#mayhem x reader

he never got mad, he cursed and he huffed but he never got mad. Up until the past few hours, you were pretty sure that Pelle was void of most emotion.

You should have known better to push such an unstable individual, really. But he has limits, like everyone you suppose, although clarity is hard when you feel like your freezing to death.

the air in the coffin was colder than usual, and locked tight, hiding you in the darkness.

Over the hours you struggled to remember the memory, the moment where you could see the normal icy glaze of his eyes melt into red hot rage. It hadn’t been the first time you’d called him a cold bastard, but maybe bringing his brother in was a bad idea. Like a seriously bad fucking idea.

He was on you in what must have been milliseconds, face over yours and adorned with a nasty look of anger before pouncing onto you.

Everything went black a few minutes later, and it was black and empty and vacant in your head for what must have been hours, drifting in and out of an unfamiliar darkness. It was like it was the start again when you woke, dark and cramped. But a little less scary, atleast you knew Pelle was out there, and he probably wasn’t gonna kill you. He’d always say no when you’d asked before, so hopefully it holds true.

the horrible suffocating feeling is back, and perhaps you’re still on your first day here, and your brain has just ran through ideas of what could happen. But it isn’t, because you can feel the fabric of the shirt you borrowed from Pelle against your chest. Your underwear and shorts are gone, thieved during your slumber. You only spend a few minutes in panic before you go quiet, choosing to lay there and cry instead of thrash.

you heard no signs of life outside of your prison, and your body aches too much to focus on any sound. Some soft part of you was just upset because he was, the thought of disappointing him settling uncomfortably in your ribcage. Quickly replaced by panic with no way to tell time, it felt like days from the silence and darkness, and also from the ache in your stomach.

you had no clue how long it had been, but you were starving, like you hadn’t eaten in days. And lord knows you didn’t have the tolerance that Pelle did for the aching emptiness of starvation. You were in pain, so so much pain.

”Pelle? I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!” You yell out, mouth dry and unwilling to let you scream any further.

All you could feel was pins and needles, you knew you were close to another episode of passing out. The dark closes in nearly completely, although your eyes aren’t much darker than the tear soaked blindfold you’d had in your face, cold and damp and only acting to further your freezing hunger. Aching muscles and an empty stomach mix in the worst way.

Silence, Silence, it just stayed silent. Your eyes closed, too weary to continue. In the exhausted haze, the light of the coffin door opening is almost overwhelming.

~

So, Pelle had let you out. His hands already threading through your hair when you woke up, his long fingers moving swiftly to braid sections of your hair. Your stomach hurts, but not as bad, it’s now a slight after effect rather than an all consuming hole in the center of your body.

So, you quietly ache under his hands. Too scared to speak or even breathe. And like he could sense it, his hands drifted off of you, and he sat up. “Hungry? I tried feeding you while you were asleep” he shrugs at the end, face as nonchalant as ever. “How long was I asleep” Pelle gets up and walks to the doorway, no doubt going to make himself tea and perhaps get something for you “Three days, I have no idea why. You were only in there two days” Pelle shrugs again, his body still as small—if not smaller—as before you were locked up

You see the open door, and think about whether the front door was unlocked. In all likelihood, it was, but running through the Norwegian snow for a few miles in an unfamiliar forest would likely kill you, if Pelle didn’t catch you first. Your fingers twitch at the thought, deep breaths becoming necessary for staying calm.

Pelle comes back what must be 10 minutes later, with a bowl of plain oats and a cup of tea. He places the bowl on the floor in front of you, sitting back down on the mattress next to you.

The oats weren’t appetizing, and you’d rather not eat them under normal circumstances, already able to see the grainy liquid texture taunting you from below. But you didn’t wanna see what would happen if you made him mad so soon after your previous grievances. You scarf down the first bite, and Pelle relaxes a smidge, staring at your stomach. You’d lost fat, not all of it, but enough that Pelle would notice.

For all Pelle’s starvation, he always made sure you ate. Perhaps just to make it extra torturous for those few days. You didn’t want to think about whether he’d thought of it before putting you in there, so you don’t, you choose to choke down the whole bowl of oats before your gag reflex makes you puke on the greasy wooden floor.

