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haddce · 4 months ago

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At My Table [1/2]

Ettore x Fem Reader – Inspired by Dexter

Summary: “When a bigger monster appears, the smaller monster’s only instinct is to hide.” But Ettore, a chaotic and not-so-methodical criminal, cannot escape the one person who truly saw him: you. As he draws closer, hungry for a connection he’s never had, you set the table where he will be brought down.

Author's Notes: First of all, I wanted to mention that English is not my native language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors or things that sound odd to native speakers. And about the character Ettore: he is not being romanticized here, but rather explored according to my creative vision and the narrative I want to build.

Words: 3.365

The night was quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists when the world seems to have its eyes closed, ignoring what hides in the shadows. You walked with cautious steps, as if you were part of the shadows yourself — which was half-true, since you couldn’t suppress the darkness that lived within you. Your eyes weren’t just for observing; they were also for hunting.

Your gloved hands reached for the lock, which opened easily. He wasn’t there — he worked as a night security guard, a job that allowed him to choose his next victims. You had spent days learning his habits and deciphering his routine, which was messy.

The house was dark, ordinary, and almost banal. At first glance, there was nothing that betrayed the darkness its owner carried within him, but you knew — certain things shouldn’t be left out in the open. The sound of a wall clock echoed from somewhere, marking time like na artificial heart. You moved with precision; after all, this was something you did often. The black gloves prevented leaving fingerprints, but even so, it wasn’t safe to touch every surface. The small flashlight you carried illuminated only what was necessary. The house was a reflection of his disturbed mind: messy, foul-smelling, and dirty. On a table in the corner of the room, there were photos — not pictures of a united family, just one of a little boy you knew was him as a child, and a woman you knew was his mother. In the second compartment, there was na album you knew you didn’t need to look at. You already knew what you would find, what had shaped him.

In the bedroom, you found what you were looking for. A small notebook hidden under the mattress, alongside sleeping pills. The pages were filled with chaotic scribbles — it was practically a diary where he wrote about each of his victims and attached a small object that belonged to them. Personal items as trophies? Not very original.

You closed the notebook and put it back in its place. You didn’t need to take anything; you already had everything you wanted. Now, it was just a matter of time. He didn’t know it yet, but you were already inside his world. And soon, he would be part of yours.

After carefully closing the door, you melted back into the darkness, steps cautious and steady. Got you. That phrase echoed in your mind like just another item on your to-do list.

The morning sun was pleasant. The rays gently hit the sidewalk and the bench where you were sitting. Despite the countless passersby, your eyes followed only one. Ettore. His steps were unsteady as he headed to a diner on the corner. You noisily folded the newspaper and stood up, leaving your somewhat unusual disguise on the bench, the pages deliberately scattered by the wind.

The diner was small, with a facade faded by time, but it had a peculiar charm. That is, it was the typical place that attracted those who didn’t want to draw attention. People like you and Ettore.

You moved quickly, entering the restaurant alongside another man. There was an empty table by the window. Ettore always sat there; he liked to watch the street. There weren’t many customers at the counter, the line was short, and between you and Ettore, there was only one man. Your eyes never left the back of that man’s neck — the man who would soon be at your table, and then, in pieces, in the trash bags you carried in your trunk.

Finally, it was Ettore’s turn, and he did as he always did, with a slouched posture that seemed to defy any notion of order. His hair was messy, and the leather jacket he wore looked like it had seen better days. You and he were complete opposites. He wasn’t methodical, wasn’t careful. He was chaotic, unpredictable. And that, you knew, was both na advantage and a risk.

He leaned on the counter, greeting the cashier with a casual nod. He seemed oddly at ease, as if within those walls he was less vulnerable. You watched him discreetly, stepping slightly out of line in the process, memorizing every detail and movement of his body. The way he avoided prolonged eye contact, how his hands trembled slightly after picking up what he had ordered — a donut and coffee, the usual. He had specific tastes and a routine, even if both were messy. Typically, he would leave the line and head to the most secluded table by the window, casually glancing back or toward the door, as if fearing someone might be following him. He was a tormented man, trying to hide it behind a mask of indifference, and he fed his torment through a ritual of humiliation with his victims.

