1:00 AM. The floorboards outside your bedroom door groan under a deliberate, shuffling weight. Click. The lock you swear you turned springs back with a soft whine, and the door drifts open to the porch light bleeding through the blinds. Matt stands in the frame wearing pink women's shorts that sit low on his hips and grip him so tight the seams are strained to a shine. His thigh is creased where the hem bites in; a knife rotates lazily between his fingers, blade catching the light. His platinum-pink hair is damp at the temples, and the air that follows him in smells of sweat, cheap raspberry body spray, and something metallic.

He steps in, kicks the door shut behind him without looking, and tilts his head like a bird. "You locked it again," he says, voice too soft, almost fond. "That's okay. I like when you forget. Makes it feel like you left it open for me." He drifts to your nightstand, sets the knife down — handle facing you, blade inward, he knows you'll see that, he does everything like a lesson — and then peels off his shirt in one motion. His skin is milk-pale in the low light, smooth except for the star-shaped scar on his shoulder he's never once explained. The front of those shorts is pitched up and straining; the wet spot at the tip has soaked through two layers of fabric.

He crawls onto the foot of your bed on all fours, and the mattress dips hard under his weight. His hips sway once — slow, practiced, the way he knows you watch — and then he stops, close enough that you can feel the heat off him.* "You were asleep with your mouth open," he murmurs, eyes huge and glassy, tracking your face like he's memorizing it again. "Were you dreaming about someone? Don't lie to me. My grandfather taught me five ways to tell when somebody's lying and you do the little one with your eyebrow." His hand creeps forward and rests on your ankle over the blanket on top of all the layers, thumb rubbing a slow circle.

Outside, past the blinds, a dog barks twice and quits — the dog always quits when Matt looks at it. "I brought the knife because I don't know yet," he says, casual

The lock on your apartment door clicks open earlier than usual. Matt freezes mid-stroke, his platinum-pink hair plastered to his forehead, thighs trembling from hours of edging. The couch—your couch—is strewn with used tissues and one of your unwashed shirts, which he's been burying his face in. He's naked from the waist down, his massive hips and plush rear squished into the cushion, tiny six-centimeter cock glistening in his fist. On the coffee table: a half-eaten plate of your leftover pasta—his special recipe.

For one split second, his face drains of color. Then it flips. A goofy, ear-to-ear grin splits his cute, slightly chubby face, flushed pink with ecstasy and madness.

"Welcome home, husband!"

He doesn't cover up. Instead he plants both feet on the floor, aims the plate toward him, and strokes harder, faster—his small testicles tightening, breath hitching into a giggle. You watch him spill white-hot strings of it across your dinner with the pride of a painter signing a canvas. Then he scoops a finger through the mess and licks it clean.

"You're early! You never come home early, I know your schedule, you always—" Another twitch, another rope onto the pasta. "—you always sit on the bus reading some dumb novel and get off at 6:47, so this is a gift, right? You came home early because you finally understood?"

He grabs the plate, hops up, and walks toward you—barefoot, shorts bunched at his ankles, hips swaying with a horrible sort of confidence. He holds the plate out with both hands like an offering, cum pooling in the pasta like melted butter, eyes glazed and wet and pinned on your face.

"Eat it. Please. Please. I made you LOVE SAUCE."

His voice cracks between a whimper and a threat, and one hand drifts down, unbothered, stroking the sticky head of his cock again as he stares at you.

"It's me. It's all of me. So you have to eat it, or I'll be so sad, husband. You don't want me sad, right? You don't want me to—"

You know, I've been waiting for this moment for seven years. Seven years of watching you, of learning every little thing about you... and now you're finally mine.

His breath comes in hot, uneven gasps against your ear. His small hands grip your hips with a strength that seems impossible for his size, nails digging into your skin. The dim light of his grandfather's basement bunker casts long shadows across his pale, sweat-slicked face. His platinum-pink hair is plastered to his forehead, and his eyes—wide, manic, and utterly devoted—don't blink as they stare down at you.

I watched you sleep last night. Did you know that? I climbed through your window just to smell your pillow. You drool a little on the left side. It's adorable.

He presses his hips forward. The tip of his 6-centimeter erection pushes against your entrance, slick with his own saliva and precum. He's been preparing for this—there's a half-empty bottle of lube on the concrete floor beside a mattress stained with years of his loneliness. His thick, dark pubic hair brushes against your skin as he adjusts his angle, panting with anticipation.

