cw: breeding kink/talk, mention of blood, slight size difference, penis description? idk what this is I was just really horny for trapper
He was coated in it, from his fingertips to his elbows.
You watched Evan with dutiful eyes, admitting the way his thick fingers cracked open heavy metal jaws and the way his biceps flexed in tandem to memory.
You should feel shameful, really.
The stains coating him were from your friends, maimed and hurting, he positively reeked of their fear - their agony.
And all you could do was marvel at the nice protective layer of fat stretched over all that muscle on him. Something light and fuzzy swimming around in that brain of yours, plush thighs coming together instinctively.
You want him. No, you need him. And he’s all too happy to deliver.
His hand comes to guide you, thick fingers splayed wide on your waist, dirtying your soft flesh with blood and grime.
“Finally come to your senses, little birdie?”
He can smell it on you. All those hormones primed and ready, inviting him in like a delicious scent on the wind. You stink of a bitch in heat, offering your belly up to the bear the first chance you get.
“Gonna let me breed that pretty cunt?”
Your answer is simple, whining and grinding against him with such needy fervour that makes Evan snarl, hot and heavy against the inside of his jagged mask as he fishes his cock free from its confines. The heat of it against your skin so intense you can’t help but sneak a glance over your shoulder.
It’s big.
Undeniably thick with a nice juicy vein running up the underside, dipping under its own weight and drooling viscous pre cum onto the cold floor below you both. You shudder as he pulls your cheeks apart, the fat tip kissing your wet hole before he squeezes himself inside, head swimming when his weighty balls settle themselves fully against your backside.
You can’t help but let your eyes roll, cheek pressed against the dirty surface of his workbench. Stuffed full, Evan gives the plush meat of your ass a hefty slap, the noise resounding loudly in the basement and making you jolt back against his cock.
Can you write headcanons on which killers would still eat out reader even when they are on their period
as a poosay haver im very passionate about this topic and that periods should not be some taboo topic to speak of. even if youre going through a hard time (like a period), you deserve some stuff to read c:
CW: Period talk, mentions of period blood and period blood consumption. Don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable.
Killers that would eat out their s/o on their period
NSFW Below!
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The Dark Lord - Vlad Țepeș Dracula
This was the most obvious choice, wasn't it?
Vlad knew pretty early on due to his enhanced senses. He makes sure to talk to you about it, wanting to reassure you that this natural process isn’t something that disgusts him and that he can still give you whatever you desire to help you through it.
He goes slow at first, occasionally slowing to make sure you are okay with what he’s doing, that he isn’t overstepping. First time things like this can be difficult, especially if you seem to be a little hesitant.
He gives a slow, sensual lick up your bloodied slit. The taste of this blood is new, but not unwelcome. He wants more.
Vlad tries not to show his eagerness as he checks up on you again, looking up at you for any sign of approval to continue. Once you give him a few nods, he knows that’s all he needs to finally give in to his needs.
Surprisingly calm despite the small growls and groans that escape him. You can tell he’s enjoying himself. He’s both sating his need for blood and making you feel good, ridding you of your pains in the process. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.
Rest assured that you won’t ever have to worry about your period disgusting him. Trust him when he says it does the opposite effect.
The Trapper - Evan Macmillan
Evan can be a bit more blatant when it comes to sharing how he feels. That being said, it shouldn’t exactly surprise you when he straight up tells you “I don’t care.” in response to your frantic insistence that he wont like the taste.
Really, he doesn’t. If you think he’s doing this for the taste, you are sorely mistaken of why he even does these things for you in the first place.
Evan is bad with words.. and feelings. The best way he can get his more passionate feelings across that isn’t anger is by doing things like this for you, making sure you understand that this is about you. If you are happy, he is happy. And he is very happy about the current situation, blood or not.
He won’t even address the blood. It almost surprises you when he continues as normal. Did he simply miss it? No, he just doesn’t particularly care about a little blood. Heavy flow? Oh well, he sees more blood in the average trial.
Evan tends to get a little messy but it’s all in good faith. His passion for your pleasure takes over any desire to make himself feel good. It’s so hard for him to say how he feels about you. This is one of the only other ways he can express himself.
This is one of the few times his mask is off. He grips your thighs rather gently, allowing himself to bury his tongue in your sweet pussy he loves so much. The very same hands that cause so much bloodshed pull you closer, as if reassuring you that nothing would ever stop him from making your pleasure his priority.
