Synopsis: A camping trip gone wrong leaves your boyfriend splattered across a masked, dumb serial killer.
Warnings: Blood, gore, murder, stalking, serial killer
Masked! Serial Killer X Gender Neutral! Reader
The cabin had a rustic charm to it. Wooden bunk beds, old photos from whatever teen scout club used to use it for their home base, names scratched into the bottom bunk drawers.
The slight vintage dust and scent of pine needles had lost their personality after tonight, though.
They had been tainted with fresh blood, no longer than forty-five minutes old. Bodies laid in their respective bunks, heads and stomachs blown with large, irreparable wounds in them. Only one had managed to attempt an escape, his body half lying off the top bunk bed, blood dripping from his intact head. His back, not so much.
You prayed for your boyfriend, for his stupid, sweet-intentioned self to have booked it for help once he heard the screaming. He had gone outside to take a leak, intending on grabbing your bag of forgotten toiletries from the car trunk on the way.
It had been dark, and you, whining about mosquitoes and your bare feet, begged him to grab it for your shower.
The screaming left you hidden in the bathroom, peering from out a crack as the sight of your friends were brutally chopped down with an axe, a few choking on their own blood as a hunting knife swung for their necks.
The mask peered down at you as he did it, with what you for sure took as eye contact as he finished his work without a sound. The strapped face covering was expressionless, releasing only large heaves from the mouth hole as he swung down the axe in violent slashes. Despite the work it took, his bulging body showed he was no stranger to hauling the axe up and down, shoulders wider than the door frame and rock-stone biceps rolling down beads of dirty sweat and blood.
None of you stood a chance, even if they had been given the chance to awaken as he did it.
He cupped his ear dramatically as the last of your friends’ choking died into nothingness. The room was as still as it had been before he came in, only this time with the rancid smell of death and barbarity. Swiping at the forehead of the mask-- a dull-white, tarnished thing with two eye-holes and a crudely cut line for a mouth-- he readjusted it. Blood had smeared on the side, little devil horns on the mask protruding and slick with flecks of red.
Something about his demeanor looked untouched, unbothered by the recklessness and gore you were sobbing from. His chest rose and fell as he came down from the intense workout, brushing off his loose overalls.
You were surprised to hear the young, animated voice muffled from beneath the old mask.
“Just stay riiight there. Alright?”
His voice was tinted with playfulness, keeping his hand in a ‘stay’ position as if you were a dog. He stepped outside of the loose cabin door, hearing it slam shut as his bulky, barreling footsteps fell away.
He’d see you if you ran out, there’s no way you’d manage to outrun him. There were no adequate windows to climb out of, no back doors or attic latch. You were stuck in here, waiting for this man who must’ve crawled from out of the woods to kill you.
Shutting the bathroom door behind you, you tried to calm yourself, to stop from vomiting at the sight of the scrambled meat laid on each bed. Getting beneath one of the beds near the front door you ease yourself beneath it, squishing against the wooden frame.
It was harder to breathe under here, harder to hyperventilate. It made your chest hurt, feeling suffocated as the sound of something dropping hit the ground outside.
It took you a moment to realize it, wondering if this sick fuck was tampering with your car. But your thoughts were brought back to your boyfriend, how he wouldn’t have known a damn thing from outside. You clamber to try and get out from under the bed to save him, but a kick to the cabin door leaves you frozen.
“Wheeew!” A loud sigh comes. Heavy boots knock on the wood plank floors, a squelching following as another item thumps past the door frame. It slumps forward, unbalanced as the masked killer lets go.
The sound of dripping accompanies him as he leaves the cabin door wide open, unsuspecting fireflies hovering from outside.
“Didn’t think he’d be such a runner, aye?” The man talks to the empty air, but you know who his words are meant for. “I mean, he really tried to leave you here, thinking he’d stop me by jumping in your car.”
His heavy steps barrel towards the middle of the room, axe heavy in his palm as it’s gripped between his gloved fingers.
“Good thing I plan ahead.”
Your boyfriend’s truck keys are thrown to the middle of the room, sliding into a pool of blood right past your place under the bunk bed. They were so close, so unbelievably close-- but you couldn’t give away your spot. Not when he was sniffing you out like a dog, teasing each slow step with dramatic turns of his head.
Every single action egged you on to escape: leaving the door open, throwing the keys in your view, his body unguarded as his weapon hung low.
But it was all a ploy, one you were alert enough to see through.
Through the dark you couldn’t make out the heavy thing he had left beside the shadowed doorframe, your heart racing as you wondered where your boyfriend was, what this man did to him.
But by the intense, raw and wet look of the masked man, you knew it couldn’t be good. Head to toe he was splattered, as if he just danced in a thunderstorm of blood. Droplets fell down his exposed shoulders, covering the white wife beater he wore beneath loose overalls.
The white was nearly drenched in red, clawing down his chest in bright, uneven streaks. With every step his leaded boots took, a dirty one was left in his wake.
“Unlike him, I don’t plan on hurting you,” He laughs a little, swinging the axe as he struts. “Not unless you beg for it.”
You catch sight of one of your friend’s tennis shoes left beside the bed, a plan forming in your mind. It was stupid and risky, but what other choice did you have? Wait until he found you and left you in the same fate?
Grabbing the shoe, you launched it toward the open door, watching as it nearly collided with the black heap beside the wall. The sound thumped with an echo, the masked killer turning swiftly at the sound.
Springing out from under the bed you lurch your arm forward to grab the car keys, ignoring the foul replacement of woody must to sharp blood.
You manage to grab the keys, but not before slipping in the slick puddle, red coating your bare legs and up the side of your body. Your fingertips are drenched in it as they shake to pick up the keys, scrambling to move.
“You’re too slow.”
The axe slams into the wood beside your face, blasting into the floor. It splinters the planks, rushing air towards you as the scent of salted sweat fills your nostrils.
Cold blood seeps through the back of your shirt as you fall back, terror rendering your voice hoarse and breathless.
He’s absolutely covered in blood that’s not his own, more so than you realized. It was seeping through your own clothes as he hovered from above, the smell of grass and oil and metal clinging to him.
You do all you can think of, watching as his knees come down to trap your legs beneath his. Throwing the keys as hard as you can, you aim for his head, hitting right above the mask. It collides with the dark, wet tuft of curls on his head seen behind the mask.
It lands with a thunk, almost a hollow sound resounding after the heavy keys make contact.
The masked man goes frozen, axe in hand as your palms slip in the puddle.
He’s slow to react, sitting on your knees as you struggle to pull away. With the grace of a stunned deer, he reaches up to his head in pain.
“ow…”.
The distraction doesn’t keep him stalled for long, looking back up to see your terrified glare. The killer swiftly moves to grab your ankles as you slither from beneath, attempting to crawl away.
“Oh no you don’t! Not after that little stunt--”
You scream at the sudden feeling of warm, wet fingers gripping at you, pulling you under him.
“Scream all you want! But no one’s going to save you. Least of all him.”
You think to cry out for help, to beg him to stop, anything-- but the sight of the killer’s thumb jabbing backwards catches you off guard. You follow where he points, seeing the mass heap in the moonlight. Lines of light shine upon it, displaying what you couldn’t see from beneath the bed.
