Since the beginning of October, the weather had been all over the place. One day it was warm and sunny, the trees showering the streets with colorful autumn leaves—and the next, it was raining, overcast, and cold as hell. But that didn’t bother you. Fall was your season. Your closet was practically bursting with layers you loved mixing and matching. In short: autumn was your element.
Crowds of people, on the other hand—especially drunk ones dancing to loud music—were absolutely not. You hated parties. You’d always been the quiet, well-mannered girl, the one people thought was too innocent to even sip a beer. But your best friend—your complete opposite—had been bugging you for weeks to come with her to a Halloween party some rich kid was throwing in his massive suburban house.
Your stomach twisted at the idea, but you didn’t want to let her down. Despite being the extroverted wild child, she still spent her time with you—going on walks, watching movies, even browsing bookstores. You felt like you owed her this.
As for costumes—because of course it was a costume party—Ashley chose a sexy vampire look. According to her, she was going to “hunt zombie dudes after dark.” You were less inventive. After a lot of back and forth, you settled on an angel.
“Girl, you’re gonna have every guy drooling over you,” Ashley had said, practically bouncing with excitement. “Everyone at school already thinks you’re all pure and sweet, so the long hair, halo, and wings? Fucking perfect”
You’d grimaced at her word choice, as usual. She always teased you about not being able to curse, but the truth was—you never felt the need to. Being called “the virgin saint” or whatever never got under your skin. You weren’t going to change yourself just because drinking and being loud was trendy. Ashley made fun of you, sure, but she accepted you. That’s probably why your friendship had lasted so long.
So, you bought a pair of wings and added more fluff and glitter. You designed the halo yourself using wire and glue. The dress—a white one with a corset top you ordered online—arrived just in time and pulled the whole look together. The only thing you couldn’t swap out were your beat-up sneakers, the same ones you’d been wearing since you were eleven. Ashley had suggested heels, but you weren’t about to pretend to be someone you weren’t.
You looked heavenly. Literally. Like an angel who came down to Earth for the party. Even your grandma, sitting downstairs in the living room, couldn’t stop gushing. She kept adjusting your long hair and snapping photos in the hallway before you left. “Something to remember in a few years,” she said with a warm smile. “And be careful, girls.”
—-
It was already dark when you got there. The house was massive, decked out with cobwebs, skeletons, glowing pumpkins on the porch and lawn, and even giant inflatable ghosts. People were everywhere. And the place already felt packed—at 7 p.m.
“What are you doing just standing there? Come on, don’t chicken out now!” Ashley grabbed your hand and dragged you toward the door. The bass was so heavy you could feel it through the porch steps. How can anyone listen to music that loud? you wondered. But there was no turning back now. You mentally braced yourself. Your main job tonight? Keep an eye on Ashley—and how much she drank. You didn’t want her passing out or worse.
Inside, the music was so loud you could barely think—let alone hear Ashley. She finally let go of your hand.
“Stand by the fireplace! I’ll grab us drinks!” she shouted into your ear. You nodded and tried to make your way through the swarm of dancing teenagers.
She returned quickly with two beers. Her heavy makeup looked even more intense under the color-changing LEDs. You smiled, then took the bottle.
“Girl, get into it! You’ve been so down lately,” she shouted, moving her hips to the music. “You look hot, you’re gorgeous! Time to stop acting like a nun and have some fun! Woo!”
You laughed, raised your bottle for a toast. After the first sip, you coughed—hard—but you remembered her words. You pushed through. Maybe she was right. Maybe you did need to let go a bit. You were eighteen, after all. Maybe you’d meet a guy tonight. Maybe you’d even get your first kiss.
You managed to finish most of the beer Ashley gave you. Then she dragged you to the kitchen to make herself a cocktail.
“What do you want?” she asked, grabbing a clean plastic cup. “Whiskey? Rum? Vodka?”
You hesitated. You’d never really drank before. The warm beer was already more than enough.
“I don’t know…” you said awkwardly. Ashley rolled her eyes.
“Don’t be a buzzkill! We have to celebrate how freakin’ hot you look tonight!”
You laughed nervously.
“Just… give me a beer. Same kind you brought earlier.”
Ashley grinned wide.
“Yes! That’s my badass little angel!”