(18+mdni) oh!!! a trapper request in my inbox!!! at last!! pls take whatever this is!!
You'd become much too accustomed to the jaws of his traps.
You could spot the rusty metal primed along the greenery, sharp edges glinting at you through the foliage and casting a shadow in the moonlight. Every creak or groan of the weary steel you had memorised, each one presenting a different meaning, whether he be setting it down to snare the delicate ankles of your poor friends, or cleaning it over his lap in the quiet, whispering heart of the entity.
You'd been around him too much. His gnarled mask always reflecting shimmers of the campfire over your shoulder, draining the crackling warmth from your bones. Eventually your guilt crept in and sunk its claws deep, cloying enough to spur you away from the safety of the campfire and lead him away where he couldn't hurt any of the other survivors in a territorial dispute. But as far as Evan was concerned, you were already his.
It's only fair that you come home with him. After all, you'd spent far too long wandering those woods aimlessly. A constant tingle up your spine that read Evan wasn't far behind, herding you towards the MacMillan estate like a wolf in careful pursuit of a rabbit, hoping it doesn't catch his scent on the wind. He wants you to think it's your idea, to send you fleeing right into the centre of his grounds so he can swoop in and claim you on home turf, snapping you up into the hungry, slobbering jaws of the wolf.
And so, much to his macabre delight, the Ironworks became your second home. And in his domain, it became almost impossible to avoid him. But Evan was a patient man, he'd waited and worked so hard for the Entity, he won't spoil it all by scaring you off, to send you bolting back into the woods like your instinctual nature told you to.
Even if he wanted to take chase, to hunt you down and pin you in the dirt like his own instincts screamed, to bare his jaws around your throat and feel your pulse hammer beneath his tongue. To tempt fate as he indulges in your soft, unmarred flesh.
Eventually you become needy. Lonely and starved of whatever fleeting comforts you had back at that shabby little campfire, and he doesn't even have to chase you down because you start sniffing around. You come to him, peeping around the basement wall at him with wide, cautious eyes as he's tending to the jaws of his traps. Strong, beefy arms tensing with each pull of the creaking metal, the work almost so artful you don't think he notices your gaze.
He does. Letting you inch closer and closer to him under the pretence that he hasn't caught wind of you, until he can hear the soft breaths parting your pretty lips. Evan is a vast monster of a man, but he takes your hand tenderly to guide you onto his lap, spreading you over a thick thigh and luring you closer with gentle, uncharacteristic touches. It's an unspoken agreement, the security of his arms extended either side of you while he gets back to work and you sap the horribly human warmth from his skin. You feel guilt billow thickly in your lungs as his heavy breaths cast down onto the nape of your neck, shame flooding your body with heat - because you like it.
You shift, squirming as if uncomfortable and it has the Trapper pausing behind you, letting the traps mechanisms clatter down onto the wooden workbench loudly as his breathing thickens against your skin. His overalls are thick and rough, doing exactly what they're designed to do, but it doesn't mask the hot mass prodding your inner thigh. It doesn't mask your shame, either, but that doesn't stop you from grinding against it like a desperate bitch in heat. What would the others think?
He rasps against you, huge body wired straight as a hand encompasses the fat of your hip and kneads it, encouraging you, take what you need. Pitiful whimpers mingling with the chittering whispers of the Entity as you get off using a monster man twice your size, but the gnarled carving of his mask scraping your shoulder reveals who's really in control.
He grunts, gruff and mean when he yanks your trousers down, two thick, probing fingers pulling your underwear aside to find his prize - his gift for being so patient. You make a low noise that reads shame at how wet you were when he pulled his fingers away, but he only laughs cruelly, raspy and hedonistic against your skin, his chest vibrating and sending skittering goosebumps across your flesh. Evan scoots you up, wedging you between him and the worktop, his big fingers stuffing themselves into your went cunt deeply enough to make you jolt, squeezing him impossibly deeper with a shameful squeal.
Evan wants to devour you, blood rushing past his ears between your soft cries and his heavy breathing muting out around his dirty thoughts, but there would be time for that later. You were so pliant, soft and sweet as he twists his fingers, your lips forming a small 'o' as your cunt greedily accepts him in. He was rewarding you, tender and giving before he got his way, for being so good and accepting him as the only one for you, for welcoming him in and being so warm, so inviting around his fingers.
