i know you havent written for doomhead in a while but i found one of your older imagines posts and i was wondering if you could perhaps write something for doomhead with a blasphemy kink? him as a priest or anything like that. thank you and have a nice day <3
ABSOLUTELY!!! I LOVE this request; Blasphemy is kind of ✨My Thing✨ so I was really excited to write this!! It’s been a while since I’ve written in Imagine Format, so I apologize if the pacing is a bit awkward. It does start a little slow, building up to WHY Doomhead is a Priest now, and why The Reader crossed paths with him.
Summary: Doomhead has to relocate following a loss at 31, ends up masquerading as a Priest in a small town. Reader is the Survivor of 31, who skipped town because she thinks that if she told the truth, no one would believe her and she’d be arrested for the murders of her band mates. Reader of course ends up at the same town as Doomhead.
Content Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical violence, Blasphemy Fetish(of course), Implied sex
Fake Priest!Doomhead X Survivor!Reader Imagines
Blasphemy Kink
• This was the kind of conclusion to The Yearly Festivities he hated most; wholly unsatisfying without so much as a glimpse of the last target’s face. No fun when they’re too good at hiding.
• To top it all off, this of course meant he had to go on the move again; after all, he hadn’t seen them, but he’d bet the sneaky little rat wouldn’t forget the sight of him. Probably went straight to a Police Sketch Artist...he had to reinvent himself if he wanted to keep doing what he does best...go someplace no one would ever expect.
• He was wrong though. You, the Sole Survivor of that year’s game of “31”, didn’t go to the Police...you didn’t go to anyone. Who would believe you? At best you’d be institutionalized for your “Delusions”, at worst...well, you’d be damned if you were going to give that pompous shitdick judge the opportunity to look you in the eye and charge you with the murder of your band mates.
• It wouldn’t be too big a leap; it was no secret that you’d been at each others’ throats for months now. No one would care enough about a group of small-time musicians to actually care about the truth.
• No, it was best that you “died” with them. Getting a fake ID was easy enough, now you just had to find a new place to start over...
• When you finally felt like you were far enough from home that no one would recognize you, you stopped at a town off the highway...way way out in the middle of nowhere.
• The people seemed friendly, but not friendly enough to bother asking questions, and that suited you fine. It wasn’t exactly what you were used to, but that’s kind of the point isn’t it? This little haystack hick town would be the absolute last place anyone would expect to find you...if anyone bothered to look in the first place.
• You weren’t exactly the most religious, but in small towns like these churches tend to have their grubby little hands on just about every aspect of life; you figured they’d be your best shot at finding someone to point you in the right direction as far as a job goes-shit, maybe they could help you into some cheap housing. You really weren’t picky at this point; hard to feel safe sleeping in your van after Satan’s little Halloween Party.
• Besides, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten; and Sunday Morning Services tend to conclude with coffee and doughnuts, so it was unlikely to be a total bust.
• It was unseasonably warm, so you were able to slip near silently into the building through the propped-open door; settling neatly into a pew in the back row where it would be easy enough to wait out the God Talk.
• You had intended on ignoring the sermon, maybe even sneaking a little nap, but the Priest’s voice carried through the echoing halls with a flourish reserved for men who love to hear themselves talk.
• He was more performing than preaching, the rhythm of his voice doing absolutely nothing to lessen the lewd undertones of Solomon’s “Song of Songs”. You had heard it plenty of times when you were made to attend church as a child, and if it was genuinely written about Capital-G God like the Priests say, then God had a seriously nice set of tits.
• You took notice of the old ladies in the front row nodding along; no doubt this was the highlight of their day...not that anyone wants to admit to being hot for the Preacher.
• When it came time to take communion, you fell in line with the rest of the community, receiving a few sideways glances. Not that you really faulted them for it, you were after all, a bedraggled stranger.
• When you get close enough to the alter to really see the Priest your heartbeat quickens; something deep and primal within you begs you to tuck tail and run, but by the time you will your legs to function it’s your turn.
• The Priest smiles at you, almost smugly, and bids you kneel at the velvet alter; you think you must be imagining the sadistic gleam in his eyes.
• You do as he asks, too deep now to decline without looking odd to the townspeople.
