The Fog ⇢ Dead by Daylight Oneshots

𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔

✩Evan MacMillan "The Trapper" ✘ Reader✩

❝Let's play Hide and Seek. I'll hide behind your back, and when you start seeking me, I'll rush to your arms.❞

EDITED ON 2/27/2022

The trials you were subjected to were deadly versions of hiding and seeking. And while you were running through an unusually cold Macmillan Estate, the wind was suffocating your lungs, causing you to struggle to breathe. But, nevertheless, you had to keep running. For that was the name of the game, wasn't it?

But, it was hard to run when your lungs couldn't bring in the air. When the air is so cold, chilly, and sharp, it cuts through your clothes, skin, organs, and bones. You needed to take a break. Let your legs heal from the running. Let your lungs recover from the very thing that keeps you alive. So, in a last-ditch effort to preserve yourself, you used what energy that could be expended to open a rusted red locker and hide behind its doors. As you closed yourself in, concealed from the outside air, you took a deep breath and breathed in the smell of iron and stale body odor. It was disgusting. Someone had to shit their pants and then rub it all over the locker. The smell infected your throat, causing you to cough. It was almost enough to make you leave. Almost.

However, the metal cracks at the top of the doors on the locker provided enough fresh air that allowed you to deviate away from the smell completely consuming you. However, the downside to the vents was that they were big enough to see through. They were big enough for the inside to see out, and they were also big enough for the outside to see in. You might be in a wooden locker, with everybody part concealed, but with those small vents being there, it made the damn closet feel like a fishbowl.

It's not like you can crouch inside the floor of the locker. That was major because anyone that wasn't a prepubescent child couldn't scrunch themselves into that small of a pretzel. So, you were forced to look out the metal slits, forced to be your lookout. But there was one small problem with being your lookout. That was boredom. Boredom and you didn't mix well. If you pair boredom and a nail-picking habit together, you can guess what happens.

You tore part of your nail off. That wouldn't have been a big deal, but you tore so much off that there was now blood where your fingernail used to be. Again wouldn't have been a problem if your first reaction wasn't saying, "Fucking hell."

And that wouldn't have been a problem if the Trapper wasn't walking right past your locker when you said it.

He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned it to look at your locker. He took a couple of steps forward and was so close to the locker that the eye-holes in his mask were staring directly at you, and you could hear his breathing between the wood and bone barriers. Time slowed as he grabbed the handle on the doors that kept you safe. But safety was gone when the doors were swung open, leaving nothing to protect you. The only thing between you and Evan was air, and you know damn well that air can't keep you from getting hurt.

On another note, the blood from your nail picking now encapsulated your finger. You looked down at your finger and then back up towards the man in front of you. You could see him lose focus on the fear that settled in you, and instead, he fixated on the blood that pooled on your fingertips. His hand fell from the edge of the locker, and he came closer to grab your hand. If you had any possibility of slipping through the left space, it was now gone. His fingers laced around your wrist and tried to gently pull it closer to him, you tried to tear away from him, but he jerked you closer. In religious trauma circumstances, you wouldn't be able to put a bible in between the two of you. He brought your hand to his mask and pushed it slightly up with his pointer finger from the hand that held yours in place. Maybe it was the fear or the confusion, but you couldn't look away. Your mouth hung open as he placed your finger into his mouth.

You couldn't process what was happening. It was like you failed to possess emotion. The only thing you could feel was his tongue, your blood, his spit, and a slight sting that made you feel a heartbeat in your veins. You could feel everything mixing. You couldn't place how this made you think.

He removed your finger from his mouth. His spit clung to your skin, and it ran down your finger onto both of your hands. The droplet of saliva seeped through the crevice. You could feel it between both of your palms. Finally, he loosened his grip and released your hand. You could see spit dribbling from his face, and he wiped it away before he pushed his mask back down, entirely concealing his face.

"You should take better care of yourself." His voice was rough and raw, as if he didn't talk that much. You couldn't say anything back. How were you supposed to?

Without warning, he left you. The distance between you was spreading by the millisecond. The warmth previously there was gone, and the chilly air replaced it. You looked down at your hand before wiping the saliva onto your grimy clothes. Staying here in the locker didn't feel right to you. So, you decided to follow him. The frosty air didn't seem to bother your lungs anymore. You trailed behind him, and he led you to the exit gate.

He took his cleaver and swung at the lever. Sparks flew from the now destroyed box as the gate creaked open. His head tilted towards the door, a silent message telling you to leave. You were hesitant, but slowly you made your way to your escape. No words were exchanged as your steps became more delayed. You wanted to understand, but the only thing you could reason was that he liked your agitation.

"I can't wait to play another round of hiding and seek with you, my sweet Y/N." You stopped at the edge of the darkness. You wanted to know why, despite his unnerving presence, why it comforted you. But, before the words left your mouth, he pushed you into the dark void. You didn't even know he was behind you, but that didn't matter, for you were back at the campfire.

"Evan Macmillan, I will beat you one day."