(Including: Michael Myers, Baby Firefly, Doomhead, Gabriel May)
Michael Myers
-Michael knows what it's like to have an unstoppable urge, a subdermal itch that will not be repressed or lessened. He might not quite get the concept of OCD behaviours until you explain, but he's far smarter than anyone ever gave him credit for and he's a fast learner.
-Michael's adept at redirection...although he's usually redirecting someone's head away from their body. He'll put your hands above your head and simply tilt his own when you glare at him, smugness radiating from the gesture.
-The Shape of Haddonfield relinquishes his knife for only one purpose: to give to you. He lets you twirl it around, twist it and turn it up to the light so it reflects. The handle fits strangely comfortably in your grip, and Michael rests easy knowing he's keeping you safe...even if it's from yourself.
Baby Firefly
-Baby's not too fussed about getting to know specific mental health terms or psychological breakdowns of your condition, she's just interested in making you feel better. She's got a collection of hairbands, headscarves, hair ties, anything that she's got is yours to use!
-If you tend to pull at your eyelashes or eyebrows, Baby's quick to take your hands into hers, trilling about doing your makeup, a clever way to get you to keep your hands to yourself. If you're insecure about any hair loss there, she'll fill in your eyebrows for you or fit you with false lashes at your request!
-Baby can get stressed to the point of harming herself (although it's rare that she turns her pain onto her own body) so she's not as unfamiliar with self-destructive behaviours as you may think at first glance. She's affectionate as always and quick to reassure you that you're absolutely beautiful and she's so proud of the progress you're making.
Doomhead
-He can be kind of an asshole about getting you to focus on something else: he's a real drill sergeant about it, barking at you to stop hurting yourself. It's his way of saying he cares about you, though.
-He'll take you out when he notices your mood dropping and your hair thinning, even if it's just to a shitty dive bar where he never takes off his sunglasses. It's an excuse to make sure you're eating okay and hold your hand under the table, preventing you from searching out and grasping at your hair (he'd lie through his teeth that he does this if anyone ever asked).
Gabriel May
-Gabriel knows what it's like to push his body to the point of pain. In a way, he is well-acquainted with the kind of behaviour indicative of OCD. He's also well aware of his looks, even though you tell him he's handsome, and he wouldn't dream of ever letting anyone judge you for yours. Bald spot? Everyone better mind their business about it or Gabriel will plan a visit. Missing lashes? You're stunning, he doesn't care.
-Gabriel's scarily smart, and will do his research on your condition. He's adept at calming you down, soothing you when you've had a bad day, and he just gets you like no one else does.
-A voice will crackle through the speakers of your phone when you're tugging at your hair, TV static will startle you out of your pulling, the radio will switch to your favourite song when you're upset...Gabriel will always let you know he's there for you.
Warnings: Slightly controlling Doom-Head/dom!Doom-Head and sub!Reader (duh)
Even outside of the game, you called him “Doom-Head.” You found it kind of sexy, kind of scary. Of course you knew his real name (you’d been with him a staggering three years already, which was a record for both of you), but when you’d discovered his nickname, it had just stuck. It was so him.
You were at a haunted house, just in time for Halloween. He wasn’t working the game this year (that was what the two of you had started calling it, since it was so much easier, and safer, than calling it what it actually was), so you’d had all October to spend with him. You especially loved it when it got closer to Halloween, as his more aggressive side came out.
“It’s stupid to go to these things,” he complained as you waited in line with everyone else. Both pre-recorded and real-life screams could be heard echoing through the haunted house, which had been advertised as the scariest one in the state. “What’s the point of going if you know none of it’s real?”
“Because,” you said, nudging him in the arm, “it feels real to most people. Not everyone has the same … interests … as you, babe.”
He gave you a stony look. In private, you could call him anything you wanted. You could do anything you wanted. But when you were in public, only he was allowed to use pet names, and only he was allowed to initiate physical contact.
“Look,” he complained, nodding toward the back of the line where a woman with two kids had appeared. “This can’t be that scary if there are kids here. We oughta leave.”
“Oh, come on,” you said, lightly tapping your hand against his. You really wanted to grab it, but you knew his limits. “I read the website. No one under eighteen is allowed in. She’ll get turned away any minute now. Besides, you promised.”
“I must’ve been high if I promised to take you here.”
“You were, and you did. I’ve only ever been to one haunted house before, and you’d never let me participate in the game, so …”
“’Cause I don’t want someone to tear your guts open all over the place.”
You caught a glimpse of the group behind you, all shifting away uncomfortably. Whether they took it literally or as a euphemism, they were still visibly disturbed by his comment. Doom-Head, however, didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. Likely both.
“So, then, you owe me this. I never get to be scared, and I never get to scare. I just want to spend one Halloween doing something scary with you.”
“Every day’s scary with me,” he said, grabbing your butt firmly and pulling you close. “How scary do you want me to be?”
You opened your mouth to answer when your earlier prediction came true. An usher dressed as a zombified clown marched down the side of the line and stood beside the woman with two kids.
“Eighteen and up only,” he said. “You can stay but the kids have gotta go.”
“Where are they going to go?” the woman snapped back. “They’re kids!”
“Not my problem. They’re not supposed to be here in the first place. Find a place for ‘em or you all can leave.”
The woman issued a few colorful curses at the clown (which Doom-Head repeated against your ear, his breath sending pleasant shudders through your body) as she dragged her crying kids out of the line.
