Archive of Our Own

You’re pretty sure you’re about to die.

Growing up, your parents always told you to be wary of strangers. It was one of the first concepts drilled into your little toddler brain, along with looking both ways before you crossed the road, respecting your elders, and how to say please and thank you. Your parents’ worries were understandable— the decade you grew up in also happened to be the decade when milk cartons had missing children’s faces on the back and also the decade with the most active serial killers ever recorded. You’re grateful for their vigilance now; you were a stupid child, the type that stuck a certain utensil into electric sockets, and if it weren’t for them, your younger self surely would’ve wandered away in a grocery store one day, never to be seen again.

And oh, how disappointed they’d be in you right now.

It’s quiet. Horribly quiet. The cold linoleum floor digs into your skin. A thin blanket envelopes you. It doesn’t do anything a blanket is supposed to do, like warm your shivering body, but it does obscure your vision. You’re contorted into such an awkward position— folded in half, hands behind your back, legs tucked beneath you, and your planted chin being the only thing keeping you from rolling over. You ache and your vision swims, but nothing is more uncomfortable than being unable to see. This position allows for it.

From the opening under the blanket, you can tell you’re in a janitor’s closet. There’s no windows. A flickering blue lamp is your only light source. It’s small, almost cramped, the walls so close that if you were able to stretch out your limbs, you could touch all four of them.

It reeks of disinfectant in here. Metal carts stocked with various cleaning supplies tower above you. Only an arm’s reach away, your exit looms, the door unlocked. But by now, you know it’s futile to try and nudge it open. All your fruitless attempts since you were first thrown in this god-awful place speak for themselves.

Mr. Clean’s soulless smile mocks you from his vantage point. Bitch.

No longer do you try to steady your uneven breaths. Not even your shaky fingers. You’re not calming down until you’re out of here. It’s been at least an hour since you got thrown in; not that you’re sure, as you don’t have any way of measuring time. You’re completely alone. All you can do is wait. And think.

What’s going to happen to you?

One moment, you were waiting at the bus stop, after a long day at work, having grabbed a coworker's forgotten drink for them and missing the bus as a result. It was Halloween night. You were all alone. In hindsight, you never should've bothered fetching that coffee, because the next thing you knew, someone had you in a headlock and you were shoved into a car's backseat.

You didn’t even see the face-- it was too fast. The event registers as nothing but a garbled blur in your memory. Maybe they had a mask? You try to recall, but you can’t quite remember. The only thing that you were sure of was that they were alone. A single pair of arms grabbed you. A single voice spoke, warning you not to scream. That was good, because it meant you only have one captor to worry about. That was also bad, very bad, because it meant this was less likely to be a ransom situation and more likely to be a deadly one. You know what to do; your all-wise parents taught you this as well. Get away from the captor. Find a phone. Wait for the police to come save you.

At the time, you thought they had a screw loose. They were overprotective. They were obsessed with scenarios that weren’t even going to happen. Don’t do this, don’t do that. They wrapped you in reflective tape during trick-or-treating. You had a personal phone at the age of ten. But now, oh how badly you crave to be with them. You'd never learned what to do if your kidnapper threw you in a janitor's closet, leaving you alone with nothing but the pain of zip ties digging into your wrists and time to reflect and regret your course of actions. You’d do anything to get out of here, see your family again. You’d even wear reflective tape.

Outside, a car door closes.

Your heart leaps in your chest. Could that be someone coming to help you? A cop coming to your aid after someone happened to witness you being whisked off the street? You don’t even care, as long as this person’s arrival ends with you somewhere safe. Preferably somewhere far, far away from this dingy closet.

A door’s hinges squeal, signaling someone’s entrance. You squirm across the floor. There’s a click, and the room outside the closet door floods with light. You can't deny it— there's a big chance that it’s your captor returning, probably to kill you, but the possibility of a normal human being nearby is too irresistible. This is a chance for rescue. Who would you be to not take it?

You inch as close to the gap under the door as you can, and scream.

---

Bob never has much on his mind.

He thinks of himself as a simple man. He’s a nice guy. He waves to the neighbors, and they wave back. He has a job. He has a house, though it’s a little cluttered. He may not have a wife or kids, but he’s perfectly fine with that. Many would describe him as desolate, but friendly. The guy a few doors down that you greet with a smile, but never speak to. You could even venture and say mysterious. Naturally, he’d laugh such descriptions off.

Yet in a way, they would be right.

His father taught him how to skin a deer when he was seven.

The Velseb men were vigilant hunters. It was a family tradition, going back more generations than he could count, past the great-grandfathers and the great-great grandfathers, more greats than you could count, for father and son to hunt and prepare wild game together. He could recite the steps by heart.

A sudden shriek comes from the backseat.

He grunts and adjusts the rearview, glancing at the writhing pile of cloth on the seat. He'd have to deal with that.

If only it was a more quiet one, like the other game he’d caught tonight. Screamers were a pain in the ass. Maybe he’d gag it.

The truck comes to a stop, haphazardly parked outside the painted lines. He exits the vehicle and approaches the backseat door. With one tug of the handle, it swings open. The pile of cloth falls silent.

“You know, food usually doesn’t scream.”

He laughs at his own joke, not acknowledging the shriek of horror that comes in response, and grabs the end of the bag. He’s careful not to batter the contents around while he slides it off the seat. The following string of blubbered protests once again goes ignored— he stopped indulging any pleads for life a long time ago.

He hums a song he heard on the radio as he carries the bag inside. Already, his mouth pools with saliva at the thought of sinking his teeth into his two prizes. He wonders how he’d prepare the meat. Would he grill it, the old fashioned way? That sounded incredibly appetizing... perhaps he’d barbecue it, or maybe he’d throw civility out the window and eat it raw. A smile, filled with sickening glee, splits his face. So many possibilities. He could hardly decide. As he enters the dark kitchen, he flicks on the light, and—

—Is met with an ear-splitting scream.

He whacks his head against the doorframe. Instantly, he drops to his knees, gripping his head and stringing curses together more intricately than a poet ever could. What the fuck?

“Please!” There comes a wail, sobs choking every inhale. “Get me out of here!”

Endorphins do a fine job of silencing the throbbing in his head. He's across the room in seconds, his brief grimace twisting back into a cruel smile. He didn’t take kindly to troublesome prey. With enough force to warp the hinges, he flings open the floor you currently cower behind.

You scream. Again.

There's not much you can do but try and worm away from him. The ties on your wrists and the heavy blanket prevent you from fleeing, though you do attempt to kick your legs in the general direction you think he's in. Something makes contact– you briefly marvel at your ability to land a kick (blindly), until the body part you hit wraps itself around your ankle. Something sharp, no, many, sharp things dig into you at once, eliciting a cry of alarm. You're dragged across the floor, faster than you can comprehend, into your faceless captor's clutches.

You’re lifted into the air. Like a ragdoll. You want to scream, scream until your lungs give out, make their ears bleed. You want to bite back. There's no reason why you should've been subdued so quickly, as if you were some weak little child. The sheer helplessness is an embarrassment, even more so as you're raised to eye level with your captor.

