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.
