stuff no one asked for

A/n: Hi... I'm alive. It's been over a year since I posted, I've been writing other personal stuff, but this flew out of me in a fit of rage. I love adaptation of fairy tales that are fucked up and I've missed how much of a psychopath William's character can be. Hope it's alright!

Apologies for any mistakes, I'll correct eventually, but if I don't post now, it'll rot in my drafts lmao.

“A single to the end of the line, please.” You say politely to the bus driver, placing your money down on the plate. It’s the exact fare, you take the route more than enough to know that perfect change is miles easier than a note. The driver doesn’t say anything but prints your ticket and leaves it for you to pluck free. You do so, say thank you and then go to take your seat, it’s pretty busy, probably because the weather is nice today, warm but not too hot, a benevolent sun high in the sky. Lovely enough you didn’t need a jacket, and left your house happy in just a shirt and red button up. The perfect day to go and visit your grandma. 

There’s two free seats halfway down the vehicle so you head for them, lifting the bag you're holding close to your chest so it doesn’t bump into the people sitting either side of the aisle. You put your carrier on the seat next to the window, slotting in nicely beside it no sooner than the bus pulls off. As you’re getting comfortable you realise you’ve sat your bag on top of someone’s discarded newspaper. People can be so lazy not taking their rubbish with them, but at least you’ve got something to occupy yourself for the close to 30 minute journey. Not that it seems a pleasant read. 

The biggest headline reads, ‘Wolf strikes again. Family of four butchered in home.’ It takes up the majority of the front page and next to it a photo of said family: mum, dad and two boys, all smiling. Sensationalised, yes but still heartbreaking and as much as you don’t want to know, curiosity puts the paper on your lap and skims through to the story. It’s harrowing and if not for the pictures you’d hardly believe it’s real. The Wolf, as tabloids have taken to calling him, has been on every paper and every news show for months; a serial murderer known for breaking into homes and slaughtering those inside. Cunning enough to avoid capture and violent enough to have all eyes on what he does next. The police haven’t a clue, there’s no real pattern to the brutality. 

You have to close it, it’s too awful. The kind of news that you can’t understand how the world can go on with it known, but still in your heart of hearts you know you’ll forget about it and be sucked back into your life. Even if that family can’t be anymore. 

Headphones in your ears, you allow yourself to forget and to enjoy your music, butchered men and women lost among more monotonous thoughts. It’s a hassle-free journey, not too many stops and within the hour you rise from your seat to press the bell, an old man nodding thanks at you for doing so. You let him off first, smiling approval as you grab the paper off the seat and tuck it under your arm, making up for the laziness of the person before you. 

“Thank you.” You smile at the driver, not put off by the grunt in response, they’re always miserable and you suppose you can see why, it must be a draining day for them. No matter, you wait for the bus to drive off before crossing the road, you have a little bit of a walk ahead of you, ten-fifteen minutes depending on how fast you can be bothered to go. But your bag is light, the paper lighter still, so you don’t mind. 

It’s an idyllic walk, plenty of flowering gardens to look at, some with sweet cats lounging in the sun, others with people drinking cider in wicker furniture. That’ll be you when you get to your nanna’s, sitting on her little balcony with a cool drink in one hand and the cupcakes you’ve made in the other. You think to check on them then, a sudden concern for the heat melting the icing or the bus ride knocking some over. So you stop briefly, using someone’s garden wall to rest your bag, and no, they’re as perfect as when you made them. Thankfully. 

When you turn on to your grandma’s street, you remove your headphones to spare yourself from another telling off about how unsafe walking with them in is, no matter how well you argue yourself, it’s never enough to quell her worry, so you’ll just avoid the whole problem. 

Soon her apartment block is in front of you and you have to swap your bag to the other hand to open the building’s door. It’s not a huge block of flats by any means, only five floors with three apartments on each, but your grandma’s is on the first level. The small hallway inside is somehow cool and you’re more than glad for that when you go for the stairs. 