"You're a feisty one, huh? Didn't even wait until I got the knife out to start kickin' and screechin'."

He squints to get a closer look at you. It's the first time you've been able to see him so closely.

What hits you first is the smile— eclipsing his face, almost comically wide, yet lacking everything a smile is supposed to represent. It somewhat reminds you of the pictures you see in dental offices. All toothy grins, lips peeling back, dimples crinkling, pearly whites that were meant to be displayed to the world. But those smiles were only for show, advertising a product, not of genuine happiness. Uncanny and fake. You regrettably meet his eyes, which are similarly wide and white, a crazed glint in them that sends a chill down your spine.

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood tonight… or else you'd be dead. I might've even started eating you alive."

He chuckles and runs his free hand down the side of your neck. The sharp objects that poked you earlier turn out to be hard, plastic claws fitted around each finger. The sensation of them, against the vulnerable flesh of your neck, makes you shudder, and you want nothing more than to escape his invasive touch.

"Do you know what I'm looking for?" He says, in a mockingly lighthearted tone, his thumb stopping short just above your collarbone. “It don't look like it.”

"Here… why don't I show you?"

You shake your head in reply. Words have escaped you, as has logical thinking, leaving only blubbering nonsense and the primal urge to get away from this threat.

"This, right here, is your carotid artery. It goes to your brain. It’s the only thing connecting it to your circulatory system. Let's test something out, just like all the fun stuff you did in science class growing up. Let's see what happens when I press on it."

You feel an immense pressure on the side of your neck. At first, nothing happens. It's uncomfortable to have a hand wrapped around your throat, but beyond that, you feel normal. But then a few seconds of squeezing turns into ten.

You start to hear your heartbeat drum inside your skull. His grip tightens, forcing a pathetic sound from your throat. Ten seconds turns into twenty. Twenty seconds turns into twenty five. Was he actually going to choke you to death? Your twitching eyes flit to the wall behind him, then back to his face, your mouth hanging open in the fruitless attempt of a plea. Thirty seconds. Your head pounds. At the thirty fifth mark, you thrash against his grip, violently enough to almost make his thumb slip. He laughs of all things— laughs— at your last efforts to live. If you were still capable of thought you’d want to punch him in the face.

In the corner of your rapidly receding vision, you notice a movement. Were you starting to see things? You've heard of people who were about to die seeing things as they went. Wait. Oh good god, what you were seeing was absolutely real. There was a black shape moving on the floor. The shape produces a hand, which claws at the tiles and drags the rest of its body towards the exit at the back of the kitchen. You can't believe what you're seeing.

He follows your line of sight, then does a double take.

Please let me go, please let me go, go over there… you plead, mentally. Your wish comes true. His hands are gone, and with nothing holding you up, the floor welcomes you with open arms. It connects, and for the first time in your life, you're happy to literally and figuratively eat dirt.

While you heave on the ground, a memory you'd once thought to be suppressed into the back of your mind, makes itself known.

In it, there's a scene.

There's you, twenty years old, on Halloween. You’ve been invited to a party. You knew the host. He was one of the most dedicated Halloween participants you've ever seen, and your friends wanted you to come to his party. Naturally you accept. You had no other plans after all.

When you arrived at the door, the house was oddly quiet. Considering a huge party was supposed to be happening inside, you were immediately suspicious of the situation. You raised your hand to knock and confront whoever answered. Before you could even touch the door, it opened.

"Boo!"

It was the host, all clad in a vampire costume. You were genuinely taken aback by how intricate his costume was. He had the fake teeth, the eyeshadow, the comb-over, the hair gel, the Victorian style clothing, and a cape with the exact shade of green used for replacing backgrounds on the inside.

"You, good sir, have the best Halloween costume I have ever seen in my life."

"Why thank you!” He beamed. “Though I must inform you, this is not a costume and I am a real vampire."

You were in awe at how committed to the role he was. That called for respect.

"Wow, okay, you are a vampire then. Is it true that you're hosting a party here tonight?"

He didn't answer immediately. A wide grin spread across his lips. His face reddened, as though he was trying to hold in an uncontrollable burst of giggles. He thought for a short while, and eventually, answers your question.

“Certainly!” His look disappeared, replaced by something more smug. Was that a smirk? “Just head right on in.”

He ushered you inside. The hallway in front of you was dark. Completely dark. You couldn’t see shit. Wait… who the hell partied in the dark? You spun on your heel to ask what was going on, but instead, the door slammed shut in your face. You took this as a cue to start screaming.

“You little—!”

You banged and banged on it, but something was blocking it from opening. You went on until your knuckles went raw and your throat went hoarse. Eerie silence came as your only reply, although you could’ve sworn you heard a snicker from the other side. One lone fact remained. You had nowhere to go but further in. You were going to kill your friends the next time you saw them. Slowly, too. Dicks.

“I'll be back,” you threatened.

You fantasized about all the ways you’d chew them out as you crept into the lobby. It’d involve some very colorful language. Was it too much to ask, letting a person enjoy a Halloween party in peace? No weird tricks included?

The red carpet under your feet muffled every step, and dim lights lined the wall, allowing you to better analyze your surroundings. You were in a long hall. The only sound was the hum of the dim lights above you. There was another noise, too soft to discern, despite your best efforts. But the longer you traveled down the hall, the clearer it got.

When you reached a staircase at the end of the hall, the sound became apparent. It was breathing.

You hold your breath to make sure that you’re not just hearing your own, and horribly enough, the breathing continues. Now you were sure of it- you weren’t alone.

Your legs made the decision before your brain did. You flew up the stairs, gripping on to the rails for dear life, having no clear goal in mind but to get away from whoever, or whatever, the fuck was with you. You were obviously being pursued. Another pair of frenzied footsteps fell behind yours.

At the top of the staircase, you were faced with a pair of doors. Cobwebs covered the one to your left, blanketing the surface so thickly you could barely tell it was a door. The one to your right looked normal enough, but when you try the knob, it refused to budge. Of course.

You stumbled through the webbed up door and slammed it shut, using your back. Behind it, you heard a heavily breathing figure stop short. The sound came closer, so closer, until you’re sure your pursuer was pressing their head against your door. The knob began to rattle beneath you.

You tilted your head back and suppressed a sob. If they ended up forcing the door open, it was over.

“Open the door~!” Came a singsong voice.

The rattling continued. After a minute, it stopped altogether, and suddenly, the door jerked against you. Your pursuer was throwing their body against the door, making your footing loosen, your previously suppressed sobs now becoming known.

“You won’t keep me away for long.”

A particularly hard slam makes you lurch forward. Your hand flies to your mouth, stifling the terrified shriek that came out.

“Just give up, sweetie. It’ll be painless, I promise~!”

With one last push, your knees gave away beneath you. You landed on your butt. The door flew open, and now you were left without an obstacle to block your impending doom. A huge figure leaned above your petrified form, eyes curiously peering into yours.

“Huh. That was easier than I though-“

You screeched in terror. Your heart pounded in your chest, blood roared in your ears and you desperately needed to flee. You managed to scramble backwards in your awkward position. Your legs carried you back to safety, far, far away from the encroaching pursuer. Until your back hit a wall.