It’s the headless body of your boyfriend, entrails dragged behind him, strung out of the cabin door. He’s unrecognizable, only the broken watch and flannel shirt he wore left you to understand that it was him. Was.
“What a quick errand! I thought this would take all night. I’m a little disappointed, really.” The killer muffles from behind his mask. Its open eyesockets stare through the darkness, pitch black orbs in a continuous state of wide-eyed amazement at the sight of you. “Though I can’t be one to complain-- I got my prize, afterall.”
He strokes down the tight lines of your neck, taking in the splattered dots of blood, the little necklace that had scratched your skin all night.
The axe lies heavy beside your head, threatening to chop at your soft neck if you dare make one wrong move.
“In the end, I think this was perfect for us. A meet-cute, you could say.”
filthy rich spoiled reader who gets himself taught a lesson by alessio in his room while also being scared about getting caught by anyone at the estate. (alessio does NOT give a fuck)
if its too specific you can ignore this ask <3
˖⁺. “ fuck yourself, rich boy ! ” :
﹙ top outlaw male x bttm richboy male ﹚.𖹭 ݁
. . . verse 9819 alessio x male reader !! 🍓 : ﹙ outlaw ˖ serial killer ˖ illusionist character ﹚
you grew up in the comfort parts of society. high class in comparison to the rest. but what happens when you start finding yourself messing with the leader of a rebel group? well, your bratty nature lands you in a bit of a predicament. bent over in your bedroom while the outlaw himself rails you dumb.
﹙ cws ﹚: explicit content ˖ risky sex ˖ rough sex ˖ penetrative sex ˖ degradation ˖ handjob ˖ prone bone ˖ marathon sex ˖ brat taming ˖ multiple orgasms ˖ cum-eating | wc : 1.8k
﹙ receipts ﹚: the way I gasped when I saw this request GID I had so much fun writing it !
“Talk to me, tesoro. Thought that’s all you’re good for?”
Your tie mocks the strain of your wrists, wrapped tight in a bound to your arching spine. The painful curve induced by an even tighter hand locked in your hair. Tugging every time you hang your head to let your tears of overwhelm hit the floor.
You’ll be clad in long sleeves and turtlenecks for the rest of the week with the bruises, hickies and plethora of bites all over your skin. None of that compared to the constant, hammering feel of his hips. Snapping into the backs of your thighs. Once, twice, thrice.
What is air? A luxury at this point. None of your riches could compare. Not when his swollen tip slams into that devastating bundle of nerves. Your lower lip falls from your teeth. Much like your erect dick bouncing aimlessly with every jerk of a thrust.
“Oh, but - I suppose I’m wrong, right?” Damn that deep croon to your ear. And the tickle of his dark curls on your cheekbone while you’re at it. But how could any of him crawl to the pits with the heaven that he sends you to?
Bent over in your own room. Feet between his shoes. Held like you weigh a feather as he chases bruises on your soft thighs. The claps of wet skin bounce off the walls. Merged with moans. Whines. Strangled gasps.
“You’re also good at taking cock.”
Punctuated with a harsh spank to your ass. Emerald eyes catch the ripple across your skin. He mimics it further by slamming all the way. Grinding. Humping. Any shallow slam to rub on your weak spot and huff struggled breathe from drooling lips.
But that’s not all from the wave of heated breath. A quivered: “Sh-Shut - shut uuppp -” carries in your pants. Tongue once confidently in spits of insult and disrespect now slobbers saliva all over your pristine floor. “Y-You’re a nuisance. An eyesore - a - f-fuchk-!”
Your dick twitches in the large hand squeezed around the base. His fingers are just as skilled as his hips. Cruel pumps and jerks that squirt your cum to the floor with a strangled noise bobbed from your Adam’s apple. All Alessio can do is flash a grin you catch a glimpse of in the mirror at your side. Before both palms snatch your waist and shove you back on his cock that he tames great pleasure in fucking into you faster. Harder. So that the slapping of skin rings through your ears like a sinful, broken record.
“P-Please - please o-oh god - fuckfuckfuck -”
What more can you do but arch? The lift of your spine shoves your ass into his pelvis. He takes it as an invitation to hold you firm against it since you clearly offered. Slam up into you until his balls greet your supple flesh with taps and smacks.
“P-People. . . ‘re gonna hear. Y-You jer- ah!” Another squeeze round your dick for your big mouth. Have you learnt nothing? Not that this is much of a learning experience if you can barely think.
The only thought running through your mind is the stretch of his big cock. The kiss of his veins on all your sweet spots. Their thrum. Your nerves on clear overdrive when he digs a calloused thumb into your tip and strokes until you’re teary.
You’ll squirt his palm all over again if he continues. No that he cares with the rough bucks that he fucks against your quivering hips. The deep chuckle from his throat would have have itched your palms to smack him. Alas, all you could do was wish to cling at his shoulders. Scrape down his back as he pounded you so full.
The creaking of floorboards constantly snapped your fucked-out mind from the depths of overstimulation. Were servants stepping closer. Or worse - your family?
You’d have no time to care when Alessio would withdraw to the tip then slam forward and hit your sweetspot dead on. Brimming tears to your eyes and a groan from the depths of his throat. Those emerald hues flicker to the ring of cream round his cock and he grins through sweat-drenched tresses. “What, they’ll hear? Hear you gettin’ pounded by an outlaw?”
He snaps his hips forward at that. With a power that jerks your poor body. The gasp fleeing your lips melts into a whimper when his fingers choose cruelty to your hair again. Twisting you to face the mirror as his free hand drops to your hip. A smack. A squeeze. Before he’s fucking you back into him like a ragdoll. Shoes planted firmly to the floor as he effortlessly uses your body like a sleeve.
“See what a whore you are? Cummin’ all over your fuckin’ floor and messing up this ‘expensive fabric’?”
His teeth tear into the collar of your shirt. If it weren’t for your tongue hanging out you’d cuss at him. Alas you are too preoccupied with being his little cumdump as he pumps you full once more.
You’d think he’d slow down after his second time spraying your gummy walls white. If anything it rejuvenates his punishing thrusts and turns your thighs to putty as he hammers at a sinful rhythm. Squeezing cum from the both of you and running it down your wobbly legs.
Alessio’s laugh is almost as callous as his hand that snaps around your jaw. “Look at yourself baby. First time taking cock like this? Yeah? Spoilt lil’ rich boy doesn’t know shit ‘bout the real world.”
Softness encases your front. The first in several minutes of being his tight toy. It fades with his heavy weight crushing you into the mattress after the outlaw shoved you into your sheets. Knees knocking yours apart to make way for the barrage of his mercilessly thrusts.
“A-Ah - ah-ah-ah!” Your eyes cross at the centre. He shoves your head to the linen. Another spank. Another grab at your poor, jiggling ass. He spreads you open for his imagination to picture it. Picture his veiny cock splitting you into two. Your tight rim struggling and crying around every inch. Not to mention his cum fucking out of you with every rabid hump.