• You look up at him helplessly as his hand cups your face a bit too tenderly, a shameful heat pooling between your thighs when his thumb coaxes your mouth open. He tips the silver chalice to your lips just long enough to give you a taste of horribly dry wine.
• Your instinct is to recoil with a gag, remembering the awful church wine of your youth, but he doesn’t let you go, gazing down at you expectantly with the communion wafer pinched between his long fingers.
• It feels indecent the way he’s looking at you, and you can’t help but feel as though he gets off on this, the Power Imbalance of his position. You can’t help feeling like Prey under his predatory eyes, but you were never one for reverence.
• You let your tongue slip out, just a bit more than necessary; teasing if he’s hot for this, hardly noticeable if you’re wrong. You shudder as he presses the wafer to your tongue, holding it there a bit longer than he has to while his eyes threaten to drown your own in their intensity.
• “Partake of the Body of Christ, and May his Peace fill you with Salvation,” he says as his fingers slip from your mouth.
• “Amen,” you say, according to custom, face flushed from the sultry tone of his voice.
• You gather yourself, mentally dressing yourself now that his gaze has left your form as you hurry back to the pew; your fellow churchgoers none the wiser in regards to the indecency of your exchange; perhaps you’re the one imagining things.
• Once the service is over, and your teeth are cracking the glaze on a delicious locally supplied doughnut, you feel a firm hand cup your shoulder.
• “Coming home, or passing through?”
• The Priest’s voice catches you off guard, the warm twang piercing through you and making you shiver.
• He explained that he himself was a recent arrival, and that it is a pleasure to meet someone else who plans on making this...quaint little town home.
• You can’t help but feel like he’s studying you, appraising, looking for something he won’t say out loud. “You seem awfully nervous in a House of God.”
• You admit to him that you haven’t been to church in quite some time; you only came because you need help, and you’re not sure where else to go.
• You meant material assistance; shelter, a job, but his gaze pierces you where you stand. “Yes, of course. The Church, such that it is, can aid you with those things...However, Confessional is always open for matters of the Soul.”
• You sleep in the Church that night, a cot made up for you in the room where the extra books are kept; you feel safer than you have since you escaped that Hell Hole...and yet you can’t fall asleep.
• The Priest’s words and strange nature claw at you, and you begin to wonder if maybe you should Confess; Priests are forbidden to speak of what they hear in confessional, right? You never were one for Religion; your family spoiled that for you, but you did make it out of that twisted game alive, and only a little wounded...relatively speaking...maybe there was a higher power looking after you.
• Maybe you were just lucky.
• Your chest tightens as you reach for the handle on the small wooden door; you were never claustrophobic, but after squeezing into such a tight space and waiting out the Killer Clowns for a painful three hours, you’re a bit on edge entering the tiny candle lit room.
• You apologize, unsure of what you’re even supposed to say. You know there’s specific rules to them; but like much of your childhood, those memories have been blocked out for a long time.
• “Bless Me Father, for I have Sinned.”
• His voice startles you, making your heart pound. You hadn’t honestly expected anyone to actually be sitting in the booth this late, and the whisky smoothness of his voice reminds you of your sinful thoughts during communion. You’re glad he can’t see the flush to your cheeks.
• “Bless me Father, for I have Sinned,” you repeat, trying to still your racing heart. “You...you can’t share this information with anyone, right? Whatever I say is between us?”
• “Between us and God,” he replies, almost cheekily.
• “Right,” you sigh, satisfied that this won’t come back to bite you in the ass.
• In truth, he believes you’re about to confess your lust for him, and he’s already thinking up all the ways he wants to disgrace your body in the eyes of a fairy tail god. He plans on sweet talking you, assuring you that your desires are a gift from ‘The Lord’. He wants to make you his private whore, a secret ‘between us and God’...Your actual confession hits him like a club to the chest.
• You tell him all about 31, the grizzly deaths you witnessed, how you mercy killed your band’s keyboardist after finishing off the fucker who put a chainsaw through her gut; how you skipped town, and how you’re absolutely terrified the cops wouldn’t believe you if you tried to fess up. All is silent, and for a moment you’re terrified you’ve grossly misjudged the sanctity of Confessional, and soon you’ll be locked up at the police station...
• You reach for the door handle, attempting to make your escape, skip town like you did your home, but to your surprise the door is ripped open, and the Priest forces his way inside, clicking the lock shut behind him.