It’s peacefully quiet, everyone is already where they want to be, so your footsteps on the concrete is the only thing you can hear as you ascend. Everytime you visit your nanna, you think about how difficult it is for her to get up and down these stairs. It's unfair and you, your mother and your aunty have been at the landlord about swapping her with someone on the ground floor; to no avail of course. 

And finally you’re there at her door, journeying over with, and the hope of a nice drink only a locked door away. You never knock, she’s expecting you anyway so you just slot your key in the door, turning the handle to find you’ve gone and locked it.

“Oh.” You smile, feeling silly you didn’t check to see it was unlocked. Though she never usually leaves the door unlocked, ‘not in this part of town’ as she’d say, but maybe she saw you coming from the balcony and went ahead and unlocked the door? Nevermind, you put your key back in and re-unlock the door. 

The person inside the flat is focused on what they’re doing, enthralled almost. It’s an art, a talent, the perfect hobby and they want it to look as beautiful as possible. But despite being elbow-deep in occupation, the jangling of keys twice in the door turns their head and sees their shoulders drop in exasperation. 

Interrupted, again. Only this time it’s not a postman. Someone else lives here, this old bag’s other half, he supposes. Great, just fucking great.

Shaking your head, you manage to get the door open and step inside, laying your keys on the table and shutting the door behind you. You’d expect to see your nanna sitting in her chair as usual, watching some old western ‘for the plot’ and definitely not for the rugged men in chaps. But no, the sitting room is still, the tv off. You’re about to call out when you hear metal clanking from the kitchen, she must be making some lunch, you think. 

“Nanna, it’s only me!” You talk loudly, not wanting to panic her or sneak up on her either. 

The figure pauses at your voice, not an old fella then. A woman, young probably, he sighs contently, that’s always more fun than some geriatric. He reaches back onto the table and a gloved hand retrieves the blade he was going to discard, dragging it off the surface noisily. Stepping back out of sight he waits. Come and see what nanna’s doing in the kitchen, the voice in his head sings.

No reply. Huh. “Nanna?” You put the bag of cupcakes down on the coffee table, your acquired newspaper down beside it. She can’t hear you, one of the perks of being old, she’d probably joke. You’ll go to her then. 

You walk to the kitchen, the door half closed. So you lightly push it open, “Nanna, I was talking to you-” You can’t finish the sentence. There’s no breath left in your lungs, because the sight before you tore it away. There’s blood everywhere, smeared on the floor, a hand print only centimetres away from yours on the door, and dripping rhythmically onto the floor from the table. You can’t breathe, your whole system is stuck, frozen in victim to seeing your nanna laid on the kitchen table. On her back, the blood oozed from a cavity from sternum to collar. Parts of the human body that you couldn’t even name exposed and dangling close to the floor.

You’re not sure how long you stand frozen before your body jolts into action and you retch, stumbling backwards onto the floor because you haven't the power to stand on your legs anymore. You’re going to pass out, you can’t even see, your vision is black. Your eyes closed or not doesn’t change the disturbing image burnt into them. 

Scuttling back you can’t get the strength to get back on your feet, you need to leave, to go, call the police, an ambulance, your mum. You need- Still on the floor on your hands and knees, you scramble towards the door, the air so thick with blood you can’t breathe. You don’t make it far before a sound stills you instantly. Footsteps. And looking back towards the kitchen doubles the horror. 

He’s still here. 

A monster leans in the doorframe, a hand above him that he rests his head against. “You don’t want to try for that door, honey. You won’t make it.” There’s a false kindness in his voice that chills you right to your core. You don’t need to know who this is, he’s covered in blood, blue latex gloves stained with it and splatters up his arms, on his face. Unwillingly you flinch when he stands up straight, you can’t do anything but stare dumbfounded at this nightmare. “Not when I’ve already swept you off your feet, didn’t even need a first date.” He grins, a twisted completely malicious amusement evident on his face. 