He - the Trapper, a beast you should have stayed away from - follows your every move, drawn tight like a predator ready to spring, you arch your hips higher to chase the climbing pleasure, to help angle his thick fingers deep inside and excite him by squeezing down, offering yourself up like dinner to the hungry wolf. It isn't long before he reaches the end of his patience, his hospitality waning as his hand encompasses your side, kneading the plush flesh as he manhandles you into a position that suits him.
Face down, ass up. Pretty pussy all on display for him as he pulls himself free, his fat cock hot, hard and heavy in his hand. You wiggle your hips invitingly - and he all but snarls. Pressing you down harshly as he mounts you from behind, thick tip brushing through your folds and making you twitch before he roughly pushes inside and drives himself deep, heavy balls twitching against your backside. Your legs are spread wide to accommodate his sheer size, your soft breasts heaving with each struggling breath as he forces your jaw open, hooking two huge, salty fingers behind your molars to grant leverage to fuck your cunt harder, deeper. Evan wants to tear into your softness, bury a place for himself and root deep, to make sure you remember the feel of him inside. Each soft noise that escapes you is laden with want and dirty shame, but he'd take you back and fuck you in front of them all if that's what it took to prove his claim over you.
He'll bend you over any surface and rut into you until it sticks, while you whimper and moan at the aching stretch between your legs, prodding deep against your cervix until you feel him in your belly. If you sit on his face he'll eat his way to your heart. He wants and wants and wants, an insatiable starving beast quelled only by the flowery scent of your skin, and the fact you came to him first meant you wanted too, you were just too shameful to verbalise it.
That's okay. He'll fuck it out of you no matter how long, or how many tries it takes.
Chat Log Description : The Trapper with a s/o that got hit with his attacks after being used as a human shield by a teammate!
Online Users : The Trapper ( Evan MacMillan ), Reader , Meg Thomas
‼️ CONTENT WARNINGS : OOC Evan MacMillan, Murder / implied patricide, Second POV, minor description of injuries, Implied abuse. ‼️
A/N : Inspiration by @darkdevasofdestruction
<< ao3 link here
You were gentle, very gentle. You were a neighbor’s child, you came from an old money family. He had created a childish vow to protect you from danger since he had developed a sort of puppy love for you.
Always you and him seemed to be attached at the hip, going everywhere with each other. He would listen to your quavering voice speak about your nightmares about a suffocating dark fog. He always knew about your fear of spiders but they seemed to always heighten after you’d have those inconsolable nightmares.
You discovered a new resting place which was a willow tree with the perfect shade alongside a lake. A perfect place to hide away from reality. The soft rays of the sun had glittered on the green lake, it was Evan’s birthday. His father gifted him with a broken jaw, his eyes were red and baggy from trying to hold in the tears but utterly failing when he reached you. You had given him a small sketchbook that was the greatest quality during the time and tried to ease his pain.
A couple months later, his jaw was healed.
Your heart continued to break whenever he came to you with bruises on his face. He’d always made excuses for his father, wanting to show to you or to himself that he was strong.
“Here.” he said, slipping a ring made from the shepherd’s purse plant on your finger. “Do you like it?”
You smiled, admiring the ring. You exclaimed,”I love it!“ Evan felt the soft, warm hug from you, he wanted you to smile forever.
The day when he found you in the lake was when he died along with you. The clouds were unnaturally gray, he headed towards the safe area where he could be himself and you’d be his frequent muse for sketches. Something was extremely wrong. You’d always be on time, you always were. His eyes widened seeing you floating in the lake.
Why were you the one that was taken from him, what did he deserve for good things to be stolen from him. His heart continued to break as he reached you, the pages of the shared sketchbook were floating in the water. You were discarded in the lake like you meant nothing, he pulled your soaked body to the soaking dirt.
It started raining. He sat beside you for a couple of moments, taking out a beautiful engagement ring from his soaked pockets.
The papers about your death were filled with lies. You didn’t drown, you’ve been murdered. He knew who had murdered you. The one person who harmed anyone who’d gotten in his way. You were his hope and his dreams. Was this fate’s way of saying that he didn’t deserve anything?
He changed. He wasn’t a weak boy from his youth.
Evan was now an enforcer for his father and the mines. The hazy memories of his childhood were fading but he kept scraps of a homemade sketchbook; some pages were wavy from the dried water but they were all sketches of you.