“There’s nowhere to run.”

They took a step towards you. Then another. You were frozen in place, limbs refusing to move, and there was no command you could possibly give to make them work and get you back on your feet. You registered the rustle of cloth, as your pursuer removed something from their pocket. For less than a fraction of a second, metal glinted in the low light. A knife?

Your arms were pinned against the wall before you could confirm your suspicions.

“Don’t worry. I said, ‘ It'll be painless!’ “

You weren’t quite sure why, but you didn’t feel like running anymore. Your fear wasn’t as intense. A calm settled throughout your body, bubbly and relaxing like a hot bath. You accepted the feeling. You even welcomed it. It was a nice change from the unrelenting terror you felt a few moments prior.

“[Name?]”

Wow. Your killer knew your name? It was almost flattering, in a way.

“A-Are you alright?”

You were alright. Maybe more than alright. It felt surreal. The last moments of your life, pinned against a wall by someone with a sharp object, and you felt warm.

Maybe if you...

With an action that surprised even you, you freed your hands and brought them to your neck. You slowly lowered the zipper of your jacket, just enough to expose your throat. You held the neckline of your shirt down.

“Do it,” You pleaded. "Make it quick."

The lights flickered on.

You weren’t alone with your killer after all. In fact, you were surrounded by people. Were you dreaming? Was this some sick joke? You recognized the faces of all your friends, a few family members, a few acquaintances made in passing. Every single pair of eyes in the room was fixed on you. You were frozen in place, mortified.

The person with the knife was revealed to be your best friend. Just in a costume.

“Happy Halloween!” The fake party host who’d greeted you at the door shouted.

The room erupted into laughter.

It was deafening. Your best friend rolled on the floor, clutching his stomach and laughing uncontrollably. The knife was revealed to be nothing but a plastic prop, unable to cut even butter. What you’d thought to be the end of it turned out to be the most humiliating moment of your life.

As a result, you faced relentless teasing for months after. Your friends joked about you being a masochist. Your best friend still made playful remarks about your “thing for knives”. You grew paranoid of being watched, and to this day, if you felt like you were being followed, you’d whip around to face what more often than not turned out to be empty air.

You’re not quite sure why you’re remembering this now. Is it an omen? That this whole night was nothing more than another cruel joke, one targeting the relentless paranoia your sheltered upbringing had instilled in you? How badly you want such a thing to be true. You could see it playing out. Your friends would all flood into the room and start laughing at your sheer obliviousness, pointing at your cowering form. Oh, you totally fell for it! What a riot you were! Then you’d laugh along with them, admitting your foolishness, and they’d take you home, where you’d all watch horror movies for the rest of Halloween night in your safe, warm apartment.

Except your friends weren't with you.

They didn't even know you were here. As far as they were concerned, you were returning home from work, riding the bus or at the stop. They don’t expect to see you for hours. Alone, defenseless, with no one worried about your well-being— it suddenly dawns upon you.

You were the perfect murder victim.

Presently, you can only watch what happens in front of you. It’s like you’re seeing a play. The cast acts their hearts out, just a few steps away, yet the unspoken rule is that you do not interact. They’re immersed in their perfectly untouchable world, you the transfixed audience member.

The kidnapper and the black blob writhe an arm’s reach away from you, though to call it a fight would be inaccurate. Fights usually involve mutually consenting parties. There’s a roughly equal chance either person might win, and in this case, the opposite is true. What you’re seeing right now is a human’s last moments of life, and their killer, blade poised to strike. It’s purely barbaric.

“Enjoying the show, aren’t ya?” He pants, briefly casting his attention back to you. You recoil, feeling disgusting under his gaze. He knows you’re not. He has a full view of your red and tear-streaked face, the sobs that make your whole body convulse, and the wordless shapes your mouth forms over and over; stop, stop stop.

It ends with the sound of metal plunging through meat and bone.

Numb to anything but fear, you lay still. There’s too much to process at once. What you register first is the sickening sound of fluid hitting tile, accompanied by a shrill scream of pure terror. You see the thrashing body fall still, flailing limbs slowly succumbing to gravity and locking into place. A similarly disgusting sound repeats itself three more times. You take in the kitchen floor, distracting yourself with the dark flecks of what you assume is blood sullying the pristine white. That’d have to be cleaned up. This was a restaurant, wasn’t it? What kind of person kills people in a restaurant?

You notice the noise has quieted down. You steal a glance— he remains slumped over his bloodied victim, for reasons you’re not sure you want to know.

Sounds follow. Subtle, sloppy… wet sounds. It reminds you of mixing a bowl of mac n’ cheese.

They cease and resume at irregular intervals. You can't even identify what you’re hearing. Was he dismembering the corpse? Cutting it open maybe, to look for organs to sell? Oh hell. Maybe he caught you both just for black market money. You can’t imagine dying like that. All your hopes, dreams, ambitions and memories— circling down the drain, just for someone looking to make a quick buck. What a complete joke.

You shrink away when the murder's movements resume.

Taking his time, he stands up. He pauses to stretch all his limbs, crack his neck, and lets out a satisfied exhale. He acts like he woke up from a good nap, not murdered another human being in cold blood. How someone could lack such empathy, not a shred of remorse or respect, was beyond your understanding. You were a few feet away from a monster. Dreadfully enough, that said monster turns to face you, the subsequent image horrific enough to burn itself into your nightmares for years.

His mouth is rimmed with blood. He takes his hand, equally bloodied, and brings it into his mouth. Loudly, so shamelessly you’d think he was at an all-you-can-eat buffet, he sucks each finger clean. He closes his eyes, slipping into some sort of trance, and stands motionless. Like a man possessed.

A whimper betrays you.

His eyes fly open. His crazed stare meets yours, breaking whatever state he was in before as he’s reminded of your existence.

He removes his thumb with a wet pop. His expression twists into something else entirely— his eyes crinkle with delight, lips curling back to reveal a row of blood stained teeth. The sight alone makes you sick to your stomach.

Agonizingly slow, his footsteps grow closer to your trembling form, honing in on you like a cornered piece of prey. You suppose, in his eyes, that’s what you are; nothing but a cowering little rabbit, your fate inevitable. He kneels down low, just enough so his face hovers in front of yours, so close you can smell the blood on him.

He produces a squeezed fist from behind his back, stare never wavering. He brings it up to your face. Instinctively, you pull away. You don't want any part of him near you. You glance around the room past his towering form, searching for even the slightest possible means of salvation, but there was none to be found. There's only him. And his outstretched fist.

He nudges it closer to you, the grin across his face persistent, until you psychically cannot back away anymore. You don't know what he's planning. Was he toying with you? Why bother? He begins to unfurl his fingers, drawing out the process excruciatingly long, allowing something shiny to drain down his hand. When its contents are revealed, all blood drains from your face.

“Want a bite?” His pupils dilate.

You dry heave. He tilts his hand, and with a little shake, the wad of flesh slides off. It lands with a splat, right below your nose, flooding your heightened senses with the smell of copper.

“No? Aww, what a shame… you’re going to die without trying human meat even once.”

