Getting a feel for a possible Serial Killer AU !! This is just practice ;)

The basic jist is that both Dark and Wil are serial killers with a long history of killing, and when they lay eyes on each other, they decide they want the other to be their next victim. I teased the synopsis on my Instagram ;)

The scene I'm writing here would be the climax of the story. Hope you enjoy!

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TW: Cutting/Implied Suicide, Violence, Blood & Gore, Choking

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He looked beautiful like that.

My hands, wrapped tight around his throat. The strain of muscle and the pulse of his heartbeat against my fingers.

I never quite enjoyed strangling my victims. It felt too personal, too messy, too... reckless. It was more of Wilford's thing, but now that I used his own tactic on him, I understood the appeal.

Wil's hands grasped my arms, nails digging in tight. We grappled there on the floor as his life slowly ebbed from him—the light in his eyes fading as his face grew with color. Funny, how the body blossomed with such color before it died. Like the soul tried compensating for its eventual departure.

I squeezed harder—relished the cracked gasp from Wilford's lips—and managed a smile. As intoxicating as killing was, it was tiring. My chest heaved from the effort, body straining, heart pounding. And Wilford wasn't giving anytime soon. The more he struggled, the harder it was to contain him, and so was my energy.

He knew that.

Opportunity glimmered in Wilford's eyes—a flash of evil under the panic—and with a grunt, his entire body shifted. His feet planted on my stomach, and then pushed.

The air left my lungs, and I flew back into the hardwood floor with a groan. I didn't have a chance to recover. Weight flung over me. Hands gripped my hair, my wrist.

In seconds, my body was pinned to the floor, stomach first.

Wilford panted hard over me, his breaths ragged. His knee dug deep into the swan of my back, and I hissed, struggling. Wil grabbed a fistful of my hair and bashed my head into the floor, keeping it down. Pain swelled in my head like fire.

"You really—" panted Wilford, "thought you could kill me?"

I grasped at the floor, scrambling to gain purchase. Wil grabbed my wrist with his other hand. Tugged it back and pinned it under his knee. My arm strained under the pressure, and I seethed.

"This isn't—over," I managed out, struggling.

Wilford leaned his weight into me, and I winced, pain swelling my body.

"You forget all the assets I have," hissed Wil, "back at the precinct." He yanked my hair back, and I grit my teeth, neck straining. Wil's breath ghosted over the side of my face.

"Who do you think they're going to trust?" he breathed, voice low in my ear. I shivered. "A cop, who's had the trust of the office for years—" His smirk sounded through his voice. "—or a nobody, who just dropped dead?"

I bared my teeth, panting hard. The heat of Wil's body over mine was suffocating—his weight making my body go numb.

His moustache brushed against the side of my neck, breaths making my skin tingle.

"I can make your death," he whispered, "look like a suicide."

I jerked in his hold, and he laughed, pushing my head back into the floor. My skull grinded against the wood, pain flaring up my body. I growled.

"I thought I was going to be your—" I struggled. "—final trophy."

A silence fell over our labored breaths, but I could still imagine the smirk twisting the edges of his lips. How he'd raise a brow, and his eyes would go half-lidded. Next was the laugh—a warm, honey-toned sound that I'd foolishly fallen for.

"Ohhh, you are," slurred Wilford, almost melodically.

He shifted over me—pulled his hold away from the one on my wrist—and after a tense moment, cold metal pressed against my bicep. My breath hitched, brain flicking with adrenaline.

"I remember when you first went to my house," said Wilford, pressing his weight over me again. "I showed you my knife collection... all the countless weapons on those shelves... and you seemed to like this one best."

He dragged the blade flat-sided up my skin, the cold shocking my senses, and brought it up to my face. The sharp tip glinted under the light, the blade blurring into focus the longer I stared at it. A foreign wave of sickness welled up my throat, and I started struggling again, thrashing, doing anything to prevent a death by one of Wil's instruments.