“Tha’s it, yeah pretty boy. Yeah take it. Fucking whore.” His grunts drip with mockery that pours to your neck with his rough kisses. Your dick grinds and rubs into the linen. Great. Another mess to worry about later. When you come down from the high. Stuffed full of his cum and unable to stop the tremble of your thighs. “Imagine it. ‘magine them coming in - hah - seeing this - seeing you -”
The only thing to stop Alessio’s malicious laugh is the clench of your walls. He smacks your ass again in reprimand. A grunt soon follows. “Now that your ass ‘s nice ‘n full. . . apologise.” Another slam to your sweetspot.
And still, despite your eyes rolling back. Ass getting pounded for all your worth. Who knows how many concerned servants covering their ears through the halls — you wheeze.
“F-Fuck - angh - f-fuck you - fuck you, a-and - and every - god - ‘m n-not sorry-”
Your dick gets a break from the rough rubs of linen when the warm of his fingers encase it after a hand squeezes past your front flushed to the mattress. His thumb goes back to what it does best. Swirling around your tip. Squeezing the slit.
But this time he samples your sticky slick. Savors the feel of it between his fingers. Before he’s shoving your sweetness into your mouth. The pads of his index and middle press on your tongue, just as he’s pressing into the spot that makes you gurgle a sob.
“You taste that, you fuckin’ brat?” The hiss to your ear follows a thrust of his fingers. He hits the back of your throat with no care for how much you slobber all over his hand. “That’s you. Cumming like a fucking whore for me. Now lest you don’t wanna be dumped off in your foyer all creamed up and shaky. Apologise.”
The harsh ram of his cock at an angle tells you he’s not above humiliating you. After all, what’s it to him if a spoilt rich boy gets humiliated by his servants?
You’re the one constantly seeking him out. You’re the one who engages the flirts and mockeries flung across the bar of the Contraire. You’re the one who sneaks out every other day to suck off a serial killer when your parents aren’t looking.
Once he’s done finger-fucking your mouth, he withdraws with a trail of drool attached to his nail beds. Long digits grip your jaw and force your head up. So that he can hear your pretty, pitiful gasps as he shallowly pounds you sore.
“I-I - ‘m - s-sorry -”
“What was that?”
A squeeze to your throat. You gurgle on your spit and limp your head in his hold. Submit to the endless ramming of his hips into yours. Your tummy twisting and insides flaring as you cum a fourth - fifth - sixth time. “I’m - iii’mm so- s’rry - sorry-! Alessio-!”
He’s creaming you again. Stuffing you full and squirting some out to your rippling thighs and bedsheets. If only to chase after another release with the way he starts ploughing you into the sheets. His chuckle hoarse and rough like his teeth clamping on your ear.
“There we go. Finally acting like a good - mnn - fucking slut. Proud of you baby.”
Get ready to be flipped and pounded into the mattress with strong arms hooking your knees. Folding you in half. Making you his pretty boy toy to take his cock. A rich boy so full of cum from an outlaw. A man you should disgust.
One you can’t stop squeezing round the cock of.
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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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Summary: You recall the events from last week and come to realize that Ronin will use you to prove his ego once more to Angel.
Tags: Mention of violence, blood and gore, ronin is slightly flirting with reader?, manipulation
Author Note: I honestly don't know how to tag this.
Words: Somewhere above 1k
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
Roughly a week has passed since that night and your memories barely let you live it down, instead it let images flash into your mind. Some were frightfully detailed and some remain blurry, as if it still had some mercy on your psyche.
The molester never stood a chance against the butcher, Ronin. That was the name he had told you, calm as if this wasn’t a crime scene but a platonic coffee date between two strangers. Back then you were simply too shaken to understand why he would tell you anything about himself. But answers came as fast once the shock wore off, and none of them were good. It was more than clear that Ronin hadn’t saved you out of mercy or because he liked you. He had saved you because you fit into whatever game he and his little circle, that you had joined by now, had been playing. Because, he had already decided you were going to be part of it whether you agreed or not. It was ironic, all you wanted was a bag of chips and you ended up with the blood of someone else on your body and a threat hanging high above your head.
“Sorry for overwhelming you… God, I really messed this one up again, huh? Forget it…”
Angel’s messages were half-deleted by the time you blinked back into the present. It was a bit embarrassing to admit that you got distracted by your own mind while still talking to someone else, especially someone as sweet as Angel. She was one of the women in the chatroom server that Ronin had pulled you into. A friendly name at first, maybe a joke or two. Then the truth under it: A server with channels dedicated to the one thing they all shared an interest in. Murder. The kind of server that was a found treasure for any journalist that dreamed of uncovering a big story. And yet it was you who had been dragged into the center of it. You couldn’t lie, they seemed like normal people aside from the passionate chats filled with blood and gore, but you already knew that this couldn’t be all about them. After all, you were talking to people that had no issue with ending the life of someone else.
Angel her messages started to disappear one by one as she deleted most of them, erasing her worries and care from the screen but the few words that you were able to read told you enough context that she really tried her best to make you comfortable around everyone, especially her. “It is alright, Angel. I’m alright, just a bit lost in my own thoughts.” She reacted with a white heart, showing another part of her empathy. “Ronin told me.” She replied. “Honestly it is all my fault in the first place, it was a stupid joke that turned into more.” You knew what she was talking about, Ronin did fill you in on that day.
He had killed the molester in front of you, barely taking any fight to end his life in a single moment. His voice was free of any concern, and filled with a cheerful amusing tone instead. “Hold this for a sec, darlin. The other losers have to fucking see this.” You hadn’t understood at all, not until that moment when he pressed the knife into your hand. Warm metal stained with blood. Your stomach had dropped and your fingers shaken so badly that the blade almost slipped. You could hear Ronin laugh. He laughed as he held up his phone, taking one picture after another. “What an idiot.” It took you so long to realize that he wasn’t insulting the corpse, for his sorry try to end Ronin. No, Ronin insulted you, for not realizing your own mistake. You had realized too late. He had planned all this, all of it. The fingerprints. The blood. The two weapons. Every detail he needed to tie you to the body if you even thought about running to the police.
Now, a week later, you still felt the weight of the blade in your hands and the blood on your skin, every time you closed your eyes. You secretly cursed, whenever your phone lit up with another message from that server, not because you hated these people, but because it was Ronin’s personal realm that he praised as hell, your hell.
“I suggested it as a joke but apparently he took it as a challenge. He isn’t usually THAT competitive…” “He was supposed to just let it slide.” “Saying something like ‘hell nah, too much work’.” Angel kept writing, not leaving a moment for you to reply. She must feel very guilty by now. “But well, I’m sure you will manage. After all, it is not your first time. Things like this are much easier, when you have done them once already.” Wait. What was she talking about? “Ronin can be lucky that he chose someone that already is familiar with how to take a life, even if it wasn’t really planned.” Now it hit the nail on its head.
Your whole persona was a huge mystery on the server. Ronin didn’t really elaborate why he did invite you, not to you and not to the other members since most of them were very eager to get some answers out of you. Angel was the first one to show kindness, giving you a rough server tour on the day you joined and it was the first big step to realizing what hellish rabbit hole you did fall. The only thing that Ronin contributed, especially behind your back, was the knowledge that you were one of them, even if not professionally. You did take a life in their eyes, and the others wouldn’t know that this was a total lie. Ronin took it and merely framed you.