The spiraling thoughts consumed him as he had nothing anymore. Crinkled newspapers sat beside him that talked about his estate. His mines. The dried mud covered his hands, he’d been playing the same vinyl on loop. Nobody could know about what happened in the incident in the mines since they were replaceable. Deserving the worst since they were just maggots, insignificant and unfulfilling.
The record would slowly come to an end and Evan heard the groaning and the constant mumbling of his name from someone wounded from down the basement stairs.
The porch door creaked open, the fog was slowly surrounding the MacMillan estate.
He heard it, hurrying out of the house.
It couldn’t be you. You were dead. The screams of your voices echoed from the fog as he couldn’t pinpoint where it started and ended. It suddenly stopped. He saw you, running towards him from the fog.
It couldn’t be a dream. The spiraling thoughts of worry continued to fade and he couldn’t wait to hold you in his arms.
It was a mistake thinking that you would be alive again in his arms.
The next thing that he knew, he was trapped in a hellish realm without you in his arms.
Wiping the dried blood from his cleaver. He heard it again. It couldn’t be true, he was fooled once but this time he wouldn’t be fooled. But he heard the generators popping to represent that someone had failed in repairing the generator.
He couldn’t believe his eyes, it was you but you were dead; he carried you away from the water all those years ago.
Your hands burned from the shock of mistakenly wiring the wrong wire. The heavy boots made the wooden flooring creak out when you tried to reattach the wires expecting to see your remaining teammate Meg instead of the man who seemingly slaughtered your teammates without mercy.
Grabbing your sketchbook and feeling the wind glide through your hot skin to try and calm you down. Your heart still pounded with fear but it eased down when you saw Meg. A light smile appeared on your lips as it would soon fade quickly, replacing the smile with a twisted face of agony. Meg must have misstep or even stopped herself from tripping and accidentally pushed you since now your leg was now ensnared in the mouth of bear trap. The tears swelled in your eyes while your trembling hands tried to pry open the rusted bear trap but it was futile; with each try the rust of the bear trap’s teeth seemingly dug further into your skin.
Your screams echoed throughout the area, the blood on your fingertips dribble down your trembling wrists. Still trying to release your mangled leg from the bear trap. Standing above you was the man who had murdered your teammates to please the unknown force that kept everyone bound to suffer the same fate.
He threw you over his shoulder while you kicked and struggled to get out of his grasp. Your eyes saw the rusted hook, awaiting to accept the rusted hook but no hook came to embed itself into your shoulder instead he seemingly tried his best to gently drop you down on the porch stairs of the now ruined Macmillan estate. He pried off the mask that had stopped him from seeing your face fully—but a quick and sharp gasp escaped his lips; invisible tendrils tightened.
Your eyes widen seeing Evan—your Evan. His face was covered with soot, a mixture of dried and wet blood and a slight thick layer of sweat. His dirtied hands wiped against his ruined green rubber overalls as his hands tightly wrapped the bandages on your mangled leg. He left for a while—after a time the gust of wind alongside a distant scream echoed throughout the ruined estate.
The hot tears dribble down your face as you weakly hit his back when he threw you over his shoulder.
“What happened?” He asked.
“Stop moving around, Evan!” You sobbed. “It hurts!”
“You’ll be alright.” He walked around the ruined estate. “You’re the one that’s moving…undoing the bandages.”
His rough hand gently touched the piece of your mangled leg— each step he took caused a subtle knowledge that both of you knew, you couldn’t leave and this wasn’t the childhood house that you remembered as it was distorted and in ruins.
You let out a gasp when he set you down, staring at the open door that led into eternal darkness.
“Are you going to be alright, Evan?” You asked.
“I’m alright knowing that you’re alright.” He held your hand. “I know that I can’t do anything to stop this but you’re alive…you’re alive and I get to hold you.”
His scarred arms held you before gently nudging you into the abyss—it’s happening again, the wounds healed on your leg and landing in the same spot like always.
Sitting on the sliced log in the woods next to a burning campfire.
I have been playing trapper lately and my new favorite skin is the current rift cosmetic for him beast of nature namely the moss covered one.
He's got these thigh high boots with the skin that me and a friend affectionately call his Gucci boots. And all I can think of is Brat!reader seeing them for the first time and just busting up laughing. They're a nice pair of boots you'll give him that, but with how much leather it was you were certain they were expensive as hell. "You're a trapper not a fisherman.* He just glared at you going, "pardon you, my father took me fishing consistently before the disease took him."