Fat, hot tears trickle down your cheeks. An ugly mess of emotions flare up, and you begin to shake, sobs and the heaving of your empty stomach gripping your body with an iron fist. That murderer- that fucking bastard- only grows more giddy at the sight of this.

The knife makes its second appearance. He brings it up to your face and traces the tip against your chin, using enough pressure to leave light marks, but gently enough as to not draw blood.

He begins, “I wonder…”

The tip moves to the side of your neck, hovering above the point you now know as your carotid artery.

“How should I kill you?”

He lifts the blade away from your skin, only for it to return, lower down, pressing into your windpipe.

“Should I stick it in here, or…”

It moves to the middle of your chest, teasing the neckline of your shirt out of the way. He taps the hard bone underneath, using the flat side of the blade. “A sternum's tough to get past." He remarks. "That's cause' it's where one of the most important organs is. If I stabbed right through it, your heart would get skewered whole."

He tips you on to your back, so your stomach is exposed to the ceiling.

"Or… I could get you right in the gut."

His grip on the knife flexes and retracts, breath picking up in anticipation. It'd been so long since he last played with his food. He can't help but admire the sight of you, your utterly powerless state, your fear, your only defense the layers of clothing that prevent him from slicing up your bare skin.

Your skin...

Your untouched, perfect, malleable skin.

An idea pops into his mind. He decides to let you live a little longer…

Just enough to get some pent up urges out of his system.

The jacket goes first. With one firm tug of the zipper, it parts, exposing the thin fabric underneath. Your reaction is expected— you gasp and try to elude his touch, arching your back and twisting away.

He coos, "Don't get so worked up. I promise I'll be as gentle as I can."

He means what he said. You'd be spared a messy fate reminiscent of some of his previous prey. Sometimes he got so vicious that authorities couldn’t tell a victim apart from roadkill for a bit. Hacking you up like that simply wasn't an option, as much as he'd like to. Your screams would be too loud, it’d be too hard to clean up, and he didn’t have the right tools on hand. The thought of slowly unraveling you— keeping you on edge, torturing reactions out— was far more appealing anyways.

He continues. The shirt was flimsy enough to cut through, unlike your jacket. His blade makes quick work of it, deftly parting the fabric with enough precision to leave the skin underneath untouched.

He pauses. You've gone completely still. You stare straight ahead with your body stiff as a board. His eyebrow furrows in bewilderment. Did you really break that fast?

"Hey, sweetie. You doing alright down there?" He searches for confirmation in your demeanor.

You abruptly twist to look at him.

Your eyes fix on his, wide and lit with frenzied terror. Your jaw hangs open, a light sheen of sweat coating your skin and glistening under the fluorescent lights. You struggle to say something, mouth flapping open and closed with every failed attempt to speak.

He begins to ask, "Do y-"

You blurt out in the middle of his sentence.

"A-Are you going to rape me?"

He freezes.

That was not what he expected, to say the least. It's such a dumbfounding question that he has to process it. Based on the haunted look in your eyes and the way you subconsciously glue your thighs shut, your fear is genuine. You truly think he's going to rape you. He simply can't help it— he bursts into laughter.

Every breath becomes a wheezing chuckle. It bubbles out, uncontrollably, the absolute ridiculousness of your question too hard to handle. He nearly drops the knife, clutching the side of his head and doubling over with sheer slapstick joy.

It takes him a minute to regain his composure, even more so when he sees your complete lack of amusement at his outburst. After a minute, he finally calms himself to the point of being capable of speech, and answers you.

"No, no, no… of course not. I'm just a man who likes cooking— I don’t fuck people up like that. I'm only marking you up a little before the deed is done. Don't get the wrong idea, sweetie."

He smiles, shaking his head.

He notices that you're strangely… unmoved by his reply. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you tilt your head back to the ceiling. Dissociation? Acceptance of death? Fainting from shock? Surprise nap? He frowns. Truthfully, he was anticipating a more lovely reaction as he pulled you apart with his knife.

He wasn't about to let that ruin the fun. You're still intact. He'd still get to see blood well up underneath his blade. In his eyes, that made the process well worth it.

Your shirt splits open with one last strike. The flesh underneath is exposed. His gaze hungrily rakes over your bare skin. He doesn't look at your chest, or spare so much as a glance to your sensitive bits, his attention settling instead on your midriff. The subtle suggestion of your ribs draws him in, along with how tantalizingly smooth and perfect the skin there is. A bead of drool slides down his lip. Feverishly, he presses the tip of the knife down, and drags up. Bright red springs to the surface in its wake.

He doesn't miss the subtle hitch in your breath. Though your eyes remain closed, and though your teeth catch your lip, holding back any sounds from escaping, you still react. He realizes you’re holding yourself back. You’re trying to deny him the satisfaction of seeing your fear, even if that meant bottling up the pain. How defiant.

Bob however, always loved a challenge.

Before you can recover, his blade bites into the point above your belly button, earning a shriek of surprise. His free hand darts to your throat and fits around it, effectively pinning you against the ground.

"Can't have you squirming around for the fun part," he explains.

The tickle of his words makes your hairs stand on end. Your chin digs into his arm, desperate to somehow push it off of your neck. It's the second time you've been in this position tonight, fragile windpipe under attack, and the tender spots left from the first offense are still sore to the touch.

"Shh, relax. We've only just begun."

He gives the two cuts on your thighs many smaller companions. You open your mouth to cry out in pain, but he takes the opportunity to jam his thumb inside. Your voice ends up as a pathetic squeak, muffled by the foreign object.

He stops his assault on your torso for a moment, his eyes meeting yours and his voice low when he says, "Feel free to bite down when it hurts."

You choke on his hand. His claims of being gentle were debatable at best, absolute bullshit at worst. A hard plastic claw didn't exactly feel pleasant inside you. Yet you don't feel as apprehensive as much as you want to. You obey and work your teeth around his finger, wondering why you dont just try and tear it off between your teeth.

His next cut is deliberately deep. Right into your abdomen, he carves a jagged line, with almost surgical precision. Your hips buck into the air, and your jaw clamps down hard enough to pierce through a few layers of skin, were it not for the plastic claw.

"Did you know…"

He leans in close, until you can feel his hot pants fanning against the side of your neck, stirring something inside you.

"That your heart beats with enough pressure, to squirt blood 18 feet across a room?"

His voice is so… soothing. Your bite weakens. The room around you turns hazy, and you can only focus on the man above, and the sudden warmth flooding throughout your body.

"If I nicked you here…"

Cold metal digs into your carotid.

"I wonder how far it'd spray."

In what's meant to be an intimidating gesture, he presses down.

You can’t hold back the moan that rips out of your throat, startling both of you.

He stiffens. The pressure of his knife disappears, as does his hand. He leans over to get a good look. You're a mess— teeth bared, pulse fluttering, but apart from that, you don't seem visibly injured.

"Did I cut too deep?" He wonders aloud. He grips your jaw and tilts your head left and right, intent on identifying the cause.

The truth is that you're scared to move.

Up until now, you couldn't figure out what that strange sensation budding in your stomach was. You'd felt it before, and knew what it was (as a grown adult, you were well acquainted with your body), but feeling it right then, in that context, was beyond your ability to comprehend.