His hand found its way to your stomach, and his lips wandered to yours. You’d never really kissed on the lips, but he was stiff, and cold, and it almost hurt with how hard he was smashing his lips against you. His teeth were sharp when he bit down on your lip and pulled away, letting blood trickle down. The shock of it left you still, blood lazily falling down your chin, slow as molasses.

What could you do? Fight? Cry? Give up? The racing thoughts were shut down by his finger against your lip, not pressing down, just collecting a little blood. “I could suck you dry and still be thirsty” he whispers, like a sweet nothing, like it didn’t hurt your very soul. He licks his thumb clean, tongue swirling. “You will never do what you did ever again” he says plainly, hand over your mouth to stop anything you might’ve said.

“ok, Pelle” and he smiles, really really smiles. Even though it was muffled, he heard it. That timid obedience he had been pushing for, he just wanted someone to love him. Internally, he wasn’t sure if he even liked you, but he knew it felt so so good to feel your tongue and mouth and hands. “So sweet” he lets go, hands leaving your mouth and wrist.

“Euro said I should just kill you, im glad I said no” he whispers again, more of a secret this time. “Please don’t kill me?” You whisper out before you get the chance to stop yourself, even though it’s a lie. You prayed for death at points, for the embrace of an afterlife or even nothingness just to get away from the everyday gloom Pelle dragged with himself and thus dripped onto others. Infectious depression of which you could never seem to fully escape from, no matter how hard you tried.

“We can go on a walk tomorrow, if you’d like?” His voice finally raises above a whisper, and you hear it’s full rasp. “I don’t have any warm clothes” as much as you wanted to go outside, you’d spent two days freezing your ass off, you weren’t interested in spending your first day in (relative) freedom outside doing it again. “You don’t have any clothes” he chides, almost jokingly “but I could get you some of mine?”

You nod in the interest of civility, tired and worn from the months of boredom and then days of torture. You could’ve slept another week and not be ready to talk to him, despite his relaxed nature.

“Sure, Pelle. I’d love to go on a walk” you muster up a smile, as soft as frost. His arm finds its way around your shoulder and he pulls you close, it would almost be comforting. Pelle’s body might have brought solace if not for its bony and bloody figure, you were sure somewhere on his body was dripping the infected ooze at that very moment. His blood was thick but light due to his malnutrition, he got a sense of joy from seeing your healthy red blood drop from you.

He rarely made you bleed, preferring it as a rare treat rather than one of his daily rituals; he already subjected you to a menagerie of strange or demeaning acts every morning and night. Like the kissing, touching, cuddly mood he got into after a show. He’d smell so strongly of nicotine it made your nose tingle, and he’d cradle you, one of the few times he didn’t prefer to be the one being held. You’d distract yourself by tracing the large scar on his sides or even the shorter but no less gruesome ones that littered the rest of his body. Sometimes you’d wonder if he would ever cover you in burns and cuts like he had done to himself, you can only imagine the pain some of the scars came from.

“When do you leave next?” You knew he would be back to concerts soon, leaving you at peace but bored in his room. You’d finished the comic books already, and had tried to speak to him about it, wanting to discuss the plot and characters. Unfortunately, the language barrier ended up being a bit much, even if he seemed happy to talk to you. His accent alone made his voice so incomprehensible and raspy, like some sort of beast in a way. You suppose he is—a beast, at least—violent enough for it, gravelly enough, certainly tall enough to be some cursed form of a demon or monster. You’d never prayed more in your life than when Pelle got you, his satanism only fueling your newfound religious obsession.

“Next week, Tuesday” his face is in your hair, sniffing deep to catch a whiff of your shampoo. Fingers feeling curls and ringlets that laid on the side of your head he could hold. His nails were short and dirty. You almost cringe at how deep he’s trying to dig his face in, like he would rest in your skull if he could.

You know better than to pull away, luckily it isn’t long before he’s taking his hands off and sitting as far away as he can, eyes focused on yours. He can’t ever seem to look away from you, as much as he couldn’t verbally tell you. The drawings and poetry and flowers and other more gory gifts show he might very well think you are the most beautiful person on earth. Or at least, someone who can hold his interest.

One part of you was truly flattered at how he’d become so obsessed so fast, and another part shivered in fear at what he might be like with years of obsession. If he made it that long.