i don’t remember if you’ve posted about this before so forgive me if you have!
how would BB feel about dreams? i know they would be a foreign concept to him since he doesn’t have to sleep
companion moving in her sleep/talking while she’s asleep & BB is just like ????
companion explaining to him how there are good dreams and bad dreams and dreams that are just dreams. things our brains just make up while we’re unconscious that we have no say in
would he want to hear about them? have a debrief every time companion wakes up on what type of dream she’s had so he can categorize it and file it away? would it be uninteresting to him? he has been able to inch his way into companions memories to rebuild her apartment for her, would he be able to do the same to her dreams?
would love to pick your brain hear what you think!! <3
bb is obsessed with your dreams. dreams are genuinely his favourite thing about human biology and that's saying something because he's also very fond of your heartbeat and the little sound you make when you sneeze.
because bb doesn't sleep. has never slept. doesn't have the hardware for it. bb has been conscious for every second of his existence, which is a span of time he can't fully quantify, and the concept of unconsciousness is as foreign to him as the concept of sunlight. he understands it intellectually. humans go dormant for several hours, their bodies run maintenance processes, they lose voluntary motor control. fine. biology.
he's observed it thousands of times in wanderers, in you, in the steady rhythm of your breathing when you go slack against him in the nest.
but the dreams part. the part where your brain, unbidden, unsupervised, generates entire narratives while you're unconscious? the part where you visit places that don't exist and talk to people who aren't there and experience emotions about events that never happened? the part where your mind creates a private backrooms of its own every single night? a liminal space that only you can access, that follows its own rules, that dissolves when you open your eyes?
bb is a little insane about it.
the first time he notices you moving in your sleep he nearly has a crisis.
you're in the nest. he's doing the holding thing, the watching thing, the motionless guardian thing he does while you're under. and your hand twitches. your fingers curl against his chest like they're gripping something that isn't there. your brow furrows. your lips move, forming words with no sound, having a conversation with someone he can't see, in a place he can't go.
he goes very still. stiller than usual. watching your face cycle through expressions that don't correspond to any stimulus in the room. a smile. a frown. the flicker of something that looks like fear. then the smile again. your body is right here, in his arms, but some essential part of you is somewhere else and he has no idea where and he cannot follow.
this is, he discovers, one of the very few things in existence that genuinely unsettles him.
not because it's dangerous. because it's private. because you go somewhere every night that he can't protect you in and can't accompany you to and can't even observe. you have a place that is entirely yours. that belongs to no one. that even bb, who is the walls and the floor and the backrooms itself, cannot enter.
he wants in so badly it's almost physical.
you wake up and he's right there. face inches from yours. those pale blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that would be alarming if you weren't used to it.
"you were talking," he says before you've fully surfaced. before you've blinked the sleep away. "in your sleep. your mouth was moving. you said—" he pauses. reproduces the words in your exact voice, your exact inflection, because of course he memorised the sounds. "what does that mean?"
"I was dreaming."
the head tilt. "explain."
and you try. you lie there in the nest with his face hovering over yours and you try to explain dreams to an entity that has never been unconscious.
good dreams, where you fly or find money or see people you miss. bad dreams, where you're falling or being chased or your teeth come out. and then the third kind. the weird ones, the nonsensical ones, the ones where you're in a grocery store except the grocery store is also your high school and your dead grandmother is there but she's a bird and it makes perfect sense until you wake up and realise none of it was real.
bb absorbs all of this with the focus of a doctoral student encountering a new field of study. you can practically see him filing it away. considering. building a new category.
"and you can't control them?" he questions.
"not usually."
"and they feel real while they're happening."
"completely real. you don't know you're dreaming."
"and when you wake up they—"
"fade. most of them. you lose the details pretty fast. sometimes you just keep the feeling."
this bothers him enormously. the fading. the idea that you experience these vivid impossible things every single night and then lose them. entire worlds dissolving before you can memorise them. he finds this almost offensive. like the universe is giving you something beautiful and then snatching it back and the waste of it (the sheer informational waste) makes his ancient brain itch.
so he starts the debriefs.
every morning. without fail. the second your eyes open and you blink and stretch and make that little groaning sound you make when consciousness is an unwelcome visitor, bb is there. patient. attentive. waiting.