You found yourself stuck in an awful situation, a pawn in a game that two killers had arranged between themselves, even if it began as nothing but a careless joke filled with irony and doubt. Angel, who had known Ronin long enough to recognize the warning signs, should have known better. She knew how quickly his pride could flare and that a single challenge was only there to serve his ego. Yet, she still accidentally provoked him, still nudged him towards a bet that was meant as humor. She teased him about being unable to pull an innocent person, such as yourself, into their world, just to please him. To obey him. She expected him to scoff playfully, maybe give a snarky remark, then forget it by next morning like he did with so many silly things she had said in the past, but now he treated it like a personal mission. He was ready to drag a stranger down to hell for fun just to prove Angel a point. And the stranger had been you.
You honestly started to doubt that Ronin had found you in that alley by coincidence and saved you out of the goodness in his heart, no. He didn’t plan to kill you either, he simply just manipulated you to play a role in a scriptless drama, getting your DNA all over the place and hiding his own traces. He made sure your fingerprints were on the weapon. He snapped pictures that twisted the scene into something it wasn’t. He planted the story before you could even catch your breath. By the time the others on the server heard your name, you weren’t a victim anymore. You were a killer in their eyes. Someone who had crossed the line once and could be pushed to do it again.
Angel never meant for this. Her guilt slipped through every message she sent, a frantic attempt to explain the bet you had been drafted into without your knowledge. She had encouraged him to “pick someone,” never imagining he actually would. But Ronin wasn’t the type to let a challenge slide. Not when it touched his ego. Not when it meant proving he could bend fate to his will. And as much as you hated the thought of hurting anyone, hated being tied to a crime you never committed, another truth hung over you just as heavily.
You were more afraid of dying. Ronin knew that. Angel knew that. And the server knew only the story they had been fed.
Your thoughts and Angel got interrupted by another private message popping up, this time from the devil himself.
“Wha’tcha doin, darlin? Spilling confessions to a certain angel? If ya got anything on your chained lil soul, just spill it to me instead. Or are you perhaps scared?” You didn’t need to hear him to know that he was laughing to himself right now, enjoying teasing you. “Bet you already put everything together. Then you know what to do, make me proud, my lil saint. Can’t wait to embrace you in hell.” Your face twitched into a frown but you replied back.
YOU: You wish. I don’t know why you do all the effort but I certainly believe in karma.
Goreboy: Hell, you’re one of THOSE huh? Keep believing, my lil gravedigger. I convince you soon enough that karma doesn’t reach the devil. Fuck hell, but you are welcome to try and take me down yourself.
You: Ronin…
Goreboy: Maybe you will earn a reward if you obey. C’mon, don’t you like to play along? What’s the worst thing that can happen? Scared of getting murdered?
You didn’t have the nerves to deal with it, so you turned yourself invisible.
Goreboy: Smart lil fella, gotta leave it to you, you know how to amuse me. You get a pass for today, consider yourself blessed.
Synopsis - "Pony Express Correctional Centre", the most infamous supermax prison, and who better to hold than the infamous serial killer himself, Jimmy Zare. But what happens when a curious, young woman sends Jimmy a letter? And what happens when he gains an obsession?
And what does she do when he breaks out of Pony Express?
Warnings - POS Jimmy, serial killer, delusional Jimmy, age gap, 40yo Jimmy & 20yo Reader, DDDNE
Themes - Serial Killer x Innocent, Enemies to Lovers, Yandere Jimmy, Criminal x Reader, Yandere x Reader
I've been obsessing over Hush </3
More Content Here!
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Pony Express Correctional Centre.
A high-security, supermax prison, surrounded by 70km of lush, green forests, intended to be as far away from humanity as humanely possible. It was a place only the worst people went, a place where men were sent for a lifetime, never knowing freedom from the day they stepped in to their last breath in the cell.
And Jimmy Zare was one of those men.
He didn't deserve to be there; he didn't think so, at least. The jury that condemned him just didn't know the full story. He was the victim, after all! What they accused him of was totally ridiculous.
What was he in for?
...
The murder of his four crewmates.
But he had to do it! They were going to kill him; it was self-defence! But the bodies didn't match that description, and after the cameras, journals and analyses came back, his life was, without a doubt, over.
From then on, his days blurred into grey, cold muck. He didn't even bother to count the years, didn't bother to socialise with the other inmates unless it was with his fists and subsequently, the guards who couldn't care less about human rights. He didn't even count the number of times he tried to commit suicide, giving up because, frankly, it was fucking impossible. He couldn't even have the cardboard toilet paper roll in his cell, let alone anything he could actually kill himself with.
Jimmy was on the verge of insanity, his brain slowly turned to mush as he lost any sense of purpose, of life, of anything to keep him going. And then it came. A letter.
Jimmy had never received a letter before, not from his shitty family, nor from any friends (it's not like he had any to begin with), fuck, the only people who even sent him a letter were the reporters who first investigated his murders all those years ago.
But your letter? It was different. It was so simple, no invasive questions about the murders, no personal queries about his childhood or motivation, just a simple, sweet note.
Jimmy couldn't believe his eyes. You had to be fucked in the head to send a message like that to a man like Jimmy. And yet, he couldn't stop rereading the letter. It was so...calm. There was no judgment (none that irritated him, at least), no harsh words, insults, or even a delusional fan's love confession. It was just a pure, genuine letter.
Jimmy picked up his pen quickly, all of his idolised self-harming thoughts lost as he pressed the ink to the paper, breath short as he wrote eagerly. His first interaction with the outside world - his first interaction with you.
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You weren't the usual suspects writing letters to prisoners: not a mother convinced she could redeem her child, not a self-sacrificing saviour convinced they could conquer the evil in another, not an obsessed young girl writing love notes to a man she should have no business with. No, you were a different breed. An even deadlier one: you were curious.
Your curiosity was different, not born of pity, disgust or a deeper hatred for humanity. You weren't looking for an idol, a lover, none of that. You were just...enticed. Enticed by the madness that consumed evil minds, minds that belonged to people like Jimmy. It was an allure you'd had your whole life, consuming documentary after documentary, book after book that could bring you closer to understanding the cogs that turned in every twisted psychopath's head.
Was it a little weird? Sure, some thought so. But it wasn't harmful. You didn't go out of your way to cause issues, didn't bother the victims, and didn't make your fascination loud. You were just a curious, young girl.
You weren't sure why you wrote to Jimmy of all people. There were plenty of psychopaths you could've contacted; their names broadcast casually across the Pony Express Inmates page. There were all kinds of different, evil people, ones that made your skin crawl and stomach churn. Hell, some of the cases were so brutal, you nearly backed out of writing altogether.
And then you saw Jimmy.
His case was disturbing. Being trapped on a tight ship, far from humanity with a psycho killer on board - jeez, the scenario made your skin crawl. Yet this was the reality of the Tulpar crew, and Jimmy, the bastard he was - well, there was a reason he was behind bars. Bars that should never be opened.
