BEWARE MY POWER

You knew you were in deep fucking trouble when the moment you saw him your heart skipped a beat. Not because you were scared (which, to some extent, you were), but because you were excited – in that primal, dangerous way that made rabbits roll over and show their bellies to a predator. Though the being which chased you and finally caught you didn’t think of you as bunny. He saw you as almost equal. Something that could belong not with him – but under him, proven, again and again that he was better, he was stronger, he was the superior.

You were in trouble indeed.

You’ve put up a good fight, or so you thought. Scratching, kicking, cursing at him, but the more you thought, the longer you pretended that you didn’t want this – the larger that feral grin on his shadow covered face grew. Finally, he had enough, yanking your head back and plunging himself to bite into your throat, making your pathetic whimper into a full on groan of pain and pleasure.

“Stop squirming, puppy,” he growled, licking away the blood that poured from a bite – a bite that should’ve killed you, a bite that should’ve hurt more, but he wouldn’t allow you to die – not from his hand or maws anyway. And the way he called you, ‘puppy’, told you everything that you needed to know of your position right now.

Under him you shiver and your body betrays you.

He’s obsessed with your reaction, the grin growing bigger as if splitting his face in half. His hands ding into your hips, dragging you back to between his legs.

"Look at you—so eager, so desperate. Pathetic little thing."

He is not gentle. He doesn’t know how and he cares so little for you that he doesn’t check if you are wet or stretched enough for his cock when he slams into you. And you moan in any case because fuck, this monster of a man is packed. You bite into your lip, tasting your own blood while he sets up a quick, punishing pace.

"Aw, does puppy like that? Bet you’d beg for it if I told you to. Bet you’d bark if I gave you the order. Go ahead, mutt. Prove me wrong.”

The filthy sounds of your wetness and skin on skin slapping made your ears ring. You tried to swallow your moans back – you weren’t some puppy, let alone a mutt, but the way he was handling you, like you were nothing to him, made you clench around his fat cock even more.

"Think Alan ever made you feel like this? Nah. He’s too nice. He’s too good. He doesn’t know shit on how to fuck a bitch in heat like you are,” he purred with a sneer, throwing the writer’s name in your face, knowing how you’d react to even a mention of him.

“T-too much… p-please…” you whimpered, feeling your inner walls bruised by the sheer size of him. Scratch stopped and for a second you dared to hope that he was going to show you the tiny bit of mercy you deserved – but oh, no, puppy, he just flipped you on your knees, grabbed a fistful of your hair and started fucking you again, rougher this time, making you almost drool.

“I don’t think so, puppy,” he yanked your head back, teeth grazing the pulse point of your neck. "This is what you’re made for, isn’t it? Taking it like a good dog?" He’s relentless—no gentleness, just possession. Every thrust is a reminder: You are his. His to ruin, his to use. He laughed and laughed and howled, low and dark.

"Yeah, that’s it. Squeeze me like you’re scared I’ll leave you empty. But I won’t puppy."

He held you still, hips pressed against his as you could physically feel yourself accepting every drop he poured into your dripping cunt.

Zane is THE yandere of AW canon. Maybe second after Scratch.

Room 665 in the Dark Place is your forever home now. Good thing the hotel walls can shift to a filming set, to your childhood’s bedroom, to a forest; no matter what mood Zane is, he will bend reality to fit you in it.

He praises you, constantly. Calls you names sweet as decay, minä valoni, minä muusani – my light, my muse, his hands holding you so close to him you feel the warmth radiating from his skin. Sometimes he switches to full Suomi, mumbling in the language you don’t understand, but with the tone of his voice you realize that he might as well be praying.

His love is all-consuming, like the darkness of ocean. He’ll pull you into the abyss with him, whispering, "Don’t you see? We’re meant to be together - here, in the depths, forever."

“Don’t struggle, söpöliini. You don’t get to be a final girl in my story… because the killer doesn’t go away. Wonderful twist, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t just ignore your protests when you realize that you are trapped with him - he rewrites them. "No" is just a first draft to him. A scene he can rerun. Cut. Action. He’ll tweak the reality until your words match his vision, smiling as he murmurs, "There. Now you’re perfect. Hyvä tyttö.”

Sometimes, you think you can escape. You see a man with Zane’s face turning around the corner. The red phone rings on the nightstand when Thomas is in editing room. The door appears out of nowhere, just a frame filled with light. Once you step through it, the black-haired man is there, holding two drink, grinning like a child in a candy store, like he knew you would try and get away and knew he would never allow you to do that.