You startle yourself with a loud staggering breath that quickly melts into a sob. You’re not in control of your faculties and that terrifies you just as much as this evil fucking creature in front of you. He steps closer and you have enough primal sense to scream, the sound so crips and foreign in the unnatural stillness of this apartment. 

The murderer stops and shakes his head, amusement falling away to a harsh and strained expression, “No. None of that.” His voice is controlled as he looks down at the knife in his hand, turning it over thoughtfully. “Scream again and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out. And that would be such a waste.” 

Your chest is heaving trying to catch up with breathlessness and he watches you interested. You’re truly petrified, you can’t even comprehend it and it’s really magnificent. It’s what he keeps coming back for. The terror. Every time is like the first time, those wide eyes, the pained look on your face, beautiful. And the power of it stirs him. 

“Please.” You choke out. You’re trying to think of something, anything you can do or say to get out of here. To get away and not end up a part of the vile scene just through that door. 

He laughs then, he likes this bit. “Oh go on then. Please what?” 

“... Please, let me-” You stumble over your words, you hardly recognise the scratchy sound of your own voice raw in your throat. “Please don’t hurt me.” 

The monster sighs, letting those words settle on his skin, fucking delicious. When he finally answers you he speaks low, voice dripping with carnal pleasure. “Aw. You know I have to, sweetheart.” It isn’t pity in his tone, not even a shred of it. It’s mocking and as cutting as the blade in his palm. 

What to do with you? He thinks, humming aloud. Now he’d resigned himself to some dry old biddy today and you turning up was such a nice surprise. He credits himself for it, like he had some inclination, like he’s filled with good hunter’s intuition and not just stupid luck. So he needs to make you count, play with you a bit, otherwise he’d be subbing his nose to fate. And who is he to do that? 

For a moment he thinks he’s thought that out loud, because tears roll silently down your face and all he can think is that he can’t wait to taste them. 

He walks fully into the living room, leaving you some space on the floor whilst he plans what he really wants to do. But then, something catches his eye. A paper bag on the table, that wasn’t there before, you’ve brought that. 

“What’s in there?” He asks with some genuine curiosity. You can’t answer him through your tears, in your mind you’re spiralling so all you have is your blank gaze to watch him pick up the bag you’d brought for your grandma.  

There on the table he sees the paper you found, its headline sending a bolt of pride straight to his cock. Imagine that, you were reading about him before coming here, that’s so fucking funny. The knife clinks down on the coffee table, dropped from his hand in favour of the paper.

“I did that, you know.” He talks to you, whilst looking at the newspaper, soon turning it to face you and relishing how you swallow instinctively. The nonchalance in that, the self-gratification makes you sick to your stomach. He looks at it again and uses his middle finger to point at the father’s face. “He was so much fun.” He laughs, “Begged me to let the kids go and just take him and the wife. On his knees and everything… didn’t realise he’d just volunteered himself for last place.” You shiver, what a sick, sick fuck. 

He shakes his head at the memory, sighing happily. Once done with the reminiscing he throws the paper down on the floor next to you, the place where he’d held it, a bloody handprint pointing right at that poor father. Staring at that picture, your mind becomes a victim to a flickering slideshow of the horrors you’d read about, what this evil creature had done to them. And now to your nanna.  

And soon to you. 

You’re not much of a talker, he thinks to himself, though he can see why, you poor thing hyperventilating on the floor, he hasn’t even done anything yet. That ounce of sympathy is short lived when he remembers what he was doing, checking what gift you’ve brought for granny. Well, for him because she isn’t going to need it. 

He lifts the bag up and peers inside, tilting his head back to chuckle when he sees the sweet little cakes you’ve made. “No, you shouldn’t have.” He laughs, bringing your gaze back to him and what he’s doing. You watch the killer, rest the bag in his hand and reach down into it with the other, in the process leaving red touches all over the paper bag. He manages to pull a cake out and discards the rest back onto the table. It looks almost comical in his fingers, so small and dainty, but the blood from the gloves invades the treat, the white buttercream turning red where it meets his fingers. 