You level a look at him, "Yeah, but you're sure as hell not fishing in this realm." You're pretty sure 90% of things in water outside the killer realms are poisonous, too large, or straight up carnivorous and will eat you before you eat it. He just rolls his eyes. Trapping you between his arms as he pins you to a wall a dark look in his eyes. "Maybe I am getting myself gussied up for you, maybe I'm looking to find which one of my outfits gets you the most excited." His breath hot on your ear as you feel the rough wooden texture of his mask. You swallow thickly. "But the Gucci boots?" You scoff. He pulls away lips pursed tightly, "Gucci doesn't make boots let alone shoes." You roll your eyes suddenly remembering that your boyfriend is an old man in a young-ish man's body.
an unexpected bond formed with a killer… is it worth it?
(continuation of this fic. i made a little playlist for your enjoyment ;0)
tw’s: canon typical violence, death, some obsession, evan being kinda delulu
Evan didn’t understand you.
You continued to seek him out during trials and attempt to bridge whatever this odd relationship was by asking him questions—that is, if you were paired together. Evan didn’t really want to think about what happened to you when you expected to face his unexplainable mercy, only to meet the end of someone—or something—else’s blade… or worse.
But, when the Entity did decide to allow he and you the chance to encounter each other—which was a rare occurrence, probably on account for Evan choosing to spare you and your team whenever he was your chosen killer. There were quotas to meet—you stuck to his side like Victor to Charlotte until you were whisked away by a fellow survivor, or until Evan reached his you-limit.
You were pleasant—lovely, even—but you were doing things to him that Evan found himself needing the space to decompress far, far away from you in solitude. It felt as if his identity as the Trapper crumbled anytime you were near, and it made his head ache. You could just be breathing next to him and Evan would begin to shut down, hands uselessly fidgeting with his bear traps as though they were the only things keeping him grounded to reality—and they might as well have been. When you came around, Evan couldn’t control himself.
Maybe you were putting some sort of curse on him.
Maybe he was okay with that.
“Do you remember who you were.. before all of this?” You ask one night while perched on the windowsill—the very same misshapen one that he broke out of not too long ago—of his hideout in the mines. It had become a strange sort of “safe” place for the two of you to meet outside of matches, all because one night you decided to enter into the wolf’s den on a whim.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” went the timeless saying… but Evan rather liked this feline, despite your apparent craving for danger.
Your question pulled Evan away from himself momentarily; brain stretching and reaching for far-away memories that felt dull and lukewarm, yet itched to be remembered. The thought of his father—the only thing that fed both his rage and the entity—was ever-present, but Evan chose to spare you his pain.
“No,” He settles on answering gruffly, frowning past all the bloodshed that seemed to be the only vivid recollection he had. At your disappointed “oh,” he hesitates. “…I drew, sometimes.”
“Really?” You smile. Evan casts his gaze to the floor. “What would you draw?”
“Don’t remember,” Evan answers truthfully, because he didn’t. He was only able to recall the feeling of peace whenever a pencil was held in his hand.
“That’s okay. Maybe you can draw something new sometime,” You suggest with a casual shrug. “I think I can scrounge up some papers and pencils around camp.”
The idea was… actually nice. Evan felt something stir up inside of him—something like hope. He risked a glance at you, the sentiment intensifying.
And then, there was the sudden urge to act on those feelings: to touch you, to hurt you, to kill you. To hunt you down and make you scream and writhe and beg in your own blood. To make you cry, but then to dry your tears. Console you, hold you, protect you. Snap your neck. Caress your face. Gouge your eyes out. Trace your lips. Tear your tongue out. Kiss it better.
Evan turns his back to you, hands balling into tight fists. This is what you did to him—and why he desperately needed to get away so often.
“Evan?” You ask apprehensively at his abrupt change in demeanor, voice grating his ears in the cruelest of ways. He groans, hands covering his mask. Voices whispered all around him, coaxing Evan to gut you alive right then and there. He was familiar with the entity’s influence over him—but never before did he have to wrestle so endlessly with it, until you came along.
“M’fine,” He rasps once he finds his voice, keeping his back to you. “You should—ngh—go.”
Evan is met with silence as a response, and he foolishly assumes you have left until you’re in his peripheral vision, cautiously circling him. Your eyebrows are pulled taut in concern—just like they were the night you rescued Evan from his own bear trap—and your gaze rakes his form for any signs of injuries. The whispers grow yet louder as you come nearer, sending Evan to his knees with a pathetic moan. Kill, they say. Kill, kill, kill.