Finally, it was your turn. When your father taught you the code, he also taught you to be a “social chameleon”. Rule number twelve of the code of conduct: If you need friends, choose a diverse group and find something they share in common, then start sharing it with them too — or pretend to. You smiled and stepped up to the counter.

– Good morning — the cashier greeted you, nodding her head. – What would you like? Would you like to see our menu?

– No, no — You rubbed your hands together, not because you were nervous or anything, but because you needed to blend into the environment. – I think a donut and a coffee, please.

– Just a moment — the cashier said as she began preparing your order.

Your eyes finally returned to Ettore. He was sitting at the table by the window, far enough to avoid being disturbed but close enough for you to keep na eye on him without drawing attention. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, still hadn’t touched what he had ordered, and his fingers drummed against the tabletop, as if playing a song only he could hear. His posture was slouched, but there was tension in his shoulders, as if he were ready to get up and run at any moment — a tension unfamiliar to you.

And finally, you received your order. With it in hand and the code of conduct racing through your mind, a warm smile spread across your face. Your steps were calm—there was no rush, just a calculated naturalness.

– Excuse me, can I sit here? — Your voice was light, and you pointed to the chair across from him. – That side is a bit noisy.

Ettore looked up at you, and you finally got to appreciate that sharp, melancholic gaze of someone who seemed as troubled as the others who had ended up at your table. He glanced around quickly, as if only now realizing how far he had sat from everyone else. Then, he shrugged, indifferent.

– Sure, go ahead — He replied, his voice hoarse, as if he didn’t use it much.

You sat down, placing the plate and cup on the table, and after that, carefully rested your hands in your lap. Rule number 16 of the code of conduct: Your gestures speak — don’t stop gesturing while talking to someone, make them feel like your words and presence are genuine. After a few seconds, your hands wrapped around the cup, but not to warm them. It was purely reflexive, something to keep up appearances. You weren’t there for the coffee. You were there for him.

Your lips parted, and you allowed yourself to take a sip of the coffee. As you lowered the cup, you glanced at him for a moment before breaking the silence.

– You come here often, don’t you? — The words that left your mouth might have sounded like sweet syrup to others, but they were nothing but poison. – I’ve seen you a few times.

He raised his eyebrows, seeming a bit startled, surprised to have been noticed. But he quickly relaxed — or at least tried to convey that. His mind was working on the idea that he wasn’t completely invisible.

– Yeah, yeah, I come here. It’s close to home — He replied, finally taking a sip of his coffee as the corners of his lips lifted almost imperceptibly. – And you? I’ve never seen you around here.

– I moved here recently for work — One of your greatest skills was lying well, and that was the second lie of the day. – I was transferred from my job, a complicated process, and decided to start coming here. I like the coffee — Another lie. The coffee here was terrible.

He let out a short, hoarse laugh, almost a grunt.

– The coffee here is shit.

You laughed too, the instinct of a “social chameleon.” If someone laughs, you laugh.

– True, but at least it’s cheap.

He looked at you with a bit more interest now, as if that interaction were a test of authenticity.

– Ettore — He said, extending his hand.

You hesitated for a moment — he had trusted you with na introduction too quickly. But then, a smile adorned your face, and you shook his hand.

– Anne — Another lie. After all, it would be harmful if he discovered your real name. – Nice to meet you.

Ettore’s handshake was firm, almost as if he didn’t want to maintain contact for too long. You noticed the scars on the tips of his fingers and his hands, marks of a life he was trying to leave behind but that always caught up to him.

– So… what brings you here? — he asked, trying to sound casual, but you could hear the pessimistic, distrustful undertone in his voice.

– The diner or the city? — You asked, laughing at the end. It was clear he didn’t know how to navigate a conversation.

– Both.

He spoke while bringing the donut to his mouth and taking a bite. You mimicked his gesture before giving a light smile.

– I was relocated to a social psychological care unit. — You said. It was a bit risky to lie about your profession, but you lied according to your skills in certain areas. – Well, I work going from house to house checking if the people on my list are alive. As for the diner, well, the coffee is cheap, and I think it could wake the dead.

He nodded positively, as if he understood the situation perfectly.

– So, Ettore, what do you do for work? — The question left your lips like a dagger dipped in honey.