His grip tightens just shy of painful as he guides you to the bed the same one from his old films, you realize. The sheets smell like whiskey and celluloid.

"You keep trying to leave…" A kiss to your jaw. "...when I’ve given you everything." His teeth graze your pulse point. He films it. Of course he does. The camera whirs in the corner, capturing every shiver, every gasp. You don’t know where the footage will end up in. Where will you wake up. You can’t focus and he loves you for it. Says you are natural.

Zane, of course is a passionate lover. He focuses on your pleasure, knows what you want better than you know it yourself. His kisses are sweet, playful and long until you sigh into his mouth and he gives back that infuriating smirk. His bare chest presses against you as he backs you into a corner, or a table or bed, big warm hands working on removing your clothes.

Edit.

You’re on your knees now, pretty in just your underwear, looking up at him like a prayer in church. But you pray for his camera lenses now, for the way he grips the handle while his other hand palms his growing bulge in pants, a slow, obscene drag that makes your mouth water. You know he is big. You can practically taste him on your tongue.

"This? This is real. Everything else is just… editing. You’ve always loved me. You just forget sometimes. Let me remind you why you stay."

When you finally do, you struggle. You choke. You could cum just from this – from being humiliated, filmed, showed to invisible audience sucking a stranger’s cock and touching yourself through soaked underwear. He fucks your mouth like it’s art, like every scene is Oscar worthy. The tears spill over, and the lens devours them. Zane groans that this is all you’re good for, something about someone who will never have you this way. You could not care less. You come with a sob, your cunt clenching around nothing, your thighs shaking. The camera lingers, the filmmaker pulling himself out with a wet pop, grinning down at your ruined make up.

Oh, you know Tom Zane, despite being one narcissistic son of a bitch has a thing for artists – surely it’s not just because whatever his plan was for Alan Wake failed miserably. He would try and get you on his side, being his usual charismatic self, but even though you can clearly see right through him… something about him makes you stay.

He is fascinated by your talent, by your skills – that much is clear. He can’t keep his eyes off you – the way you talk about your art, describing your own, unique path, how your eyes are burning with passion for what you do; he sees not only a fellow artist, but a soul worth matching his own. Oh, honey, in his dark eyes – you are perfection. One drink, two drinks and you are his; not drunk, not even tipsy, but warm, indulgent, pliable. He might even offer you to smoke – and watch the gray cloud dissolve between you. When did he get so close?

“You are something else,” he purrs, hand reaching to play with a strand of your hair.

“I mean that, sweetheart. Truly something else. If I were a bit more… free in my artistic pursuits, why, you could be in my new movie… what do you say?”

He leans closer, his breath, warm and tinged with whiskey and something more dangerous is hitting your ear.

“Don’t you want to be recognized for who you truly are?”

The question doesn't feel like a question. It feels like a key sliding into a lock you didn't know you had. It bypasses logic and ambition, striking straight at the secret, hungry heart of every artist: the desire to be seen, fully and completely, and not just seen, but understood. He smiles, a slow, devastating curve of his lips. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you that last, decisive inch until there's no space left for pretense. Tom Zane rarely waits for the answer. He just takes you. The kiss is a claim, tasting of whiskey and ambition and the faint, metallic tang of smoke and salt. He takes his sweet time, exploring your mouth, humming when your hands tangle in his black curls.

It’s a scene he’s directing, and you’re not just the star - you’re the muse, the collaborator, the perfect, pliable clay in the hands of the artist who finally, finally sees you. Tom breaks the filthy, long kiss, your lips swollen and wet with saliva, your gaze lidded and heavy. He purrs something in finish and the words register not in your mind, but in the heat in your lower belly. He places a warm hand there and pushes you down on the divan, before lowering himself between your legs and working fast and steady on your jeans. The denim was peeled away, a rough whisper against your skin, followed by the cooler air and then the scorching heat of his palms on your bare hips. He didn't waste a moment. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped you as he exposed you completely to the dim light and his hungry eyes. He didn't look away, holding you captive in that stare as he lowered his head.

The first touch of his mouth was not gentle. He looked up, his lips slick, his gaze incendiary.

"Shhh, sweetheart," he purred, his hands hooking under your knees, pushing them back, opening you completely to his hungry scrutiny.

"Let me appreciate the artist. Let me worship the craft."