It was unacceptable.

Your captor was highly perceptive. God forbid he knew that you were actually getting horny from this. You recall the haunted house; your willingness to die at the hands of a complete stranger. You'd rather go out with your dignity intact than with your killer finding out you had a long-suppressed knife kink. Nothing could torture that out of you, not his knife, not a gun pointed at your head, not even waterboarding.

Unfortunately for you, there was so much worse up his sleeve. Namely uncanny intuition and a mildly attractive southern accent.

"Hold on a second…"

He scrutinizes your facial expression.

Was that a blush?

Your head is released from his hold, left to lay limply on the floor. You don’t bother lifting it anymore.

"Are you… enjoying this?"

You don't answer. It’s not like he needs one.

Experimentally, he presses the blade into your throat, watching intently for your reaction. It makes you tense up with anticipation; your breaths come quicker and a thrill runs up your spine.

God, you were practically salivating.

He pauses to let that fact sink in.

What the hell.

“…So you really are.”

His eyes widen for a brief moment before narrowing, the empty smile never leaving his face. His finger idly rubs circles into your throat.

“Out of all things,” He says, after a painfully long while, “that sure as hell wasn’t what I expected from you.”

You wish you knew what he was thinking. Was he judging you? About to laugh at you? Curious? Weirded out? Maybe he’d let you go simply because you were such a freak. It’s unlikely, but the prospect of survival made your heart lift.

“Tell me,” His tone reveals nothing as he makes a shallow cut above your clavicle. Not deep enough to nick anything important, but deep enough that a trickle of blood gathers in the crook below it. “Does this turn you on?”

You shudder as his body presses into yours, leaning over to lap at the pooling liquid he’d left there. If you weren’t horny before, you certainly were now. He knows this, and holds it above your head, taunting you.

He pulls away. Your blood is smeared across his chin, red against red. His tongue swipes out to lick it off.

“It’s rude to ignore a question, sweetie.”

You jolt as he runs a finger along the cut on your abdomen. You clench your teeth as stinging pain washes over every nerve.

“It does,” You gasp out.

“Hmm?” He greedily sucks away the lingering blood on him. “I couldn’t quite catch what you said. Could you repeat that?”

What a little shit he is. You squeeze your eyes shut and complete the sentence.

“I-I enjoy it when you… do that. I want you to keep going.”

He seems satisfied by your reply. Softly humming, he pulls back and wipes his mouth.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

The question catches you off guard. You provide it, albeit hesitantly.

He nods in acknowledgment. “I’m Bob. It’s a pleasure to meet ya’.”

Somewhere at the back of your mind, the name rings a bell, although you can’t quite remember where you’d heard it before. You don’t pursue this thought— you’re too occupied with his company to care.

“Tell you what, [name], I’ll make a deal with you.” He whispers, words low but clear.

He takes your chin and forces you to look up.

“[name]. Listen.”

You squint, confused, but pay close attention to what he says next.

“I'll make a deal with ya'. Say yes, and I’ll give you the best night of your life. I know what you want me to do, with all that blushing and moaning. I'm not stupid. But I want you to be aware of something first.”

You already nod vigorously. He gives you a warning look, signalling to wait for him to finish speaking.

“I'm still gonna kill you tonight." He drawls. "No matter what you say or what you do, you won't be leaving this place alive."

Your certainty wavers.

Bob was a lot of unsettling things, like a cannibal and a murderer, but he seems genuine. His words aren't a threat. They're a promise. If your fate wasn't sealed when he first saw you at the bus stop, it certainly would be when you accepted his offer. You'd be completely at his mercy. Like putty in his hands.

In a trance-like state, you nod.

"Nah-ah," He chastises. "You have to say it out loud."

You swallow and screw your eyes shut. He's hellbent on humiliating you, it seems.

"I… I want you. I want you to keep going. I want you to make my skin look like a cutting board and I want you to just fuck me up. Even if it means I die at the end."

He almost groans aloud at the invitation.

"Well… who would I be to deny someone who asks so nicely?"

He reaches over to undo your restraints. The zip ties binding your wrists are cut easily, freeing them. You bring each one up to your face, gingerly inspecting the angry red marks left behind. That would hurt sooner or later.

More than anything, you're grateful to have the control of your arms back. The numbness was starting to get a bit unbearable. All that's left is your ankles. Those, too, are released from their respective tie, and then you’re able to move your limbs again.

"Don't make me regret doing that," he warns.

You wouldn't dream of trying to resist at this point. It's too late to go back. He helps you stand up and pulls you along through the dark kitchen, not speaking, the sound of your paired footsteps echoing off the walls.

As you exit into another room, you catch a full glimpse of the motionless black bag on the floor. Nothing blocks your sight now, displaying the features of a 30-or-so year old man, wrapped in a body bag, captured in a never ending scream. Your reaction is visceral, raw, stopping your train of thought in its tracks.

There was a dead man in front of you.

If you thought about it any longer, you'd start realizing how absolutely deranged your current course of actions were. You’d think about how a man just got killed in front of you, and how you were literally getting turned on by the killer. To spare your mental state, you block the image of the corpse out of your mind, concentrating on Bob's hand wrapped around yours. You try to convince yourself, repeating it like a mantra, there are no dead people in this building,

Luckily enough, a distraction comes. You’re led into a deserted diner. The blinds are fortunately pulled down, casting your intertwined forms in darkness as Bob walks you across the room. He stops abruptly, to shove you into a counter.

“Couldn’t stand the stench of a fresh kill anymore,” he growls. “It just made me wanna stab you more.”

He itches to take out his knife. He wants to use it on you. His inner thoughts scream at him to give in, dice you up like a slab of meat, gobble you up right on the countertop, and he’s not entirely sure he’d be able to hold himself back from doing so if he pulled the knife back out. Instincts have taken over. While right now, his… human ones have taken the wheel, any weapon in his hand would overwrite that and prioritize the more murderous ones. He can’t have that happening. You’re practically a gift sent from heaven above (not that anything heavenly would associate with him), a person with some sort of masochistic thing going on and willing to die, by his hand. At first he was baffled-- a little weirded out even, because who the hell gets turned on after witnessing a murder- but now he was truly appreciating the opportunity he’d been given.

Bob didn't dabble in intimacy too often. He definitely wasn't a virgin, but he didn't actively seek out sex either. He had more important things to care about, like putting dinner on the table and managing his business. Honestly, he didn't find sex particularly exciting at all, but you were different. You'd made the first move here (albeit in an odd way), you didn't kick or bite when he got close, and you liked being cut up. That was a first. Your reactions were just so lovely, inviting him to coax more out of you using any methods he had on hand, and while he didn't put much stock into appearance at all, you weren't half bad looking. He had to admit, the situation was affecting him in a way it shouldn't be.

He weighs the outcome. You could indulge him in a way that was mutually enjoyable. He just couldn't leave you alive. You might go to the cops, and the last thing he needed right now was somebody running around town telling everyone that he was a kidnapper who got a hard on at the thought of killing an innocent person. He'd get to that part later. For now, he busies himself with you.