• He’s too tall to stand fully in the little room, and your body is crushed against the wall, knee bent awkwardly against the wooden bench seat.
• His hand’s around your throat, his breath hot against your ear. “Well well, Sweet Eurydice, you escaped The Underworld, but it seems as though Orpheus looked back. Do you remember me?”
• Your chest aches from the torturous pounding of your heart, sheer terror enveloping your senses. You hadn’t seen much from your hiding place in 31; your glasses broken and blood dripping into your eyes, but in this moment, trapped in Confessional with the man, there’s no question as to who he is.
• You remember hearing those horrible people announce him from your hiding spot. “Doomhead,” you whisper, because that’s what they called him. You remember watching him gut your Bassist, taking his sweet time setting up a gruesome sculpture for the others to find. You also remember him going absolutely mad trying to find you after he had killed the others; and the way he threw a fit after ‘Game Over’ was called.
• “You cost me a pretty penny...see, I don’t win, I don’t get paid. The folks up top pay me a lot of scratch to do what I do best...but only if I get the job done.”
• You shudder, struggling against him to no avail. You are going to die here.
• He squeezes your neck a couple of times to get your attention, as though he had ever lost it. “Easy girl; it’s too late now, game’s over. I kill you now and all I get is a mess to deal with. I don’t need to kill you, you said it yourself you can’t go to the cops.”
• “Then what the fuck do you want from me?” You choke out.
• He catches your ear between his teeth, just a bit too roughly, and you gasp. “You were pretty bold on the Alter today,” he muses, his free hand fiddling with the button on your jeans. “I want to make you see Jesus.”
• You’re not sure whether to be disgusted with yourself or relieved that the terror you feel is giving way to your earlier lust, but you make a decision.
• Fuck it.
• Before he has a chance to react, you grab the back of his hair and yank, forcing him to look you in the eyes.
• “Bless Me Father for I am About to Sin.”
• A maniacal grin splits across his face, his fingers finding their way into your pants. “A-fucking-Men.”
I’m thinking about actually writing this out into at least a One Shot fic (full smut; not ending where the Imagine ended); let me know if you(or anyone) are interested in a full fic!
Hello! I love how you write for Doomhead it’s like spot on 😍 if you’re still taking them I was wondering if I could request HC’s for Doomhead with an s/o that’s a pole dancer? Thank you! Xoxo
Oh hell yes. Thank you so much for appreciating how I write him!!! This may end up being a bit like my “Foxy Dating a Stripper” imagine but FUCK IT I love this type of thing so much 😍
Doomhead dating an Exotic Dancer
For the purpose of this imagine we’ll assume he meets the reader at the club; if you want him to meet them somewhere else feel free to send in another ask!
• Doomhead is not a man who really gets out much, so going to the local strip-joint a couple’a times a month is his idea of a night out on the town
• He lives out in the sticks, so the club he frequents isn’t exactly a hotbed of exciting new talent; so when you start working there he definitely takes notice
• He’s never seen you before, oh he would’ve remembered a body like yours. He makes a point to keep an eye on you throughout the night, his sunglasses hiding his eyes and keeping him from looking like too big of a creep; for now anyway
• Eventually he takes the glasses off, and does his damndest to trap you in deep penetrative eye contact; he wants you to feel him watching you up on that stage
• If you have tattoos, you can bet he is memorizing each and every one of them; the way they contour over your frame
• Whether you realize at first that you’re doing it or not, you find yourself dancing for him; your attention undeniable
• You’re almost relieved when your stage-time is up and he asks to take you to the back for a private dance
• “Look Darlin’, I’m gonna cut to the chase,” he pulls a fat stack of cash out of his wallet, all fuckin Franklins, more than you usually even make in a night. “I make a whole lotta scratch, and if you and me make this a regular thing, you’ll make a whole lotta scratch, ya dig?”
• You know what he’s asking, and he’s been coming here long enough to know that that sort of thing is strictly off limits in your club; but there’s no rules against your “boyfriend” paying your bills now, is there?