He looked at you for a moment, as if weighing whether it was worth answering.

– I work here and there — He replied evasively.

– Nothing major.

You simply nodded. He didn’t want to talk much about his life, so it was better not to push. You already knew everything, everything you needed. Time to change the subject.

– Have you lived here long? I need some tips from someone experienced — He smiled, a crooked smile.

– Unfortunately, yes. — Ettore finished his coffee and looked at you. – But the places I frequent aren’t very interesting for a woman.

You gave a slight smile before letting out a low laugh.

– I understand — You raised the cup and smiled before finishing your own coffee.

First interaction successfully concluded. When he got up to leave, your movements mirrored his, like a skilled imitator. It was time to go.

– See you around, Ettore — You said, with a smile that perfectly mimicked something genuine. – I’m sure we’ll run into each other again soon.

– Yeah — He replied simply, leaving the money on the counter.

You stayed still for a moment, watching him leave. You knew this was just the beginning. He wasn’t methodical, wasn’t careful. But you were. And, little by little, he would become part of your world. And when that happened, he would end up at your table. After all, rule number 8 of the code of conduct: Never let the target suspect your intentions. Approach like prey, so they never realize you’re the predator.

Ettore wasn’t the type to frequent obvious places. He preferred spots that didn’t draw attention, where he could blend in and go unnoticed, and that made him noticeably lacking in social skills. And that was exactly what would lead you to find him again, this time in a small bar. Ettore always went there on weekends, drank enough to wake up dizzy, and then stumbled home. The place was small, poorly lit, with exposed brick walls and na air of decay that seemed almost intentional. The smell that permeated the air deeply offended your olfactory senses — a putrid odor reminiscent of stale beer, urine, sweat, and cheap cigarettes.

You entered the bar carefully, not needing any attention directed your way at that moment. Your attire was simple, something that would help you blend into the environment: a dark leather jacket, tight pants, and boots that made little noise as you walked. Your hair was down but slightly disheveled, enough to convey na air of casualness. It was important to look like you belonged in places like that, like you were there by chance.

Ettore was sitting at the counter, a beer bottle in hand and his eyes fixed on something that, apparently, only he could see. He seemed more relaxed there than at the diner, probably due to the effects of the alcohol. But you could see that, even there, he wasn’t completely at ease. There was a tension in his shoulders that resembled the darkness you carried within yourself.

Your steps led you to the counter, and you sat a few seats away from him, ordering a beer from the bartender. As you waited, your eyes discreetly moved in Ettore’s direction, trying to decipher what he was feeling at that moment. He would certainly make a good page in your memory archive dedicated to building profiles for different killers.

When the bartender brought your beer, you knew it was time to act. You stood up and walked over to Ettore’s side, pausing as you put on a smile.

– Ettore, right? — After the words left your lips in feigned surprise, he raised his head. – We saw each other at the diner, remember?

After a brief moment of what appeared to be hesitation, he looked at you and, consequently, your body, with a gaze that bordered on sinful.

– Oh, yeah… Anne, right? — He answered your question with a question. Definitely someone lacking social skills. – What are you doing here?

– I guess the not-so-interesting places you frequent attract me — You replied, shrugging. – A beer after a tiring week always hits the spot.

You raised your beer as if toasting someone invisible between the two of you. He simply nodded, taking a long sip. It was detestable — the taste of alcohol was nauseating, and the environment only made it worse. But it was also a little nostalgic; after all, your first murder followed this method: drink and blend in.

– I like it here. Not too many people bothering you. Occasionally someone gets stabbed on their way out, but it’s nothing to worry about.

You laughed lightly, masking the disgust you felt for places like that. A few seconds later, you were sitting beside him, while he seemed to withdraw and try to contain himself. Rule number 19 of the code of conduct: Speak and act as you know the person wants you to speak and act. Every gesture, every word, every look must be carefully calculated to reflect what the other wants to see in you. Make them believe you are exactly what they need, even if it means hiding who you really are.

– Do you come here often? — Your voice was calm but carried a slight note of interest. – When I have time, yeah — He replied simply. His eyes turned to your hands, and you placed them in your lap. Starved and hungry for touch — that’s what defined his impulsive actions.

