Something Amiss (Hoodie x Reader)

Eighteen: Bloody Hell

Trigger Warning: gore, SH mentions, violence

Hoodie appeared in your doorway not long after he left. Mask on, bloodstained hoodie to go with it. You didn't have time to gag at the sight, he stalked into the room and grabbed you firmly by the shoulder, pulling you up off the bed and roughly escorting you into the living room.

BANG BANG BANG

The banging didn't cease, whoever was behind the front door was only getting more desperate. Through your peripheral vision, you watched Hoodie reload his gun with gloved hands. Oh, lord.

BANG BANG BANG BANG

E.J. was awaiting you in the living room, standing eerily still and facing the door. He didn't move to open it until Hoodie gave the order, "Go", which filled you with a burst of grim curiosity; what exactly were the power dynamics in their 'organisation'?

It seemed to you, from the way they spoke to each other, that Masky and Hoodie were on the same tier, while E.J. took respectful orders as a runaround nurse. You were only guessing, though, and you had no idea if there were others. You fucking hoped not, three was mind boggling enough.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

You didn't have long to ponder, as E.J. took a few long, efficient strides towards the door. His gloved hand, the one not holding a sharp and deadly looking scalpel, reached for the knob. Before he could twist, though, a terrified voice sounded from the other side of the door.

"(Y/N)!"

No. It couldn't be.

The familiar voice filled you both with petrifying dread and a foolish rush of dopamine. You inhaled sharply, feeling Hoodie's hand slip around your frame to your opposite shoulder, grip tightening to the point where it was almost painful.

BANG BANG BANG

"(Y/n), please! Open up!"

Harry's voice trembled and broke from the other side of the door. You felt tears prick at your eyes, instincts jumbling around in your brain. You wanted to run to the door, fling it open and jump into your brother's arms. You wanted, also, to scream a warning for him to run. Hoodie had been very right about one thing; Harry should have been sprinting for the fucking hills.

E.J. turned his masked head back at Hoodie, seeming to question if the sound of Harry's voice meant anything to him. Hoodie seemed to consider for a moment, before giving a quick nod. E.J. turned back to the door, and flung it open with it's signature squeal.

"Oh my fucking god." You couldn't help the words from slipping out, barely a gasp.

Harry was absolutely drenched in fucking blood. It covered his face, a bloody handprint maiming his cheek, dried drips cascading down to his neck and seeping into his light grey shirt. His hair was matted from sweat and crusty blood, (h/c) strands solidified and caked through.

The worst part, though, was the bloody knife marks covering every inch of exposed skin that you could see. They made a pattern of red, still oozing blood in long drips down his arms, legs, and the exposed skin of his torso - his shirt had been ripped apart, only in tact around the collar. Symbols were carved into his previously lovely (s/c) skin. Circles, imperfect and hard to make out, with red crosses running through them. A bloodied kitchen knife, probably stolen from Jade's apartment in a feeble attempt to protect himself from Masky, rested in one of his red hands. He'd turned himself into a goddamn tic tac toe board.

Harry's (e/c) eyes, full of animalistic panic, reached yours first. "(Y/n)." Then, his gaze moved. First, to the arm keeping a death grip around your shoulders. Then, to the face of the masked man who stood beside you.