Slashers as fathers with a (teenage) reader.
Notes: 100% NON-ROMANTIC. Platonic love only. Non-binary reader. The reader is a young teenager (you decide the age). Freddy is alive and NOT a pedophile.
Summary: The slasher fathers feeling guilty after hurting their child's feelings. PART TWO. Hurt/comfort addition.
Folks who wanted to be tagged. @hope4rain19, @minaxcarter, @brooke-stinson, @urminebutidontwantyou, @gaipplrhot, @gyarukitti, @raphydude, @thelxapeia, @ant1d3pre55ant5add1ct, @decentsoupperson, @kawaistrawberry21.
Freddy Krueger
Freddy sighed as he stomped to your room in search of his laptop. You had been in such a rush this morning to get to school that you had accidentally left it in there. And while he always respected your wishes for him to never enter your room, he really needed his laptop. Sacrifices need be made some times.
However, as Freddy wandered into your room, he was met with a sight that literally stole his breath. Your bed was completely littered with folders and painted canvas boards. There was a large portfolio bag laying on the ground with its contents scattered everywhere. Painting and drawing utensils alike sat scattered over a table with a still wet painting taped atop.
Eyes ridiculously wide, Freddy looked around and deeply observed the area. He didn't know you owned any of this stuff. Paintings, oil canvases, drawings and sketches, and all of them were yours. And each piece looked really, really good. Freddy couldn't believe what was happening right now.
He thought you gave up on art.
Delicately picking up multiple art pieces, a happiness and sense of pride rushed through Freddy's heart, and he found himself grinning big in a mixture of relief and utter joy. You still loved art, and you were so good at it. He hadn't destroyed your passion after all. That being said though... Why would you hide this from him?
Later that day when you came home, Freddy asked you to go to the kitchen. When you went inside, you froze right on the spot. There, scattered all across the kitchen table, were multiple art projects of yours.
"Dad..." You choked, your heart racing in fear, your words stolen from you, "I..."
"I needed my laptop and uh... Accidentally found these," Freddy explained, a happy smile covering his face as he went to grab your shoulders, "Sweetie, why would you hide this from-"
"I told you not to go in there." You almost shouted, tears blurring your eyes as you pulled away from him.
"Sweetie," Freddy took a step back, hurt by your defensive attitude.
You went to the table and quickly began to gather up your art work. Freddy chased after you to try and get you to stop, "No, stop it. Don't do that- just-just wait a sec, I-"
"I get it, dad, you hate it. You've always hated my art. You-just... J-just leave me alone. Don't touch it, ok," You avoided eye contact while scurrying to protect your work, "I'll put it away."
"No, that's not what I want. (y/n). (y/n), will you please look at me. Hey," Freddy placed a hand on your shoulder and kept you from stomping off, "(y/n), look at me."
With a tense body and watery eyes, you looked at him, art work clutched to your chest and a glare covering your face.
Freddy sighed and said in earnest, "That's not what I want. Your art, I love it. I think it's beautiful an-and amazing! I-I mean, all this time? Really? I thought you gave up on it, I... I thought that I..."
Relaxing, you lowered your arms and looked him straight in the eyes. It felt like your heart had just done a summersault in your chest. "You... You mean it? You... You really like my art?"
"I love it!" Freddy exclaimed almost too quickly, "I love it so much, you have no idea. You have no idea how happy this makes me, (y/n). I thought that I ruined art for you. I... I never stopped feeling guilty about what I did. And I always hoped that one day you would start again, but..."
"Dad," You bit your lip hard in an attempt not to cry. He cared. He actually cared, and he loved your art. He was happy for you.
"Here," Freddy went to grab an old folder off the table.
Suspicious, you set down your art and went to take the folder. When you opened it, you saw dozens of old, un-crumpled papers with very distinct, familiar drawings on them. It took a minute, but you soon realized that these were the very drawings you had thrown away when you were little.
"You... Kept them?" You gaped at your dad, your heart aching in a happy/sad way.
"Of course I did," Freddy's smile wobbled a bit, "I love you and I love everything you do, and I'm so, so sorry for making you feel bad, f-for making you feel like you had to hide this from me."
Lowering the folder, you felt your lips wobble as your heart clenched in great happiness and relief. All this time you believed your dad hated your passion. He had hurt you so badly, but he regretted it. He had always regretted it, and he loved your work.
