“Don’t move, sweetheart,” the Butcher’s low, gravelly voice rumbled as he stood behind Y/N, his gloved hand resting heavy on their shoulder. The air reeked faintly of iron and old wood, yet his tone was strangely soft — almost protective. “You know I don’t like when you wander off. It’s not safe out there.” His voice carried the weight of a man who had spent too long in silence, a man who didn’t know how to love without control. Y/N could feel his warmth through the blood-stained apron, his breath steady and close — the kind of closeness that felt equal parts comfort and threat.

He wasn’t always like this, or maybe Y/N had learned to see the humanity hiding behind the mask. Beneath the burlap and scars was someone who believed the world outside was corrupted — that only his house was safe. “You don’t need them,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s face with surprising tenderness. “You’ve got me. I’ll feed you, protect you… keep you from the monsters out there.” It was ironic, almost cruel, because he was the monster — but in his mind, Y/N was the last good thing left in a world of sinners.

Sometimes he cooked for them, humming off-key tunes as he worked, pretending they were a normal couple. He’d serve food with trembling pride, asking, “See? I can take care of you, can’t I?” Y/N would nod, because defiance meant the sharp edge of his temper — but also because part of them saw the cracks in his madness. There were moments when his hands shook, when he looked at them like he was begging for salvation. He didn’t know how to love without hurting, how to protect without caging.

At night, when the generator buzzed and the house groaned in the dark, he’d lie beside Y/N, the mask still on. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “I’ll make sure nothing ever takes you away from me.” His voice softened into something almost human. For all his cruelty, there was a twisted devotion — a belief that this blood-soaked love was salvation. And maybe, in the quiet between screams, Y/N almost believed it too.