Jimmy was...strange.
You skipped over his profile initially. It was the second time you scrolled that he had caught your eye. Something about his name whispered in the back of your ear, echoing through the chambers of your brain until he sank into your cerebrum. Maybe it was the shadows that clung to each sharp edge of his face, darkness rolling off of him in a metaphorical sense. Even the light in his picture seemed dimmer compared to the other inmates. His face looked as though it'd been carved by stone, naturally eroded through time and abuse. His eyes sank into their sockets, deep purple dragging down the sensitive skin underneath his eyelids and cast down by a dark shadow that seemed to follow Jimmy everywhere, a shadow that came naturally to him through his battered concept of human. Dark hairs peppered his jaw, a 5 O'clock shadow so splotchy and badly cut it could hardly be called stubble. There were a few scars across his face, most notably on his left eyebrow and a white, faded stripe down his lip - likely from years of alcoholic rage, which you assumed was the case based on his criminal record. His nose had been broken before, too. Maybe a few times, considering how crooked it was, shaped in a way that twisted his features with an eternal scowl, even with a face as blank as paper.
Maybe it was the fact that he looked so mean; so much character behind a blank face that looked like it had a man screaming behind the veil. But you found yourself drawn to him in a way no one should be.
Your message was...generic? You'd say it was, at least. Nothing fancy, nothing accusatory, just a few sentences and a cute sign off. Truthfully, you didn't expect an answer. After all, why would a deranged freak like Jimmy respond to a young girl's simple, white letter?
Then it came. The next day, a letter arrived in the mail. The response was quick, a little unnerving with its urgency, but you shrugged off your worries. It wasn't surprising that it was so quick, the Pony Express Correctional Centre was only 70km away. Hell, you could probably walk there if you wanted to. You didn't expect much of a response. Maybe a singular sentence - maybe a request for you to fuck off. But that wasn't Jimmy. Jimmy was invested.
His wordplay was impressive for a man who dropped out of high school. Each sentence was sharp, tactical, and intentional. He was cryptic, refusing to entertain politeness or predictability, yet each word had you intrigued, like a moth dancing around a flame. It wasn't surprising that you'd end up falling into that spark, a new letter being written that very afternoon, and his one arriving the next day. This back and forth continued for months, a rhythm you both echoed wth equal entertainment. Jimmy grew warmer towards your messages, his frosty responses now more persuasive as he bit at whatever information you gave him. He was a lot more responsive than you anticipated, flicking questions about your life that spiralled between huge and small. He would even request pictures on some days, from the time you had a fawn in your front yard to the massive puddle that soaked your new shoes.
Despite the taboo of it all, you grew to enjoy this ebb and flow, even questioning the significance of personhood as this man became less of a night stalker and more of a faceless friend behind a letter. It wasn't long before you were checking your mailbox every day, a new crumpled letter sitting there without fail. And Jimmy seemed to be just as responsive, never missing a day. His letters varied, sometimes insulting you for a loss, mean words that were likely humorous to him but ended up hurting your ego. Other times, he was asking questions. The questions were...normal. As normal as Jimmy could be, you supposed. But a few odd ones did stand out. You had mentioned how you just moved from your old home, careful not to reveal exactly where you lived but expressing how different it was. A new environment, new people. You were lonely, friendless even, and it was an adjustment you struggled with.
"You have me now." Jimmy would write.
You mentioned how shitty your old job was. You were thankful you had a new job where you could work remotely, because the people were so much better.
"That's a perfect environment for me." You had to reread that one a few times, the blunt statement blurring his meaning behind that statement.
You mentioned your lovely neighbour: an older man who had lived in the country his whole life. Although there was a bit of distance between you two - secluded houses and all.
"Stop talking to him." That one made you furrow your brows.
Each letter grew more and more...unsettling? Eerie? You weren't sure how to put it. But something had changed over the months of exchanges. Jimmy had changed. His initial letters, cold and distant, had grown warmer and closer. But not in a good way.
The warmth in his words was like breath on the back of your neck.
The closeness was like feeling watched in every dark crevice of the house, swearing a shadow passed the window, even if you couldn't prove it.
Jimmy was growing too...obsessive. The questions remained direct, but they weren't tactical anymore. They were demanding.
"Who is he?"
"Do you speak often?"
"When did you see him last?"
It didn't matter if the person in question was a repairman or a distant friend; he wanted answers, and if you brushed them off in one letter, he'd keep repeating them in the next. It was uncomfortable and invasive, but it's not like you hadn't met similar people before. Besides, these were letters. Who knows if it was just your brain making up these accusatory tones? Maybe he was just genuinely curious.
But little did you know...
You had arranged a visit with an old friend who was visiting from your old town. You told Jimmy the day before, not thinking much about the friendly visit. It would just be an overnight stay; you'd be back the next day to answer whatever queries plagued his mind. But, by no fault of your own, your intended stay tripled, and you were far more worn out than expected. You lazily opened your mailbox, a small tug of guilt for the long wait on Jimmy's end that extinguished the moment you saw it: three envelopes. You squinted your eyes in surprise, the crumpled letters slightly damp from the rain that likely hammered down over your house. You collected them carefully, the gravel crunching beneath your feet as you skimmed through them. The rain had made the envelope slightly transparent, allowing you to see the letter encased and the fat paragraphs scribbled down on the prison paper. You kicked off your shoes, sighing at the comfort of your home as you plopped onto the couch. You peeled open the soggy note, lips pursed with a ghostly smile you often scolded yourself for having, but it didn't take long for that smile to fade.
Furious.
Jimmy Zare was furious.
His first letter was already biting, subtle, harsh words for your late announcement about your friendly trip. The passive aggressiveness was already enough to dampen your spirits, but it was the next two letters that really stiffened your shoulders.
He was offended. Threatened by the idea of being a second thought. He was angrily demanding an inquiry into your visit, convinced you were ignoring him in favour of your friend, which made him green with jealousy. He wrote insulting words, ones that weren't vulgar enough to be censored by the prison, but mean enough to crinkle your nose.
The last letter was more of a bitter laugh. An accusation of your disloyalty to his significance in your life (which he assumed was great). Each sentence was laced with a harsh resentment, not just to you but to the world itself. Each word was soaked in animosity, and you had to fold the letter to not let the pungent fury enter your unsteady heart. You wrote a swift apology, a brief explanation for your three-night adventure before tossing out his cruel notes so they'd be taken far, far away.
That was the day you truly reconsidered writing to Jimmy. The day the dynamic you'd both created really processed through your brain, and you hated the way it settled in your stomach. You felt a range of emotions: guilt, regret, shame, disappointment...and that's when your daily messages became less frequent. You still wrote (though you were acutely aware that he held a grudge for your unexpected vacation), and he answered. But it became clear who was more eager to write to whom. Eventually, Jimmy's presence grew too much. He was too harsh, too demanding, too invasive, and you requested that Pony Express prevent any further communication between the two of you.
And then life returned to how it was before: peaceful.
Until it happened.
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Hiii guys!!