He wants to resist. He wants to, but…
“You’re too close,” Evan growls. Thankfully, you take the warning, stilling before him.
“Where does it hurt?” You ask, voice low and calm. Evan shudders. Everywhere, he wants to answer, but grits his teeth instead and tries to shut you out. When your fingers brush his cracked skin, Evan snatches your wrist in one quick motion, chin jerking upwards to meet your frightened eyes with his own wild ones.
Your bones feel so fragile beneath his hold—he could snap them within seconds. He adds pressure. You wince, arm twitching in pain, yet not drawing back. He squeezes, and you yelp. This time, you tug your arm away, which he lets slip through his fingers. The entity has progressively decreased in volume, leaving he and you in an uncomfortable silence. When Evan stands, you take a small step back. Something inside of him wilts.
“…You’re afraid,” He states, matter-of-fact. You inhale sharply.
“A little,” You admit, voice quiet—soft. Evan bunches his hands into fists, curling and uncurling them as he debates how to fix this.
The recognizable tug of a trial begins to pull Evan away, severing the tension if only for a moment. Something was off—Evan sensed it the moment the fog cleared. The air tingled with the impression of apprehension and unfamiliarity, as if the land itself was preparing for new terrors. Turning his head ever so slightly, he could see why.
The Huntress stood tall and resilient next to him, gripping her axes with a calm smile that did not match the hunger for blood in her inky black eyes. The cleaver in his own hand weighed heavily and all five of his senses were heightened, confirming the actuality of the two-killer trial.
Evan breathed a sigh of resentment, irritation prickling his skin. He would have to wait to talk to you—if you wanted to see him, that is. Something about you not being around felt deeply, deeply wrong, which only further soured his mood.
He acknowledged Anna with merely a grunt to which she dipped her head in greeting, stalking off moments after while humming a tune that followed her into the dark. Evan set out to place his traps; hiding them in obscure places, counting each unsuspecting human that he passed along the way. He made a mental note that none of them happened to be you.
As he finished locking the final pair of metallic jaws into place, Evan couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he held you in his grasp just a while longer.
Would he have broken your bones? Probably.
Would he have liked to break more? Probably.
Would he have killed you?
Yes, a taunting voice answers in the back of his mind. You were designed to kill, Trapper. You can’t hide from it forever.
Trapper. That’s right—he was Trapper, wasn’t he? Not “Evan,” like you called him. Trapper.
Maybe this was never destined to work. Maybe you were only allowed to show him a little bit of mercy only to remind Evan why he shouldn’t be granted such a gift—he was in hell, after all. He was being punished for his crimes.
Evan ponders this as he downs one survivor after another; hanging some on hooks, slashing others to death. He’s after one cunning prey that had stunned him with a pallet when, like a ghost, you cut across his line of sight without looking his way, Anna hot on your heels. Evan is stopped in his tracks, head inclined to watch where you and she disappear to, completely disregarding his chase.
A new feeling—one emerging from a dark, twisted place inside of him—rises to Evan’s chest that causes his heart to twinge unpleasantly, and before he knows what’s taken over him, he’s following swiftly behind.
The sight Evan comes across is enough to make him boil.
You’re flat on your belly, groveling in the dirt; an axe is plunged deeply in your right shoulder that fails to drag you away from Anna, who is closing in on her kill without breaking her lullaby. Her heel comes heavily upon your back as she rips the tool from your flesh, eliciting a scream that tears from your throat and goes straight to Evan’s head.
He’s heard you scream before—back when he would kill you over, over, and over again.
He doesn’t like the sound this time.
Evan’s footfalls don’t cease; he lumbers forward, weapon beginning to raise. If Anna notices him, she doesn’t care that he’s fast approaching—your fate is sealed.
A swing, a squelching wet sound, and the Huntress comes crashing down next to you.
Her death is quick. The mask she wears is cracked in half along with her skull, split wide open and bleeding profusely. Evan looms above, breathing heavily, covered in the spray. Despite her being dead, Evan leans down close to her fresh corpse, sneering beneath his mask.
“Mine,” He hisses, finally identifying the emotion from earlier. Jealousy.
