Songbird in a Snowstorm [Yandere! Marble Hornets x Reader]

Fight, Flight, or Fawn

You step out onto the rough floor, letting your eyes wander around the cabin. It's only a few degrees warmer in the main room. A dying fire fizzles and pops within the stove, casting everything in an orange hue. Shadows dance across the walls, though you pay them little mind.

There's the vague outline of a person cloaked under blankets on the couch. Whoever it is had their back turned so you couldn't make out a face. You would be lying if you said your heart didn't fall just a little bit at the fact. It was a damn shame, really. You were almost looking forward to memorizing their face to describe to the cops.

Jessica's likely murderer was knelt down by the wood stove. He had a tan sack on the floor next to him, a length of rope pooling at his feet. Moment by moment he was packing things away into the bag. Some wooden stakes. A spool of silvery, thin wire. A pocket knife, with its wooden handle well worn and its finish nearly rubbed off. You look away.

If he was going to kill you, you didn't want to have to see all the things he was going to use to do it. The figure on the couch draws your attention once again. They incessantly fidget and stir in their sleep. Tim was downstairs doing who knows what, while your other captor was plotting your death in full view. However, the slim shoulders you see now don't match the broad chest you know to belong to Brian.

Curiosity swirls in the pit of your stomach, along with what might be a flicker of hope. You move towards the person, almost unconsciously. Splintered wood flattens under your feet as you walk. The floor creaks and groans until it is silenced by the rug you step onto. The gaudy patterns and stained surface assault your eyes, but you don't have time to feel disgust curl up in your stomach.

A mess of mousy brown hair is splayed out across the cushions. You can see pale skin cloaked in shadow. The gentle rise and fall of a woman's chest. She's so close, if you reached out, you might just be able to touch her.

A jumbled up voice rumbles, "LEave HeR Be." Ice crept over your very being. Every hair on your body stood on end. He couldn't have been more than a couple inches from your shoulder. The corner of your vision caught the edge of a very scuffed up mask. You could see it now. Individual scratches, places where the permanent marker smudged in the finer details of his mask.

It was like the world itself was silenced around him. Like his presence alone was akin to the cursed winter all around you. Snow muting and muffling any sounds that might have otherwise escaped. Quieting your senses until all you could smell was a whole heap of nothing and your vision became a little bit crisper in turn. Cloaking the area around him in an eerie sort of stillness most only found in death.

Yeah, there's no way this guy isn't a serial killer.

You move to face the man, only to find your body refusing to obey your wishes. No matter how much you will it, you're frozen in place. Heat gathers behind your eyes. It's not safe to have your eyes off of him for so long. Just a little to the side and you'd be able to see him. It's what you want to do. It's what you should do. But you can't. The vibrations from his footsteps are the only indication you get of his departure.

The slam of the door reverberates through the air, the floor below you shaking in turn. Silence falls over the cabin. You could feel each pulse and throb of your heart as your eyes settled back over the person on the couch. Suspicion wriggles about under your skin. This could be a trap. She could be the accomplice to a really kinky killer. Hell, probably the one that just left.

The rise and fall of her chest is too deep, too steady to have been faked. It would be so easy to wake her. A chance to gain a new ally. Or learn about yet another enemy. You wet your lips and pry your eyes from the sleeping woman. There were better ways to spend your time.