Once the spectacle was over, and people’s attention was no longer on the woman and kids, Doom-Head let you go. He slicked back his dark hair and rolled his eyes up to the canopy covering the long line.
“’s taking forever,” he griped.
“No, it’s not. The line’s moving fast enough.” You prodded him forward, which earned you another cold stare. He turned away and ignored you for the next few minutes.
As you got closer to the entrance, another usher (this one dressed as a scarecrow) came walking down the line, giving instructions and asking for proof of ticket purchase. He stopped at each person and checked their wristbands, then told them the rules of the house. No touching the scare actors. No breaking anything. No flash photography. No food or drinks in the house. Anything not consumed by the time they reached the entrance had to be tossed. No stopping and going back the way they came. Everyone had to move forward and keep moving. Stalling or holding up the line inside the house would result in an immediate “emergency exit,” which included a security guard dragging you through the back halls and out the side door.
When the scarecrow got to you, he grinned from ear to ear.
“Hey, cutie,” he said. “Mind if I check your wristband?”
“Go ahead.”
He grabbed your hand and pulled it up to examine the band in the limited light. He continued to smile at you. “Is this your first time here?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Just a guess. I’ve worked this house the last five years. I’d remember if you’d been here before.”
“Maybe I came a day you weren’t working.”
“That’s impossible. I’d remember if you came.” He winked at you.
In between heartbeats, Doom-Head was between you and the scarecrow. He loomed over both of you, tall and thin and intimidating. Even without his signature makeup, he was a scary man. And you could tell from the look on the scarecrow’s face that Doom-Head was smiling. He never looked scarier than when he was smiling.
“Now, what’d you go and do that for?” Doom-Head asked, looking down at the other man.
“Do what?” The scarecrow’s voice trembled as he took a step backward from the line.
“You flirted with my lady. Right in front of me. It wasn’t like you couldn’t see me. I was standing right there. Now I’m standing right here. What’d you do it for?”
The scarecrow’s eyes looked toward you for help, but you gave none. You shrugged. It didn’t matter if you wanted to help him or not. When Doom-Head got in this mood (his “I own you” mood), there was nothing you could do about it.
“I-I wasn’t flirting. I was just making conversation.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Doom-Head said, his voice starting to lighten. That was somehow a worse sign than if he’d screamed it. “I hate liars.”
“I’m not lying, mister. I was just making conversation. I didn’t know you were together.”
“So, which is it? You were just talking to her? Or you were flirting and didn’t realize she was mine?”
“I—” Scarecrow stumbled over his words while Doom-Head stared him down.
“You know, I can see it in the eyes. A thief always shows it in the eyes first. The way they look at the things they plan on taking. You got that same look. And you’re looking right at my gal. You planning on stealing her away from me?”
“N-No! Of course not!”
“Then what were you looking at her for?”
“I was just checking her wristband!”
“You checked it. Why were you still talking to her? She’s not yours. She’s mine. Why were you talking to her after you checked her wristband? Why’d you wanna know how many times she’s been here?”
The tension surrounding the three of you was so thick, it had spread clear to each end of the line. No one was comfortable. But the other ushers, and even the security guards, stood by and watched. Scarecrow was all alone in this confrontation, and Doom-Head was about to devour him.
You finally decided you had to do something. You pushed yourself between Doom-Head and Scarecrow, turning your back on Scarecrow. Placing your hands on Doom-Head’s chest, you looked up at him, but he ignored you.
“Why don’t we go home? I think you’re right. I think maybe this isn’t the place for us.”
“You want her?” Doom-Head continued, tilting his head to the side. A few strands of dark hair fell over his forehead. You wanted to reach up and push them out of the way, but you knew better than to stick your hands near his face at the moment. If you weren’t careful, you were liable to get your hand bitten off.
“Please, dude,” Scarecrow said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I promise I won’t talk to her again.”
“You’ll have to kill me to get her. Do you want her that badly?” Doom-Head’s hand slid down toward his jean pocket where you knew he kept a knife.
You’d had enough. You grabbed Doom-Head’s wrist and he finally looked at you, fury written across his face.
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m working.”
“You’re not working,” you snapped back. “You’re scaring someone who made an honest mistake.”
“I haven’t even tried to be scary yet.”
“Well, it doesn’t take much, does it? We’re going home.”
“You don’t tell me what to do.”
“Any other night, you’d be right. But tonight, you’re wrong. We’re leaving before you do something stupid.” With your own wave of fury washing over you, you grabbed Doom-Head’s arm and dragged him out of the line, back toward the dark road where you’d parked.
He shook himself free of you and spun you around, wrapping his large hand around your throat. He didn’t squeeze, even though he could have.
“You don’t tell me what to do,” he repeated slowly, emphasizing every word. “Especially not in public.”
You stared up at him, your mouth set in a hard line. His fingers slowly flexed against the flesh of your neck.
“You don’t scare me,” you said.
“No?”
“No. You don’t scare me at all.”
“Well, then,” he said, finally applying pressure to your throat. He leaned down to look you in the eye, his breath hot over your skin. “I guess I’m doing something wrong. I better fix that.”
In seemingly one motion, he released your throat and threw you over his shoulder, carrying you to the van. Instead of putting you in the passenger seat, Doom-Head tossed you into the back and slammed the doors. Then he climbed into the front and drove off. You wondered if anyone heard your laughter as Doom-Head spewed curses out the window at Scarecrow before speeding off back home.