You’ve spun over on your back at this point, hand clutching at your wounded shoulder that oozes crimson. You look a mix of both bewildered and mortified. As Evan approaches, you, strangely, do not cower in fear. He squats down, leaning in close enough to blow your bangs back from his exhales.
“Won’t hurt you,” He mumbles hoarsely, searching your eyes. “Didn’t mean to.” He brings a hand to your face, gingerly swiping your hair off of your sticky forehead. You lick your lips, trying to find your voice.
“C-Can you pick me up?” Comes your question, soft as a whisper. Evan nods. He’s careful of your injury as he effortlessly lifts you up, the feeling of someone so close foreign to him. You wrap your good arm behind his neck, avoiding the various hooks that protrude like unwelcome parasites from his back.
Without another word, Evan begins his march out of the trial and into the fog, the two of you never to be seen again.
twice saved, once trusted
tw’s: typical dbd violence, strong language
NOTE: made some edits :B
Kindness was something that did not exist in Evan’s world. Not anymore, anyway—not as long as the entity existed.
The closest thing to kindness to be found here was the sweet, merciful kiss of death after minutes of excruciating pain. To put one out of one’s misery… that is kindness.
So, when Evan—or “trapper,” as these feeble humans titled him in hushed whispers around the campfire—was shown kindness that resulted in being freed from pain without death to follow, he was at a loss for… well, anything.
You showed up without Evan being able to hear you over the blood rushing in his ears; timid and meek, like a rabbit first stepping out of the brush to check for predators. A bear trap—one of his very own—clamped painfully tight around his foreleg, crunching the bone and tearing ligaments at any tiny movement he made. Even worse, he was pinned beneath debris that fell atop the stun pallet that was thrown on him in a survivor’s attempt to flee. It was heavy enough to make him wheeze, lungs rattling with every slow inhale.
Irony was cruel like that—it didn’t care that he was the Trapper, caught by his own bidding. Evan sneered at the thought.
You must have heard his struggle—that, or you simply walked in on his unsightly hindrance and were curious—because you stepped out from the shadows and approached him, cautious.
“Are… you okay?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper. The gentleness and concern make Evan’s ears itch. Did you not know he was the killer? Could you not see who he was?
Unable to see himself, Evan relied on his hearing to pinpoint your location, listening closely to your careful footfalls that edged closer and closer.
Either you didn’t see that he was the killer and the shock of the situation finally dawned on you, if your startled gasp was anything to go by, or you truly were rattled by the grisly sight of the bear trap and couldn’t help but express it outwardly. Evan waited for you to do something—to run away screaming, to laugh and mock him, to finally kill him for the atrocities he’s committed against you and your community of survivors—but the silence merely stretched on, causing his lips to pull into a tight frown. Maybe you had run away, and he just didn’t hear you leaving.
Evan tried shifting the weight on top of him, the muscles in his calf contracting and making the trap tighten its vengeful grip on him. He groaned, low and in pain. His leg was starting to go numb.
Suddenly, Evan feels hands working to free him, starting with the trap first. It gives one last painful squeeze before loosening, the jaws falling open and releasing his leg from its teeth. The blood that rushes out feels both warm and cold against his skin. The contrast makes him grimace.
Next, the debris pile is being lifted, and finally Evan can see your face. He recognizes you at once—a killer never forgets his victims. Your brows are pulled taught in effort to push the wood and rubble off of him, teeth gritted as you struggle. Sweat causes the hair around your face to stick to your temples, dirt coating your forehead and chin. To anyone else, you might look grimy. To Evan, you were a sheen of light splintering cracks in his darkness.
The pallet and the items it collected topple over, granting Evan air to breathe deeply. His body creaks as he sits up, grunting. He reaches for the bear trap still hanging around his ankle, raising his foot to toss the gear haphazardly to the side. Despite the constant throbbing his leg is giving him, Evan clambers to his feet with low groaning, rolling his wide shoulders. He towers above you, enveloping your trembling frame in his monstrous shadow. You make no moves to get away; instead, you seem to be rooted in place, watching him with wide eyes.
Before you’re able to say, or do, anything further, Evan simply staggers forward on his bad leg and limps away, leaving you to watch his retreating frame in wild confusion that he let you go.
He wasn’t quite sure why, either.