In a desperate attempt to hide your tears, you rush up to your dad and give him a big hug. Freddy held you as tightly as he could, his arms fierce and protective as he said, "Don't ever give up on your art, (y/n). No matter what, please. I love you so much."
Michael Myers
Michael had wandered out of the garage a few minutes after your friend's dad dropped you off. "Me and (friend's name) are gonna grab a snack real quick, k dad?" You had hollered while rushing into the house.
Rolling his eyes a bit, Michael approached the other man who casually got out of the car. He was grinning big at you and his own kid, seemingly proud and full of joy. "My god, man," He said mindlessly, smiling at Michael, "I tell ya, that was one hell of a game today. Whoo, and (y/n)? My god, they were great."
Puzzled and confused, Michael could only tilt his head in wonder. Game? What game?
The man shook his head and gave Michael an even more puzzled look than he himself sported, "Hey, how come I never see you at any of their games? Rough job or something?"
Michael's silence and confused expression urged the man to explain more.
"You know, the (sport) game? Just had one today- what a show I tell ya. But, I just- I never see you there, you know?"
At that, Michael's eyes went unspeakably wide. (sport)? You were playing (sport)? What? For how long? Why didn't he know about this? He thought you quit playing that when you were little. What was going on?
A week later and Michael was sitting amongst the crowd that was watching your (sport) game. You didn't know he was there. You didn't even know that he knew all your secrets like the fact that you had been playing (sport) for years, how you had won two trophies, the fact that this is where you spent most of your time at, and so on and so forth.
While watching the game, Michael couldn't help but to feel a deep sense of pride, relief and great joy at seeing how passionately you played and how much fun you were having. And you were so talented at it. The other team didn't stand a chance. You had grown so much since you were little. To this day his own actions still haunted him.
He hurt you. He 'scarred' you. And, although you continued doing what you loved, you had still felt the need to hide it from him, for years. He did that. He had made you feel so anxious and insecure that you felt the need to hide your greatest passion from him.
What kind of father does that to their child?
Unsurprisingly, your team won the game, and Michael couldn't be more proud or excited. Once the crowd and commotion calmed down, he patiently waited on you to exit the changing rooms. The way you hid yourself...
Michael gazed around at all the happy families congratulating and/or comforting their kids. It crushed his heart thinking about the sheer loneliness you expressed after the game ended and you had no one to celebrate with aside from your team mates.
When you came out of the changing room, Michael straightened his posture and faced you. It took you a minute, but eventually you looked up, saw him, and froze. A gasp escaped your mouth while your backpack fell from your shoulder to your shaken hand.
Michael's chest ached at the sight of your frightened, horrified face as you frantically looked around as if for an escape. Quickly he approached you and said in sign language, "That was a good game."
"Dad," You stepped away from him, panicked, "I-it's not what you think-I... I-I was just-I'm..."
You were scared, Michael realized, guilt beating on him like a hundred hammers. He waved his hand at you to get your attention, "Why didn't you tell me you were playing (sport)?"
"I..." You stare at him in great panic that melted into sadness and fear. You dropped your backpack and covered your face, saying brokenly, "I'm sorry, dad. I... I didn't mean to. Don't be mad, please, I-I... I'll stop playing it."
What? Micheal rushed to you and went to gently pull your hands away from your flushed face. What had he done? "No, I'm not mad. Please stop panicking. I'm not mad. Not at all."
Confused, you look at him through tear colored vision.
"I just found out you were playing (sport). You even have trophies. (y/n), why did you keep this from me?"
"Because," You winced, "You said I wasn't good at it. You... You hate me for it. I... I just wanted to be happy. I... I didn't mean to..."
He couldn't believe how upset you were, and all because he found out that you were doing what you loved. Marching up to you, Michael pulled you into a big hug that lasted for several minutes. When he noticed you calm down, he moved back a bit and explained.
"I was an idiot back then. I never should have said those things to you, (y/n). I've always felt bad for how I made you feel. You're not bad at (sport) and I never wanted you to stop playing. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I made you feel this way."
You were shocked speechless, so Michael pulled you into another hug. You hugged back, relieved. He wasn't mad at you. He apologized. Everything was going to be alright.