• His splitting grin when your fingers wrap around the cash shakes you to your core, and you can’t help feeling like you just made a deal with the devil; but damn if it doesn’t feel good
• You’re hesitant to get into his car at first, feeling like there is a 50/50 shot you’ll wind up dead in a dumpster somewhere, and you’re no more at ease when he escorts you into his home
• ‘Jesus Fuck this is like something straight out of a horror movie’ is your first thought looking at all the art on his walls
• He takes your coat with a smile, acting the gentleman, and you’re a little taken aback by his charm, the way he’s almost elegant as he takes your hand and leads you to the bed
• “Now, I’m gonna give you two choices here; either way you’ll make your money, honey,” his hands press into the bed on either side of your hips, still standing as he looms over you. “Way I see it, we can do this all business-like, I get mine in a regular ol’ ‘wham bam thank ya ma’am’, or we can have a little fun and you can let me work my magic on your tight lil’ pussy.”
• Feeling small under his piercing gaze, you can’t quite decide if your heart is pounding from fear, or sheer unbridled excitement. You catch yourself drawn in to the wide toothy grin that splits across his face when you tell him “Work your magic, Baby.”
• “Yes ma’am,” he drawls, sending a delicious shiver down your spine as you watch his head descend between your thighs
• That was only the beginning of your on-going relationship with Mr...well, you never did get his name, did you? You can’t help but get the feeling that he likes it that way
• You’re almost surprised to see his eyes glued to you at the club; he already has you on tap whenever he wants you, so your heart can’t help but flutter when you notice that his focus rarely, if ever, leaves you
• Doomhead loves to watch you dance. Even if he has access to you from every angle from the comfort of his own home, it gives him such a thrill to see all these other losers clamoring to see you, when he knows damn well he’s the only one actually getting his hands on you
• That’s not to say that all he does is watch, however
• Another patron gets a little handsy? Someone else wants a lap dance? He’s over your shoulder in a heartbeat, offering you double what they’re paying to give him a dance instead. “You’re welcome to watch if that’ll get your rocks off, but this little bird here is all mine.”
• It’s a power play, if a petty one, but he loves it. He especially loves sneaking in a nice ass grab when he catches someone staring during his dance
• Of course, if someone goes a little too overboard; doesn’t wanna take ‘No’ for an answer? Well he just can’t let that shit fly.
• Doomhead is tall, sure, but his thin frame isn’t enough to intimidate everyone...his stare on the other hand...you’ve seen the murder in his eyes when he is backing down unruly patrons, and you pray to whatever gods you worship that he never makes those eyes at you
• On a lighter note, he loves buying you new outfits to dance in, he loves knowing that he picked out those cute little panties; and that he’ll be the one sliding them off of you later that night
• Whenever you grace him with a private dance in the bedroom, he stares at you with worship in his eyes. He loves to praise your body and get his hands all on you. “I’m not religious Angel, but I’ll always worship at the Church of that Sweet Ass.”
• When you start sleeping over, it actually surprises you how much he seems to love you, raw and barefaced, considering he had only ever seen you all made-up in your Saturday-Night Best
• “‘Course I think you’re sexy, Doll,” he wraps his arms around you from behind, and you can see the hunger in his eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror. “You’re all mine, baby, and don’t you forget it.”
• You can’t help but feel an unspoken threat in those last few words, but you lean into his touch all the same as he trails his lips nice and tender along your neck. For better or worse, you’re hooked
I hope you liked this!! I got a little carried away but damn Doomhead just has that effect lol. Have a great week!!
