to let guilt choke you out before finding out what sat in your stomach. Your partner was dead, and you should have called the police no matter the threat to yourself. It was better to die, too, but that thought didnt sound like you. 

What a waste. 

Heavy arms snaked around your waist, shocking you out of your reverie. You tensed all over, arching away from the touch, but you were trapped between him and the stranger. 

"Don't call anyone, alright? Ill kill you," he said, in the same intonation one would use to to coo a child. "Be good." 

You gripped the counter, knuckles white. It really wasnt like you. 

"I won't," you said, and then again, "I won't, I swear."