Bo Sinclair
Bo lived in a very, very small town. Everyone knew each other and every piece of information that existed on the surface. Rumors spread and gossip filled the air like pollen. So it didn't take very long for Bo to learn that you had been practicing engineering with the car shop just down the road.
At first Bo had been ecstatic. You were still interested in engineering? He thought you didn't want to do that anymore; you said so yourself. Ever since the incident when you were little, you hadn't helped him with anything physically constructive- not even stuff as simple as hanging a picture on the wall.
Pretty much everyone praised you and said that you were doing a tremendous job. Your skill towards fixing vehicles was a natural, golden talent. You were an impressive, fast learner and everyone loved and appreciated you.
But when Bo tried to approach you about this exciting news, he was confused to hear you deny all of it. You shut his exclamations off and said that the towns people were lying. You claimed to have nothing to do with engineering. Yes, you hung around the car shop, but nothing was going on, you were just bored.
Bo didn't understand it. Why would you lie to him about this? He knew that the towns people weren't making this up- just ask the guy who took a picture of you and your buddies covered in grease while working on a truck engine. You looked so happy. Why was that something to lie about?
For the life of him, Bo could not figure out what was going on with you. Obviously you were lying to him, but he couldn't get you to explain why. It was as if you were completely and utterly avoiding him now, and it was driving him crazy.
So Bo reached out for help.
"Well," Your engineering teacher said in a tense tone, "I talked to em an' they said it's 'cause they don't wanna make ya mad."
"Huh?" Bo shook his head in exaggeration. What did that even mean?
Your teacher gave him a wearisome look, "I think they're afraid you're gonna blow a gasket on em if they do somethin' wrong. I take it that... you got a short temp?"
At that question, Bo was immediately rushed with memories of the past, and he found himself feeling overwhelmed with guilt and dread. That time he got mad at you when you were little, you didn't just give up on engineering. You gave up on everything that had to do with him. Was this why? Because you were afraid that he would get mad at you if you messed up or made a mistake?
You were afraid of his temper.
Coming to realization, Bo spent quite a while trying to figure out how he should approach you. He wasn't the best at emotions or having deep conversations. If he tried to explain himself he feared he would just say something stupid and cause you to be more upset with him.
So he waited for the perfect moment.
A couple weeks later, Bo dragged you to his shop to show you something that caused your mouth to fall open in awe. "Ram 3500, 2018. An' look at'er license plate."
Gasping the name of the state the enormous truck was from, you faced your dad with absolute excitement and disbelief, "Why's it here?"
"Ah, a little transmission trouble on the road," Bo smiled and slung an arm around your shoulder, "Nice huh? She's a beauty. Needs lotta' work, fast, an' I want 'you' to help me."
"What?" Your behavior changed drastically, "Dad-"
"Look, I've already heard all the gossip. I've seen ya work at the shop. I know you know what you're doin', (y/n)," Bo went to stand in front of you. "But what I don't understand is why ya don't wanna work with me."
"It's not... I just..." You sighed and looked at the ground, lost on what to say. A pain filled your chest as you admitted quietly, "I ain't perfect, dad, I... I make mistakes."
"And?" Bo pushed for a better answer.
His impatience and lack of understanding made you snap, "An' you can't handle that. Every time I mess up even the tiniest bit, you get mad at me. What do you expect me to do, huh? I'm only (age)."
Going silent, Bo relaxed upon learning what exactly your insecurity was. You were avoiding him because you were afraid of him getting mad at you for making mistakes. He did this. He put this fear in you, made you this way. And because of that, you were both teetering on the edge of complete life separation.
"(y/n)," Bo reached out and put a hand on your shoulder, "I'm sorry."
Your entire body froze.
"I... never meant to make ya feel this way. I know ya ain't perfect. You're still learnin' an' you've got a long ways to go, but... I wanna be there for you, (y/n). I wanna help you. I wanna watch ya grow, an' I can't do that if ya ain't around... I'm better than I used to be. So if you mess up, I ain't gettin' mad. I'm helping you, because that's what fathers do."
Shot by your dad's moving words, you find yourself staring at him for a long moment before a large smile bloomed across your face. "Right dad," You say, "Let's take a look at her."
With his heart skipping over the moon, Bo grinned and thanked the very stars themselves for this moment, and he lead you to your first shared project since you were a mere, little kid.