About an hour and a half passed. Ashley had disappeared, promising she’d be right back—but that had been twenty minutes ago. You were back by the fireplace, the same place where you first waited for her. Your head spun a little. You tried to get into the music, hoping she’d show up soon.
That’s when you noticed him.
A tall clown, standing across the room. And if it weren’t for Ashley forcing you to watch horror movies, you wouldn’t have recognized the outfit—but you did. He was dressed like Art the Clown from Terrifier. White face, rotting yellow teeth, cracked black makeup around his eyes. Chills ran down your spine.
Before you could blink, he was standing in front of you. His eyes—shadowed and intense—seemed nervous. Or maybe it was the cracked face paint making him look that way. His costume was insanely detailed. Even had fake blood on it.
“Hi…” you said, since he hadn’t spoken. “Everything okay? Looking for someone?”
Small talk wasn’t your strong suit. Maybe that’s why you stuck so close to Ashley all these years. You hadn’t expected anyone to talk to you—especially not now that Ashley had ditched you.
The clown’s cracked black lips started moving, but the music was too loud.
“W-What…?”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you!” you yelled over the bass, smiling awkwardly. He looked even more flustered.
“Cat got your tongue, freak?” Ashley’s voice cut through the chaos, and you jumped. She grabbed your arm. You gave her a look.
“Ashley…”
“What?” she snapped. “What’s he even supposed to be? That gross clown from that slasher movie? Ugh, disgusting.” She shoved him. “Get lost, creep.”
That wasn’t okay. It just wasn’t in your nature to stand by and let someone get humiliated.
“Ash, stop! That’s not fair!” you yelled over the music. “He didn’t do anything!”
Ashley turned on you, clearly shocked that you were calling her out.
“Are you serious right now? You’re defending some freak who can’t even talk straight?” Her eyes narrowed, and you instantly regretted speaking up. She was drunk, and reason had left the building.
“You know what? Screw this. I’m done babysitting. Stay with your freaky clown if you want—but if he touches you, don’t come crying to me.” She spun on her heel and stormed off into the crowd.
You sighed, wiping your forehead. Humiliation burned your cheeks. The worst part? You could feel the clown’s eyes still on you.
“I’m so sorry about her. She’s just… wasted. Didn’t mean any of that,” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.
He flinched.
You pulled back instantly, feeling your face turn even hotter. God, could this night get any worse?
“Uh… your costume’s really good, by the way. Like, creepy good. You don’t seem like a creep at all. Just… really committed to the look, I guess.” You laughed, but it came out awkward.
“I’m gonna go find her. Heh. Enjoy your night, murder clown.” You gave him a quick wink and slipped away in the direction Ashley had vanished.
—-
Some people could barely stand. Others were dancing like it was their last night on Earth. You? You were pacing the massive house, searching for your best friend—and finding nothing.
You did three full laps before it hit you. Ashley was impulsive, wild. You were always the one keeping her grounded. But drunk? Surrounded by guys? It was totally possible she was hooking up with some random dude in a bathroom upstairs.
The thought made your skin crawl.
You ran up the stairs. At the end of the hall—where there were a couple of bathrooms and bedrooms—you heard various noises. Like it or not, you knew you had to check them one by one. Something told you to try the bathroom first. You knocked twice, then turned the handle.
Your brain didn’t register the first few seconds.
You’d expected anything. Teens making out. Maybe even having sex. Honestly, you were hoping to find her puking in a bathtub.
God, you wished it was puking.
Instead, what you saw looked ripped from a horror movie. The music became distant, like someone hit pause on the whole world.
The same clown—yes, that clown—was in the bathtub, holding your thrashing best friend. Or that’s what you thought, at first. But no. He wasn’t holding her. He was choking her. A cord tight around her neck. Her face was turning colors. Her eyes bulging. The life draining out of her.
You froze.
Paralyzed with fear.
Your body wouldn’t move. Your throat wouldn’t work. It was like you were one of those sugar sculptures you used to make with your grandma during the holidays.
And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse?
The clown looked up.
His eyes locked on yours.
No panic. Maybe surprise—just a flicker. Like he couldn’t believe you were the one who found him. Or maybe that was your drunk brain trying to rationalize something totally irrational.
And somehow, those eyes snapped you out of it.
You ran.
You shoved through the crowd—none of them realizing the horror upstairs. Adrenaline kept your legs moving, instinct screaming run.