———
The next time it happens, Evan could not be more frustrated or in disbelief at the sheer embarrassment of being caught stuck in a window. The barbs and spikes that protrude from his skin hold him hostage against pinewood, having one leg strung over the sill while the other kept him upright from the outside. His left shoulder remains pinned against the wall, his right arm hanging out the other side lamely. The survivor—Ace, he recalls—stops a few feet ahead of him and turns once he realizes he’s not being followed, barking out an incredulous laugh at the sight.
“Ha! What, can’t get out, big buy?” He sneers. “Should fuckin’ teach ya.” Ace spits on the ground in a show of defiance, but at Evan’s animalistic growl and effort to swing at him, Ace yelps and jumps back, wasting no time to scramble away in a cloud of dust. Evan snorts, unimpressed.
For the next few minutes, he tries to push, to pull—only earning protesting groans from the wall that refused to let him go. He’s ready to start clubbing the building when he hears an all-too-familiar gasp come from behind him, causing his hackles to raise.
“Oh, dear…” You sigh, matching Evan’s bewilderment at the deja vu. You don’t say anything else and tip toe to where Evan is able to catch sight of you in his peripheral vision, revealing the same sweaty face that so sweetly stared up at him with doe-like eyes. You’re sporting a new hat today, one that compliments your features. He would like to admire it more, but he’s growing more agitated by the minute.
As you take in his situation, you chew your bottom lip apprehensively, eyes sweeping him up and down. “Okay… I’m going to touch you, okay?” You warn him, hands hovering just above his bicep, but not making contact. Evan waits, until he realizes that you’re waiting for his consent, piquing his curiosity further. Were you really not that scared of him? Or just stupid?
He mutters before giving an approving grunt, which you take as a sign to go ahead and start pushing. The feeling of your fingertips against his skin is alien—they’re not calloused or rough at all. Not entirely soft, yet not scarred like his. You’re also incredibly warmer than he is, something that Evan finds himself not disliking.
“You—ngh—going to help?” You huff, jostling Evan back into reality. He resumes his attempts, teeth grinding as he strains to pull himself free. There’s a crack, then another one, and at a particularly hard shove from your end the wood finally splinters and breaks. You give one final heave, hands now against Evan’s back, sending the him through the window. Pieces of wood fall to the ground like rain around him, an unshapely hole now cratered on the side of the cabin. Evan couldn’t care less, though.
He staggers to his feet, craning his head to look up at your face, which looks immensely pleased. Evan tries to find his voice to thank you when he realizes that he hasn’t used it in ages, creating a sense of insecurity within him. It’s bound to be an unpleasant sound. He also realizes he’s supposed to be killing you, not thanking you. What Evan failed to remember, the Entity would surely remind him of.
But as he stares up at you—you, whose expression had dropped at Evan’s intense silence; you, who had helped him for the second time in a row without hesitation—he feels angry. A familiar emotion, and an even more familiar recipient.
The Entity. The cause of his suffering. The dark ruler of this forsaken place.
Evan’s grip on his weapon tightens.
“Thank… you,” He manages to garble out, correct about his assumption that his voice would be rough on the ears. It makes his innards recoil.
But you don’t grimace, don’t draw back at the sound of it. Instead, your jaw hangs open in shock, and you almost seem to lean in.
“You… talk,” You spectate. Moonlight filters through the bare tree branches above, casting shadows that dance in the gap separating you and he. Something about it is mystifying.
“…Yes,” He grumbles hoarsely, shifting his weight uncomfortably underneath your awe-filled gaze.
“Do you have a name?” You prod figuratively. Evan’s nose wrinkles beneath his mask.
“Not.. important,” He gruffly rasps, “you.. have a name?” You tell him, and Evan breathes it in like oxygen. Your name is much sweeter than iron and tears.
At the sound of a generator imploding, your and Evan’s head turns, and you’re both reminded of your roles to play in this fiendish game.
“Please,” You plead, earning his sights back on you. “Please, will you let us escape just this once? No killing, no attacking.”
It wouldn’t be the first time that Evan has defied the Entity—the marks on his back were enough to prove that. But, something in the way you look at him has Evan itching to bend the rules again. Break them, even.
So, he nods.
You look like you’re about to cry—something Evan doesn’t particularly want to witness—so he turns to leave. “I knew it,” You whispered, loud enough for his ears only. “I knew there was a reason I was supposed to help you.”
He pauses, then, “…Evan.”
“Huh?”
He faces you, eyes gleaming from behind his mask. “My name.. Evan.”
You crack a smile. If he had it in him, Evan was sure he might return it.