Distinctively less deliberate than the motions of his knife, his fingers trail up your thigh. You shudder. He repeats the motion, studying. Whenever he touches you, no matter how brief or light, your muscles tense. Why is that so? You initiated this. He expected you to be melting right then and there. Maybe it was your body’s natural (and rightful) response to a threat as obvious as he was. He was going to kill you, after all. A deer downed by a bad shot, certain of its inevitable death, still didn’t welcome the killing strike. Survival instincts were a force to be reckoned with.

He leans in closer, large frame completely engulfing yours.

“You look irresistible covered in all those cuts,” he breathes, noting how you flush.

Long, sharpened fingers clasp at your jaw, tilting your head back and allowing him to nibble at the shell of your ear. His other hand snakes down your pants. You gasp, hands squeezing into fists as he ghosts the rapidly darkening spot on the front of your underwear. It’s an alien feeling, hard, pointed plastic tracing the most sensitive part of your body. They’re far thicker than any normal fingers would be. He applies pressure, and rubs up and down, making you grab onto his shoulders in some vain attempt to ground yourself. Your heart hammers in your chest.

“I’ve barely even touched you, yet you’re so needy,” Bob remarks, now edging below the waistband of your underwear, exploring the sculpted features of your hips. He grips the fabric, tugs, and they, along with your pants, slide down enough to grant him access.

Alarm bells hammer inside your head. Stop!

Panic drives you to trap his hands in place.

“Wait,” you heave, blocking his movements. “Take those things off before you put them inside of me.”

Despite the unsettling smile he flashes you, he obliges the request. “Are you scared?”

You shake your head, “No, I’m just… not into that kind of pain.”

He studies you curiously as he pulls off each of the claws. He notes how you glance at his revealed hands, defined and heavily callused, having taken years of rough, hard work. He doesn’t miss the idle gnawing of your lip. The way he regards you now, like a starving animal, as if you were a feast before a man who hadn’t eaten in days, makes you almost shy. He finds this endearing.

“Ah, genital mutilation is off the table. Got it.” he says, in a singsong voice.

He wastes no time returning to your lower parts. His index brushes against your entrance, its tip searing. You jolt. He runs so hot it feels like a fever. You wonder if he might be sick, in a way that’s not in the head.

“Please,” he interjects. “Tell me what you’d like then. Apart from knives or death.”

You consider the question, shifting uncomfortably. Between the sudden high temperature contact, and the pressure on your back, the good feelings were kind of getting snuffed out. The countertop’s so hard. It digs into your back, a painful reminder of the less than optimal location.

“A change in position,” you decide. “And I want to be on a flat surface.”

He huffs and pulls away, adjusting his grip so it supports your weight. He hoists you into the air, your legs wrapping themselves around his torso and locking into place.

“Impatient,” he jests. But he sounds delighted. He sets you on top of a nearby table, with the airy suggestion of a laugh.

“A dinner table— how fitting.”

In the space between your thighs, he settles, his hot palms wedging your legs apart. He’s too good at this. The intensity of his stare, from such a perverted angle, makes you fidget nervously. He lifts his mask a little. You catch a glimpse of stubble, and a row of teeth stained red, before he dives into you.

"Wait–!"

The flat of his tongue presses inside. It’s warm, but not startlingly so like his hands, sending electricity up your spine. It's a sudden tug at the strings of your pleasure. Your back arches, your knuckles whitening as they dig into your palms, your reaction so evident you can feel his lips curve into a wolfish grin.

His tongue works its way around you; it’s no surprise he knows how to use it. It teases circles around your hole, quickly swiping up and down once in a while to get a rise out of you, and ultimately unraveling your composure like it was nothing. You use the back of his head to pull it flush to you, pinning him down like you’re trying to drown him.

He only doubles down. You’d never have expected a murderer to be so skilled at this, playing you like a fiddle. He’s coaxing sounds out of you that’d you be incapable of making were it anyone else. Choked moans and the stifled beginnings of his name fill the room. You bite your lip, preventing the dirty noises from betraying the two of you. God forbid someone happened to walk by the window and overhear sexy times coming from inside.

He, however, wants to hear your voice.

His hand comes into contact with your natal parts. It strokes up and down, just where you want it, circling and applying just the right amount of pressure that had you squirming, all the while he worked you apart with his tongue. You whine. With every sudden attack he threw at you, your walls came tumbling down.

He pries your thighs apart so he can go deeper, making all senses short circuit.

Pleasure courses through your body, shooting up your abdomen and into your core. Your thoughts go hazy as do your surroundings. The glass lamp hanging above blurs as your eyelids fold shut, along with the blue drop ceiling and Bob’s red horns at the bottom of your vision. He throws one leg over his shoulder and plies himself into a tight, inescapable position. You worry for a brief moment that you'd end up suffocating him (not that that would stop you), but he still maintains his pace, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

He’s relentless. He takes your change in demeanor as a cue to switch between licking and sucking, his breath hot, so hot, and that's the finishing blow for you.

You tremble around him. He feels you clench, near trapping him inside, winding tighter and tighter as you chase your climax. He lets you come with his face nestled there, capturing every detail, every emotion etched into your expression at once. Your fingers flex into the back of his head, hard enough to bruise were it his real hair and not the mask. You buck against his face a few more times, riding the after waves, your hips eventually stuttering to a stop and falling limp against the table.

You lay there for a while, regaining your breath. He doesn't move an inch. He just leans closer, fixated on you, wide eyes prominent in the dark.

"You got so tight," he murmurs, his breath stirring the drying cut on your abdomen.

He doesn't voice the thought, but he wonders how tight you'd get if he killed you while inside.

You let out a long, fulfilled sigh. "You're experienced at this sorta thing, aren't you?"

He grins, "When it comes to eating things, I do."

You flex your neck muscles, and try to slide yourself off the table. Your limbs are now jello. You fail.

Bob cocks a brow at your actions, somewhere caught between confusion and apprehension.

"What're you doing, sweetie? You're a little too raw to go–"

"Getting on the floor," you say without hesitation. You push his head out of the way.

"I haven't even cleaned—"

You shake your head as a sign that you don't care. You manage to get off the table, wobbly catch your balance, and sink into a crouch. You ignore his slight grimace as you fully kneel on the unswept floor. Your fingers race to his belt, fumbling to slide the leather out of the buckle, the clink of metal adding to your quickened breaths. Most importantly– he doesn't stop you.

You're almost giddy as his belt falls open. First, the fly goes down, then the pants go next. The evidence of his excitement sits underneath, prominent and constrained by the remaining thin layer of fabric. He doesn't say a word, watching every move with uncanny focus.

There's something disconcerting about being the subject of his attention. His eyes are always so wide. Unsettlingly wide. Having them trained on you, with that unreadable look in them, makes you self conscious. The only emotion shown comes in the form of the muscles tightening in his thighs. You're having second thoughts— this floor's too cold to be kneeling on. You shakily lift a hand, quivering, to pull the remaining fabric down.

And then the tables turn.

His hand is in your hair, gripping a fistful so harshly it hurts. You're dragged forward, rough, as he finishes the job and frees his erection. One arm cradles you, gently keeping you from bumping the your head against the table, while the other juxtaposes its tenderness with startling force.