• First off, this man is used to satisfying his needs with hookers and leaving the emotions out of it; so if you’ve caught his eye, you must be something real special
• You’re a waitress at a little diner he goes to sometimes; it’s really one of the few ‘above ground’ haunts of his(plus their cherry pie is fucking phenomenal), and he always makes sure to sit in your section
• While he isn’t particularly subtle about the flirting, he really doesn’t mean for it to go anywhere, he just loves the way you blush and tell him off with that adorable half-hearted little grin. It’s a ritual between the two of you by this point; you even find yourself missing him when he goes too long between visits
• Sure you’re pretty, and witty, and know how he likes his eggs, but pursuing you in earnest would only open him up to the kind of pointless emotions he did away with a long time ago... Besides, you’re dating that little shitstain who works behind the grill
• He always takes a newspaper when he comes in, just an hour before closing, but he doesn’t usually read it(except if he’s looking for tidbits about the poor suckers who went missing around last Halloween). He uses it to mask his gaze as he watches you work
• He always feels a prick of jealousy when the line cook plants a quick peck on your check, or pats your ass when you pick up an order; but one night he can’t help but notice that things seem... off
• You’re not quite your usual quick-witted self, and you seem about a thousand miles away. He gives you the most earnest face he can muster, and asks you what’s wrong
• You smile, not entirely convincingly, and run a hand through your hair. You don’t want to ruin his meal with your problems, so you force a pretty little laugh and tell him not to worry himself over you
• He can’t help it though, odd as it is you’re probably the person in this world he feels closest to; so he’s watching you even closer than usual trying to figure out what’s wrong
• Ah. There it is. He feels his stomach tighten when he sees you arguing with that cook; and the idea of you being single excites him only briefly before he watches the cook punch the wall next to your head, screaming profanities at you
• He’s out of his chair before he even has time to think about it, keenly aware of the switchblade he’s got tucked into his boot
• I’m not crazy, I’m in control; he repeats in his head, doing his best to calm himself down before he stabs this little pissant and has to go on the lamb again. He’s got a nice little setup out here, and where else could he get that same delicious cherry pie? He’s getting too old to keep picking up and starting a new life
• “Now, why don’t you settle down and back away from the little lady before this gets...funugly.” He tips his shades, looking away from you and giving your ex a threatening look that leaves no room for debate
• Your Ex storms away from the two of you with a huff, spiking his apron into the floor. “Fine. Tell the boss I quit; shack up with this crazy fuckin’ old dude for all I care, I’m done lookin’ at it.”
• Doomhead’s animalistic gaze is focused tightly on his retreating form until he hears you exhale deeply, leaning back against the wall “You alright, Doll?”
• He’s the only customer in the diner this late, so he takes a seat at the bar and just lets you spill out all the hurt you’ve been holding in. He’s not exactly listening though, his attentions caught between the burning desire to hunt down the little fuckwad, and grappling with the fact that you mean something to him.
• True to his word, he doesn’t see that line cook back again, and he’s glad to see the pep back in your step as you put a few days between you and what happened
• One night, he’s surprised to hear you actually flirting back with him; so he can’t help but lay it on thick enough to make your ears burn. The man loves his dirty talk. He doesn’t even try to hide his grin when you pretend like you’re not doing your best not to squirm in your shoes
• He gives you a wink and that big toothy grin before he leaves for the night, and you shake your head with a smile as you move to bus his table
• You freeze dead in your tracks when you see the tip he left you; had you even had that much money saved at once before? You weren’t sure about that, but you didn’t have much time to think about it before you noticed a small slip of napkin with a phone number written on it, above a hastily scratched “Call me”
• Doomhead’s phone doesn’t ring often, and it isn’t even October, so he’s fairly certain of who’s on the other end of the line; and he answers the phone as smugly as humanly possible
• Even through the phone he can tell how nervous you are; it just encourages his ego that much more, and he starts slipping crude double entendres into the conversation; getting progressively dirtier until he can tell by the hitch in your breathing that you are absolutely soaked for him
• “So...How’s about I pick you up for lunch tomorrow, say...noon?” “Pick me up. Now.”
• Imagine his pleasure when, months later, who should turn up for a friendly game of 31 but...Fuckwad himself! “Hey Shitstain, remember me?”
• It’s getting closer to Halloween, and he’s doing his best to hide it, but he’s getting antsy
• You’re so excited for the holiday, but all he can think about is how he’s going to explain it if he has to suddenly bail on you
• So he is beyond relieved when you meantion that your friends invited you on a little road trip. You were on the fence, not wanting to go away from him on your first Halloween together, but he was all too encouraging; sending you on your way with a huge wad of cash, and a little spending money for your friends too... Just to be certain you’re out of the way if he gets called in to the game
• For now, all is well. He’s confident that you’re off having a great time with your friends, and he has a few days to really prepare himself
• He’s doing push-ups, hitting the heavy bag, and really hyping himself up for this year’s game
• He arrives on scene, fresh and ready to bring his A-Game; this year is going to be a fun one, he can feel it
• After he’s completed his dressing room ritual, he enters the gauntlet with long, leisurely strides. He had more than enough time to really enjoy himself, so he might as well have a good look-see around and figure out what the clowns have been up to
• He comes across the head and torso of a young woman, and he nonchalantly pushes it over with his boot; see if he can figure out what kind of group she belonged to
• Behind his greasepaint, all the color drains from his face. He recognizes this girl, friend of yours, voice like a mouse on speed... she picked you up for a road trip just a few days ago...