"dream?"
and you tell him. whatever you remember. fragments, usually. images without context. feelings without narrative. "I was in a house but it wasn't my house. there were stairs that went sideways. terrence was there but he had a different face." and bb listens with that tilted-head focus and asks follow-up questions like a researcher conducting a field study.
"what colour were the stairs?"
"I don't—blue? maybe blue."
"and terrence's different face. different how? structurally or just—"
"baby, I don't remember, they were stairs and he had a face and that's all i've got."
he accepts this with visible reluctance. files the blue stairs and the wrong-faced terrence into whatever vast internal archive he maintains. cross-references them with previous dream reports. he's building a database. you're sure of it. somewhere in the architecture of his mind there is an entire wing dedicated to the catalogue of your subconscious and he's furnishing it with every fragment you give him.
he starts noticing patterns before you do. "you dream about water when you're anxious," he says one morning, matter-of-fact, while you're still blinking awake. "and you dream about bobby's apartment when you miss him. and you dream about falling when you haven't eaten enough. you should eat more."
the fact that he's psychoanalysing your dreams based on aggregate data is either deeply touching or deeply invasive and you choose to find it touching because the alternative is thinking too hard about the fact that your eldritch boyfriend is running a longitudinal sleep study on you.
but the idea of sharing. that's where it gets into territory that makes your chest ache. because bb can inch his way into your memories due to the very nature of backrooms. you know this, the apartment reconstruction proved it, the way level 0 sometimes rearranges itself into spaces that look like places you've been. he can access the residue your consciousness leaves on the architecture. he can read the imprint.
so one night he tries with a dream.
you're asleep. he's holding you. and he reaches. not with hands, with whatever sense he uses to read the backrooms, the perception that lets him feel wanderers six levels away and taste emotional states in the air. he reaches toward the place where your mind goes when it sleeps.
and he gets fragments.
not the full dream. not the narrative. just... flashes. colour without context. the impression of motion. a feeling, vast and unspecific, like standing at the edge of vast nothing. your emotional state translated into something he can almost perceive, like hearing music through a wall. close enough to sense the rhythm. too far to catch the lyrics.
he tries again the next night. and the next. each time getting a little further. a little clearer. like tuning a radio between stations, the signal coming in and out, and some nights he catches a full image (a room, a face, a landscape your sleeping brain invented) and the wonder of it. the sheer staggering wonder of watching your mind create something from nothing while you lie unconscious in his arms.
humans are gods, he thinks. every night. casually. without reverence or ceremony. you close your eyes and you build worlds.
and then one morning you wake up and your face does something he hasn't seen before. soft. shy. you're flustered before you've fully opened your eyes and he can tell.
"dream?" he asks. same as always.
"um." you press your face into his chest. he can feel how warm you're turning, the type of heat he usually associates with kissing you, with hearing that soft moan at the back of your throat. "it was—you were in it."
bb goes still. not the predator stillness. the other kind. the kind where every particle of his existence orients toward a single point of input because the input is too important to process at normal speed.
"I was in it?" he repeats carefully.
"yeah."
"what was I doing?"
"you were—" you press your face harder into his chest. muffled. "we were somewhere. not here. somewhere with windows. and you were—there was sunlight and you were standing in it and I could see it on your skin and you were warm. actually warm. the right temperature. and you were smiling."
bb doesn't speak.
"and you looked—" you swallow. still muffled. still hiding. "you looked like you. not bobby. you. and it was—you were so—"
"what?" he whispers.