He takes a bite with no hesitation, the delicate cake crumbling under the grip and dropping crumbs on the floor. Icing sticks to his fingers mixing stomach-churningly with the disgusting matter on them, “Fuck, that’s good.” He smirks, looking back at your crumpled form on the floor. “You made these?” 

You nod slowly, scared of what pathetic sound will leave you if you open your mouth. 

He seems somewhat impressed, looking back at the little cake and noticing the buttercream on his hand. It looks more of a victoria sponge now, the red and white together, he chuckles again before locking eyes with you and taking two fingers to his mouth and slowly sucking them clean. It’s a curious mix, the sweet richness of the icing and the tangy metallic taste of blood; he doesn’t mind it but it’s the horror and disgust in your eyes that’s really making him hungry. 

You feel sick at the sight and instinctively screw up your eyes when he removes his fingers, though you don’t need to see for the moan he makes to cause your toes to curl. 

Your eyes only open when he says, “Seriously, sweetheart, you’ve got to try it.” You’re shaking your head before his words are done, breath quickening without your consent. 

But he’s already made up his mind, you’re going to and your cowering just makes him more resolute. 

He walks over to you, towering over you in a way that makes you want to curl up in the foetal position. He holds out his hand to help you stand up but you shrink from it. “No… no don’t-” You’re pleading with him not to touch you, not to make you taste the proof of what’s lying in the kitchen and it has his eyes shining with malice. 

“Oh come on, don’t be so modest. They’re really nice.” You shiver in revulsion, whimpering when he sighs and just grabs you by the shirt, pulling you up onto your more than shaking legs. He can only be so patient. 

You sway in his grip, certain you’re going to faint or throw up, or both but he holds you firm. 

“Please.” You whisper, no real reason why. You know in your heart that your begging is only amusing him but what else can you do? The knife is on the table, but it’s so far away and you don’t know if you’ve got it in you to fight, not when this huge man could probably throw you across the room. 

You’re right, that sweet little plea is very amusing, in more ways than one. It’s not going to work though, it never does. The cake is still in his hand and when he guides it close to your face the stench of iron is instantly overwhelming. Instinctively you turn your head and it prompts him to take a handful of the hair at the base of your neck. 

“Come on, love.” He speaks jovially, a singsong quality to the words that doesn’t match the glimmer of malevolence in his eyes. “Open your mouth for me and taste it… Trust me, you don’t want to make me open your mouth.” The threat was clear as crystal and you see that possibility flicker before your eyes; blood-stained gloves pinching your nose and fingers forcing the treat inside. Tears are in your eyes again. 

It takes you seconds to run through your possible actions and none of them are good, so you obey, hoping your compliance might spare you some time. You part your lips, trembling when he follows through with the act and makes you taste the cake you’ve made, only now it’s perverted by the unmistakable taste of blood. Once the bite is finished, he tosses the remains of the sweet onto the floor. 

You gag on the taste and the killer quickly tilts your head up by the chin laughing at you, “No no, you’ve got to swallow it.” You reflex grab his arm, terrified of how easily his hold could lower to your throat. You can’t do it, the panic makes it harder to swallow and it doesn’t lessen when he adds, “I’ll bet it’s not the first time you’ve heard that.” 

You force yourself to breathe slower, eyes screwing up so you can focus on what he’s demanded of you. It’s hard, and a near impossible feeling of futility floods your systems. But you can’t give up completely, you’ve got to hold on to something and so you swallow, desperately thinking of something you can do. 

There’s visible glee in his eyes, “Good girl.” He pauses for a moment, “Your nanny probably thought you were really good, huh? Coming over to visit, bringing fucking cakes.” He shakes his head, amusement making his expression truly wicked. Bringing his head closer to you he speaks meanly, “She should have told me you were coming, maybe she could’ve hung around a bit longer. Selfish really.”