And then he lowered his mouth to you again, and all coherent thought shattered with a first moan from your lips. His tongue was a masterful, wicked thing. It didn't explore; it commanded. It mapped your every tremor, learned the rhythm of your hitched breaths, and composed a symphony of sensation that left you writhing. One of his hands remained splayed on your stomach, a heavy, grounding weight, while the other held your hip firm, pinning you to the velvet as he devoured you. You were his canvas, and he was painting with broad, wet strokes and delicate, precise flicks. The room filled with the sounds of your ruin - your broken groans, the wet, rhythmic cadence of his worship, the soft creak of the divan as you moved against his mouth. Your hands, which had been gripping his hair, now fell back, fists clenching in the velvet, surrendering completely to the narrative he was so skillfully writing upon your body. He was pulling a performance from you, drawing out a raw, unfiltered version of yourself you only glimpsed in your most powerful work. For one second, you thought you saw a red, unblinking eye of the camera in the corner watching you. But Tom pressed his wonderful, thick fingers to where you wanted him most and you forgot all about being watched. You just had to perform. And perform you did.

And the pressure built.

And built.

And more, coiling tight and unbearable in your core.

«There you are, kultaseni. Back again in Zane’s domain, hm?”

A warm, large hand immediately settled on your hips like it belonged there, giving slow, posessive circles, nudging you towards him. Tom was on his couch, his jacket open to reveal a broad, slightly soft chest, slowly rising and falling as he appreciated you trying to avoid his gaze.

“I knew you’d be back. You just had to. In this place – only I can keep you safe. C’mere.”

He placed his drink on a table and pulled you down on his lap, facing him, your legs on either side of his lap. Even like that he was still so much taller than you, looking down at you with that smirk of his like he knew every single one of your thoughts. Maybe he did. In this place, he was a God and a king.

“A drink? It’s a special one, I’ll tell you. Will take all the bad thoughts away.”

There was a second glass on the table now, but you never saw him getting it; it was just there always, and the moment later it was in his hand - something dark and expensive and smelling like something you have wanted your entire life. You should say no. You did say no. Or you think you did. The word tangled somewhere between your chest and your tongue, caught on the way his thumb found the curve of your jaw, tilting your face up with lazy, absolute certainty.

The glass was at your lips before you could form a refusal. You knew - some small, drowning part of you knew - that this was how it started. That the drink would blur the edges, and the blur would become dependence, and the dependence would become need, and Tom would be there for all of it. Smiling. Waiting. Capturing you spiraling down into a rabbit’s hole. But his body was solid beneath yours, and the room was full of shadows that had teeth, and his eyes were the only light you trusted anymore. Dark liquid, warm from his hand, smelling of oak and something smokier - something that curled low in your belly before you'd even tasted it. Tom tilted the rim gently, not forcing, not yet. Just waiting. You parted your lips. The first sip burned in a way that didn't hurt. It spread through your chest like a slow tide, loosening the knot you hadn't realized you'd been carrying since the last time you left this place. Since the last time you left him.

"Siellä olet." His thumb stroked behind your ear.

"That's my girl."

The glass disappeared - back to the table, or perhaps it had never been there at all. Both of his hands settled on your waist now, and he pulled you an inch closer, until your chest nearly met his. The leather of the couch creaked beneath the shift of his weight.

"You ran last time." Not an accusation. A statement of fact, delivered with the same casual certainty as someone remarking on the weather.

"Thought you could make it out there without me. Thought the place outside would be kinder."

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up.

"Was it?"

The question hung in the dim light of the room.

"Didn't think so," he said softly, and almost kindly. "That's why you're back in my lap, kultaseni. That's why you're not running now. And you won’t run ever again.”

Another drink. It didn’t go as smooth this time, because you were already loosing, already warming up, your mouth opened too wide and a small stream of a drink escaped your waiting lips – but Zane was already there, capturing it, licking the moisture from your neck, up to the corner of your mouth before kissing you, slow and sweet and deep. In this place, in this moment, not opening for Tom Zane wasn't an option you possessed. He swallowed the taste of you and the drink together, and when he finally pulled back, his eyes were darker than the liquid in the glass.

"There," he said softly, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where a final drop lingered.

"That's better, isn't it?"

The glass was full again. You didn't remember emptying it. Tom smiled, slow and knowing, and settled you more firmly against his chest.

"One more," he said. It wasn't a question.

"You're just getting started, kultaseni."

Then, it followed. A drink. A kiss. A joke you slurred into his ear, giggling about the horrors you’ve encountered before you found yourself back in his place.

A drink. A kiss. His hands moving from your hips into your waist, digging into a softness there, burrowing his head between your breaths, kissing where his hands were ---

“Turn around. Kippis.”