"beautiful. you were beautiful and I wasn't scared and the sunlight was on you and you were warm."
the sound bb makes is not a sound anyone will ever hear again. it comes from somewhere so deep in whatever he is that it predates the backrooms. predates level 0. predates the decision to wear a face at all. sound of something ancient and lonely learning that it exists in someone else's mind as something worth dreaming about.
you dreamed about him. not bobby. HIM. in sunlight he's never felt, with warmth he can't produce, looking like himself. whatever that is, whatever the thing under the suit actually looks like when a human brain that loves him reconstructs it from memory and feeling and want.
your subconscious, unsupervised and uncensored, took the raw material of bb and built something beautiful out of it and then put it in sunlight and made it warm.
he's in your dreams.
he exists in the only place he can't go. the most private room. the one with no door. and you put him there. not on purpose. not by choice. your sleeping brain, running on nothing but accumulated data and emotion, looked at its library of available content and chose to render him. standing in light. smiling. warm.
he holds you so tightly the walls around you creak.
"tell me again," he urges softly against your hair. his voice is shaky. "the sunlight part. tell me about the sunlight. please."
and you do. lying there in the dark, in the arms of something that has never seen the sun, you describe the warmth on his skin in your dream.
the way the light made his edges soft. the way his smile looked without the mask. and he listens with his eyes closed and his face in your hair and for a few minutes, in the space between your words and his imagination, bb stands in sunlight.
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Stalker and/or strange entity haunting you, watching you walk to work, go shopping, go to the park. No one else seems to notice them. They've never touched or hurt you before, never get too close, but it's terrifying, yet there's nothing the police can do.
They follow you home for the first time. You hide in the closet of your room with a knife, trying not to hyperventilate or cry. You can't help but think about all of the horrible things this stalker/entity could possibly do to you and your body.
Your stalker/entity however, thinks fuck, you live like this? When the fuck is the last time you vacuumed? There's not a single vegetable in your entire kitchen, and the only drink you seem to have is soda. Every shirt you own is wrinkly because you just leave it in the basket.
They leave your home, and you think you're safe, which, you are. But you aren't alone. At night there's an insistent tapping at your back door. Nails/claws scratching to get your attention. You wait until it's day to check your back porch. There's a bottle of water and a gift card to your local grocery store. What the fuck? There's a little bit of dried blood on the card, but it's got plenty of money on it.
This is only the beginning. You're doom scrolling on your phone in the evening when the closet in your hallway creeks open and your vacuum falls out. It freaks you out, but there's no one else in sight so you put it back where it belongs, close the door and go back to your couch. It happens again though, and again, and keeps happening until you get the message. Later, it only happens once every week to remind you to clean.
If you haven't had the energy to shower in a while, sometimes the door will lock on it's own when you're in the bathroom. It shouldn't be possible to lock the door from the outside, but no matter how much you jingle the handle and slam into the door, it won't budge. As long as you're stuck in here, you might as well take a shower. After you're done, the door opens as it was always meant to.
Once you tried to ignore them. You threw out the healthy food they left you. You ignored the vacuum and left it laying on the ground. You were having such a bad week, and even the ever precent stalker/entity couldn't make you brush you teeth, do your dishes or bathe. You'd never pissed them off before, and they were going to punish you now. Not physically, no, they would never hurt you.
But your lights would cut out at night, leaving you in pitch darkness. Doors slammed, someone or something breathed on you, something yanked on your shirt as you tried to flee. When you turned your phones flashlight on, something stood at the end of your hallway. Whether they were a human or not, they certainly didn't come off as one. Too tall, too long limbed, and too still. Soon your phone light cut off too. Your front and back doors were locked and you couldn't leave. They always felt like they were looming over you, and they continued until you hid in the same closet as before, sobbing and panicking. They continued until the sun rose.
You apologized through your tears, and promised to do better, and they forgave you. Everything went back to "normal" after.
There are still plenty of terrifying moments. The barely visible silhouette of someone or something outside of your windows at night. Waking up to your bedroom door slightly ajar when you know it was closed before. The obvious signs of someone rummaging in your dirty clothes and bed when you come home from work.
But somehow you got used to it. You started to talk them, though you never ever got a response back. You'd say thanks, talk about your day- though they obviously already knew it all-, talk about a movie you liked, etc.