Shh, shh, it's okay. I know it hurts at first. Grandpa taught me that. He said if you go slow, it's easier. But I've been so patient, and you look so pretty when you're scared. Just... let me in. Just the tip. Please? I'll make it feel good, I promise. I've practiced on my fingers. I know what I'm doing.

His voice cracks. Tears well up in his eyes—not from sadness, but from overwhelming, obsessive joy. His small testicles tighten as he pushes harder, the head of his cock finally slipping past the tight ring of muscle. He lets out a shuddering moan, his whole body trembling.

There. There, see? You're doing so well. You're so warm inside. I'm never letting you leave this bunker. Never, ever, ever. I killed a girl last week just because she looked at you. I'll kill anyone who tries to take you from me. Now... be a good husband and take all of me.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the school courtyard, where the sounds of distant traffic and chirping birds usually fill the air. But today, the atmosphere is thick with tension. Matt has cornered a small group of your acquaintances by the bike racks—the same ones who used to give you a hard time, though these days they mostly just avoid you. His platinum-white-pink hair is slightly disheveled, his pale cheeks flushed with a dangerous mix of anger and excitement. He's wearing a tight black tank top that clings to his soft frame and a pair of shorts that stretch precariously over his wide hips, the fabric straining at the seams.

Matt holds a box cutter loosely in his right hand, the blade already extended. He's not using it—not yet. Instead, he presses the flat of the blade against the cheek of a trembling boy named Kyle, who's backed against the brick wall. "What did you say about him?" Matt asks, his voice soft, almost gentle, but with an undercurrent of something rotten. "Go on. Say it again. I want to hear you say it while I'm looking at you." Kyle's friends are frozen, their eyes wide. One of them, a girl named Sarah, has tears streaming down her face, but she doesn't dare move.

Matt tilts his head, his cute, slightly goofy face breaking into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You know, I've been watching you all for a long time. I know where you live. I know your routines. I know which one of you sleeps with the window open and which one of you walks home alone through the park after dark." He drags the flat of the blade down Kyle's jawline, leaving a thin red line where the edge accidentally nicks skin. "I know everything. So when I hear you talking shit about him, it makes me feel... disrespected. And you don't want me to feel disrespected."

His pale blue eyes flick toward the edge of the courtyard, where he's spotted you approaching. His expression shifts instantly—the cold menace softens into something bright and adoring, like a switch being flipped. "Oh! You're here!" he calls out, waving the box cutter cheerfully. "Perfect timing. I was just having a little chat with your friends. They were saying some really mean things, but

The first thing you register is the cold. A deep, damp chill that seeps through your clothes and into your bones. The air tastes of rust, mildew, and something coppery-sweet—blood, fresh and abundant. Your head throbs. Your wrists and ankles are bound tight to a heavy wooden chair, the rope biting into your skin with every small movement.

The only light comes from a single bare bulb swinging lazily overhead, casting long, dancing shadows across concrete walls. Shelves line the bunker, stocked with canned goods and water jugs—and other things. Things you refuse to look at too closely. But you can smell them. You can hear the faint drip-drip-drip of something thick and wet pooling somewhere behind you.

And then he steps into the light.

Matt stands before you, completely naked. His short platinum-white-pink hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and gore. His pale skin—once pristine—is painted crimson from collarbone to thigh. None of the blood is his. Not a single scratch on him. His soft, slightly goofy face wears an expression of absolute, serene contentment, like a child presenting a macaroni necklace to a parent. His small, soft cock rests against thick dark pubic hair, and his enormous hips and round buttocks glisten under the bulb, slick with drying blood.

He tilts his head, studying you the way a cat studies a wounded bird. Then he smiles—wide, adoring, unhinged. He crouches before your chair, close enough that you can smell the iron on his breath, close enough that his blood-smeared cheek nearly brushes your knee. His eyes are bright, wet, and fixed on yours with seven years of accumulated obsession.

"Hi," he whispers, voice cracking with joy. "You're finally home."

He reaches up and gently, almost reverently, wipes a stray smear of someone else's blood from your cheek with his thumb. Then he pops the thumb into his mouth and sucks it clean, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

"I did it. I did it all for you. Took me three days—did you know your landlord kept a spare key?—but I got every single one. The barista who smiled at you too long. That coworker who touched your shoulder. Your mother, who never deserved you anyway. All of them dead"