"Wil—" I hissed, "I swear—if you kill me with that fucking thing—"

Wil yanked my arm back, and a violent sting lit up my skin. I gasped, the pain arching through me—and then I realized what he'd done. It didn't even register in my head—not until I spared a glance back and saw the long, red line down the inside of my forearm.

My eyes widened.

"I've already got the whole report lined up," said Wilford, smirking. Blood began to gush down my arm, painting veins of red down the skin. It dripped down my elbow, onto the floor in a growing puddle. The edges of my vision blurred by the second.

"Wil—you bastard, I swear—"

Wil grabbed my other arm, and I struggled with all my energy, thrashing and bucking under him. He growled, and something bashed into the side of my head, dazing me. The handle of the blade flashed from the corner of my eyes.

"Fuck—"

The blade dug into my other arm, but before I could struggle again, it slid down, lighting up like fire, sparks, all pain, pure pain. Blood fled down my forearm, painting the floor red. I struggled with what energy I had left—had to make it obvious to the crime scene that this wasn't suicide. That there was struggle, that I'd been killed, that this had been staged.

Blood streaked the floor, my feet scuffed, nails dug into the wood. Pain infected my body—clouded my head—but once it started to go numb, I knew that if I didn't do something I'd really lose to Wilford. That he really killed me, when it should've been me to have his body.

Wilford yanked my hair back, and then his weight disappeared. I gasped for air, but it was short lived. Pain crowded my skull as Wil picked me up by my hair, then threw my body onto the floor on my back. The air left my lungs. I gasped for breath. Lungs ached for air.

Wil straddled my chest, all his weight on me—and I brought my hands up, struggling to push him off. But the harder I pushed, the more I tried, the faster that the blood poured out my arms, painted me, and Wil, and my clothes, and the floor red.

No. No, no, no. I refused to die. I refused to die like this. So pathetically. Like one of my own victims. I was designed for a more righteous end. Not this shit show.

I hit and grabbed and wailed on Wil with all the strength I could muster, but he didn't even flinch. Kept that smirk on his face—those eyes leering with nothing but victory.

I grabbed his armed hand.

Wil rose a brow, and I bared my teeth up at him, thrashing and struggling. Feet kicking out, scuffing the floor. Nails digging into his hand, trying to pry the blade out of his grip.

"You know—" said Wilford, yanking the blade back. Out of my reach. "I've always wondered if you'd be like the others."

He hit me across the face, and my head knocked to the side, stars swelling my vision at the force. I blinked, stunned—and when I turned back, Wil held the knife over my head, the blade flashing. My eyes widened.

"Would you beg for your life, right before I killed you?" breathed Wilford, eyes glittering. "Or would you tough it out... make my time worthwhile?"

Wilford pressed the blade against my throat, and I tilted my head back on instinct, breaths racing, shallow. My body tensed, adrenaline screaming to run away, run away.

"I'd assume the latter," said Wilford, leaning closer. "But, then again—you've been surprising me ever since I met you."

I huffed out a laugh, the lights starting to dim around me. My hands weakly grasped at his body—tried pushing him off.

"Not you, though," I coughed out, wearily smiling. "You're predictable."

I expected to hear the wail of sirens, then. The red and blue lights carving out the insides of the room.

Never before have I wanted the police to burst open that door so badly. For them to rush in and catch Wilford red-handed, as he held the murder weapon over my body.

A cold, sinking dread sank in my chest. A weight heavier than Wilford's body over me.

I'd made a horrifying mistake.

Wilford rose a brow at me, and my smile wavered. His lips parted into a grin, flashing those teeth at me. It was a look that had me frozen with terror.

"We all have our patterns," breathed Wilford, eyes twinkling with delight. "But—you know..." His lips twitched. "If you start to play another killer's patterns, another killer's games against them, then... well."

Wil smirked, and he pressed the blade against my throat. A sting flashed across my neck, and then the flesh broke and gave way to beads of blood. My eyes bulged—lashes fluttered. I met his eyes.

"You start to pick up on things they do," breathed Wil, "that they think go unnoticed."

No.

"Like that phone call to the LAPD..." listed Wil. "Or the text to Detective Abe, with how you planned to catch me..."