Sorry for the inactivity, I got into a talking stage w someone!! I've been slowly getting into the Mouthwashing fandom, and I hate Jimmy with all my fucking life </3 the Actor Au is the only thing keeping me going atm.
Why do the greasy, hot werewolf men have to be evil cunts bruh
Summary: You walk in on Elias during a work call — and see a side of him that wasn’t meant for you.
Warnings: Implied threats, quiet menace, psychological tension.
Word Count: ~620
You’re halfway through the doorway when you realize he hasn’t heard you.
Elias is at his desk, back to you, phone pressed to his ear. His voice is low, calm — the kind of calm that makes your skin prickle.
“No,” he says evenly. “That’s not how this is going to work.”
It isn’t loud. It isn’t raised. But there’s an edge underneath, sharp enough to cut.
You freeze, hand still on the frame. You’ve heard Elias talk to people before — clients, colleagues, the occasional ex-wife call that left him terse and clipped. This isn’t that. This is something else entirely.
The other voice on the line says something you can’t make out. Elias exhales slowly, like he’s counting his patience in heartbeats.
“Listen to me,” he says, and it’s terrifying how gentle it sounds. “If you ever try to undermine me again, I’ll make sure you don’t get another chance. Are we clear?”
It’s the softness that gets you — the careful, deliberate way he delivers the words. No yelling. No bluster. Just an unshakable promise wrapped in velvet.
He waits for an answer. You hear a muffled agreement on the other end.
“That’s what I thought,” Elias murmurs. And then, like a switch flipping, his tone shifts. “Now. We can move forward — if you don’t waste my time again.”
The call ends.
For a moment, you consider backing out quietly, pretending you hadn’t seen him like this. But you’re still rooted in place when he turns, catching your reflection in the glass of his office window before his eyes find yours.
“Something you need?” he asks, voice perfectly neutral.
Neutral — but you can still feel the residual charge in the air, like static after lightning.
You step inside carefully. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
His expression softens, but only slightly. “You didn’t.”
You can’t help it. “Who was that?”
“No one you need to worry about.” He gestures for you to come closer, and when you hesitate, his mouth curves — not quite a smile, but something near it. “You’re safe. It wasn’t for you.”
That last part hangs between you. Not for you. As if the threat — the coldness you just witnessed — is a side of him reserved for everyone else.
You cross the room slowly, watching him watch you. His composure is unnerving in its own way. Whatever anger or menace he just wielded is gone, tucked neatly away like it was never there at all.
“You sounded… different,” you admit, testing the words.
His brow lifts, almost amused. “Did I?”
“Different from how you talk to me.”
Elias leans back in his chair, studying you with that unblinking focus that always makes you feel dissected. “That’s because you’re not like them.”
You swallow. “Them?”
“The people who need to be reminded where they stand.” He says it casually, as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
“And where do I stand?” The question slips out before you can stop it.
He doesn’t answer right away. He just tilts his head, considering you, letting the silence stretch until you can feel it in your chest.
Finally, he says, “Close enough that you don’t need reminding.”
It’s the kind of statement that should scare you. Maybe it does. But it also warms something deep in your chest you don’t want to examine too closely.
You should leave it there. But instead, you ask softly, “Would you talk to me like that? If I crossed some line?”
His smile is small and sharp, a secret meant only for you. “No,” he says simply. “You’re not someone I want to scare.”
You don’t know if that’s comforting or its own kind of warning.
FRIDAY THE 13TH SPECIAL - SERIAL KILLER X GN!READER
✦ WARNINGS: 18+・non-graphic murder・finance bro arrogance・alcohol・shitty dates・
✦ TAGS: serial killer!au・
✦ WORD COUNT: 2.5k
✦ AUTHOR'S NOTE: happy friday the 13th! 🩶
i.・
You’re still employed three weeks after Ed’s murder.
There’s a week of downtime followed by several meetings on how to handle grief in the workplace. Then, the company scrambles to restructure. You’re thankfully spared; your work is, apparently, good enough when there’s no one around to constantly tear it apart.
Andi, also making it through the slew of layoffs, pesters you every day. They urge you to agree to a blind date, citing their reasons as “you needing to get back out there” and “not letting one weird hookup ruin your confidence”.
You don’t have the heart, or the words really, to explain that it’s not “one weird hookup” that has you hesitant.
Unfortunately, you’ve never been good at telling them no. Which is how you’ve found yourself here, sitting across from Kyle at this fancy French restaurant you absolutely cannot afford.
“So, I told the client—”
Kyle rambles on about some client he won over with his charm or something like that. You’re not entirely sure, he’s told about six different versions of the same story in the thirty minutes you’ve been here.
He has yet to ask you a single question about yourself.
“Uh-huh,” you hum absently, busy looking over the menu and trying not to react to the prices. Everything is suspiciously vague, which means you’ll probably be eating ramen for the next month to cover your half of the bill.
“The problem with most people,” Kyle continues, completely unaware of your plight, “is that they don’t understand value.” He leans back in his chair, one arm slung over the back with the arrogance of a man who’s never cared to share a conversation. “People see a high price, and never consider the expertise behind it. Take this restaurant. Sure, it’s expensive, but you’re paying for the experience. It’s about the food and the prestige.”
He gives some kind of flourish of his hand when he says the word prestige, dragging out the word like he assumes you’re unfamiliar with the concept.
“Have you been here before?” you ask, not really caring about the answer. Truly, you’re just trying to get a few words in before you forget the sound of your own voice.
“Oh, all the time. I bring all of my dates here. It’s a good test, y’know? Separates those who can appreciate the finer things from the ones who are more…basic. No offense.” He tacks on the last part with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“None taken,” you lie. Your gaze falls back down to the menu, but your mind wanders.
It couldn’t be that hard to fake a medical emergency, could it? Sneak away to the bathroom and tell Andi to call you with some urgent excuse?
Sorry, I left my goldfish running and it’s caught on fire—
The waiter arrives, pulling you out of your daydream. He’s a little older than you, all grace and professionalism. “Good evening. Can I answer any questions about the menu?”
(where have you heard that voice—)
“I’ll have the duck confit,” Kyle announces, looking down at his phone. “And another whiskey. Top shelf.”
The waiter’s expression doesn’t change from that polite smile, but you can see his shoulders stiffen just a bit. You understand that posture; you’ve held it yourself while trying to withstand Ed’s barrage of criticisms. The waiter turns to you, shoulders relaxing once Kyle is out of his sight. “And for you?”
Panic rises, your eyes flitting back down to the menu. You don’t recognize half of the things on here, much less the ingredients. You certainly can’t afford any of them. “I’m…I’m not sure. What would you recommend?”
“The sea bass is excellent tonight. Lightly prepared, and it pairs well with the house white.”
(those eyes—you know those eyes)
“That sounds perfect, thank you.”
“Any dietary restrictions I should know about?”
Kyle snorts, eyes rolling at his phone. “Just bring the fish.”
The waiter smiles despite the tick of his jaw. “I assure you, it’s standard to ensure our guests’ needs are met.”
“Well, it’s fine, so—”
“Actually,” you interrupt, closing your menu to give the waiter your full attention, “No restrictions, but I appreciate you asking.”