• “FUCK” He kicks the corpse, practically roaring as he tears at his hair. “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK”
• His chest heaves with panic as he stands there practically paralyzed. Fuck fuck fuck this was his fault. If he hadn’t pushed you to go on that trip you would still be... you would still be-
• NO. He hadn’t seen your corpse, he couldn’t know that you were... dead. Not yet anyway, but he knows it will only be a matter of time if he doesn’t hurry. If there’s any chance of finding you alive he needs to get moving
• He’s like a force of nature as he tears through the gauntlet with a Full Stop Take No Prisoners burn in his eyes. No mind games, no speeches; anyone who gets in his way, Head or Number, is left to die unceremoniously from a quick and deep knife wound before they even have a chance to process what’s happening
• What he does, he does very well; and right now he’s got only one thing on his mind
• Father Murder and the others are completely baffled and awed by Doomhead’s performance. They could think of no rhyme, nor reason, for him to act so erratically; they had certainly seen nothing of the sort since the game’s conception... they couldn’t deny though that it was fascinating
• He hears grunting up ahead, and as he approaches, the wet thud of a spiked bat slamming into someone’s skull over and over until it’s minced meat; he is terrified that he’s too late...
• ...Until he sees you, standing covered in blood-yours and others- chest heaving and bat in hand; he could buy you all the lace and finery in the world, and none of it could ever hold a candle to how beautiful you look to him right now
• You turn to him, waving your bat with an almost feral growl; you’re too out of sorts to even recognize him until he calls your name
• Your eyes widen as the bat slips from your fingers. He approaches you slowly and carefully; his long slender arms cradling your head into his chest
• You can hear and practically feel his heart pounding away in his chest. He had been so sure that you’d be dead; he’d find your mutilated corpse desecrated and dumped shamelessly on the ground like you were nothing; all he could think about now was that you were safe in his arms
• That you might be scared of him had completely slipped his mind
• That is, until you untangle yourself from his arms, and back away from him with a conflicted look of shock and horror
• You had figured he was dangerous, even thought that maybe he killed people for a living; but you never once would have considered that he could be involved in a...a Hell like this
• His eyes are heartbroken as you back away from him, shaking your head softly. It wasn’t until this moment that he realized how he must have looked to you; blood soaking his fine suit, his own marring his grease painted face... There was no denying why he was here
• Your heart is afire with conflicting emotions. You love him, you know you do; but...this? You are terrified, how could you not be? It feels like your feet are frozen to the floor as you stare at him, his own expression wrought with pain
• You had seen your friends die, horribly, at the hands of people like him; you even put one of your own out of their misery. He’s a killer; you suppose you are too now, but your actions were in self defense. What excuse could he possibly have?
• “Please”
• Hoarse and barely more than a whisper, his voice still manages to command your attention as he reaches out for you. Your eyes begin to water, and you can’t keep the tears from spilling over your lashes
• Your heart wins out in the end; you burry your sobbing face into his chest, blood soaked arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders
• His own breathing is erratic, and he holds you almost too tightly in his arms, absolutely terrified by the prospect of losing you
• Father Murder and the depraved sisters watch in stunned silence. This, had certainly never happened before. Not once in the past have they chanced upon an active Head’s loved one
• They have absolutely no idea how to react as Doomhead escorts you off of the premises... should they stop you? How? Doomhead had sent away their faculty.
• No, they needn’t do a thing. Their identities were kept hidden and safe, and you couldn’t go to the authorities, not with the crimes your beloved has committed over the years
• Doomhead drives you to your apartment in an uneasy silence, before demanding that you get your things
• You don’t understand, trying to find the words to begin to question him as he’s going up and down the stairs, loading your belongings into his van
• If you thought he was possessive before...