You scowl involuntarily, he’s trying to provoke you and get something out of you other than silent futile tears. And there should be more, the anger is there but it’s outweighed by your survival voice telling you to cooperate. 

He almost rolls his eyes, you’re not putting in much effort here. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re starting to bore me.” He looks you up and down then, a smirk on his face giving you insight into what he’s thinking, the hand now on your waist driving the point home. “You have some tools at your disposal, aren’t you even going to try to bargain with them?”

A sudden burst of repulsion makes you try to pull away but you don’t get far, as he easily shoves you back. 

“D-Don’t touch me.” A burst of mettle gives you an authoritative tone but instantly you doubt if you have the stuff to back it up. There’s very little you could do physically to stop him doing what he wants to you, you’re just too unmatched, you’d need an equaliser, the knife or maybe something heavy. 

“Oooh.” He mocks, keeping his hand there but not progressing. “Or what?” What indeed? He can practically see the cogs turning in your head, searching for an answer. It’s so glaringly obvious he can’t help but snigger especially when you glance to his left and he remembers what he abandoned on the table. 

You realise you’ve given yourself away, and involuntarily your eyes well up in frustration. It’s pathetic, your one idea carelessly revealed, you feel stupid. 

In a moment of pure cruelty, the killer lets go of you, standing aside a fraction and goads you with, “Go on then.” 

You stare over at the table, you know this is a trick. The mirth of it is more than evident on his face, it pleases him to offer you a chance only to snatch it away. So you don't move, not even when he adds, “Get the knife and we’ll see if you’re brave enough to use it.” 

He gestures then, nonchalantly taking another step away whilst he debates just how far he’s going to let you get. You’re trembling, even with the weapon he’d have you, he knows better than anyone the gall it takes to actually use it. You can’t make a decision and even as your back leaves the wall you don’t know what to do. He wants you to go for the knife, further into the room, away from the door. Your keys taunt you on the side table next to it, you’d never get the door unlocked in time, but keys are sharp…

Just as he’s beginning to think you’re really that compliant, you break away quickly, running to the door and slamming your hand on top of the keys on the table. You were right because the moment you get ahold of them the killer's hand grasps your shoulder. 

“Such a coward.” He sneers, and you grip the keys tight, the biggest one on the ring sticking out of your fist. Maybe you are a coward, but you’re not completely resigned. In a startlingly sudden movement you swing your fist into his abdomen as hard as you can, the weight you put into it tearing his flesh around the key. 

A strangled sound leaves him, you fucking bitch, he grabs at the wound and the blood now secreting there. He’d almost give you credit for the idea but you don’t keep tearing and even though it hurts like a motherfucker, it’s nowhere near enough to deter him. 

You try to shove past him, to no avail. The monster snatches your hand with the keys still in it and slams it bone-shatteringly hard into the wall, over and over until you physically cannot keep hold of them and they clatter to the floor. The pain makes an animalistic scream tear through your throat, its chilling sound echoing through the small flat. In an instant he covers your mouth, the impact banging your head into the wall behind you. 

The noise makes a man freeze stock-still in the hallway. Something about it told him it was something more than a domestic, something far more urgent. The origins of the scream and the thud were clear, and despite his better knowledge he goes to the flat door. Knock? Yes. No? No, it feels wrong. Something hanging in the air makes him want to remain hidden. The woman who lives here is sweet, she wouldn’t mind him wanting to help, she could have fallen. 

So, he peers through the small pane of glass in the door. Slowly and silently looking until he can see through to the blood in the kitchen. Fucking- the sight repels him from the door. He needs to help, needs to go in but he can’t go in. It’s not safe, he needs something… looking around his panicked gaze falls on the fire axe at the emergency exit. 

This is an emergency. 