He smiles, the corners of his mouth softening. “Of course. I’ll put your orders in.”
He walks away without sparing Kyle a glance. Kyle notices, of course, setting his phone aside for the first time since the waiter arrived to lean forward. “What was that about?”
“What was what about?”
“The way you were looking at him.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, grinning in almost disbelief. “Shouldn’t you be paying attention to your date instead of the help?”
“He was just doing his job. I was being polite.”
“You were making eyes at him.”
“I was not—
“I know what I saw.”
“Then you should get your eyes checked.”
“It’s fine,” he sighs, offering a smile that reeks of patronization, “I get it. Some people can’t help themselves with the whole service worker power dynamic thing.”
You fight the urge to throw your water in his face by taking a long sip.
You could just leave. You could walk out right now, order an Uber, block Kyle’s number, and pretend this whole dinner never happened. But…you promised Andi you would try, and even the idea of their disappointed pout keeps you in your seat.
(trapped—always trapped)
Dinner proceeds painfully slow. Kyle talks about his job (finance, obviously), his car (expensive, obviously), his investment portfolio (aggressive, obviously), and his ex-girlfriend (crazy, obviously). The food is delicious, at least, but you can barely taste it over the mounting dread of the impending bill and insufferable man across from you.
The waiter returns periodically to refill water, clear plates, and ask if everything is still to your liking. Each time his attention lingers on you a second longer than necessary, like he can sense your discomfort.
“We’re fine,” Kyle huffs when the waiter comes to ask about dessert. “Just the check.”
“Actually, I think I’d like to see the dessert menu.”
You wouldn’t, truthfully, but it feels good to play the petty contrarian.
“We don’t need dessert.”
“I’d like dessert.”
“It’s overpriced and unnecessary. We’re getting the check.”
The waiter’s mask of professionalism slips just slightly, almost glaring at Kyle before he catches himself and everything smooths back into place. “I’ll give you a moment to decide.”
The moment his back is turned, Kyle is bent halfway over the table whisper-hissing at you, “What are you doing?”
“I want dessert. This is a nice restaurant, I’d like to enjoy it.”
“This is about the waiter, isn’t it? You just want an excuse for him to keep coming back to the table.” Kyle’s voice rises. “Jesus Christ, this is unbelievable. I bring you to a nice place, pay for everything—”
“I offered to split—”
“And you can’t even focus on me for one meal without making a scene over the fucking waiter!”
He gets louder with every word. People at the nearby tables start to glance over, and your face burns with humiliation.
“You’re the one making a scene,” you argue quietly, trying to save what little dignity you have left.
“You know what? Forget it. I’m done.” Kyle stands abruptly, throwing his napkin on the table. “You can stay and flirt with the help all you want, but I’m leaving.”
“Wait—the bill—”
“Consider it payment for the pleasure of my company.” He grabs his jacket and stalks out, leaving you alone at the table with half the restaurant’s attention and the overwhelming sense of impending doom.
The waiter appears beside you, gently asking, “Is everything all right?”
“He left.” And you are so close to bursting into either tears or laughter. “He just…left.”
“I see. I’ll…bring the check whenever you’re ready.”
“How much is it?” you ask through a grimace, already bracing yourself.
He glances at his tablet. “Three hundred and forty-seven dollars.”
“Oh.”
“The…gentleman ordered the most expensive items on the menu. If you need a moment—”
“A moment? I need to figure out how to pay three hundred and fifty dollars when I have maybe two hundred in my account.” It’s laughter that bubbles out of you. High-pitched, borderline hysterical laughter. “This whole night is a fucking disaster.”
The waiter watches you for a moment, glancing back toward the kitchen before he says, “What if…I told you there was a mistake with the billing? That the system charged you incorrectly?”
“What?”
“Computer error,” he shrugs. “It happens sometimes. Instead of three forty-seven, it’s…let’s say seventy-five? That seems more reasonable for the sea bass and the wine.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Can’t I?” His mouth slants into a smirk, and he winks at you before tapping away on his tablet.
“You’ll get in trouble—”
“I won’t. Trust me.” He glances up at you, and there’s that pang of familiarity again. It’s the way he looks at you, that dark gaze causing your skin to prickle. “You deserve better than the evening you’ve had.”
(where have you heard that before?)
“Thank you. Really,” you whisper.
“It’s my pleasure.”
You pay quickly, before he can change his mind, adding a generous tip with what you’ve saved. When you stand to leave, you stumble—wine and the surreal-ness of the entire evening hitting you all at once.
“Careful,” the waiter says, steadying you with a hand on your elbow. “Are you okay to go home?”
“I’ll call a rideshare or something.”
“Let me call one for you. Make sure you get home safely.”
You should say no. Should try to maintain some sort of boundary between grateful customer and helpful waiter. But you’re tired and tipsy, and this man’s kindness feels like nothing short of a miracle.
“Okay. Thank you.”
He walks you outside, standing with you in the cool night air while you wait. With a moment to breathe, you find yourself looking at him properly for the first time. He’s handsome, you can say that much. Dark hair, dark eyes, a dangerous edge to him that reminds you of—
(neon lights—whiskey kisses—clothes scattered across your bedroom floor)
“It’s you,” you gasp.
He tilts his head slightly, one eyebrow raised. “Is it?”
“From the club. We—” You stop, heat flooding your face from your cheeks all the way down to your shoulders.
“We did,” he nods, lips quirking up at the edges into a small, smug grin.
“You left before I woke up.”
He looks away from you, then, almost shy as he offers, “I, uh, had somewhere to be, but I’ve thought about you. About that night.”
Your rideshare pulls up, and he’s quick to open the door for you with old-fashioned courtesy.
“Wait,” you say, not quite ready for this end. “What’s your name? I never—we never—”
“Does it matter? He echoes his words from your first meeting. “Tonight, I’m just the person who made sure you didn’t have to pay for some asshole’s meal.”
“I want to know your name.”
He holds your gaze, chuckling to himself when you don’t back down. “Malachi.”
“Malachi,” you repeat. “Thank you. For everything.”
He goes to nod, but pauses, reaching into his pocket to pull out a pen. He takes your hand, gentle enough for you to pull away at any time, and writes a number on the inside of your wrist. “In case you ever need someone to talk to about terrible bosses or dates or anything else.”
You remember that touch, the tight grip he held on your thighs as he spread you open and—
(dangerous—he’s dangerous—you still don’t care)
“I should go,” you say, but you don’t move.
“You should.” But he doesn’t let go of your hand.
Your driver clears their throat, leaning back to see if you’re getting in. You slide into the car, and Malachi closes the door with a final, soft, “Get home safe.”
The car drives off, and you watch his silhouette disappear in the rear-view mirror.
You pull out your phone, meaning to text—and lightly scold—Andi about the bizarre turn your evening took, but you find yourself texting the number written on your wrist instead.
It’s me. Thank you again.
The reply comes quickly.
M: Glad I could help. Twice ;)
Why though? You don’t even know me…
M: I know you’re smart and kind and you deserve better than how you’ve been treated. I think that’s enough.
You said the same thing at the club.