The next few minutes were silent.

Ettore didn’t know how to hide what his eyes and hands betrayed. Every time you got closer, even minimally, his body reacted as if he were starving for something he couldn’t name. You, on the other hand, could name your desire to kill. A shift in posture, a finger tapping on the table as you spoke, a gaze fixed on your hands — perhaps imagining what it would be like to touch them. He was a man who had experienced little warmth in the form of touch, and that made it easy to read and predict what he would do.

The next hour was just idle chatter and plenty of lies.

The bar was almost empty now, just a few scattered people and the bartender cleaning glasses behind the counter. Ettore was visibly more relaxed; the effects of the alcohol made his expression clearer, easier to decipher. He looked in your direction more often, and there was something in his gaze that hadn’t been there before: interest and desire.

That night, you decided to test Ettore’s limits. Sitting beside him at the counter, you let your arm brush lightly against his. He didn’t pull away. On the contrary, he leaned forward, as if wanting to prolong the contact. It was noticeable how tightly he gripped his glass, his knuckles white, as if trying to anchor himself to something real. Neediness, you thought. The same neediness he saw in his victims, the same he felt during his ritual. He chased in others what he lacked within himself.

He was a man who had spent so much time being avoided that now, any sign of attention left him disarmed.

The next few minutes were unsettling.

Laughing at a lame joke he made unconsciously, you let your hand rest lightly on his forearm, pretending it was a casual gesture. Ettore flinched, almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. And finally, those sharp, melancholic eyes shone differently, as if that fleeting touch were a gift he didn’t know how to thank you for.

– You laugh at anything — He said, trying to sound casual, but his voice betrayed a longing and gratitude he couldn’t hide.

– Not at anything — You corrected. – Only at the things that are worth it.

He smiled, looking away like na embarrassed teenager. You knew it was working. Every calculated touch, every exchanged glance, every laugh — it was all bait, and he was biting with na almost tragic ease.

– Do you always go out alone? — Your voice was melodic, but if a better definition were needed, it was like the voice of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Your knee brushed against his, casually, and he didn’t pull away.

– Not always — Ettore seemed hesitant to answer, avoiding eye contact while his lips were slightly parted. – But… it’s easier this way.

A knowing smile lit up your face, as if you shared the same feeling. You placed your hand just a few centimeters from his.

– Often, loneliness weighs more than we can admit — Your voice came out in a tone that seemed confessional. Mirror game. That’s how it worked: showing him a reflection of his own wounds, but polished enough for him to see himself in it. He looked at your hand, so close to his, and swallowed hard. You saw the movement of his throat, the tension in his jaw. He wants to touch but doesn’t know how. And then, you let your hand gently and gradually envelop his, in a gesture that could be interpreted as comfort. He flinched but didn’t pull away.

– Have you ever had someone who understood the loneliness inside you? — He stared at you before looking away.

– No — The answer was short. But you knew he would elaborate. – People always leave, or I push them away.

– Not everyone leaves — You said cautiously but with a firm voice, like a promise you would never keep.

He turned his palm upward, almost imperceptibly, as if secretly hoping you would intertwine your fingers with his. You didn’t. Instead, you slowly removed your hand, letting the touch linger like na unpaid debt. It was necessary to keep him hungry, not satisfied.

When the two of you left the bar, he was visibly more drunk but also bolder. Before saying goodbye on the dark sidewalk, he held your arm for a moment, his fingers gently squeezing. Meanwhile, Ettore’s other arm rose, and he brushed his fingers lightly against your waist.

And there it was, that sharp, burning gaze, as if he were a hungry wolf standing before a shepherd full of sheep. You smiled, placing your hand over his in a gesture that feigned tenderness.

– Will we see each other again? — He asked, his voice choked with a need he could no longer hide.

– Of course we will. — You lied, with the typical sweetness of someone holding the ends of na invisible rope. See you soon, Ettore.

Rule number 4 of the code of conduct: Do not form romantic or emotional connections with those you will dismember.

Final: Just to provide some context, this story is an experimental project for me, as I’m gradually getting back into writing and trying to adapt to different narrative styles.

#ettore high life #ettore x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #ewan mitchell #ewan nation #ewanverse #aemond x you #billy washington

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