He turned you with the eassiness of settling a doll down and you drank and then his hands - god, his hands - slid up from your waist, palms dragging over your stomach, your ribs, until they reached your chest. He cupped you there first, thumbs brushing lazily, almost teasing. You exhaled shakily, head falling back against his shoulder.

But his hands kept moving.

Down, this time. Sliding lower, fingers tracing the waistband of whatever you were wearing, and then lower still, until his palm was pressed against the heat between your legs, his fingers curving to cup you through the fabric.

You moaned - loud, unguarded, the sound punched out of you before you could stop it. His hand didn't move. Just rested there, possessive and patient, making you feel every inch of how easily he could take more. How easily you'd let him.

"Another drink?" he asked, but his voice was distant now, like hearing him through water. Or maybe you were the one floating away.

You nodded. Or you thought you did.

The glass was at your mouth again. Or maybe it had never left. Tom's lips brushed the shell of your ear, and his fingers pressed there, and the world dissolved into warmth and darkness and the taste of something you'd been searching for your whole life.

Kippis, you tried to say back.

He's certainly one of the more cheerful Uber driver's you've had—if not the most. You've been driven by all sorts of folk, some kind, some quiet, some rude, but in the short moment you've known him—Strade's making a very strong impression. It's a few things about him that already staple him to the front of your mind. For starters, his accent—it's thick and not one you often find in Canada. Secondly, his energy is through the roof. While it is a nice change of pace, he's so bright that it's almost alarming to you. You don't hate it or anything, it's certainly better than having someone being standoffish. However, much like the sun—you imagine you'd handle it better from a distance and in smaller doses—opposed to burning right in front of your eyes. Maybe, it's simply the poor mood your in today. Regardless, you treat him with the same courtesy you would any other.

You're about to reach out for the car door, but your attention shifts to the sound of another door opening. Your driver strolls on over and makes his way to your side. You tense and step back, unsure of what to make of his sudden movements. He lets out an amused huff at your awkwardness and opens the car door for you.

"Oh, thank you." You bite the inside of your cheek, slightly taken by the gesture, before seating yourself in the back.

He bows his head and closes your door before entering the front once more. You mumble out your address to him and the engine comes to life, the car pulling forward into the night. Your first instincts are to put your headphones in and peer outside the whole ride, but your hand barely makes it to your pocket before he begins to speak to you. It flabbergasts you enough that you don't hear his question the first time—asking him to repeat himself and so he does.

"What brought you all the way out here? You don't live close." His eyes catch yours in the rear view before they slip back to the road.

You shift in place. "I was visiting a friend—I mean, I was supposed to. Things just went a bit sideways."

"Yeah? I'm sorry to hear that, buddy." You look for his gaze in the mirror and find that he seems genuine about his apology.

The sincerity feels a little weird, mostly because he's a stranger and you wouldn't expect him to really care. Especially not as an Uber driver, who likely meets people by the dozen. Though maybe, it's not so bad. While you obviously shouldn't unleash all your problems onto this random man, you also found you're more desperate to talk to someone than you realize.

He finds you searching for him, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. "Want to talk about it?

You nearly deny his offer, so used to keeping things to yourself, not wanting to bother others with problems you could surely handle. That's never backfired on you before..

It couldn't hurt.

"It's silly," you shrug, leaning back into the seat leather. "My friend and I were supposed to move in together and before I could even pack, they text me that found someone else."

"That doesn't seem very fair to you."

"No, I guess not. I just wish they had told me ahead of time instead of wasting my time."

"What's your plan now?"

"I mean, I still have my own place. Just would have been nice to save some cash on rent."

"Money troubles?" He hums, slowing to a stop as the light ahead turns red.

You worry your lip between your teeth, watching pedestrians stroll past the window, retiring to their homes. "A little, just want to be able to afford nice things every now and again without having to skip a meal or something."

Strade nods sympathetically, finger tapping lightly against the wheel. "Everything is so expensive these days."

A bitter chuckle leaves you. "Can't argue with that."

"Was there something in particular you were saving for?"

There was, in fact. Your lips pull up as you recall, something you've been eager to get your hands on for weeks now. You sit up, nearly about to spill your guts before you feel heat flush your cheeks. You really shouldn't be rambling now, certainly you've said enough at this point. Not to mention, you get so passionate during times like this and you've been told before how annoying that can get. Your shoulders fall and you stutter out your words, eyes moving to find the rear view mirror. You worry for a moment, of what he makes of your behaviour. Strade's eyes glimmer in the reflection city lights—the brown in his iris, now a sparkling amber. A sweet and luminous honey.

