"Oh, baby." Billy's voice is hoarse in your ear, arms wrapped just a little too tight around your snug little waist. He's got you, good, and he knows it. What can you do?

"I had to do it. Y'know I had to." He drawls, breath hot against your nape. It tickles the senses down your spine, and it's less his grip and more the way truly never sounded calmer in his life, as if the security footage he's just wrenched out and smashed in isn't dropped in a tiles slippery with red. This time, it's a random diner employee, who'd been closing-up shop alone at 4 AM. He'd made the mistake of hitting on you while Billy was in the bathroom, and good God, did he pay for it. The owner'll have to deep-clean this place, now. He's all over the nooks and crannies of this dingy joint; and the blender is beyond saving.

"He was disrespecting you, baby. C'mon. Y'know how I feel about misogyny." His tone lilts up, all airy-like at the end, and he still hasn't dropped the butcher's knife. The cold glint of metal presses, along your jaw. The flat side of the blade. He'd never hurt you, of course, but he loves that look in your eye. That way you jut out your chin and pretend as if your bottom lip isn't all pouty an' trembly, pupils all blown and doe-eyed. It gets him going like nothing else.

Sure, he would've killed the guy anyway. But there's something about doing it in front of you—gettin' blood spattered all over your pretty face—that makes something in Billy stand upright like a lightning bolt's been ran through him. Seein' you, your sweet little angelface, mucked up by his depravities; makes ihim grunt against your back, all rock underneath his unbuckled jeans. Ain't nobody gonna find you two, not at this time of night.

Besides. What's a little more mess? This place's beyond saving, anyways.