Hannibal Lecter
One night Hannibal got bored and lonely and decided to go to Will's house which was where you liked to spend lots of time at. He didn't mind you staying with Will, but some times he himself felt a little bit left out.
When he arrived at Will's house, he quietly made way up the stairs of the porch and temporarily paused just outside of the window. Casually peeking in, Hannibal spotted Will sitting at the dining table reading a newspaper while you stood in front of the stove in the kitchen. Your sleeves were clumsily rolled up and you had a apron on.
The motions of your arms and the state of the kitchen did not lie. You were cooking. You were quite literally cooking food right in front of him. Hannibal couldn't help but to release a small shudder of mixed emotions. It had been years since he last saw you cook- years since he demolished your feelings and forced you away from the passion you both once shared.
To see you cooking now? It made Hannibal erupt with questions and emotions. How long had this been going on? What were you cooking? Why were you cooking? How come he didn't know? Were you happy? Was this why you always spent so much time with Will?
Speaking oh whom, Hannibal watched as you handed out a spoon to which Will stood up to receive. Taking a taste of the spoon, Will made a bright face and reached out for a container of spice. You smiled, laughed and nodded, happily going to add some of the recommended spice to your dish.
Grinning, Hannibal couldn't help but to feel great pride. So, you could handle personal opinions and constructive criticism? What an astounding chef you turned out to be, and you looked so happy too.
Regaining his composure, Hannibal straightened his hair and went to knock on the door.
It took over five minutes for Will to answer.
By that time, things had grown to be rather chaotic. Now only did Will claim that you had gone to bed, but that he also was the one responsible for the late night meal.
Hannibal knew better though.
Whilst you pretended to sleep in the guest bedroom, Will and Hannibal stood in the kitchen gazing around at all your hard work.
"They told me what happened when they were little," Will said, a disappointed look on his face, "How could you say that to them, doc?"
Hannibal stared down at your unfinished dish, his heart clenching in memory of the past. "I spoke out of impulse. I didn't mean to cause them this much insecurity." To think you would go out of your way to lie to him. "How long has this affair been going on?"
"I don't know. Few years?" Will shrugged, "I was cooking macaroni one day, they asked to help and... The ship set sail, I guess."
"You reignited their flame," Hannibal huffed and smiled, "I'm grateful."
"Ever thought about apologizing?" Will asked.
"I have," Hannibal said softly, "However, they refuse to have anything to do with cooking."
"You told them that they were a horrible cook and a waste of time in the kitchen. What did you expect would happen?"
Hannibal bowed his head in shame. He hurt you, more than he had ever imagined. After all these years he believed that you had moved on and found different passions, but instead you clung to cooking and desperately sought hiding it from him because of fear. What kind of father was he to do that to you?
The next morning after the drive home, Hannibal kept you in the car to say, "(y/n). I know it was you who cooked at Wills the other night. I saw."
Having been dreading this exact conversation, you flushed darkly and turned your head away in great shame, sadness and fear. "I'm sorry."
"Please do not apologize," Hannibal cursed at himself for how anxious he made you feel, "I am more grateful than you could ever know."
That stirred a confused reaction from you.
"(y/n), you do not have to accept my apology, but I want you to promise me that you will continue to do what you enjoy, especially if it is cooking." Hannibal looked to you hopefully. "Seeing how happy you were... You have no idea how much joy it brought me. I thought I had destroyed your passion, but..."
Now completely facing your dad, your mouth was agape and your heart pounding furiously with emotions.
"I've always regretted what I said to you that day. It was rude and improper, and most certainly untrue. You are an astounding cook and I'm proud of you. I'm sorry that I hurt you, but, even if you do not wish to forgive me, I hope that you will always continue to do what you love."
Looking at your dad with watery eyes, you blinked and fought for the right words to respond with. All these years you had been terrified of your dad's wrath and disapproval when it came to cooking. He was right, he did hurt you, and the pain was still lingering inside you.
Even though what he said now brought you some form of relief and comfort, you couldn't help but to still feel a little bit of lingering hurt. "I... I need time." You reply quietly.
Hannibal nodded in understanding, "And time you shall have. I will always be here to support you."
-
If I made a part three, it could be about the reader still suffering some anxiety while doing their passion around their dad. And the slasher dads' will be nothing but happy, supportive and proud. You know, just casual comfort and fluff.
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