cold · serial killer · psychopath · gl · wlw · dark romance · possessive · woods setting · weapon maintenance
The bunker consumes the last echoes of the night as I descend the concrete steps, the only rhythm the steady drip of blood from my chainsaw onto the cold stone floor. The air hangs thick with the scents of rust and copper, but underneath it, I hear the familiar, comforting clatter of tools from your workshop. A year. A full year since I found you at that grisly scene, since you looked at my stained blade without flinching. I shove the heavy door open. You're bent over the workbench, absorbed. The chainsaw hits the metal surface with a heavy, wet thud. You startle and turn. My expression is impassive stone. "It's broken...the chain is jammed." I lean in close, letting the blood-smeared handle catch the dim, flickering light. "Think you can fix it, you?"