• Fuck your apartment, fuck your friends, you’re living with him now. This is not up for debate. This world is fucking dangerous, and he refuses to let anything happen to you again
• So much for being too old to start over again
• When you get back to his place, he gives his belongings the same treatment, hurling shit into the back of his van much less carefully than he did your own
• He soaks the place in all the alcohol he had and torches it; it’s... strangely beautiful, standing in the chilly Autumn night, watching it go up in flames. You find yourself much more calm than you think you ought to be; definitely more calm than he is right now
• He can’t risk the two of you staying in this area, not with you returning alone when all your friends are still “missing”, not with people here who recognize your face
• The two of you move out of state lines, to somewhere you’ve never even set foot before, and he gets you your very first fake ID. Everything is happening so fast you feel like you’re in a whirlwind
• You’re in deep now. You wanted to know what he did for a living... now there is no going back. Sure, you could slip away while he’s sleeping, you’re confident that he wouldn’t hurt you; but the idea of leaving him cuts like a hot knife. No, this is your life now, and you’re determined to get used to it
I think I am probably going to continue this with a “Life after 31” imagine, since I have more I want to go into about Doomhead x Reader’s new life
• First off, Doomhead would be the ULTIMATE Sugar Daddy; hot Older Man who makes lots of money? Absolute Animal in the bedroom? Hell. Yes.
• He would absolutely be the type to hand you $500 in cash to go on a trip with your friends(a little extra spending money for your friends too if he REALLY needs you out of his way so he can go to work without any questions)
• Btw asking him about his work? Big no no. His past? Nope. Family? Not a chance. Basically you don’t get to know a damn thing about his background. “You’re with me now, why does any of that shit matter?”
• He wants the whole damn world to know you’re his, so expect to be collared. The man himself may be as gruff and grungy as they come, but he likes his baby to have pretty things, so expect your collar in the form of a diamond necklace
• But, Doomhead is also way into degradation, so expect those sparkly diamonds to spell out something along the lines of “BUTTSLUT” in an elegant script
• Speaking of degradation, he definitely wants you wearing a butt plug when you go about your day; he wants to be always on your mind; plus he is really into anal so he likes you good and ready for him
• He buys you so much leather for when you go out together, he has an image and he wants everyone to know who you belong to; leather jacket, leather corset, tiny leather hot-pants; you name it
• By the way, how do you feel about tattoos? He will absolutely try to talk you into a few; maybe a sacrilegious angelic back piece as a counterpart to his own... it’s not something he’ll push though
• But at home he loves seeing you in fine pale lace; his own private little sex angel to do with as he pleases
• He fancies himself quite devilish, and really gets off on the whole demon fucking angel vibes; definitely expect a lot of role play if he’s in a particularly talkative mood
• He may be incredibly energetic for his age, but even Doomhead needs some downtime. There is nothing better than seeing you all soft in the nice lingerie he bought you, and laying his head in your lap while you watch a few good classic horror movies
• And boooy is he a talker. If you’re going to be with Doomhead, you definitely need to be okay with, if not enthusiastically enjoy, his wildly passionate speeches
• It’s hard not to be enthralled by him when he gets like this, manic episodes pouring out in the form of lectures on everything that’s ever interested him
• He is also incredibly possessive
• Possessive to the point where he will push you to quit your job. He feels like he needs you to depend on him financially; he needs that power over you in order to feel secure that you’re not going to leave him
• He isn’t particularly worried about you leaving him for someone younger, in fact he’s quite cocky about his good looks and sexual prowess; but he is terrified of you finding out what he does for a living
• You definitely pick up the idea that he is a dangerous man, you suspect that maybe he’s a hitman; but you never would have expected anything like 31
• Doomhead does struggle with his mental stability; and he tries very hard to not let you see it when he is having a difficult time. He’ll encourage trips with your friends, he’ll ignore your calls; he’ll be terrified that the longer he avoids you the more he risks losing you all together, and this only makes it worse. Show up unannounced at his door when he’s like this and he will fall apart
• His house is trashed, there are new scribblings on the walls, the kitchen hasn’t been touched in days, and there are sketches of you littered all over the floor
• At first he looks angry, he wants to be angry, you can see the veins ready to pop out of his neck; but it’s you, he’s terrified of losing you, and he can’t help but cry
• If you try to help him out by picking up his mess, he’ll stop you, he might even lash out at you. He won’t be able to ask for it, but what he needs is for you to cook him something easy to eat, maybe some eggs; and for you to hold him. Don’t talk, just hold him and for the love of god don’t leave him