You gasp, eyelids fluttering. Oh.

Bob offers an approving grin, giving you a pat on the head. "Relax."

It's difficult to fully relax under the hands of a man who was yanking on your hair, you think.

His tone suddenly changes, "Now, darling, try not to choke."

That's your only warning before he forces his dick down your throat.

You let out a muffled shriek. Tears spring to the corners of your eyes. His hand holds you in place, setting a punishing pace, angling into your mouth so deep, like he's trying to hit that spot in the back of your throat that makes you gag, that restricts you from taking in air and getting that sweet, sweet oxygen. He swells on your tongue, drilling into you hard enough to break.

Spit dribbles down your chin and flicks all over the floor. Noises, only describable as desperate, are ripped from your vocal chords. He tastes like sweat and skin and something salty, likely precum, as well as the faint hint of copper. You let your jaw slacken, already working to accommodate his girth. It'd hurt like hell soon, once the shock wore off.

You can't even bring yourself to care.

He drinks in your eagerness, bucking his hips, forcing you to take him up to the base. His movements are erratic, quiet pants escaping him, dick twitching in your mouth. He whispers something that sounds like a fuck. The profanity affects you in a way you'd be ashamed to admit, rubbing your thighs together to remedy the growing anticipation in between your legs. God, his skin's so hot, its temperature skyrocketing as he uses your mouth like a fleshlight.

There's probably a word for what you're feeling right now. Eagerness? Encouragement? You want him to keep going, despite the discomfort, to come undone in front of you, no matter the cost. It's a wonder he hasn't damaged anything important or made you start dry heaving again. God. He's just so–

A change; both hands entangle themselves in your hair. His thrusts stutter, his previously even pace breaking into uneven intervals. Oh, he's getting close soon. You should do something. You shift on your knees, the floor sticking slightly, and allowing him deeper access into your throat. Your tongue joins in on the action, like this is some kind of competition, stroking the bottom of his shaft as he draws in and out. A craving for more opens up inside you. All the events for the past who-knows-how-long leading up to this moment, and now he's right there, his using you.

Why did it turn you on so much?

You can barely draw air in at this point. And you were so right, your jaw hurts like a motherfucker, and instinct drives you to pull back and relieve yourself of it, but your face is locked in place by his grip.

His thumb caresses your cheek, a gesture surprisingly intimate. You can feel him tense against you, stopping his thrusts and burying himself so deep you can feel the tip of his dick brush the back of your throat. He groans, and spills inside you, so far down you can’t even taste anything.

A moment passes. He slides out of you with a wet smack. You’re released from his grip, and you fold over, breaking into a coughing fit. Little droplets of white coat your arm.

Ha.

You struggle for air. Your throat burns, finally facing the consequences of its sudden abuse. The tears streaming down your cheeks add to the pathetic image— of you on your hands and knees, hacking up cum, so degrading— yet if you were to say you didn’t enjoy it, you’d be lying.

You steal an upwards glance. He still watches you, canine teeth faintly glistening in the low light. You feel timid under his stare, and quickly look back to the floor.

With a sigh, he leans over and strokes your cheek.

“You’re doing so well.”

You swallow thickly as he massages your face. It’s one of the few courteous gestures he’d shown you.

This is new.

Why is it so easier to deal with him when he’s being assertive? When he shows a little tenderness like this, that awful smile softening for a brief moment, eyelids lowering, speaking in that uncharacteristically sweet way… you just don’t know what to do with yourself.

He runs his thumb along your mouth, wiping it clean of the mess.

“Hey,” he says.

You straighten your back, the pain finally subsiding enough to let you converse. “Y-Yeah?”

There it is again. That serious look in his eyes, boring into you. He’s about to ask you something important.

“Are you ready?”

Oh shit, was it finally happening?

That question could only mean one thing. You were actually going to have sex with him. It’s a difficult realization. You hadn’t counted on getting this far. When you first made that weird deal with him, you were half-expecting him to just stab you to death and fuck the body. You wouldn’t put anything past him, honestly. But no— he made sure you were enjoying it, even if he was a little selfish at points, and he always asked before doing anything drastic.

For what it was, he was weirdly considerate.

You can't complain. It was better than dying with blue balls. Slowly, you raise yourself in a half-kneeling half-standing position, scrunching your eyes shut, stretching your arms, then your back. You make a performance out of it, cracking your neck and spine with deliberate delicacy. It feels damn heavenly. Then your eyes flutter open, making contact with his.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you confirm.

He’s upon you in an instant.

It’s a strange thing to reconcile. One moment, he’s petting you like a dog, asking if you're ready, showering you in praise, and the next he’s gripping your ass and practically slamming you onto a table.

Ordinarily, Bob would draw things out more. He would've loved to keep you there for hours, until you wept and begged for release. But you tested his patience. Seeing you below him like that, a sorry mess, gasping with every movement, so depraved and wanting everything and anything he could offer, it was hard to hold back any longer.

He positions you carefully, so your back is on the table, but everything from the waist down is supported by him alone. He throws your legs around his neck.

“You know, I was going to go slower.” He takes his dick in his hand.

“I was going to ease you into it. I would’ve made you touch yourself, to get you properly lubed up for me.”

He jerks himself off, works it to a half-hard state, just enough to be able to get inside you.

“But, if I don’t fuck you right now, I’m gonna do something worse.” He offers a semi-apologetic smile, positioning himself in front of your entrance.

“Besides… you wanted pain, didn’t you?”

You barely have time to register it when he snaps his hips forward. Every inch is forced into you at once, drawing a sharp cry of pain, sweeter than any song to his ears.

“Hell.” He grunts, feeling how you squeeze around him.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to move when you’re trying to cut my dick off.”

You throw your head back in reply, knuckles whitening as you claw at the fabric of his sweater.

“I really would’ve used lube, if I had any. It's not something I carry around often.”

He allows you time to adjust. He’s far from being too much to handle, arguably leaning more towards the smaller side. You’d come around. Your vocalizations, too stifled to be defined as anything coherent, make him twitch inside you. The sounds only encourage him further. Gently, he pulls out, his hands planting themselves on your hips.

You’re crying again. Of pain or emotion, he doesn't know. He frowns, and commits himself to comfort you somehow, bending over to kiss away your tears.

It’s unnecessary. It’s hard to do with a mask on. It won’t stop the pain. He could just use you up, be greedy and make it hurt, and he wants to, god knows he does, but he won’t. He’ll try to make it good for you. He owes you that much, after all, you weren’t going to be alive after all was said and done.

He breaks away, trailing salty kisses down your cheek, along your neck, avoiding the cuts he’d left earlier.

“If it's too much to handle, stop me,” he breathes.

He plunges back in, making your fingers curl. Your back arches, head tipping back to face the ceiling.

He’s similarly affected, gripping too tightly at your hips, straining to not dig his nails in hard enough to break skin.

And then he starts to move.