You made it out. The night air hit your face. Cold. Real. You sprinted straight into the woods behind the house—woods you knew like the back of your hand.
You hoped the darkness would hide you. That you’d make it home. That this was just some twisted Halloween prank. That he wouldn’t actually follow you.
But the sound of snapping branches behind you told you otherwise.
Tears blurred your vision. Branches whipped at your face. But what stopped you wasn’t the forest—it was a damn root sticking out of the wet ground.
You fell—hard. Pain exploded through your nose and ankle. You groaned. Dazed. For a second you forgot why you were even running.
Until you rolled onto your back.
And saw him.
The clown.
He caught up with you and was now standing right in front of you. No weapon. Just standing there. His image spun like the treetops above.
He crouched down beside you and brushed the leaves off your cheek.
"You didn't have to run, angel," he whispered. Too softly. "Let me check your ankle."
This had to be a joke. A prank. Ashley was hiding with a camera somewhere. But the forest was dead quiet. The only sound was your ragged breathing.
"Shit...that doesn't look good." His fingers gently touched your ankle. The pain made you cry out. More tears spilled down your cheeks, and you felt your heart breaking as they did.
"I need to bandage this. I’m going to lift you up, okay? Don’t scream. I won't hurt you."
You had no strength left to fight back. Your head throbbed. Your mouth tasted like blood. Your nose had to be bleeding. And that ankle...
Before you knew it, his strong arms lifted you as if you weighed nothing. Your head rested against his chest. He walked slowly and calmly, like a hunter satisfied with his catch.
No one took notice when the dark woods engulfed you both entirely.
part 1
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My idea of the perfect man has always been an unstable, psycho type. I guess a yandere-type man would somewhat fit into this, but I really mean a full-on psycho. For example, all the guys in The Lads are somewhat unstable. Their obsessive need to keep tabs on you? I mean, you can care about someone and want to know if they’re safe—but the lengths they go to? They could just call you, ask you, you know…
Still, it’s kind of hot.
And then there’s Rafayel. A true artist with an ego to match. I’ve always thought BPD would suit him well. He’s always putting on an act—either playing dumb or being overly dramatic to show how much you leaving for work hurts his soul or whatever… But what if he actually had borderline personality disorder? He has extreme highs and devastating lows, where he can’t even get out of bed or ends up sleeping in front of his paintings, which grow darker with each passing week.
Why? Because your work trip triggered him.
You’re like a gun in an insane man’s hands. It’s actually scary. Because when you come back? You almost wish you hadn’t.
The moment you step into his studio, something snaps in his head. He becomes the happiest merman in the whole wide world. He kisses you, hugs you so tightly you can barely breathe, and there are tears in his eyes. This man loves you so much that he has to bleed out all these overwhelming emotions. And when he does, he locks all the windows and doors so you physically can’t leave.
And he’s not joking.
You left him here to “die,” so now he has to make sure his lovely bride stays by his side - by any means necessary.
You don’t need to work, cutie. You have your Rafayel. If you ever wanted to, you’d never have to work again. I’ll take good care of you-just like right now.
He’s on top of you, kissing your neck desperately, whispering sweet promises about being together forever as he moves lower. Your body reacts before you even realize it. Rafayel’s emotions are so intense, so overwhelming, that they leave no room for your own thoughts or feelings.
But you do feel trapped.
You just can’t bring yourself to break up with him. You’re always afraid he’d kill himself from the pain you’d cause. He makes sure you know exactly how it could happen—him in the bathtub, a small sharp knife he uses for his paintings in hand, slowly cutting into his skin, writing your name on the wall just so he can see you one last time.
But you’re not going anywhere.
I’m gonna fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk. You’d want that, cutie, don’t you? Want me to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to sit on your ass for a week straight, huh? Say please, baby, cmon, let your man wreck that tiny little cunt.
But you don’t really have any choice. You’re aware of that, that’s why you let Rafayel strech your legs wide open, that’s why his fat cock goes perfectly into your tight hole; so you just gasp. A weak moan leaves your mouth.
You close your eyes, gripping his biceps for some illusion of comfort.
“That’s right, my love.” Rafayel whispers into your ear, as he starts to pick up the pace. “Let me take care of you. I love you so so much, cutie.”
something magical happened. I got Caleb in eight pulls. normally I'm in hard pity every time. it's like a karmic compliment for my hard work I put these past weeks.