M: Still true. Have to get back to work but you should get some rest. Talk tomorrow.
You stare at the messages, then the number on your wrist, and then the city lights passing by through the car window.
(you deserve better—what is “better”—who is he to decide what you deserve)
When you get home, you pour yourself a shaky drink and pull up the news coverage of Ed’s murder. The details are as horrific as they were the first time you saw them. Extreme violence, someone who wanted Ed to suffer.
Your phone buzzes just as you’re getting into bed, Andi’s bright smile lighting up the room.
Andi: soooooo…how was the date????
You type, delete it, and try again.
Four deleted replies later you settle on a simple: Terrible.
Andi: ???
He ditched me and left with a $350 bill :/ Tell you about it tomorrow?
Andi: jfc yeah call me in the morning……..you ok?
Drunk and tired. Talk tomorrow.
You set your phone down, eyes catching on the numbers scrawled over your wrist again. His handwriting is awfully neat—neater than yours or Andi’s that’s for sure.
You—
(should wash it off—block the number—forget forget forget forget)
—trace the numbers softly, and think about the way Malachi looked at you, the way he touched you. You’ve never had someone consider you like that before, make you feel like your pain was real and the people who hurt you deserved consequences.
—
You wake to pounding on your door, and worse pounding in your head.
You stumble out of bed, haphazardly throwing on a robe, as you make your way to your front door and try to process what’s happening.
“I’m coming!” you shout, fumbling with the locks as your visitor knocks again.
Two detectives stand in your hallway, badges already out.
They introduce themselves, but you barely follow along with what they’re saying, only snapping back to attention when the woman detective says, “We need you to come down to the station. We have some questions about Kyle Daniels.”
“W-what…what about him?”
“He was found dead this morning.”
Your stomach drops.
“You were the last person seen with him. We need to know about your relationship.”
The world tilts, and you don’t know if it’s from the hangover or…
Kyle. Dead.
Just like Ed, something whispers in the back of your head.
“I—I barely knew him,” you manage to stutter out. “I only met him last night. It…it was a blind date.”
“Regardless, you’ll need to come with us.”
You’re distantly aware of your neighbors watching as you’re escorted to an unmarked car. You’re more aware of the numbers smudged, but still legible, on your wrist.
What you’re mostly aware of is this:
One. You slept with a stranger the night your boss died.
Two. Last night, that same stranger rescued you from your now dead date.
You’ve never been one to believe in coincidences, but this…
(danger! danger! danger! you should be scared! terrified!
—why aren’t you?)
The apartment felt smaller than ever. Every shadow, every corner, every flicker of light seemed to belong to him. You tried to move, tried to claim a little space for yourself, but Adrian was always there — always one step ahead, always closing the distance before you could even think to run.
“You can’t hide from me,” he whispered from behind, the warmth of his body pressing against your back, his breath grazing your ear. “Not now. Not ever. And why would you want to?”
You shivered, torn between panic and something darker — something thrilling. His hands were warm on your waist, firm yet gentle, pulling you closer without restraint. The predator in him was fully unmasked now, and you were prey — but in a way that made your heart hammer and your pulse race with forbidden excitement.
You belong to me,” he murmured, lips just grazing the shell of your ear. “Every thought, every heartbeat, every shiver… it’s mine. I watch you, always. I know when someone else smiles at you, I know when someone else touches you, and I remember it. Every single detail.”
Your breath caught. You wanted to step back, to push him away, to scream. But his hold was magnetic, inescapable. Even as fear surged through your body, a twisted part of you ached under his attention, under the knowledge that he would never let you go.
Adrian circled you slowly, hands never leaving your body. Each step was deliberate, predatory, and yet he moved with a tenderness that made your chest twist in confusion and longing. “Do you feel it?” he whispered. “The way I own you. The way you’re already mine? You can pretend to fight, but I see you. I know you. And soon, you’ll stop pretending. You’ll surrender. All of you.”
Your knees trembled. Your pulse pounded. And yet, even as you struggled to deny it, a part of you — the part you hated — wanted to surrender. Wanted to feel the suffocating heat of his obsession, wanted to be trapped in the predator’s grasp, wanted him to claim you fully.
Adrian leaned closer, forehead resting lightly against yours. His eyes, dark and shining, locked with yours, searching, consuming. “I’ll make you understand,” he whispered. “I’ll make sure you never forget that no one else matters. That no one else can protect you the way I do. That no one else will ever see you the way I do. And one day, you’ll realize… you were mine all along.”
His hands trailed down, brushing along your sides, back, lingering at your hips, each touch both a promise and a claim. “I don’t just want you to want me,” he murmured. “I want you to need me. Completely. Forever.”
And in that suffocating closeness, with his voice low and possessive, you realized the truth.
You were already lost.
Already his.
Already caught.
And Adrian, smiling darkly, pressed closer, whispering, “Good. Because I’ll never let you go.”
Chapter 12 — No Escape
The apartment felt smaller than ever. The shadows seemed to stretch toward you, closing in, whispering secrets you weren’t sure you wanted to hear. And there he was — Adrian — every inch of him a predator, every glance a promise, every movement measured and inevitable.
“You can’t run,” he murmured, voice low, rough, almost reverent. “You’ll never escape me. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Before you could react, he moved with impossible speed, pressing you against the wall. The force was thrilling, suffocating, and utterly inescapable. His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones, fingers tangled in your hair, holding you perfectly still.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, eyes dark, glinting with obsession and desire. “Always mine. Forever mine.”
His lips were on yours then, hard and demanding, a kiss that stole your breath and twisted it into something raw and urgent. The world spun. Your pulse raced. Panic surged — and with it, something darker, hotter, deeper.
“Say it,” he murmured against your lips, voice teasing, possessive, filled with hunger. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”
You gasped, heart hammering, body trembling, but as his hands pressed closer, as the heat of him pressed into you, the fear melted into something intoxicating. You whispered, almost desperately, “I’m yours… Adrian.”
A smile, sharp and triumphant, curved his lips. “Good,” he breathed, brushing your hair from your face. “Because tonight… my bride… you belong to me. Only me.”
The words sent a shiver down your spine, a mixture of fear and yearning. The predator-prey tension exploded, every nerve screaming, every heartbeat thrumming in wild surrender.
He kissed you again, rougher this time, pressing your body against the wall, claiming you completely. His hands roamed, holding, gripping, possessing, and you felt yourself finally surrender. Surrender not just to the fear, but to the pull, to the obsession, to the undeniable, intoxicating connection.
“I accept you,” you whispered against his lips, voice trembling but certain. “I accept… you as my husband.”
A dark laugh, low and reverent, escaped him. “That’s right,” he murmured, eyes burning into yours. “Forever. No one else. Only us. You’re mine, my bride, and I’ll never let you go.”
The tension broke in a heartbeat, replaced by an overwhelming, suffocating intimacy. Adrian held you close, lips brushing yours again, every movement claiming, every touch binding. You had surrendered — body, mind, and heart — and in that surrender, you realized something terrifying and thrilling:
There was no escape. And you didn’t want one.
Because with Adrian, your predator, your obsession, your groom… you were finally home…