Your ears are ringing and disoriented, your vision turns fuzzy, your surroundings now hazy and you can only just decipher the words, “What did I fucking tell you?” You can’t respond, you're too dazed. The only thing you’re aware of is how much your hand hurts, so much so you simultaneously can’t feel it but also can't feel anything except it. 

He kicks the keys across the floor, wincing in pain at the movement, “You were almost clever then. Almost.” You can barely hear him over the icy sting now spreading from your arm up, it must be broken, not that it matters. And you find it hard to believe that anything he will do to you will hurt more than that realisation. 

Before the Wolf can enact the image he has of you bloodied and crawling away from him, a loud crash brings his, and your, gaze to the locked door, now open and banged against the wall. You can’t quite make sense of it, not even when you see the man who’d done it swing an axe into the killer’s shoulder. 

It makes such an odd sound, a devastating thud against bone and its target wails. The force of it throws him away from you and he stumbles, a panicked and agonising sound leaking from him that no human should ever make. It occurs to you in a moment of sadistic humour that the Wolf is another swing from being more like the Grendal.

But like a wounded animal, he doesn't just go down and despite the horrifying drag of his arm he pounces on your rescuer. The two bang into the wall in struggle and the heavy axe can no longer be held. To your saviour’s defence he hadn’t expected the man to get back up, but adrenaline and vengeance could bring him back from death’s door.

You stare shell-shocked at the struggle for a few seconds before your mind clicks into survival gear. The axe laid on the floor, you cannot let that murderer get ahold of that, even one handed. And so, as the killer thumps the other man against the wall, you walk silently and unnoticed to the axe, pushing past the tight grip of pain in your arm to pick it up. It’s so heavy you have to brace your legs to get it fully off the ground but when you do you know what you have to do. 

Gritting your teeth, you swing the axe into the monster, gravity helping you embed it deep in his back. You close your eyes at the impact, but you know you’ve struck well when he howls, it’s a haunting noise. 

When you can bring yourself to look, you see the axeman punch your attacker in the face and his amounting injuries send him to the floor. He falls on his side trying to sit up but slipping in his own blood. There’s so much blood, his blood for a change and he’s lost so much of it the dizziness is almost funny. 

You and the man just watch as the killer stops struggling, and eventually stops moving altogether. But you still don’t quite believe the safety is real. Not even when his pained gasping quickens and suddenly you can’t hear it anymore. 

You can’t stop staring at him, the sight in the kitchen had made you want to run but though similar this sight is enthralling. 

“Hey.” A hand rests on your shoulder and it’s so foreign you stare at its owner dumbfounded. “Are you alright?” You look at this man covered in blood himself and it strikes you that you recognise him, Henry from across the hall, a good neighbour to your nanna. And now your saviour. You don’t feel any type of way about it though, you’re just numb. 

Henry realises, that question is ridiculous, he’s not alright, god knows you can’t be remotely alright, and the empty way you stare at him is the proof “-I mean, are you injured?” 

You blink, “My arm…” He nods understanding, not as bad as his though, you think, looking again at the creature lying on the floor. Not that it matters. 

“I’m going to call the police.” He says, his voice quiet. 

The rescuer takes you by the shoulders and guides you away from the corpse you can’t stop staring at and you let him, turning your back on it and obeying his kind voice telling you to sit down while he makes the call. And you do, looking at the wall not thinking of anything, if that’s even possible, just looking at the smooth surface. There’s no blood over here, that’s good.

You can hear the call taking place not really listening, only catching the estimated arrival time of a few minutes, and suddenly you’re crying. Sobbing even, at the pain, the thought of your grandma, how your mum is going to take this, how guilty you feel, how thankful. All of it hitting you like an avalanche, so much at once you can’t catch your breath. 

You let it all pour out of you until you hear Henry behind you gasp, “Oh my god.” 

Turning to him your vision is so blurred with tears, you don’t get it. What’s there? What’s happened? Until you see what’s not there. The blood is smeared on the floor, some hand prints too, all leading towards the door. 

He’s not here.