Sometimes you'd sit down to watch a show or play a video game, and you'd put a second bowl of snacks out. Originally you'd put them next to you, and it was never touched. But one night when you laid on your couch watched a movie, the second bowl out of sight, you swore you could hear the slight movements of something else. When you got up for a bathroom break, it was obvious someone or something had been eating from the second bowl.
You should hate this, the stalker, the entity, the invasion of your privacy, the terror, but...you have to admit you're doing better than before. Eating healthier, putting more care into hygiene, tidying your home, dressing nicer. Do you simply like the personal improvement it's brought on? Do you actually like the attention? Might you even like the fright? You're not sure if you actually don't know, or if you're just unwilling to admit it to yourself.
Maybe one day you'll actually meet them face to face. Maybe one day you'll actually have a real conversation. Maybe one day you'll learn their name.
Request and Rules Open For Death Is Not An Escape, Yandere Dead By Daylight Headcanons/One shots/Scenarios
[ Death Is Not An Escape, Yandere Dead By Daylight Headcanons/One shots/Scenarios
Death Is No Escape, not from the Survivors, Killers, and Entity that all love you to the point of madness and obsession.]
Hello My Sexy Readers, I am here with A really big requested yandere series in which it is dead by daylight characters the killers and survivors
Here is what you can Request and the rules.
-One Shots:
Will Almost all The Time Will Do Only
OC Marie or Mark
Or Michelle in One shots
Comment bellow Who you want to see :)
-Headcanons:
Hehehehe you can ask as many Killers or Survivors or even the entity as you want with Headcanons
Such as the following
-Can I get Headcanons with Trapper cuddling his darling
.He is a big teddy bear when he wants to be.
.He may be covered in blood from a fresh kill
.but here he can hold you and cuddle you
.Whispering possessive and deranged nothings in your ear.
And so on
You may also asks Questions such as
Who would be aggressive to their love and who would adore them or both, out of Huntress, Trapper, Doctor, Wraith, Nurse,
Adores you:
Nurse
Aggressive With You:
Trapper
Doctor
Both:
Wraith
Huntress
Also Questions like what nicknames they have and so on.
This is how you Requests
.What yandere or yanderes you want to know more about
.Reader
Male or Female
.Can also be any type of reader.
Chubby
Bi
Straight
Gay
Blind
Small
Tall
Incest
And so on, anything really except child (Unless it is platonic)
-Scenarios
This is like Oneshots and Headcanons smashed into one you can ask as many as you like with any reader you want but the Scenario must be the same for all the ones you are asking
like for example a Request I got off of tumblr
Anonymous said:
Preggo sex with some dbd? Like Trapper, Wrath and futa!Huntress?
(Which yes I will make this asap just lots of things going on)
Or
Suicidal Reader with Dwight, Meg, Jake, Claudette, Pyramid Head, Demogorgan
.Ask for which yandere and Yanderes
.Ask for what type of reader
.Male Or Female
Their will also be OCS with me my OC Michelle and Marie or Mark you may also ask any of the the above with My OC
No Child sex scene Reader must be Fifteen or older for sex scenes.
You may also Choose Yandere Or Yanderes Character(S) X Love Interests Characters
Such as
Micheal Myers X Freddy Kruger
Trapper X Meg
Laurie X Claudette
And Genderbents of characters are a yes. like Female Trapper or Male Meg
Also Futa for both
Futa Huntress
Futa Trapper (In which he may have just a pussy or a cock and pussy)
or if your feeling really wild
Female Futa Doctor (In which they are genderbent and futa)
Also if I was not clear
I will do any type of reader
That goes for chubby blind deaf curvy thick handicap and so on anything and everying
Lesbian, straight, gay, bisexual, pansexual,
or even gender identy
transgender (Please say was born Male or Female but identifies as male or female I am easily confused by the normal terms) non binary, female, male, intersex and so on.
Anyways Please Enjoy and Stay Sexy!
[Also Image above is how Marie looks like roughly except thick thives seriously curves like size double E almost and juicy booth and more hour glass like she is a catch of sexiness~~]
