Something Amiss (Hoodie x Reader)

Eleven: Call Me Hoodie

Trigger Warning: Implied SH

Seventeen minutes. That's how long you had been standing here, back to the wall, wordless and motionless. Your legs were aching, but you refused to back down.

After you had unlocked the window, the masked man had jumped inside only for you to bring a vengeful fist down on top of his hooded skull. The action had been cathartic, and you had been fully expecting him to retaliate by giving you a puncture wound. You had been ready to die, brimming with rage and sorrow.

The problem was, he was just as full of surprises as you were. He had taken the blow to the skull like a champion, barely even grunting in pain as he had pushed you off of him. You had charged once more, trying to get a good hit to the throat once he was at his full height. Once again, he had shoved you back.

Through fits of tears and frustrated screams, you had done your worst to try and hurt him. He deflected you, every single time. He never even made a move to hurt you, not even a little bit, and that had made you even more fucking angry.

It reminded you of Monday night, the way he had tolerated your panic attacks until you had got it all out of your system. A part of you, the part that rooted for your own survival, was grateful.

You told that part of you to shut the fuck up. This was all his fault. Harry would still be here with you, if not for him.

As angry as you were, though, you had to give it up eventually. There was only so much effort your injured, traumatised body could exert. If he was going to kill you, you supposed he didn't plan on giving you the dignity of a fight. He'd probably shoot you in the back of the head while you slept, instead.

So, you had been forced to back off after probably your twentieth time of being gently but firmly pushed to the ground. You had scooted back across the floor, staggering to your feet and fixing the man with a hard glare. A glare that had lasted seventeen minutes now, another agitating staring contest which you were now determined to win.

You refused to be the first to speak or move. You were demeaned, ashamed at the way you'd only landed one good hit, and he'd barely reacted. If the man had any motives, he'd have to carry them out with the knowledge that you had (at the very least) won one of your little nonverbal stand-offs.

Now, after seventeen agonising minutes, the man seemed to throw in the towel. He was either bored or indifferent, you had no clue. Still, you felt victorious as he broke the stillness that had enveloped the living room, reaching down slowly to grab the box of fucking pop-tarts, which had fallen on the floor when you jumped him.

You watched as the man reached into the box, pulling out one of the wrapped goodies. It made a sad crinkling noise as he tossed it at at the carpet, landing anticlimactically at your feet.

This absolute son of a bitch.

He was making fun of you, once again. You half expected him to make a quip, 'You're not you when you're hungry!'. He had a witty sense of humour, you'd admit, and you fucking hated him for it. All he did was treat your life like a game. Empathy was dead.

The man tilted his mask at you now, waiting for a reaction. Maybe he wanted you to run at him, again. You couldn't fully tell if the throw had been a challenge or if he was laughing at you like a pitiful worm. Probably both at the same time. He had long ago established his love for sending you mixed signals.

You were about to kick the food back at him full force, when he said something you'd never have expected.

"Truce?"

...you blinked dumbly at the man.

What did he mean, truce? You really did think he was making fun of you, in a sadistic way. You refused to believe anything else, he couldn't just play the way he'd been treating you off like light teasing. He was the one who had fucked up your brother's head.