Finally, friction where he needs it most. His breaths against your cheek, his lip quivering, struggling to keep composure, momentarily distract you from the pain. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his thrusts picking up. He slides in and out, though with considerable resistance. You do what you can to keep your volume down, yet you can’t completely quiet the panicked noises you’re making. Watching him get drunk with pleasure, seeing the effect you have on such an intimidating man, almost drives the discomfort away completely. Almost. The lube situation (or really, the lack of it) is still certainly a problem.

He moans your name into your ear. He says it so needily, like a prayer. You can’t help yourself, you wrap yourself around him, holding him tight even as he moves.

"You’re taking me so well."

He sets a brutal pace, essentially fucking you into the table. Your hands leave his sweater, searching for something more sturdy to hold on to. Conveniently enough, his head is right there, nestled into your collarbone.

What interests you more, isn't that, but that mask of his. Were the horns real? You wrap your fingers around one and tug.

It moves. Nope, no way, definitely cannot use that as something to hold on to. They were fake, after all, probably just a headband under the mask. You reach to move it back, before realizing. Fake horns. Fake…

He still had the mask on.

Why?

Slowly, ever so slowly, hoping not to alert him, you begin to lift the mask up. You can't believe you'd gone this far without seeing his face. Quite literally balls deep, yet you only knew him as some guy in a costume. That'd have to change. Your hands shake, betraying your anxiety, and you pray to whatever deity will answer that you can catch a glimpse before he notices. Just a peek. Was it so unreasonable to want to see what he looked like? You knew he was white, and a bit older, but apart from that, nothing.

You close your eyes. One pull, two…

"If you wanted me to take it off, you could've just asked."

His matter-of-fact tone startles you into pausing. You open your eyes, and he's staring right into your soul, amused of all things. His hand fits on top of yours, guiding it, and then removes his mask in one quick motion. Your jaw drops.

The face of a white middle aged man mirrors yours. His features match his accent, southern guy written all over them, from the stubble on his chin to the roundness of his cheeks. He must be at least thirty. He doesn't look bad, not at all, which is a significant upgrade from the red mask Bob.

You'd have to add older men to your mental list of newly discovered kinks tonight.

His eyes are alive as when he'd been marking you up with his blade earlier. Just as excited, as breathless, obvious in the heaving of his chest. A gorgeous predator.

You're staring down an animal.

And then he's choking you again. His hips never stop moving, his hands busy squeezing the life out of your throat, watching you bounce under him, your face turning all the colors of the rainbow in order. The pretty noises you make, just like you had earlier, now affect him in a whole different way. Fuck, he wants to strangle you right then and there, but he forces himself to let go. You gasp in huge lungfuls of air, while he reaches for the knife in his belt. He slides it out of its holster, not a single thought surfacing as he swings across your thighs.

There's red. Lots of it. All over your lower half, long, swirling lines, like a human treasure map. He grins.

"Now we match," he remarks, with a breathy laugh. "Red looks good on you."

The knife clatters on to the table. It's hopefully enough to satiate him until the end. He wants to sink it into you, you were practically begging for it, but he has to wait until you're close. You'd come under his knife, piercing flesh and bone, the life seeping out your body as he fucked you through it.

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, making you gasp. Your cuts were bleeding all over his abdomen, slicking up his cock, acting as a surprise lubricant during these trying times. He pulls your hips flush to his, folding you like a chair, pounding into you with no relent.

"I'm gonna do bad, bad things to you," he chants, angling your waist so he could reach deeper, fill up every space inside you.

“I’m gonna kill you, darling.”

He’s not sure if you heard what he said. Your head lulls and your eyes are wide, staring into nothingness. Not that it mattered— that just meant he was doing a good job. He presses against you, crown on the table, so he can better hear all the exquisite noises he coaxed from you.

“I’m gonna use you up, until there’s nothing left.”

Your cheeks flush, but you don’t protest. His hand strays from your hip, snaking in between your thighs. He strokes you off, making you yelp, jerking under him.

“Shhh,” his pace continues, until the shock subsides, your cries of alarm easing back into whimpers. “Just a little longer, sweetie, I want to feel you to come. You can do that, can’t you?”

Yes, you could.

“Please, please, please,” You beg into his shoulder, for what, you don't know. You’re slowly unwinding, your nerves are on fire, your breaths are strangled and you feel tears pricking at your eyes.

His thrusts get sloppier. They’re loud and messy, the loud wet slap of skin echoing shamelessly throughout the diner. He can’t tell what you’re saying, whether it be an incoherent string of nonsense or his name spilling out of your lips is an equal bet. You’re so sensitive, tantalizingly inviting, and above everything, he just wants to see you ruined.

You let out a particularly lewd sound, snapping him back into reality.

If the clench of your nails, digging into his back, was anything to go by, your release was approaching soon. He cranes his neck and kisses you.

He feels the way you clench around him, the telltale sign of an orgasm. Getting tighter and tighter, that coil inside you wound tight enough to snap, and—

Your legs wrap tightly around his back, keeping him from moving, trapped as you tremor and ride the waves of pleasure. He gropes for his knife blindly, not taking his eyes off you, hating the idea of missing every detail on your face as you came. Your sweat-soaked body, blood smeared across your skin, painting your lips, your trembling frame, all make for a lovely image. How romantic it’d be were it any other situation. His fingertips brush against cold metal, and he yanks the blade towards you, holding it an inch above your throat, not a threat, but a promise.

Your eyes are wide open when he delivers the killing blow.

He forces it through your sternum, grunting when he’s met with resistance. With the flex of his arm, the tough bone splits apart enough to grant access, and he drives the point into your rapidly beating heart, sinking it all the way to the hilt. His hand previously occupied in between your legs flies over your mouth, catching the subsequent scream that rips out of you.

He watches reverently as you spasm under him. Instinctively, his mouth curls back into that smile, as it always did after a successful kill. Your legs fall limply at his sides, the pressure of your fingers on his back disappearing, the remaining energy seeping out of you.

Fuck, you’re clamped around him.

Now that you don’t have him in a leg lock anymore, he starts to move again, his thrusts frenzied and inconsistent. He chases his own high, drinking in your subtle gasps for air, gripping your hips so hard the table shakes. Finally, with a low curse, he spills, hot and thick inside you.

He slumps over your twitching body, completely drained.

He waits, feels your last breaths, lightly fanning through his hair, and there he remains long after they stop altogether.

Your last signs of life, only for him alone to witness.

After a while, he checks your pulse, just to be sure. Its absence is an interrupting, but necessary reassurance.

With a groan, he pulls out of you, a mixture of blood and cum coating his cock. Your fluids meeting his. The knife makes its exit next. With every inch of steel he draws out, crimson streams over the contours of your body, overflowing and pooling on the surface of the table. He can’t help but relive the moment over and over, repeating like a broken record; your delicious death scream, the clench of your walls, the sensation of metal meeting flesh, rearranging your insides in more than one way. An involuntary shudder passes through him.

Among all his countless victims, he certainly would remember you for a long time.

With a quiet chuckle, he gazes into your frozen face.

“I mean it, you know.”

You do not respond.

“You really were one hell of a surprise.”

He squeezes his hands into fists, pulling away from your corpse, fully taking in his handiwork.

Oh.

Oh.

This was going to be a royal pain in the ass to clean up.