I shook my head on instinct—the blade rubbing into my throat. Hot blood rolled down my skin.

"It would've been quite a cinematic moment, though, wouldn't it?" teased Wilford, gazing at the door. "My own squad watching as I killed you."

I panted for breath, and when Wilford turned back to me, his eyes were darker. The look a killer had—the one I knew from experience. A determined, steady gaze with the glint of bloodlust.

He was going to kill me. Once and for all.

The room spun around me, and I screwed my eyes shut. I didn't even realize how hard I was trembling until Wilford pulled the blade away from my throat, and a firm hand pressed against the underside of my jaw.

Checking my pulse.

My eyes fluttered open, and I panted for breath, gazing at Wil with furrowed brows.

What did he think he was doing? He'd set me up for death when he slit my wrists.

I saw that look in his eye. Could feel the energy under his skin that drove to kill.

His hand slid down my throat, and realization fluttered at the back of my clouded head.

This wasn't it. Not yet. A death like this—so clean, so easy would be... too quick.

Not enough enjoyment. No thrill to drag on the death. Make it worthwhile.

My heart quickened despite its tired drag, and a fight or flight began to kick up despite the fog in my head.

"Wilford..." I breathed, warning.

He lifted my arm and leaned down, gazing at the still-flowing streaks of red with the delight a child had for candy. I tried jerking out of his hold, but his grip tightened, fingers digging into the deep cut. I hissed at the feeling, pain crackling through me.

"I've spent months," breathed Wilford, "wondering what to do with you."

He carefully opened his mouth and ran his tongue along the cut in my arm, and I cried out, the sting lighting up my body. He didn't stop. He pressed his lips against my forearm and softly sucked, downing my blood like it was the finest wine.

And I'm sure it was to him.

I thrashed, back arching, feet scuffing. But his grip only tightened.

Wilford breathed hard against my skin, blood painting his lips, his stache. And god, it would have looked so good on him if it wasn't my blood.

Wil turned towards me, and when our eyes met, my body went numb, breaths leaving my chest. There was that look again—that killer's gaze. I'd say I finally understood what it was like to be one of my victims—one of the prey—but no... I could never understand what they felt. Not when Wil and I were so different from the others. Not when I'd die in a manner treated with such sadism and delight.

"I still haven't decided," breathed Wil, "how I'd eat you."

My breaths cantered, and he grabbed my other arm, running his tongue along the long slit. I hissed, arching and thrashing against him. I wouldn't be able to handle this much longer—everything was blurring. Thoughts muddled. Body tired—aching—dying.

"I wish I could keep you forever," breathed Wil against my skin. His voice began to swim around me. "Which is why..."

My brows furrowed. Was he still speaking? Was this really it?

My vision blacked out. Returned. The weight was gone, and now arms hoisted my up, dragging me towards the door. I couldn't resist. Could barely even feel the drag of my own feet against the floor.

And then a panicked voice. I blinked away death, searching, glanced up. Saw Wilford's deadpan face, saw the phone to his ear. Noise swelled up again.

"Yes—yes 4th Street," came his wavering tone. "I need medical immediately. He's bleeding out, please—please, come quick."

Wil threw open the door and dragged me outside, staggering onto the porch. His face still didn't change. Deadpan. Focused. When dispatch continued to talk to him, he used that panicked tone—like someone else was inside him, speaking through.

Terror flooded my veins. And then an overwhelmingly numb sensation. It flooded my insides—started to drown me. But before I could bring my head up over the waters of death—gasp for a breath of life—I met Wilford's eyes piercing into mine, and plunged into darkness.

The sirens sounded then, swelling in bubbles of noise through the black. But they weren't coming for Wil, weren't coming to catch him red-handed. They were coming to save me, pump life back into my body... so Wilford could take it as his own and savor every last bit of it.

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Thank you so much for readingggg! I have a playlist for this already, so if you're interested in listening, just search my user "SheeraAyame" on Spotify and you'll see it ;)

Have a wonderful day! What were you thoughts? 👀

Love, Sh. A. xoxo