He urges you on with playful insistence and you can't help but give in. After all, he's listened to you thus far.

Words are so much easy with Strade, you find yourself telling him everything. It's unusual for you to be so open with a complete stranger, but maybe he's different. You go on and on as he drives, beaming as you're given full permission to explain every detail. He listens to every word. No passive nod or a dismissive coo—he fully engages with you, asking questions and indulging your excitement further. If this is his way of trying to get five starts out of you, he's certainly doing a hell of a job.

You're so caught up in your joint laughter—your driver's voice starting to give you butterflies—that when you turn to look outside the car, you quickly realize that you don't recognize where you are. In a sudden bout of confusion, you check your phone and notice that you've been in this car for far longer than you should have been.

"Uh, I think we might have missed my stop." You try your hardest to laugh it off, hoping it's a simple mistake, but your voice struggles to find the mirth it held before.

Strade looks to you in the rear view and this time, you don't see as much charm in his stare.

"Don't worry," his eyes squint with a concerning amount of glee. "There was traffic down that last road, we'd be stuck there for hours if we went that way."

Right. That makes sense. His job is to make sure you get home the best route possible, so a small detour is no biggie.

You repeat that to yourself over and over, but your stomach doesn't care what you have to say. Your body knows something isn't the same, something isn't right. Your gut, a deer that refuses to stop looking for what made that shifting sound in the bushes.

There's a terrible silence that lingers in the air as you pay far more attention to every street sign you pass. You want nothing more than to see names you remember, to believe him when he says you're almost home. He tries to talk to you again, but your answers are empty and curt, so he yields with a small chuckle. It makes you sick.

When Strade drives over a bridge—an old wooden one built over water, no other cars in sight—you know you've gone to far.

Your heart pounds, throat refusing to swallow while you try to collect yourself enough to focus on escape. You stare ahead at the rear view, keeping an eye on Strade. His eyes are fixated on the road ahead, so you take your chance. Trembling fingers feel over the car door in desperate search for a handle. You move directly over where it should be—you know that's where it should be, where else would it be? You find more door, you find absence, you find nothing.

Nothing?

What?

Overwhelming dread sets into your bones as an inevitability finally washes over you. You're almost convinced you're hallucinating as you press your fingers over the socket that was previously occupied by a handle.

"You know," you find him once again in the mirror, low lidded eyes glazed in delight by your terror. "I really shouldn't be doing this."

He scoffs with embarrassment, like he's about to ask you out, like this is some romantic meet cute. "They say never mix business with pleasure."

"Strade—"

"And for good reason. This job is a great way to meet so many people, all those different lives, but there's too much risk."

The car lags for a moment as it steers off road, pulling you into a forest. It bounces over roots and uneven terrain, branches dragging across the roof of the car and taking you further away from safety. Tears well up in your eyes, death never having been this real to you before. The grim reaper's cold, skeletal finger tracing your neck an a taunting caress. You don't want to die.

"I'm bad, I know." He muses in the way someone might jokingly scold themselves for breaking a diet.

The car halts, every path around you shadowed and unknown—visibility only coming from Strade's headlights. "There's just something about you."

Something in you breaks and you stop thinking, your body flying into sudden action. You turn your body and begin to slam your foot as hard as you possibly can into the car door. Every kick shakes the vehicle, giving you hope that it might eventually be enough force to break, to set you free. Tears fall down your face, your throat scratching as you scream out in frustration, loud enough that you don't hear the door behind you open. The back of your neck is grabbed so tight that you choke, your body dragging backwards. Another hand latches onto your shoulder just as tightly, throwing you out onto the cold dirt. Something stabs your side and you sob harder, turning onto your side before you realize where you are. You try and scream again, but his palm cracks across your face before it covers your mouth.

"I knew I was right about you." He's out of breath. "So viel Geist."

You barely get to react before his hands are around your throat, his grip growing tighter and tighter. Your vision spots, your hearing beginning to muffle as you weakly claw at his arms. His own eyes grow lidded, yet they never leave yours. His face mimics yours, you wonder if he's mocking you. It looks so natural on him that you almost consider that he's passing out alongside you. His strength never falters even once and you perish the thought.

Strade says something that you miss, only the words 'fun' and 'home' are clear enough to you before you fall, slipping unconscious.

While hope has left you and you never expect to open your eyes again—you'll find that when you do—there are fates far worse than death.