Life In Misery | fan!yandere x reader

2/23/17

Sorry guys I would intentionally make this bad to laugh about it but idk I might've been onto something, I'm actually sort of interested in my own plot. Take it completely serious? Maybe. I edited the chapters alot. I started this in 2021 SMH.

but FINNNEEEE no more cacatooey or yakadooey talk. The bitch in misery actually does talk like that though which is hilarious

God What have I created

-
You stayed up for a very long time. At this point you were glad that he forgot your evening dose. He opted to cuddle through his slumber instead, head now resting on your chest. He was much bolder now, cuddling you like a real lover and everything. It was inferred that this height of confidence only came out sparingly.

Or rather hopefully so. The future was always a strange animal. I mean, at first you were sure he was going to chop you up and use you in stew. But now, Mike could burst into a nervous breakdown if you told him his outfit didn't look that good. And the words would be coming from a son of a bitch who couldn't even walk.

Well, crutches. You could use them. However, he kept them definitively in the closet - a place that's wasn't accessible. Everything about 'over there' was just loud and impeccably difficult to access with limited ability.

You supposed he wasn't stupid. But he was weird, which sometimes made you confuse the two. But he was NOT stupid.

God, that woman he killed. No, Michael wasn't stupid..

You almost freaked yourself out for some stupid reason. He was so close still - practically breathing down your neck each time - but docile as a deer. Murmuring, turning, humming. The occasional fluttering of his boyish eyelashes.

It was enough to drive a sane person mad. How could he do everything - Pluck you from the steaming rubble of a car crash, take you home, keep you locked in his house, force you to write, murder a person, try to force himself on you. How would someone who'd do such things sleep so peacefully?

With his dark hair sticking to his forehead and nostril-burning cologne heavy in the air. Each slumbered writhe, each whine, each sigh - It pissed you off. You nearly fell into a contradictory mood from it. But you knew better instantaneously.

It was a good thing the fucker historically slept for his perfect 9 hours every day, otherwise you'd have to deal with him waking up in 40 minutes and further ruining your already shit mood. Presently it was only 5:31 A.M.

You remember something before the wreak:
5 Or 6 A.M - That was about the time the morning radio would be on. You were never a fan, but it was a nice occasion. The funny stuff would set your day off on the right foot. But now the memory just has you hunched over in the true scrooge fashion.

You blinked back any of your conscious mind and layed down to sleep. Withdrawals would surely start doing you in if you were awake too long, and it hardly mattered what you thought. Michael had you - you were plenty. And he was too much.

-

The smell of burning cinnamon awoke your senses. You could hardly blink back the sunlight glittering into the window, and even worse, reflecting off the sheet of white snow outside. For a half-beat, blood was a secondary smell. But it was all gone very quickly.

You didn't need to call for Michael. He was still in the room, eyes open as he stood above you. Wordless, too.

Speaking first was always polite, " Hello, Michael. " It was hard not to be creeped out. But it was imperative to not show it.

" Hi. " He said, and bent down to give you a kiss. In the morning it was beauty, in the afternoon it was gorgeousness, and at night it was sexy - the everchanging shades of you. Atleast he could control himself well enough to kiss you - had someone told him even a year before that'd he be lucky enough to be so intimate with you, he'd possibly self-implode with glee.